Dead Man's Dinner

by Una Gordon

  Gresham was relieved when the meal was over. Carrying on a conversation with Homer was not his idea of fun, but at least he had found out what he wanted to know. Homer was quite sure Derwent had died of leukaemia, but he wasn't prepared to take his word for it.

  When he got home that night, he told Fiona what he had managed to find out.

  “The Westminster,” she mused. “That shouldn't be too difficult. In all probability he'd be treated by Professor Tirrel or one of his team, but Kenneth Ballantyne would know something about it and I know him quite well. He used to be very friendly with Brian Baddersley who I worked for. I met him a few times.”

  Next day Fiona rang to make an appointment with Mr Ballantyne. It hadn't proved too difficult. Three days later she was sitting across a desk from him. He seemed delighted to see her again, but expressed concern at her visit in case it was in a professional capacity, but she assured him she was in good health. She decided not to beat about the bush, so she told him the whole story.

  “God, what a man. I'd heard he had a reputation for practical jokes, but I wouldn't call that funny.”

  “But what did he die of?”

  “I can set your mind at rest. He died of complications brought on by leukaemia. I can assure you it was not Aids. As it so happens I was on my rounds when he died and I actually signed the death certificate.

  Fiona sighed with relief. She got up to go, having found out what she wanted to know.

  “Just a minute,” said Kenneth Ballantyne. “Do you happen to know a man called Graham Carson?”

  “According to Gresham he was one of the men at that dinner party at Derwent's.”

  “Look, I'm telling you this in strictest confidence, but several weeks ago he was admitted to the Grantchester Centre, the new place opened for Aids patients. He keeps saying he learned about it at Derwent Mollosey's flat, but no one knows what he means. He doesn't reply if we try to question him about it.”

  Fiona felt deflated. What did this mean? It seemed such a coincidence, but how could someone at the dinner party have infected anyone? She felt, however, there must be some connection.

  “Does Mrs Carson visit her husband?”

  “Nearly every day although he is extremely rude to her according to the nurses and keeps saying it's all her fault.”

  “But don't you see,” said Fiona. “He got a card the same as Gresham's; he then hears the rumour that Derwent died of Aids – so what does he think? Derwent could have had the virus without developing the disease.”

  “Just a minute,” said Ballantyne. “Do you know Mrs Carson? I just cannot imagine her climbing into bed with Derwent Mollosey. The idea is too preposterous.”

  “Stranger things have happened. If I went to see Mrs Carson.......”

  “To ask her if she'd had sex with Derwent?”

  “I must find out somehow if there is something to worry about. Gresham and I intended to try to get in touch with the other couples to tell them they had nothing to worry about, but if Graham Carson has got Aids, I can't do that. Has Mrs Carson been tested?”

  “I'll have to check up on that, but I presume she would have been when he was first diagnosed.”

  Fiona suddenly made up her mind. “Can you find out her home address for me. This is no time for finer feelings. I've got to find out the truth.”

  “Fiona, she may not want to discuss the matter with you.”

  “Surely when she realises the seriousness of the situation, she'll be honest.”

  Reluctantly Kenneth Ballantyne got the Carsons' address. He knew Fiona of old. If he didn't give it to her, she'd find some other way – perhaps even go to the Grantchester and he didn't want that.

  Fiona phoned several times before she succeeded in contacting Rachel Carson. She explained briefly who she was and said that it was most important that she speak to her soon. By then it was about eight o'clock in the evening.

  “If it's not too late, you can come now,” said Rachel.

  Fiona set off with a firm resolve to get to the bottom of things, but as she rang the Carsons' doorbell, she could feel her heart sinking. When the door opened Fiona could see what Gresham had meant about Rachel Carson's appearance. She was tired and drably dressed, but her excellent bone structure gave her a dignified look. Her face lit up when she smiled and revealed her even white teeth. Fiona was not so sure that a man wouldn't want to get into bed with her.

