Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse

He was no longer looking at her with that disturbing intensity. His eyes were now focused on the highly polished toe-caps of his shoes.

“So that was all off your own bat, was it, Kevin?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbled.

“Oh, I think you do. It was a good idea. Lady Ridgleigh had shown you how it could be done. You’d taken enough of her jewellery to Desmond Chiddham. But you were only on ten per cent there, weren’t you? And, besides, the supply was running out.

“Then you thought of Mrs Selsby. Dear, dozy, half-blind Mrs Selsby. She had a lot of jewellery lying around. She wouldn’t notice if a piece went missing for a week or two, would she? And her eyesight certainly wasn’t good enough to detect that the stones had been replaced. What’s more, with her stuff, you were taking a hundred per cent of the profit. And, to make even more, why not have the settings replaced too?”

“You’re talking rubbish,” said Newth. But he didn’t sound as if he was even convincing himself.

“No, I’m not. You’d got yourself a very good little business sorted out there. Very profitable. Easily make enough to buy a nice retirement bungalow in Lancing.”

Newth’s head shot up at this.

“Yes, I know, Kevin. I know all about it. Your little scheme was absolutely foolproof, wasn’t it? Or rather it was foolproof as long as no one found out. But if anyone did find out, then they could cause trouble for you, couldn’t they?”

Newth had half-risen in his seat, and was looking at Mrs Pargeter with an expression of fixed hatred.

“How did Mrs Selsby find out what was going on, Kevin?” she asked softly.

He was now on his feet, towering over her, every muscle of his body bristling with threat.

“I’ll get you!” he hissed through his teeth. “I’ll get you for this!” For a moment he was about to strike her, but he seemed to change his mind, and backed towards the door.

“Nobody’s going to catch me,” he muttered. “Nobody’s going to catch me!”

He opened the door and rushed out.

Mrs Pargeter hurried into the Entrance Hall, and was just in time to see the front doors bang behind him. She went outside and saw his figure running madly along the sea front away from the Devereux. He was too far away for her to contemplate giving chase.

¦

She felt completely drained as she went back into the hotel. Wearily she dragged herself up the stairs to her bedroom.

Meanwhile, in the Seaview Lounge, Lady Ridgleigh stayed in her armchair and called out peevishly to the empty room, “I wish someone would tell me what the devil’s going on.”

? A Nice Class of Corpse ?

37

Mrs Pargeter flopped on to her bed. She felt trembly, in need of some sort of restorative. For a moment she contemplated the effort of going back down to the Schooner Bar for a brandy. Then, wryly, she remembered that there was no one at the moment around to man the Schooner Bar.

She wondered where Newth would go. She didn’t think he’d get far.

Soon, she knew, she’d have to call the police. Soon she’d have to explain the reasons why she had reached the conclusion that Newth was a murderer.

But it’d keep for a little while. She was going to need all her wits about her for that conversation. Just give herself a few minutes for recuperation.

She knew why she felt so exhausted. It was the release of tension. She had been really terrified of Newth, because she could recognise the logic of a murderer’s mind. The person who had killed Mrs Selsby had also killed Mrs Mendlingham when she revealed that she had witnessed the first murder. Mrs Pargeter, by her hints in the Schooner Bar that evening, had alerted the murderer to her own suspicions, and from that moment had put herself at the top of the list of prospective victims.

It was a huge relief to have survived that interview with Newth.

She felt drowsy, as if she might drift off to sleep.

But still there was a nasty metallic taste in her mouth. Probably just dry, she thought, another reflection of the strain I’ve just been under for the last hour.

Still, she didn’t want to wake again with a nasty taste. She reached sleepily round for the atomiser on her bedside table and brought it to her mouth.

It was an uneven ridge she felt along the side of the little cylinder that stopped her short.

She peered at the tiny atomiser and saw that the two parts of it were marginally out of alignment.

She was instantly alert. The unit was sealed, but with a little force could be opened. She tried it. The cylinder unscrewed without any force at all. It had been opened before.

With unpleasant foreboding, she continued to unscrew the top from the atomiser and lowered her nose to sniff the exposed liquid within.

She recognised the smell instantly. Though the late Mr Pargeter had never used toxic substances in his own business, he had occasionally been at risk from other less scrupulous operators in the same field; and among the many other useful things he had taught his wife had been how to recognise the major poisons.

The atomiser contained cyanide.

Mrs Pargeter went rigid with shock.

Not just shock because someone had tried to kill her.

But shock because she’d used the atomiser without adverse effects immediately before going down to the Seaview Lounge, where she had found Newth.

Which meant that Newth could not have had the opportunity to fill it with cyanide.

Which meant that the murderer at the Devereux was somebody else.

? A Nice Class of Corpse ?

38

TUESDAY, 12 MARCH – 7.30 a.m.

Damn! It didn’t work. For the first time one of my little shots has failed to reach its target. I suppose it always was the least likely to work. With the other murders there was never any question about the method’s efficacy, because I was there to do it myself. This was my first attempt at a remote control murder, and I suppose for that reason the most susceptible to failure.

I know it didn’t work, because I have just seen my intended victim walking down to breakfast. All right, I suppose it’s possible that she hasn’t used the spray yet and my scheme still has a chance of success, but instinct tells me that is not the case. What is much more likely, I fear, is that not only has the cyanide in the spray failed, it has also alerted her to my intentions towards her.

I must tread warily. And I must watch her like a hawk. Any attempt she makes to contact the police must be thwarted. Indeed, nothing has changed. Now more than ever I have to murder her. But the next time there must be no mistakes. No more overconfident remote control ideas. The next time I must get her alone and do it in person, so that I can be sure that she’s dead.

In the meantime, I will act naturally. Down to breakfast with me. Even after this recent setback, I still feel good. Who would ever have imagined that I would derive such pleasure from leading a double life!

? A Nice Class of Corpse ?

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