Choice of Evils Read Free Page A

Andrew's ear.
    He put his own instrument down and stood still for a minute, thinking over what had just happened.
Just a few friends. He had before this accepted invitations to parties which were to consist of just a few friends and on arriving had found at least thirty people gathered together, all in evening dress. He hoped such a thing was not going to happen this evening. Following his trip from London and then his stroll about the town, he was distinctly tired and in spite of wanting to please Peter, would have preferred a quiet dinner by himself and the chance to go early to bed. However, he had committed himself now and it would be advisable, he thought, even if he was to meet only a few friends of Simon Amory, to change out of the slacks and pullover that he was wearing, and to put on the one dark suit that he had brought with him. When this was done he went downstairs and waited in the lounge for whoever it was who was coming to fetch him.
    It was Peter who came and he was driving a Rolls.
    When he saw Andrew admiring the car, he grinned and said, ‘You didn't know I'd risen to this, did you? Nice, isn't it?’
    ‘Is it really yours?’ Andrew asked.
    ‘Damn it, you always see through me,’ Peter said. ‘No, it's Simon's. I've still got my Mercedes, which is very nice too, but not in this thing's class. Well, hop in and we'll get going.’
    They both got into the car and Peter turned it in front of the hotel and took it down the short drive to the gates that led out to the main street.
    It was dusk and the streetlamps had all been lit. Only the sea was an expanse of darkness. Once in the street, Peter turned to the right, the road mounting a steep hill which soon left the houses behind. Between the road and the cliff-top the space was wooded with beech trees that even in the twilight it could be seen were covered in the splendid copper of autumn.
    ‘Now, tell me what I'm actually in for,’ Andrew said. ‘A few friends - that can mean anything. And different people have different ideas about informality.’
    ‘Oh, you needn't worry,’ Peter said. ‘I think we'll only be about half a dozen. You and I and Todhunter and Simon and the Chairman of the festival, a man called Edward Clarke, and a woman who's some sort of relation of Simon's. Her name's Rachel Rayne. She's just arrived from America and I don't know much about her.’
    ‘Isn't Amory married?’
    ‘He was, but she died, I think it was five or six years ago. Leukaemia, I believe. The curious thing is that he didn't start writing until after her death. I suppose it may have begun as a way of filling the gap, but with the fantastic success he had with that first book of his, I suppose it took him over, so to speak. Have you read it?’
    ‘I'm afraid I haven't.’
    ‘Or seen the play?’
    ‘No. But I saw a shortened version of it on television. I doubt if it was fair to him. For one thing it said that the book was by someone else and the television version was only based on characters created by him. If I'd been him I think I'd have been fairly disgusted.’
    ‘Well, it kept the money rolling in, I expect, so he was probably quite happy about it.’
    ‘What did he do before he took to writing?’
    ‘I think he was a chartered accountant.’
    ‘Here in Gallmouth?’
    ‘Oh no, in London. He's only lived full time inGallmouth for the last few years. He and his wife saw a house here when they were on a visit to friends and fell in love with it and bought it for when he retired. But she died and never lived here.’
    ‘Peter, you said this afternoon that he puzzled you. What did you mean by that?’
    Peter did not reply at once. He peered ahead of him up the road that was lit by the long shaft from the car's headlights.
    Then he said, T said that, did I?’
    ‘Yes,’ Andrew replied.
    ‘Well, I shouldn't have. I didn't really mean anything.’
    ‘Oh, come on, of course you meant something. What was it?’
    ‘I suppose I was thinking …’ Peter