by Simon Brett
“Oh well, the police will no doubt be more thorough.”
“Er, yes…”
The note of hesitation in his voice made Mrs Pargeter look up sharply. “Do you mean she hasn’t called the police yet?”
“I’m afraid not. Against my advice, I may say. Miss Naismith felt it might be more discreet if she were to wait for twenty-four hours and see if the jewels should reappear.”
“Why on earth should they suddenly reappear? What does she think they’ve done – gone on a day trip to Boulogne?”
“No, no. Miss Naismith’s view is that, if she lets it be known amongst the residents that certain articles have been noted as missing from Mrs Selsby’s room, someone’s memory might be jogged and the jewels might indeed suddenly…er, reappear,” he finished lamely.
“I see.” A light of anger burned in Mrs Pargeter’s eye. “She was quite happy to have me drummed out of the place, but if anyone else is the culprit, she’ll just gloss it over.”
Mr Holland looked intensely uncomfortable. “As I say, Miss Naismith is acting against my advice.”
Mrs Pargeter nodded grimly. “Oh yes. Hmm. I wonder if perhaps I should get in touch with Arnold Justiman after all…”
The name once again had its predictable effect on Mr Holland. Considerably flustered, he assured Mrs Pargeter that such a course of action would not be at all necessary. “As I say, Miss Naismith has just twenty-four hours to conduct her internal enquiry. If that reveals nothing, then there is no question of the police not being brought in.”
“Hmm,” Mrs Pargeter decided to take advantage of the solicitor’s abjectly apologetic state to pump him for information. “Were Mrs Selsby’s jewels worth a lot?”
“A very considerable amount,” he replied smugly.
“How much?” Mrs Pargeter had long since learned the surprise value of direct questioning.
“Oh, erm, well…” Mr Holland succumbed. “At their last valuation for insurance – which was two years ago – the total sum was eleven and a half thousand pounds.”
Mrs Pargeter nodded, pleased to have had her own estimate confirmed. “And, presumably, the jewels were not the full extent of her possessions?”
The solicitor almost chuckled at the naefvete of the idea. “Oh, my goodness me, no. Mrs Selsby was a very wealthy woman.”
“And with no living relatives…”
Mr Holland did not volunteer the information she had hoped for, so Mrs Pargeter resorted to another direct question. “Who inherits?”
The solicitor blushed at the unprofessional nature of this enquiry. “I don’t think it is yet appropriate for me to divulge details of, er –”
“Never mind,” said Mrs Pargeter. “I’ll get on to Arnold. His information-gathering service is remarkable. I’m sure he could find out for me very quickly.”
“Oh, er, well, in that case…” Mr Holland wavered. “I suppose the details are to be public soon enough…I doubt if much harm could be done by…And since you aren’t a beneficiary…”
Mrs Pargeter laughed. “Of course I’m not. I only met her once. Why should I be a beneficiary?”
“That, Mrs Pargeter, is one of the strange features of the will. Mrs Selsby, as you just said, had no living relatives, no one in fact very close to her – except for the people living in this hotel.”
“Oh?”
“She was happy here. She found the Devereux a dignified and genteel place in which to spend the, er, evening of her life. And so, two years ago, she summoned me and asked me to draw up a will, which divided her estate equally between all of the people living in the Devereux.”
“Staff as well?”
“Yes. Miss Naismith and Newth were to be included. Loxton, too, although she does not actually live on the premises. Mrs Selsby’s only stipulation was that the beneficiaries should have been here for at least six months. Which is why,” he explained, apologetically, “as I said, I’m afraid you fail to qualify.”
The late Mr Pargeter had left his widow sufficiently well cushioned to accept this news with equanimity. “But that’s a very unusual will, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Mr Holland replied with some asperity. “And a very ill-advised one. I spelled out to Mrs Selsby all of the arguments against such a course, its potential dangers and disadvantages, but she was adamant. That was how she wanted it to be.”
Mrs Pargeter was struck that Mr Holland must be a very weak man. He was employed as a professional adviser and yet no one seemed to take his advice. Mrs Selsby had ignored him, and he had allowed Miss Naismith to ride roughshod over him that morning. Weak and stupid, she decided.
