by Una Gordon
Bianca denied Peter's accusations again and again, but he didn't believe her. She'd always been a lying bitch. He would never have admitted it, but who had she learned that from? “You slut, you scrubber, you prostitute, you low down no good.” He called her every insult he could think of. Eventually Bianca gave up arguing and packed a case.
Before she left she came into the sitting room where Peter was slumped in a chair with a glass of whisky in his hand. She looked at him for a long time.
“You know,” she said, “despite all your faults, all the debts, all the tantrums, I loved you. I was willing to put up with it all, but one breath of suspicion and I'm damned. No trial – no defence. Guilty because a louse like Derwent Mollosey says so. If that's all you think of me, you'll be glad to see the back of me. I shan't tell you where I'm going because I don't know, but if I never see you again it will be about a week too soon.”
The door didn't slam as she left, but closed with a quiet click which seemed more final than any bang would have done.
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Marcus opened the door of the flat. As he had guessed Perry was still up. He said nothing, just raised his eyebrows in question. Marcus threw him the card. As he read it, a smile spread over Perry's face – a smug smile. His voice became higher pitched and his manner became more affected when he was in this sort of mood. “Well, now you know.”
“Yes, now I know,” said Marcus wearily.
“You surely don't mind.” Perry moved over to the mirror and patted his hair and adjusted his collar. “You were so pleased when you got this invitation, but I've had the last laugh.”
Marcus suppressed his temper. He had not been pleased when the invitation arrived and Perry knew it, but he could always twist things to suit his own ends. “I'm going to bed,” sighed Marcus. “I'm tired.”
“On your own?” The smug look was still on Perry's face.
“On my own,” said Marcus quietly.
The next morning Perry's mood had not changed at all. He was obviously going to get as much mileage out of this situation as he could. Marcus metaphorically girded his loins and prepared to deal with the situation as best he could. There seemed nothing else he could do. One or two customers in the gallery asked him if he was feeling all right and to a couple of close friends Perry confided that Marcus was piqued because someone else fancied him, Perry.
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Graham awoke the next morning with the worst headache he had ever had. He made himself copious cups of coffee, had a cold shower, but he couldn't look at any food. He was decidedly vague about exactly what had happened after he left Derwent's flat. He had to drag himself into work because he had an important client to see. He made an excuse about having some kind of bug and hoped the client would believe him and not take his very lucrative business elsewhere.
He was so concerned about how he felt that it was a couple of days before he started to think about Rachel, the card and the story. There was no doubt in his mind that they were all connected and he had to decide what to do about them. He did not relish the thought of tackling Rachel, but he couldn't just ignore it. He was a wronged man. He did an excellent whitewash job on himself, placing himself only slightly lower on the scale than the Archangel Gabriel. When Rachel phoned he would be cool with her and wait until she asked what was wrong and make her drag it out of him bit by bit.
When Rachel did phone she was obviously not much interested in how he felt. She was far too much taken up with the fact that her mother had had a stroke and a very severe one from the sound of things. Her mother was in hospital, but it had been made clear to Rachel that she could be kept there only for a limited time. There was a nursing home she could go to, but Rachel felt that she must stay there meantime. Graham agreed. He had never like his mother-in-law, but Rachel couldn't leave her at a time like this.
“You'll come down when you can, won't you? Rachel sounded almost pleading and Graham said that he would, but wondering how he could get out of it. He wanted to tackle Rachel on home territory and if he went to Devon how could he treat Rachel normally?
As it happened he needn't have worried. During the six months that Rachel was in Devon he went down only three times and Rachel was so concerned about her mother that she didn't notice anything odd about Graham's manner. His fourth visit was to be for his mother-in-law's funeral, but by that time he had been admitted to hospital himself and couldn't go. Rachel had to hurry from the funeral of one invalid to the side of a hospital bed of another, not even taking time to sell off her mother's house before she came home. There were so many things she felt she needed Graham's advice about.
When she arrived at the hospital in London she was met by a very apologetic sister who said they had been trying to contact her to tell her Graham had been transferred to another hospital. When Rachel asked why, the sister was very evasive. Rachel travelled to the other hospital in a kind of daze. Was Graham more ill than she had at first supposed? She had just lost her mother; she couldn't bear to lose her husband as well. He had a lot of funny little ways, but she loved him. The woman sitting next to her in the tube looked at her as a dry sob caught in her throat.
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At Derwent's funeral and on the night of the dinner Gresham had been told that Derwent had died of leukaemia and he wasn't very sure when he first heard the rumour that it was not leukaemia but Aids of which he had died. Gresham had never really thought about Derwent's sexual proclivities. Perhaps he'd been a drug addict which would account for some of the excesses of his behaviour. Did it matter now anyway? He was dead and that was that. Then Gresham remembered the card and his blood ran cold. He'd come to the conclusion that the card was some kind of sadistic joke of Derwent's, but was it instead a kind of warning? Gresham decided he had to speak to Fiona about it no matter what trouble it caused. The trouble might already have been caused anyway.
