Mrs Pargeter wasn’t going to be shifted off her line of questioning quite so easily. “From what you said, you almost implied that Theresa Cotton used to spy on you…?”
“No, of course not.” Carole squashed this idea brusquely. “Well, if I gave that impression, I didn’t mean to.”
But the cover-up wasn’t completely convincing. There had been some bad blood between the neighbours at some point, of that Mrs Pargeter felt certain. And if Carole had thought Theresa over-curious, then maybe Theresa had seen something that her neighbour had not wished her to see…
And, if there had been some resentment or grudge between them, then it was just the kind of thing that Theresa would have tried to clear from her mind before dedicating herself to the Church of Utter Simplicity…
“Tell me, Carole…” said Mrs Pargeter abruptly. “Did Theresa Cotton come to see you the Monday evening before she left – or was supposed to leave – Smithy’s Loam?”
“What?” Carole Temple was thrown for a moment, but quickly regained control. “Oh, yes, she did. Just dropped in to say goodbye.”
And what else, apart from goodbye, Mrs Pargeter wondered. She looked fixedly at her neighbour and was rewarded by Carole’s turning away to offer more coffee. Something had definitely happened, something had definitely been said that night. And Mrs Pargeter felt confident that, given time, she could find out what had happened, and what had been said.
A pattern was beginning to emerge. A pattern of Theresa Cotton, following the recommendations of the odious Brother Michael, going round Smithy’s Loam, clearing her mind of resentments and grudges. Fiona Burchfield-Brown had admitted that Theresa had appeared; so had Sue Curle, Vivvi Sprake, and now Carole Temple. Mrs Pargeter wondered whether Jane Watson had been on the calling-list, too.
Each of the women Mrs Pargeter had spoken to had said that the murder victim had come just to say goodbye. And yet each had spoken with some embarrassment. And, from the letter she had discovered, Mrs Pargeter knew that the intention of Theresa’s visits had been much more than just to say goodbye.
She became aware that Carole Temple was talking again. “It’s tragic, isn’t it, really? That people can do that kind of thing to each other?”
“Murder?”
“Mm. And to do it to someone you love – or at least to someone who presumably you did once love…”
“‘Yet each man kills the thing he loves’,” Mrs Pargeter murmured,
“By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!”
Carole Temple looked at her in amazement. Evidently literary quotation was not part of the Temple lifestyle. Yes, suddenly Mrs Pargeter noticed something she had missed about the spotless sitting-room – as in her own house during the Cottons’ ownership, there were no books in evidence, no books of any sort, anywhere.
“The Ballad of Reading Gaol,” she supplied helpfully. “My late husband was very fond of the works of Oscar Wilde.”
It was true. The late Mr Pargeter had found Wilde a great solace, especially in times of enforced idleness. The Ballad of Reading Gaol had been a particular favourite. That and De Profundis.
“Ah.” Carole Temple remained nonplussed. “Still, as I say, it is tragic.”
“Oh, indeed,” Mrs Pargeter agreed devoutly. “So…you think that Rod murdered Theresa?”
“Well, yes, of course. He was her husband.” The matter-of-fact way in which this was said did not argue a very high opinion of the institution of marriage. “He must have done it. It’s the only possible solution, isn’t it?”
Well, no, thought Mrs Pargeter to herself, there are one or two other possibilities.
∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧
Twenty-Six
“Mrs Pargeter, it’s Truffler,” said the familiar bereaved voice. “I got your message.”
“Oh, hello. Thank you for ringing back.”
“I think I’d probably have worked out for myself that it was only the man you were after.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I was just afraid that, if you were actually out investigating, you might not have seen the papers or heard the news.”
“No, I heard. Sad business, isn’t it?” Since Truffler Mason made everything sound like a sad business, his intonation did not change for this observation.
“Yes. Very sad.”
“Did you suspect that that was what had happened when you asked me to trace her?”
“I hoped it hadn’t,” Mrs Pargeter replied cautiously, “but I was rather afraid it might have done.”
Truffler Mason let out a mournful sigh. “Of course, it means that I’m not going to be the only one trying to find the husband…”
“No. The police are definitely on to him. They came and talked to me.”
“Hm.”
“Still, you’ve got a start on them.”
“Oh yes,” Truffler Mason agreed lugubriously. “Yes, a bit of a start, yes.”
“Are you getting anywhere?” Mrs Pargeter asked diffidently. She knew that Truffler worked at his own pace, and didn’t want to appear to be nagging him.
“Yes, getting somewhere,” he admitted dolefully. “Finding out a lot about his background – and a few other people’s backgrounds. Haven’t actually found him yet, of course – you’ll know the minute that happens – but I’ve got a few leads.”
“Have you, by any chance…” Mrs Pargeter continued her cautious approach. “…found out where he went straight after leaving Smithy’s Loam?”
“Well, after he was made redundant, he stayed around at home for a couple of weeks…”
“So I gather. Maintaining the myth that he was going on to this great new job in the North?”
“That’s right.”
“Any idea what he did while he was at home for that time?”
“No, not really. Drank a lot, I think.”
And conducted his little affair with Vivvi Sprake, Mrs Pargeter reckoned.
“Then he seems to have gone off to various places. I haven’t checked them all out yet. I’d really rather, if you don’t mind, Mrs Pargeter, give you all the details when I’ve completed the investigation.”
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, Truffler.” She wanted to ask how long he thought that might be, but again didn’t want to pressurise him.
Fortunately he anticipated her unspoken question. “I’m really moving along now, Mrs Pargeter. Hope to have some information for you within the week.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m afraid,” he went on, more dismal than ever, “it may be rather grim when we do find him.”
Mrs Pargeter was shocked. “You don’t mean that we’re going to find another corpse, do you?”
“Oh, no. Well, if we do, it won’t be murder.”
“Suicide?”
“I didn’t say that.” Truffler Mason was becoming uneasy. He didn’t like discussing one of his investigations until it was all neatly sewn up and delivered. “What I’m saying is, everything I’ve found out about Rod Cotton suggests he’s gone downhill.”
“Downhill?” asked Mrs Pargeter, eager to have the hint amplified.
But all Truffler Mason gave her was a gnomic ‘yes’, and apologised once again that he’d really rather not say more for the moment.
So she was left to brood on the tantalisingly small amount of information he had given her.
♦
Mrs Pargeter decided that she needed another treat. All this investigation was very exhausting emotionally. Fortunately, in her researches into the area before she moved, she had compiled a comprehensive list of local restaurants, and it was – in a spirit of devilment – the most expensive of these that she rang to book herself a table for dinner.