Dead Man's Dinner

by Una Gordon

  Marcus had opened his envelope just before he went up to the flat he shared with Perry. The hurt he felt was almost palpable. He breathed deeply. Now he knew why Perry had been in such a state when the invitation arrived. Perry would still be waiting for him when he went up. How he would gloat when he saw what was on the card. There would be no denial, just details which Marcus did not want to hear. How could you? How could you? Marcus' despair was not the type that gives rise to tears. He wanted to walk away, but he knew he couldn't. He had to face up to the situation. Life must go on, as they say, and where would he go anyway? It is easy to run away, but one must always take oneself along and it is usually within oneself that the trouble lies. Wearily he got out of the car and went upstairs.

  Graham stopped in a quiet side street to open his envelope and when he read what was on the card his face set grimly. His find the previous night and now this! In twenty-four hours his life had been completely turned upside down and through no fault of his own, he thought self righteously. He started to drive home and had gone only about half a mile when he saw a wine bar which suddenly looked very inviting to him. He parked his car and went in. Not a man given to excesses in any area of his life, he was not in the habit of drinking much at all and frequently boasted he had never been drunk, but that night he convinced himself that he needed one drink after another. He scored two firsts that night. It was the first time he had ever got drunk and it was the first time he had picked up a prostitute.

  Chapter 4

  Gresham's sleep that night was short and fitful. His dreams bordered on being nightmares and several times he woke with a start, only to fall once more into an uneasy sleep. When sleep did finally desert him completely, he lay motionless in bed, thinking. He wanted to get up to immerse himself in some activity to take his mind off the card in his pocket, but he was unable to move, his active mind flitting from one thought to another, from one memory to another.

  He thought of the first time he had met Fiona – not so very long ago. Her brother was a vet and rented what had been a disused farmhouse on Gresham's estate. Roderick Cameron, Fiona's brother, was an exceptionally good looking man with dark, saturnine looks that seemed to match his brooding temperament. His wife, Belinda, in sharp contrast, had been blonde and almost elfin like. She had died tragically a short time after the birth of their second child, a daughter. Their son, Roy, was a chubby version of his handsome father, but there the resemblance ended for Roy already showed signs of being a very social animal and made friends with everyone he met.

  Gresham had had little contact with Roddie while his wife was alive, but when she died Gresham had gone to pay his respects and offer his condolences. It was then that he had first got to know Roy and Roy had taken to him, seeming to need another adult in his life because of his mother's death and his father's preoccupation with his own grief. Not that Roddie neglected his children, but he did have problems trying to look after the children on his own and cope with a demanding job. Belinda, as the baby was called after her mother, was a fretful baby and Roddie had many sleepless nights. Gresham had called at the point when Roddie was almost at the end of his tether when another young nanny had left because of the isolation of the old farmhouse. Gresham had taken the children back to his house where he knew several members of his staff would be only too glad to lend a hand. He advised Roddie to have a much needed rest. From then on Gresham and Roy became firm friends. One of these relationships developed between them which often do between people of different generations who seem to have some particular empathy with each other. The female members of staff looked after the baby when necessary and Gresham spent as much time as he could spare with Roy. Gresham's own childhood had been anything but happy. His over strict father, who had died when he was seventeen, had shown him no affection and his pleasure loving, beautiful mother had made no pretence of being interested in him.

  As a small child, Gresham, too, had been left in the care of a succession of nannies, none of whom stayed long enough for a bond to develop between them. He had never known why they left, but he could remember thinking that they didn't like him because he was an unattractive, little boy, or so his mother led him to believe. She, who was petite and beautiful, could never understand why she had given birth to a tall, ungainly son, like Gresham. She had as little to do with him as she possibly could. If she had been more caring, she might have acted as a buffer between him and his father's uncaring attitude. That was what Gresham always thought of when he thought of his father – his calculated cruelty. As a small child Gresham had tried desperately to please his father, feeling that the failing must be in him since neither of his parents seemed to love him, but no matter how hard he tried he met with, at best, an uncaring response, at worst a sneering, sarcastic comment. Gresham could remember quite clearly standing in his father's study when he was ten years old. On the desk, in front of his father, lay Gresham's school report. It was good, outstanding even, but there was no praise from his father, only the usual sarcasm. Gresham remembered how he had quite suddenly felt he had risen up out of his body and was looking down at the scene. For a few seconds Gresham felt he hated his father, then as quickly as it had arisen the hatred died. Its place was taken by a cold indifference and that feeling had lasted until his father died. Gresham decided there and then he would never try to please his father again. All his endeavour from then on had been for himself.

  He remembered how he had always been kept short of money. While others had gone out on school trips, he had been left in the school building on his own. He had never understood his father's reason for doing this. Far less had he understood why his father had had a young teacher sacked. The young man had dared to pay for Gresham to go on a trip to the theatre in Stratford. Gresham had not been told directly what had happened to young Mr Dunn, but he had deduced what had happened from comments he overheard.