When Gresham made this decision Fiona was not in London. She was at their house near Edinburgh. On the day she came back to London, Gresham arrived back at the flat to find Fiona there, looking as attractive and lively as ever. She certainly didn't look ill. He decided to wait until after dinner to broach the subject, but it was she who brought the subject up.
“Do you remember Sally Appleton?” she asked.
“Yes, vaguely,” replied Gresham.
“Well, she was telling me that there was a rumour going round that Derwent Mollosey died of Aids. I thought you told me it was leukaemia?”
“Yes, I did. That's what I was told, but I've heard this rumour as well. Fiona, I....”
“You know, Gresham, when you were in the States last year.......”
“Yes.” Gresham's heart nearly stopped beating.
“Well, something funny happened. I meant to tell you, but somehow it kept slipping my memory and anyway it didn't seem important.”
Didn't seem important? thought Gresham.
Derwent rang up one day and asked me to go for tea.”
Gresham felt as if every nerve in his body was on red alert.
“I tried to get out of it because you know I never liked him, but he insisted. He said it was very important in connection with you. He just wouldn't take no for an answer, so in the end I went.”
I know you did, my dear, because it's in your diary, thought Gresham, feeling rather ashamed that he had surreptitiously checked up on Fiona.
“When I got there the table was beautifully laid – all china and silver – cucumber sandwiches, Battenburg cake, chocolate biscuits, the lot. You know I was trying to diet to get my figure back after John's birth, but Derwent practically forced the food down my throat.”
Never mind the unimportant details – get to the point, thought Gresham.
“Derwent was in a very peculiar mood. He made odd remarks apropos of nothing. I couldn't make out what was going on and eventually I got really fed up and
demanded to know why he'd asked me there. He smiled in an – well an almost evil way and said something about it being a bet, but I couldn't get any more out of him. It bothered me at the time, but you weren't around and I didn't want to tell you on the phone, then when you came back John was ill and, as I said, it just drifted out of my mind. I wonder if his mind was affected when he was told what was wrong with him. His manner, as I say, was most odd.”
“He didn't try to seduce you?”
Fiona looked at Gresham in absolute amazement. “What do you take me for? I always thought he was impotent, but this Aids rumour has made me wonder. But why do you ask? Did he tell you he had a grand passion for me?”
Gresham looked rather shamefaced. The whole story about the dinner and the card came tumbling out. He let Fiona see the card which he had kept locked up in his desk. “I thought it was some kind of awful joke Derwent was trying to play?” he explained feebly.
Fiona looked at him, a faint smile playing around her lips. “You weren't quite sure, were you?” Gresham almost winced as she read aloud what it said on the card. “ 'I slept with your wife on April 2nd, 1987.' A day late for an April Fool joke.”
“Fiona, I really do trust you. I..”
“I know,” said Fiona, “it's yourself you don't trust. I know you've never fully been convinced that I love you, but I do. Can you imagine that I'd be interested in someone like Derwent when you're around?” She leaned over and kissed him. They went from the dining table to the bedroom and it was quite some time before Derwent was given another thought.
Later as Gresham lay beside Fiona, he thought of Derwent and he felt quite grateful to him because with discussing him, he was now convinced that Fiona did love him.
It was Fiona who brought up the subject of Derwent the next day. “Don't you see, Gresham, you were right. It was a form of joke – rather horrible, but that was what Derwent meant it to be. He was always jealous of you.”
“But why should he be jealous of me. He was as rich as Croesus.”
“Yes, but you've got something that money can't buy. You're an aristocrat. You may think that's not important because you take it for granted, but Derwent would dearly have liked to have come from a long line of titled people and he didn't. Believe me he was jealous of you and he wanted to hurt you where he thought you'd feel it most. He knew the circumstances in which we got married. He also knew you well enough to know your Achilles heel is that you don't think you are attractive to women. I bet he planned this carefully hoping it would break up or at least damage our marriage.”
“The bastard!”
“What's been worrying me who else was at that party and what did it say on their cards? Did Derwent have a grudge against all of them?”
Gresham could remember the other five guests, but he doubted if he knew them well enough to even hazard a guess at what Derwent resented about them.
“Think, Gresham, think – this may be very important. Let's go through them one by one to see if you can think of anything that Derwent might hold against them.”
“There was Guy Pather, but everyone knows his wife, Melissa, is anyone's for the taking and if the same thing was written on his card as on mine, Guy would just say, 'So what?' “
“Yes, but would he be so cavalier about it if he knew that Derwent had Aids.”
Gresham whistled. “You've got a point.”
“First of all we must find out for certain what Derwent died of.”
“How do we do that?” Gresham asked. “Just go along and ask to look at the death certificate?”
“It's not as simple as that. People may have a serious illness, but, in the end, it may be pneumonia or heart failure that they die of and that's what might show up on the death certificate. Where did Derwent die? Was it a private hospital?”
“No, I have a feeling it was Westminster Hospital. He may have had a private room. I just don't know.”
“Try to find out. Wherever it was, there's bound to be someone I can contact, but it's imperative we find out because if everyone had the same message written on his card as you did, there could be someone very worried.”
