Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse mp-1

by Simon Brett

  “No,” Mrs Pargeter agreed quietly.

  “Anyway,” the Bursar asked briskly, in his best ‘Major’ voice, “what can I do for you?”

  “Well, I’m not sure that you can do anything…I mean, if you’re completely out of that line of work nowadays.”

  “My dear lady, for you I’d do anything. Even go back to – ” Once again he pulled himself up short “…the sort of work we were discussing. Quite honestly, I owe so much to you and Mr Pargeter, that you have only to say the word and I’ll do whatever you require.”

  “I just want some information…”

  “About what?”

  “Jewellery.”

  “Harrumph,” said the Major. “I wonder, could you give me a number where I might call you back in about five minutes?”

  She gave him the number of the call box and put the receiver down. Three minutes later the phone rang.

  “So sorry about that. I’m calling from my house. Live on the premises, you know. This has the advantage of being a private line. Round a girls’ school, you know, difficult to talk confidentially.”

  “That I can believe.”

  “But now we can talk about whatever we like. Jewellery, did you say?”

  “Yes. I want to know who are the best fakers around.”

  “Fakers?” He sounded utterly bewildered.

  “People who make imitation jewels.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Stupid. Thinking of Indian mystics. I’m a bloody idiot.” He cleared his throat. “Right, with you now. You’re setting up a substitution, are you?”

  Mrs Pargeter was very offended. “Fancy, you know I have never in my life been involved in anything criminal.”

  He was appropriately chastened. “No. Sorry. Of course. Don’t know what I was thinking of. Forgive me.”

  “What I am doing is investigating a crime.”

  “Yes. Of course. Fully understand. Tell me, are we talking about bent or legit.?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Fakers. I mean, there are some who just do work for ‘the business’, and others who do it quite publicly. You know, often happens when times get hard – people sell off the family jewels and have copies made. Thriving business – and, as I say, all above board.”

  “I think the name I’m after is probably legit., but I’d be grateful if you could give me some bent ones, too.”

  “No problem. It’s a small field, anyway…for the ones who’re any good. Only about four in the country who do decent work.”

  “Four legit, or four bent?”

  “Four altogether. Of whom two are bent, one’s legit, but doesn’t ask questions, and one kicks with both feet.”

  “Hmm. What’s the name of the legit, one who doesn’t ask questions?”

  “Desmond Chiddham. Very pukka. Workshop off Bond Street. Includes many of the crowned heads of Europe among his clientele. Indeed, when there’s a Coronation or a Royal Wedding or that sort of number, people say you see more of his stuff than the genuine article.”

  “Ah. Well, could you give me his details, and the names and addresses of the other three?”

  “Of course.” Without a moment’s hesitation, the Bursar reeled off the information.

  “I’m most grateful to you, Fancy.”

  “Think nothing of it. Delighted to help. Do you know, just before he died, Mr Pargeter took me on one side and asked if I’d look after you…if the occasion arose. You know, he really cared for you so much.”

  “Yes,” said Mrs Pargeter. “Yes, he did.”

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  33

  “I won’t be in for lunch today, Miss Naismith.”

  “Oh? I believe I did mention, Mrs Pargeter, that most residents tend to give such information to one of the staff.”

  “Yes. Yes, you did.” Mrs Pargeter smiled sweetly.

  “Something interesting planned…?” Miss Naismith fished.

  “Oh yes,” Mrs Pargeter replied unhelpfully.

  “Going far…?”

  “Quite a distance, yes.”

  “Ah.”

  “But I should be back for dinner.”

  “Oh. Good.”

  “Goodbye, then.”

  And Mrs Pargeter left, treasuring the expression of frustrated curiosity on Miss Naismith’s face.

  ♦

  The train from Littlehampton to London is not fast, but Mrs Pargeter welcomed the time on her own to sit and think about the case (or the cases).

  At Victoria she took a taxi to the Savoy Grill, where she had booked a table, and ate a substantial lunch. She remembered fondly how the late Mr Pargeter had always been most insistent that she should have a good lunch.

  From the Savoy she took another taxi to Desmond Chiddham’s showroom and workshop off Bond Street. She had telephoned in the morning to make an appointment, but he was not free when she arrived. While she waited she looked at the displays of jewellery. It was all very good, and without the eye-glass she certainly couldn’t have told whether the stones were real or not.

  Desmond Chiddham was profuse with apologies for having kept her waiting. He was a small, bald man with rimless glasses and the upper-crust accent of someone who hasn’t grown up with it but has mixed a lot with people who talk like that. Like his work, he was a fake.

  “Well, Mrs Pargeter, and what can I do for you?”

  By way of answer, she produced her matching set of rubies from her handbag and laid them on his desk. The little eyes behind the glasses sparkled at the sight.

  “I understand, Mr Chiddham, that you could replace the jewels in these with artificial replicas.”

  “Oh, most certainly,” he replied. “And replace them with stones that none but a trained eye would have the remotest suspicions about. And many trained eyes would have to look twice.”

  “Could you tell me how much that would cost?”

  He named a price. It was high, but still represented only ten per cent of the value of the stones he would be replacing.

