Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh

by Simon Brett

  ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they? After they’ve spent all that money, they’re not going to admit it was a stupid idea, are they?’

  He bowed his head in gracious acceptance. ‘That is certainly a point of view, Mrs Pargeter.’

  She knew this discussion of medical ethics was simply playing for time, putting off the moment when Mr Littlejohn revealed what he really wanted from her, so she briskly shifted the subject. ‘Well, you know you’re never going to enlist me as a client . . .’

  ‘I am well aware of that, certainly. You are one of those rare women I have met who – as I believe a French proverb puts it – “fits her skin”.’

  ‘I’ve certainly never felt uncomfortable in it.’

  ‘I’m sure you haven’t.’

  But this square dance of pleasantries had to come to an end. ‘What do you want, Mr Littlejohn?’ she asked bluntly.

  Accepting the change of direction, the surgeon packed away his polite smile and assumed a darker expression. ‘Mrs Pargeter, the fact is that, although we have never met before, we have many mutual acquaintances.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘In particular, we both knew your husband very well.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘The late Mr Pargeter was extremely generous to me when I started in my chosen profession. At the time I qualified, I was unfortunately involved in . . . well, let us say a business relationship which made my practising in the traditional way rather difficult . . .’

  ‘What did you do?’ she asked with characteristic directness.

  He coloured. ‘I don’t think the specific details are relevant to our current conversation. Suffice it to say that I ended up as a fully qualified plastic surgeon to whom nobody would give a conventional job.’

  ‘And my husband helped you out?’

  ‘Precisely. He was good enough to supply me with premises, with the necessary surgical equipment and – most important of all – with a steady supply of clients who required my services.’

  ‘So you’re “Jack the Knife”?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Pargeter, yes. “Little John” equals “Jack”. I suppose there is a kind of neatness about it. I was given the soubriquet when I started working for your late husband, and it kind of stuck. Very happy years they were,’ he said nostalgically. ‘I got on very well with Mr Pargeter and he introduced me to a remarkable number of clients. Many of them spent a considerable time with me before taking new directions in their careers . . .’

  ‘New directions like South America, the Costa Del Sol, that kind of place . . . ?’

  ‘Your perception is very acute, Mrs Pargeter. Those destinations were particularly popular . . . though many of my clients returned, after an interval, to this country and have had very successful careers here. In fact, one gentleman who at the time I worked on him would, if he’d been spotted, have had to return to prison to complete a twelve-year sentence for aggravated assault, was only a couple of weeks ago elected a Tory MP at a by-election. And . . .’

  He was prepared to extend his catalogue of successes, but the look in Mrs Pargeter’s eye discouraged him. She was waiting for the ‘but’, which would tell what had caused a souring of the surgeon’s relationship with her late husband.

  ‘But . . .’ he began, as anticipated, ‘I regret to say that the harmonious state of affairs between myself and the late Mr Pargeter was not destined to continue.’ For the first time in the conversation, he looked awkward, his urbanity weakened by indecision. ‘I, er . . . the fact is, Mrs Pargeter, your late husband was involved in a business venture in Streatham . . .’

  ‘Oh yes?’ she said softly, chilled as ever by the mention of the word.

  ‘We are all guilty of backing wrong horses from time to time, of joining the wrong side and, I’m afraid, in your husband’s view, that was what I did after Streatham.’

  Mrs Pargeter was not enjoying the direction of the conversation, but said nothing.

  ‘You may have heard of a business associate of your husband called Julian Embridge . . . ?’

  ‘I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘The fact is that Julian Embridge was a very plausible – not to say charismatic – young man.’

  ‘He certainly could be.’

  ‘I was not myself involved in the action at Streatham. My services, by their very nature, tended to be required after the more active part of such a venture was concluded. And when Julian Embridge came to me after Streatham and asked if I would help him, I had no hesitation in saying yes.’

  Mrs Pargeter’s only response to this bald statement of betrayal was a non-committal ‘Oh.’

