He looked like an Islamic Fundamentalist who had just been made to swallow a large Scotch. “Oh, very well.”
“So how did Chris Dover keep these records?”
“If there was ever something that he needed to send me, some information that he wanted kept secret, he would hide it on a totally innocuous document.”
“Hide it? In code?”
“Not code, no. What he would do was send me a letter about something totally mundane, an acknowledgement of a letter from me, that kind of thing… but the important information would be written on the back.”
Suddenly a whole sequence of logic clicked into place in Mrs Pargeter’s mind. “In invisible ink?” she breathed softly.
“Effectively, yes. Chris knew a certain amount about chemistry, I think he’d experimented with it as a child. And he found out that he could write something in one chemical which was completely invisible until it was washed over with a solution of another chemical.”
Her violet blue eyes sparkled. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“The chemical he used for the writing was phenolphthalein,” said Mr Fisher-Metcalf, “and the solution which had to be washed over it to bring out the information was –”
“Sodium carbonate,” said Mrs Pargeter.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Package ∧
Twenty-Seven
Mr Fisher-Metcalf gaped in surprise, but Mrs Pargeter didn’t give him time to respond. Her mind was moving too quickly to be delayed by pedestrian explanations.
“Listen, Chris Dover left a letter for his wife, didn’t he? A letter that was to be given to her after his death?”
“Now I’m not sure that –”
“I know he did. Joyce mentioned it to me.”
“Oh.”
“By the way, did you know that Joyce was dead?”
“I had been informed, yes. It’s very sad, isn’t it?” he said with formality untinged by sincerity.
“What’s sad?”
“That someone could be in so reduced a state, have such low self-esteem, actually to get to the point of killing themselves.”
Mrs Pargeter didn’t contest this interpretation of the death. She knew she should minimise the number of people with whom she shared her suspicions. It was interesting, though, to see how quickly Sergeant Karaskakis’ version of events had become the accepted one, even before it had been officially sanctioned.
“Yes, very sad,” she agreed briskly. “Did Joyce stand to inherit a lot of money?”
“Well…”
Mr Fisher-Metcalf had come over all cautious and solicitorlike again, but Mrs Pargeter wasn’t standing for any of that. “Come on, what was Chris Dover worth?”
“He was an extremely wealthy man.”
“So Joyce was a very wealthy woman and would have been even wealthier after his death?” And yet, Mrs Pargeter mused, she still chose a relatively cheap package tour to Corfu as a holiday.
“Well…” Mr Fisher-Metcalf started to equivocate again.
“There wasn’t anything funny about the will? She would have got the lot?”
“The bulk of the estate, certainly.”
“And now she’s dead, it’ll go to Conchita? Joyce left a will, presumably?”
“Yes, everything will all be as straightforward as it can be in a situation where both spouses die within such a short time – which is not of course completely straightforward because the legal requirements –”
Mrs Pargeter was in no mood to be delayed by this sort of stuff. “But basically Conchita gets the lot?”
“Their daughter will inherit everything, yes.”
“Hm. Back to this letter Chris left for his wife…”
The solicitor looked pained. Perhaps he imagined Mrs Pargeter had forgotten raising the subject. If so, he had seriously underestimated his questioner.
“What about the letter, Mrs Pargeter?”
“Do you have a copy?”
“No. Well, that is to say, yes, I do have a copy, but I don’t think you’ll –”
“Could I see it please?”
“You’ll be very disappointed if you –”
“Could I see it please?”
Mrs Pargeter had a knack of raising the impact of her speech without raising its volume. Her intonation on the second “Could I see it please?” was only marginally different from that on the first, but its force was recognisably greater.
Mr Fisher-Metcalf crumbled instantly in the face of its power. He pressed an old-fashioned bell-push on his desk and the wan secretary trickled in. She was given instructions on where to find the relevant document and went out to trawl through the dusty box-files.
“Tell me,” Mrs Pargeter asked, “to your knowledge, did Chris Dover ever have any contacts with Greece – Corfu in particular?”
The solicitor shook his head. “Never went there, I’m sure. Never mentioned any connections either. No… Well, except there was one incident which I suppose… But no. I’m afraid I have to answer no.”
Before Mrs Pargeter had time to ask more about the one mysterious ‘incident’, the secretary had seeped back into the room bearing an open box-file. “I’ve been right through, but I can’t see any –”
“Give it to me.” Her boss stretched out an imperious hand. “I’ll find it. You go.” Before the girl was fully out of the door, he commented to Mrs Pargeter, “So difficult to get staff with any gumption these days. Girl I had before was really efficient, but… she went. And the money some of the kids expect to be paid these days. It’s not as if they’re properly trained, either…”
As he wittered on about the inadequacies of modern youth, he riffled through papers in the file. Then, with satisfaction, he extracted one flimsy sheet and held it out towards the visitor. “This is the copy, though, as I say, I don’t think it’ll help you much.”
It was a slightly smudged carbon, which read:
My Dearest Joyce,
I am sorry that when you receive this I will be dead. Thank you for all you have done for me. I always hoped that there would be no secrets between us, but that proved to be impossible. Still, if you really do want to know the truth, this will explain one or two things.
Your loving (but now deceased) husband,
Chris
Her eyes rose to meet a sardonic stare from Mr Fisher-Metcalf. “Not a great deal of help, is it, Mrs Pargeter?”
“No. Surely there must have been something else with it? An enclosure of some kind?”
“There was no enclosure. No, just the one sheet of paper. And of course what you’re holding there is only the copy, so that’s completely useless.”
It took her a couple of seconds to catch on. “You mean there was something written on the back of the original? In that chemical… whatever it was?”
Mr Fisher-Metcalf nodded graciously. “Phenolphthalein. Yes, you’re right. Chris had used his favourite method once again.”
“Did Joyce know what to do to make the writing come out? Was she expecting it?”
“No. She had no idea. I had to explain to her what I thought was likely to have happened.”
“And you were right? There was something written on the back?”
Again he inclined his head. “There was.”
“So did you see it? Did she put on the sodium carbonate while you were present?”
“I put on the first bit myself. Mrs Dover was somewhat sceptical when I told her where I expected the message to be, so I soaked a cloth in sodium carbonate…” – he indicated a bottle on his shelf – “and demonstrated it for her. Just one sweep across the paper and lettering appeared straight away. It comes up in a purplish colour, actually.”
“So did you see the whole letter?”
“No.” He sounded rather put out. “For some reason Mrs Dover did not seem to trust my discretion.”