by Simon Brett
‘He had some bad luck with something he was working on – his latest book was rejected.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mrs Pargeter.
Her sister-in-law looked at her beadily. ‘Really? I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that you had something to do with that.’
‘Me? With Haydon’s book being rejected? How could I possibly—?’
‘I reckon you have something to do with everything that spoils my plans,’ came the venomous response.
‘You flatter me,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I’m just a widow woman, doing a bit of charity work from time to time – there’s nothing more to me than that.’
‘Huh.’
‘Incidentally, talking of charity, are you still involved with PhiliPussies?’
‘Oh, haven’t you heard – PhiliPussies has been closed down.’
‘Really?’
‘There’s a threat of an investigation by the Charity Commission. Anyway, with the director of its UK operation being on remand on a murder charge …’
‘Really?’ Mrs Pargeter said again. Then she couldn’t resist a small, harmless lie. ‘I didn’t know that.’
Rochelle’s only response was another ‘Huh.’
‘Mendy Farstairs will be very upset about the ending of PhiliPussies.’
‘She doesn’t care. I think she was getting a bit bored with it, anyway. Apparently she’s setting up a new charity to give homes to donkeys from Syria.’
‘Oh well, that would figure,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘So you no longer have any involvement with PhiliPussies?’
‘I told you, it’s closed down. How can I have any involvement in a charity that’s closed down?’
‘So you’re not even involved in the … microchipping part of the business?’ Mrs Pargeter asked innocently.
Her sister-in-law looked straight at her. She knew exactly what Mrs Pargeter meant, that she was referring to the smuggling of uranium pellets. But she made no comment.
Instead, she said, ‘Anyway, at the moment, Melita, it seems that you are in the ascendency in our relationship.’
‘That’s very nice of you to say so.’
‘As I mentioned in my email, we’re at an impasse. You have information which, if made public, could ruin me. And I have information which, if made public, could ruin you.’
‘Well, I agree with the first part of that statement,’ said Mrs Pargeter judiciously. ‘But I don’t think you have any information on me that wouldn’t, if made public, incriminate you as well.’
‘How do you work that out?’
‘Oh, come on, Rochelle. I’ve got so much. I’ve got information that would definitely associate you with the activities of the Lambeth Walkers.’
‘And I’ve got information that would definitely associate you with the activities of my brother.’
‘Well, of course, I was married to him.’ Mrs Pargeter went on, stating with complete confidence, ‘But there’s no information out there that would connect my husband to anything criminal.’
Rochelle Brighouse looked deeply frustrated as her sister-in-law continued, ‘Whereas I have so many ways of making your life difficult. As I say, it’s all chronicled in Tumblers Tate’s archive. And then I’ve got Ellie Fenchurch – you know, the journalist – lined up to do a big Sunday paper exposé on the Lambeth Walkers the minute I say the word.’
Now Rochelle looked frightened. ‘And are you about to say the word?’
‘Oh goodness, no.’ Mrs Pargeter was not a vindictive person. ‘I just want you to be aware that, if you cause me any more trouble—’ she smiled a sweet smile – ‘I can ruin you at a moment’s notice.’
‘And if I don’t “cause you any trouble” …’
Mrs Pargeter spread her hands generously wide. ‘Then no problems. We can both get on with our own lives.’
‘And meet occasionally socially … like sister-in-laws do …?’ Rochelle suggested ironically.
Mrs Pargeter shook her head. ‘No, that’s never going to work, is it?’
‘No.’
Rochelle Brighouse picked up her handbag. ‘I think we’ve probably said everything we have to say to each other.’
‘I’d go along with that.’
‘And I don’t really fancy eating a meal with someone who’s blackmailing me.’
‘As you like.’
‘So I’ll say goodbye.’
Rochelle rose from her chair. Neither woman felt inclined even to shake hands. But when she was halfway across the room, Rochelle noticed that her sister-in-law was holding out her right hand, cupped, as if expecting something to be put in it.
Wordlessly, Rochelle Brighouse took something out of her bag and placed it in the waiting hand. It was the late Mr Pargeter’s little black book.
Mrs Pargeter never liked anything to go to waste, so she invited Truffler Mason to join her for what was, of course, another excellent dinner.
The book launch was held in the Angolds’ new house. Discreet sales of some of the jewellery that Jasmine Angold’s late husband had bequeathed to her (via Epping Forest) had raised enough money for her to move from Romford upmarket to Chigwell. She was now a near neighbour of Mrs Pargeter.
It was of course the latter’s idea that Charley Angold’s memoir of her husband should be published. She found an online service which produced very nice-looking volumes to order. She had to pay for them, of course. It was the new form of vanity publishing, which allowed absolutely anything to appear in book form. And allowed aspirant authors the chance to have a lot of books with their name on piled up in their garages.
Mrs Pargeter had had the book printed, partly because she wanted to have a copy for herself, but also to stop Jasmine Angold wittering on about meeting the demands of her late husband’s last letter to his daughter.
Mrs Pargeter had offered to provide the champagne for the launch, but Jasmine, with her new-found wealth, insisted on paying for it herself. The author of the book being celebrated, her daughter Charley, was there of course, accompanied by a relatively new boyfriend. To the surprise of everyone, he actually seemed to be rather nice, and Charley thought she might have to reconsider some of her comments about the inadequacies of the male gender.
Erin was there, of course, but on her own. Her workaholic tendencies still didn’t give much opportunity for a boyfriend to get a look-in.
Truffler Mason was present, in his inescapable brown suit, with the beige raincoat over the back of his chair. So was Gary, whose admiring glances Mrs Pargeter continued to be unaware of.
And Parvez the Peterman attended, still bathing in the glow of being acknowledged as the best cracksman in the world.
Untroubled by the crowd, Jasmine Angold’s tortoiseshell cat Nana sat on a fur rug in the middle of the room, attended by her two growing kittens, Winsome and Losesome. The three of them could have been auditioning for a job on the front of a chocolate box.
It was an extremely jolly party.
Mrs Pargeter felt very blessed.
