Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse

ended and there was only a low wooden fence between the sand and the river. Colonel Wicksteed’s tweed hat bent close to Mr Dawlish’s grey cap. They were talking animatedly, as if making final plans.

She ran on, now trying to cut left, away from the river, away from the sea, back up towards the safety of the Promenade and the Devereux. The beach was empty, except for the three of them. Early darkness and a soggy mist combined to isolate them, cut them off from the rest of humanity.

Her boots dragged in the hungry sand. She thought she could hear the heavy pad of pursuing footsteps. Stifling a scream, she looked back.

What she saw was the last thing she had expected. She missed the moment of his launch, but was just in time to see the body of Colonel Wicksteed, with tweed hat detached and arms outstretched, in mid-air between the sand and the river.

For a long second he seemed frozen, as in a photograph. Then he vanished from her sight into the unseen turbulence below.

Immobile with shock, she looked at the small, thin figure of Mr Dawlish, hardly fifty metres away. She waited for him to come towards her, and she felt that, when he did, she would have no will left to run, that she would just stand waiting, offering no resistance to his hypnotic advance.

It was a long, long moment. Mr Dawlish did not stir. He stayed looking down at the river, into which his friend had just disappeared.

Then he turned up towards the Promenade, and walked slowly back to the Devereux.

? A Nice Class of Corpse ?

44

It was a quarter to four when she got back to the hotel. There was no one in the Entrance Hall, and in the Seaview Lounge only Mr Dawlish sat, in his customary armchair. The other residents must have gone to powder their noses before reassembling to await the arrival of Loxton’s tea trolley.

Mr Dawlish had removed his cap, but was still wearing his overcoat. In spite of this, the usual rug was drawn over his thin knees.

On Mr Dawlish’s lap lay the familiar dark blue diary. Mrs Pargeter undid her mink coat and sat opposite the old man.

“Presumably he had no chance?”

Mr Dawlish shook his head. “‘Fraid not. Water’s very fast at that time of the tide. And very cold. Shock of that might have killed him before he drowned.”

“So…the same person killed Mrs Selsby…and Mrs Mendlingham…and now Colonel Wicksteed…”

“Yes.” He looked across at her. “I thought you seemed to be an intelligent woman, but I didn’t realise you’d worked it all out. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” There was silence. Then she said softly, “Can I ask why?”

Mr Dawlish sighed. He reached down to his lap and picked up the dark blue diary that lay there.

“I think this’ll explain everything,” he said, as he handed it across.

? A Nice Class of Corpse ?

45

TUESDAY, 12 MARCH – 2.30 p.m.

The worst has happened. As I feared, now it is not only Mrs Pargeter who knows my secret, but someone else as well. And that person is my dearest friend. He came and told me after lunch. He had read this book and he knew all about my murders. He was sorry for me, he said, but was quite firm that I should go to the police and confess. If I didn’t, he said, he would.

So now I am faced with a frightful dilemma. Either I give myself up, or I have to murder the one person left in the world who means anything to me. And still murder Mrs Pargeter – and who knows how many others before I feel secure? I now begin to suffer that self-contempt and hopelessness that murderers are supposed to feel. The crime is one that at first gives you a sensation of power, of controlling events, but how briefly that euphoria lasts! How quickly one realises that the crime itself is in control! How I wish I had never embarked on this course!

And yet when I started – such a comparatively short time ago – it all seemed to make such good sense. I was in such a corner over the gambling debts. I had borrowed on the strength of my pension and used every other resource I possessed. They were threatening all kinds of things, but what worried me most was the threat that they would tell Miss Naismith. I was well set up at the Devereux and I planned to stay here for the rest of my days. For someone like me to be branded publicly as the kind of bounder who doesn’t pay his gambling debts would have been insupportable.

I was in pretty total despair about it, when by chance, in a private conversation with me, Mrs Selsby let slip about the unusual provisions of her will. I’m afraid from that moment I considered murder as a way out of my difficulties, and once the idea had caught hold of me, it grew stronger and stronger, until it became an obsession. I had only one aim and that was to kill Mrs Selsby.

But of course it didn’t stop there. Mrs Mendlingham had seen what had happened and came to me with a proposition – if she kept quiet, then I was to use my influence to prevent Miss Naismith from turning her out of the Devereux. Of course that was ridiculous. I had no influence with Miss Naismith, and I think, anyway, she had already made up her mind that Mrs Mendlingham should go. So there was no security for me till the old woman was dead.

But then Mrs Pargeter started meddling. I tried to kill her, using cyanide from a suicide ring I’d had made up during the War, but I failed. Never mind, I’ll try again – or at least I think I will.

Because where all was certainty, now all is doubt. Now that I am faced with the prospect of having to kill a friend, the situation is so different. The two old women were near the end, anyway. Mrs Pargeter seems a pleasant enough soul, but I do not know her well nor feel any particular loyalty to her. But to have to kill him – I don’t know if I can bring myself to do it.

I will go out for a walk with him. That will be best. Talk to him – see if I can make him change his mind about going to the police. And, if he won’t change his mind, then I’ll have to try and kill him.

Or, if I can’t bring myself to do that, perhaps I’ll have to kill myself instead.

? A Nice Class of Corpse ?

46

Mrs Pargeter finished reading and looked up at Mr Dawlish. From the wrinkles around his eyes tears flowed unchecked.

“So,” said Mrs Pargeter sadly, “he chose the second alternative.”

“Yes,” said Mr Dawlish. “I pleaded with him not to, but he said there was no other way out. I’m afraid he always used to win our arguments. He said it’d be better all round if he went. ‘It’s a much, much better thing I’m doing than I’ve ever done before,’ he said.”

Misquoting to the last, reflected Mrs Pargeter, as Mr Dawlish went on, “And he asked me to give this diary to you. He said it’d explain everything. He said he hoped you’d agree that his death tied up all the loose ends and that there was no need to go to the police about any of it.”

“No. No need at all,” she said, mindful of the late Mr Pargeter’s views on that particular subject.

? A Nice Class of Corpse ?