“So…” she said slowly, “everyone in the Devereux stood to benefit from Mrs Selsby’s death…”
“Well, I think that’s a rather cynical way of putting it, but, under the terms of her will, everyone would inherit an equal share, yes.”
“How much money are we talking about?” Mr Holland winced at the indelicacy of this question. “Come on. How much? Five thousand? Ten thousand? Twenty thousand? Fifty thousand? A hundred thousand?”
Pained at the necessity of replying, he said quietly, “Nearer your final figure than the others.”
Mrs Pargeter nodded. “And do you know if any of the people living here were aware of the unusual provisions of this will?”
“Of that I have no idea.” And, feeling perhaps that he had let down his professional image, Mr Holland added huffily, “But I can’t see that it’s important.”
No, thought Mrs Pargeter, you wouldn’t be able to see that, would you?
But it is important. Very.
∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧
17
WEDNESDAY, 6 MARCH – 10.45 p.m.
I t is strange – or perhaps even amusing – to see how quickly my thoughts are once again turning to murder. After my first, eminently successful, foray, which so simply – and even elegantly – achieved what I needed, one might have expected a period of peace and recuperation, a period of resting on my laurels, before thoughts of murder should once again begin to dominate my mind.
But that, I fear, is not to be. Already I am experiencing that cliché of history and literature – the fact that one crime very easily leads to another. I can understand how this unalterable rule of human life might cause considerable anguish to those afflicted with a conscience, to those who commit one murder on the premise that it is a once-and-for-all solution to an intolerable problem, and then find themselves drawn inexorably on to new murders.
For me, of course, such considerations do not matter. Since removing Mrs Selsby, I have still felt no pang of remorse – indeed, no emotion at all, except for a certain smug satisfaction.
My new target is another lady – one, who, I fear, is already showing far too much interest in Mrs Selsby’s death. I do not yet know how much she knows, but I fear the worst. What she does not actually know, she may deduce, and that is a risk that I do not at the moment wish to take. Though reconciled to the possibility that my new career may end in my apprehension by the police, I do not wish to invite such an outcome. I think I will enjoy the short time left to me better if I retain my freedom.
Besides, imprisonment would rather limit my opportunities for committing other murders. For, yes, here in my diary I can make the confession that would be inadmissible anywhere else: I derived immense satisfaction from my first murder, and, though I pretend to myself that committing the second will be an unfortunate necessity, it is in fact something that I look forward to with enormous excitement.
∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧
18
On the morning of the 7th of March the inquest on Mrs Selsby was held in Worthing.
Newth was present as the one who had discovered the body; Dr Ashington was present as Mrs Selsby’s physician and as the one who had examined the body; Mr Holland was there as a representative of the deceased; and Miss Naismith was there, because she was the proprietress of the Devereux and felt that she should know about everything that concerne
d the hotel.
As Dr Ashington had predicted, there were no complications. Mrs Selsby, because of her considerable frailty and failing eyesight, was reckoned to have taken a false step on the landing of the Devereux Hotel and fallen down the stairs. No negligence was attributable to anyone, and a verdict of Accidental Death was recorded.
♦
When the inquest party had returned to the Devereux, another formal meeting was held. All of the residents, along with Newth and Loxton, were summoned to the Seaview Lounge by Miss Naismith and told that Mr Holland had an announcement to make.
Although Mrs Pargeter had a shrewd idea that the announcement did not concern her, she went to the Lounge and made a point of sitting in a chair against the wall opposite the bay window, from which position she could see the faces of all of the others.
As soon as they were assembled (they had to wait ten minutes for Mrs Mendlingham, who had apparently dozed off in her room), Mr Holland turned to Mrs Pargeter and confirmed what she had anticipated.
“I regret, Mrs Pargeter, that, for reasons of which I believe you are aware, what I have to say does not apply to you. If you would rather leave us to discuss the matter on our own…?”
“No, no. I’m fine here,” she replied breezily.
