by Simon Brett
He gave a self-depreciating shrug. ‘Ooh, I don’t know about that.’
‘Well, I do,’ Mrs Pargeter asserted. ‘And what’s more, I don’t like you saying you’re a failure in your private life . . . at least not so far as I’m concerned. I told you – you’re a very fine man. And,’ she lied, ‘I’m sure I could be very attracted to you, were it not for the fact . . .’
‘That you’re still in love with one of the finest, most honest men who ever walked God’s earth . . .’
‘I’m afraid that’s it, yes.’
Wilkinson chuckled. ‘. . . even if he did share a surname with someone of rather less respectable reputation.’
Mrs Pargeter joined in the joke. Then she gathered herself together, preparatory to leaving. ‘Well, I do hope we’ll meet again, Craig.’
‘Yes. Maybe finish that rather splendid dinner at my favourite restaurant that you never got round too the other night . . .?’
She let out a gentle laugh. ‘Ye-es. Or perhaps you’d like to come to Greene’s Hotel instead.’
‘One or the other, eh?’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Greene’s Hotel.’ She rose from her chair. ‘Well, I must be off. You just concentrate on that very clever dossier you’ve worked out.’
Inspector Wilkinson nodded. ‘I might just have another look at it, yes.’ As she had known it would, the idea planted in his mind had grown, and he was now almost convinced that the dossier was all his own work.
‘See you again soon, Craig,’ said Mrs Pargeter as he led her to the door. She stopped to give him a gentle peck on the cheek. ‘And I’m just so sorry that it couldn’t work out . . . you know, you and me.’
‘Yes, well . . .’ He shrugged manfully at the sadnesses of life. ‘There you go.’
‘Mmm.’
‘And, incidentally, Mrs Pargeter, if there’s ever anything I can do for you . . . any information on police matters . . . professional advice . . . whatever . . . even top-secret stuff . . . well, you only have to ask.’
‘Do you know, Craig . . .’ said Mrs Pargeter thoughtfully, ‘I might just take you up on that.’
Chapter Forty-Seven
When she got back to Greene’s Hotel, Mrs Pargeter looked contritely at the photograph on her bedside table. Though the black and white features of the soberly suited gentleman in the frame never actually changed, she could read different moods into the well-known face, and the mood she could see now was one of reproach. That expression had remained since their previous conversation had been interrupted by the arrival at the hotel of Inspector Wilkinson and Sergeant Hughes.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Mrs Pargeter to her dead husband. ‘I did get a bit carried away, and I took risks I shouldn’t have taken. You never wanted me to know anything about your working life, and that was a restriction I was happy to accept. But in the past weeks certain facts have been presented to me, which I know you wouldn’t want me to know.
‘Well, don’t you worry about that at all. I will never mention any of those facts to another living soul. In fact, I will forget about them, totally erase them from my mind. It’ll be as if I had never known those details about you. We’ll go back to the relationship that we’ve always had.
‘And in future,’ she continued humbly, ‘I will see that this kind of thing never happens again. I will never again pry into your business affairs. And, though I did maybe go a little bit too far this time, it was in a good cause. I know you’d have wanted me to fulfil your promise to Veronica Chastaigne.
‘That’s all I wanted to say, love. And to remind you, of course, how much I appreciate all you’ve done for me in the past, and all you manage to continue to do for me now. You know, what I said to Inspector Wilkinson was absolutely true. You are the love of my life. There will never be anyone else.’
Mrs Pargeter found there were tears in her eyes. She brushed them away, and when she looked back at the photograph of the late Mr Pargeter, she could see that the expression on his face had changed to one of forgiveness and deep, requited love.
Chapter Forty-Eight
The little parish church of Chastaigne Upton was much fuller than on the average Sunday, and on this particular Thursday it was not difficult to believe in the continuity of human existence. Supposedly there had been a church on the same site in Saxon times, and the Normans had replaced it with the grey stone building that still stood, defying the advance of progress. The green graveyard undulated with the contours of old tombs; its grassy surface was broken up by oddly angled stone crosses worn to smooth anonymity. Here indeed was a peaceful spot in which a body might sleep for all eternity, and which might inspire thoughts of an Overall Purpose or a Greater Power even in the most irreligious of breasts.
