The Dinner Guest by B Walter (best short books to read txt) 📕

got back into the car. Every movement felt like a mountain of effort, as if my body had taken on rigor mortis. With fingers that felt numb and brittle, I switched on the engine and slowly turned out onto the road towards Piccadilly. If I’d known that the worst of that day was yet to come, I may not have even managed that.

Chapter Forty-Five Charlie

The day before the murder

The final part of that cold, unseasonably autumnal day in August would become one of the worst times in my life. Not the worst day of my life. That would follow on soon after.

It began with me driving to The Ritz to get drunk. This was something I used to do during my later teens and early twenties; if life got too bothersome, I’d reach for the brandy or vodka, or if I was really desperate, whatever beer there was to hand. I had my car parked for me, settled myself in a corner of the Rizzoli Bar, and was sinking into a pit of rumination when my phone buzzed with an email. It was to my personal account, not my work account, otherwise I wouldn’t have paid it any notice. And the preview on the notification made my stomach lurch.

FROM: Rupert Ashton, SUBJECT: Something important

I unlocked the phone at once and accessed the message, almost knocking over my glass of brandy in my haste.

I read Rupert’s words through once. Then again. It was a long email, and it took me a long time to allow the words to fully sink in. Then, afterwards, things started to get … well, to get dark.

Dearest Charlie,

This is a very difficult email to write. In fact, it may well be one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. These past couple of years have tested me. I’ve truly started to appreciate what the words ‘stress’ and ‘anxiety’ actually mean after a lifetime of using the terms casually and without thought.

So. Where to begin? I should start where this whole situation began for me, and that was at the Old Bailey two years ago during the trial of Ernest Kellman, James Knight, and Peter Catton. I had spent the afternoon giving evidence about our time at Oxford. I won’t go into the details of that, as I’m sure you’re very familiar with the case and my connection to those involved. That in itself has caused me many a sleepless night, wondering if I should have realised something sooner, acted sooner, told someone of my suspicions. But I was weak. I ignored signs. I buried my head in the sand. And I promised myself I would never do that again. Which is one of the reasons why I can’t stay quiet any longer and why I’m writing you this email. My mother would advise me to keep out of business that doesn’t concern me, but because of our shared history, I feel this business does concern me. We’re all tied up in this. We’re all culpable. Except you. You’re the most innocent one out of all of us.

So, to come to the point: your husband and my sister, Elena, are having an affair. And I am so sorry to have to tell you this. On my day of giving evidence in court, I dropped in on her at her Knightsbridge flat. I had been very nervous about my court appearance and didn’t want to return to the Chester Square house alone. Elena was there, and so was Matthew. They were having sex in the dining room; I could see them as soon as I walked down the hallway. There was music playing – Vivaldi’s ‘Cessate, omai cessate’ – and they hadn’t heard me come in. I was about to leave the house immediately, since it’s rather awkward finding one’s sister having sex with her husband, but of course the man wasn’t her husband. When I saw Matthew’s face, I can’t describe to you the shock – although I fancy it must be a mere atom of the shock you must be feeling now, reading this. That is, of course, presuming you don’t know? In some ways, I’ve always thought ignorance is bliss. I know you, Charlie. I know you’re far from stupid. Even if you are not aware of what has been happening between Matthew and Elena, I expect you have been suspicious. Certain signs must have set off warning bells. I tried to tell you all this when I saw you at the weekend, but I didn’t get a chance.

I wish I could make the blow easier by telling you it was just the one time, one moment of madness for which Matthew must have suffered hours of guilt. But it wasn’t just the one time. It’s been going on for a while now, and, well, it’s happening now. Matthew is at Ashton Manor as we speak. I saw his car parked in one of the more secluded areas, where we keep the motors we don’t often use. I only went via the house to pick up some suits I left there at the weekend. I don’t know where you think he currently is, but it’s likely he’s lied to you.

Honesty was always at the heart of our relationship. It didn’t fall apart due to dishonesty, but instead because we could only ever be honest with each other. That may well be the better way to be, but it didn’t mitigate the pain of losing you. I’ve always liked Matthew and have always been happy that you’ve been happy. But I know how much you value the truth and the clarity it brings to a situation, and if I carried on keeping this secret, I fear it would stain the friendship we’ve managed to sustain over these years.

You probably get the sense that I’m tiptoeing around saying something here, so I’ll just come out and say it: I love you, Charlie. I always have and