Mark Mills - The Information Officer

Hodges was a remarkable character, a dour, taciturn little man, always scrubbed and pristine. He was utterly without a sense of humor, which somehow compelled one to take up humor as a weapon against him.

“Please,” said Hodges, gesturing to the corner. “Take a seat.”

It was the one corner of the room Max had not surveyed on entering, and it was a moment before he registered that the man on the low divan was Freddie.

“What are you doing here?” asked Max, settling down beside him.

“I wasn’t sure till you walked in.”

“Oh Christ …”

“That’s what I thought when they showed up at the hospital. I would have called, but they had a car waiting for me.”

“No talking, please,” called Hodges flatly.

“Excuse me?”

“No talking, please.”

“Why not?”

“I wasn’t aware that I needed a reason, Major Chadwick.” His features shaped themselves into a pinched and condescending smile. “Besides, from what I hear, the two of you have been doing quite enough of that already.”

They knew. And there was no other way that they could know, not unless Freddie had let it slip, which seemed unlikely, given the inquiring and mildly accusatory look in the eyes that were now fastened on Max.

It had to be Iris. It could only be Iris. He was a fool to have trusted her with the confidence in the first place. He was twice the fool for having believed her when she had sworn her eternal silence on the matter.

“We’ll be okay,” said Freddie in a whisper. “Just take your lead from me, and with any luck we’ll get to keep our jobs on this godforsaken island.”

Max tried to stifle the laugh. Hodges’s head snapped up, but before he could spit out a reprimand, a door swung open and a man whom Max had never seen before said, “Gentlemen …”

Max found himself transported back to prep school: he and Freddie like two schoolboys being summoned into the headmaster’s study for a thrashing, denounced by matron for talking after lights-out.

It soon became clear that the deputy head would be dishing out the punishment today. Colonel Gifford was at the lieutenant governor’s desk, warming his master’s seat.

“Congratulations, sir,” said Freddie, after they had saluted. “I had no idea.”

Bad lead , thought Max. So did Colonel Gifford.

“Under the circumstances, Lieutenant Colonel Lambert, do you think it’s wise to take that tone with me?”

“No tone intended, sir. And I’m not sure I know what circumstances you’re referring to.”

“Sit down,” said Gifford wearily. He made no attempt to introduce the other three men present. One was short, stocky, and dark; the second long-limbed and flame-haired. The third required no introductions. It was Elliott, the American, sitting off to one side near the window. His lean face gave nothing away.

“The lieutenant governor has been called away on urgent business, I’m afraid,” Colonel Gifford said.

Already distancing himself from a dirty business, it occurred to Max. And why not? He knew he had a devoted servant happy to fall on his sword if the affair turned sour.

“I suggest we drop the pretense,” Colonel Gifford continued. “We all know why you’re here.”

But what exactly did they know? Max had mentioned nothing to Iris about the discovery of the shoulder tab pointing to the involvement of a British submariner in the deaths.

“We were going to tell you,” said Freddie.

“It’s the ‘we’ that I find interesting.” Colonel Gifford placed his palms flat on the surface of the desk. “What made you think the two of you were equipped to tackle something like this on your own?”

“It’s my fault,” said Freddie. “I involved Major Chadwick.”

“How very noble of you to take the blame.”

“It’s true.”

“And what exactly were you going to tell us?” inquired Elliott, leaning forward in his chair.

Colonel Gifford wasn’t happy about losing the floor to him, but Elliott wasn’t to be deterred. “I may be wrong, Colonel, but it’s possible that some new evidence has come to light.”

All eyes in the room settled on Max and Freddie.

“Well, has it?” demanded Colonel Gifford, snatching the reins back from Elliott.

“It has,” said Freddie.

He told them everything, holding back till the very end the revelation about the shoulder tab he’d found in Carmela Cassar’s clenched fist.

A number of looks were traded around the room in the silence following this bombshell.

“You have it?” asked Colonel Gifford, his studied composure faltering.

Max fished the tab from the breast pocket of his shirt. Getting to his feet, he approached the desk and handed it over. Colonel Gifford scrutinized the scrap of cloth.

“There’s not very much of it.”

“There’s enough of it,” said Max.

“May I?” asked Elliott.

The tab was passed to him. It then passed through the hands of the other two men before being returned to Colonel Gifford.

“Why didn’t you come to us with this?” the colonel asked.

Freddie shifted in his seat. “Maybe because I didn’t see a whole lot of progress the last time I came to you.”

Colonel Gifford flicked through a file in front of him. “I have your original statement here, along with a note suggesting that your suspicions be brought to the attention of the police.”

“And were they? No one came to speak to me.”

“The police were alerted.”

“And will you alert them this time? Or do you want me to do it on my way out?”

Police headquarters in Valetta had recently been relocated from the Sacra Infermeria in Valetta to the conservatory.

“What I would like you to do,” said Gifford starchly, “is give us a moment alone.”

A moment proved to be about fifteen minutes, during which time Max and Freddie sat in strained silence in the entrance room under the watchful glare of Hodges, who grudgingly permitted them to smoke a cigarette. Freddie was summoned back into the office alone. He reappeared a short while later with one of the nameless men—the small, dark one of the pair.

“You can go in now, Major Chadwick,” the man said, escorting Freddie toward the door. Freddie managed to slip Max a reassuring look that said: It’ll be okay .

And it was, but only just.

Colonel Gifford fired off his opening salvo as Max lowered himself into the chair.

“You’re a bloody fool, Chadwick. What in God’s name possessed you to turn detective? If I had my way, I’d sling you out on your ear—I would—but Major Pace here has argued convincingly in your defense.” Max glanced at Elliott. “The last thing we need right now is any disruption to the Information Office. But let me be quite clear: I was against your appointment in the first place, and I want you to think of this as a reprieve rather than a pardon.”

Max was to put the matter from his mind and talk to no one about it, on pain of court-martial. Gifford wound up his speech with a peculiar flourish.

“Non omnia possumus omnes.”

“We can’t all do everything,” or something like that.

“I’m sorry, sir, my Italian’s a little rusty.”

Max saw a whisper of a smile appear on Elliott’s lips.

“It’s Latin. Virgil. From the Eclogues.”

“It means, just stick to your bloody job, Chadwick.” This from the fourth man in the room, the one with ginger hair and lobster-pink skin. They were the first words he’d spoken, and his accent screamed high birth, summoning up images of Henley Royal Regatta and riding to hounds and tea on the lawn at the family pile in the country. His pale blue eyes were the color of thick ice, and possibly just as hard.

“Tell me about Lilian Flint,” he drawled, with an air of cold command.