As Fiona said, she kept herself to herself. At least, they never appeared to disagree. And they had no children to complicate things. Nice standard happily married little couple.”
The bitterness in the voice prompted no more than a quizzical eyebrow from Mrs Pargeter, but that was quite sufficient cue for Sue Curle. Like a scab waiting to be picked, the subject of her own marriage was not to be avoided.
“And no, in answer to your unspoken question, I am not part of such an ideal unit. I am in the throes of a particularly ugly divorce.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be. At least not sorry for me emotionally. I’m delighted to get shot of the bastard. You can be sorry for me because the whole process takes so long and is so bloody exhausting, if you like.”
Vivvi Sprake’s doorbell rang and their hostess went off to answer it, as Fiona Burchfield-Brown leapt in to shift the conversation away from Sue’s divorce. With a slight air of upper-class condescension, she said, “I think you’ll find us a friendly enough lot around here, Mrs Pargeter.”
Mrs Pargeter assessed the claim, and decided that so far the evidence did not support it.
“You know, I mean, we are all prepared to help each other out if something’s important.”
“Yes, like this new Indian restaurant proposal,” said Sue Curle, pouncing on an object of dissatisfaction other than her husband. “Have you heard, Mrs Pargeter, that coffee shop right on the corner of the Parade’s for sale, and someone’s applying for planning permission to turn it into an Indian restaurant?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m still very new to the area.”
“Well, I think we must all get together and see that it doesn’t happen,” said Sue Curle darkly.
“Yes,” Fiona Burchfield-Brown agreed. “Alexander was going to write a letter to –”
“We needn’t involve the bloody men!” Sue Curle snapped. “We women can set up our own protest group.”
“Well, maybe…” Fiona, realising that the conversation was reverting to male shortcomings, turned again firmly to Mrs Pargeter. “Anyway, as I say, if you’ve got any sort of problem, you can always ask any of us.”
“Oh, thank you.” But she thought she might be a bit careful which problems she did ask about.
The door from the hall opened, and Vivvi Sprake ushered in Miss Bored the Belgian’s Daughter. The
“What is it?”
“I am sorry, Mrs Curle,” the girl replied, though there was no hint of apology in her tone. “They call from the office. Some crisis.”
If part of the intention of the girl’s stay in England was for her to learn the language, that part was not being fulfilled. Not a single vowel avoided mangling. And her accent suggested that Mrs Pargeter’s Happy Families shorthand had got the nationality wrong. The singsong intonation was not Belgian. More Scandinavian. Norwegian, perhaps…?
“Oh, sod it. I told them I couldn’t be in till this afternoon.” But, even as she spoke, Sue Curle was picking up her handbag and rising to leave. “All right, Kirsten, you get back to the kids. You shouldn’t have left them.”
“But it was just for a few –”
“You shouldn’t have left them,” her employer repeated firmly.
Kirsten slunk sulkily from the room. Sue Curle said it had been a great pleasure to meet Mrs Pargeter, that she looked forward to doing so again soon, and followed the
Mrs Pargeter saw them pass separately in front of Vivvi’s picture window. On the other side of Smithy’s Loam, Mrs Nervy the Neurotic had just come out of the drive of ‘Hibiscus’. She made no gesture of acknowledgement to Sue or Kirsten, but walked briskly along, looking neither to right nor left.
She must have been invited, thought Mrs Pargeter. And if she’s only just going out now she must have been free to come. Or was there some feud amongst the residents of Smithy’s Loam?
Vivvi Sprake, who had materialised beside her, followed Mrs Pargeter’s eyeline and confirmed her conjecture. “Jane Watson, that is. The missing guest. I did invite her. Said she couldn’t come. Just that, didn’t even bother to make up an excuse. Huh, stuck-up bitch.”
And yet Mrs Pargeter wondered if the description was fair. It was true, the way the woman strode ahead could look as if she was acting from arrogance. But the expression on her face belied that interpretation.
To Mrs Pargeter’s eyes, it looked more as if Jane Watson was motivated by fear.
? Mrs, Presumed Dead ?
Seven
Mrs Pargeter put her feet up after lunch. It had been a tiring week. Not every day you move house. And, she thought as she looked fondly round the sitting-room she had now imprinted with her personality, I’ve achieved quite a lot. Certainly earned a little snooze in my own armchair.
The yielding upholstery and high back felt comfortingly familiar. After all the alien furniture of hotels and rented rooms, it was good to be among her own things.
The telephone woke her and for a second she wondered where she was. Then she reached for the receiver and read out the unfamiliar number.
“Could I speak to Mrs Cotton, please?”
It was a man’s voice. Oldish, sixties perhaps, and with a slight fruitiness. The voice of a man used to speaking in public.
“I’m sorry. Mrs Cotton has moved.”
“Ah, she’s actually gone, has she?”
“Yes,” Mrs Pargeter replied, slightly bewildered. “She moved out Monday evening.”
“I know that was when she was intending to go, but I thought perhaps her plans might have changed.”
“Not so far as I know.”
“It’s just, I was expecting to see her and…Look, never mind.”
He sounded as if he was about to end the conversation, so Mrs Pargeter interposed hastily, “I do have her new address, if that would help.”
“Well, that wouldn’t be any use to me, would it?” said the man rudely. “Goodbye.” And he put the phone down.
Mrs Pargeter was fully awake now. She stayed in her favourite armchair for a few moments, deep in thought.
There was something odd. Why should the man have been so dismissive of the offered address? Was he only interested in Theresa Cotton while she lived in Smithy’s Loam?
But no, that couldn’t be it. He knew that she had been proposing to leave on the Monday evening. And he had implied that she had arranged to meet him and then not turned up.
The situation gave Mrs Pargeter a strange but not wholly unfamiliar feeling, a compound of disquiet and of… yes, of excitement.
She picked up the telephone again and had another try at Directory Enquiries. Maybe the person she had spoken to on the Wednesday night had simply been inefficient. Maybe the paperwork of the Cottons’ new telephone number had not percolated through the system.
Directory Enquiries answered. She gave exactly the same information as she had done on the previous occasion.
And got exactly the same reply. There was no one called Cotton with a telephone at the address she mentioned.
She stayed in her armchair for another moment’s thought after she had put the phone down. Then she made up her mind and went into the hall to put on her fur coat.
¦
The original brochure for Smithy’s Loam did not mention, among its glowing list of the area’s amenities, that the development was near to an excellent public library. But then that would not have been regarded as particularly important by the kind of people who were likely to buy that kind of property. When she had first visited ‘Acapulco’ to
