Dead Man's Dinner Read online

  Graham had a bad journey back from Devon through rain and darkness. Just as he had been about to leave, his mother-in-law had produced some papers she wanted him to look at in connection with her house. By the time he had finished there had been no hope of his getting home before dark. Why she couldn't have produced them when he arrived he didn't know, but then she wouldn't be bothered about his being killed in a road accident because then she would have Rachel all to herself!

  As he climbed the stairs to his first floor apartment, he could think only of how cold and hungry he was. He didn't even switch on the light before going through to the kitchen and was unaware he had left a muddy footprint on the white envelope lying behind the door. By the time he did pick it up, his mind was somewhat mellowed by a couple of drinks and a ham sandwich.

  He looked cynically at the invitation. How like Derwent! Graham decided there and then he would go to the dinner. Rachel was sure to be still in Devon on the 22nd and by that time he would be sick of eating out or preparing his own meals. Derwent had had many faults, but providing poor meals had not been one of them and even in death he was sure to run true to form. He'd have arranged it all long before he died. Graham was not a curious man and had Rachel been at home it is doubtful if he would have bothered to go and since Rachel wasn't there he had no trouble following the scrawled instructions not to tell his wife.

  Chapter Two

  The evening of 21st October saw Graham Carson preparing for the evening of the 22nd. He laid out his clothes, ensuring each garment was clean, uncreased and thoroughly brushed. He was meticulous in everything he did – a place for everything and everything in its place. He was, therefore, rather annoyed when he discovered that his gold cufflinks were not in the leather box, marked “cufflinks” on his dressing table. He thought he had looked in every conceivable place without success when his eyes alighted on Rachel's large, leather jewel box. Could they be in there?

  He knew Rachel would know where they were, but he baulked at phoning her because when she got these calls from her mother, he always insisted how independent he was, trying to conceal his annoyance at her impending departure with an air of “Who needs you anyway?” Rachel, like him, did not like other people meddling with her things, but he'd look anyway. The jewel box had several compartments and he drew a blank in every one, then he remembered (for he had bought the jewel box for Rachel) that it had a kind of drawer underneath, access to which was obtained from the back of the box. He turned the box round and pulled the small handle. The drawer did not budge. He tugged, but still nothing happened. Obviously something was jamming it. As he kept tugging, he inserted his fingers in the narrow opening, trying to hold down whatever was preventing the drawer from opening.. It appeared to be paper of some kind. Graham could not imagine what on earth Rachel could keep in her jewel box – except, of course, her jewellery. At last with a jerk the whole drawer came out. The wad of paper which had been jamming the drawer was quite thick and as Graham opened it, he noticed that the top sheet, and he was to discover all the others, were closely typed. At the top was what appeared to be a title, but his struggling with the drawer had torn the paper and obliterated the title, but he could read by Rita Carstairs – obviously a pseudonym for Rachel Carson. His wife was writing a book and had never told him. How nice, thought Graham smugly. She has found a new interest – something to fill her time while I am at work. He began to read it, already planning to tell Rachel he had discovered her little secret and intending to encourage her whether the content was any good or not. He took the manuscript through to the sitting room, poured himself a glass of wine and began to read, all thoughts of cufflinks temporarily banished from his mind.

  The first page set the scene for what was obviously a romantic novel. There was nothing very original in the boy meets girl plot except perhaps the prospective hero and heroine were rather older than a boy and girl – mature perhaps would have described them or, perhaps less flatteringly, middle-aged.

  The benign expression on Graham's face had altered to a stony expression by the time he had reached the third page. The erotic love scene verbally unfolded before his eyes. Where had Rachel learned about such things? Their sex life, his and Rachel's, had always been so, so decorous. Perhaps dull would be a better word. He remembered reading once about a vicar who had described his sex life with his wife as “surreptitious fumblings in the dark”. Is that how Rachel had seen their love life? She had never complained or had she? He remembered once, a long time ago, she had tentatively suggested they try something different – nothing very adventurous – just a change of position. They had tried it once, rather unsuccessfully, and she had never mentioned the subject again. She always complied when he made advances and he had believed she was perfectly satisfied.

  But had she really? Had he ever considered her feeling on the matter; had he ever asked? He knew the answer although he found it difficult to admit it to himself. The expression on his face now was that of a spoiled child – pouting and sulky. It was obvious that Rachel had gone elsewhere for her sexual adventures. He looked at the manuscript again. She could not have learned such things from films, television or reading books. Before many minutes he saw himself in the role of the wronged husband and was uttering such phrases to himself as, “After all I've done for her.” He was firmly convinced that this book was not a piece of romantic fiction, but a description of something which Rachel had experienced.

  He forgot all about his cufflinks. He never did find them. The next evening he wore his silver ones.

  Guy Pather, Peter Dewey and Marcus Reeves had no need to make excuses for their absence on the evening of the 22nd because each of their partners knew where they were going. After his “find” Graham would not even have dreamed of mentioning the invitation on the phone to Rachel. He now found it difficult even to be civil to her, but if she had noticed a coldness in his tone she had said nothing.