  In the sitting room, Rachel asked Fiona to sit down and offered her a glass of sherry. Fiona took it, trying to keep her shaking hand steady. Of the two of them Rachel was by far the more composed. Fiona found it difficult to know how to begin. She swallowed as Rachel looked at her enquiringly.

  “I'm sorry to bother you at a time like this. I know your husband is seriously ill.”

  “Yes, he's dying of Aids,” Rachel replied quietly as if she were commenting on some unimportant matter.

  Fiona looked at her and made a decision. She told her the whole story – about the dinner party, the cards in sealed envelopes, and what it had said on them, the rumours about Derwent and how she had come to know about Rachel. When she had finished Rachel looked as serene as ever, almost amused. “You are wondering if I did sleep with Derwent Mollosey.”

  “Well...”

  “I hardly knew him and what I did know of him I certainly didn't like.” She suddenly laughed – a very girlish laugh. “Imagine anyone thinking that I had been to bed with him. It's preposterous.”

  Fiona gulped. She felt she was really prying. “Have you any idea where your husband did.....”

  “Get Aids from, “ finished Rachel. She looked down at her hands and shook her head. “Certainly not from me. He keeps blaming me. I suppose he must think I had sex with Derwent, but he should know me better. “I've never....” She didn't finish, but Fiona knew she was going to say she had never had sex with anyone except her husband. Rachel got up and walked over to the fireplace. “I've wondered where Graham got it from. Of course I was in Devon for six months nursing my mother and every man has needs, but Graham has always been so fastidious. I can't imagine him......” Again she paused and Fiona was left to guess what she had been going to say. “Everyone in his office was asked if.......” Tears now started to well up in Rachel's eyes. “I didn't sleep with Derwent, but in a way I suppose it must be my fault as Graham says. If I hadn't been away so long....”

  In a way she was right because if she had been at home she would have found Graham's gold cufflinks and he would never have known about the story which she incidentally had forgotten about. It was this, coupled with Derwent's card coming at the same time which had hit him so hard – so hard that he had acted in a completely uncharacteristic way. He may not even have gone to the dinner party if Rachel had been at home.

  Neither Rachel nor anyone else was ever to know where Graham picked up the deadly disease. He, of course, never told anyone about the prostitute and when she was finally taken to hospital, there were only a few contacts she could name and Graham, as a casual client, was not one of them.

  Once Fiona arrived home and told Gresham, they were in a quandary. Should they contact the others to tell them Derwent had not died of Aids? Had the others even heard the rumour? It wasn't that they didn't believe Rachel, it was that they felt there was some kind of missing link which they were failing to see. They talked the matter over incessantly without reaching any conclusion.

  Chapter Seven

  The bitter battle between Guy and Melissa went on and on with every denial from Melissa making Guy even more suspicious. He knew there was something that Melissa was not telling him and he tried to figure out what it was. Either she had failed to seduce him or she had succeeded and got some money out of Derwent which she had kept quiet about. He couldn't make up his mind which it was, but he kept mulling it over in his mind almost every waking minute until he heard the rumours. He was in a restaurant one day having lunch with a client, Rob Carruthers, whom he'd done business with frequently, when suddenly Rob dropped the bombs
hell.

  “Did you hear about poor old Derwent Mollosey?”

  “Hear what?” asked Guy.

  “That he died of – you know!”

  Guy looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “The big A man, the big A.”

  Guy's wine glass stopped halfway to his lips and he visibly blenched.

  “It's all over town,” went on Rob, seeming not to notice or ignoring Guy's expression or possibly feeling rather pleased with the effect he'd created.

  Guy struggled through the rest of his lunch. When it did finish he genuinely felt ill. When he left the restaurant he turned towards the office, changed his mind, hailed a taxi and went home.

  As he entered the flat he could see Melissa reclining on the couch in the sitting room reading a magazine. Without a word he strode towards her, pulled her to her feet and hit her and hit her until she was nearly unconscious. It was difficult to decide which was louder, her screams or his yelling at her. “You bloody bitch, you bloody bitch, you bloody bitch.”

  All the neighbours were out at work or someone would have called the police because the racket was tremendous.

