Nice Class of Corpse

by Simon Brett

  For a start, she appears to possess a professional’s equipment – and the expertise to go with it. When I saw her in the small hours of Monday morning, I’m fairly sure that she had just broken into the Office. I can only assume that she used some sort of skeleton key. That sounds uncomfortably professional to me.

  Then tonight in the bar she said something that suggested that she’s definitely on to me. That business about the crimes being linked came too close to the truth for comfort.

  I don’t know how much she knows yet, but she’s getting there, and I can’t take the risk of giving her much more time. So far as I know, she hasn’t said anything to the police yet, and I must see to it that she doesn’t get the chance.

  Yes, what I’m saying is that there has to be a third murder. I would like to have more leisure to plan, to ensure that this one looks as accidental as the others, but I think this time it’s too urgent.

  She has to go – and quickly!

  36

  Mrs Pargeter lay on her bed for a little while after dinner. She was tired after the exertions of the day, following on the sequence of interrupted nights. She couldn’t take it like she used to. Though very fit for her age, there was no way round the fact that she had reached sixty-seven. And she was going to need all her strength for the interview ahead of her.

  She must have dozed off, and woke with a start, afraid that she might have missed her rendezvous. But no, her watch told her she had only been asleep for ten minutes.

  As often happens after a brief nap, her mouth tasted foul. She went to the basin and cleaned her teeth, but still the rusty taste lingered.

  ‘Make sure you always have sweet breath.’ That had been another of the late Mr Pargeter’s pieces of advice. ‘There is no excuse for smelly breath. It’s one of those things that is quite controllable.’

  For this reason, although her own breath was usually sweet, it was Mrs Pargeter’s habit to have an atomiser spray around in her bedroom (or in her handbag if she was going out). She had always taken to heart any advice that the late Mr Pargeter had given her (and she knew how particularly important it was for older people to be careful about their breath).

  She reached to her bedside table now for the atomiser and directed a couple of sharp puffs into her mouth. The taste of the spray made her feel immediately better.

  She put the atomiser down on her bedside table and checked her face and hair in the mirror. Then she picked up her handbag and went straight down to the Seaview Lounge.

  Lady Ridgleigh and Newth were already installed in the armchairs in the bay when she entered the room. The curtains had not been drawn, only one small lamp was on on the far wall, and from the sea a faint, greyish light glowed, outlining the two figures against the windows.

  Mrs Pargeter drew up a small stool and positioned herself between the two armchairs. She was very aware of the ponderous ticking of the grandfather clock.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said softly.

  The bony outline of Lady Ridgleigh’s head was graciously inclined.

  There was a silence.

  Then Newth cleared his throat. ‘I have told her Ladyship what you told me – that you’ve been to see Mr Chiddham.’

  ‘May I ask,’ Lady Ridgleigh drawled, ‘why you did that? Perhaps it will explain why I’ve been summoned here in this rather melodramatic manner.’

  ‘I was interested in what had happened to Mrs Selsby’s jewels. And what had happened to your jewels before that.’

  ‘Ah.’ Any hope there might have been in Lady Ridgleigh’s voice had gone from that monosyllable. ‘So now I assume you know what happened to them?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Tell me, then. I’ll let you know whether your speculation is correct or not.’ Lady Ridgleigh sounded reproving; there was in her voice the tone that the Queen might be expected to use to a Commonwealth leader who has just announced his intention of leaving the Commonwealth.

  ‘Well, the way I see it is this. . . .’ Mrs Pargeter began comfortably. ‘After your husband’s death, you found that you were very financially embarrassed. You told me once that he had lost all your money, but I still think you were shocked by quite how much he had lost.

  ‘Still, a lot of widows have found themselves in that position, and what most of them have to do is just swallow their pride and settle down to managing on a smaller income . . . effectively they have to cut their standard of living. To do that was very hard for you. You’d always had large houses, servants. . . . To admit you could no longer maintain that style of life was a bitter pill for you to swallow.’

