Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse

men, but she could not yet be positive which of them had committed the murders.

She had seen both round lunchtime. Colonel Wicksteed, referring to a slight brightening of the weather, had observed that it was about time ‘the dogs of spring were let off their winter traces’.

And Mr Dawlish, to whom she had presented the diary just before lunch, had given her a most peculiar, abstracted, surprised look.

Of course she hadn’t read any of the diary. She hadn’t even opened it. This was another legacy of her life with the late Mr Pargeter. He had kept a diary, but had always discouraged her from reading it. “It’s not that there’s anything in it I’m ashamed of, Melita my love,” he always used to say. “It’s just that what you don’t know, you can’t be made to stand up in court and say.”

Mrs Pargeter could respect the wisdom of that. Although there had been a temptation to read the diary that she had returned to Mr Dawlish, to see if it contained anything that might be relevant to her investigation, it was a temptation she had resisted.

But the need for decisive action was strong. She felt the pressure and she knew that the murderer was feeling the pressure, too. The attempt to poison her had failed, but another attempt on her life must follow soon.

This time, however, she would be expecting the attack. That would give her the edge, and she reckoned she had a reasonable chance of turning the tables on him.

¦

In her bedroom after lunch she had a little nap and then started to make her preparations.

She stowed the late Mr Pargeter’s small binoculars in her handbag, and then hesitated. Should she or shouldn’t she?

The late Mr Pargeter had not been a man of violence, although he had recognised the occasional necessity for it in a world depressingly lacking in moral standards. His attitude to violence was very similar to his attitude to the question of bringing in the police: Don’t do it unless there really is no alternative.

Mrs Pargeter tried to decide whether her late husband would have thought there was any alternative in her current situation.

She came to the conclusion that the late Mr Pargeter’s priority would be, as it had always been, that she should be well protected. And, while some husbands leave their widows only pensions, annuities and insurance policies, the late Mr Pargeter had ensured that his should also have more practical means of protection.

She took the gun out of its secret compartment in the bottom of her suitcase. It was of American manufacture, a neat little weapon with a three-inch barrel, ideal for a lady’s handbag. She slipped it in with the binoculars and put on her boots and mink coat.

She knew the risk she was taking, but she had got to the point where she had to find out the solution.

And she knew that whoever followed her out when she left the hotel would be the murderer of Mrs Selsby and Mrs Mendlingham.

She went into the Seaview Lounge and found all the surviving residents of the Devereux sitting there. Lady Ridgleigh was reading Country Life, Miss Wardstone The Church Times, and Eulalie Vance The Stage. In the bay window Colonel Wicksteed was looking out to sea with his binoculars.

“Japanese job out there,” he pronounced.

“Ah,” said Mr Dawlish.

“Tanker. Make a lot of tankers, the Japs.”

“Oh.”

“Why there are so many problems in the Scottish shipyards, you know.”

“Oh, really?” said Mr Dawlish.

This little conversational surge having come to its end, Mrs Pargeter announced to the assembled company, “Just going out for a stroll. Won’t be long.”

They all nodded or waved acknowledgement of this information.

¦

In spite of the brighter weather, by late afternoon there was a brisk March wind beating along the Littlehampton sea front. Mrs Pargeter, who had decided her route in advance, started walking firmly along the Promenade towards the mouth of Arun, the route on which she had followed Mrs Mendlingham less than a week before.

She went about two hundred yards before looking back, but there was no one hurrying after her from the Devereux.

She disciplined herself not to look back again until she reached the corner of the Smart’s Amusements building. There was a fluttering inside her, a fluttering of fear, certainly, but a fluttering that also contained a strong element of excitement, and even glee. It was a familiar sensation, one that she had often felt during her eventful life with the late Mr Pargeter.

It seemed a very long time before she reached Smart’s Amusements, but once there she stopped and knelt down, apparently to make some adjustment to her right boot.

She looked back over her shoulder.

Yes, now she was being followed.

But it wasn’t just one resident of the Devereux coming after her. There were two of them. One tall and straight, the other small and stooped.

Mr Dawlish and Colonel Wicksteed.

? A Nice Class of Corpse ?

43

The fact that there were two of them confused her. She had been so convinced that only one would follow; she was not quite sure how to proceed.

Her plan for confrontation with the murderer had been to talk to him in the shelters where she had spoken to Mrs Mendlingham. They combined both privacy and a degree of safety. She would be able to talk there in the confidence that there would be people in adjacent booths. Given the murderer’s cautious approach to his other crimes, he was not going to risk killing her with witnesses to hand.

But now both Mr Dawlish and Colonel Wicksteed were coming towards her, deep in conversation, the situation was different. The confrontation would not take place. The murderer had set out on his grim task, only to find that his friend had tagged along. He would have to delay his next murder attempt, and Mrs Pargeter would have to delay her confrontation.

That being the case, Mrs Pargeter couldn’t see much point in waiting around in one of the shelters to talk to them. The only conversation she’d get would be their usual circuitous banter, and she didn’t feel it was the moment for more of that.

So when she reached the shelter, she turned down on to the beach along the side of the Arun estuary. The sea was some way away. The tide, nearly at its lowest point, accelerated the rush of brown water in the river. It looked icy and evil as it swept past.

She was half-way down the beach, still walking alongside the torrent, when, for the first time, she thought of a conspiracy theory.

Suppose Mr Dawlish and Colonel Wicksteed had committed the murders together.

Suppose between them they had eliminated Mrs Selsby and Mrs Mendlingham. And now, between them, they were coming to eliminate her.

She looked back up the beach, and saw something that chilled her like a sudden blast of cold air.

The two men had left the Promenade and were coming down the beach towards her. They were not running, but they moved quickly and purposefully, following her exact course along the side of the swollen river.

Mrs Pargeter tried to speed up, but the sand got spongier the further she went down the beach, and snatched at her boots as they sank with each step.

She looked back. For a moment the two old men had stopped, just at the point where the old sea defence