Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse

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Mrs Mendlingham did wake in more or less the same state. Mrs Pargeter, who had just gone upstairs to change for the evening, heard a sudden shriek as she passed the old lady’s door, and went inside to find the cause.

Mrs Mendlingham was bunched up on a huge pile of pillows against the headboard, as if shrinking from something that crawled up the bed towards her. The old eyes were wide with horror.

“It’s all right,” said Mrs Pargeter, going across to take the thin hand. “You’ve just had a bad dream.”

This idea was greeted by another wild cackle of laughter. “Not a dream,” said Mrs Mendlingham. “It was real. It happened. I saw it happen.”

“What?”

But the gentleness of the enquiry did not deceive the old lady. Her eyes were suddenly intelligent and guarded. “Why should I tell you? Only make trouble if I tell you.”

So close to the bed, Mrs Pargeter’s nose could not avoid the conclusion that Mrs Mendlingham had suffered yet another lapse of continence. Taking the old lady’s arm firmly, she said, “Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Fear came back into the faded eyes. “Oh, no. If Miss Naismith finds out, I’ll be –”

“Don’t worry.”

Mrs Pargeter pressed the bell by the bed, which after a moment produced Loxton, flustered by an unexpected call at the time she usually allocated to laying the tables for dinner.

“Loxton.” Mrs Pargeter spoke with cool authority. “I’m afraid we’ve had a bit of an accident. Could you find us some clean sheets, please?”

“Yes, Madam,” she replied in her best chambermaid manner, but before she reached the door she was stopped again by Mrs Pargeter’s voice.

“I want these sheets replaced and laundered without Miss Naismith’s knowledge.”

“Oh, I don’t think that would be possible, Madam. Miss Naismith is always most insistent that I should report…”

Her words petered out as, in one swift graceful movement, Mrs Pargeter’s hand opened her handbag, withdrew a twenty-pound note and held it out.

“Oh. Well, thank you, Madam. I’ll do my best.” The twenty-pound note disappeared as quickly into the folds of Loxton’s uniform.

“I think you should have a bath,” Mrs Pargeter announced firmly to her charge after the door had closed. Taking no notice of the feeble protests offered, she bundled the old lady into a dressing gown and ushered her across the landing to the bathroom. She ran a hot bath and Mrs Mendlingham, now docile, got into it.

Mrs Pargeter went back to the bedroom, where Loxton was just finishing making the bed, and handed over the dirty nightdress. “Could you do that when you do the sheets, please?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“Thank you, Loxton.”

Mrs Pargeter got Mrs Mendlingham out of the bath, dried the frail, slack body, dressed it in a clean nightdress and put it back into the clean bed.

“Now, would you like some food? I could ask for something to be sent up.”

The old head shook. “Not hungry.”

“Is there anything you want?”

The head shook again and the old eyelids seemed to have difficulty in keeping open.

“No, well, that’s fine. More sleep will probably do you as much good as anything. Would you like something to help you sleep? I believe the Doctor left some medicine with Miss Naismith.”

There was no response to this suggestion, but Mrs Pargeter decided it was probably the moment to hand over responsibility, so she went down and found Miss Naismith in the Office.

“Mrs Mendlingham has woken up. She’s still in a fairly confused state. I think it might be a good idea for her to have some of the sleeping draught the Doctor left.”

“Thank you, Mrs Pargeter. It’s most thoughtful of you to tell me.” Since the accusations of the previous morning, Miss Naismith’s manner towards her new resident would now have qualified her for one of the most ticklish of ambassadorial posts. “I will mix the draught for her.”

Mrs Pargeter went back upstairs to complete her original intention and dress for the evening.

Miss Naismith went to the kitchen, carefully measured out two 5 ml teaspoonsful of medicine into a tumbler, and added water. She then took this and the medicine bottle upstairs.

Inside Mrs Mendlingham’s room, it seemed that the draught was unnecessary. The old lady lay marooned, slipping a little sideways on her great pile of pillows. From her sagging mouth, deep, regular breaths sounded. Miss Naismith went across to the bedside table and put down the tumbler and the bottle. They might be needed later in the night.

She looked without sentiment at the washed-out face on the pillows, then briskly left the room.

As soon as the door clicked, one eyelid flickered cautiously open. The room was empty. The other eyelid opened. The eyes they revealed were alert, sharp and ill-intentioned.

Reaching under her clean bedclothes, Mrs Mendlingham produced her hard-covered black notebook and pen.

She started to write.

? A Nice Class of Corpse ?

20

THURSDAY, 7 MARCH – 10.15 p.m.

It has to be tonight. At the moment I can’t tell exactly how much she knows, but with every passing minute the danger of her saying something indiscreet becomes that much greater, so I have to act quickly.

Besides, let’s face it – if I am honest with myself (and that is one thing I have always resolutely tried to be) – I am really looking forward to doing it.

? A Nice Class of Corpse ?

21

At three o’clock in the morning the Devereux was silent except for the constant, almost- forgotten, rhythmic swishing of the sea. Maybe some of the residents snored or grunted in their sleep, but none was so lacking in gentility as to let such noises percolate through a bedroom door on to the second-floor landing where the murderer stood.

The diarist felt heady with suppressed excitement, but completely in control of the situation. It would not, after all, be the first time, and the inquest of the previous day had awarded a seal of approval to the quality of the first murder. Quick, efficient, and without raising a whisper of suspicion. That was the sort of standard that must be maintained in the second murder.

The diarist paused for a long moment outside Mrs Pargeter’s door. She was a meddling woman, the diarist reflected, who showed far too much interest in what went on at the Devereux. There was also a shrewd intelligence there, which might all too quickly make unwelcome connections between apparently irrelevant details. Mrs Pargeter could be a threat.

The diarist put an ear to the door, and heard the deep, rhythmic breathing of someone at peace with the world. That was ideal. How very convenient.

Then the diarist went down the stairs to the first-floor landing and, for the second time that evening, opened the door of Mrs Mendlingham’s room.

The curtains were imperfectly drawn, and a slice of greyish light fell across the bedside table and the pillows. On the table the level in the medicine bottle showed gratifyingly lower than it had been when Miss Naismith had