Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh

by Simon Brett

  ‘Exactly,’ said Chris, and her two friends nodded agreement, reassured that, in spite of her rather common accent, deep down Mrs Pargeter was their sort of person.

  She took advantage of the hiatus to move the investigation on. ‘You don’t think Tom had anything to do with Jenny’s absence, do you?’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Chloe.

  ‘Well, that they might have run off together . . . ?’ Although she knew that that wasn’t what had happened, Mrs Pargeter still wanted to find out what the girls thought.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Chris and Candida replied in unison.

  ‘No,’ Chloe agreed. ‘No, we’re fairly certain that Jenny went off to work . . . you know, make some money after she lost the pub job.’

  ‘But why would she do that before the end of term?’

  ‘Because that’s when the job came up, we assume. And we reckon it must have been something so well paid that, to her mind, it justified the risk of missing a week of term.’

  ‘And do you know any more about what kind of work Jenny might have been doing?’

  Chloe and Candida looked interrogatively at Chris, who took up her cue with relish. ‘I actually think I’ve got a pretty good idea of what it was – well, not absolutely what it was, but how she got on to it, know what I mean?’

  Mrs Pargeter waited, letting the girl time her own revelation.

  ‘Thing is, being in the room next door to someone, you do live pretty close to them and you know most of what they’re up to. I mean, I suppose I tended to go out more than Jenny – you know, like socially – but I still did see quite a lot of her . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ Mrs Pargeter prompted patiently.

  ‘And I mean, I know after she lost the barmaid job, she was going through all kinds of newspapers and magazines to, like, look out for other things.’

  ‘And you think you know which magazine she got the job from?’

  Chris refused to be hurried. ‘Let’s say I reckon I’ve narrowed it down.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Jenny did tend to read some fairly yucky sort of magazines.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Chris’s face settled into a moue of distaste. ‘I mean, some fairly subversive stuff . . . like, say, Private Eye . . .’

  Mrs Pargeter made no comment, but her mind was reeling. The idea that twenty-year-olds in the 1990s could regard the superannuated enfant terriblisme of Private Eye as subversive was totally incongruous. What had happened to these girls? Had they sprung middle-aged and blue-rinsed from their mother’s wombs?

  ‘Not that we’re wholly against Private Eye,’ interposed Chloe, perhaps trying to bring a tinge of liberalism into the discussion. ‘I mean, some of the covers are sort of quite funny . . . and the odd cartoon . . .’

  ‘But it is all so negative,’ Chris argued. ‘Knocking things down all the time, not trying to build anything up. I mean, like, you do have to be more positive about things. The government is really trying, doing its best to get this country back on its feet, and I don’t think the kind of sniping Private Eye does is anything but completely destructive.’

  Fascinating though it was to witness this reactionary display, Mrs Pargeter, aware of her time limit, felt she had to move the conversation on. ‘So you reckon Jenny went after a job advertised in Private Eye, do you?’

  ‘Well, I think so. They do have a lot of small ads, you know.’

  ‘Yes,’ Chloe agreed, ‘though these days most of the job ones are for people looking for work rather than offering it . . . you know, “Graduate seeks five thousand pounds to change the world, anything considered”, that kind of stuff . . .’

  ‘And then of course there are the personal ads . . . the contact ones, know what I mean?’ Candida blushed. ‘Some of those are pretty . . . well, pretty explicit.’

  Given more time, Mrs Pargeter would have loved to pursue this theme and find out if the three young ladies’ attitudes to sex were as reactionary as their views on everything else, but it wasn’t the moment. ‘So, Chris, do you think you know the actual ad that Jenny answered?’

  The girl smiled smugly. ‘Got a pretty good idea.’ She reached into her handbag and produced a tattered copy of a recent Private Eye. ‘I know she was looking at this just a few days before she went off, and one of the ads is marked.’

  She opened the magazine at the relevant page and handed it across. Mrs Pargeter looked at the Eye Earn column. In the middle of the usual encomia for foolproof betting systems, ‘amazing opportunities’ and ‘superb home businesses’, a few words had been ringed in red ballpoint.

