Mrs. Pargeter's Principle

by Simon Brett

  Thereafter it seemed logical that the liberated vicar should be taken straight to Greene’s Hotel, and once there it seemed logical that he and the rescue party should join Mrs Pargeter for the delights of the full English breakfast (in a private room, rather than the decorous bustle of the breakfast buffet with other guests). The only one not to take his place at the table with them was Kelvin Mitchell (as he now insisted on being called). He returned to the suite he’d left so early in the morning to enjoy the warm delights of Sammy and room service.

  So the group in the private room comprised Mrs Pargeter, Truffler Mason, Gary and Erin, all breathlessly gathered round Holy Smirke, waiting to hear what revelations he had for them.

  ‘First things first,’ said Mrs Pargeter, once they had all given their orders and were supplied with coffee. ‘We want to know who was behind your kidnapping, Holy. Do you have the photograph, Truffler?’ The private investigator proffered the sheet to the vicar. ‘Did you have any contact with that man?’

  Holy Smirke recognized Edmund Grainger instantly. ‘Yes, he interrogated me a few times.’

  ‘He didn’t use physical force against you?’

  ‘No, Mrs P. He bullied me and shouted at me and threatened me a bit, but he didn’t actually hit me.’

  ‘Good. And what was he interrogating you about? What information was he trying to get from you?’

  ‘It all went back to the early days of your husband starting up his business.’

  ‘I thought it might. The very stuff we want to ask you about, Holy.’

  ‘And the very stuff we would have asked you about if you hadn’t been kidnapped,’ Truffler added.

  ‘Mind you,’ said the vicar with some pride, ‘I didn’t tell them anything useful.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you some of the same questions.’

  ‘Hearing them from you will be a pleasure, Mrs Pargeter.’

  ‘Thank you. Now, you and my husband were at school together, weren’t you, Holy?’

  ‘Started on the same day at Cheesemongers’ First School and then went on to Cheesemongers’ Hall together.’

  ‘So you were –’ Mrs Pargeter chose the word delicately – ‘working with him from the start?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ The vicar sighed fondly. ‘Happy days.’

  At this moment a squad of immaculately uniformed waiters appeared with the customized orders of the breakfast party. A brief interlude of gratified munching ensued.

  Then Mrs Pargeter continued her debriefing of Holy Smirke. ‘When we last met, I asked you whether back in those days you’d ever come across someone called Normington Winthrop.’

  ‘And I told you then that I hadn’t. And were you to ask me again, I’d give you the same answer. His name wasn’t mentioned while I was stuck in that hole watching breakfast television.’

  ‘No, but there was a third person from your schooldays who also worked with the two of you, wasn’t there? Tony Hardcastle?’

  ‘Oh yes. Hair-Trigger Hardcastle.’ Holy Smirke grinned at the recollection. ‘Bit of a tearaway, old Hair-Trigger.’

  ‘He was known, too, as the Armourer?’

  ‘Too right. Always had a fascination with guns. More than a healthy fascination with them, I’d say. Hair-Trigger was far too keen on carrying them in the course of ordinary jobs – not afraid of using them either. Your husband kept tearing him off a strip about it, but Hair-Trigger took no notice. Went on his own sweet way. Always tooled-up. I think he was one of those rather pathetic types who didn’t feel properly masculine if he wasn’t carrying a gun. Thought it gave him an edge with the girls, though from what I could see it didn’t seem to. He was an ugly bit of work, and girls used to think that whether he was carrying or not.’

  ‘There was a falling-out between Hair-Trigger and my husband, wasn’t there?’

  ‘Yes. I never heard the full details, but I gather Hair-Trigger was cheating your old man out of something – creaming off a bit for himself, I dare say. Also, he had some views on foreigners which would now be called racist, and your husband wasn’t keen on that either. So, finally, Mr Pargeter says it has to be a parting of the ways and, ever generous like he was, he gives Hair-Trigger a few grand, like, so he can set up some new business on his own, and that’s it. They don’t see each other no more.’

