by Simon Brett
‘I mean, it struck me, when we had Dad’s funeral … you know, that the crematorium was a bit gloomy. I sort of wished we’d been able to do that in a church. So I would like a church wedding, yes. Lot of my friends who’ve got married at Girdstone Manor, they’ve gone for that too. Place has a tiny chapel in the grounds – the whole estate used to belong to some famous family, I think. And if you’ve got too many guests, they set up a marquee outside with closed circuit television, so everyone can enjoy the service.’
‘And do they – the management at Girdstone Manor – supply a priest to do the business?’
‘Yes.’ A shadow crossed the girl’s face. ‘That’s the one thing I wasn’t so keen on. Three weddings I’ve been to there, and the same bloke’s done them all. He sort of doesn’t sound interested in what he’s saying … like he was kind of ticking off items at a supermarket checkout. Still, I suppose that’s only a minor thing.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s a very big thing. It’s your wedding. You don’t want it conducted by someone who finds the whole occasion a great big yawn. No, I’m sure the management at Girdstone Manor will let you bring in your own priest … you know, if it’s a family member or a personal friend.’
‘I’m afraid none of my family have ever been vicars, and I don’t know any.’ She read something encouraging in Mrs Pargeter’s violet eyes. ‘Why, do you?’
‘Do you know, I think I might have just the perfect person. Leave it with me. Ooh, and if we’re really going for the twenty-seventh of May, you’d better start getting the hen party sorted. It’ll have to be soon, won’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let’s make it this Saturday. Will that give your friends enough notice?’
‘I’m sure it will. They won’t want to miss it.’
‘So what would you like to do for your hen party?’
‘Well, go to a few clubs, I suppose.’
‘In Essex or London?’
‘London would be wonderful, but it’ll be very expensive and—’
‘London it is. Don’t forget I’m paying. And we’ll book all your friends in here for the night.’
‘Here in Greene’s Hotel?’
‘Of course. I don’t want them worrying about late-night taxis. And, actually, we could start the evening with dinner here. I like the idea of your friends having something solid in their stomachs before the serious drinking starts.’
‘Mrs Pargeter, I don’t know what to say.’
‘“Thank you” is all that’s required.”
‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’ Mrs Pargeter grinned, because it really was her pleasure. ‘Anyway, what are all these magazines you’ve brought?’
Sammy fanned out the pile. ‘These are all for brides – full of lots of clever ideas and stuff.’
It was a long time since Mrs Pargeter had had anything to do with wedding preparations – her own was the last in which she had been actively involved. That had been a very traditional and sedate affair; her late husband would not have wished for it to be any other way. Ceremony in a City of London church, reception in one of the City Livery Company halls, honeymoon on the island of Capri.
Since then, though she had attended a few, she hadn’t given much thought to the subject of wedding planning, so she was amazed by the proliferation of magazines which Sammy held out to her. But that didn’t mean she was not interested, and the two women spent a very happy half-hour looking at wedding dresses. The range on offer was enormous, though the list of potential candidates was considerably reduced by the fact that, unlike many of the models in the magazines, Sammy didn’t want to get married looking like a meringue.
‘I’m only just looking,’ she said rather wistfully. ‘Dresses like this have to be ordered months in advance.’
‘Again,’ said Mrs Pargeter with a sly wink, ‘don’t underestimate what can be done at short notice.’
The first bottle of champagne was painlessly consumed and Mrs Pargeter had just ordered the second when Sammy’s fiancé appeared in the bar. He was a tall, good-looking boy with floppy very fair hair and a dark suit, the one-size-too-small look of which was fashionable that year. From the expression on Sammy’s face when he arrived it was clear that she absolutely adored him, and his eyes reflected matching enthusiasm.
Introductions were quickly made and glasses filled. Kelvin thanked Mrs Pargeter very formally for her generosity in offering to fund the wedding, but a restraint in his manner suggested he wasn’t wholly pleased with the idea.