  ‘Yes, but I did it,’ said Lady Ridgleigh with some asperity. ‘Do you think, when I was a young gel, I expected to end my life somewhere like the Devereux Hotel?’

  Mrs Pargeter would have liked Miss Naismith to hear the contempt that was put into those last two words. Gentility was one thing, but aristocracy something else. To Lady Ridgleigh, living at the Devereux was definitely slumming.

  ‘Yes, all right, you cut down your standard of living. You sold the house, houses maybe.’

  ‘Not worth anything, though. Froggie had mortgaged them all to the hilt.’ There was still a hint of pride when she spoke of her late husband’s improvidence.

  ‘Yes, you remained hard up. Even living here. And then of course you had . . . other expenses.’

  There was a long silence. Mrs Pargeter could sense the intensity with which Newth was looking at her. It was a disorienting, uncomfortable feeling.

  ‘What do you mean by “other expenses”?’ Lady Ridgleigh asked finally.

  ‘I mean your son.’

  ‘What do you know about Miles? You’ve hardly met him.’

  ‘I don’t know a great deal. Just that he takes after his father where money’s concerned.’

  ‘So? What’s wrong with that? God, I wouldn’t want to spawn some penny-pinching little wage-slave. Miles knows his place in society and he enjoys himself. If you can’t have a good time when you’re young, what’s the point of life?’

  ‘Miles is thirty-six,’ said Mrs Pargeter softly.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Just that he’s a bit old to be behaving like a deb’s delight. Isn’t it about time he got a job?’

  ‘He hasn’t found anything suitable,’ Lady Ridgleigh replied, dismissing the subject.

  ‘Well, I would think he’s a bit old still to be sponging on his mother. . . .’

  Lady Ridgleigh flared up. ‘How dare you use that word in connection with my son! What business is it of yours how he behaves? And what business of yours is it if I choose to . . . help him a little with his expenses?’

  ‘Not my business at all.’

  ‘Exactly. Thank you. I happen to believe that someone of his age shouldn’t have to worry about money. In fact, I don’t think anyone should have to. Worrying about money is demeaning, depressing, and unutterably vulgar!’

  ‘I agree. The fact remains that a large percentage of the population spend most of their time worrying about it.’

  ‘Which is exactly why I have always been determined that Miles shouldn’t!’

  ‘Even if it means committing criminal acts to keep him in funds?’

  ‘Criminal acts? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘We’re back to Desmond Chiddham.’

  ‘I don’t know Mr Chiddham personally. I have done business with him, but I’m afraid if he is a criminal, I can hardly see that it’s my responsibility.’

  ‘No. How did you hear about his service?’

  ‘Through a friend,’ came the huffy reply. ‘A friend, who had experienced similar embarrassments, recommended him.’

  ‘And the idea was that you should send him the Ridgleigh family jewels, he should replace the stones with replicas, sell the original stones for you and pay you the profit?’

  ‘That, I believe, was the arrangement.’

  ‘You didn’t ask him to remake any of the settings in cheaper metals?’
<
br />   ‘Good heavens, no. The idea was that the jewellery should look as much as possible as it had before.’

  ‘But it didn’t, did it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It didn’t look good enough to meet with your high standards, did it? Which is why you never wore it once it had been altered . . . why you continued to wear your one remaining genuine necklace, your pearls, all the time . . . even with clothes for which they were inappropriate.’

  ‘Yes. Very well. That’s true.’

  ‘But the jewels were good enough to maintain your image of wealth with someone like Miss Naismith. Which is why, although they are virtually worthless, you still keep them in the safe in the Office.’

  ‘That may be true, but I don’t see how it’s relevant.’ Lady Ridgleigh was at her haughtiest. ‘And I would now like you to substantiate your accusations that I have been guilty of criminal acts.’

  ‘First, I want you to tell me how Newth came to be involved in your dealings with Desmond Chiddham.’

