‘Really?’
‘Yeah. He worked with Mr Pargeter. He done the budgeting side on Milton Keynes.’ A note of awe came into his voice at the mention of one of the late Mr Pargeter’s most spectacular business coups. ‘Didn’t your old man never mention him to you?’
‘Gaston? No, I never heard of anyone called Gaston.’
‘No, well, of course he wasn’t called Gaston in them days, was he? Called Bennett Wilson, that’s his real name — “Nitty” for short. Come on, he done that job in Streatham too… you know, that security van. You must remember. The one that went wrong.’
A slight frost had settled on Mrs Pargeter’s amiable features. ‘My late husband never talked to me about his work. He was always of the opinion that his business life and his home life should be kept well separated.’
‘Can see his point. Very sensible that — given the kind of business it was. I mean, it’s always the case, isn’t it — what your old lady don’t know, she can’t stand up in court and…’
The end of the sentence trickled away as Ankle-Deep Arkwright caught the full blistering beam of Mrs Pargeter’s violet eyes. With deliberate tact, he misinterpreted the cause of her displeasure. ‘Sorry, don’t know what come over me — calling you an “old lady” and that. Very sorry.’
Mrs Pargeter’s sudden frost was caused not only by her habitual desire to know as little as possible about her late husband’s business affairs (a desire, incidentally, that he had enthusiastically encouraged), but also by the mention of Streatham.
The late Mr Pargeter’s involvement with Streatham had not been one of his most successful business enterprises. Indeed the venture had gone so badly wrong that its aftermath had kept him absent from the conjugal home for some three years.
Mrs Pargeter had felt this enforced separation keenly. Partly, this was because of the close and loving relationship which she and her husband shared, which meant that she had missed him rotten. But her pain had been aggravated by the fact that she knew he had been betrayed in Streatham by one of his closest associates.
Though she kept knowledge of her husband’s business affairs to a minimum, the conversation of the men he delegated to ‘keep an eye on her’ during his involuntary absence did not allow her to be completely unaware of what had happened.
The villain had been Julian Embridge, an unsuccessful research chemist whose fortunes had changed remarkably when he had been taken under her husband’s ever-philanthropic wing. The late Mr Pargeter found employment for many varied talents in his spreading empire, and at that time had decided (from a purely altruistic love of knowledge and respect for the sciences) that he wished to direct some of his resources towards chemical research into the comparative efficacy of different explosives.
The disaffected Julian Embridge, then currently embarrassed by misplaced suspicions about the disappearance of valuable drugs from the laboratory that employed him, had been delighted to become the recipient of the late Mr Pargeter’s patronage. Their relationship blossomed and — a rare occurrence — Embridge was even introduced socially to his employer’s beloved wife, Melita.
She had enjoyed the company of this short, chubby, straw-haired chemist, though she had always felt some reservations about his ultimate reliability. Occasionally into his blue eyes came a too uncompromising light of avarice.
But her husband was delighted with the new recruit, and gave him ever-increasing responsibility and prominence in his business organization. If the late Mr Pargeter could have been described as a captain of industry, then Julian Embridge was the nearest he ever came to appointing a lieutenant. The relationship grew closer and closer.
Until Streatham.
The precise details of what happened were never clear to Mrs Pargeter, but the outcome was not in doubt. Basically, Julian Embridge had confided all of the late Mr Pargeter’s punctiliously laid plans to the very authorities from whom they should most religiously have been kept hidden. The result was that at what should have been the climax in Streatham, the happy resolution of all his preparations, the late Mr Pargeter had found himself confronted by those authorities. And the consequence of that unhappy confrontation had been the separation which still so rankled with Mrs Pargeter.
What rankled even more was the knowledge that Julian Embridge had escaped with all of the Streatham profits (a sum well into seven figures) and then, so far as anyone could tell, vanished off the face of the earth.
Mrs Pargeter was not a vengeful person, but she had made a vow that, if ever the opportunity arose, she would arrange a rendezvous between Julian Embridge and justice.
She was so carried away in these painful recollections that it took another subservient ‘Sorry’ from Ankle- Deep Arkwright to bring her back to the present.
His apology was accepted with a gracious inclination of her head and he went on, ‘Yeah, well, old “Nitty”… after Milton Keynes, he’d got a little stash and he decided he wanted out of the business. Always desperate to be a chef, apparently, but his parents’d pushed him into accountancy — wanted their son in a job which was “reliable and respectable”… which is a bit of a laugh considering the kind of accountant “Nitty” ended up as.’
Mrs Pargeter greeted this reference to possible wrong-doing with a wrinkled brow of puzzlement. ‘So, straight after Milton Keynes, he went to Switzerland and started training?’
“Sright. Loved every minute of it — cooking exotic dishes. Always used to say it made a change from cooking the books!’
Mrs Pargeter did not seem particularly amused by this witticism, and Ankle-Deep Arkwright moved quickly on. ‘So, anyway, when I set up this gaff, I asked old “Nitty” — or “Gaston” as he was by then — if he’d come in with me. Wasn’t keen at first, but, you know, old pals’ act, honour among-’ He recovered himself just in time. ‘Well, you know what I mean…’
‘And is he the only one of my late husband’s associates whose help you’ve enlisted?’
‘Few’ve been in and out — you know, when other commitments permitted… but the only other regular’s Stan.’
‘Stan who brought the food?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t you recognize him?’ Mrs Pargeter shook her head. ‘Used to do a lot of legwork for Mr P. Fixed up everything, and the things — usually people — he couldn’t fix up, well, he stitched them up, didn’t he? That’s how he got his nickname.’
‘Which is…?’
‘“Stan the Stapler.”’
‘Ah.’
‘There was other reasons why he got called that, actually. If people was being a bit… difficult… you know, unwilling to talk and that, Stan used to have this great staple gun that…’ Once again, Mrs Pargeter’s expression decided Ankle-Deep Arkwright against continuing. ‘Yeah, well, anyway… don’t know how I’d manage without Stan. He can do it all.’
Mrs Pargeter decided it would be imprudent to ask precisely what this ‘all’ comprised. ‘He didn’t seem particularly friendly towards me when he came in.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Just his manner. Stan can’t talk, you know, never could, something wrong at birth. Makes him, like, a bit shy, awkward with people, know what I mean?’
Mrs Pargeter felt partially reassured. ‘Going back to Gaston, though…’
‘“Nitty”, yeah?’
‘Does he get many orders like mine tonight?’
Ankle-Deep Arkwright shook his head firmly. ‘No way. Very much verboten at Brotherton Hall.’
‘But I’m sure some of the old biddies’d be happy to pay for decent food.’
‘Oh, certainly, but that’s not the point. Very competitive, like I said, this health spa business. Real dachshund-eat-dachshund out there it is.’
‘Why do you say “dachshund”?’
‘Because it’s a low-fat dog!’ Once again the delivery was a reminder of his stand-up days. Ankle-Deep Arkwright chuckled at his witticism before continuing, ‘No, but to be serious. Lot of competition. If it got around that women coming to Brotherton Hall was actually’ — he shook his head with disapproval before italicizing the
