Yuk, thought Mrs Pargeter. Being in Brother Michael’s prayers was the last place on earth she wanted to be.
In fact, she decided firmly, she didn’t want to have anything to do with the Church of Utter Simplicity ever again. She had never encountered a supposedly spiritual institution that she found so supremely dispiriting.
♦
In the back of the limousine, as it returned her to Smithy’s Loam, Mrs Pargeter thought about the visit. The Church of Utter Simplicity was a deeply unappealing place, peopled by deeply unappealing people, but she did not think anyone there could have had anything to do with the disappearance of Theresa Cotton.
No, they wanted her money too much. Clearly the non-arrival of Theresa’s promised contribution had put them into some difficulties.
Mrs Pargeter glanced idly at the booklets she had been given. The activities of the members of the Church of Utter Simplicity looked as drab and charmless as she had expected. It seemed inconceivable that anyone could go voluntarily into that kind of tedium.
She wondered for a moment whether the whole set-up was crooked, but decided not. There was certainly a lot of hypocrisy there, and plenty of ironic counterpoint to be seen between unworldly ideals and money-grabbing practice. But she didn’t think it was actually criminal – and, thanks to the life she had led with the late Mr Pargeter, she did have a finely attuned nose for criminality in any form.
In the open booklet on her lap she saw a picture of Brother Brian leading a prayer-meeting of colourless men and women in blue cassocks, all linking hands round a large tree.
Ugh! Apart from the nauseous idea of such a get-together, Brother Brian’s smell seemed suddenly still to be with her, as if it clung to her mink. She took out a little perfume spray and filled the back of the car with Obsession.
Then she looked again at the photograph. Tall, scruffy, bearded. Could Brother Brian have been Theresa Cotton’s first bearded visitor on the afternoon of her disappearance?
It was certainly worth investigating.
∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧
Twenty
Mrs Pargeter was glad of her mink when the limousine dropped her back at Smithy’s Loam. Winter had decided to make an entrance and the cold stung her cheeks as she walked to her front door. The disquiet that had been building inside her for some days was now hardening into a more positive anxiety. Soon she would have to take action.
Of course, she had taken some action already. Truffler Mason had been set in motion, and would be painstakingly working through his system trying to trace Rod and Theresa Cotton.
One of them, Mrs Pargeter reckoned, he was in with a good chance of finding.
Making contact with the other, though, she was beginning to fear might be more difficult.
She shuddered, then pulled herself together and made a phone call to Bedford.
♦
The second cars of Smithy’s Loam were fairly reliable indicators of the presence or absence of their owners. If the second car was in the drive, the relevant wife was usually in. Though occasional forays on foot were made to the Shopping Parade or for walks on the golf course, most expeditions from the close were motorised.
The Range Rover was parked outside ‘High Bushes’, so Mrs Pargeter felt safe in assuming that Fiona Burchfield-Brown was in. Once again she felt a surge of irritation at the sight of the car. It was so typical of everything she had heard about Alexander Burchfield-Brown. He’d have to have a Range Rover round here, she thought, need the four-wheel drive to negotiate the notorious slopes of Sainsbury’s car park.
Still, it wasn’t the moment for spleen. It was time to check whether Theresa Cotton’s first bearded visitor had indeed been Brother Brian.
Mrs Pargeter put her mink coat back on and picked up the booklets she had been given at the Church of Utter Simplicity.
♦
Fiona Burchfield-Brown ushered her willingly enough into her kitchen. The chaos was not quite so great as it had been before the dinner party, but there was still a sense of a losing battle against the encroachments of mess. The Labrador was still spread over more than its fair share of the floor. Newspaper was scattered over the table, and silver plates and cutlery lay about, in various stages of being cleaned.
“Alexander’s family silver,” Fiona indicated helplessly. “Coffee?”
Mrs Pargeter accepted the offer, sat down comfortably at the table and produced the pretext for her visit. Had Fiona got the name of a good gardener locally? She had known the excuse would come in useful some time.
Fiona couldn’t be very helpful. They did most of their gardening themselves. Alexander insisted. He said it was different if you had a proper estate; then of course you had staff. Otherwise he thought paying for a gardener was a ridiculous extravagance when Fiona was at home most of the time and could easily do the routine stuff. He mowed the lawns and did any digging that was required at the weekends.
“Oh?” said Mrs Pargeter ingenuously. “I’d really put you down as ‘gardener’ people. You know, I’d have thought people who have jacuzzis put in would be just the sort to…”
“Oh, yes, absolutely.” Fiona smiled weakly. “I’m not sure that we are jacuzzi people, actually. Do you know, those wretched little men who’re supposed to be putting the thing in still haven’t turned up. Alexander’s furious. He says I’m to ring them every morning and bawl them out. Then, if they haven’t arrived by the end of the week, I’m to cancel the order.”
Typical man, Mrs Pargeter reflected, running off to the safety of his office and the protection of his secretary, and leaving his wife to make all the nasty phone calls. At least she had been more fortunate. The late Mr Pargeter had ensured that the course of her life had never been sullied by unpleasantness; he had taken care of all that kind of thing himself.
Yes, the more she heard about Alexander Burchfield-Brown, the less she liked him. Clearly, there was plenty of money around, but he seemed very disinclined to spend any of it on help for his wife around the house, preferring, it seemed, to leave all the chores to her incompetence.
“So, with regard to gardeners,” Fiona went on apologetically, “I’m afraid I can’t be much help. You could have a look in the newsagent’s window down on the Parade. They have cards in there for that kind of thing.”
“Oh, thank you very much, Fiona. That’s a really good idea.”
There was a slight lull in the conversation. Mrs Pargeter knew the moment had come to turn to the real purpose of her visit.
“Fiona, you know I was asking you the other day about when Theresa left Smithy’s Loam…”
“Mmm?” Fiona was absorbed in trying to get the polish out of the indentations of engraving on a silver plate.
“And you know you said that two bearded men came to visit her that day…”
“Uhuh.”
Time for a little lie. “Well, would you believe, I’ve had another call from that man who was asking about exactly when Theresa left.”
“Oh really? Goodness, he sounds a bit of a nosy parker, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, almost like a jealous husband…” No harm in trawling for a little more information while she had the chance.
Fiona laughed. “Oh, I hardly think that would be appropriate with the Cottons. Not that way round, anyway.”
Mrs Pargeter was straight on to it. “What do you mean?”
Fiona Burchfield-Brown quickly covered over the lapse. “Nothing, nothing. So what did this chap want to know?” she asked, adroitly redirecting the conversation.
“He was asking about these two men who visited Theresa that day. Now that really does sound like a jealous husband, doesn’t it?”