  ‘I could hardly be expected to handle the transactions myself, could I?’ She spoke as if this idea were totally incongruous. ‘Obviously, when I was living in the big house, I would have had a member of staff to do that sort of thing for me. Here . . . well, there was no one else, so I asked Newth if he would help me, and he was good enough to oblige.’

  ‘And what was the deal with him?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t understand that expression.’

  ‘Presumably you wanted discretion. How much did you pay Newth for his silence?’

  Lady Ridgleigh’s reply was tinged with distaste at the idea of speaking so nakedly of money. ‘Newth was paid a ten-per-cent handling fee.’

  ‘Right,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘So what happened when the jewellery ran out?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’

  ‘When you had sold off all the stones from all the valuable pieces you possessed, what did you do?’

  The bony shoulders shrugged in the half-light. ‘Well, what could I do? I sold a few shares. I tried to cut down on my expenses – gave up drinking alcohol and so on. And I kept putting off the moment when I would have to sell the pearls. But I feared that moment had finally come – until this week.’

  ‘This week?’

  ‘The happy news of Mrs Selsby’s bequests to all of the people living here at the Devereux.’

  ‘Oh yes. Of course. A very welcome lifeline.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So . . . since her name’s come up – what about Mrs Selsby’s jewels?’

  Lady Ridgleigh looked blank. ‘Well, they were stolen, weren’t they? I don’t think Mrs Selsby’s jewels have anything to do with me.’

  ‘No, I don’t think they have,’ said Mrs Pargeter slowly, and turned in her chair to face Newth.

  He was no longer looking at her with that disturbing intensity. His eyes were now focused on the highly polished toe-caps of his shoes.

  ‘So that was all off your own bat, was it, Kevin?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Oh, I think you do. It was a good idea. Lady Ridgleigh had shown you how it could be done. You’d taken enough of her jewellery to Desmond Chiddham. But you were only on ten per cent there, weren’t you? And, besides, the supply was running out.

  ‘Then you thought of Mrs Selsby. Dear, dozy, half-blind Mrs Selsby. She had a lot of jewellery lying around. She wouldn’t notice if a piece went missing for a week or two, would she? And her eyesight certainly wasn’t good enough to detect that the stones had been replaced. What’s more, with her stuff, you were taking a hundred per cent of the profit. And, to make even more, why not have the settings replaced too?’

  ‘You’re talking rubbish,’ said Newth. But he didn’t sound as if he was even convincing himself.

  ‘No, I’m not. You’d got yourself a very good little business sorted out there. Very profitable. Easily make enough to buy a nice retirement bungalow in Lancing.’

  Newth’s head shot up at this.

  ‘Yes, I know, Kevin. I know all about it. Your little scheme was absolutely foolproof, wasn’t it? Or rather it was foolproof as long as no one found out. But if anyone did find out, then they could cause trouble for you, couldn’t they?’

  Newth had half-risen in his seat, and was looking at Mrs Pargeter with an expression of fixed hatred.

  ‘How did Mrs Selsby find out what was going on, Kevin?’ she asked softly.

  He was now on his feet, towering over her, every muscle of his body bristling with threat.

  ‘I’ll get you!’ he hissed through his teeth. ‘I’ll get you for this!’ For a moment he was about to strike her, but he seemed to change his mind, and backed towards the door.

  ‘Nobody’s going to catch me,’ he muttered. ‘Nobody’s going to catch me!’

  He opened the door and rushed out.

  Mrs Pargeter hurried into the Entrance Hall, and was just in time to see the front doors bang behind him. She went outside and saw his figure running madly along the sea front away from the Devereux. He was too far away for her to contemplate giving chase.

  She felt completely drained as she went back into the hotel. Wearily she dragged herself up the stairs to her bedroom.

  Meanwhile, in the Seaview Lounge, Lady Ridgleigh stayed in her armchair and called out peevishly to the empty room, ‘I wish someone would tell me what the devil’s going on.’

