by Una Gordon
“Hello, Gresham, it's me – Derwent. I bet you didn't expect to hear from me again. How did you like my little joke?” One of Derwent's braying laughs filled the room. “How did you feel when you read that card? Sick, I bet! You love your little doctor wife and the thought of anyone else's mucky paws touching her would make you squirm.” Gresham rose as if to switch off the cassette, but Fiona put a restraining hand on his arm.
“We've got to hear this out, Gresham. It's the only way we're going to find out why he did it.” Silently Gresham nodded.
Suddenly Derwent's tone changed. “I've always hated you, Lord Erdington, ever since I first met you. Who was always top of the class? Who was always captain of the rugby team? Who was the best golfer, the best tennis player, the best oarsman? Lord Bloody Erdington. You were always such a gallant winner, but you never knew what it was like to lose, did you? Even at university you were the golden boy and in business you never made a wrong move. No need for you to try to outsmart others. You had the Midas touch.”
Derwent's voice became charged with malevolence. “You ruined my life – every time you beat me to the winning post. Every time your name was etched on yet another trophy it became etched on my heart and I promised myself that one day, one day, I'd make you suffer. What did you cherish most? Your wife and son. If I made you worry for one single moment about whether the child was yours or whether your wife had been unfaithful, then I'll have succeeded in what I wanted to do. Did you lie awake night after night after you got the card? Were you frantic after you heard the rumour about Aids?” He laughed again. “That was a good touch, but then I've learned to be cruel. Things always worked out for you, but I had to learn to win in my own way. When I learned I was impotent I was glad – glad do you hear? Now he was almost screaming. “My son would never have to compete with yours – never have to watch you son's name being lettered on lists and trophies that he would like to have won. Oh, there were times when I thought of murdering you, but I didn't like the thought of the price I'd have to pay if I were found out. I hope I've hurt you, hurt you, hurt you...” Derwent's voice, lacking all control now, went on and on. It was Fiona who switched it off this time.
Gresham sat staring at the recorder. The blistering hatred that had emanated from that tape was unbelievable. He looked at Fiona. “It's odd that someone hated me so much and I never knew.”
Gently Fiona bent over towards him. “It's clear that Derwent was mentally ill. No normal person would react like that. It was jealousy out of control. You have nothing to reproach yourself with. He's dead now. There's nothing anyone can do for him.”
“It leaves me feeling – feeling somehow unclean that another person could feel that way about me. I never liked Derwent much even when we were children, but I didn't hate him. I can't.....”
“Darling, he wasn't normal. Nobody who was could have done these things. You've just got to try to put it all out of your mind.” Even as she said that she knew it wouldn't be easy. Under his sophisticated exterior Gresham was a very sensitive man and it would worry him that he had aroused such feelings in another person without being aware of it. She had to help him over this or Derwent would have won. In a way Derwent had succeeded with a weapon he hadn't expected to, his blind unreasoning hatred.
It was later the same morning that Melissa got up and found a tape in a thick, white envelope behind the door. She made herself some toast and coffee before she listened to the tape. She rarely used the tape facility on the radio and it took her a few minutes to get it working. Again Derwent's voice filled the room. It soon became clear that every time Guy had beaten him in a business deal it had been tantamount to driving a stake into Derwent's heart. Once again Derwent's hatred blistered off the tape, but it didn't upset Melissa in the least. She knew what a cut throat business Guy had been in. It had been dog eat dog and if Derwent hadn't been able to stand it too bad.
“You thought everyone coveted your wife,” Derwent went on. “I thought she was a tramp no better than a prostitute.” Melissa paused in eating her toast only long enough to make a rude noise in the direction of the radio. “When she came to see me she tried to seduce me.” Here he laughed. “I was never interested in women and if I had been I wouldn't have been interested in that old bag trying to act the sex kitten.”
“Sod you!” retorted Melissa.
“What did she tell you when she got home? I bet she didn't admit she'd failed. Probably you sat there waiting for me to pay up for services rendered.” Again he laughed. “But I did pay up, didn't I?I remember how anxious you always were about your health. How I wish I could have seen your face when you heard the Aids rumour. You probably.......”
The rest of Derwent's tirade was lost on Melissa as she flung the radio against the wall. “It was you.....you bloody murderer. Guy had his faults, but he was my husband. We understood each other and you killed him.” The broken radio lay in the sink with water slowly dripping on it and Melissa sat with her head on the table as she sobbed violently, her tears dripping on her unfinished toast. Derwent had never expected to be this successful with Guy. How pleased he would have been.
…................................................................................
Gary also recognised the envelope on his doormat that Saturday morning and he slipped it into his pocket. Once again Diana was very pregnant and he didn't want anything to upset her. He had to wait until later in the day when she took Colin for a walk in the park.
Like Gresham, Gary was amazed at the venom in Derwent's voice as he explained why he hated Gary. “I taught you all you knew about stocks and shares and you deserted me.” Gary, in fact, had thought that Derwent didn't want to be bothered with him any more and had ceased asking him for advice, thinking he'd better manage on his own and not be spoonfed for the rest of his life, but obviously Derwent resented this and Gary felt a twinge of conscience that he had failed to let Derwent know how grateful he had been for his advice.
