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?’
‘Well, she looked dead to me, but then I’m not an expert.’
‘No.’
Mrs Pargeter waited in vain for him to pick up the prompt, so continued, ‘Whereas you are. I’d have thought the first thing a doctor should have done would be to pull the body out and try to revive her.’
‘Don’t you start telling me what I should have done, Mrs Pargeter!’ But her words had had some effect. ‘Yes, I suppose I’d better take a look at her,’ he conceded reluctantly. After a moment’s hesitation, he removed his jacket, folded it neatly on to a bench and started towards the cubicle.
‘Surely you’re going to take your shoes off?’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘That stuff’ll ruin them.’
‘Whether I choose to ruin my shoes or not is, I would have thought, my decision, Mrs Pargeter,’ he said, placing a suede-clad foot firmly into the mud, which rose to cover it.
‘Yes, yes, of course.’
Oblivious to the splashes on his clothes, Dr Potter took hold of the rail and reached down to grab the body. With surprising strength, he dragged Lindy Galton out of the bath in one movement, then slid her along to the central area. The manhandling scraped enough mud off to show that the girl had been naked when she got into the bath.
Dr Potter bent over the body. No pulse-listening or breath-checking. Not even the thought of resuscitation.
Just a quick look, and he turned to the wall telephone.
He got an outside line and barked instructions about collecting the body to whoever answered him.
‘Was that the police?’ Mrs Pargeter asked as he put the receiver down.