  ‘At Julian’s request, I totally altered his appearance. I transformed him, as the cliché goes, “so that his own mother wouldn’t recognize him”. And, by doing so, I fear that I incurred your husband’s enduring enmity.’

  ‘I would think that was quite likely.’

  ‘Yes. Yes.’ Jack the Knife steepled his fingers together and pressed them against his lips.

  ‘So Julian Embridge is probably still around somewhere, totally unrecognizable to his former acquaintances?’ Mrs Pargeter suggested.

  ‘Quite possibly.’

  ‘And would you be able to recognize him if you bumped into him?’

  ‘Probably not. I would if I got close enough – I’d recognize my stitchwork – but at a casual glance, assuming he’s dyed his hair and all that kind of stuff . . . no, I probably wouldn’t know him. Though of course I’d recognize his shape.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘That’s the most difficult thing to change. I can fiddle around with people’s features, I can tighten their buttocks, I can even remove the odd rib to emphasize their waist, but it is very difficult to make a chubby person into a thin person. Julian Embridge, you may recall, was extremely chubby.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That would be hard to change.’

  ‘He could presumably diet.’

  ‘Oh yes, but he couldn’t change his basic body type . . . whether he was an endomorph or an ectomorph – you are familiar with these expressions . . . ?’

  Mrs Pargeter, a lifelong and contented endomorph, nodded.

  ‘So Julian could have starved himself ever since the surgery, but he would still remain an endomorph – just a thinner endomorph. If someone could ever develop a medication that would change body type . . . well, he’d clean up. The slimming industry would hail him as the new Messiah.’

  ‘Hm. So, Jack, have you seen much of Julian Embridge since Streatham?’

  The surgeon shook his head. ‘Nothing, since I completed the surgery on him.’

  Mrs Pargeter wasn’t sure where their interview was leading, though the suspicions she had on the subject were not encouraging, but she didn’t see any reason to cease investigation. She was in the presence of someone who knew about her husband’s betrayal; she would jolly well get all the information she could from him.

  ‘There was another man involved in the Streatham business . . . dumb bloke called Stan the Stapler . . .’

  Jack the Knife nodded, acknowledging the name.

  ‘Do you know if he was on Julian Embridge’s side?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but the evidence did rather point in that direction.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Mrs Pargeter grimly. Then, deciding that the evil hour could be put off no longer, she looked straight into Jack the Knife’s blue eyes and demanded, ‘All right, why did you really call me in here?’

  He paused before replying and when the words came, they struggled out with difficulty. ‘The fact is . . . that I have a feeling of unfinished business . . . between myself and your late husband . . . or now, in his absence, between myself and you. The fact is . . . no one believed me at the time, and I doubt if anyone will believe me now . . . but what I did for Julian Embridge was the result of a ghastly misunder-standing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘When he came to me, I didn’t know anything about what’d happened at Streatham. He told me he needed the plastic surger
y – under the tight security conditions that I was used to – and he implied that it was to be done with your husband’s blessing. Indeed, he even said that your husband was going to pay for my services. That was not an uncommon state of affairs – your husband was a very generous man, Mrs Pargeter – and so I took Julian at his word, and did as he requested.

  ‘It was only after I had completed the surgery – one of the best pieces of work I’ve ever done, though I say it myself – that I heard the truth. And by then, I’m afraid, your husband was firmly of the impression – and I can’t blame him, all the evidence pointed in that direction – that I was one of Julian Embridge’s accomplices.

  ‘Worse than that, all of your husband’s associates thought I was a traitor and, since he himself was, er, off the scene for a few years, my life was rather under threat. I therefore disappeared for a while, had some cosmetic work done by a friend in Venezuela, and reappeared in England five years ago to pursue the career in which you now find me.

