“Anyway, Vivvi, I was just ringing to thank you so much for Friday.”
“Oh, it was a pleasure.”
“No, most kind of you to set it up. I was delighted to have the opportunity to meet everyone.”
“Well, we are all so glad you could come.” But somehow the use of the word ‘we’ seemed inappropriate in Smithy’s Loam.
“I’d love to repay the compliment at some point.”
“Oh, that’d be terrific. I’d love to come, but, you know, I do get very tied up with the kids and…”
“Yes. Yes, well, we’ll sort out a time.” But as she said the words, Mrs Pargeter felt no urgency to leap for her calendar.
“Oh, incidentally, Mrs Pargeter, did you hear that Sue Curle is trying to set up a women’s action group to stop this Indian restaurant menace…?”
“She mentioned something about it. I didn’t realise she’d actually set up a group.”
“Well, she’s setting it up. I do hope we can count on your support.”
Not, Mrs Pargeter decided, the moment to say what an enormous convenience she thought a nearby Indian restaurant would be. No need to ruffle the neighbourhood feathers yet. “Oh, I’d certainly be interested to hear more about it,” she said prudently. “Was Theresa Cotton against it?”
“What?”
“This Indian restaurant. Did she oppose the idea?”
“Um…” Vivvi Sprake sounded as if she was racking her brains to recall who Theresa Cotton was. “Oh, I don’t think we’d heard about the planning application before she left.”
“It was only a week ago.”
“Was it really? It seems ages.”
“Did you see her before she left?”
“Theresa? Yes, she did just drop round to, you know, say goodbye before she was off.”
“On the Monday evening?”
“Yes.”
“Ah.”
“Anyway,” said Vivvi forcibly, “thank you so much for calling, Mrs Pargeter. I do appreciate it.”
“Oh, one thing, Vivvi…”
“Yes?”
“I’ve actually been trying to contact Theresa Cotton, but I haven’t managed to get through.” That at least was absolutely true. “Just something I need to check on the house. I wondered if you could tell me who Rod Cotton works for…? I thought I could try and contact him instead.”
“Yes, of course. He’s with C,Q,F&S. Just a min, I’ve got the number here in my address book.” She gave it. “I mean, that’s the number of the main office down here.” A slight unidentifiable change seemed to have come into Vivvi Sprake’s voice. “I haven’t got the number of the Yorkshire branch. But the main office’d be able to tell you.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Well, that’s very kind of you, Vivvi. And once again, thank you so much for Friday.”
As she put the phone down, Mrs Pargeter looked puzzled.
What was the strange note that had come into Vivvi Sprake’s voice when she started talking about Rod Cotton?
And, come to that, why had Vivvi Sprake got Rod Cotton’s old office number in her address book?
? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?
Eleven
One of the luxuries of Mrs Pargeter’s new home was its plethora of telephones. There was one in the sitting-room, one in the main bedroom and one in the hall. It was the last of these that she had used to phone Littlehaven’s. Somehow being in the hall seemed more purposeful, more businesslike than operating from the comfort of her favourite high-backed armchair.
The hall phone stood on a little shelf just above a central heating radiator. Deciding it was still a little early to put her call through to ‘C,Q,F&S’ (whatever they might be), she turned away towards the kitchen to make herself a cogitative cup of coffee. But, in doing so, she dislodged the scrap of paper on which she had written the firm’s number and watched with dismay as it slipped against the wall and disappeared down the back of the radiator.
One of the annoying things about moving into a new house is that, though you quickly know where the large items in your possession are, it takes some time before you locate all the small but crucial pieces of impedimenta that make life possible. Amongst such pieces of impedimenta that Mrs Pargeter could not at that moment find was something long enough to reach behind the radiator and retrieve the missing telephone number.
It was ridiculous. There must be something in the house, she told herself. She went through the kitchen and tried the handles of various brooms and sweepers, but they all proved too thick to fit the narrow space. She went out to the shed, but encountered the same problem with all of her garden tools. She tried upstairs, rifling through cupboards and some still unpacked boxes in one of the spare rooms, but again drew a blank.
This was infuriating. She must have
She stood on the landing in a quandary of irritation. It was such a simple thing she was looking for. Mrs Pargeter prided herself on her independence, and was determined not to be defeated by something so trivial.
It was then that she remembered the late Mr Pargeter’s swordstick.
She had put it in one of her high bedroom cupboards the previous week, and now she had to climb on a chair to get it down.
The stick felt reassuringly smooth and solid in her hand. Its dark wood tapered down to a brass ferrule and was topped by a substantial brass grip in the shape of some fanciful heraldic beast. Remembering its secret, Mrs Pargeter gave the grip two little half-twists and withdrew the gleaming blade. It was nearly three feet long and at no point wider than an inch. Both edges and the point were razor-sharp.
The late Mr Pargeter had abhorred violence, and it was his proud boast that he had never had occasion actually to use the swordstick. However, there had been occasions in his particular line of business when he had found its presence in his hand a considerable source of reassurance.
As she went downstairs, Mrs Pargeter looked at her watch and saw with irritation that it was now half-past ten. Her search of the house had taken a disproportionately long time. Still, at least it was no longer too early to make the call which she hoped would locate Rod Cotton.
She squinted down behind the radiator and saw how the paper was trapped. It was caught on the ledge at the top of the skirting-board. She slid the swordstick blade down the gap from above and worked it along to dislodge the missing phone number.
Successful first time. The sheet of paper fluttered on to the carpet at her feet.
But that was not the only object which the swordstick dislodged.
There was also a letter with a first-class stamp but no postmark. It was addressed in a firm feminine hand to: “Brother Michael, The Church of Utter Simplicity, Dunstridge Manor, Dunstridge, Sussex.”
The decision to open the letter was made instantly. Though Mrs Pargeter had a proper respect for individual privacy, she felt that Theresa Cotton’s subterfuge with the false address justified a relaxation of customary moral usages. And she knew that the letter had been written by the former occupant of ‘Acapulco’. They had had correspondence about the details of the fittings which were to be left in the house, and Mrs Pargeter recognised the handwriting.
The letter must have slipped off the telephone shelf, just as the piece of paper had, and, probably in the confusion of moving, Theresa Cotton had forgotten that it had never reached the post-box.
Mrs Pargeter opened the letter and read it, still standing in the hall.
It was written on notepaper headed with the Smithy’s Loam address and dated the Thursday before the move.