  £5000 FOR FOUR WEEKS’ WORK. NO TRAINING REQUIRED. DETAILS BOX 20335.

  ‘And you’re sure that Jenny was the one who put the ring round it?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Chris replied. ‘Saw her do it.’ A funny thought struck her. ‘Why? You don’t imagine I’d have done it, do you? Or Chloe or Candida? Good heavens, can you imagine any of us stooping to that kind of thing?’

  She let out a quack of laughter, in which her two friends joined. It was the best joke Chris had come up with for some time.

  Mrs Pargeter once again felt massive sympathy for the life Jenny Hargreaves must have spent in Cambridge.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Mrs Pargeter reported her progress to Truffler Mason on the carphone as Gary’s limousine sped her smoothly back to Greene’s Hotel. ‘I mean, I know box numbers are supposed to be a kind of security device, but . . .’

  ‘Mrs Pargeter . . .’ Truffler’s voice was once again edged with a hint of reproach.

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. Of course I know you’ll be able to find out. Well, needless to say, any connection you can get with Brotherton Hall’s going to be terrific. And the sooner the better, obviously . . .’

  ‘Goes without saying, Mrs Pargeter. Incidentally, on the other things you asked me to check out . . .’

  ‘Ank and Dr Potter?’

  ‘Right.’ There was a pause before the uncharacteristic admission. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t made much headway there.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘It’s not for want of trying.’ Truffler Mason’s voice was drowning under an excess of apology.

  ‘Never occurred to me that it was.’

  ‘No, but . . . Well, I just feel bad. Like I was letting you down.’

  ‘Of course you’re not. So what have you got on Ank?’

  ‘Well, really nothing so far – that’s what’s so bloody annoying. Nothing except the Brotherton Hall party line. “Mr Arkwright is away for a few days.” “Do you know where he’s gone?” “No, I’m afraid not, sir.” “Do you know precisely when he’s likely to be back?” “No, I’m afraid not, sir.” Right slap up against a brick wall, I am.’

  ‘Sounds like he’s deliberately lying low.’

  ‘Yes. Unless he’s been laid low,’ said Truffler chillingly.

  ‘Hm. What about Stan the Stapler?’

  ‘Same story. “No, I’m afraid Mr Bristow is away for a few days – and no, I’m afraid I don’t know when he’s likely to be back.” Bloody frustrating, I can tell you. I’m not used to not getting a result.’

  ‘Sounds like someone’s deliberately stopping you from getting a result.’

  ‘Yeah. That doesn’t make it any less frustrating. I’ll find a way, don’t worry.’ But the gloom in Truffler’s voice was terminal.

  ‘How about Dr Potter? Anything on him?’

  ‘Well, yes . . .’ There was still no hint of satisfaction in his tone. ‘Don’t like it, though.’

  ‘Nasty secrets, do you mean?’

  ‘No – no nasty secrets, that’s what I don’t like about it. Kind of model history for a medical man. Did all the right training, worked as a GP in England for ten years, then out to Hong Kong. Twelve years out there – good doctor, highly respected professionally, well liked personally – then comes back here and gets the job at Brotherton Hall. I don’t like it,’ he repeated sepulchrally.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it d
oesn’t seem to tie in with the way he’s behaving now, does it? From your encounters with him, you’d hardly call Dr Potter a good doctor, would you? Not one you’d recommend to your friends for his bedside manner?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m still pursuing it. Got feelers out with my contacts in Hong Kong – may be able to get some dirt.’

  He didn’t sound optimistic. But then, come to that, Truffler Mason never did sound optimistic.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mrs Pargeter comforted. ‘At least now with this box number you’ve got something positive to investigate.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, that’s true.’

  Only someone who knew Truffler extremely well would have recognized from his tone that this reminder had actually cheered him up.

