by Una Gordon
“Listen,” said Wenner, putting his fingers to his lips as he started the tape.
Derwent's unctuous voice filled the room. “Hi, Peter, old friend. Didn't expect to hear from me again, did you? Well you know how I like giving little surprises, don't you? Still up to your eyes in debt, are you?” Peter stiffened. “You were never much good with the old finances, were you, old boy?” Peter rose to his feet.
“Just listen,” whispered Wenner. Peter sat down again and listened while Derwent, in no uncertain terms listed his loans to him and Peter's failure to make any headway in paying him back.
“I knew I had very little hope of ever seeing my money again. I just kept lending you more because I liked the hold I had over you and I really enjoyed it when you came to beg. The lies you told. I've never heard anything like them! You have such a wonderful imagination; you should have been a writer. However, since you were unlikely ever to repay me, I decided I'd take payment in my own way.” There was a pause. “Did you like the little joke about my having been in bed with Bianca? I knew that would make you riproaring mad. You've always been so jealous. What of, I don't know because no man in his right mind would want to get in bed with that harpy.”
Peter shot a quick glance at Weedon. Derwent was saying how awful his wife had been. Might that help him at his trial? Weedon's face was expressionless.
“And now for my second tip,” went on Derwent's voice. There was none of the hatred on this recording that there had been on the others – just a devastating scathingness which showed how little Derwent had thought of Peter. It was, if anything rather more insulting than the hatred. “Did you hear that I'd died of Aids?” Derwent laughed his horrible laugh. “I'd love to have seen your face when you read the card, but it must have been even better when you heard the rumour. Not only were you a cuckold, but you'd got the pox to go along with it.” His laughter echoed round the room. Peter found it difficult to contain his temper. Derwent had made a complete ass of him. He had laughed at him for borrowing money, pretended he had had his wife, then claimed to have died of Aids to scare the pants off him. “The louse, the fucking lousy louse.”
“Keep clam,” warned Wenner, sensing how he felt. We might be able to turn this to good use yet. You were a man driven crazy by this man's taunts. I'm sure....”
“Who set the rumour going?” Peter interrupted him.
“About the Aids?”
“Whoever it was is just as bad as Derwent. He should hang for spreading a rumour like that which he knew to be untrue.”
“Perhaps,” said Wenner, “but it would be very difficult to lay it at anyone's door. Better to concentrate on trying to win sympathy by using this tape.” Peter listened to what Tom Wenner had to say and by the time his solicitor left he felt quite buoyant again. Maybe his sentence wouldn't be so bad after all. Never one to face the truth, especially if it were unpalatable, Peter began to think what he would do in the future.
His barrister made good use of the tape and thought that Peter was very lucky to get off with a ten year sentence, but Peter didn't share his view. He brooded in jail over the repayment which had been exacted from him by Derwent Mollosey and there was now no way he could ever get even. There was only one thing that Peter was sure of – he was an innocent man who had suffered at the hands of his friends and his wife. Not many people would have agreed with him. Probably only his doting mother.
…....................................................................................
By the time the tape dropped through the Carsons' letterbox, Rachel was not much interested in anything. It was clear Graham did not have much longer to live and the memories she had of him in his last months were all bitter. He never ceased to blame and condemn her although she was not clear for what. He seemed to blame her for having developed Aids, but he must know she had never been unfaithful to him. It must simply be a way of transferring guilt. She forgot about the tape for a few days and found it in a drawer when she was looking for a letter to which she intended to reply. She decided to listen to it before she took it to Graham to make sure there was nothing on it to distress him further.
She slipped it into the tape recorder on the radio. “Hello, Derwent Mollosey here. Your old friend. I always told you I'd repay you for dropping me as a client and didn't you like the way I did it?” That awful laugh again. “Telling you that frump of a wife of yours had been in bed with me. No chance, but I bet it set you wondering. I can just imagine your face going all prunish and then when you heard the news that I'd died of Aids – well that must have made your day. Poor old Graham. Of course none of it was true. Did she manage to convince you? There was more in the same vein, but Rachel just sat silently crying. Had Graham believed all this? If he had, how did that tie up with his having Aids now? He couldn't have gone out and had sex with the first girl he could find as a way of revenge! She couldn't believe that. Oh, Graham, oh Graham. Her mind started to drift back to when she had first met him.
In Devon she had led a very sheltered life – the only child of parents who watched over her every move. She had done well at school, but her parents refused to let her go off to university and in a way she was quite pleased that they did because she was a bit scared of leaving home. She had done a secretarial course locally, then got a job in the office of a local solicitor who was in fact Graham's uncle. Her life to some would have seemed dull, but she was easily contented. Her parents had not encouraged boyfriends, but when her employer, Frank Baines, had suggested she might like to help entertain his nephew when he came down from London, her parents found it difficult to object and after arming her with many warnings about young men from the big city she was allowed to go to the Baines' home to meet him. She had been a bit nervous, expecting him to find her dull after more sophisticated girls he'd probably met, but, as it turned out, he was a bit dull himself. In fact Rachel had found him a bit of a let down. He was handsome in a bookish sort of way, but he rarely laughed and his score at chitchat rated nil. It hadn't been so bad when they were in the company of the Baines, but later in his visit he had asked her to go walking and trying to make conversation with him took more effort than the cliff walks they went on. When he returned to London after two weeks she almost sighed with relief, but a few months later Mrs Baines wanted to go to London on a shopping trip and suggested taking Rachel with her. Rachel had little ingenuity in inventing excuses not to go especially when her mother fussily said she might offend the Baines if she didn't go. Her mother might not have been so keen to foster the idea of the visit if she could have foreseen the outcome.