  Eventually Melissa crawled off to bathe her face. Guy sat down on the sofa and when eventually Melissa returned, he was weeping uncontrollably, muttering something over and over. At first she didn't pay much attention to what he was saying, but then she realised he was repeating, “I'm going to die. I'm going to die.”

  She didn't know what he was talking about and she didn't feel like offering him any sympathy in the circumstances, but eventually his continual whine got on her nerves.

  “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

  He looked at her with real malevolence. “Derwent Mollosey died of Aids and you, you tramp, slept with him.”

  Despite her painful face, Melissa started to laugh.

  “I'm glad you think it's so funny. I suppose you've got a load of Derwent's money stached away to live like a Queen when I'm dead.” The incongruity of what he was saying didn't seem to dawn on him.

  “You despicable coward,” said Melissa. “I'm surprised you haven't heard the rumour before. I heard it weeks ago.”

  Guy started to clutch his throat as if he were choking to death. “What are the symptoms?” He started clutching various parts of his body, emitting curious squeaking noises as if each touch of his hand produced pain.

  “I slept with Derwent, so you've got Aids! How do you figure that out? Am I immune or something?”

  “You know how easily I catch things,” whined Guy.

  “I don't believe I'm hearing this.” She leaned over and spoke to him as if he were a child. “YOU HAVE NOT GOT AIDS BECAUSE I DID NOT SLEEP WITH DERWENT MOLLOSEY.”

  “You told me you did.”

  “Yes, well, you had certain expectations and I didn't want to disappoint you.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “Suit yourself, boyo, but I'm not worrying because I can't have Aids unless....”

  Guy jumped as she paused. “Unless I got it from you because you slept with someone who had it.”

  “You're trying to pass the blame. I know you. I don't believe you didn't sleep with Derwent. You've told me up until now you did.”

  “Believe what you like,” said Melissa. “Why don't you go to one of these places which test you to see if you've got Aids and set your tiny mind at rest.”

  Guy did just that, but the negative result only pacified him temporarily. He had made up his mind he was dying and nothing and no one was going to deflect him from that belief.

  It was perhaps unfortunate that shortly after the test he developed a slight dose of flu, but neither the doctor nor Melissa could convince him that that was all he had. Both of them tried to reason with him, but the belief that it was possible for him to have Aids finally unbalanced Guys' neurotic mind.

  Melissa became more and more impatient with his ramblings. She even went the length of swearing on the bible that she had not slept with Derwent, but nothing could convince Guy. When she pointed out to him there was nothing wrong with her, he just told her she was lucky.

  Guy became really ill because he was not looking after himself. He rarely ate and was drinking excessively. Melissa felt at times she just couldn't stand any more. She got up one morning to find Guy examining his eyes and his tongue in the bathroom mirror.

  “For God's sake, you make me sick. It's the loony bin you'll land in, not the Aids clinic.”

  She got dressed and as she banged out the door she didn't see the stricken look on his face. She was going to town. She hadn't been for ages, partly because of Guy's condition and partly because of her bruised face. When she got back the flat was quiet and Guy was still in the bathroom. There was no mistaking the look on his face now. He was dead. She picked up the bottle at his side – an overdose.

  Verdict – he had taken his life while the state of his mind had been unbalanced. When Gresham and Fiona saw news of his death in the news paper they couldn't believe it. What had happened to him? Neither of them really knew Melissa and they were wary of approaching her in the circumstances.

  It wasn't surprising that the rumour was rife about Guy since he had gone around telling everyone he was dying.

  “Who'd have thought it?” said David Rowston, an old respected member of Gresham's club. “First Derwent Mollosey died of Aids and now Guy Pather.”

  On the anniversary of their first date, Gresham and Fiona went to have dinner at the Ritz. Once they had finished eating they went through to one of the lounges to have coffee and liqueurs. As they chatted happily, Fiona suddenly caught sight of a reflection in one of the mirrors.

