“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 Pargeter 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.