It was clear that Brother Michael himself had not been thoroughly successful in ridding his own mind of resentments and grudges. “I’m afraid your friend Theresa Cotton,” he snapped suddenly, “let us down pretty badly. Particularly financially. There was some maintenance work on the roof here which we’ve recently had started on the promise of certain moneys from her.”
“I’m so sorry. Well, I wouldn’t like to think that my being a friend of hers might inhibit my chances of –”
“My dear Mrs Pargeter, of course not.” Brother Michael was suddenly as near as he ever got to charm. The effect of the limousine and the jewellery had not diminished. “No, no. We would be delighted if you wish to consider giving up your life for God.”
“Yes.” And not just my life, thought Mrs Pargeter – that’d be the smallest part of it. “Well, look, obviously I’ll want to think about all this…”
“Naturally. Would you like me to show you round the premises, give you an idea of the sort of works we do here?”
Why was it people of that sort always talked about ‘works’ rather than ‘work’, she reflected, before replying, “That’s very kind, but I really must say no. Keep that pleasure for another visit. You’ve already given me so much food for thought this morning.”
“Good. I am glad to hear it. And may I express the hope that God will make your thoughts grow and come nearer to His Almighty Simplicity.”
Mrs Pargeter was not quite sure of the proper response to a remark like that. She made do with, “Oh, thank you.”
“Let me give you some literature about our beliefs and the works that we do here.” He thrust a couple of colour-printed booklets into her hands. On the front of each were the words ‘Church of Utter Simplicity’ and a logo which featured a cross, a fish, a tree and a couple of rabbits.
Then Brother Michael led her to the door and opened it. “God bless you,” he said, as if he were the only person on earth with franchising rights in divine benison. “You will be in my prayers.”
Yuk, thought Mrs Pargeter. Being in Brother Michael’s prayers was the last place on earth she wanted to be.
In fact, she decided firmly, she didn’t want to have anything to do with the Church of Utter Simplicity ever again. She had never encountered a supposedly spiritual institution that she found so supremely dispiriting.
¦
In the back of the limousine, as it returned her to Smithy’s Loam, Mrs Pargeter thought about the visit. The Church of Utter Simplicity was a deeply unappealing place, peopled by deeply unappealing people, but she did not think anyone there could have had anything to do with the disappearance of Theresa Cotton.
No, they wanted her money too much. Clearly the non-arrival of Theresa’s promised contribution had put them into some difficulties.
Mrs Pargeter glanced idly at the booklets she had been given. The activities of the members of the Church of Utter Simplicity looked as drab and charmless as she had expected. It seemed inconceivable that anyone could go voluntarily into that kind of tedium.
She wondered for a moment whether the whole set-up was crooked, but decided not. There was certainly a lot of hypocrisy there, and plenty of ironic counterpoint to be seen between unworldly ideals and money-grabbing practice. But she didn’t think it was actually criminal – and, thanks to the life she had led with the late Mr Pargeter, she did have a finely attuned nose for criminality in any form.
In the open booklet on her lap she saw a picture of Brother Brian leading a prayer-meeting of colourless men and women in blue cassocks, all linking hands round a large tree.
Ugh! Apart from the nauseous idea of such a get-together, Brother Brian’s smell seemed suddenly still to be with her, as if it clung to her mink. She took out a little perfume spray and filled the back of the car with
Then she looked again at the photograph. Tall, scruffy, bearded. Could Brother Brian have been Theresa Cotton’s first bearded visitor on the afternoon of her disappearance?
It was certainly worth investigating.
? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?
Twenty
Mrs Pargeter was glad of her mink when the limousine dropped her back at Smithy’s Loam. Winter had decided to make an entrance and the cold stung her cheeks as she walked to her front door. The disquiet that had been building inside her for some days was now hardening into a more positive anxiety. Soon she would have to take action.
Of course, she had taken some action already. Truffler Mason had been set in motion, and would be painstakingly working through his system trying to trace Rod and Theresa Cotton.
One of them, Mrs Pargeter reckoned, he was in with a good chance of finding.
Making contact with the other, though, she was beginning to fear might be more difficult.
She shuddered, then pulled herself together and made a phone call to Bedford.
¦
The second cars of Smithy’s Loam were fairly reliable indicators of the presence or absence of their owners. If the second car was in the drive, the relevant wife was usually in. Though occasional forays on foot were made to the Shopping Parade or for walks on the golf course, most expeditions from the close were motorised.
The Range Rover was parked outside ‘High Bushes’, so Mrs Pargeter felt safe in assuming that Fiona Burchfield-Brown was in. Once again she felt a surge of irritation at the sight of the car. It was so typical of everything she had heard about Alexander Burchfield-Brown. He’d have to have a Range Rover round here, she thought, need the four-wheel drive to negotiate the notorious slopes of Sainsbury’s car park.
Still, it wasn’t the moment for spleen. It was time to check whether Theresa Cotton’s first bearded visitor had indeed been Brother Brian.
Mrs Pargeter put her mink coat back on and picked up the booklets she had been given at the Church of Utter Simplicity.
¦
Fiona Burchfield-Brown ushered her willingly enough into her kitchen. The chaos was not quite so great as it had been before the dinner party, but there was still a sense of a losing battle against the encroachments of mess. The Labrador was still spread over more than its fair share of the floor. Newspaper was scattered over the table, and silver plates and cutlery lay about, in various stages of being cleaned.
“Alexander’s family silver,” Fiona indicated helplessly. “Coffee?”
Mrs Pargeter accepted the offer, sat down comfortably at the table and produced the pretext for her visit. Had Fiona got the name of a good gardener locally? She had known the excuse would come in useful some time.
Fiona couldn’t be very helpful. They did most of their gardening themselves. Alexander insisted. He said it was different if you had a proper estate; then of course you had staff. Otherwise he thought paying for a gardener was a ridiculous extravagance when Fiona was at home most of the time and could easily do the routine stuff. He mowed the lawns and did any digging that was required at the weekends.
“Oh?” said Mrs Pargeter ingenuously. “I’d really put you down as ‘gardener’ people. You know, I’d have thought people who have jacuzzis put in would be just the sort to…”
“Oh, yes, absolutely.” Fiona smiled weakly. “I’m not sure that we
Typical man, Mrs Pargeter reflected, running off to the safety of his office and the protection of his secretary, and leaving his wife to make all the nasty phone calls. At least she had been more fortunate. The late Mr Pargeter had ensured that the course of her life had never been sullied by unpleasantness; he had taken care of all that kind of thing himself.
Yes, the more she heard about Alexander Burchfield-Brown, the less she liked him. Clearly, there was plenty