  When his father had died Gresham had eventually sought out Mr Dunn, who was still teaching, in Blackpool, and was married with two young daughters. He was, in fact, a headmaster by this time and had smilingly told Gresham that his sacking had been one of the luckiest things that had happened to him because his career had moved on rapidly after that and he had met his wife in his next post.

  Gresham sighed. He knew the power that wealth could bring, but sometimes it had been brought home to him that it could buy none of the things of real value. His thoughts darted back swiftly to Fiona.

  When Gresham had heard that Fiona was coming to visit her brother, Roddie, he had invited them over for dinner, arranging for his housekeeper to babysit the children. When Fiona first entered the room, he had been struck by her resemblance to Roddie. She had the same, dark, curly hair and the same dark blue eyes, but lacking was his superb bone structure – in fact she looked quite ordinary. How unlucky that the boy had been given the good looks. Had she found it a handicap having such a good looking brother? He discovered, however, as the evening progressed that if she lacked Roddie's looks, she also lacked his dourness. Her conversation was lively, her wit was quick and when she smiled, as she often did, it transformed her face and she was almost beautiful. It made her look as if she had some inner glow, which by some process of personality, came to the surface and enhanced her looks immeasurably. She was a doctor in a large London hospital and Gresham thought she would have an excellent bedside manner.

  Gresham had always found relationships with women difficult – in fact he did not make friends easily at all, but he realised by the end of the evening that he was attracted to Fiona. He already knew from Roddie that a couple of years previously Fiona had been engaged to an American doctor, Derek Hamilton, who had been killed in a plane crash shortly before the wedding was to take place. Now she mentioned the name, Hal Burton, several times and Gresham knew he was a well known barrister who worked with her brother, Richard, also a barrister. Gresham would have hesitated to poach on another man's territory and he felt he would be wasting his time anyway because Fiona referred to Hal with obvious f
ondness and even joked about the seventeen years age difference.

  After that Gresham had taken Fiona into Edinburgh on two occasions when he was going there on business. He had lunched with her, but his hope of furthering the relationship seemed doomed since he thought it was fairly obvious she was not at all interested in him.

  Several months later a purely chance encounter brought him into contact again with Fiona in London. He turned into a side street off Regent Street and had not been able to believe his eyes when he saw Fiona studying a menu outside a secluded, little restaurant. In fact so intent did she seem to be that he could have walked past her without her noticing, but he stopped.

  “Anything to your liking, Madam?” he asked.

  She swung round, startled. “Gresham!” Did he imagine the pleasure in her voice?

  “Are you just going to have lunch?” he said.

  “What in here? At those prices? On my pay?2 The three phrases exploded laughingly from Fiona's lips, then her face became serious. “Oh, I shouldn't have said that. Now you'll feel obliged to take me for lunch and I shall feel guilty.”

  “Well.....” he pretended to consider. “If you can cope with the guilt, I think I can cope with the bill.” It was his turn to smile.

  They went into the restaurant for lunch and he found it easy to relax in her company. He felt quite lighthearted. No woman had ever had this effect on him before. He thought of the time he'd been engaged and how disastrous that had been. He had foolishly allowed himself to become entangled with Penelope, daughter of a wealthy (or so he had thought) neighbour until he felt the only honourable thing to do was marry her. Everyone was expecting it and making comments to that effect. He was already over thirty and his dreams of falling madly in love were becoming steadily more remote. Less than a week after the engagement he had realised he had made a mistake. Her father had tried to borrow a very large sum of money to shore up his business which was failing and not, as Gresham had thought, thriving. Her mother had come to his house while he was out, much to the consternation of the servants, apparently making an inventory of what she saw as her daughter's future belongings. Large bills started to arrive for clothes and jewellery which Penelope and her mother had purchased. He was not, he believed, a mean man, but he did like to be consulted about how his money was to be spent. Once Penelope had become his wife, her allowance would have been more than generous, but she was not prepared to wait until then – or at least her mother wasn't. He had quickly learned that Penelope was simply a kind of puppet who performed when her mother pulled the strings and only then. He had tried to talk to Penelope, but without her mother to guide her, she was like a ship without a rudder. In the end he had given up and told Penelope to tell any story she liked, but he could not marry her. The fury and exhortations of her mother had only strengthened his resolve not to marry Penelope even if the continuation of the human race depended on it.

  He had not felt proud of himself after that episode and his confidence in his judgement of women took a further knock, but then, at that point, he had never been in love.

  As he had looked at Fiona that lunchtime he had warmed to her company and wondered if he should try to oust Hal Burton in the marriage stakes. He had a sudden mental image of fighting a duel with Hal. He had smiled at the thought, then suddenly realised Fiona was saying something about Hal being in the United States. Not having heard clearly what she said, he asked, “You mean he's there now?”

  “Yes, he left last night for three weeks – a lecture tour – on his latest book about famous cases.” She chattered on, elaborating on what Hal was to be lecturing about. She had told him earlier that she had changed her job, was now working in research and had more regular hours. His mind, by this time, was doing mental gymnastics, rearranging his schedule which had not, in practice, turned out to be easy. He had had to make some very spurious excuses which had been accepted, he knew, only because he was usually so reliable.

