Her ‘Special Treatment’ status would be confirmed by the Brotherton Hall resident medic, Dr Potter.
‘But won’t he make a fuss about it, Ank?’ Mrs Pargeter had asked.
‘Good heavens, no, Mrs P.!’ Ankle-Deep Arkwright had roared with laughter. ‘Dr Potter’ll sign anything I tell him to.’
Also because of her unspecified medical condition, Mrs Pargeter would not be allowed to eat with the rest of the guests. Instead, her meals would be served in a specially prepared ‘Allergy Room’ (situated conveniently adjacent to Gaston’s kitchen). All she would have to do each evening would be to check through the following day’s menu and make her selections (bearing in mind that, because of his Swiss training, almost all Gaston’s main dishes came accompanied by rosti, and that the primary ingredient of all his sweets was cream).
Oh yes, and she’d get a wine list each evening to make her selection from that too.
To Mrs Pargeter this all seemed very satisfactory.
As she swanned dreamily along the corridor to her room, she was surprised to see the adjacent door open and Kim Thurrock’s face peer anxiously out. Mrs Pargeter felt a moment’s guilt for having so completely forgotten her friend.
‘Was it all right?’ Kim hissed.
‘Was what all right?’
‘The allergy, of course.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Pargeter recovered herself. ‘Yes, I think they’ve probably got the measure of it.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Yes. Sorry I couldn’t get back earlier. I hope you haven’t been too bored…’
‘Oh no!’ Kim Thurrock’s eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘I’ve had a wonderful time. They have lectures every evening, you know. And tonight it was — Sue Fisher!’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Pargeter, to whom the name carried less immediate import than it clearly did for her friend. ‘Sue Fisher?’
‘You know, the one who wrote Mind Over Fatty Matter.’
‘Oh.’ Yes, it did ring a bell now. Indeed, one would have to have been immured as a hermit over the previous two years for the name to set up no tintinnabulation at all. The Mind Over Fatty Matter book and its sequels had taken up permanent residence in the bestsellers’ lists; the Mind Over Fatty Matter television series seemed to be screened daily; the Mind Over Fatty Matter videos crowded the shelves of record shops; and one could not walk down a high street in the British Isles without passing a display of Mind Over Fatty Matter leotards, leggings, and exercise bras, or enter a food store without seeing Mind Over Fatty Matter microwave meals and dietary supplements.
All this had made Sue Fisher, the originator of the Mind Over Fatty Matter diet and exercise regime, extremely rich. Like some tropical parasite she had burrowed her way into the national obsession with weight, there to take up residence and feed — though not of course fatten — herself on that collective neurosis.
‘Was she interesting?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
‘Oh, she was wonderful!’ The enthusiasm invested in the word made it clear that only the inconvenient organization of shop opening hours had prevented Kim from rushing out already to stock up with books, videos, leotards, leggings, exercise bras, microwave meals and dietary supplements.
Still, the fact that her friend had had a good time made Mrs Pargeter feel less guilty about the contrasting way in which she had enjoyed her own evening. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased, Kim,’ she said comfortably. ‘Well, I must get to bed.’
‘Yes, see you in the dining-room for breakfast… though I think it’s just hot water and lemon the first day.’
‘Ah. Well, actually,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘I won’t be having my meals in the dining-room.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Erm…’ She prevaricated. ‘Something to do with the allergy.’
‘Oh?’ Alarm sprang into Kim Thurrock’s eyes. ‘You are going to be all right, Melita — aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Pargeter replied. ‘Yes, Kim, I think I’m going to be absolutely fine.’
The alcohol brought deep and dreamless sleep, but also ensured that Mrs Pargeter woke at five o’clock, needing the comforts of her ensuite bathroom.
As the flushing of the lavatory gurgled to nothing, she was aware of a slight scraping noise from outside.
She peered through the curtains. It was June and already nearly light. Mrs Pargeter found she was looking down on the ornamental fish-ponds of the landscaped gardens which were one of Brotherton Hall’s chief glories. Just on the edge of her vision, she could see something moving. It appeared to be human, but the angle of the building impeded her view.
Intrigued, and now wide awake, Mrs Pargeter found her curiosity aroused. Surely it was a bit early for gardening…?
Then she remembered that at the end of the corridor by the stairs was a large window commanding a view directly over the fish-ponds. Why not? It was worth a look. Donning her Brotherton Hall towelling gown, Mrs Prgeter slipped quietly out of her room and along the corridor.
The window at the end was covered only by a thin net curtain, through which she could clearly see what was going on.
Two wheelbarrows stood by the largest fish-pond and between them was Stan the Stapler with a shovel. The squat figure kept reaching into the pond and dragging out shovelfuls of weed or mud. The weed he slopped into one wheelbarrow, the mud into the other.
It was possible that he was gardening, doing some essential maintenance work on the ponds.
It was possible that he was engaged in some more sinister activity.
Recovering a cache of drugs?
Attempting to drag the pond for a body?
But Mrs Pargeter had a more prosaic explanation for what was going on. And it was one that would conform well with what she knew of Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s business practices. She loved Ank dearly, but would have found it hard to hold him up as a paragon of probity.
No, Mrs Pargeter felt pretty convinced that Stan the Stapler was stocking up with Sargasso Seaweed and Dead Sea Mud.
She was just turning back towards her room when she heard the click of a door opening on the floor above.
It lasted only a few seconds. The door clicked open; a snatch of a woman’s voice was heard; the door was softly closed and a key turned in the lock. That was all.
But it was what the woman said that stopped Mrs Pargeter in her tracks and traced a little finger of ice down her spine.
A young woman’s voice. A voice full of pain, anguish and despair.
It had said, ‘But there’s nothing you can do about it. They’re going to kill me, and nobody can stop them.’
Chapter Five
Mrs Pargeter and Kim Thurrock spent the Monday, their first full day at Brotherton Hall, rather differently.
Kim, in common with all the other guests (well, except for Mrs Pargeter) started with the Seven-Thirty Weigh-In. This ceremony — not actually called a ‘ceremony’, but treated with all the pomp of a coronation — was designed to instil into everyone a proper sense of humility. Harsh reality, spelt out in unarguable pounds and ounces, induced shame and an increased incentive to attain the fantasy of a few pounds or ounces less.
After that sobering experience, Kim Thurrock, fortified by her hot water and lemon breakfast, underwent an hour of aerobics, followed by swimming and weight-training. Her lunch, an exotic melange of cottage cheese and lettuce (garnished with more cottage cheese), preceded a Dead Sea Mud Bath, which set on her like mortar and, if only they could have got it off in one piece, would have made the perfect mould for anyone interested in producing Kim Thurrock clones.
After this she was lashed savagely with Sargasso Seaweed by Lindy Galton. (The Brotherton Hall staff were all qualified to perform all the varied tasks of the health spa, and undertook them in turn, according to some elaborate roster.) Kim then had her pores deep-cleansed with something that in any other environment would have been recognized as a pan-scourer. An hour more aerobics and a very long ride on an exercise bicycle ensured that she was more than ready for her supper, which offered the gastronomic treat of the day — breast of a chicken which had evidently been a recent winner of Brotherton Hall’s Slimmer of the Year Contest. This sliver of meat was parsimoniously garnished with, yes, more lettuce, and the whole complemented by a rather soapy mineral water.