Mr Holland, perhaps recognising that he could not bring any spark of intelligence or originality to his work, made sure that he brought a full measure of pomposity. Addressing a large assembly gave him ample opportunity to show off his armoury of long words and convoluted syntax, and he indulged this to such an extent that there was a long and confusing preamble before he got to the meat of his message.
While he rambled on, Mrs Pargeter covertly glanced around, noting the expressions of the listeners. Miss Naismith looked serenely genteel, displaying, as was proper, no emotion; and yet Mrs Pargeter felt certain that the proprietress knew the burden of the solicitor’s message. Colonel Wicksteed looked acutely interested, as if he were watching a cricket match; Mr Dawlish vaguely confused, as if he were trying to find out where the cricket match was being played.
Miss Wardstone bore an expression of reptilian smugness, and Eulalie Vance looked as if she were selecting which of her vast wardrobe of reactions should be shown off when Mr Holland’s denouement came. Lady Ridgleigh’s eyes were closed, and the bony fingers of one hand were pressed to her temple, as if she had a headache. Newth and Loxton looked respectful, if slightly bored, and on Mrs Mendlingham’s face was a look of pure, evil glee.
It would be interesting, Mrs Pargeter thought, to see how those expressions changed when the announcement was finally made.
“…and the provisions of this extremely unusual will are that the residue of her estate shall be divided equally amongst those residents and full-time staff of the Devereux Hotel who have been here for more than six months.” He turned to Mrs Pargeter. “Which is why, of course, I began by apologising to you.”
But she did not hear his words. She was far too interested in the changing faces of the others in the room.
Miss Naismith, as anticipated, showed no reaction, save possibly a more serene serenity.
Colonel Wicksteed kept slapping his thigh and saying, “Well, I’ll be damned!”
Mr Dawlish let out a thin, high, continuous giggle.
Miss Wardstone’s smugness deepened, while Eulalie Vance kept clapping her hands together and emitting inappropriately girlish cries of joy.
Lady Ridgleigh had slumped back in her chair with an abandonment that might have arisen from exhaustion or from relief.
Newth looked pale and was pressing a hand to his chest. Loxton had suddenly and unaccountably burst into tears.
And Mrs Mendlingham’s glee was now manifesting itself in cackles of triumphant laughter.
∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧
19
Unfortunately, Mrs Mendlingham’s laughter did not stop. Instead, it became that thing most feared in the Devereux by Miss Naismith – an embarrassment. The laughs changed to long, shuddering gasps; ungovernable tears tried to wash out further the washed-out eyes. Mrs Mendlingham had clearly lost control.
She was manhandled upstairs to her first-floor bedroom by Newth and Colonel Wicksteed. But when laid out on her bed, she did not, as had been hoped, slowly subside into exhausted sleep, so Dr Ashington was sent for.
He found the old lady in a very disturbed state, talking randomly of disconnected subjects and still intermittently shaken by eruptions of manic laughter. He managed to sedate her with an injection and then went down to see Miss Naismith.
The proprietress’s expression combined grimness (prompted by the lapse of decorum in Mrs Mendlingham’s behaviour) with triumph (prompted by the knowledge that there was now no question but that the old lady would have to go).
Dr Ashington agreed with this, but said they must move slowly. The threat of removal from the Devereux was, according to her disjointed ramblings, one of the causes of Mrs Mendlingham’s condition. She must be left for a while to sleep off the emotional upheaval of her attack. If she were to awake in the same state, Dr Ashington said, placing a small medicine bottle on the office desk, she should be given some of this sleeping draught. Two 5 ml teaspoonsful in about three times as much water. At not less than four-hour intervals. As was written on the label. It would be dangerous to exceed the stated dose, he cautioned.
Miss Naismith took note of these instructions in a responsible manner and, after Dr Ashington’s departure, produced her calculator from the desk drawer and started to work out new sums, which incorporated a revised price for Mrs Mendlingham’s room as well as the increased rates on Mrs Selsby’s and Miss Wardstone’s.
