‘But do you know the other wonderful thing that happened today?’ Kim asked.
‘No,’ said Mrs Pargeter, who didn’t.
‘I bought a prepublication copy of the Mind Over Fatty Matter Book of Warm Salads…’
‘Well, well…’
‘And do you know what?’
‘No,’ said Mrs Pargeter, who didn’t.
‘Sue Fisher actually signed it for me!’
‘I didn’t know she was still here.’
‘Well, she certainly was this morning. And she’s so generous. She signed books for practically everyone.’
After they’d paid for them, Mrs Pargeter thought cynically. Curious, she asked, ‘What did she write in yours?’
‘“Keep trying, Kim!”’ her friend replied proudly.
Clever. Never write ‘Well done’. Never imply the process is complete. Because, of course, a slimmer who’s achieved her goal is going to stop buying Mind Over Fatty Matter products, isn’t she?
‘Anyway, I must dash. I’ve still got these thirty lengths to do.’ Kim stopped, suddenly solicitous. ‘And how’s your programme going, Melita?’
‘Programme?’
‘Yes. Fitness, slimming, you know…’
‘Ah. Well, I’m doing as much as the allergy allows me to,’ she replied in a bravely martyred tone.
‘Oh, you do have rotten luck,’ Kim sympathized.
‘I know, but… well…’
‘C’est la vie,’ Kim supplied, drawing once again on her evening classes.
‘Exactly. Still, I live in hope,’ Mrs Pargeter continued with spirit. ‘Only ate half my portion at lunchtime today.’
‘Oh. Well done,’ said Kim Thurrock.
Chapter Sixteen
Mrs Pargeter ate her full portion of dinner in the ‘Allergy Room’ that evening. Though still anxious about the news she was expecting from Truffler Mason, she could see no point in spoiling two meals in a row.
Anyway, she owed it to Gaston to do justice to his Entrecote a la Bordelaise and Crepe a la Mode d’Orleans. It seemed a pity to let any of the Crozes Hermitage go to waste either. And since Gaston had cooked some petits fours specially to go with her coffee, it would have been churlish not to try them.
In spite of her forebodings, she was in a state of excitement. At last her investigation seemed to be getting somewhere. Truffler would soon be able to tell her whether the body she had seen was that of Jenny Hargreaves.
And then of course she was due to find out more from Lindy Galton in the Dead Sea Mud Bath unit at nine-fifteen.
She lingered over her last petit four, checking her watch in a desultory way and waiting till she heard the nervous giggling of guests scuttling to the gym to experience their day’s final humiliation at the Nine O’Clock Weigh-In.
The sounds subsided, and Brotherton Hall was filled with a silence thick as fog, while Mrs Pargeter made her way to the Dead Sea Mud Bath unit.
Down there, too, all was nearly silent. Only the soft swish of the rotor blade in its tank of mud provided a rhythm that gave texture to the silence.
The lights were on, but there was no sign of anyone in the central area surrounded by the four cubicles.
All the doors were shut. Mrs Pargeter opened one and looked in. The cubicle contained nothing but its spotlessly gleaming bath.
The contents of the second were identical.
The third cubicle, however, was full of Dead Sea Mud.
It wasn’t just the bath that was full. The outline of that had been lost in the brown sludge which lay thickly over the floor and oozed through the opened doorway to Mrs Pargeter’s neatly shod feet.
She moved back from the encroaching tide and looked towards the control console on the wall. The ‘Fill’ switch was in its ‘Off position. From the sluice at the bath’s head a single stalactite of mud depended.
Mrs Pargeter was about to turn away to check the last cubicle when she realized that there was something half-submerged in the mud.
It took a moment to work out what it was. A small archipelago of rounded, mud-slimed promontaries broke the surface. And there, against what was presumably the side of the bath, protruded something like a bedraggled marsh plant.
A catch of horror clasped at her throat as she took in what it really was.
A muddy hand!
Mrs Pargeter removed her shoes and stepped forward as quickly as she dared over the treacherous surface. She felt voracious mud close over her feet, instantly penetrating her tights and squeezing obscenely between her toes. Clutching a rail and testing each footstep to keep her from plunging into the bath itself, she edged forward.
Bracing herself with one arm against the rail she reached for the body and tried to pull it upwards. But she could get no purchase on the slimy limbs, which kept slopping back into the mud.
At last she contrived a grip under the neck and raised the head above the surface. Mud slipped glutinously back off the features and clogged hair.
But not enough mud slipped off to make an identification.
Mrs Pargeter had to wipe at the filthy slime with a towel before she could recognize the face.
Lindy Galton.
The girl’s mouth gaped open. Inside, it was full of the Dead Sea Mud that had asphyxiated her.
Chapter Seventeen
There was a house phone in the central area with a sheet of internal numbers stuck on the wall beside it. Mrs Pargeter rang Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s extension, but there was no reply.
She got through to Reception and announced, with considerable self-restraint, that there had been ‘an accident’ in the Dead Sea Mud Bath unit. The receptionist, using those perky upward inflections with which girls at reception school are trained to greet pools wins and pogroms alike, assured her that ‘Someone will be down as soon as possible, madam.’
Mrs Pargeter had no thought of leaving the unit. There was mud all over her, but cleaning-up would have to wait. A series of mountingly unpleasant conjectures about the causes of Lindy Galton’s death built up in her head.
She had made one more attempt to get the corpse out of the bath, to give it a little dignity in death, but then given up. Probably better to leave things as they were, anyway, for the inevitable police enquiry.
So, while increasingly disturbing thoughts erupted in her mind, Mrs Pargeter sat on a bench and waited to see who would be ‘down as soon as possible’.
It was Dr Potter.
He was as dapper as ever. A double-breasted suit in Prince of Wales check over his angular frame, suede shoes whose distinctive shape proclaimed them to be hand-made.
He took in Mrs Pargeter’s presence before he looked at Cubicle Three, from which mud was still inexorably advancing over the immaculate tiles.
‘What seems to be the trouble?’ he asked. (Presumably doctors are so conditioned to using that question that they have difficulty in framing others.) ‘Reception said there had been some kind of accident.’
‘Yes.’ Mrs Pargeter pointed to the open cubicle door and the mud-spattered area beyond.
Dr Potter looked across and his thin face pursed with annoyance. ‘If there’s something wrong with the sluices, that would appear to be a job for a plumber rather than a doctor.’
‘It’s not just the sluices. There’s a body in the mud.’
‘What?’ He turned his silt-coloured eyes on her in amazement.
‘Lindy Galton. She’s under that lot — drowned.’
Dr Potter tutted, like a bureaucrat who’s found a form incorrectly filled in. ‘Oh really! This kind of thing happens far too often at Brotherton Hall, you know.’
‘What — people getting killed?’ Mrs Pargeter asked eagerly, thinking she really was on to something this time.
Dr Potter quickly disabused her. ‘No. Staff using the facilities without permission. It happens in the gym, in the swimming-pool, everywhere. And the trouble is, they do it at times when the facilities aren’t properly supervised, which raises terrible problems with insurance. It’s been inevitable that something like this would happen one day.’ He tutted again, then added as an afterthought, ‘You’re sure she is dead?’