Mrs Baines said she wanted a female companion with whom to go shopping and since Graham's mother was dead she had no suitable relation to accompany her. After two days shopping with Mrs Baines, Rachel felt she had been employed as a cart horse to carry parcels and to run errands. She was absolutely exhausted. When Graham had suggested taking her to the theatre she accepted thankfully, eager to escape from Mrs Baines' constant demands.
Graham seemed slightly more at ease on his home territory and the play had given them plenty to talk about over supper later. Rachel, in her simple green dress, was unaware how lovely she was. Hers were the type of looks that did not depend on makeup, but on good bone structure and natural elegance. Neither was aware that Rachel had been brought to London as a suitable match for Graham, his father having a constant fear that he would take up with some undesirable, young woman despite the fact there was no basis for thinking this because Graham's taste in all things was moderate and sensible.
By the end of he two weeks in London Rachel was aware that Mrs Baines was gently pumping her about her opinion of Graham. By this time he had become something of a romantic figure to Rachel, who forgot his dullness in Devon. What Graham thought of her she had no idea and still didn't on her return to Devon. He had asked if he might write to her and Rachel looked forward to his letters as if they were the greatest love letters ever written. She was a romantic at heart and absence did make the heart
grow fonder. She didn't realise how lively her own letters were. She had the ability to make the most mundane details seem interesting and Graham eagerly looked forward to the arrival of her letters. Neither was aware that years later it was to be this ability to write so well that was to be Graham's downfall. The small town in which she lived boasted few young men of a suitable age to marry her and any who did were not thought to be suitable by her parents. She knew her parents were over protective. She would never even have hinted that she wanted to get away from them, but sometimes she admitted to herself that this was what she wanted.
It took two years of letter writing and visits before Graham proposed and a further six months to overcome Rachel's mother's objections to her leaving home. Her mother had wailed and moaned as if she were dying instead of moving to London.
“Mother, I am not going to darkest Africa,” Rachel told her mother one day rather impatiently.
Rachel, who had always done as her parents wished, made up her mind. She was going to marry Graham and live in London, little knowing she was exchanging one bondage for another. For the first twenty-six years of her life she had always done what her parents wanted; once married it was always what Graham wanted. So used was Rachel to doing what was expected of her she scarcely noticed and although it might not be of the earth shattering variety, she did love Graham. He provided well and was reasonable in most ways, so what more could a wife want? She knew he hated it when her mother, once widowed, sent for her as she did frequently, but he never actively objected and in her heart Rachel had decided that once her mother was gone she'd make it up to him somehow, but now it was too late. Her mother had gone, but was to be quickly followed by Graham. A single tear rolled down Rachel's cheek. She had loyally loved Graham and now, Derwent Mollosey had turned him against her. There must be something she could do. Would playing the tape to Graham change his mind? It certainly wouldn't change the fact that he had Aids, but if only they could part on a happy note.
Rachel thought carefully about the best thing to do and once she had made up her mind she picked up the telephone. Her idea was a success. Gresham Erdington had been more than willing to visit Graham to play the tape to him and try to convince him that Derwent was an evil man who had simply been trying to get back at them all for what he saw as some slight to him.
Graham listened carefully to the tape and all that Gresham had to say, then for a few minutes lay in silence. Eventually he tried to raise himself up slightly on his pillow. “Rachel has always been a good wife. She's so, so beautiful and I've never been able to tell her how much I love her. How could I have ever believed for a moment what Derwent wrote in that card?” He paused, breathing heavily. “I suppose it was because I could never quite believe that someone so beautiful could care for me.” Gresham remained silent, feeling it was better to let Graham have his say and thinking that how close Graham's feelings had been to his own about Fiona. “When I die she'll be well provided for. I've seen to that at least.” Gresham nodded. “When next she comes to see me, I'll tell her how much she means to me. Yes, I'll tell her... tell her...” His voice drifted off and he lay back on his pillows. Gresham patted his hand gently and left.
Rachel was waiting in the corridor. The strain of all she'd been through showed in her face, but could still not conceal that she was, as Graham had said, beautiful. Her smile answered Gresham's and she knew that he'd been successful.
When she went in to see Graham, he made his peace with her, but out of a deep sense of shame he did not tell her then or ever what he had done that night after he had read Derwent's card. He had not forgotten what he had found in Rachel's jewel case, but now chose to ignore it as if it had never existed. How could he be sure Rachel put it there anyway? He was beyond reasoning that it was most unlikely that anyone else had access to her jewel case. He conveniently erased from his mind what he wanted to. Derwent had been instrumental in taking his life, but he had failed to destroy their love, which was what he really wanted to do.
