The others seemed happy enough to accept a drink, though Jane Watson asked for Perrier (tranquillised up to her eyebrows, Mrs Pargeter reckoned, couldn’t risk mixing it with alcohol).
Mrs Pargeter had come to ‘Perigord’ a fraction early, so that she could monitor the arrival of the other women of Smithy’s Loam. She wanted to take a further, contemplative look at each of them, hoping without much hope that one might give some clue to identify her as Theresa Cotton’s murderer.
Mrs Pargeter hadn’t quite worked out yet what form her ‘heroics’ were going to take, but she did feel an inward pressure to force the issue, to bring things to a head that evening. Who could say when she’d have another chance of seeing all the women together?
Though the subject of the murder was by now old news, given the short attention-span of the Smithy’s Loam residents, its sensational nature did still justify an occasional airing, so Mrs Pargeter had no difficulty in raising the topic.
“It’s really sad, isn’t it,” she said ruminatively, “to think of what went on inside the Cottons’ marriage…you know, the kind of pressures that could build up to murder…”
“Yes, it is dreadful,” Vivvi Sprake agreed in a detached, automatic way.
Fiona Burchfield-Brown supplied the inevitable platitude. “Still, you can never really see inside another marriage.”
“No, well, everyone’s private life is secret, isn’t it? I mean, I’m sure most marriages contain a few secrets which the participants would rather stayed that way.”
Mrs Pargeter stared directly at Carole Temple as she said this, and was rewarded by the other woman looking sharply away and announcing, “I think we really should get this meeting going.”
Ignoring this, Mrs Pargeter rode on. “Yes, I think everyone’s got secrets.” Then, suddenly seeing a way of staging her ‘heroics’, she continued, musing, “Maybe that’s what was in Theresa Cotton’s notebook…”
“Notebook?” Sue Curle repeated sharply.
“Yes,” said Mrs Pargeter, improvising like mad, “I found this notebook of hers only a couple of days ago. Stuck behind a radiator in the hall,” she added, remembering the late Mr Pargeter’s instruction always to incorporate as much truth as possible into anything one said. “It had got a list of all your names, all the women who live in Smithy’s Loam.”
“Oh?” asked Fiona Burchfield-Brown, more curious than alarmed. Goodness, how phoney her accent sounded to Mrs Pargeter now she knew the truth. Not real cut glass, more like the cheap stuff that gets given away with petrol.
“Yes, I thought it was strange.” Mrs Pargeter chuckled ingenuously. “Pretty funny idea, isn’t it, keeping notes on your neighbours?”
“What sort of notes?” asked Carole Temple, tight-lipped. “What did the book say about us?”
“Ah…” Mrs Pargeter hesitated for a moment. She should have thought this through. The question had been inevitable and she hadn’t prepared a way of dealing with it. Then she had an inspiration. “Well, I don’t know, you see. Your names are all written out in block capitals, but the rest of the stuff’s in shorthand.”
“And you don’t read shorthand?” asked Vivvi Sprake anxiously.
“Oh, what? No, no,” Mrs Pargeter replied, over-acting to give the impression, to those who would take it that way, that she might be lying.
“Well, I’m sure it’s not important.” Sue Curle spoke evenly, in her hostess role, trying to dismiss the subject. “Now perhaps we ought to get on with –”
“What are you going to do with it?” Jane Watson’s voice was sudden and tense, too loud compared to the others.
“I’m not sure,” Mrs Pargeter replied, exaggerating her casualness. “I suppose I really should give it to the police.”
“There’s no need to do that!” Jane Watson shrieked.
“No,” snapped Carole Temple. “Completely unnecessary.”
“I wouldn’t really bother the police,” said Fiona Burchfield-Brown in a more reasonable tone. “I mean, they’ve always got so much on their plates, and in this case, having decided who killed Theresa –”
“We don’t know they have decided that,” Mrs Pargeter interjected.
“No, but it seems a reasonable assumption that they have,” Fiona continued, “and I’m sure, much as they would appreciate your public-spiritedness if you did give the notebook to them, they wouldn’t really have the time to deal with it.”
“Maybe not…” Mrs Pargeter appeared to vacillate. “Mind you, they did ask me to get in touch if I found anything in the house that looked important…”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not important,” said Vivvi Sprake brightly. “Just an old shorthand notebook.”
“I’m not sure. I think it could be very important,” asserted Mrs Pargeter, fuelling the suspicions of anyone who thought that perhaps she
“Well, the police are never that pleased about having their time wasted,” Sue Curle advised.
Mrs Pargeter nodded. “True. On the other hand, I think I probably
There was a silence among the women of Smithy’s Loam. Each one looked as if she might be about to break that silence, but each one thought better of it.
It was their hostess who spoke eventually. “Well, perhaps we ought to get on with what we came here for. I mean, this business of the proposed Indian restaurant just on the corner of Smithy’s Loam…”
There were murmurs and mumbles as they all settled down to discuss the issue.
“There’s an important thing I’d like to say before we start,” Sue Curle continued, “and that is that any objections I’m raising to this proposed development have nothing to do with the fact that it’s an
There were murmurs of middle-class approval for these sentiments. Carole Temple then went off into a paean of praise for all the advantages of Smithy’s Loam, its delightful rural aspect, its proximity to so many amenities, its sense of community.
Mrs Pargeter reflected that she still had to see some evidence of this last quality, but she hadn’t time to stay and argue. Having set up her challenge somewhat impetuously, she now had to go and organise her protection.
She saw it like this. The murderer was bound to appear at ‘Acapulco’ some time before the next morning, with the intention at least of appropriating Theresa Cotton’s mythical notebook of secrets (though, given the murderer’s track record, Mrs Pargeter was afraid the intention might be more extreme, not to say terminal).
So it was necessary to ensure that, when the murderer arrived, Mrs Pargeter was ready for her.
She knew she was safe for at least an hour, probably two. The murderer would not want to draw attention to herself by leaving before the end of the meeting and, as discussion about cooking smells and litter and property values grew more intense, it was clear that that would come later rather than sooner.
“Oh, heavens!” said Mrs Pargeter, interrupting Vivvi Sprake in full flood on the revolting nature of curry smells (revolting from the environmental rather than the racial point of view, of course). “I’ve just realised I’ve left a casserole in the oven! It’ll be burnt to a cinder! I must dash across and see what’s happened!”
So, with many hurried apologies, Mrs Pargeter made good her escape.
Or at least her escape out of the frying-pan.
? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?
Thirty-Eight
“That’s all right, Mrs Pargeter,” said Truffler Mason, rueful as ever. “You did right to call me. I’ll be over within the hour. You’re sure there’s no danger of anyone coming earlier?”
“No, they’ll be locked in that meeting for a long time yet. For the people of Smithy’s Loam, even murder takes second place to a threat to property values.”
He let out a small, melancholy laugh. “You know you shouldn’t have done this, though, don’t you?”
“Well…”