  Gresham toyed with several ideas of where he might say he was going on the 22nd, but before he had the opportunity to try one out on Fiona, she mentioned she was going to the theatre that evening with some friends and would not be back until late. Gresham said in that case he would probably stay at his club. He consoled himself by convincing himself that he had not really told a lie. In other circumstances he would probably have stayed at his club and after all he had not definitely said he would.

  Fate stepped in to help Gary. Diana had gone to hospital for a check up and had been kept in because her blood pressure was high. He had plenty of time to go to visit her before going on to Derwent's flat and that was just what he did. Diana was not a self centred person, but in the circumstances she was too worried about the fate of the baby to ask Gary what he would be doing once he left the hospital.

  At the appointed hour, therefore, or as near as makes no difference, all six men arrived and were shown into the sitting room of the flat. It was luxuriously furnished; the drinks awaiting them were served from expensive crystal glasses by Homer who had been Derwent's manservant and who was still obviously employed there. Gresham, who had been a classics scholar, had always been suspicious of Homer's name, but Derwent, when questioned had always been suitably vague. It couldn't be his real name. Was there any association with the ancient poet or was it just Derwent's way of calling him “man”.

  Each man looked at his companions; some of them knew each other vaguely, but none of them knew the others well. There was speculation in more than one mind about what connection the others had had with Derwent.

  Gresham, who missed very little, noticed the supercilious almost insolent expression on Homer's face. What did he know, Gresham wondered, about what Derwent was up to? Peter also noticed the expression and although his manner was bluff and hearty he had this underlying feeling of fear. There were more than a few skeletons in Peter's past and every time Homer looked at him, he had the feeling he knew about some of them, at least. Peter most certainly did not want any of them revealed. He was relieved when Benjamin Carmichael, Derwent'
s solicitor, walked in, a figure of integrity and rectitude if ever there was one. He would have nothing to do with blackmail. A tough man to outwit, he was, nevertheless renowned for his honesty. He was a man of considerable physical stature and his silver head towered above all the others except for Gresham Erdington's. He exuded bonhomie and there was nothing in his manner to suggest this was anything but a normal dinner party minus the host. After a suitable interval had elapsed, Benjamin Carmichael suggested they go through to the dining room to start dinner. Perhaps if Homer had prepared it, he intended to poison them all, thought Gresham cynically, but it was clear that caterers had been brought in.

  The two waitresses who served the meal were quick and efficient and the food was superb. In that respect Derwent had done them proud, but then he had always been a lavish entertainer and he would want to be remembered as such. By the time coffee and liqueurs were served there was a certain impatience amongst the company to know what was going to happen. None of the guests thought Derwent had provided this dinner out of sheer generosity. There was no screen to suggest that Derwent was about to appear amongst them if not in the flesh, at least on film. The conversation which had been rather stilted over dinner dried up completely. Derwent had loved to invite an odd mixture of guests, then he would fuel the fire by introducing topics which he knew would lead to argument. He loved to watch people squirm when he deliberately said something to embarrass them. Derwent had lost many friends in this way, but there were those who clung to his company because of his great wealth. There were others, like Gresham, whom Derwent would not let go. Gresham alternated between feeling sorry for Derwent, who was a victim of his own personality and being completely exasperated by him. Their tenuous relationship had lasted since student days, but their meetings had been spasmodic and sometimes acrimonious.

  Guy and Derwent had been quite similar in character and each enjoyed pitting his wits against the other, with Guy sometimes winning their financial battles of wits and sometimes Derwent winning. Guy had often suspected that beneath Derwent's good loser attitude there festered a desire to get the better of Guy once and for all.

  Gary had met Derwent through a business deal and was a protégé of Derwent. At one time he had almost knelt at Derwent's feet in deference to, what seemed to him then, Derwent's sage opinions. As Gary gained in experience, his dependence on Derwent's help diminished; his occasional visits to Derwent's office became rarer, but they had remained friendly, at least on the surface. Gary was too naïve to realise that Derwent thrived on the adoration of his young friend.. He recognised what Derwent had done for him and was grateful, but did not realise he was expected to pay homage to Derwent for the rest of his life.

  Peter did not like and had never liked Derwent, but Derwent was rich. Peter had borrowed from him more than he cared to remember. Derwent occasionally reminded him of his debt, but never pressed him for repayment, so Peter went on borrowing from and disliking Derwent and now Derwent could no longer ask for his money back. As far as Peter was concerned the slate was clean. He just had to find someone else from who he could borrow.

  Marcus was the only one of the six to have had a proper business relationship with Derwent. Several years previously they had set up an art gallery together and it had prospered. It had taken some time for Marcus to cotton on to Derwent's shady dealings, but once he did he lost no time in severing the connection. He had no intention of landing in jail for fraud or anything else. Marcus had allowed Derwent to buy him out and then had set up his own gallery. Marcus had no interest in being left any of Derwent's money since it had probably been acquired by dubious means.

  Graham was a lawyer and had ceased to handle Derwent's affairs when he, like Marcus, had discovered that everything was not above board. He had his reputation to consider and he had no intention of acquiring a criminal record in order to oblige a friend. Graham and Derwent had not parted on very good terms and it was some time since they had met at all and even longer since they had met socially. .

