phrase — ‘ having a good time…’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, that’d be the end, wouldn’t it?’
Chapter Four
At the end of their meal, Ankle-Deep Arkwright had opened a venerable and princely Armagnac; for some hours they had indulged in that and further reminiscence. So Mrs Pargeter was a little unsteady as she moved up the staircases and through the corridors of Brotherton Hall to her room on the second floor. (Guests’ rooms were all on the first and second floors; the third, marked ‘Private’, contained staff accommodation.)
In the course of their conversation, Ank and Mrs Pargeter had established some useful ground-rules for her stay at the health spa. She was to be accorded ‘Special Treatment’ for an unspecified medical condition. (Mrs Pargeter had suggested ‘gluttony’, but Ankle-Deep Arkwright was far too much of a gentleman to go along with that.)
This ‘Special Treatment’ excused her any form of other treatment that she didn’t fancy. It was like a school sick note that would get her off aerobics, exercise bicycling, swimming, weight-training… presumably also Sargasso Seaweed Massage and Dead Sea Mud Baths, if they were prescribed. Any activities she did want to have a go at, she was of course at liberty to indulge in. And any that she did want to do one day but didn’t want to the next (or vice versa), she could do or not do as the whim took her.
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.