Mrs Pargeter was not a woman to let atmospheres build up. She had always been very quick to point out elephants in rooms, so she immediately asked, ‘Aren’t you happy about me footing the bill, Kelvin?’
‘Well, it doesn’t quite seem right. I feel we should be doing it.’
‘There’s no need to worry about it, love. The tradition with weddings is that the bride’s parents pay, but a) that’s very outdated, and b) Sammy’s parents are both dead.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Are your parents still alive, Kelvin?’
‘No. My mother died about this time last year. And my father … nearly ten years ago now.’ His mother’s death was almost casually dismissed, but when the boy spoke of his father, it was clear from his manner that, like Sammy, he was still feeling the emotional impact of his loss.
‘Well, I don’t see why you’ve got a problem with me paying. For a start, I’m doing it as a kind of compensation for things that were neglected earlier, picking up my late husband’s unfinished business. If I’d known what dire straits Sammy’s Dad was in while he was alive, I’d have helped him out then. Sadly, I didn’t, so this is a way of making up for that.’
‘When you say “your late husband” …’ A note of awe crept into the boy’s voice. ‘Are you talking about “Mr Pargeter”?’
‘Well, yes, of course I am. My married surname is “Pargeter”, so my husband was called “Mr Pargeter”.’
‘But was he the Mr Pargeter?’
‘In certain circles he would be known as “the Mr Pargeter”, yes.’
The boy reached across to take her hand. ‘It’s a great honour to meet you, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Nice to meet you and all, Kelvin. And now you know who my husband was, do you feel better about me paying for your wedding?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose …’ But the note of doubt was still in his voice.
‘What’s the problem now?’
‘It’s just …’
‘What? We both want Sammy to have the wedding she’s always dreamed of, don’t we?’
‘Yes, but I wanted to give her that. I wanted to pay for it!’
‘Lovely idea, Kelvin, but you’ve got to face facts. Sammy says neither of you have got any money.’
‘I’ve got lots of money!’
‘Then why …?’ Mrs Pargeter looked across at Sammy. The girl was really tearing up. Clearly, the conversation had moved on to a topic of some disagreement between the young couple.
Sammy rose to her feet, clutching her handbag to her. ‘I’m sorry. I must just … go to the ladies’.’ And she hurried out of the bar, tears streaming down her face.
‘What’s this all about, Kelvin?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
‘Well, look, like I say, I’ve got lots of dosh. I could pay for a slap-up wedding ten times over.’
‘Oh. If you’d rather I didn’t pay; if you really want to do it yourself …’
‘I desperately want to do it myself, but Sammy won’t let me.’
‘How’d you mean?’
‘She’s totally skint, but she refuses to let me pay for anything for her.’
‘Is that some kind of feminist thing?’
‘No, it’s because …’ He built up to the confession. ‘She doesn’t like where my money comes from.’
‘Ah. You mean because it’s the proceeds of crime?’
‘How did you know that? Did Sammy mention it?’
‘She did, yes.’
‘Anyway, the result
is, she won’t accept any money – or even any presents – from me. She says it’s a matter of principle with her.’
‘Well, she doesn’t seem to love you any the less because of it.’
‘Oh no, we adore each other. There’s no problem there.’
‘But disagreement over something so basic as where your money comes from could lead to problems later in your marriage.’
‘I don’t see why it should.’
‘Maybe not, but … You want Sammy to be happy, don’t you?’
‘’Course I do. I’d do anything for her.’
‘Even the one thing that would really make her happy?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Give up what you’re doing now and get a proper legitimate job?’
He looked very shocked. ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Crime isn’t just something I do …’
‘Oh?’
‘No. For me it’s a vocation.’