  “Don't turn round now, but I think it's Melissa Pather sitting over in the corner,”

  After a few minutes Gresham turned round, trying to be casual. Fiona was right. Melissa seemed to be alone and almost by silent agreement, Fiona and Gresham rose to go over to speak to her. As they got closer, they were appalled at her appearance. Her once blonde hair was untidy and brassy and the shadows under her eyes accentuated the pallor of her unrouged cheeks. She bore no resemblance to the elegant woman she used to be. When they spoke to her Gresham and Fiona realised she was drunk. Having gone over they had to speak to her, they thought they would offer their condolences and leave.

  “Mrs Pather, I believe,” said Gresham. She looked at him dully and with no sign of recognition. “We were very sorry to hear about your husband.”

  “My husband. My husband,” she repeated slowly as if she didn't know what they were speaking about.

  Neither Fiona nor Gresham was very sure what to say next.

  “Thought I'd given him Aids, you know, the stupid bastard.” Without warning she started to sob quite violently. Fiona and Gresham sat down beside her trying awkwardly to calm her, without success. “Everyone thought I'd be glad to see the back of him because he beat me up, you know, but I loved him.” The last three words were a long drawn out wail. A passing waiter glanced over, but his expression revealed nothing of what he might be thinking. Melissa blew her nose noisily, then started to talk again, first peering at Gresham. “You're Gresham Erdington, aren't you? You were at bloody Derwent's party.” Suddenly she giggled drunkenly. “Did you get a card saying your wife had slept with him?” Her words were slurred but quite audible.

  Gresham looked around, embarrassed, but Melissa was either unaware of the attention she was attracting from people at surrounding tables or she didn't care. “My huthban – Guy- didn' care who I slept with,” again she giggled drunkenly, “as long as I got something out of it. Money, you know. Money. Guy liked money and so do I – can't live without money.”

  Gresham looked at Fiona desperately. He wanted to go, but he felt they couldn't just walk off and leave Melissa in this state. Fiona knew how Gresham felt, but she was far less concerned about what other people were thinking.

  “Can we get you a taxi?” she asked Melissa.

  Melissa looked at her with a vacant look on her face. “A
ta-ta-tasci.” she just couldn't get the word out properly. “He was impu – impo-he,” and she started to giggle again.

  “You mean Derwent Mollosey was impotent?” Fiona asked.

  “Tha jus wha a bin tell' you.”

  “Why didn't you tell Guy this?”

  Melissa tried to speak, but the effort of trying to explain was too much for her and after several attempts she gave up.

  “Gresham, let's take Melissa home with us.” He looked horrified. “Perhaps tomorrow she may be more lucid.”

  “I don't see what difference that makes.”

  “Gresham, there are still another three people we could tell the truth if we manage to get it out of Melissa when she's sober.” Gresham sighed and agreed.

  It was no easy task getting Melissa out to the taxi. She was a dead weight, seemingly having lost all co-ordination of her limbs. Gresham felt that everyone was looking at them as they lurched along, trying to miss anyone coming in the other direction. The commissionaire lifted his hat as politely as if there was nothing unusual in their exit.

  Getting Melissa out of the taxi was no easy matter either. Once out of the taxi, Melissa swayed between Gresham and Fiona, looking up at the building and blinking stupidly. “Where's sis. I...I..I don' live here.”

  “You're coming home with us tonight,” said Fiona kindly.

  Melissa's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where you takin' me? Wha' you doin'? Wha' you up to?” Her voice rose on the last sentence and she tried to shake herself loose. A couple passing by looked at them, wondering what was going on, but after hesitating for a second, continued on their way, not wanting to get involved.

  Gently Fiona persuaded Melissa that they meant her no harm and urged her step by faltering step towards the main door of the flats. Once in the lift Melissa seemed to lose consciousness and when it stopped Fiona and Gresham were relieved that no one was there to see them drag her out.

  Once in the spare bedroom, there seemed little they could do except remove her shoes and struggle to get her jacket off. Without their support she flopped on the bed. They looked at each other and decided to cover her with the duvet and leave her to sleep it off.