People don't treat me like that and get away with it,” went on Derwent, “so when I heard the rumour that you might be infertile, I thought up my little plan. I hope it worked. I hope your marriage is now in smithereens. Why should you be happy after the way you treated me?” Gary was surprised. After all he hadn't even meant to upset Derwent and he was glad Derwent's plan hadn't worked, but he remembered how he had felt that night after he'd first read the card. He had never felt so desperately unhappy in his life. The mental anguish he had suffered had lasted for a long time, but that would not have been enough to satisfy Derwent. He had wanted a total breakdown of their marriage. Gary felt sorry for Derwent. Even with all his wealth he was not a happy man. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth had not made him immune from petty jealousies. Who would have thought he would be worried about someone like Gary not paying him enough homage – because that's what it amounted to?
Gary had been born and brought up in a small Midlands town. He had done reasonably well at school owing more to hard work than brain power. He had gone to a redbrick university where he'd obtained a reasonable degree. From a firm in Birmingham he'd progressed to a bigger firm in London and it was then that he had first come in contact with Derwent. Gary had known no one when he first came to London, so he accepted all social invitations eagerly, hoping to build up a circle of friends. He wasn't the type to think of trying to build up a number of contacts who would be useful to him and that was probably why he'd never be a winner in the rat race, but he didn't need to be top of the pile to be happy. In fact it might be said that he had too much common sense to think that happiness was acquired along with material possessions. It was at a party that he had met Derwent. He realised now that Derwent was delighted to meet a greenhorn such as Gary because it made Derwent seem so knowledgeable and such a man of the world. Gary had to admit that Derwent had given him several good tips and when Gary was promoted he took Derwent out for a meal as a way of thanking him. Gary had felt, however, that he couldn't keep hanging on to Derwent's shirt tail forever,
so he had decided to leave it to Derwent to contact him if he wanted to continue seeing him socially. The call had never come and Gary, quite unaware that Derwent was nursing a grievance against him, believed it was just a progression of events. He no longer needed Derwent and Derwent certainly did not need him. A man as successful as Derwent must have loads of friends in his own league both in business and socially. If Gary had had any idea that he was hurting Derwent's feelings, he would have contacted him. He still felt, however, that Derwent's method of revenge was a bit much.
If Gary were to be honest, he realised that shortly after he'd seen Derwent for that celebration meal, he'd met Diana. She'd come as a typist to work in his office. She was an attractive, simple girl – the old fashioned type he'd thought to himself. She wasn't interested in carving out a career for herself. She wanted to get married and have a family. She was the sort of girl Gary was looking for. A high powered career girl would have scared the pants off him. He asked her out – more or less courted her in the old fashioned way and in due course they got engaged then married. Her mother had fussed and flapped about the wedding and generally interfered with everything, but Gary had still felt lucky getting a girl like Diana. The only blot on the landscape was when they found difficulty in starting a family, but that had all sorted itself out now. How on earth did Derwent discover that I might be infertile? Gary wondered, but he didn't dwell on that long. He smiled to himself when he remembered getting the invitation to Derwent's “dead dinner” and thinking he might be in line for a little windfall – some windfall! He was glad he was not like Derwent, twisted and bitter. Materially Gary would never be wealthy, but in other ways he'd have everything. He wouldn't change places with anyone. As he threw out the tape he said,”Poor old Derwent.”
These were words that would never be uttered by Marcus who had known Derwent far too well to waste any pity on him. The arrival of the tape caused Marcus to raise his eyebrows. He did consider throwing it out without listening to it, but Derwent had been right about one thing – the curiosity of most human beings.
As on the other tapes, Derwent's voice lashed out at Marcus about how shabbily he had treated him over the gallery, but this harangue carried little weight with with Marcus who knew far too much about Derwent's shady dealings and how he had nearly got Marcus into trouble with the police. Marcus even managed a small smile when he remembered how Derwent seemed to equate homosexuality with softheadedness, It was a mixture of ingenuity and expertise which had saved Marcus from falling too deeply into Derwent's clutches. He shivered even now when he thought of some of the things Derwent had almost got him mixed up in. The final straw had come when Marcus discovered Derwent's plan for stealing one of Gresham Erdington's priceless paintings. Gresham had been at that dinner and Derwent seemed to have an obsession with getting the better of him. Fine chance, thought Marcus. Gresham was a bit of a dry stick, but one would have to be up very early in the morning to put one over on him. Marcus knew that if there had been any trouble when he joint owned the gallery with Derwent, then Derwent would have slipped out of the trouble like a slippery eel and left Marcus to face the music. It was the wisest thing he had ever done to break off the connection with Derwent and Derwent's little plan with Perry had backfired because it had led to Marcus getting rid of Perry and with Seth he was happier than he'd ever been in his life.