The congregation that had assembled in Chastaigne Upton was not a very religious one. Many had not been near a church since the funeral of the late Mr Pargeter, and for some the sole purpose of any visits before that occasion had been theft. But even in the most materialistic of bosoms something spiritual stirred that afternoon, as they looked at the plain light wood coffin and contemplated its imminent return to the earth, where it and its contents would slowly rot away, to become part of the eternal cycle of decay and regeneration.
Sunlight dappled the colours of the stained glass windows across the aisles. The air inside the church was heavy with the perfume of the many flowers that surrounded the coffin and added brightness to the occasion.
The silk print of Mrs Pargeter’s dress was even brighter than the flowers. Following the express directive of the deceased, guests had been invited to ‘dress cheerfully’; there was not a hint of black in the whole church.
As she looked along her pew, Mrs Pargeter felt a glow of satisfied pride. Immediately next to her was Truffler Mason, next to him Gary, then Hamish Ramon Henriques and Hedgeclipper Clinton. In the row in front stood Kevin the doorman, Vanishing Vernon, Jukebox Jarvis, VVO and Deirdre. They were a good crew, thought Mrs Pargeter fondly. She really was very blessed in her friends. And very blessed in having shared her life with the late Mr Pargeter, who was responsible for building up such a reliable band of friends.
The one who had proved not to be reliable, Palings Price, a.k.a. Posey Narker, was not in the church. He was in Wandsworth, on remand along with the D’Acosta gang, all of whom were awaiting trial on a surprisingly long list of charges.
Sergeant Hughes wasn’t present either. He was at that moment in a kennel outside Cardiff, trying unsuccessfully to bond with an Alsatian bitch called Geraldine.
‘We are gathered here,’ the vicar said, ‘not just to mourn the death, but to celebrate the life of Veronica Chastaigne . . . a wife who enjoyed the love and protection of a good man . . . an art-lover who lived all her life surrounded by beautiful things. In honour of which, we will now sing Veronica Chastaigne’s favourite hymn – “All Things Bright and Beautiful”.’
As the organ rumbled out its intro and hymn books were raised, Mrs Pargeter could not resist a sly look across the aisle to the pew on the other side. Toby Chastaigne wore an expression of considerable disgruntlement. And it wasn’t only caused by the presence of Inspector Craig Wilkinson next to him. The bewildering list of charges that he and Palings Price faced had something to do with his mood as well.
The moment Wilkinson raised his hymn book, Ibby lifted his hands too. He had little alternative. Handcuffs, by their very design, demand a degree of synchronization.
On Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson’s face was an expression of enormous satisfaction. The presentation of his dossier had been a stunning success. In spite of assertions from Sergeant Hughes that it was all nonsense and didn’t tally with the facts, Wilkinson’s Superintendent had been very impressed by his Inspector’s detailed case study.
It was a pity that so many of the named villains had died before justice could catch up with them, but at least there were six surviving defendants to throw the book at. Wilkinson’s unravelling of the complex connections in the network of criminals had been recognized as m
asterly. The Superintendent even apologized for having underestimated his long-serving officer in the past, and not recognizing the genius that lay beneath an apparently plodding exterior. He recommended Wilkinson for immediate promotion to the rank of chief inspector.
Most importantly, thanks to the exhaustive, tenacious work of one dedicated detective, the outstanding file on the late Mr Pargeter could be finally closed.
Oh yes, thought Wilkinson, running his tongue along the luxuriance of his curly moustache, I’ve certainly made my mark in the Police Force.
The hymn singing from the assembled congregation in the little church of Chastaigne Upton was full-bodied and surprisingly tuneful.
All things bright and beautiful,
All creatures great and small,
All things wise and wonderful,
The Lord God made them all.
And Mrs Pargeter, who didn’t believe in God, thought indulgently that if it wasn’t Him who’d made them, then it was someone else. And whoever it was had good reason to be proud of His or Her creation.
