by Simon Brett
Table of Contents
Cover
The Mrs. Pargeter Mystery Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
The Mrs. Pargeter Mystery Series
A NICE CLASS OF CORPSE
MRS., PRESUMED DEAD
MRS. PARGETER’S PACKAGE
MRS. PARGETER’S POUND OF FLESH
MRS. PARGETER’S PLOT
MRS. PARGETER’S POINT OF HONOUR
MRS., PRESUMED DEAD
A Mrs. Pargeter Mystery
Simon Brett
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain in 1988
by Macmillan London Ltd
eBook edition first published in 2011 by Severn Select an imprint
of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 1988 Simon Brett.
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
A CIP catalogue record for this title
is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0013-6 (epub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being
described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this
publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons
is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
To Bronya, with thanks for the title
1
The murderer looked down at the body lying neatly in the middle of its polythene sheet, and indulged in a moment of self-congratulation. It had really been remarkably easy once the decision had been made. The polythene sheet over the thick carpet had been a bonus, no great surprise that it should have been there, considering all the packing of the last few days, but nonetheless a bonus. Not only would it minimise the likelihood of detection, it also fitted in with the murderer’s instinctive fastidiousness.
In the event, there had been little mess. The woman on the polythene sheet lay in a posture that could at a cursory glance have been mistaken for sleep. Properly surprised by the suddenness of the attack, she had gone to her death with the docility which, to outsiders, had characterised her life.
Only a close inspection would have revealed the thin red weal of bruising on the stark whiteness of her neck. And the curtain of reddish hair would have had to be lifted to uncover the livid face with its startled eyes and its engorged tongue parting puffy lips.
The murderer, secure in rubber gloves, dropped the stretched cricket club tie on top of its victim, then wrapped the convenient polythene around the body and sealed it with sticky tape. Like that, the corpse lost its last residual connection with humanity and became just another package ready for removal, along with the tea-chests of newspaper-wrapped china and the stout cardboard boxes full of ornaments, which waited in obedient rows along the wall of that sitting-room.
Surprised by a flicker of anxiety, the murderer’s eyes darted to the large picture window, but the thick Dralon curtains were reassuringly closed. They had been expensively tailored for the space and admitted no sliver of light to the outside world. No one else on the estate could even know whether the lights were on or off.
The anxiety gave way to the return of self-congratulation. Yes, it really had been remarkably easy.
And necessary. Regrettable, but necessary. The risk of discovery had been too great, and once that risk had become known, ordinary human considerations had ceased to be relevant. A kind of mechanistic change had come over both of them. From that moment they had ceased to be people, become abstract figures, archetypes – murderer and victim.
Even now it was done, the situation remained clinical, objective. In the murderer’s mind there was no guilt, only a process of logical assessment, of working out the odds against being detected as the perpetrator of the crime.
And at that moment those odds seemed comfortingly long. Yes, in with an excellent chance of getting away with it.
Bolstered by this thought, the murderer’s mind now felt ready to address that problem which has always proved a much greater deterrent to homicide than any moral or religious qualm – how to dispose of the body.
2
Smithy’s Loam was a development of six executive homes which had been built some five years previously in the outer commuter belt of Surrey, and whose history was interchangeable with that of many such executive estates. Its developer had bought up a dilapidated Victorian rectory, obtained planning permission with the help of a fellow member of the Rotary Club who happened to be on the local council, demolished the rectory and divided its three acres into six plots tastefully scattered around a central green. To give these outer-suburban dwellings with their pale new brick an air of rustic permanence, he had sought out an appropriate name and, prompted by someone’s vague recollection that there might have been a forge on the site before the rectory, had dubbed the development Smithy’s Loam. Then, having made a killing on the project, he had taken early retirement to Tenerife, where he proceeded very slowly and pleasurably to drink himself to death.
In the five years of its existence Smithy’s Loam had seen a good few changes of ownership. Though the houses were well up in the market, four-bedroomed dwellings whose comfortably accelerating prices excluded most first-time buyers, the sort of people who bought them, rising executives in their thirties and forties, were vulnerable to sudden moves. Keeping themselves on the upward graph of success depended on seizing their opportunities when they arose, taking on new jobs, being transferred at short notice to new areas. So the appearance of removal lorries in Smithy’s Loam was not an unfamiliar sight.
What was unusual, though, thought Vivvi Sprake, as she looked out of the front window of Number Three (‘Haymakers’) across the immaculate central green to the lorry outside Number Six (‘Acapulco’), was for the new residents not to be present when their furniture was unloaded.