  ‘And do you know, Holy, what Hair-Trigger Hardcastle did after that?’

  ‘Not for certain, no. I know what he wanted to do after that.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Well, like I said, he was always a loudmouth. Talked himself up a lot, so you had to take everything he said with a skip-load of salt. But I remember being in a boozer with him a few days before the final split with your old man happened, and Hair-Trigger opened up to me a bit about his plans. He reckoned what he was doing, sourcing the odd shooter for minor jobs, was small beer. He had bigger ambitions. What he really wanted to do was get into the international trade.’

  ‘Gun-running?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘Exactly that. Hair-Trigger said the one market you can always guarantee is the market for weapons. Every day there’s a new war – official or unofficial – starting up in some country or other, so the demand’s always there. He reckoned he could increase his operation from low-key stuff in the London suburbs to an international business.’

  ‘And do you know if he succeeded in that ambition?’

  ‘Haven’t a clue. I’d have thought if he had made it big, we’d have heard more about him. And till you mentioned him just now, I haven’t heard his name for getting on for twenty years.’

  ‘And what was the last thing you heard about him back then?’

  ‘I heard he’d gone off to try his luck gun-running in Africa.’

  ‘In Africa? Whereabouts?’

  ‘The Congo.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  Holy Smirke didn’t have a lot more information to give, but at least he had opened up a whole new area of investigation. As soon as Truffler Mason and Erin Jarvis had got their archives set up again in their respective offices, there would be lots of lines of research for them to pursue. A rather disgruntled Kelvin Mitchell (he’d been having such a good time in the suite with his fiancée) was summoned to get back in the Transit and return its contents.

  The breakfast was drawing to an end. Because of the length of Holy Smirke’s debriefing, the meal had taken quite a long time. It was after eleven when Mrs Pargeter received a text on her mobile.

  She read it and looked across at Holy, who had eaten hugely and was blissfully mopping up the last juices of tomato and egg with his fried bread. ‘Text from Ernestine,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘She wants you back at the flat by one.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Because she’s cooking you pot au feu.’

  ‘Ah.’ His rosy face went a little pale.

  ‘She says she prayed yesterday that you’d be released today, and she knew it’d work so she immediately started cooking the pot au feu. It’ll be ready at one.’

  ‘Ah,’ Holy said again.

  ‘Remind me,’ said Mrs Pargeter gently. ‘What are the ingredients of a pot au feu?’

  ‘Ernestine’s special recipe includes a chicken, beef, smoked bacon, Toulouse sausages, carrots, onions, leeks, pepper, garlic, potatoes and a few other secret bits and pieces.’

  It was Mrs Pargeter’s turn to say, ‘Ah.’ Then: ‘Will you be able to eat all that after the breakfast you’ve just put away?’

  Holy Smirke looked really scared. ‘I’ll have to,’ he replied. ‘With Ernestine food is very significant. It’s like love. If I don’t finish up every mouthful she’s served out for me, she thinks I don’t love her any more.’

  ‘Good luck,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

  At the end of their extended breakfast, Mrs Pargeter asked Gary to drive her back to Chigwell. He said the 4 x 4 wasn’t really right for that kind of trip and offered to go an
d get the Bentley. She said he was talking nonsense and she was quite happy in the 4 x 4.

  Truffler and Erin said they’d go back to Erin’s place in North London, because he wanted to check out the laptop he’d taken from the Lavender Hill house that morning and he knew that she had superior IT skills.

  Back in her mansion Mrs Pargeter lay on the sitting room sofa – ensuring, first, that she lay in a position where the china cat was not in her eyeline – and had a doze. The stand-off between her and the figurine had not been helped by the fact that Gary, seeing her into the house earlier in the afternoon, had said, ‘Looks great, doesn’t it? Like it’s always been there.’

  It was early evening when she was woken from her zizz by a call from Truffler Mason. ‘Hi, Mrs P, I’m over at Erin’s, and we’ve been going through the stuff on the laptop we picked up this morning. A long way to go, but we’ve already got one lead I just couldn’t wait to tell you about.’

