Wormwood had found his place at the bottom of the table and had seated himself without ceremony. Crowley shrugged his shoulders, licked the ends of his fingers and sought his seat. “If you will pardon me, Captain,” he said, “it would seem that but for our own, the other seven place cards are unlabelled.”
“Possibly an oversight on the part of the caterers,” grumbled the Captain, “don’t let it concern you.” He took his place between the two men and three sat in silence.
Crowley took out a cocktail cigarette from a gold case and tapped it upon the table. Wormwood wheezed asthmatically into his hand. Drawing a shabby handkerchief from his pocket he dabbed at his sinewy nose.
The Captain sat immobile, wondering what, if anything, was going to happen. Crowley lit his cigarette and looked down at his platinum wristwatch. “It would seem that your other guests are a trifle late,” said he.
The Captain sniffed and said nothing. Wormwood turned his empty sherry glass between his fingers and shuffled his ill-polished shoes uneasily. Long minutes passed and no sound came to the Captain’s ears but for the regular tock tock of the gilded mantelclock. There was no rumble of an approaching vehicle and no footstep upon the stairs that might herald the arrival of the red-eyed man. Surely it was not his intention to have the Captain sit here between these two hated individuals all evening? He had nothing to say to them.
Without warning, and silently upon its never-oiled hinge, the hall door swung open. White light streamed into the candlelit room, brighter and brighter it grew as if a searchlight had been turned upon the opening. The Captain blinked and shielded his eyes, Crowley squinted into the glare. “Here,” he shouted, “what’s all this?”
In the midst of the now blinding light the silhouette of a tall and boldly proportioned man gradually became apparent. Well over six foot he stood, and finely muscled as an Olympic athlete. His garb was of the richest crimson, trousers cut impeccably yet without a crease, a waisted and collarless jacket, lavishly embellished with stitched brocade, a lace cravat about the neck. Upon his head the figure wore a small crimson skullcap.
The face might have been that of a Spanish grandee, tanned and imposing, the nose aquiline and the mouth a hard and bitter line. The chin was prominent and firmly set. Beneath thick dark eyebrows two blood-red eyes gleamed menacingly. The room became impossibly cold, the hairs rose upon the Captain’s hands and his breath streamed from his mouth as clouds of steam which hovered in the frozen air.
Crowley found his voice. “Dammit,” he spluttered, his teeth chattering and his face a grey mask of fear, “what’s going on, who the devil are you?”
Wormwood clutched at his heart with quivering hands and gasped for air.
The crimson figure stood in total silence, his eyes fixed upon the effeminate young man. The Captain had seen that look before and thanked his maritime gods that it was not directed towards him. “So you would be Crowley?”
An icy hand clasped about the young man’s heart. His head nodded up and down like that of an automaton and his lips mouthed the syllables of his own name although no sound came.
“And this is Councillor Wormwood?” The eyes turned upon the unhappy creature who cowered at the table-end.
“Horace Wormwood,” came the trembling reply. “I was invited.”
“Good.” A broad if sinister smile broke out upon the tall man’s face. “Then all is as it should be. Please be seated, gentlemen.”
The three men, who had risen unconsciously to their feet, reseated themselves, and the warmth of the summer’s evening returned to the room. The tall man stepped forward and took his place at the head of the table. To the further horror of those already seated, the hall door swung silently shut and closed into its frame with a resounding crash.
“I hope you will enjoy this modest spread,” said the crimson figure. “It is but local fare.”
Crowley finally found his voice. He was by nature a predator, and not one to be intimidated by such a theatrical display no matter how convincing it might appear. It would take more than a few bright lights and a bit of cold air to make him deviate from his calculated scheme. It was clear that the Captain had hired this man, possibly a local actor; there was definitely something familiar about him, and those eyes, certainly tinted contact lenses, no body could have eyes that colour surely?
“Local fare you say,” said Crowley merrily. “It would seem that you have plundered the finest food halls of Christendom and employed one of the world’s master chefs to prepare this magnificent feast.”
The tall man in crimson smiled his thinnest of smiles and said, “I fear that the other guests have declined their invitations and we shall be forced to dine alone, as it were. I also fear that by an unforgivable oversight the caterers have omitted to supply us with either cutlery or serving staff and you will be forced to serve yourselves. Captain, if you would be so kind as to bring in the fish.”
The Captain did as he was bid without hesitation. At the arrival of the fish Crowley clapped his hands together in glee and shouted, “Magnificent! Magnificent!”
The four men sat about the enormous gilded dining table, the golden glow of candleflame eerily illuminating their faces whilst casting their shadows about the richly hung walls in a ragged, wavering danse macabre. Each man was occupied with his own thoughts. Crowley’s brain was bursting with a thousand unanswered questions, everything here demanded explanation. His eyes cast about from face to face, and devious plots began to hatch inside his skull. Councillor Wormwood, although a man greatly in favour of connivance and double-dealing, was capable upon this occasion of no such premeditation. He was an old man and felt himself to be pretty well versed in the ways of the world, but here in this room he knew there was something “different” going on. There was a dark aura of evil here, and it was evil of the most hideous and malignant variety.
Captain Carson glowered morosely about the table, he really didn’t know much about anything any more. All he knew was that he was seated here in a room, which had been exclusively his for the past thirty years, with three men who out of the entire world’s population he loathed and hated to a point well starboard of all sanity.
At a gesture from the red-eyed man the three set about the mouthwatering dishes. Crowley was amazed to find that the sweetmeat he had sampled minutes before had now taken on the most delicious and satisfying of tastes. He gurgled his delight and thrust large helpings into his mouth.
Councillor Wormwood pecked at his choosings like the ragged vulture he was, his claws fastened about the leg of some tropical fowl and his hideous yellow teeth tearing the soft white flesh away from the pinkly cooked bones. The Captain sampled this and that and found all equally to his liking.
As no cutlery had been supplied the three men dug into the finely dressed displays with their greasy fingers reducing each dish to a ruination suggestive of the march of soldier ants. The crimson figure at the head of the table left most of the dishes untouched. He dined upon bread, which he broke delicately between his muscular fingers, and drank occasionally from the decanter of claret set at his right elbow.
The hours passed and the gluttony of the three men was slowly satisfied. The Captain loosened the lower buttons of his jacket and broke wind in a loud and embarrassing manner. At length, when it seemed that the undignified destruction of the table was at an end, the crimson figure spoke. Sweeping his burning eyes over the three men he said, “Is all to your liking, gentlemen?”
Crowley looked up, his mouth still bulging with food. “It is all ambrosia,” he mumbled, wiping cream away with the cuff of his lace shirt.