For that was what appeared to be happening. Without, as she kept telling herself, being nosy, Vivvi kept a fairly close eye on what went on in the close (oh no, mustn’t call it a ‘close’ – Nigel said ‘close’ was common). And
she was sure the new resident hadn’t arrived yet.
She ran through the sequence of events. Theresa Cotton, when she had come round to say goodbye on the Monday evening, had said she was just about to leave. On the Tuesday morning her removal lorry had arrived at the unoccupied house, been loaded with its contents and set off on the long journey North to the Cottons’ new home. And now, on the Wednesday morning, the new resident’s belongings were being unloaded into ‘Acapulco’. But the new resident herself had not yet put in an appearance.
Somehow this upset Vivvi’s sense of rightness. Removal firms were so unreliable, surely most people would want to be on the spot to see that things were put in the correct places? Anyway, being around and making endless cups of tea for the removal men seemed to Vivvi an essential rite of passage, a necessary part of the process of moving into a new home. The new resident’s absence disturbed her. It opened up the possibility that there might be other ways in which the newcomer would not conform to the usages of Smithy’s Loam. And to Vivvi, herself always working so hard, at her husband Nigel’s insistence – so many things are so difficult when you marry an older husband – to do the right thing, this prospect was doubly irritating.
By half-past twelve the new owner of ‘Acapulco’ still hadn’t turned up, though the removers seemed to be down to the smallest items and had the air of men about to fold up their final blankets before going off to the pub. Vivvi sighed with annoyance and went into the kitchen to make herself a cottage cheese salad (Nigel was also concerned that his Mark Two wife shouldn’t let him down by becoming fat).
But she brought her meagre lunch through to the front room and while she watched an Australian soap opera – a minor enough vice but nonetheless one she would not have admitted to under torture – she kept glancing across towards ‘Acapulco’. The removal lorry by now had gone, but there was still no sign of the owner’s arrival.
When the moment did finally come, Vivvi nearly missed it. At a quarter past three she had had to leave for one of the regular punctuations of her day, collecting her two children from school, and half an hour later, as she swung back into Smithy’s Loam, she saw a large black limousine parked outside ‘Acapulco’. Its uniformed driver, his beaming face reflecting the size of the tip he had received, was just getting into the car. He started the engine.
Vivvi slowed almost to a standstill, as if to give him room to pass, but since he was on the opposite side of the road, this was not a very convincing disguise for her curiosity.
‘Why are we stopping, Mummy?’ asked her six-year-old son from the back of the car.
‘Just slowing down, Tom,’ Vivvi replied, peering at the doorway towards which the departing chauffeur waved. An ample white-haired woman was waving back. She must have been in her sixties, but was carefully and expensively preserved. Bright silk print dress, fur coat draped over shoulders, gleams of substantial jewellery, surprisingly high heels accentuating fine legs. There was about her a quality which, while not extreme enough to be dubbed ‘flashy’ or ‘vulgar’, would still have disqualified her from being called ‘self-effacing’.
‘Is that the lady who’s going to live in Auntie Treezer’s house?’ asked Tom.
‘Don’t say Auntie Treezer.’ The reproof was automatic. Calling people who weren’t relations ‘Auntie’ was another usage Nigel had condemned as common.
Reluctantly, Vivvi swung the Peugeot 205 into the drive of ‘Haymakers’. While she made much of letting Tom and his sister Emily out of the child-locked back, she could see the new resident still framed in her doorway, as if scenting the afternoon air.
The woman looked confident and peaceful, but alert. The feeling of slight uneasiness came back to Vivvi.
Tom and Emily had been given their tea and settled in front of children’s programmes, which would keep them quiet until six o’clock. Vivvi hesitated by the window of her front room, about to close the curtains. It was nearly dark, seemingly darker than it had been only two days before when Theresa Cotton had come to say goodbye. But then of course it had been after six when Theresa Cotton had paid her visit.
Vivvi again looked down the close towards ‘Acapulco’. Orangeish light spilled through the dimpled glass of the front door, but in the rest of the house the tightly drawn curtains gave no indication of which rooms were being used.
Vivvi felt she ought to do something, make some gesture, offer assistance to the new resident. But she wasn’t sure what form her gesture should take. Her instinct was to go across and knock on the door, but she didn’t think Nigel would approve of that. He frequently reverted to the point that people in the South don’t wander in and out of each other’s houses as much as in the North where Vivvi had been brought up.
So perhaps going across in person wouldn’t be right. Anyway, she shouldn’t really leave the children alone in the house, even just for a few minutes. One did hear of such terrible things happening.