“Just a minute,” said Gresham, they couldn't all have said the same thing. Marcus Reeves was there and everyone knows he's a homosexual.”
“But don't you see, Gresham, that doesn't make any difference. No one knew which side Derwent batted for, if he did at all, so all he had to say was he'd made love to or slept with and it doesn't matter if it's a man or a woman.”
“There was also a lawyer fellow – what is his name? Someone said he used to be Derwent's lawyer. Carson – that was it – Graham Carson. A dried up stick of a fellow. I remember once years ago meeting his wife, Rebecca or Rachel or something she was called. Attractive woman, but looked as if she had never let her hair down. I can't see Derwent convincing Graham that he'd been to bed with her.”
“You never know,” said Fiona. “Secret passions often lie very deep within a person.”
“Then there was this guy, Peter something or other. I can't remember his surname. According to some of the others always in debt – a real con man. That was the lot.”
“It can't be. You said six of you were invited besides the solicitor fellow who gave you the envelopes. Who was the sixth?”
Graham screwed up his face as he tried to remember how they'd been seated at the table. Suddenly he remembered something the man had said although he couldn't remember the man clearly at all. “This young chap – no idea what he is called, but he said his wife was pregnant. Good God, now I remember, once he'd had a bit too much to drink he said they'd been trying for a family for ages and when they went for tests he had been told he had a low sperm count or something and there wasn't much hope, so they were very pleased when his wife had found out that she was expecting a baby.”
Fiona threw her hands in the air. “This man is told he is practically sterile, then his wife becomes pregnant, then he is given a card saying Derwent had slept with his wife. Can you imagine the effect that would have on him?” Fiona's face became grim. “We've got to do something about this. Derwent Mollosey must not have the last laugh.”
Gresham did not want to approach Benjamin Carmichael directly. He felt for some reason he did not want to arouse his suspicions that he was making enquiries. He didn't trust Homer either because he felt he was too astute at putting two and two together. He also didn't want to make enquiries at the club where he was a member and where Derwent had been a member. This was ridiculous. It must be quite easy to find out where Derwent had died. It wasn't a state secret, but it hadn't said on the announcement of his death in the newspapers.
One day when he was in the vicinity of Derwent's flat, Gresham thought of going in and asking the porter if he knew where Derwent had died, but that might seem a bit odd, so odd that the porter might mention it to someone. As he was rejecting this idea who should come breezing round the corner, but Homer carrying a bag of shopping. He didn't look at all surprised to see Gresham. “Lookin' for me, are you, sir?”
“No, no, I just happened to be on some business near here and before I knew it I was here, near Mr Mollosey's flat. What I'm really looking for is somewhere to have lunch – not a pub. Somewhere where I could have a quiet lunch.” An idea was already forming in Gresham's mind.
“Know the very place, sir. Little Italian place just a couple of streets away. It's got a very good reputation and it's not too busy at lunchtime.”
“Sounds ideal,” said Gresham and turned to walk away, then as if on impulse he turned back. “I don't suppose you'd care to join me.”
A beam spread over Homer's usually saturnine face. “Wouldn't I just! You walk on ahead, sir. I'll just drop off this little lot and I'll be wif you in two ticks.”
The thought of eating lunch with Homer did not fill Gresham with joy, but he might prove a useful source of information.
Once they were seated at a quiet corner table and had ordered, Homer looked at Gresham and grinned. “What is it you want
, sir? You just didn't happen to be in the area, did you?”
Gresham could have laughed. He realised there had been no need for him to be in the actual street where Derwent's flat was, but he had genuinely had business in a nearby office. He decided to play along with Homer who liked to think he was very smart. Why not let him think so? “You're a smart fellow, Homer.” He smiled.
“You wan' the low down on somethin'?” Homer leaned towards him in conspiratorial fashion.
“The low down?” questioned Gresham.
“Yes, you want to know if what it said in them envelopes is true?”
“Not exactly,” said Gresham cautiously. Homer waited. “I want to know what Derwent died of.”
“Everyone knows what he died of.”
“Yes?”
“Yes,” repeated Homer. “He died of leukaemia.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeh, I'm sure. Look what you gettin' at?”
Gresham plunged in. He had to say something. “Well, you know my wife's a doctor and she's doing a study of different types of leukaemia and is trying to collect some data and she wondered what type Derwent had died of, how long he had been ill etc. Even to his own ears this all sounded ridiculous. Anyone with any sense would realise that data was not collected this way, but Homer didn't seem to find anything amiss. By this time he was too busy luxuriating in the first of the expensive dishes which he had ordered.
“I dunno anythin' about different types. All I know is that's what he died of. None of them types is infectious, is they? He asked in sudden alarm.
“No,no,” Gresham reassured him. “Perhaps my wife could find out more by making enquiries at the hospital where he died.”
“The Westminster,” said Homer, speaking with his mouth full.
“You don't happen to know which consultant he was seeing, do you?”
I know nuthin' 'cept what I told you. 'e was taken to the Westminster – six weeks later 'e was dead.”