  ‘What is it?’ she asked eagerly.

  ‘Concerns Hair-Trigger Hardcastle.’

  ‘Oh yes? What, a means of contacting him now?’

  ‘No. If what we’ve found here is true, Hair-Trigger Hardcastle has been uncontactable for nearly twenty years.’

  ‘You mean he’s dead?’

  ‘That’s the way it looks. I’ve found a file of scanned newspaper clippings.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And they are from some English language paper published in the Congo.’

  ‘Really?’ Mrs Pargeter breathed.

  ‘Yes. I think it was printed for expats, but the significant headline reads: “ENGLISHMAN’S BODY FOUND IN JUNGLE – MURDER SUSPECTED.” I’ll read you the relevant bit.’

  There was a silence while Truffler found his place, then he started: ‘In the jungle east of Kindu, local hunters made the gruesome discovery of a white man’s body. Though it was in an advanced state of decay and partly eaten away by predators, a passport and other papers confirm that the dead man’s name was Anthony Hardcastle. He appeared to have been shot through the head. Unsubstantiated rumours suggest that Hardcastle had been involved in the supply of Russian-made weapons to guerrilla groups in the area. He was last seen in Kindu two months ago in the company of a man identified locally as “Mr Winthrop”, who is also believed to have been involved in the illegal trafficking of weapons. Mr Winthrop appears to have moved out of his house in Kindu and has not been seen in the area for some time.’

  ‘It has to be the same Mr Winthrop, doesn’t it?’ Mrs Pargeter bubbled with excitement.

  ‘Certainly a big coincidence if it isn’t. Given where the laptop was found.’

  ‘And from the way the report’s written, the inference must be that it was Normington Winthrop who killed Hair-Trigger Hardcastle.’

  ‘Certainly looks that way,’ Truffler agreed.

  ‘I’m surprised newspapers are allowed to make accusations like that.’

  ‘Ah, Mrs Pargeter, you have grown up in a country where, despite frequent abuses against it, the principle is still maintained of someone being innocent until proven guilty. Other countries are not such sticklers for that kind of approach. And I wouldn’t have thought journalistic standards are of the highest in an English-language rag for expats in the middle of the Congo.’

  ‘No, you could be right. But this is brilliant, Truffler! We have finally got something that connects Normington Winthrop with someone who worked for my husband. Which means we’re closer to finding out why Normington Winthrop’s name was in the little black book.’

  ‘Yes. Mind you, it’s a long time ago. Be difficult to investigate further without going out to the Congo, and even then it’d be tricky. People’s memories are short.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be so defeatist, Truffler. I’m sure there’s stuff we can find out in this country.’

  ‘Well, good luck.’ He sounded even more lugubrious than usual.

  ‘There must be a way,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘What’s the date on the newspaper report?’

  Truffler told her.

  ‘Which would be just before the time that Normington Winthrop appeared in England. Having made his first fortune in Africa! Ooh, this is full of possibilities, Truffler!’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ he said, still sepulchrally low of voice.

  ‘Can you email the cutting over to me?’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘And meanwhile you’ll see if you can find anything else relevant on the laptop or the papers you found at the house, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will, Mrs P.’ He sounded offended that she felt she’d needed to ask the question.

  There was no more thought of dozing now for Mrs Pargeter. She checked the laptop in the study to see if anything had come through yet from Truffler. No, so she went into the kitchen to put the kettle on for a cup of coffee. Then she forgot she’d done that and went to check the laptop once again. Nothing. Back to the kitchen to make the coffee. Forgetting to drink it, she returned to the study. And this time, yes, there was an email from Truffler.

  Attached was the cutting from which he’d read to her. The copied paper looked yellowed and frail. Mrs Pargeter read through the whole of the report from which she’d just heard an extract. The rest of it added little to her stock of knowledge.

  The only new information she received was the byline of the journalist who had written the piece. His name was Conrad Skeet.

  And in her late husband’s little black book there was someone who knew about journalists.

