These factors all ensured that there was plenty of discussion that morning in the Seaview Lounge, where the residents awaited their respective summonses to the Schooner Bar, in which the police had set up their temporary headquarters. The police were constantly reassuring; their enquiries, they insisted, were purely routine; it was just that in the case of an unexpected, violent death, such enquiries had to be made.
After Miss Naismith had made the constabulary properly aware of the kind of establishment they were dealing with, of the incredibly high standards of the Devereux, and of the exceptional moral and social qualities of its clientele, Mrs Pargeter, as discoverer of the body, was politely requested to go to the Schooner Bar.
She was encouraged by sympathetic prompting from one of the two plain-clothes detectives to describe exactly what she had done and seen in Mrs Mendlingham’s bedroom that morning. With a little discreet editing (she did not mention her putting on gloves or discovering the notebook under the bedclothes), Mrs Pargeter did this helpfully and concisely.
“I gather,” said the detective, whose name was Mitford, “that you have only recently taken up residence here…?”
“That’s true. Only five days ago.”
“And a rather unfortunate five days…?” Detective-Sergeant Mitford ventured.
“Yes. A death every other day so far. Miss Naismith certainly didn’t mention that feature of the hotel when I arrived.”
It had been a risk, but the broad smile on the detective’s face showed that she had taken the right approach. After Miss Naismith’s suffocating gentility, he was happy to hear a note of humour.
“So, Mrs Pargeter, you could hardly be expected to have known the deceased very well…?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Or any of the other residents, come to that…?”
Mrs Pargeter shook her head apologetically.
“I often find…” he began slowly, “that in any sort of investigation of an enclosed community – which is what this is – it’s useful to get an outsider’s view of the situation. People who’ve been around for any length of time have their judgement clouded by personal loyalties and rivalries, so it’s often difficult to get an accurate picture from them.”
Mrs Pargeter waited to see what would come next.
“All I’m saying is that you are in an ideal position, having just come to the Devereux, to give us a feeling of what the place is like.”
Still she didn’t say anything. Another invaluable tip from the late Mr Pargeter had been that one should never volunteer information unless one wishes to change the direction of a questioner’s enquiry. Answer every direct question as truthfully as discretion allows, but never give the answers to unasked questions. It is surprising how many important questions never get asked. (This advice was another expression of the late Mr Pargeter’s philosophy of life, which could be summed up in the following sentence: Be scrupulously honest for as long as you can, and never resort to illegality unless there is truly no alternative.)
“How would you describe the atmosphere here, Mrs Pargeter?”
“Pretty friendly, on the whole,” seemed a fair and balanced reply.
“On the whole…?”
“Yes, on the whole,” Mrs Pargeter agreed, beaming. She wasn’t going to give him anything he hadn’t earned.
“No evidence of internal dissension? Quarrels, arguments, that sort of thing…?”
“No more than you’d expect in a place like this,” she replied evenly. “As you said, I haven’t been here long, so perhaps everyone’s still on their best behaviour with me.”
Detective-Sergeant Mitford nodded, again responding to the note of humour in her voice. He paused before continuing, “But there’s nothing you have felt, no tensions, no conflicts, that might lead you to suspect that Mrs Mendlingham’s death was anything other than the accident it appears to be…?”
She was tempted. It would be comforting to share with someone the unpleasant conjectures that had been shaping in her mind. But, on the other hand, those conjectures were based on the flimsiest of instincts and feelings; she did not think they would stand up to serious scrutiny. Anyway, another of the late Mr Pargeter’s dicta had always been: “If the police arrive, be nice to them. But don’t ask for trouble by inviting them in.”
She feigned ignorance. She wasn’t going to volunteer the word ‘murder’. “I’m sorry, Detective-Sergeant. I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Never mind.” He tried another tack. “Did you know that Mrs Mendlingham kept a sort of notebook?”
“I had seen her writing in one, yes,” was her honest reply.
Detective-Sergeant Mitford nodded. “It’s a strange book. She recorded all kinds of snippets of information and feelings. Haven’t read it all through yet, obviously, just glanced at it, but there is one interesting entry…”
“Oh?”
“She refers to having seen something ‘on the landing’, something that upset her…Have you any idea what that might be, Mrs Pargeter?”
“The only thing I can possibly think of,” she replied truthfully, “is that it might be something to do with the death of Mrs Selsby.”
“Oh?”
“Well, I don’t know whether you’ve heard what happened, but Mrs Selsby was killed falling down the stairs from the first-floor landing. Since Mrs Mendlingham’s bedroom is on that landing, it’s possible that she saw Mrs Selsby fall. And that the memory of that – or perhaps the thought that she should have been able to prevent it – is what was upsetting her.”
Detective-Sergeant Mitford nodded with satisfaction. “Thank you, Mrs Pargeter. You’ve been most helpful. And may I say that, with regard to the reference to what Mrs Mendlingham saw on the landing, we have come to exactly the same conclusion as you have.”
Well, perhaps not exactly the same, thought Mrs Pargeter.
∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧
24
As Mrs Pargeter was making her way from the Schooner Bar back to the Seaview Lounge, she was stopped in her tracks by the sound of raised voices behind the closed Office door. Discovering a sudden interest in the Beaulieu Motor Museum and the Chalk Pits at Amberley, she moved across to the hall table on which such leaflets were always kept, and found that she was able to hear the voices much more clearly.
She quickly identified the speakers as Miss Naismith and Mr Holland. The solicitor was resorting to bluster, the customary weapon of a weak man trying to get his point across.
“…and I don’t see how we can possibly keep it quiet any longer,” he was saying. “Our agreement was that we should only suppress the information for twenty-four hours, anyway. That time has passed, more than passed. And now, under these new circumstances, I think the police just have to be told.”
“I would really rather we kept the matter confidential.” Miss Naismith’s voice was frosted with authority. “The police are here to conduct an enquiry into the death of Mrs Mendlingham. I’m sure they will not wish to be confused by information about another possible crime.”
“Miss Naismith, I don’t think we can any longer pretend we are talking about a ‘possible’ crime. My client’s jewellery disappeared on the night after her death, and there has been no sign of it since. That sounds to me like a classic definition of a robbery, and I have a nasty feeling that the longer we leave the robbery uninvestigated, the less chance we have of ever seeing the missing property again.”
“Surely the jewellery was insured?”