♦
Mrs Mendlingham did wake in more or less the same state. Mrs Pargeter, who had just gone upstairs to change for the evening, heard a sudden shriek as she passed the old lady’s door, and went inside to find the cause.
Mrs Mendlingham was bunched up on a huge pile of pillows against the headboard, as if shrinking from something that crawled up the bed towards her. The old eyes were wide with horror.
“It’s all right,” said Mrs Pargeter, going across to take the thin hand. “You’ve just had a bad dream.”
This idea was greeted by another wild cackle of laughter. “Not a dream,” said Mrs Mendlingham. “It was real. It happened. I saw it happen.”
“What?”
But the gentleness of the enquiry did not deceive the old lady. Her eyes were suddenly intelligent and guarded. “Why should I tell you? Only make trouble if I tell you.”
So close to the bed, Mrs Pargeter’s nose could not avoid the conclusion that Mrs Mendlingham had suffered yet another lapse of continence. Taking the old lady’s arm firmly, she said, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”
Fear came back into the faded eyes. “Oh, no. If Miss Naismith finds out, I’ll be –”
“Don’t worry.”
Mrs Pargeter pressed the bell by the bed, which after a moment produced Loxton, flustered by an unexpected call at the time she usually allocated to laying the tables for dinner.
“Loxton.” Mrs Pargeter spoke with cool authority. “I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of an accident. Could you find us some clean sheets, please?”
“Yes, Madam,” she replied in her best chambermaid manner, but before she reached the door she was stopped again by Mrs Pargeter’s voice.
“I want these sheets replaced and laundered without Miss Naismith’s knowledge.”
“Oh, I don’t think that would be possible, Madam. Miss Naismith is always most insistent that I should report…”
Her words petered out as, in one swift graceful movement, Mrs Pargeter’s hand opened her handbag, withdrew a twenty-pound note and held it out.
“Oh. Well, thank you, Madam. I’ll do my best.” The twenty-pound note disappeared as quickly into the folds of Loxton’s uniform.
“I think you should have a bath,” Mrs Pargeter announced firmly to her charge after the door had closed. Taking no notice of the feebl
e protests offered, she bundled the old lady into a dressing gown and ushered her across the landing to the bathroom. She ran a hot bath and Mrs Mendlingham, now docile, got into it.
Mrs Pargeter went back to the bedroom, where Loxton was just finishing making the bed, and handed over the dirty nightdress. “Could you do that when you do the sheets, please?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“Thank you, Loxton.”
Mrs Pargeter got Mrs Mendlingham out of the bath, dried the frail, slack body, dressed it in a clean nightdress and put it back into the clean bed.
“Now, would you like some food? I could ask for something to be sent up.”
The old head shook. “Not hungry.”
“Is there anything you want?”
The head shook again and the old eyelids seemed to have difficulty in keeping open.
“No, well, that’s fine. More sleep will probably do you as much good as anything. Would you like something to help you sleep? I believe the Doctor left some medicine with Miss Naismith.”
There was no response to this suggestion, but Mrs Pargeter decided it was probably the moment to hand over responsibility, so she went down and found Miss Naismith in the Office.
“Mrs Mendlingham has woken up. She’s still in a fairly confused state. I think it might be a good idea for her to have some of the sleeping draught the Doctor left.”
“Thank you, Mrs Pargeter. It’s most thoughtful of you to tell me.” Since the accusations of the previous morning, Miss Naismith’s manner towards her new resident would now have qualified her for one of the most ticklish of ambassadorial posts. “I will mix the draught for her.”
Mrs Pargeter went back upstairs to complete her original intention and dress for the evening.
Miss Naismith went to the kitchen, carefully measured out two 5 ml teaspoonsful of medicine into a tumbler, and added water. She then took this and the medicine bottle upstairs.
Inside Mrs Mendlingham’s room, it seemed that the draught was unnecessary. The old lady lay marooned, slipping a little sideways on her great pile of pillows. From her sagging mouth, deep, regular breaths sounded. Miss Naismith went across to the bedside table and put down the tumbler and the bottle. They might be needed later in the night.