  “And, of course, Mrs Pargeter, I am always happy to arrange the sale of the stones removed. Many of my clients like to take advantage of that part of the service. In that way, rather than their giving me money for the work, they end up by receiving money. Which is usually a more agreeable experience.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Could you tell me how long the work would take?”

  “Well, our order book is always full, so it might be some time before we started, but once we were under way, it would take about ten days.”

  Not long enough for someone as vague as Mrs Selsby to start worrying about having lost something.

  Time to change gear and start getting more detailed information, Mrs Pargeter thought. “I got in touch with you because I’d seen some excellent work you had done for someone else.”

  “Oh yes?” He looked gratified. “Might I ask who that person was?”

  It was a risk, but one worth taking. “Lady Ridgleigh.”

  The risk paid off instantly. Desmond Chiddham gave a self-satisfied smile. “Oh yes, I’ve done a great deal of work for dear Lady Ridgleigh.”

  “Done most of the Ridgleigh family jewels, have you?”

  “Ah, now…” He wagged a finger archly. “Must be discreet. Mustn’t talk about my clients’ affairs.”

  “Of course not.” Mrs Pargeter paused. “One piece you’d done for Lady Ridgleigh that I particularly liked was an opal necklace…”

  “I remember it well. Particularly difficult to achieve, an imitation of an opal,” he said in a tone of self-congratulation.

  “And a beautiful matching emerald set…”

  “Yes, remember that, too. Mind you, you’re talking some years back. My relationship with Lady Ridgleigh,” he added smugly, “is of long standing.”

  “Of course. She also showed me a matching sapphire set…”

  “Remember doing that.”

  “…and some turquoise ear-rings.”

  “Yes. We’re talking more recently now, of course.”


  Mrs Pargeter did not allow her inward elation to show. The last two items she had mentioned did not belong to Lady Ridgleigh; they had belonged to the late Mrs Selsby.

  “So you see a lot of Lady Ridgleigh, do you?”

  He looked a trifle piqued. This direct question meant he must qualify his name-dropping and define the extent of his hobnobbing with the aristocracy. “Well, I don’t actually see her that often. Our dealings are conducted through an intermediary.”

  “Oh?”

  “One of her staff tends to come up with the latest item for me to work on. I suppose he’s a butler or footman…”

  “What’s his name?” asked Mrs Pargeter ingenuously.

  “Unusual name,” replied Desmond Chiddham. “Newth.”

  ∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧

  34

  Mrs Pargeter was back at the Devereux just after Newth had changed into his red jacket and opened the Schooner Bar. He had served Miss Naismith her first ‘Perrier’, which had disappeared with its customary despatch before the residents came in. He had given Eulalie Vance a white wine and soda, and was just going through the routine of asking Colonel Wicksteed and Mr Dawlish what they wanted to drink, when Mrs Pargeter entered.

  “Pleasant day, I trust?” asked Miss Naismith, by now nursing a glass of real Perrier.

  “Yes, thank you,” said Mrs Pargeter charmingly, but uninformatively.

  After suitable deliberation, Colonel Wicksteed decided that he would have ‘a large Famous Grouse’ and Mr Dawlish ‘a small dry sherry’. Newth then turned to Mrs Pargeter.

  “I think I’ll have a change this week, Kevin, love.”

  A shadow of pain crossed Miss Naismith’s face.

  “Yes, give me a large gin and tonic. Start out in a different way, and maybe things’ll turn out different, eh?”

  “Sorry? I’m not with you.”

  “What I mean, Colonel, is that we don’t want another week like the last one, do we?”

  “Oh, I see what you mean.”

  “We had enough excitements then to last a lifetime, didn’t we?”

  “Still, we don’t want to dwell on the past,” Miss Naismith smoothly interposed, as ever endeavouring to scoop up the conversation before it dropped to an unsuitably low level.

  But Mrs Pargeter was not to be deflected. For reasons of her own, she wanted the crimes of the previous week discussed. “I don’t know…two deaths and a robbery.”

  Miss Naismith winced visibly. “I think it has always been true that the best approach to any misfortune is to put it from one’s mind and look ahead to the future.”

  “Oh yes,” the Colonel agreed, adding one of his customary misquotations to reinforce the point. “‘If you can look at Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two old frauds the same way’, what?”

  “Exactly,” said Miss Naismith, as if in some obscure way this confirmed what she had said.

  “I don’t know, though,” Mrs Pargeter persisted. “I mean, we can’t pretend that those things didn’t happen. Nor can we pretend they haven’t set us all thinking, human nature being what it is.”

  “The fact that human nature is what it is,” observed Miss Naismith, “has never seemed to me to be a cause for celebration.”

  “What, you mean we should pretend we’re not all inquisitive old busybodies who’re dying to know everything about everyone?”

  “I think such an approach to life would be preferable, yes.”

  “Oh, come on, Miss Naismith, admit it, you’re as nosey as the rest of us.”

  This joshing approach, as Mrs Pargeter had anticipated, did not go down well with Miss Naismith, who turned her personal thermostat down a good ten degrees.