  Perhaps from frustration at the blocking of his other enquiries or from a need to prove himself (completely unnecessary so far as Mrs Pargeter was concerned), Truffler Mason was back to his brilliant best in investigating the Private Eye box number. Indeed, she had just arrived back at Greene’s and was only half-way through Hedgeclipper Clinton’s fulsome welcome when the girl on Reception announced that a Mr Mason was on the line asking for her.

  Mrs Pargeter took the call right there in the foyer.

  ‘I’ve tracked it down!’ Truffler announced with mournful glee. ‘Tracked him down, I should say.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ said Mrs Pargeter, with a little extra effusiveness to reassure Truffler she attached no blame to him for the blanks he had drawn on his other enquiries. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Would you believe an estate agent?’

  ‘What – so it was an estate agent who was offering the job?’

  ‘Well, yes, but not on his own account, of course. When do estate agents ever do anything on their own account – except present bills? No, he was doing it on behalf of a client.’

  ‘Do you know who the client is?’

  ‘Not yet, but we can get it from him,’ Truffler replied with grim confidence.

  ‘And have you found out whether Jenny Hargreaves did actually apply for the job?’

  ‘Not exactly. But the speed with which the geezer clammed up when I mentioned her name makes me pretty certain I’m on to something.’

  ‘Good work, Truffler. What’s the next move?’

  ‘I’ve fixed an appointment to go and see the gentleman tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Me too?’

  ‘You bet, Mrs Pargeter. You can help me nail the bastard.’

  ‘Why, have you got some dirt on him?’

  ‘Not yet,’ came the sardonic reply, ‘but give me time. You can always get dirt on an estate agent.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ‘And don’t worry, Mrs Meredith,’ said Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh into the telephone on the Monday morning. ‘I’m well aware of your concern for wildlife and for the way you’ve encouraged the pheasants to breed in the grounds of Ragley House. I will make it my personal business to ensure that we find you a purchaser who has just the same priorities. Yes, yes, of course, Mrs Meredith. I’ll call you soon, goodbye.’

  He put two fingers down on the buttons of the telephone and, with a wave to the couple who’d just come into the office, immediately started dialling another number. ‘With you in a moment. One quick call.’

  Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason smiled acquiescence and pretended interest in the property details on the walls, as the chubby, florid young man made his connection. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Atkins, it’s Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh and Pugh. Good morning. Look, new property just come on the books. Wanted you to be the first to know about it, not telling anyone else it’s on the market for a day or two. Ragley House . . . yes. Well, I thought you’d be particularly interested because it does have excellent pheasant shooting. Yes, good. I’ll get the details in the post to you today. Fine. Byee.’

  Again he did the fingers-on-the-button-and-instant-redial routine. ‘Just one more,’ he assured his clients. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Carver, it’s Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh and Pugh. Good morning. Look, new property just come on the books. Wanted you to be the first to know about it, not telling anyone else it’s on the market for a day or two. Ragley House . . . yes. Well, I thought you’d be particularly interested because it does have excellent pheasant shooting. Yes, good. I’ll get the details in the post to you today. Fine. Byee.’

  Three more identical calls followed before Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh finally put the receiver back in its cradle and turned to Mrs Pargeter and Truffler with an apologetic spread of his hands. ‘So sorry to have kept you. Short-staffed this morning. Flu epidemic on, I gather. So . . . what can I do for you?’

  Mrs Pargeter, who had heard nothing about a flu epidemic, did not anticipate the appearance of any staff, let alone Messrs Ventleigh & Pugh. She was convinced that Keith Wellstrop was reduced by the property slump to running a one-man band.

  But she said nothing and, according to their plan, let Truffler initiate the conversation. ‘Yes, my name’s Mr Mason, this is Mrs Pargeter, we’ve come about some information.’

  ‘Oh, good. Well, what sort of property are you looking for?’

  ‘It’s one specific property we’re interested in.’

  ‘What, you saw a Wellstrop, Ventleigh and Pugh board outside and you wanted to—?’

  ‘No,’ Truffler interrupted firmly. ‘The property we’re interested in is Brotherton Hall.’

  Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh folded his hands smugly over a well-upholstered stomach. ‘Well, I’m sorry. I’m afraid that property is not on the market. It’s currently being run as a very successful health spa.’

  ‘But did you handle the sale when Brotherton Hall was last on the market?’

  ‘No. We don’t deal in properties of that size. Six, seven-bedroom country houses, yes – mansions, no. Now I do have some details here of—’

  Truffler cut through all this. ‘Do you know any of the management at Brotherton Hall?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t.’ For the first time suspicion had come into the estate agent’s piggy eyes. ‘What is this? What do you want?’

  ‘As I said, we want some information.’

  ‘About house purchase?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I don’t believe I can help you, Mr, er . . .’

  ‘Oh, I think you can.’ From an inside pocket Truffler Mason produced the copy of Private Eye, folded open at the small ads. ‘I’m interested in this box number, Mr Wellstrop.’

  The patches of colour on the estate agent’s face spread, conjoining into a uniform purple. ‘And what makes you think this has anything to do with me?’

  ‘I know it does,’ Truffler replied evenly.

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.’ Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh rose from his chair in a display of authority. ‘And if it’s not house purchase you’re interested in, I do have rather a lot of work to do this morning and—’

  Mrs Pargeter came in on her prearranged cue. ‘Oh, it is house purchase we’re interested in. The purchase of one house in particular . . .’ Keith Wellstrop was momentarily silenced by the intervention, allowing her to continue: ‘A house called 17 Doubletrees Lane.’

  The purple in the young man’s face was instantly diluted to pink. ‘What? I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he protested feebly.

  ‘Oh, I think you do.’ Mrs Pargeter drew a cardboard folder out from under her arm, aware once again of how privileged she was to enjoy the research services of such experts as Ellie Fenchurch and Truffler Mason.

  He it was who had provided the data from which she now quoted. ‘It was a chain, wasn’t it – one of those peculiarly English situations involving six houses, the top one worth half a million and the others getting cheaper and cheaper, right down to 17 Doubletrees Lane, selling for a mere forty-two thousand. And the whole thing was set up, all the purchases sorted out and you in line for very substantial commission when the
y all went through . . . Not a bad rate of pay for the amount of effort the deals had cost you.’

  ‘I don’t think you—’

  She overrode him. ‘But 17 Doubletrees Lane was the one that threatened the whole deal, wasn’t it? Its sale fell through just at the wrong moment. Unless some philanthropist came up with a cash offer, your commission on all the other deals was out the window, wasn’t it? Which was why you decided to be that philanthropist. You bought 17 Doubletrees Lane yourself, didn’t you?’

  By now he’d built up enough head of steam to respond. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s called chain-breaking. Quite a common practice among estate agents – and one for which many purchasers have reason to be grateful. The agent temporarily buys the house that’s causing the problem and breaks up the log-jam. It’s not illegal.’

  ‘It is when you use the money other buyers have paid as deposits to fund the purchase.’

  Pink again gave way to puce. ‘That couldn’t happen. The ten per cent deposit paid when an offer’s accepted is lodged with the buyer’s solicitors until—’

  ‘Are you going to tell me,’ asked Truffler Mason quietly, ‘that you’ve never encountered a bent solicitor . . . ?’

  ‘I’m sure such people exist,’ Keith Wellstrop blustered. ‘Maybe I have met one without being aware of—’

  ‘You’ve met one. You meet one every week at the Rotary Club . . .’

  Mrs Pargeter smiled sweetly and consulted her helpful file. ‘A gentleman called Hamish McFee.’

  Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh was silent. Pudgy fingers worried at the lapel of his tweed sports jacket.

  ‘We do of course have documentary evidence for all this,’ said Truffler Mason.

  A last spark of resistance flared briefly. ‘But all the deals in the chain went through. None of the vendors or buyers had anything to complain about. Their deposits were all properly paid at the right time.’

  ‘Yes, but it was a close call, wasn’t it? Fortunate that just before all those purchasers were due to complete, a deposit was paid on another half-million-pound house . . .’