No, maybe the answer was to do something more sedate. An official invitation. Yes, that would be more in keeping with Smithy’s Loam.
Her mind made up, Vivvi drew the curtains and went to the telephone in the hall.
Some of the numbers were programmed into the memory and some weren’t. In strict rotation she set the phone ringing in each of the other executive homes in Smithy’s Loam. Number One (‘High Bushes’), Number Two (‘Perigord’), Number Four (‘Hibiscus’), Number Five (‘Cromarty’). In each case she invited the woman who answered to coffee on the Friday morning. All but one accepted.
Theresa’s number was still on the memory. But of course it wasn’t Theresa’s number now. It belonged, together with the rest of ‘Acapulco’, Smithy’s Loam, to the new resident. The well-preserved lady who was providing so much new fuel for Vivvi’s restless curiosity.
She punched up the number. It would be strange, she reflected, Smithy’s Loam without Theresa . . . Well, she thought with a slight blush, without Theresa and Rod. But Rod had been away so much in recent months . . . And, anyway, Vivvi told herself, all the husbands remained shadowy figures in the life of Smithy’s Loam.
The phone rang for a long time. She must be there. Vivvi was sure she would have noticed if the newcomer had left. Anyway, you wouldn’t go out immediately after arriving in your new home, would you? Again, Vivvi felt that tweak of uncertainty, the fear that the new resident might not conform to accepted behaviour patterns.
What was her name? Theresa had said, Vivvi felt sure. An unusual name, she knew that much. But she couldn’t for the life of her remember what.
At last the phone was answered, with a cheerful ‘Hello?’
‘Oh, hello. My name’s Vivvi Sprake. I live at Number Three, ‘Haymakers’, up the top of the . . .’ She just managed to stop herself saying ‘close’. ‘. . . up at the top.’
‘Ah.’
‘I was really ringing just to welcome you to Smithy’s Loam.’
‘That’s very nice of you.’
‘I knew Theresa and Rod Cotton very well. I just wanted to say that I hope you’ll be as happy here as they were.’
‘Thank you. Much appreciated.’
‘Actually, I was wondering if you’d like to come across for coffee one of these mornings, to meet a few of the other people in the . . .’ Oh dear, she’d nearly said ‘close’ again. Mustn’t say ‘estate’, either. And ‘development’ sounded so bald and functional. ‘Um . . . in Smithy’s Loam,’ Vivvi concluded.
‘Yes, I’d enjoy that. Thank you.’
‘How about Friday?’
‘Ah. Friday might be a bit difficult.’
‘Oh dear.’ Stupid. She should really have checked on the guest of honour’s availability before setting up the others. It had just never occurred to her that someone moving to a new area might have other commitments.
‘No, don’t worry, Vivvi. I can juggle things round. Yes, Friday’d be fine. What sort of time?’
‘Eleven?’
‘Right. I’ll look forward to meeting you then.’
‘And I’ll look forward to meeting you. Oh, one thing . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Sorry, I’m afraid I don’t know your name.’
‘It’s Pargeter.’
‘Mrs Pargeter?’
‘That’s right. Mrs Melita Pargeter.’
3
Mrs Pargeter slept well her first night in ‘Acapulco’, Smithy’s Loam. Better than she had expected to. First nights in strange rooms, she had found in the past, could prove restless and uncomfortable, so the deepness of her sleep seemed a good omen for her future in the new home.
The next day she was kept busy around the house, rearranging her furniture. She had some good pieces, and wanted to show them to their best advantage. The late Mr Pargeter had left her well provided for in many ways, and each piece of furniture was like a little cassette of memory, which brought back vividly the circumstances of its purchase (or, when that was not the appropriate word, of its arrival in their marital home).
Some widows might have found these memories a cause for tears, but all they prompted in Mrs Pargeter was a grateful melancholy. She was not given to self-pity; when she looked back on her marriage, she did so with regret that it could not have continued longer, but also with appreciation of how good it had been while it lasted.
Much of the furniture had been in store for some time. Since her husband’s death, Mrs Pargeter had lived chiefly in hotels and rented accommodation. It had taken a few years until she felt ready to make another home, and ‘Acapulco’, Smithy’s Loam, was her first attempt in that direction.
She was still not certain that her choice of location had been right, but she was a philosophical woman, prepared to give the experiment six months and then, if it had not worked, concede failure and move on elsewhere. Thanks to the generosity and impeccably astute management of the late Mr Pargeter, money was not a problem.
The house in Smithy’s Loam had a lot going for it. Being of such recent construction, it was commendably easy to run. And the inevitable teething troubles of all new houses had been dealt with by the previous owners.