  “Curiosity, as you say, may be a human instinct, Mrs Pargeter, but it is one that should ideally be curbed at an early age by a proper education.”

  “That’s a point of view,” Mrs Pargeter agreed blithely. She was enjoying herself. After the accusation about the theft of Mrs Selsby’s jewels, she knew that the balance of power between them had shifted, and that she could press quite hard to antagonise Miss Naismith without harmful effects. She wanted the murders and the theft discussed to see if they prompted any unexpected reactions; so, braving the deterrence in the proprietress’s eye, she pressed on.

  “But it is interesting, isn’t it? I mean, as I say, two deaths and a robbery – it’s the stuff of detective stories.”

  This caught Mr Dawlish’s imagination. “By George, yes! Back to Holmes and Watson, eh, Wicksteed?”

  “Yes. Do you see yourself as a sleuth, old man? Tracking down the murderer to his lair, what?”

  Mr Dawlish giggled with delight. “Maybe that’s my metier. Maybe I have spent my entire life being unsuccessful at other things, because all the time I was cut out to be a detective, eh?”

  Mrs Pargeter encouraged him gently. “Maybe so. And, if that were the case, what would your thinking be about this case?”

  “Oh, Good Lord. Haven’t a thought in my head.”

  “Colonel?”

  “No idea. Not my speed, this kind of thing, I’m afraid.”

  “Eulalie…?”

  “What? Sorry?” The actress looked up from her drink, as if she had been dragged back from the depths of fantasy. “No. No. I hadn’t given it any thought.”

  “Kevin?”

  “I haven’t given the matter any consideration either, I’m afraid, Madam,” the barman replied primly.

  Miss Naismith sighed with relief. “Well, that seems to have exhausted this particular –”

  “The only thing that struck me about it,” Mrs Pargeter went on firmly, “is that, if this were a detective story, you could guarantee that the three cases would be connected.”

  “What three cases?” asked Eulalie.

  “The two deaths and the robbery.”

  Mr Dawlish looked puzzled. “What have the two deaths got to do with it?”

  “Well, if this were a detective story, you could safely assume that the two deaths were murders.”

  There was an awkward silence, which Miss Naismith finally thought proper to break. “I’m afraid I cannot regard that suggestion as being in the best of taste.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting it seriously. Only saying that, if this were a detective story, that would be a safe assumption to make.”

  “Well, this isn’t a detective story.” Miss Naismith placed her empty glass on the counter. “I may say, I was always brought up to believe that detective stories are the products of trivial minds – and the entertainment of equally trivial ones.” She turned towards the door. “I believe it is nearly time for dinner.”

  After she had left the room, the others downed their drinks rather hastily, regretting the slight ‘atmosphere’ that had been created. ‘Atmospheres’ were avoided at the Devereux.

  But Mrs Pargeter was unrepentant. She had set up the scene deliberately to check out certain reactions and, though she could not claim to have observed anything startling, she did not feel that the exercise had been wasted.

  It was part of a new approach to the case. Hitherto she had been discreet and unobtrusive. Now she was beginning to think she might have to assert herself a little more, show a higher profile, maybe even use shock tactics to get nearer the solution to the mystery.

  Newth was picking up glasses from the counter. The other residents had gone through to the Admiral’s Dining Room.

  “Oh, Kevin,” Mrs Pargeter said casually, “I went up to London today.”

  “Really, Madam? I hope that was enjoyable.” The prim formality remained in his voice.

  “Yes. I went to see someone near Bond Street.”

  “Oh?”

  “A specialist in imitation jewellery called Desmond Chiddham.”

  Having decided to use shock tactics, she couldn’t have asked for more satisfactory shock reactions. The colour drained from Newth’s face. One hand reached up to press against his chest, while the other went forward to support him against the bar. Mrs Parget
er wondered whether he was about to collapse again as he had outside the bungalow in Lancing. Once again she was made aware of what a very sick man he was.

  But he didn’t collapse. Not quite. He just swayed, looking at her speechlessly.

  “I wonder…maybe you and I could have a talk? With Lady Ridgleigh, too, I think that would perhaps be best.”

  His tongue licked across dry lips, but still no words came.

  “What, in the Seaview Lounge, about half-past eight…do you think that would suit…?”

  Newth nodded, and Mrs Pargeter went through to enjoy her dinner in the Admirals’ Dining Room.

  ∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧

  35

  MONDAY, 11 MARCH – 8.15 p.m.

  A s I anticipated, it looks very much as if two murders will not have been enough. Mrs Mendlingham died because she could have incriminated me about Mrs Selsby’s murder, and now I fear that there is someone else who may have information that could restrict my freedom.

  I have been suspicious of her since she arrived. There is about her a watchfulness, which I am beginning to find unnerving. She misses nothing, and I suspect she has the intelligence to make connections between the pieces of information she picks up.

  I’ve a nasty feeling that she’s on to me. At first I thought she was just nosey, poking around the hotel because she’s curious by nature. But now I’m coming to the conclusion that her inquisitiveness is not random. She is behaving almost like a professional investigator.

  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.