  A ripple of relief ran through the company when Benjamin Carmichael called them to order. He had tried his best throughout the meal, not very successfully, to keep the conversation going, but now everyone's attention was on him as he started to speak. Everyone expected something spectacular – something worthy of Derwent as a showman.

  “Gentlemen,” began Carmichael, “I expect you are all curious to know why you have been called here tonight in the flat of Derwent Mollosey who is now dead.” A murmur of assent arose from the six invited guests. “Derwent thought that he would rather be remembered in this way rather than by a memorial service because, of course, he was not a religious man.

  Surrounded by his nearest and dearest, thought Gresham, casting his eyes to the ceiling.

  I wonder why an honest chap like Benjamin agreed to look after Derwent's affairs,” thought Graham. Ben is very astute and must have realised that Derwent was on the fiddle in a big way.

  “I was asked by my client, the late Derwent Mollosey, to invite you all here this evening, and I am pleased, as Derwent would have been, that you all accepted the invitation.”

  The tension in the atmosphere was electric. Everyone was wondering what was to happen and none of them would have been surprised if Derwent himself had walked through the door and announced that his death had been a practical joke, but instead Benjamin bent down and picked up his briefcase which no one had noticed under the table at his feet. From it he took six, white, expensive envelopes exactly the same as those in which the invitations had arrived.

  “Derwent asked me,” Benjamin continued, “to give each of you one of those. He also asked that you refrained from opening them until you are alone.” Slowly and deliberately he started to pass them round.

  This is it, thought Gresham. This is where the joke comes in. He remembered an old film in which everyone was asked to do something outrageous in order to inherit from a will. Well, as far as I am concerned, Derwent has had it. No way am I going to do something stupid for money or anything else.

  The same thought went through Guy's and Peter's minds at the same time. They wondered how much they had been left. They took their envelopes, almost with glee. They supposed Derwent had asked them to open the envelopes when alone, so that they didn't compare what they had been left.

  Gary thought along similar lines – that Derwent had left him something in his will. It would come in jolly handy now that the baby was on the way. He felt quite buoyant as he took his envelope.

  Marcus and Graham took their envelopes less eagerly. They were certain they would not be mentioned in Derwent's will, but neither of them had the imagination to think of his playing a trick in this situation.

  All six men put their envelopes in their pockets. A sense of anti-climax had descended on the room and all of them wanted to escape, not so much to find out the contents of the envelope as to get away from the rather strange atmosphere.

  Gresham went down to the car park below the block of flats to collect his car. He settled himself in the driver's seat. There had been something again about Homer's expression as he had handed him his coat that bothered him. He glanced round to see if any of the others were about. When he was sure they weren't, he took the envelope from his pocket and ripped it open. Once again there was a card inside with some writing on it. Even after he had read it twice, he still hadn't taken it in properly. He just couldn't believe it. He stuffed the envelope in his pocket and drove off, stopping automatically at red lights and crossings. He changed his mind about going to his club. He drove down to the embankment and stood looking down at the water for a long, long time, thoughts churning in his mind. Eventually, numb with cold, he turned and walked back to his car. He drove home slowly and entered the flat quietly. He hung up his coat and silently opened the bedroom door. The light from the hall illuminated Fiona's face. She must have got home earlier than she expected, but when he looked at his watch he realised it was after one o'clock. He went to the spare room and slowly undressed. It was
a long time before sleep came. Could what Derwent had written possibly be true?

  Chapter Three

  Guy felt a certain impatience as he read what was on his card – also sitting in his car which was parked round the corner from Derwent's flat. “Oh, tell me something I don't know,” he muttered to himself. “What I want to know is when do we get the lolly?” It was as he drove home that a disturbing thought entered his mind. Perhaps Melissa had already been given it for “services rendered” and had not told him – the bitch! The more he thought of this possibility, the more likely it seemed. He'd have it out with her even although she was asleep when he got home. No one was pulling a fast one like that on Guy Pather – especially Mrs Pather!

  Gary had kept his envelope until he got home because he knew there would be no one there to disturb him. It was probably just as well he had not read the card before he started out because it is unlikely he would have been in a fit state to drive after he had read it. Once the first shock had worn off, he looked at the date again, then he went to check the calendar. The times fitted exactly. The card dropped from his hand; he sat for a long time, cold and desolate, then he started to sob, great racking sobs of grief, almost devoid of tears, that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. Occasionally, in a muffled voice, he said his wife's name, but whether it was a call of need or condemnation, it was difficult to tell. He made no attempt to go to bed and sat in a chair all night, treading depths of misery he had never known before.

  When Peter read what was on the card he was just plain furious! Imagine being put in this humiliating situation by Derwent! He forgot momentarily that Derwent was dead or perhaps it was because he was dead that he knew he could never even the score that he felt furious. He thought of Derwent smiling, of his false politeness, of his attitude when he, Peter, was unable to repay his debt. It made Peter squirm. He'd have a few questions to ask Bianca, the cow, the bitch! By the time he arrived home he was in fine fettle for a row.