Page 50 of Seven Reasons to Murder Your Dinner Guests

Four years earlier

Tristan

Tristan’s shoulders ache as he makes his way carefully down the wooden staircase, clutching the heavy box in front of him.

With every step, the bottles make a cheerful jingly sound as they knock together, and he grimaces, willing them not to smash.

The last thing he needs is red-wine stains all over his T-shirt tonight, of all nights.

At the bottom, he attempts to nudge the door open with his shoulder, but it’s too heavy, so he puts the box down carefully on the first step.

As he does so, the rolled-up print tucked under his arm drops to the floor.

He stands too quickly, and a head rush sweeps over him.

You can do this, you can do this… Taking a deep breath, he uses both hands to push at the door, and it reluctantly creaks open.

The heat from the fire hits him right away, and sweat is suddenly trickling down his temples.

He exhales as he rests the box on the floor and stretches up to look around the room.

“Wow,” he murmurs to himself. The chandelier wrapped in ivy, the beautiful table with its pristine linen tablecloth and sparkling silverware, the place settings, the dramatic fireplace surrounded by framed paintings.

It’s all just as he pictured it when he’d dreamed it up from his old bedroom in his parents’ house.

All that’s missing are the other six guests.

He glances at his watch. They’ll be here in an hour.

He just needs to make the final few preparations.

In the dark weeks after his breakup with Ellie, and then the discovery that his parents had lied to him his whole life, he searched the old shoebox again and found a letter that teenage Vivienne had written to his father, “James,” declaring her pregnancy just a few months before his own date of birth.

It didn’t take him long to track down Vivienne and discover the sort of person she was.

He even contacted some of her ex-colleagues, pretending to ask for a reference, and the same comments had cropped up each time: “bitter,” “nasty,” “hated me because I was young/pretty/married.” Every story, every comment portrayed an envious woman.

Even her letter to his father had expressed envy toward his wife.

Vivienne, he decided, wasn’t fit to be anybody’s mother.

Soon after, he rediscovered the books Moralia in Job in his old bedroom.

It was an ancient commentary on the Bible he’d been obsessed with as a teenager that laid out the seven sins that plague humanity.

At university, he’d named his experimental computer program after it, imagining it as something that employers could use to ensure their staff are who they say they are, flagging any unsavory secrets, any unpalatable sins.

But flicking through the books again all these years later, he felt clarity sharpen his mind.

One book contained a bookplate illustration of the sins, represented by different animals dressed as humans.

The images imprinted on his brain, crept into his dreams at night, and swam behind his eyes during the day.

He started to look back on his own experiences and pinpointed the moments—the people—that had changed the course of his life from its promising trajectory to plummeting down into the doldrums. And each of those people had been ruled by one of the seven sins. Starting off with Vivienne.

And so he hatched his plan, a plan that he’d instantly known would be his greatest work, his F you to the world, his lasting legacy.

With his seven sinners already chosen, he’d set about finding the perfect “stage” for this particular piece of theater.

First, he needed to find a nondescript road in Central London, with a hidden and elegant dining room.

He didn’t want his guests having to travel too far to the venue, but he also wanted somewhere instantly forgettable.

It couldn’t be part of a chain or larger company, as he wanted to pay cash and leave no digital or paper trail.

From all his hours of nighttime wandering, much of London was imprinted on his brain, and with some help from Google Earth, he’d tracked down that particularly miserable street, which held a classy little underground room.

As it turned out, the venue had been used for period dramas years before but had mostly stayed empty since it had been sold to a local (questionable) businessman who was listed as director for a series of failed enterprises.

All Tristan had to do was put in a call from a pay phone and a week later drop off an envelope of cash at the venue.

He approached a set decorator, posing as an indie director eager to create a “convincing space for a period drama with a postmodern twist.” She didn’t come cheap, but he’d taken out a loan to cover all the expenses.

