The Assassins’ Club
Nicholas Blake
‘No,’ thought Nigel Strangeways, looking round the table, ‘no one would ever guess.’
Ever since, quarter of an hour ago, they had assembled in the ante-room for sherry, Nigel had been feeling more and more nervous – a nervousness greater than the prospect of having to make an after-dinner speech seemed to warrant. It was true that, as the guest of honour, something more than the usual post-prandial convivialities would be expected of him. And of course the company present would, from its nature, be especially critical. But still, he had done this sort of thing often enough before; he knew he was pretty good at it. Why the acute state of jitters, then? After it was all over, Nigel was tempted to substitute ‘foreboding’ for ‘jitters’, to wonder whether he oughtn’t to have proclaimed these very curious feelings, like Cassandra, from the housetop – even at the risk of spoiling what looked like being a real peach of a dinner party. After all, the dinner party did get spoiled, anyway, and soon enough, too. But, taking all things into consideration, it probably wouldn’t have made any difference.
. . .