  “I'm to be in London quite a bit over the next three weeks,” he lied, thinking of what he'd have to do to make this a reality. “If you're not too busy, perhaps I could take you out to dinner or to a theatre.”

  He waited, sensing Fiona was weighing up the situation, looking at him as he tried to appear as casual as possible.

  “That would be nice,” she said eventually and he could not decide whether she was just being polite or if she really meant it.

  The dinners and theatre visits had multiplied and they had seen each other on every possible occasion. There had been no question of love making, not even a kiss. He could almost feel the delicacy of the situation between them – sometimes she seemed to swim into his orbit – at other times she became distant and he would have given a great deal to know what was going on in her mind. He wanted her as he had never wanted a woman before, but the gossamer thread which held her tenuously to him could so easily be broken, so he took no chances. Hal would soon be back and Gresham felt the presence of Hal would be rather more difficult to deal with than his absence. How keen was she on Hal? Did he, Gresham, stand a chance at all? He toyed with the idea of declaring his love, but he felt it was such an all or nothing situation he dared not. He met her for their last evening together, still uncertain. They were going to a theatre to see a comedy which Fiona specially wanted to see and he had chosen an exclusive restaurant nearby in which to dine so that there was only a short walk to the theatre. When they came out of the restaurant it was pouring down and Fiona's flimsy shoes and jacket were little protection. Even in the few yards they had to walk she'd be soaked. They stood on the pavement under the canopy of he restaurant, unsure what to do. He said he'd get a taxi and she said it wasn't worth it. At that point a passing motorist unaware of their dilemma and conscious only of his desire to meet his girlfriend on time, sped past them, showering both of them with muddy water, sent flying by his impatient tyres. Fiona and Gresham looked at each other for a second in dismay, then she started to laugh – that laugh which had so attracted him at their first meeting.

  “Look, we can hardly go to the theatre like this. Shall I call a cab?” he asked.

  She nodded. He couldn't see the expression in her eyes because she was looking down at her shoes. When the cab came, they climbed in and he gave the address of his flat. She made no comment and they drove there in silence. In the foyer of the flats he felt he had to give her some explanation and he tried desperately to sound light hearted. Whatever she thought about his bringing her to his flat, she must know he could not have prearranged the mud splashing.

  “I brought you here because I did not want to be deprived of the last few hours of your company,” he explained.

  She smiled. “At least I shall see how the other half lives.”

  In the flat he provided her with a silk dressing gown and changed into another suit himself. He produced a bottle of wine. They started to drink and to chat. He was glad he had given his manservant time off to go to his sister's for the weekend. Fiona drew him like a magnet and he finally could not resist the temptation to touch her. He knew by this time that with what they had drunk at dinner and what they had drunk in the flat, they were slightly tipsy, but he felt he was encapsulated in a bubble of happiness with Fiona and if he let her go he would never have such an opportunity again. Her skin felt as soft to his touch as he had anticipated and his head spun when he kissed her. He remembered thinking he was reacting to the situation like an inexperienced seventeen year old, but then he was a rather inexperienced thirty-four year old. He felt no resistance from her when he made love to her on the thick rug in front of the fire, nor later when they were in bed.

  They had not parted until the next morning when the conversation had been stilted and their manner very awkward with each other. In the cold light of day he could not recapture the magic of the previous evening and he felt she was very withdrawn. He suggested diffidently that if there were any consequences of the previous evening she should contact him. He knew he sounded like a Victorian prude and not at all warm a
nd caring.

  “I'll be all right,” she almost whispered and he had not been sure what she meant. Was she on the pill? Would Hal marry her even if she were pregnant by another man? Would she have an abortion if that was necessary? They parted with none of these questions answered and he had gone home to Scotland feeling he would never be happy again. The next weeks dragged and he saw life as a long, grey road with no turning. Every time he saw Roy or Roddie, so like Fiona, he felt the twist of pain in his heart, but there was no way he could stop seeing them because painful though it was, it was a kind of link with Fiona. He could never bring himself to ask Roddie how Fiona was and he waited to hear the announcement of her engagement to Hal.

  A remark of Roddie's several weeks later gave him the first information he had had of Fiona since he had seen her. She was ill and not at work – that was all. Gresham's mind went into overdrive. Could she be pregnant? Was it morning sickness? Could she be recovering from an abortion? Was her illness nothing to do with pregnancy at all? One moment he felt his mind was completely blank; the next it seemed so full of racing thoughts that his mind wouldn't hold them all. He tried repeatedly to rationalise the situation. She was a doctor; she must have been on the pill; she could not possibly be pregnant. But if she were pregnant surely as a doctor she could get an abortion easily. Her illness could have nothing to do with her being pregnant. What if she had wanted to become pregnant? Ridiculous! She wouldn't have tried to ensnare him like that and she couldn't have arranged for the mud splashing. It must have been obvious to her that he was keen on her. Over and over again he tried to recall their last conversation; to put different interpretations on everything she had said. Had she been looking forward to Hal's coming home? Had she...... Eventually he dialled her brother's number in London. It was her brother who answered. He gave his name and asked if Fiona was there.