Free Death of a Mystery Writer by Robert Barnard

always, being the center of attention, Oliver Fairleigh drank his lakka. He drew together his formidable eyebrows. He pushed his tongue experimentally through his lips. He let out a grunt—expostulatory, bass, frightening, but finishing in an odd, questioning little whimper. He fell heavily to the floor.
    â€œOliver! My God! I knew this would happen.” His wife had jumped from her chair, upsetting the table beside it and the coffee cup on it. She dashed over to the bulbous, collapsed figure by the desk. “Surtees! Someone get Surtees! Ring for an ambulance, quickly!”
    She was hardly on her knees beside her husband when Surtees dashed into the room.
    â€œWhat is it? I was passing—” He saw Lady Fairleigh on the floor, and ran over to where she was, finally seeing the body, moaning and feebly thrashing around. “Water. Get some water.” He threw some flowers from a vase on a side table to the floor, spread the body of Oliver Fairleigh out lengthways, and dashed the water into his face.
    â€œFor heaven’s sake, man, it’s not a faint or a fit,” said Lady Fairleigh. “Get him up. He’s supposed to sit up.”
    â€œThis is Wycherley Court,” said Terence in an unnaturally highvoice into the phone. “Will you send an ambulance at once. It’s my father—Sir Oliver Fairleigh-Stubbs. Quickly, please. He’s had some sort of attack.” He pressed down the receiver rest, and immediately began dialing again.
    â€œHe doesn’t seem able to breathe,” said Eleanor Fairleigh. “What should we do?” She looked at Surtees, who was trying to prop up the immense bulk of his employer in a sitting position, and was sweating with the effort. “Perhaps we should lay him down after all,” his wife said. “I’m sure he would be more comfortable. Do you think we should try massaging his heart?”
    â€œDr. Leighton? It’s Terence Fairleigh. Dad has had an attack—heart, I think. Can you come? . . . Yes, he is, but he’s in a bad way. I’ve called for an ambulance. . . . Yes, please hurry.”
    Terence Fairleigh put down the phone. “He’ll be here right away,” he said. “He said that was what he was afraid of.”
    He looked at the three figures on the floor, and then turned round to look at his sister. She was standing a few feet from her father, seeming as usual to carry a quality of remoteness with her, but her eyes were awash with tears, and her mouth was twitching.
    â€œMummy,” she said. “I’ll go with him in the ambulance. You’ll only upset yourself.”
    Eleanor Fairleigh straightened her back. “Indeed you will not, Bella,” she said directly and determinedly, looking unblinkingly at her daughter. Then she turned back to her husband.
    Terence put out his hand and took Bella’s in his.
    Â â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢Â 
    Half an hour later the ambulance had been and gone, conveying swiftly and efficiently Sir Oliver and Lady Fairleigh. Dr. Leighton had driven up as it was leaving, and had relieved Surtees of the task of going with them. The Woodstocks had taken the opportunity to slip off, after a few words of sympathy and hope to the ones left behind.
    â€œI’m sure he’ll be all right,” said Celia Woodstock to Bella, her face assuming a standard expression.
    â€œOh? Why?” said Bella. Her eyes were quite dry now, andthey looked directly at Celia. She turned away, discomforted, and she and Ben were soon seen walking down the drive, he long and cadaverous, she short and homely. From a distance they seemed oddly ill-assorted. They were not talking.
    At ten forty-five the phone rang. Terence Fairleigh was there in a second, and snatched it up.
    â€œWycherley two-two-five-one. Oh, Mother . . . My God—so soon? . . . I felt sure it was going to be all right. I didn’t expect . . .