Rachel mourned for many months, leading a lonely life. It was some time before she thought again about her book. She got it out and read it, smiling. What would Graham have thought if he'd seen this? He'd never have believed she could have written it, she was sure. What a romantic mind and a facility with words could produce. Certainly, in her case, things she had never physically experienced. She laboriously started on it again and although it took her a long time to finish, finish it she did and with the same perseverance managed to get it published. It was only the first of the popular novels which she wrote and in her own way she became a celebrity. She knew neither Graham nor her mother would have approved, but although she missed Graham dreadfully, she felt she had become a person in her own right.
Chapter Ten
If anyone had been close to Derwent, it was Homer who had been a willing slave to Derwent's evil genius and no one knew more about the secrets close to Derwent's heart than Homer. He did miss Derwent, but he was practical enough to know that life must go on and Derwent would have been delighted to know that Homer intended to follow very closely in his footsteps. Homer was extremely pleased with the legacy which Derwent had left him and had plans to make good use of it. In fact it was of that he was thinking one day as he walked home from the supermarket, swinging his bag of shopping and whistling tunelessly. It was only a short time since Derwent had died and Homer was still living in the flat in Salisbury Square. This had all been arranged before Derwent had died. Derwent had left enough money for a small flat to be bought for Homer. Benjamin Carmichael's firm was to be dealing with the legal side of the purchase and Benjamin himself had tried to persuade Homer to move out very quickly, appearing to think that any flat would do for Homer, but Homer knew exactly what he wanted. The flat had to be in Acton near his only sister and he was most insistent that it had two bedrooms. He needed one to sleep in and another for his office. He wasn't having papers spread all over his living room or bedroom. Derwent had always been most particular about everything being kept in order and Homer intended to continue that way. He had already decided to have a lock on his office door, so that if anyone called unexpectedly there would be no chance of their seeing any of Homer's papers. He felt this was most important. Homer knew exactly the block of flats into which he wanted to move and he was willing to wait until one became available. He was just wondering how far Big Ben, as he called him, would try to push him if he didn't look like moving out soon.
As soon as Homer turned the corner he saw Ben's car outside the flats. Derwent had warned him that as executer Ben had the right to look at anything which Derwent had left. Ben had already visited the flat several times, assessing the value of the many expensive items which Derwent had collected over the years. Homer, who had once been a very successful burglar, crept up to the flat very quietly and opened the door noiselessly. From there he could see that the study door was ajar and that Ben was examining something in a file in the tall, metal filing cabinet. Homer controlled his surge of anger. That was his cabinet containing the best of the things that Derwent had left him and he resented Big Ben pawing over its contents. Homer's eyes met Ben's as he advanced into the flat.
“Just checking over some more things, Homer,” said Ben pleasantly.
“Fine,” replied Homer. “I've just bin doin' a bit o'shoppin' – got to eat, y'know.”
“Of course,” agreed Ben. “You're all right for funds, are you? Wouldn't want you going short of anything.”
“Oh, I'm all right, guv'nor and I'm still on the lookout for a suitable flat.”
“Well, I don't wan to rush you, but I would like to get everything settled up.”
I bet you would, thought Homer. I bloody bet you would. I know your game. I wonder if you know that I know what's going to happen to the flat. “Somebody anxious to move in, is there?” Homer couldn't resist asking, but Ben was too smart a customer to be caught unawares.
“Yes, we've got someone interested.”
“I 'ope whoever it is will be a k
ind, lovin' owner.” Homer laughed and in a rather forced way Ben echoed it.
“You'll let me know then when you find something.”
“Sure will, pardner.” Ben's lips tightened slightly at Homer's tone, but he said nothing.
Ten minutes later Homer was sitting in the kitchen eating his lunch and thinking about Ben going through the contents of the filing cabinet. How much had he seen? The cabinet had been left to Homer, so surely Ben wouldn't try to claim it. On the other hand he was a crafty old devil and you never knew what he'd get up to. Homer drained his beer glass and made a decision. He washed up, leaving the kitchen as tidy as that of any show house, then from a drawer he took two big, strong, black bin bags.
Homer didn't have a car and had never learned to drive. Should he call his mate, Fred, or get a taxi? He decided to call a taxi. The less anyone knew about these bin bags the better. He asked the taxi driver to drop him at the shops near where his sister lived and struggled with the bags along to her house. Knowing full well that she would not be at home, he went round to the backyard and got the key she always kept under the flower pot. Once in the house he took the bags one at a time upstairs, then got a chair and opened the hatch to the loft. He had quite a job on his own to get the bags up, but with much puffing and blowing he managed. In the loft he looked around and finally put the bags in a corner. He had two luggage label ready and he crouched on his haunches with a stubby pencil, trying to decide the best thing to write on them. Eventually he decided on “Do not throw away, Jim.” Jim was his real name. His sister and brother-in-law were not the inquisitive type, but he didn't want to draw attention to the bin bags by putting something like “Strictly private”. Anyway he was pretty sure that neither Mabel nor Jack came up here from one year's end to the other. He climbed down and left the house the way he had come in. No one would know the bags were there.