Derwent, of course, had never understood that it was possible for a homosexual to be happy. He still saw them very much as outcasts from society and perhaps in some ways they were. Marcus had long come to terms with the way he was made, but it was one thing accepting it himself and another to get others to accept it. He would always remember how his mother and elder sister had reacted. His father had been dead for many years and his sister had “married well” as his mother put it and had produced two children. Once his sister had left home his mother had started making remarks about his getting married and he had known for several years that a love life of the conventional kind was not for him, but it was difficult to tell his mother. He knew she would be shocked and hurt. But when she increasingly produced “suitable” girls for him to consider he knew he had to say something, but even he was not prepared for the furore which ensued. His mother ran through the whole gamut of emotions as if he would change the way he was just because she was upset. She kept muttering things like. “Oh, the disgrace, the disgrace.” At first she had forbidden him to tell Sophie, his sister. She seemed to think it was like some infectious disease and would pass. When his sister started trying to pair him off, he was forced to tell her. He closed his eyes as he thought of the lectures from her, from her husband and from anyone else who they thought had some influence over him. Eventually he knew he had to leave home or he'd have a nervous breakdown. He tried to remain calm and kind to his mother, but her attitude made it very difficult. When the taxi came for him and his suitcases she came into his room. “I find this very difficult to say,” she said, “but I don't want you back here unless you're cured.”
He looked at her with deep, deep sorrow. She did not even begin to understand and he knew she never would. He had felt the loss of his family greatly at first, but he had worked hard and become a success. He had no intention of letting someone like Derwent Mollosey take it all away from him.
He loved children and he would have liked to have had some contact with his sister's, but that was not to be. One can't have everything in life and he had so much. At least he was grateful for what he had, not like Derwent. What great unhappiness there must have been in Derwent for him to want to hurt others as he did. Marcus was in no doubt that everyone who had been at that dinner that night would have received a tape with some kind of vilification on it. Poor, old Derwent, he thought. Even in your grave you cannot lie at peace.
…........................................................................
There was little peace either for Peter Dewey as he sat disconsolately in his cell. There was nothing left for him now. He had seriously contemplated suicide, but if the truth were told he did not have the courage to do it and he still felt somewhere deep inside that he had been wronged. He had been encouraged in this view by a visit from his elderly mother who like so many mothers simply could not believe that he could do any wrong. “I realise you must have been driven to it,” she told him. “Bianca was always a bitch – never the woman for you. She made you what you are. The court should be told. I hope it all comes out what she put you through. You were always such a good boy.”
Peter lapped all this up, letting it confirm his view that the world was against him and he wasn't responsible for anything. Bianca had got him into debt – none of it was his doing, of course. She had slept with Derwent Mollosey; she had left him; she had got a lover. Oh, it was clear as a pikestaff that as his mother had said he had been driven to it. With the right judge and jury he would get only a very light sentence. In his better moments he even saw himself as some kind of hero.
It was not one of his better moments one day when his solicitor came to see him. It was pouring with rain outside and everything to Peter seemed gloom and doom. His solicitor spoke briefly about the case. There wasn't all that much to say since Peter had been caught in the act.
“You knew Derwent Mollosey,” said Tom Wenner, the solicitor.
“Yes,” replied Peter with little interest.
“Mmn,” murmured Wenner, “I knew you said something in your statement about him. You got a letter from him saying he had slept with your wife.”
Peter felt impatient. How often had he gone over this? Six of us were asked to dinner after Derwent had died. We were all given a card. I don't know what it said on the other five, but mine said he'd slept with my wife and gave the date.”
Wenner started to shuffle some papers about. Peter looked at him, suddenly wary. “Is this important?”
“Well, I think I had better tell the prison authorities.”
“What's it got to do with them?”
Wenner avoided his question. �
�Do you know what Derwent Mollosey died of?”
“At the time of his death it was given out that he had died of leukaemia, but now there's a rumour going round that it was Aids.”
“We can use this in your defence perhaps. You're told your wife has slept with Mollosey; you then hear a rumour that he died of Aids – well.”
“I get your drift,” murmured Peter.
When his mother next came to see him, Peter told her about the Aids rumour. He'd been tested and the test had proved negative, but the chance that he might have had it was more fuel to add to the fire of Mrs Dewey's indignation. When she got home her four daughters all heard about it in turn and so did their husbands and families. Mrs Dewey, like the mother of many murderers before her, had long since forgotten the horrendous crime her son had committed and thought only of his suffering, and, of course, her own as his loving mother.
When Peter saw his solicitor entering his cell with a tape recorder, he wondered what was going on. Was every word he said going to be recorded?
“Hello, Peter, how are you?” asked Tom Wenner as if he was greeting someone just back from holiday.
How the devil does he expect me to be, thought Peter sullenly? He merely grunted in reply.
“What have I here?” said Wenner, whisking the cassette recorder from under his arm. “One recorder, one tape.”
“Going to play me some music, are you?” asked Peter insolently.
“What I have is a message from the dead!”
“Derwent again,” groaned Peter.
“Now, now, don't be like that. This might help you.”
“How?” Peter visibly brightened. It didn't take much to cheer him, but similarly it didn't take much to put him in the doldrums.