  ‘By that time, of course, your husband was dead, and so I never got the opportunity to clear my name with him. Mrs Pargeter . . .’ There were tears in Jack the Knife’s eyes as he appealed to her. ‘I’m going to carry that guilt with me to the end of my days. I loved your husband – everyone who worked for him loved the man – and all I want to say is: If there’s ever anything I can do for you, anything at all, please remember – you have only to say the word.’

  ‘Oh. Oh.’ Mrs Pargeter beamed. ‘Well, that’s very sweet of you, Jack.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he sobbed in relief. ‘But I mean it. I’ll only really feel whole when I’ve done something for you that repays the debt I feel to your husband.’

  ‘So let me get this right – what makes you feel bad is the fact that my husband never knew you were innocent and never forgave you for the mistake that you inadvertently made with Julian Embridge?’

  ‘That’s it, Mrs Pargeter. That’s exactly it.’

  ‘And would it help if I was to say that I forgive you on my husband’s behalf?’

  Jack the Knife seized her hands in his and mumbled, tremulous with gratitude, ‘Oh, Mrs Pargeter, you’ve no idea how much that would help!’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Truffler Mason was waiting for her in the foyer when Mrs Pargeter got back to Greene’s Hotel, and he had on his face that expression of incurable apathy which meant he was really excited about something.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, instantly alert.

  ‘It’s something pretty good,’ he said dispiritedly. ‘Really very good actually.’

  ‘Come to my room. I’ll get some champagne sent up.’

  Once they were ensconced in armchairs with full glasses in their hands, Truffler Mason told Mrs Pargeter that he had spent the previous night at Brotherton Hall.

  ‘Not, I take it, as a guest?’

  ‘Er, no. Not exactly. Thing was, I thought I might get some clues as to where Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s been hiding himself.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘No, not actually with him, but—’

  ‘What about Stan the Stapler?’ After what she’d heard from Jack the Knife, the whereabouts of the oddjob man had suddenly become important.

  Truffler Mason looked a little aggrieved at not being able to conduct his narrative at his own pace. ‘Well, I did see him, but I got some more important stuff, actually.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I’m rushing you. You tell me exactly what happened.’

  ‘Well, I got inside about midnight. There was nobody around then.’

  ‘No, there wouldn’t be. Early to bed, early to rise is part of the regime.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And did you have any problem getting in?’ Truffler gave one of his bleak looks which made her regret having asked the question. ‘Sorry, sorry. Where did you start looking for Ank?’

  ‘Started in his rooms. He’s got a flat at the top of the east wing.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But no sign of him there. Doesn’t look like he’s been home for a few days. I did a quick search of the place, but I couldn’t find anything.’

  ‘What were you looking for?’

  Again Truffler looked pained at having his narrative rushed.

  ‘Sorry, sorry. Please go on.’

  ‘So, anyway, I thought I’d check out his office downstairs.’

  ‘Behind Reception?’

  ‘Right. Went through all the filing cabinets and that, but I didn’t find what I was looking for.’

  With difficulty Mrs Pargeter restrained herself from asking once again what he had been looking for.

  ‘But,’ Truffler continued, timing his revelation with lugubrious éclat, ‘he’s got a safe. And it was in the safe.’

  ‘What? What, for heaven’s sake?’ Mrs Pargeter demanded in an agony of curiosity.

  Truffler was still not to be hurried. ‘From the time you brought me into this, I’ve been looking for something which would indisputably link Ankle-Deep Arkwright with Jenny Hargreaves.’

  ‘And you’ve found it?’

  The investigator nodded. Mrs Pargeter felt a pang of disappointment. Up until that moment she had been nursing the secret hope that some evidence would emerge to clear Ank, that he would be revealed as a victim rather than a perpetrator of whatever evil had been going on. Now, it seemed, that hope was destined to be crushed.

  ‘What did you find?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘It’s like a contract. There were two of them, actually, signed by different people, both female.’ He took a folded paper out of his inside pocket. ‘I photocopied the relevant one right there in the office, then put the original back into the safe.’

