to ‘Haymakers’ to see Vivvi Sprake, and to ‘Cromarty’ to see Carole Temple. Mrs Pargeter would also have put money on the fact that Theresa Cotton had been to ‘Hibiscus’ to see Jane Watson.
It was time, Mrs Pargeter decided, that contact should be made with Mrs Nervy the Neurotic. There must be some explanation for the woman’s deeply anti-social attitude, and now that there was a murder to investigate, that explanation became rather important. Why was it that she behaved as if she were afraid of the other residents of Smithy’s Loam? There had to be a reason other than mere shyness or arrogance.
Mrs Pargeter knew that she would have to move carefully in establishing contact with Jane Watson. She had seen the woman cut people dead in the street, she had seen her refuse even to answer her door to the inquisitive pressmen. It was going to require some kind of trick to break through that impregnable defence.
The following morning the opportunity for just such a trick presented itself. Mrs Pargeter received another visit from the police. The same two detectives returned and asked some supplementary questions, reverting time and again to the whereabouts of Rod Cotton.
Since Mrs Pargeter had no information at all on this subject (and had no intention of putting them in touch with Truffler Mason, who might have had some), the conversation could not progress far. She was helpful and public-spirited, as ever, but couldn’t really be of much assistance to their investigation.
Recognising this at last, the two detectives thanked her for her patience, apologised that they might well have to be in touch again, and crossed Smithy’s Loam to ‘High Bushes’, no doubt to address similar questions to Fiona Burchfield-Brown.
Some ten minutes later, observed by Mrs Pargeter through her net curtains, the policemen moved on to ‘Perigord’. Sue Curle must have been at the office, because the door was answered by Kirsten, smartly turned out in a new black and white striped dress. The detectives did not go in, and only talked briefly on the doorstep. Then, put off either by her ignorance or her fractured English, they left Kirsten, moving on to ‘Haymakers’ and Vivvi Sprake.
They were there for about ten minutes, before reappearing to go and knock at the door of ‘Hibiscus’. Jane Watson might have been able just to ignore the demands of the newspaper reporters, but she didn’t dare do that with the police. The two detectives disappeared inside the house.
Mrs Pargeter judged the timing to perfection. She let eight minutes elapse, before putting on one of her everyday minks, going out of her front door and walking briskly across to ‘Hibiscus’.
She rang the bell and, as she had anticipated, Jane Watson came to the door. Behind her, just emerging from the sitting-room, were the figures of the two detectives, holding their hats, as if about to leave.
Good. Mrs Pargeter congratulated herself on her timing. With the policemen as witnesses, she felt certain that Jane Watson would maintain at least the appearance of civility. She wouldn’t want to unleash any unnecessary suspicions by suggesting dissensions among the residents of Smithy’s Loam.
“Hello, I’m Mrs Pargeter. We haven’t really met properly, have we? I’m the one who’s moved into the Cottons’ house.”
“Yes…” Jane Watson looked troubled and uncertain for a moment. Then she saw a let-out. “I’m sorry. The police are here, asking me some questions…you know, in connection with…what happened. Do you think it would be possible for you to call back another time…?”
“No, it’s no problem,” said one of the detectives, spot on cue. “We’d just about finished. Don’t let us interfere with your social life.”
“Well…er…” Jane Watson looked confused. She didn’t want to invite Mrs Pargeter in, but equally she didn’t want the detectives to see her turning her new neighbour away. She succumbed. “You’d better come in,” she said, standing back with not very good grace.
“Thank you, dear.” Mrs Pargeter bustled into the house, looking very pleased with herself.
“May have to be in touch again, Mrs Watson,” one of the detectives apologised. “Sorry, as we were only just now saying to Mrs Pargeter, these enquiries can take a hell of a long time.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Jane Watson looked weak and a little confused.
“Anyway, thank you so much for your assistance.” The two detectives made their way off down the path.
Jane Watson closed the front door behind them and leant against it. With a defiant look at Mrs Pargeter, she demanded, “Now what on earth do you want?”
¦
The door to the sitting-room was still open. Uninvited, Mrs Pargeter moved through it, saying, “Just a neighbourly call…”
Jane Watson followed her. “Look, what is this?”
There was anger in her voice, but not the confident anger of righteousness. It was the uncertain anger of anxiety.
Mrs Pargeter looked at her. Jane Watson’s looks were stuck in a time-warp. The Sixties. She looked like a bespectacled Mary of Peter, Paul and Mary; long blonde hair fading a bit now; pale eyes weak behind thick glasses; face, innocent of make-up, showing its lines. A marked contrast to most of the carefully coiffed and painted ladies of Smithy’s Loam.
“It’s just…” Mrs Pargeter began, circling round to her subject, “really this murder that’s made me come to see you. I mean, now we’re all going through the same thing, all being questioned by the police and what-have-you, I thought we ought to stick together…”
“Why?” asked Jane Watson.
It was a disconcerting question – disconcerting chiefly because Mrs Pargeter couldn’t think of an answer to it.
“Well, I don’t know,” she replied accurately enough. “It’s just strange for me, moving into a new house and then discovering that its former owner was murdered…”
Jane Watson grunted acknowledgement that that might be strange, but implied that the strangeness still did not explain Mrs Pargeter’s presence.
“…and I was just wondering when you last saw Theresa Cotton…?”
“The police asked that.”
“Yes, and now I’m asking it.”
“But the police at least have a reason for asking,” said Jane with mounting anger. “It’s their job. Whereas it’s no business of yours at all.”
“I’m just interested,” said Mrs Pargeter, with what she hoped was a disarming shrug.
It didn’t disarm Jane Watson. “Everyone round here shows too much bloody interest in other people’s lives! We all have a right to privacy, and that’s something everyone should respect.”
“Oh, certainly, certainly,” Mrs Pargeter agreed.
Jane Watson’s eyes blazed. “Then why won’t you respect mine!”
“All I want to know is whether Theresa Cotton came to say goodbye to you the evening before she died…?”
Jane reacted sharply. “Why? What does it matter whether she did or not?”
“I just want to know,” said Mrs Pargeter simply.
A change came into the pale eyes behind their thick lenses; they grew more cunning. “I do know why you want to know.”
“Oh? Really?”
“Yes. I know you’re connected with
“Them?” Mrs Pargeter felt she was rather losing touch with the conversation, and what Jane Watson said next didn’t dispel that impression.
“I know what they’re like. Once they get their claws into you, they don’t let go.”
“What?”
“Theresa Cotton was one of them. And you’re one of them.”
Mrs Pargeter began to fear for the woman’s sanity, as these paranoid ramblings continued.
“And, oh yes, I admit it – I was one, too. But I escaped, I got away from it. And I’m never going to go back!” The cunning in the eyes was now giving way to a gleam of madness. “Oh, they think they can take everything from you, but they can’t take your soul! No, that remains your own! They can’t take away your self!”
Jane Watson was now very close. She took hold of Mrs Pargeter’s plump arms and gripped them tightly. “So