Usually, just the thought of getting into debt set his teeth on edge, but he kept telling himself it didn’t matter, as he wouldn’t be around to pay it off.

He’d blown the rest of his budget on a high-end catering company that promised the very best in food and service. Hopefully, it would be worth it.

He retrieves the rolled-up print from the floor and carefully, with great deference, unravels it and walks back to the fireplace.

He chooses a similar-size image on the right-hand side, pulls out the poster glue from his pocket, and carefully covers the back of the image before smoothing it onto the front of the portrait.

Luckily, in the dim light of the room, the new picture blends in quite well with the others.

He glances at the seven monochrome images and allows excitement to bubble up from his tummy.

Then he picks up the box again, takes it through the dining room, and stands in front of the door where the makeshift kitchen has been set up.

He leans his shoulder gently into it so that it opens a few centimeters.

Peering through, he can see that the room is alive with activity, bow-tied waiters scuttling around with purpose.

If he’s seen, he will pose as a courier delivering the wine, but he’s hoping to get in and out without being spotted.

So he places the box next to the door and lifts out the large brown envelope he’d tucked inside, balancing it on top.

Inside the envelope is a list of instructions for the evening: Each guest must be poured at least one glass of the red wine, with no alternatives except water; the seven small black envelopes must be discreetly distributed after the dessert course; the waiters must engage with the guests only minimally.

He reminds the caterer this is a very high-end murder mystery party, and it must be a night none of them will forget.

He looks once more at the special wine before tiptoeing away. It is lightly dosed with Rohypnol, key to the evening’s success. He needs his guests to be relaxed, their senses slightly dulled, their experience adopting a dreamlike quality.

He walks back through the dining room, giving it one last check. Then he makes his way back upstairs, puts his glasses on, and takes his place in the doorway of a boarded-up shop opposite.

First to arrive is Melvin. Sloth. As Tristan watches his bulky frame amble along the pavement, he thinks of how Melvin was in the right place at the right time on the night they met—or should that be wrong place at the wrong time?

That terrible night, when Ellie had dumped him, Tristan had walked and walked for hours along the mostly quiet streets of the city.

Finally, his exhausted legs had called him home, and he’d hopped on a night bus, hoping it would take him somewhere north of the city.

He’d walked to the back of the quiet bus, put his headphones on, and leaned against the cool window, watching the world fly by.

His eyelids drooping, he’d fought sleep and hadn’t noticed the group of young men get on the bus.

He’d felt something hit him in the back of the head.

Without thinking, he’d turned and shouted, What the hell?

The three men had jumped up and were on him before he could respond.

One pinned him to the ground while the other kicked him in the side and the head.

The bus driver had ordered all four of them off, and as he watched the bus pull away, blood dripping from a cut on his head, he’d been convinced he was going to die.

He was pushed to the ground once again, and then the biggest of the group swung his foot back to kick him.

“Police—stop right there!” a deep voice had suddenly yelled, sending the boys scattering. He’d felt himself being lifted up by strong arms, and a large man peered into his eyes. “Are you OK, bud?” the man had asked. He’d found a taxi and escorted him to the nearest hospital.

“Are you really a police officer?” he’d asked the man, who’d introduced himself as Melvin.

“Yes, but off duty,” he’d told him, before taking his details and assuring him he’d be in touch the following day to take a statement. “We won’t let those cowards get away with it,” he’d said.

After having seven stitches in his face and an X-ray that showed his cheekbone was broken, Tristan had made his way home.

Over the next few days, he’d watched the bruises flourish all over his aching body, scrutinized his scarred and dented face in the mirror, as it dawned on him that Ellie would never take him back now, looking like this.

He’d relentlessly monitored her social media as he’d waited for Melvin to ring.

He never called. Some online research had confirmed Tristan’s suspicions—the man was sloth personified.

Calls unanswered, cases pushed to the back of his drawer, a poorly wife neglected.

Now, as Tristan watches, Melvin quickly locates the restaurant door and walks in without any apparent trepidation.