“That’s right. And Theresa was out a lot at that time. But Rod had fairly regular weekday visits from someone else in Smithy’s Loam.” She let this hang in the air for a moment, before concluding, piously, “But I don’t think it would be fair for me to say any more than that. Do you?”
Mrs Pargeter thought it would be perfectly fair. In fact, she thought it was extremely unfair for her companion to hint so outrageously and then withhold the most important detail. But she wasn’t optimistic about getting an actual name out of Carole.
“I suppose these things happen…” she said equably.
“Yes, yes, they do. I gather some women get very bored stuck in the house all day…” This was another idea apparently incomprehensible to Carole Temple. Clearly, stalking specks of dust with a pair of tweezers absorbed one hundred per cent of her own attention and enthusiasm. “I suppose they’ll do anything for a change. And for someone that much younger, trapped in the house for most of the day with two children, maybe there’s a kind of appeal about it…”
Mrs Pargeter nodded. Yes; Vivvi Sprake was quite a bit younger than most of the other denizens of Smithy’s Loam. Early thirties, while the rest were all safely over the forty mark. Their promised conversation about gardeners took on a new priority.
“Anyway, up to them, really, I’d say…wouldn’t you?” Carole Temple shrugged righteously. “I mean, I’m the last one to spread gossip…”
Why was it, Mrs Pargeter mused, that the only people who said they were the last ones to spread gossip were always such arrant gossip-mongers? It was a completely self-negating remark like “I’m the last one to make a fuss…” Fondly, she called to mind one of the late Mr Pargeter’s dicta: “Never believe a man who begins every sentence with ‘Quite honestly’ – it’s a sure sign he’s lying.”
She didn’t think she was going to get much closer to the name of Rod Cotton’s local bit of stuff, but having already identified the guilty party to her own satisfaction, she felt able to move the conversation forward.
“Do you think Theresa had any idea something was going on?”
“I would imagine so,” Carole Temple replied tartly. “Didn’t miss a lot, that one.”
This was a new insight into Theresa Cotton’s character. And considering how sketchy the image of the dead woman appeared to be amongst her neighbours, it was a very important insight.
“Are you saying that she was nosy?”
For the first time in their conversation, Carole Temple seemed to feel she had said too much, and started backtracking. “Oh, I think most people are naturally curious, don’t you? Intrigued by what’s going on around them. Just as we’re all intrigued by having a murder case on our doorstep.”
Mrs Pargeter wasn’t going to be shifted off her line of questioning quite so easily. “From what you said, you almost implied that Theresa Cotton used to spy on you…?”
“No, of course not.” Carole squashed this idea brusquely. “Well, if I gave that impression, I didn’t mean to.”
But the cover-up wasn’t completely convincing. There had been some bad blood between the neighbours at some point, of that Mrs Pargeter felt certain. And if Carole had thought Theresa over-curious, then maybe Theresa had seen something that her neighbour had not wished her to see…
And, if there had been some resentment or grudge between them, then it was just the kind of thing that Theresa would have tried to clear from her mind before dedicating herself to the Church of Utter Simplicity…
“Tell me, Carole…” said Mrs Pargeter abruptly. “Did Theresa Cotton come to see you the Monday evening before she left – or was supposed to leave – Smithy’s Loam?”
“What?” Carole Temple was thrown for a moment, but quickly regained control. “Oh, yes, she did. Just dropped in to say goodbye.”
And what else, apart from goodbye, Mrs Pargeter wondered. She looked fixedly at her neighbour and was rewarded by Carole’s turning away to offer more coffee. Something had definitely happened, something had definitely been said that night. And Mrs Pargeter felt confident that, given time, she could find out what had happened, and what had been said.
A pattern was beginning to emerge. A pattern of Theresa Cotton, following the recommendations of the odious Brother Michael, going round Smithy’s Loam, clearing her mind of resentments and grudges. Fiona Burchfield-Brown had admitted that Theresa had appeared; so had Sue Curle, Vivvi Sprake, and now Carole Temple. Mrs Pargeter wondered whether Jane Watson had been on the calling-list, too.
Each of the women Mrs Pargeter had spoken to had said that the murder victim had come just to say goodbye. And yet each had spoken with some embarrassment. And, from the letter she had discovered, Mrs Pargeter knew that the intention of Theresa’s visits had been much more than just to say goodbye.
She became aware that Carole Temple was talking again. “It’s tragic, isn’t it, really? That people can do that kind of thing to each other?”
“Murder?”
“Mm. And to do it to someone you love – or at least to someone who presumably you did once love…”
“‘Yet each man kills the thing he loves’,” Mrs Pargeter murmured,
“By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word.
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!”
Carole Temple looked at her in amazement. Evidently literary quotation was not part of the Temple lifestyle. Yes, suddenly Mrs Pargeter noticed something she had missed about the spotless sitting-room – as in her own house during the Cottons’ ownership, there were no books in evidence, no books of any sort, anywhere.
“
It was true. The late Mr Pargeter had found Wilde a great solace, especially in times of enforced idleness.
“Ah.” Carole Temple remained nonplussed. “Still, as I say, it is tragic.”
“Oh, indeed,” Mrs Pargeter agreed devoutly. “So…you think that Rod murdered Theresa?”
“Well, yes, of course. He was her husband.” The matter-of-fact way in which this was said did not argue a very high opinion of the institution of marriage. “He must have done it. It’s the only possible solution, isn’t it?”
Well, no, thought Mrs Pargeter to herself, there are one or two other possibilities.
? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?
Twenty-Six
“Mrs Pargeter, it’s Truffler,” said the familiar bereaved voice. “I got your message.”
“Oh, hello. Thank you for ringing back.”
“I think I’d probably have worked out for myself that it was only the man you were after.”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I was just afraid that, if you were actually out investigating, you might not have seen the papers or heard the news.”
“No, I heard. Sad business, isn’t it?” Since Truffler Mason made everything sound like a sad business, his intonation did not change for this observation.
“Yes. Very sad.”
“Did you suspect that that was what had happened when you asked me to trace her?”
“I hoped it hadn’t,” Mrs Pargeter replied cautiously, “but I was rather afraid it might have done.”
Truffler Mason let out a mournful sigh. “Of course, it means that I’m not going to be the only one trying to find the husband…”
“No. The police are definitely on to him. They came and talked to me.”
“Hm.”
“Still, you’ve got a start on them.”
“Oh yes,” Truffler Mason agreed lugubriously. “Yes, a bit of a start, yes.”
