There was a silence. Mrs Pargeter wondered who would bring the tea. With what kind of woman would someone like VVO cohabit? Which stereotype of the artist’s muse would it be? Some sluttish student with fiercely dyed hair and nose-jewellery? A former life model, blowsy and gone to seed? A hippy trailing scarves and wispy skirts?
The interior door opened to reveal none of the above. The woman who stood there with a neat tray of tea things was neatly dressed as a neat, ultra-conventional suburban housewife. The decor revealed behind her showed a neat, ultra-conventional suburban sitting room.
“Good afternoon,” said the woman politely. “I’m Deirdre Winthrop, Reg’s wife.”
She cleared a space on a cluttered table, put down the tea tray and turned with hand outstretched.
Mrs Pargeter shook it. “Good afternoon. I’m Mrs Pargeter.”
HRH went through the same social routine. Shaking his hostess’s hand, he identified himself as Hamish Ramon Henriques.
“Pleased to meet you both, I’m sure.” Deirdre Winthrop smiled graciously. “Tea was it you said you’d like?”
“That’d be lovely, thank you,” said Mrs Pargeter, with an equally gracious smile.
Deirdre lifted the wine bottle out of her husband’s unprotesting hands. “And you want some more of your blackcurrant juice, love?”
Reg Winthrop grinned at his wife, very calmly and with great fondness. “Yes, please, my angel,” he replied, the picture of meek suburban domesticity.
Mrs Pargeter and Hamish Ramon Henriques exchanged looks, but made no comment.
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Eleven
Mrs Pargeter’s customary shadow of desire had been anticipated again that evening by Leon the barman. The champagne was on ice, the two crystal glasses waited in readiness. And, standing over her favourite table as she entered the room, massaging his hands in unctuous delight, stood the proprietor of Greene’s Hotel, Mr Clinton. “Mrs Pargeter,” he oozed, as he filled one of the glasses with swelling bubbles. “How delightful to see you. I trust you have had an enjoyable day.”
“Very pleasant, thanks. Met an artist by the name of Reg Winthrop. Do you know him, by any chance?”
“Winthrop… Winthrop…?” the hotel manager mused. “No, I don’t believe the name means anything to me.”
“He’s also known as ‘VVO’.”
“Ah.” His expression cleared. “Yes, of course. Another employee of your late husband.”
“So I’m given to understand, yes.”
“And in fact someone who has worked for me in the not-too-distant past.”
“Really?”
The hotel manager smiled. “The artwork in some of the more expensive suites – like the Gainsborough in your own, Mrs Pargeter – well, with the best will in the world, one would of course like them to be genuine… but the fact remains that, if they were the real thing, certain of my guests – not of course you, I hasten to add – might be tempted to purloin them.”
“I’m surprised to hear people of that kind come to this hotel.”
“Oh, indeed, Mrs Pargeter, you are right. All of my clients are absolutely out of the top drawer, people of impeccable ethical standards, but – ” he grimaced as he spelled out the unpalatable truth – “when it comes to art, normal moral considerations go out of the window. I’m afraid the zeal of the collector is too powerful, and the presence of genuinely valuable paintings in the suites would prove just too much of a temptation to some people. So it is simpler if I decorate the rooms with VVO’s very fine copies.”
“Isn’t there a danger that those copies might get stolen?”
The hotel manager looked affronted. “Good heavens, no, Mrs Pargeter. The kind of clients who frequent Greene’s Hotel would recognize instantly that they were fakes.”
Further discussion of the vagaries of the rich was prevented by the arrival of Truffler Mason, wearing his customary shapeless brown suit and his customary undertaker’s frown. “Hi there, Mrs P, Hedgeclipper,” he said joylessly.
The hotel manager winced. “If you don’t mind… within the purlieus of this hotel, it is preferred that nicknames are not used, Mr Mason.”
“Sorry, Mr Clinton.”
“Think nothing of it.” Hedgeclipper was once again wreathed in smiles. “Now, if you will excuse me… I have to arrange a fleet of stretch limos for the Sultan’s wives…” And he wafted imperceptibly out of the room.
Mrs Pargeter charged her guest’s glass with champagne and raised hers to toast him. “So, Truffler, can you fill me in a bit more on what HRH told me? When the paintings leave the country, they are actually declared to Customs?”
“Well, some paintings are, yes. VVO’s modern rubbish. That’s what the customs inspectors see.”
“But the real ones are hidden underneath?”
“Exactly. Don’t worry, it’s a doddle. HRH has organized that kind of job hundreds of times. Never any problem.”
“Good.” Mrs Pargeter took another reassuring swallow of champagne.
“Only thing is, though,” said Truffler tentatively, “it’ll cost a bit. I mean, for the courier, a few other expenses…”
A plump hand waved away the objection. “Don’t worry. Veronica Chastaigne’ll pay for all that. She seems to have unlimited money – and seems to want to spend as much of it as possible before she pops off.”
“Why do you reckon that is?”
Mrs Pargeter smiled shrewdly. “Reading between the lines, I’d say it’s so that she leaves as little of it as possible to her son.”
“Ah, right. Toby, that’d be? The accountant?”
“Mm.”
“I haven’t met the young man, but I’ve heard about him. Haven’t been that impressed by what I’ve heard either. Never had much time for accountants… well, except of course for the imaginative ones… and there are precious few of those around these days.” He gave a thoughtful nod. “Yeah, poor old Bennie’d be well miffed if he knew Toby was, like, disowning him. After all the old man done for the boy. He was a good lad, old Bennie. Heart in the right place, no question.”
“So I’ve heard. Anyway, tell me, Truffler, how will the plan work?”
“Dead easy. Sweet as a nut. Gary ‘n’ me are set up for tomorrow night. Down to Chastaigne Varleigh with the van, Mrs Chastaigne lets us in, we load up the paintings…”
“And where do you take them?”
“Lock-up I’ve got. Safe as houses – ” He chuckled mournfully. “No, darn sight safer than most houses. And then, soon as poss, we start taking the goods back to where they belong.”
“Will that be tricky?”
“Piece of cake.”
“Good. So I’ll have kept my word to Veronica Chastaigne.”
“Course you will. Honour will have been satisfied.”
Mrs Pargeter raised her glass. “Excellent, Truffler. Let’s drink to the success of the job.”
“Right.” He raised his to clink against hers. “And let’s drink to the hope that they’ll all be as easy, eh?”
∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧
Twelve
“It was Bennie Logan you were talking about, wasn’t it, sir?”
Inspector Wilkinson looked up from his desk with distaste. He didn’t approve of junior officers bursting into his office without knocking, and he didn’t like the sound of what the junior officer in question was saying. The art theft case was his; he hadn’t mentioned the name of Bennie Logan to anyone. It sounded horribly as if Sergeant Hughes had been showing some initiative.