Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse

As Mrs Pargeter was making her way from the Schooner Bar back to the Seaview Lounge, she was stopped in her tracks by the sound of raised voices behind the closed Office door. Discovering a sudden interest in the Beaulieu Motor Museum and the Chalk Pits at Amberley, she moved across to the hall table on which such leaflets were always kept, and found that she was able to hear the voices much more clearly.

She quickly identified the speakers as Miss Naismith and Mr Holland. The solicitor was resorting to bluster, the customary weapon of a weak man trying to get his point across.

“…and I don’t see how we can possibly keep it quiet any longer,” he was saying. “Our agreement was that we should only suppress the information for twenty-four hours, anyway. That time has passed, more than passed. And now, under these new circumstances, I think the police just have to be told.”

“I would really rather we kept the matter confidential.” Miss Naismith’s voice was frosted with authority. “The police are here to conduct an enquiry into the death of Mrs Mendlingham. I’m sure they will not wish to be confused by information about another possible crime.”

“Miss Naismith, I don’t think we can any longer pretend we are talking about a ‘possible’ crime. My client’s jewellery disappeared on the night after her death, and there has been no sign of it since. That sounds to me like a classic definition of a robbery, and I have a nasty feeling that the longer we leave the robbery uninvestigated, the less chance we have of ever seeing the missing property again.”

“Surely the jewellery was insured?”

But Mr Holland was not to be side-tracked by this irrelevance. “That is even more reason why the theft should be reported. No insurance company is going to pay up unless the crime has been reported to the police within a very short period. They are not charitable institutions, you know.”

“I still find the idea of accusing my guests of theft acutely distasteful.”

In the Hall, Mrs Pargeter smiled grimly.

“You realise what will happen?” Miss Naismith’s voice continued. “All my residents’ bedrooms will be searched, they will be questioned about their movements at certain relevant periods, they may even have their backgrounds investigated…”

“That sounds an excellent idea to me,” said Mr Holland, belatedly assertive. “Then perhaps we will stand a chance of recovering the stolen property.” With surprising self-knowledge, he added, “I was extremely weak-willed not to insist on that course immediately after the theft was discovered.”

“As I say, I’m sure these gentlemen from the police will not be interested. They probably represent a different department.”

“I’m sure they will be interested. They’re bound to want to get as full a background as possible when they’re investigating a suspicious death.”

“I wish you wouldn’t refer to it as that.” Miss Naismith sounded pained.

“I know no other way to refer to it. That is what it is. And I am absolutely convinced that we should tell the police about the robbery of Mrs Selsby’s jewels.”

Miss Naismith might have been expected also to object to the unadorned use of the word ‘robbery’, but her resistance was at an end. She capitulated. “Very well. The police shall be told.”

“Shall I tell them?”

“Certainly not!” she snapped at Mr Holland. “I am the proprietress of the Devereux, and this responsibility – however distasteful – is mine.”

She was not going to better that as an exit line. Mrs Pargeter moved with discreet speed to the Seaview Lounge and the door had closed behind her, before Miss Naismith emerged, like a galleon in full sail, from the Office.

¦

The police clearly shared Mr Holland’s view that the theft of Mrs Selsby’s jewellery was an important matter. Miss Naismith’s discreet (but none the less shameful) announcement had come just at the moment when they had more or less decided that Mrs Mendlingham’s death had been an accident, and the prospect of something new to investigate was warmly welcomed by both detectives.

All the hotel’s residents and staff were immediately requested to assemble in the Seaview Lounge, where the news of the robbery was broken to them by Miss Naismith, flanked by the two detectives. Though she did her best to make it sound like a minor inconvenience, she could not disguise the fact that there had been a serious breach of the hotel’s security. And it did not take long for any of those present to realise the implied slur on the character of one of their number.

The robbery was, as Miss Naismith had realised it would be, a much greater shock to the residents than either of the deaths. (That was the reason why she had tried for so long to keep it from them.) Even if Mrs Selsby’s or Mrs Mendlingham’s deaths had been proved to be murder (and that idea had not been entertained by anyone except Mrs Pargeter – and, of course, the diarist), the knowledge would not have constituted such a blow to the values of the Devereux.

Theft was such a shameful, lower-class crime. In the mind of Colonel Wicksteed, who probably represented, as much as anyone, the average standards of the residents, theft was a shabby business, on a par with bouncing cheques or not paying gambling debts. It was certainly a resignation issue and, indeed, the Colonel rather regretted the passing of the days when a chap found guilty of stealing would be pointedly told that there was a revolver in the desk drawer and left on his own for an hour or so.

“Under these unfortunate circumstances,” announced Detective-Sergeant Mitford, “I am afraid we will have to search the premises. I apologise for the inconvenience, but I would be grateful if you could all stay down here while we do that.”

“I regret,” said Miss Naismith, trying to make up for the diminution of her stature caused by the news of the burglary, “that that will interfere considerably with the preparations for luncheon.”

When it was explained that Mrs Ayling, that day’s cook, could not possibly have been on the premises when the theft occurred, she was allowed to return to the kitchen, so at least the gastronomic routine of the residents would not be disrupted.

It was also conceded that, since Miss Naismith had work to do in the Office, and Newth had the lunch tables to lay, they might fulfil these duties, on the strict understanding that they did not attempt to go to their rooms.

Miss Naismith, realising that this condition meant she too was on the list of suspects, made a considerable production out of her martyred exit from the Seaview Lounge.

But that was nothing to the production Eulalie Vance made of her reactions to recent events when the surviving residents were left on their own.

“My God!” she cried, wafting across the room in a blur of shawls. “My God! My God!” She came to rest, with one hand winsomely to her temple. “Was there ever a day like this? First, the tragic news of poor, dear Mrs Mendlingham’s death, and then, while we’re still reeling – but reeling – from that, suddenly we’re all accused of being jewel thieves!”

“Hardly all accused,” said Lady Ridgleigh tartly. “I hope no one is suggesting that I might have had anything to do with such a thing.”

Mr Dawlish giggled. “I’m afraid that’s just what they are suggesting.”

“What?” she snapped, her eyes wide with horror at the suggestion.

“No, no, dear lady.” Colonel Wicksteed came in soothingly to mend the fences his friend had broken. “I fear once again it’s the clumsiness of the British Police Force we have to blame. Fine body of men, I’ve never questioned, but, as ever, tact is not their most striking characteristic.”

“No,” Lady Ridgleigh agreed, a little mollified.

“A frightful, frightful thing to happen, though,” Eulalie Vance emoted emptily.

“Oh, shut up!” said Miss Wardstone, whose toleration level of Eulalie was low at the best of times. “What we should be doing is thinking who might have stolen the jewels.”

“Work it out for ourselves, you mean? Be our own Sherlock Holmeses?” asked Mr Dawlish enthusiastically.

“I say, capital idea!” said the Colonel. Then, affecting a rather strange voice, he misquoted, “‘Apply my methods, Watson.’ Eh?”

Mr Dawlish rubbed his hands together. He was relishing the game. “Well, since theft is a lower-class crime, perhaps that’s where we ought to look first.”