SEVEN
Mrs Pargeter could cook. Indeed, during the years of her marriage she had hunted through recipe books to produce many fine meals for her husband. Though very loyal to his staff, Mr Pargeter had not been by nature a gregarious man, and those evenings he was free he generally preferred a peaceful meal at home with his wife to the public exposure of a restaurant. (Studies of New York’s Little Italy had taught him what dangerous places restaurants could be.)
But Mrs Pargeter had no appetite for cooking elaborate dishes just for herself. When alone in the Chigwell mansion at a mealtime, she would assemble light snacks of smoked salmon, cold roast guinea fowl, oysters or caviar. But that didn’t happen very often. As a general rule, she much preferred to go out to eat. There were half a dozen good restaurants in Chigwell that she frequented and a range of venues in central London (including, of course, Greene’s Hotel) where she knew the menu by heart and was always welcomed enthusiastically by the manager and staff.
Mrs Pargeter didn’t have any of those strange inhibitions some women do about eating on her own. For Mrs Pargeter, food was something to be enjoyed. She liked having company during a meal, but would not let its absence inhibit her from the deep relish she had for eating.
So when, just as she was about to leave Greene’s after her encounter with Sammy and Kelvin, she got a phone call from Truffler Mason, eager to report on his afternoon’s meeting with Helena Winthrop, it seemed logical to suggest he join her there for dinner. And since Gary had just arrived with the Bentley to take her home, it seemed equally logical to invite him too.
Mrs Pargeter and Truffler managed to demolish another bottle of champagne before going into the restaurant, where she was immediately led through to her favourite table. The waiters knew what she was likely to have – a salad of crayfish tails followed by a rare entrecôte steak with creamed spinach and matchstick potatoes – but they still went through the full business of ordering, a ceremony only slightly less elaborate than the coronation of an Eastern potentate.
Truffler and Gary went for steaks too, though their starters were whitebait and duck pâté respectively. From the wine list Mrs Pargeter selected a very good (and very expensive) bottle of Argentinian Malbec, which she and Truffler would share. Gary, aware of the risks to his business, was very good about not drinking when he was about to drive. And since he was always about to drive, he hardly ever drank.
‘So, Truffler,’ said Mrs Pargeter once the waiters had melted obsequiously away, ‘what was Lady Winthrop after?’
‘Well, it’s very odd,’ he replied dolorously. ‘She wants me to do more or less exactly what we want to do.’
‘How d’you mean?’
‘She wants me to find out everything I can about the early career of her late husband, Sir Normington Winthrop.’
‘Hm.’
‘So I think that could be rather handy – doing a job I was going to do anyway and getting paid for it by a new client.’
‘But I was going to pay you, Truffler.’
‘Yes, I know, Mrs P, but now you don’t have to.’
‘I don’t want anyone doing work on the cheap for me. I want full rates and proper invoices to be—’
‘Oh, don’t let’s get into all that again, for Gawd’s sake,’ said Gary, to whom this was all too familiar. ‘So, Truffler, Lady Winthrop doesn’t know anything about his past then?’
‘Well, she knows about his career since he became part of the establishment. I mean, he was already making his way in London society when she met him. But not how he started his career. Apparently, he never talked about that.’
‘Surprise, surprise,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Did she know about any connection between Sir Normington and my husband?’
‘No. I didn’t want to make too much of it, but I did mention the name Mr Pargeter, subtly, like, and she showed no reaction at all.’
‘Did she say why she suddenly wanted to know all this stuff?’
‘She gave me a lot about how the shock of losing her husband had made her realize there were gaps in her information about him, you know, and how she wished she’d talked to him more about that while she was alive. She even pretended to get quite emotional about it.’
“‘Pretended”?’
‘Yeah. She didn’t fool me, Mrs P. She’s one of those toffee-nosed women who had her emotions surgically removed at a very early age. Whatever the reason is that she wants to find out about her husband, sentimentality doesn’t come into it.’
‘So,’ asked Gary, ‘what do you reckon’s the real reason why she suddenly wants you to check out her old man’s background?’