  Mrs Pargeter took the proffered sheet. The agreement contained on it was not elaborate. In fact, it was not so much a contract as a disclaimer. The signatory agreed that, in consideration of the payment of five thousand pounds, she would participate in such dietary, medical or exercise programmes as were recommended by the representatives of Brotherton Hall Leisure PLC or Lissum Laboratories; that her regime should be conducted under the medical supervision of a physician appointed by the said Brotherton Hall Leisure PLC or Lissum Laboratories; and that she was entering into this agreement entirely of her own free will and that, in the event of any adverse effects being caused by the recommended regimes, the signatory undertook not to make any legal claims against the said Brotherton Hall Leisure PLC or Lissum Laboratories.

  ‘But surely this agreement’s not legal,’ Mrs Pargeter objected. ‘I mean, it could be a licence for them to poison people without any fear of prosecution. That’d never stand up in a court of law.’

  ‘No, I agree it wouldn’t. But a legal-sounding document like this could well be enough to frighten into silence an impoverished student, who was breaking college regulations by even agreeing to take part in the programme.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Pargeter, her eye unwillingly drawn to the signature at the bottom of the sheet. ‘Jenny Hargreaves’ was written in a robust, rounded, slightly childish hand.

  The countersignature did not provide any comfort either. ‘P. T. Arkwright.’ It matched exactly the signature on the impersonal letter of farewell she had received from the Brotherton Hall manager.

  ‘Doesn’t seem much doubt that he was involved, does there, Truffler?’ Her surmise was confirmed by a mournful shake of his head. ‘I hate to think what they made the poor girl take . . .’

  ‘Whatever it was, it doesn’t seem to have done her much good.’

  ‘No.’ The memory of the body on the trolley was once again vivid. For a moment a rare doubt came into Mrs Pargeter’s mind. ‘I wonder if this document is enough evidence . . .’

  ‘Enough evidence for what?’

  ‘Well, to prove that Ank was implicated in Jenny’s death.’

  ‘And if it was . . . ?’

  ‘I suppose we could hand it over to the police and leave them to sort it out.’

  ‘To the police?’ Truffler echoed in disbe
lief. ‘Are you feeling all right, Mrs Pargeter?’

  ‘Well . . . No, I’m not. I suppose I’m rather put down by the thought of having to go after someone I like. I mean, I really thought Ankle-Deep Arkwright was one of my friends. It’s horrible when friends let you down. When I think back to what happened in Streatham . . .’

  Truffler Mason quickly shook her out of this uncharacteristic mood. ‘This piece of paper isn’t worth anything so far as the police are concerned. For a start, they aren’t even aware that there’s been a murder – assuming that there has. You forget, Mrs Pargeter, that so far as we know nobody has found Jenny Hargreaves’ body.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘No, we’ve got to keep investigating Ank until we get the whole picture.’

  ‘Did you go on looking for him at Brotherton Hall after you’d found the contract?’

  ‘Not as things turned out, no. Actually, I’m pretty convinced he isn’t there. I was going to check over the whole place – particularly the basement level . . .’

  ‘Down by the Dead Sea Mud Baths?’

  ‘Right. There’s a whole network of other cellars down there.’

  ‘Ideal places for someone to hide?’

  ‘Or for someone to be hidden.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure that they may have some other people locked down there.’

  ‘People like Jenny? Who they’re testing drugs on or . . . ?’

  He nodded. ‘That’s what I reckon. Remember – I found another contract apart from Jenny’s. There may be even more we don’t know about.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Pargeter grimly.

  ‘I went down to the cellars last night.’

  ‘And did you find anyone?’ she asked breathlessly.

  ‘No. I was . . . how shall I put it . . . interrupted.’

  ‘Someone saw you?’

  ‘Not quite. Close shave, though. I was down working on the cellar door with a picklock when I heard footsteps approaching. I hid back in the shadows and someone passed me and went through into the cellar.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Stan the Stapler.’