  Ellie Fenchurch always acknowledged (to friends, not in the public press) the huge help Mr Pargeter had given her at the beginning of her career. He had met her when she tried to get an interview with him as part of a journalism course at a local polytechnic. He refused to do the interview, but was so impressed by her intelligence and tenacity that he paid for her to go on a better journalism course and started to use her skills to avoid unwelcome representation of his activities in the press.

  Back then Ellie had been a gangly, long-limbed teenager. Now she was a tall woman in designer clothes whose weekly celebrity interview in one of the major Sunday newspapers brought her a huge and avid readership. Though she was renowned as Queen of the Hatchet Job, there still seemed to be an endless line of celebrities and politicians queuing up to have their reputations trashed by her.

  Ellie Fenchurch recognized Mrs Pargeter’s voice before she had time to identify herself. ‘So good to hear from you,’ she cooed in the voice whose Cockney origins she’d never contemplated hiding. ‘Where’re you living now?’

  ‘Chigwell.’

  ‘Oh, the house finally got built, did it? Congratulations. Do you know that means we’re near neighbours?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve still got my flat in the Barbican, but I like to get out of London every now and then – sign of age, probably – so I bought this house in a new development in Chigwell.’

  ‘What an amazing coincidence.’

  ‘Great coincidence. Come round and see it. Come and have a drink.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now. Give me your address and I’ll send Gaston round to pick you up.’

  Gaston turned out to be a young man of extraordinary beauty and very few words. Maybe he’d have had more words if Mrs Pargeter had spoken to him in French, but she’d never got very far with languages.

  He appeared in a Porsche and drove Mrs Pargeter in under five minutes to the home of his employer – or possibly lover; his lack of words led inevitably to a lack of such vital information.

  The private gated development in which Ellie Fenchurch lived when she wasn’t at the Barbican was brand-new. But whereas Mrs Pargeter’s house had been constructed on Georgian principles, these dwellings were very clearly the products of ‘modern architecture’. The roof looked as if it had been made from a single sheet of brushed silver, the supporting structure was all brushed silver pillars and everything else was glass. The whole development gave a new literalness to the expression ‘livi
ng in a goldfish bowl’, and the local window cleaners must have thought all their birthdays and Christmas had come at once.

  But for Ellie herself the house was just as much a dream realized as the one Mrs Pargeter now inhabited would have been for her husband. Its minimalism – if that was the right word – fitted with the style she liked to project. This was also reflected in the clothes she wore – a silver top above black leggings and silver trainers. All hideously expensive designer kit which made her long thin body look wonderful.

  As soon as she’d despatched Gaston to the fridge for some champagne, Ellie insisted on giving her guest the complete guided tour. As they moved from glass-walled room to glass-walled room and looked at carefully-placed artworks (most also made of glass), Mrs Pargeter found herself in danger of running out of her stock of appreciative platitudes. (‘Oh, that is nice’ – ‘This is splendid’ – ‘Wonderful view from here’ – ‘Well, I never’ and so on.)

  Finally, they settled down in the first-floor sitting room with its perfect view of the other glass-fronted houses in the development. Gaston still did not speak as he poured champagne for them. Nor did he pour a glass for himself, suggesting perhaps that his role was that of a domestic servant. But the affectionate stroke Ellie gave to his hand when taking her glass from him suggested the possibility of another role. Equally, the speed with which he went downstairs, leaving the two woman in a tête-à-tête, made it perhaps more likely that he was a servant.

  Mrs Pargeter did not let herself worry too much about this. Either she would have found out Gaston’s role by the end of the evening, or she would not. How Ellie Fenchurch conducted her life was her own affair … though if she was having a sexual relationship with Gaston, she was very definitely moving into cougar territory.

  And why not, thought Mrs Pargeter.

  It had been a while since the two women had met, and Ellie was keen to fill her friend in with recent developments in her career. Mostly, these concerned celebrities interviewed and the attendant scurrilous gossip, which Mrs Pargeter enjoyed very much.