  37

  Mrs Pargeter flopped on to her bed. She felt trembly, in need of some sort of restorative. For a moment she contemplated the effort of going back down to the Schooner Bar for a brandy. Then, wryly, she remembered that there was no one at the moment around to man the Schooner Bar.

  She wondered where Newth would go. She didn’t think he’d get far.

  Soon, she knew, she’d have to call the police. Soon she’d have to explain the reasons why she had reached the conclusion that Newth was a murderer.

  But it’d keep for a little while. She was going to need all her wits about her for that conversation. Just give herself a few minutes for recuperation.

  She knew why she felt so exhausted. It was the release of tension. She had been really terrified of Newth, because she could recognise the logic of a murderer’s mind. The person who had killed Mrs Selsby had also killed Mrs Mendlingham when she revealed that she had witnessed the first murder. Mrs Pargeter, by her hints in the Schooner Bar that evening, had alerted the murderer to her own suspicions, and from that moment had put herself at the top of the list of prospective victims.

  It was a huge relief to have survived that interview with Newth.

  She felt drowsy, as if she might drift off to sleep.

  But still there was a nasty metallic taste in her mouth. Probably just dry, she thought, another reflection of the strain I’ve just been under for the last hour.

  Still, she didn’t want to wake again with a nasty taste. She reached sleepily round for the atomiser on her bedside table and brought it to her mouth.

  It was an uneven ridge she felt along the side of the little cylinder that stopped her short.

  She peered at the tiny atomiser and saw that the two parts of it were marginally out of alignment.

  She was instantly alert. The unit was sealed, but with a little force could be opened. She tried it. The cylinder unscrewed without any force at all. It had been opened before.

  With unpleasant foreboding, she continued to unscrew the top from the atomiser and lowered her nose to sniff the exposed liquid within.

  She recognised the smell instantly. Though the late Mr Pargeter had never used toxic substances in his own business, he had occasionally been at risk from other less scrupulous operators in the same field; and among the many other useful things he had taught his wife had been how to recognise the major poisons.

  The atomiser contained cyanide.

  Mrs Pargeter went rigid with shock.

  Not just shock because someone had tried to kill her.


  But shock because she’d used the atomiser without adverse effects immediately before going down to the Seaview Lounge, where she had found Newth.

  Which meant that Newth could not have had the opportunity to fill it with cyanide.

  Which meant that the murderer at the Devereux was somebody else.

  38

  TUESDAY

  12 MARCH – 7.30 a.m. – Damn! It didn’t work. For the first time one of my little shots has failed to reach its target. I suppose it always was the least likely to work. With the other murders there was never any question about the method’s efficacy, because I was there to do it myself. This was my first attempt at a remote control murder, and I suppose for that reason the most susceptible to failure.

  I know it didn’t work, because I have just seen my intended victim walking down to breakfast. All right, I suppose it’s possible that she hasn’t used the spray yet and my scheme still has a chance of success, but instinct tells me that is not the case. What is much more likely, I fear, is that not only has the cyanide in the spray failed, it has also alerted her to my intentions towards her.

  I must tread warily. And I must watch her like a hawk. Any attempt she makes to contact the police must be thwarted. Indeed, nothing has changed. Now more than ever I have to murder her. But the next time there must be no mistakes. No more overconfident remote control ideas. The next time I must get her alone and do it in person, so that I can be sure that she’s dead.

  In the meantime, I will act naturally. Down to breakfast with me. Even after this recent setback, I still feel good. Who would ever have imagined that I would derive such pleasure from leading a double life!

  39

  Mrs Pargeter sat over her kipper and looked round at the other residents breakfasting in the Admiral’s Dining Room. It was a peaceful scene of geriatric gentility, marred only by her knowledge that one of the other people in the room was a murderer.

  She looked at them one by one.

  Lady Ridgleigh was spearing small pieces of bacon with her fork and stabbing them into her mouth. She had avoided Mrs Pargeter’s eye that morning, mindful of their conversation of the night before. But that conversation had ruled her out as a candidate for the title of the Devereux murderer.