The Last Devil to Die by Richard Osman EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Author: Richard Osman
- Language: English
- Genre: Cozy Mystery
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Wednesday, 26th December, lunchtime-ish
‘I once married a woman from Swansea,’ says Mervyn Collins. ‘Red hair,
the lot.’
‘I see,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Sounds like there’s quite a story there?’
‘A story?’ Mervyn shakes his head. ‘No, we split up. You know women.’
‘We do know them, Mervyn,’ says Joyce, cutting into a Yorkshire
pudding. ‘We do.’
Silence. Not, Elizabeth notes, the first silence during this meal.
It is Boxing Day, and the gang, plus Mervyn, are at the Coopers Chase
restaurant. They are all wearing colourful paper crowns from the crackers
Joyce has brought along. Joyce’s crown is too big and is threatening to
become a blindfold at any moment. Ron’s is too small, the pink crêpe paper
straining at his temples.
‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you to a drop of wine, Mervyn?’ asks
Elizabeth.
‘Alcohol at lunchtime? No,’ says Mervyn.
The gang had spent Christmas Day separately. It had been a difficult one
for Elizabeth, she would have to admit that. She had hoped that the day
might spark something, give her husband Stephen a burst of life, some
clarity, memories of Christmas past fuelling him. But no. Christmas was
like any other day for Stephen now. A blank page at the end of an old book.
She shudders to think about the year ahead.
They had all arranged to meet for a Boxing Day lunch in the restaurant.
At the last minute, Joyce had asked if it might be polite to invite Mervyn to
join them. He has been at Coopers Chase a few months and has, thus far,
struggled to make friends.
‘He’s all alone this Christmas,’ Joyce had said, and they had agreed that
they should ask him. ‘Nice touch,’ Ron had said, and Ibrahim had added
that if Coopers Chase was about anything, it was about ensuring that no one
should feel lonely at Christmas.
Elizabeth, for her part, applauded Joyce’s generosity of spirit, while
noting that Mervyn, in certain lights, had the type of handsome looks that so
often left Joyce helpless. The gruff Welshness of his voice, the darkness of
his eyebrows, the moustache and that silver hair. Elizabeth more and more
is getting the hang of Joyce’s type, and ‘anyone plausibly handsome’ seems
to cover it. ‘He looks like a soap-opera villain,’ was Ron’s take, and
Elizabeth was happy to accept his word on the matter.
Thus far they have tried to speak to Mervyn about politics (‘not my
area’), television (‘no use for it’) and marriage (‘I once married a woman
from Swansea’, etc.).
Mervyn’s food arrives. He had resisted the turkey, and the kitchen agreed
to make him scampi and boiled potatoes instead.
‘Scampi fan, I see,’ says Ron, pointing to Mervyn’s plate. Elizabeth has
to hand it to him, he’s trying to help things along.
‘Wednesdays I have the scampi,’ agrees Mervyn
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