way. The murderer was counting on the fact that either the police wouldn’t be able to find Rod Cotton or that, if they did, they wouldn’t be able to get any sense out of him…”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“So if Rod had made contact with the murderer recently, the murderer might have reckoned he knew too much for safety.”
“But why would Rod make contact?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because of something you said when you talked to him…”
“Oh, good heavens, I never thought of that.”
“I may be wrong. All I’m saying, Mrs Pargeter, is that you’re up against someone who won’t hesitate to use violence again. So, if you are planning any heroics –”
“I don’t think heroics are my style at all,” said Mrs Pargeter coyly.
“From what I’ve seen of you, I think they just might be. Anyway, if you are planning any kind of confrontation, make sure that I’m around.”
“Very well.” She spoke contritely, like an obedient little girl. It was rather comforting, though, the thought that she had a protector on hand when she needed one. Comfortingly familiar – it was, after all, a feeling she got used to while the late Mr Pargeter had been alive.
¦
Truffler rang back within the hour.
“Only found out one thing about the Burchfield-Brown woman,” he announced, like an undertaker discreetly offering his price-list.
“Yes?”
“Well, she’s not the genuine article.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the accent, all that…the education – it’s phoney.”
“She wasn’t at Roedean or finishing schools or anything like that?”
“No. She left a comprehensive in Essex at sixteen and worked in the checkout in Tesco’s.”
“What? Well, how on earth did she transform herself into this Sloane Ranger figure that she is now?”
“Don’t know all the details. She had elocution lessons, certainly, started grooming herself, met a few of the right sort of people, I suppose…”
“Married one of the right sort of people?”
“Maybe.”
“He must know, though, mustn’t he? Alexander, her husband. I mean, she could fool neighbours and people when she moved into a new area, but she couldn’t keep that kind of secret from someone she was living with, could she?”
“No, I doubt if she could. But then it seems that he’s no more the genuine article than she is.”
“What, so all his family silver and Range Rover and upper-crust manners and Hooray Henry accent are just made up?”
“That’s the way it seems, Mrs Pargeter, yes.”
She was thoughtful. “It does make sense of certain things, actually. Fiona’s constant fear of letting her husband down, for a start. And I suppose actually it’s an easy enough front to maintain somewhere like this. You move to a new area, you present yourself as you choose, and people accept you at face value. No problem. Particularly in Smithy’s Loam, where nobody’s that interested in anyone else, anyway.”
“Well, as I say, Mrs Pargeter, that’s it. They’re both acting like they’ve got a social background that they haven’t. Common enough deception, I suppose.”
“Yes.” It was, however, a deception whose necessity Mrs Pargeter could never understand. Not once in her life had she ever tried to change herself in any particular. People either took her as she was or they didn’t. And as for those who didn’t…well, she never reckoned it was
“But,” Truffler went on dolefully, “I mean, that’s a secret, OK. But it’s not a secret anyone would kill to keep quiet, is it?”
“I’m not so sure,” said Mrs Pargeter. “You don’t know what people are like in Smithy’s Loam.”
? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?
Thirty-Six
Now more than ever Mrs Pargeter felt convinced that Theresa Cotton had been murdered by one of the women in Smithy’s Loam. One of the women who had been visited in Theresa’s final mind-clearing circuit on the evening she died.
There were five suspects, each with a guilty secret. And if Theresa had confronted each one with those secrets, as seemed likely, then any of the five might have had a motive for murder.
In her mind, Mrs Pargeter went round the close once more. Fiona Burchfield-Brown in ‘High Bushes’; in ‘Perigord’, Sue Curle (and of course Kirsten, but Kirsten had not been in at the time of Theresa’s confrontations, so she had to be excluded); Vivvi Sprake in ‘Haymakers’; Jane Watson in ‘Hibiscus’; and Carole Temple in ‘Cromarty’.
Fiona Burchfield-Brown had to maintain secrecy about her true origins.
Sue Curle was trying to keep quiet the affair with her boss, the West Indian Geoff, desperate lest her husband should find out and use it as a lever in his fight for custody of their children.
Vivvi Sprake had to keep her husband in ignorance of her little flutter with Rod Cotton.
Jane Watson thought that Theresa represented a threat to take her back to the hated Church of Utter Simplicity.
And Carole Temple had no doubt been confronted with the news of her husband’s transvestism. Not that it had probably been news to her; for Carole the terrible part would be that someone else knew about it.
Five women with five secrets. And one secret so important to its owner that it could justify murder.
Mrs Pargeter thought she had done well. She had worked most of it out on her own, and had had an unrivalled support team to follow up her ideas.
But she still hadn’t reached the solution. She still didn’t know who had killed Theresa Cotton. It was very frustrating.
Hmm, what was that expression Truffler Mason had used? Heroics, yes, that was it.
Maybe, Mrs Pargeter thought, with an irrepressible flicker of glee, it is time for a few heroics.
? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?
Thirty-Seven
It had been quite an achievement for Sue Curle to persuade Jane Watson to come along to the discussion meeting about the proposed Indian restaurant. When receiving hers, Mrs Pargeter had asked whether an invitation had also been issued to ‘Hibiscus’, and Sue had said no, there was no point, Jane never came to anything. Mrs Pargeter had been of the opinion that it was still worth trying and made an exploratory phone call herself to prepare the ground. Her words must have been effective, because Sue Curle’s invitation was accepted, and Jane Watson, looking nervous but defiant, appeared at ‘Perigord’ on the dot of six o’clock when the meeting was due to start.
It was held in Sue Curle’s front room, whose decor favoured the now slightly dated Laura Ashley cowshed look. Dark brown paint, stripped pine furniture, curtains with little flowers on them, tiny framed Victorian prints and polished agricultural implements hanging on the walls.
Through the hatch to the kitchen, the sound could be heard of Kirsten giving supper to the two subjects of the custody battle. Sue had put wine bottles and glasses out to welcome her guests, though Carole Temple, for one, thought this introduced an unwarranted element of frivolity into the proceedings. “We are here to have a serious meeting,” she said, “not a social occasion.” And then, in an undertone, “And I still think it’s ridiculous not to have the men along.”
