Mrs Pargeter had made no attempt to impose her own style on the rooms. All her furniture was in store. The stay at Greene’s Hotel had been originally intended as a short one, but comfort and convenience had kept her longer. She had then decided that she might as well stay until her house was completed, and had not yet reassessed the situation since recent events had moved that horizon yet nearer to infinity.
The only personal touch in the suite was a silver-framed photograph on Mrs Pargeter’s bedside table. It was a studio portrait of a highly respectable-looking gentleman in a pinstriped suit.
The telephone – in the tasteful antique style which would have been the automatic selection of any Regency gentleman, had telephones been available in those times – rang, summoning Mrs Pargeter from a blissful dream of sunlight and strawberries. As she reached blearily towards the bedside table, her eye caught the photograph. “Morning, love,” she said to the late Mr Pargeter.
She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Mrs Pargeter,” said the French-polished tones of the hotel’s manager.
“Morning, Hedgeclipper.”
This was greeted by a discreet admonitory cough. “I believe I did request you not to use that name within the purlieus of the hotel, Mrs Pargeter.”
“Oh yes, forgive me. Half asleep.”
“Well, I’m very sorry to have been the cause of the interruption of your slumbers, but there’s a gentleman down here in the foyer who wishes to see you as a matter of some urgency.”
“That sounds exciting. Who is he?”
“His name is Mr Nigel Merriman.”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Should I know him?”
The poshness of Hedgeclipper Clinton’s accent slipped instantly away, to reveal the original Bermondsey beneath. “He’s only Concrete Jacket’s bloomin’ solicitor, isn’t he?”
♦
Once she was dressed, Mrs Pargeter would have gone straight downstairs to breakfast and Nigel Merriman had she not found something rather unusual in the sitting room of her suite.
It was a monkey.
She thought she’d heard some rather strange noises while she was dressing, but put them down to a quirk of the hotel’s air conditioning or some extravagance of one of the other guests. (It took only a short stay in Greene’s Hotel for the average person to become extremely broad-minded about the behaviour of other guests, and of course, when it came to broad-mindedness, Mrs Pargeter had a considerable head start over the average person.)
But when she went through to the sitting room, the noises – pitched somewhere between a chatter and a whimper – were immediately explained.
It was a nice enough little monkey, if you happen to like monkeys (which Mrs Pargeter decidedly didn’t). It was about the size of a rat (and to her mind the similarities didn’t stop there) with brownish fur and a doom-laden little old man’s face. Had Mrs Pargeter had any interest in the subject, she might have recognized from its size and colouring, or from the fact that its hind limbs were twenty-five per cent longer than its forelimbs, that she was looking at a South American marmoset, a member of the Callitrichidae family, from the suborder Anthropoidea of the Primate order. However, nothing could have interested her less, so she neither knew nor cared.
Around the creature’s neck was a padded crimson velvet collar, to which had been attached a silver chain. The loop at the end of the chain had been slipped round the leg of a heavy oak dresser. Scratches on the wood and surrounding carpet suggested that the monkey had tried to break free, but without success.
Its reaction to Mrs Pargeter’s entrance was one of excitement rather than fear. Here, it seemed to feel, was not a threat, but a potential saviour – or even playmate. This suggested that the animal was accustomed to human society, and had possibly been someone’s pet.
The monkey rose up on its hind legs – clearly a party trick for Mrs Pargeter’s benefit – and chattered in an almost human manner. One thin-fingered hand tugged pitifully at its chain, while the dark eyes looked up appealingly into hers. “Set me free,” it seemed to be saying. “Set me free.”
“In your dreams, sweetheart,” said Mrs Pargeter, as she left the room.
Hedgeclipper Clinton was by Reception when she emerged from the lift into the foyer. He gave her a smile of unctuous sincerity.
“There’s a monkey in my room. Could you deal with it, please?” said Mrs Pargeter, as she passed through into the dining room.
♦
The Greene’s Hotel ‘Full English Breakfast’ was extremely full. No refinement of bacon, egg, sausage, tomato, grilled mushroom, fried bread, saute potato, kidney or black pudding was omitted from the piled plate into which Mrs Pargeter tucked. Some mornings, in a momentary pang of righteousness, she asked the waitress not to include the fried bread, but this morning was not one of them. She had the tingling feeling of beginning to be involved in an investigation, and needed to keep her strength up.
Opposite her in the sumptuous setting of the fin de siecle dining room, sat a thin-faced, earnest-looking man in his thirties. He wore an anonymously smart charcoal suit and sober tie. His right hand, slightly nervous on the crisp linen, toyed with the handle of his coffee cup.
“Sure you won’t have anything else, Mr Merriman?” asked Mrs Pargeter, after a delicious mouthful of sausage, egg and saute potato.
“No, really, thank you,” Nigel Merriman replied. “I breakfasted earlier.”
Mrs Pargeter loaded her fork with another consignment of bacon, egg, tomato and fried bread. “Well, you won’t mind me, I hope?”
“Of course not.”
She gestured permission with her heaped fork. “You talk while I eat. Seems a fair division of labour.”
“Yes.” He allowed himself a prim silence while he collected his thoughts and Mrs Pargeter munched contentedly. “What I’m really after… is anything you might know that could help in Mr Jacket’s defence.”
The fullness of Mrs Pargeter’s mouth excluded all responses other than an “Mm.”
“At the moment I’m afraid my client’s situation does look rather grim.”
The mouth was by now decorously empty. “Oh? You mean he actually had some connection with the dead man?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Mrs Pargeter wiped the side of her mouth with a napkin. “Who was the stiff then?”
Nigel Merriman could not suppress a slight wince at the colloquialism before replying, “A bricklayer and part-time villain called Willie Cass. Worked with Mr Jacket till relatively recently, but was dismissed when found to be selling on bricks and other materials his employer had paid for.”
She nodded. “If anyone was going to be ripping off the clients, the boss thought it should be him rather than one of his staff, eh?”
“Exactly.”
“So has this just happened? I mean, they’ve only recently fallen out, have they?”
“No, we’re talking a year ago. Unfortunately, though, Willie Cass has spent the last month shooting his mouth off round a lot of South London pubs, saying how he’d got some dirt on Concrete Jacket – Mr Jacket is nicknamed –”
“I know.”
“Anyway, Willie Cass was saying that Concrete would have to pay a great deal for his silence.”
“Blackmail,” said Mrs Pargeter, stacking another pensive forkful.
“Mm.” The solicitor cleared his throat, about to negotiate something unpalatable. “There is a further regrettable circumstance… in that the gun used to kill Willie Cass is owned by Mr Jacket.”
“Oh.”
“Illegally, I’m afraid.”