There were sufficient such purchasers about to ensure reasonable sales figures, or even, with a bit of serendipitous publicity — like, say, a chat-show host showing what a good sport he was by getting into a Dead Sea Mud Bath — an entry into the bestsellers’ lists.
The fact that none of the purchasers or recipients of the book would read more than a couple of pages did not give the publishers a moment’s unease. They felt absolutely confident that they had produced a product with enough confusing words in it to make people think they were learning something. And, more importantly, a product that would sell.
At the end of the process the public consciousness would have assimilated the dubious thesis of the book’s title, that ‘Dead Sea Mud is good for you’.
And it would stay in the public consciousness until the next fitness fad came along.
The one detail never mentioned anywhere in the book was that any fish foolish enough to stray into the waters of the Dead Sea dies instantly.
Chapter Twelve
The difficulty with mud — whether from the Dead Sea or from the pond of an English stately home — is keeping it muddy. In a centrally heated interior it has a distressing habit of setting, and the mud in the basement of Brotherton Hall needed constant dilution to maintain it at a properly glutinous level.
The Dead Sea Mud Bath unit had, in common with every other facility at the health spa, been installed to a very high specification. Given the costs of that, and the costs of keeping the area spotless, it was no surprise that the Dead Sea Mud Baths were promoted so heavily to the guests. Ankle-Deep Arkwright had to see his installation money back before the arrival of the next fitness fad would require the unit’s complete refurbishment.
There were four baths in all, each in a cubicle separated from the others by eight-foot-high walls. The baths themselves were sunken, filled from incongruously gleaming lion’s head sluices, and drained by some unseen but presumably very powerful pumping system. Brotherton Hall assured guests that their baths would be individually filled, so that no one had to step into someone else’s dirty mud, and presumably that was one of the reasons for the exorbitant costs of the treatment. (Mrs Pargeter’s natural cynicism — and knowledge of Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s customary business practices — made her pretty sure that some kind of mud-recycling would be going on, but she had no proof of this.)
The lion’s heads were fed from a large central tank, in which a stew of mud was kept in constant motion and, it was to be hoped, fluency, by a rotating blade like that used in the mixing of cement or the manufacture of toffee. Because of the viscous nature of its contents, the outlets to this tank frequently became clogged and indeed, when Mrs Pargeter arrived that morning, Stan the Stapler was up on a ladder poking away with a long instrument at some blockage.
By happy coincidence, the other users of the unit were demonstrating the sequence of the treatment.
Through the half-open door of Cubicle One Mrs Pargeter could see a body lying at full length in its tub. So complete was the covering of pale brown sludge (participants were encouraged to smear their faces and work the mud into their hair) that she could not even have told the sex, let alone the identity of the bather. This immersion part of the process was recommended to last for an hour, during which ‘the natural salts and minerals can get really deeply into the pores’ (Mrs Pargeter shuddered at the very idea).
On a bench outside Cubicle Two, in the glare of a kind of sunlamp, another participant was enjoying the second part of the treatment. This involved letting the mud dry ‘naturally’ on the skin till it formed a pale beige crust. During this stage guests were encouraged to keep as still as possible, to avoid cracking and flaking. The recommended drying time was also one hour, and again Mrs Pargeter could form no opinion about the identity of the participant — or even whether she had on any underwear.
Cubicle Three was empty, but from it came an abdominal rumbling and gurgling, which presumably denoted that the bath was being drained. On the other side of the unit, the cubicle’s most recent occupant was undergoing the most gruelling part of the Dead Sea Mud treatment — getting the bloody stuff off.
Under a ferocious shower a streaked body scrubbed away at itself, directing high-speed jets of water from a hose into its most intimate crevices. Mrs Pargeter had heard from Kim Thurrock that this cleansing process took hours; ‘and still at the end of the day when I undressed I found flaky bits in my knickers…’ The depth of Kim’s love affair with everything related to Brotherton Hall can be judged from the fact that she then added fervently, ‘… which shows it must’ve been doing some good.’
Lindy Galton, perfectly proportioned and still immaculately uniformed in spite of the mud that surrounded her, stepped forward to meet her latest client.
‘Mrs Pargeter, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right.’
‘If you’d like to come through to Cubicle Four, the bath should just about be full now.’
Mrs Pargeter stood inside the doorway, dressed as instructed in only her Brotherton Hall towelling gown over swimwear, and looked down at the contents of the bath as the last strainings plopped in from the lion’s head sluice.
The mud could have been said to look like liquid milk chocolate, with a consistency like that of Bolognese sauce — though it has to be confessed that the similes which sprang instinctively to Mrs Pargeter’s mind were rather less elegant.
There was a silence as the two of them looked down at the sluggish sludge. ‘Well,’ Lindy Galton prompted eventually, ‘aren’t you going to get in?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘What on earth do you take me for?’
‘Then why are you here?’ The girl looked confused rather than alarmed.
Before answering, Mrs Pargeter moved forward to a console of switches on the wall and pressed the one marked ‘Empty’. The room was filling with the kind of sounds that can be the consequence of an ill-considered curry.
Lindy Galton stepped towards the console, her face sharp with anger. ‘What are you doing? The bath’s only just been filled.’
‘I’m paying for the Dead Sea Mud Bath treatment,’ Mrs Pargeter replied coolly. ‘Whether I choose to have it or not I’d have thought was up to me.’
‘But why are you emptying it away? Someone else could have the mud.’
‘Why, do you want it?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, deliberately frivolous.
The reaction — and the distaste — were instinctive. ‘No, thank you!’
‘Oh, you know where it’s come from then, do you?’
The girl seemed about to agree, then remembered her professional role and replied frostily, ‘I can’t personally go into the mud because of an allergy. I’ve tried the treatment and I’m afraid it brings me out in a rash.’ She gave her client a beady look. ‘You still haven’t explained why you’re emptying the bath.’
‘I’ve started that for the noise… so’s we can’t be overheard,’ said Mrs Pargeter in an even whisper.
Now there was a light of alarm in Lindy Galton’s eye. ‘What is this?’
‘I want to ask you about a guest registration you made at Reception a couple of days ago.’
‘Oh?’
‘A registration for someone called “Jenny Hargreaves”.’ The girl’s eyes told her instantly that she was on to something. ‘You see, I think that Jenny Hargreaves arrived at Brotherton Hall earlier than that registration record implies. I think you only keyed those details into the computer because Mr Arkwright told you to.’
Lindy Galton licked a lip that seemed suddenly to have become dry. ‘Why do you want to know about this? Why’re you interested, Mrs Pargeter?’
‘Because I think it could have something to do with a mystery guest at Brotherton Hall. Someone who was staying in a room on the third floor… until a couple of nights ago.’