‘Well …’ Truffler Mason stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘I kind of got the impression – don’t know why, exactly – that she’s doing it because of something someone said at the funeral.’
‘You don’t know who it was?’ asked Mrs Pargeter. ‘Or what they said?’
He shook his large horse-like head from side to side. ‘No. Like I say, it was just an impression.’
‘Hm.’ Their starters had arrived. The waiters laid them down on the table like diamond necklaces on a jeweller’s velvet and evaporated back to the kitchens.
‘Before we start eating, Truffler …’ Mrs Pargeter turned the full beam of her violet eyes on to him. ‘You said Lady Winthrop had never heard of my husband …’
‘Yes, I’m sure she hadn’t.’
‘But what about me? Had she heard of me?’
‘Again, no. No reaction when I mentioned you.’
‘Well, that’s odd. Because at the funeral Edmund Grainger knew exactly who I was, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think we need to find out a bit more about Mr Edmund Grainger.’ She was tempted to tell them about the threatening phone call she had received, but stopped herself because she knew both men would immediately go into overdrive about her safety. And once again she was determined not to give in to bullying.
‘I’ll get on to it first thing in the morning,’ said Truffler. ‘And I’ll give Erin a call ’n’ all, see if she can get some gen on him.’
Truffler and Gary’s forks, advancing towards their starters, were stopped by another question from Mrs Pargeter. ‘Do you have any idea why Lady Winthrop chose your detective agency?’
‘According to her, she just got out the Yellow Pages and virtually stuck a pin in it.’
‘I wonder if that could be true,’ said Mrs Pargeter thoughtfully. ‘Her late husband had some connection with my late husband; you worked for my late husband; she stuck her pin into the Yellow Pages and contacted you. How d’you explain that?’
‘Coincidence,’ Truffler Mason offered without a lot of conviction.
‘I’m not a great believer in coincidence,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I always tend to look for an alternative explanation. And I very often find one.’
EIGHT
Though sceptical about coincidence, Mrs Pargeter was a great believer in both synchronicity and serendipity, so she was uns
urprised by the successful outcome of the call she made the following morning, which was a Wednesday.
Although she could handle a computer and was quite capable of sending emails, she preferred to use the phone as a means of communication. When she could hear the voice of the person at the other end of the line, she could get so much more information from them than a printed message could provide. Every intonation, every hesitation, every tremble of the voice revealed something about the person she was speaking to.
And only minutes into her conversation with Shereen, the Bookings Manager at Girdstone Manor, Mrs Pargeter knew that she was speaking to someone very professional, but whose assumed affability reined in a very short temper.
Once Mrs Pargeter had identified herself, the Bookings Manager asked what she could do for her.
‘I want to book a wedding.’
‘Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. The satisfaction rating from brides and grooms who have used our services is over ninety per cent.’
‘I’m very glad to hear that.’
‘Now, Mrs Pargeter, are we talking about a wedding for yourself or your daughter?’
She giggled. ‘No, Shereen, it’s certainly not for me. And I haven’t got a daughter.’
A puzzled: ‘Oh?’
‘No, the bride is the daughter of a friend who sadly has recently passed away.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ came the formal response.
‘I’m just checking out the availability of Girdstone Manor.’
‘Well, I’d better warn you that because of our high reputation we are extremely popular, and often for summer dates the booking has to be made as much as a year ahead, sometimes more.’
‘What about people who don’t like long engagements?’
‘They would be well advised to look elsewhere. There are a great number of other, inferior wedding venues around, where I am sure the demand is not so great.’
‘I was looking for a date within the next month.’
‘Well, Mrs Pargeter,’ said Shereen with considerable hauteur, ‘I think you would be well advised to—’
‘Saturday the twenty-seventh of May.’
‘I can assure you that—’ The Bookings Manager paused for a moment, the wind truly taken out of her sails. ‘Did you say Saturday the twenty-seventh of May?’
