that old Craggy Wilkinson was in charge in most of the cases, we could have had real problems. Any DI who wasn’t one carnation short of a bouquet would have done for the lot of us. Palings Price has got a lot to answer for.”
There was a silence, before, with his large hands tensed on his thighs and a shadow of menace in his voice, Truffler Mason asked, “What do you want done about him?”
“Palings?”
He nodded. “He’s been a naughty boy, and naughty boys have to be punished.”
“Oh,” said Mrs Pargeter airily, “for the time being, I think we can leave that to the police. The D’Acosta boys will put them on to Toby, and Toby’s bound to implicate Palings. So he’ll soon be safely in custody.”
The huge hands on Truffler’s thighs relaxed. “You’re a very forgiving woman, Mrs Pargeter.”
“No, Truffler,” she corrected him piously. “Just a good citizen who has great faith in the British legal system.”
And Mrs Pargeter smiled serenely.
But the private investigator had caught another undercurrent in her tone. “You said ‘for the time being’ Palings could be left to the police…”
“Yes.”
“Meaning that you might have other plans for dealing with him later…?”
“Meaning exactly that, Truffler, yes.”
“Can’t tell me what, can you?”
She gave an apologetic shake of the head. “Sorry. Not quite yet. I’m still just working out the details.”
¦
Gary’s limousine, as ever having a charmed life so far as traffic wardens were concerned, was parked on the double yellow lines directly outside the law courts, so the chauffeur had a perfect view of the happy scene that unfolded before him.
VVO emerged first, with an ecstatic Deirdre Winthrop hugging him. In honour of his court appearance, the painter was dressed in a sedate grey suit and sober tie. There was no sign of his trademark beret, and there wasn’t even paint under his fingernails.
The happy couple were followed out by an equally delighted Mrs Pargeter, escorted by Jukebox Jarvis and an enormously fat man in a pin-striped suit, whose huge body tapered down to tiny black shoes. He was Arnold Justiman, one of the most eminent barristers of his generation, whose services had been frequently called on by the late Mr Pargeter. Arnold Justiman’s record for ironing out the misunderstandings which had led to his clients being falsely accused was so impressive that it was said he could have got Vlad the Impaler off with a caution.
For a man of his skills, ensuring the dropping of all the charges against Reg Winthrop – a.k.a Vincent Vin Ordinaire – had been an intellectual fleabite, but that didn’t make Mrs Pargeter any the less grateful for his efforts. “Well done, Arnold,” she enthused.
“Not very difficult,” he said modestly. “With all the other paintings having been returned, there wasn’t much of a case against him. Now the two Madonnas and the Rubens nude will be returned to their rightful owners in the normal way.”
“And neither Bennie Logan nor Veronica Chastaigne’s names will ever be mentioned in connection with them.”
“Good heavens, no.” He was shocked even at the idea.
“Anyway, many thanks. And full marks for keeping it out of the papers.”
Arnold Justiman shrugged and smiled a smile of patrician confidence. “Most things can be arranged if you know the right people.”
“Yes,” Mrs Pargeter agreed. “I’ve always found that.” She looked at her watch. “And now we’d better go and pay our other call.”
The barrister nodded.
“I’ll just say goodbye.” She moved across to the group celebrating the painter’s acquittal and shook him firmly by the hand. “Congratulations, VVO – marvellous news!”
He clasped her hand in both of his. “Can’t thank you enough, Mrs Pargeter.”
“No, nor can I,” said Deirdre. “I mean, what it must have cost to get Mr Justiman to –”
Mrs Pargeter raised a hand to stop her and beamed beatifically. “It was my pleasure.”
“Well, you’re a saint, Mrs Pargeter, a real saint.”
At that moment Truffler Mason emerged from the law courts. His long arms were wrapped around the three VVO originals which had covered the valuable paintings in the Winthrops’ abortive smuggling expedition. “Here, these exhibits were released for you, VVO,” he called across.
“Oh, terrific!” cried the genius, delighted to be reunited with his masterworks. He gazed fondly at the top painting, the pink-bowed lamb frolicking in front of its winsome windmill.
But the effect of the picture on its creator was as nothing to the impact it had on Jukebox Jarvis. The archivist’s jaw fell open; he was transfixed by the canvas in front of him. “Hey, who did this?” he asked in an awestruck voice. “Can I see the others?”
“Sure.” VVO revealed the lovable ducklings on the frozen pond and then, with a dramatic flourish, the Scottie dog and the fluffy white cat. He looked into Jukebox Jarvis’s mesmerized face. “Do you like them?”
The archivist replied in a voice low with reverence. “Like them? I think they’re absolutely wonderful. I may not know much about art, but by golly I know what I like.” He looked plaintively at the artist, not daring to hope. “They’re not for sale, by any chance, are they…?”
“Well,” replied VVO, unable to disguise how delighted he was by the question, “since you ask…”
As the artist began to expatiate to his new fan on his art, his struggles, his intentions, his ambitions, Mrs Pargeter grinned across at Truffler Mason. Together with Arnold Justiman, they moved across to get into Gary’s limousine.
? Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ?
Forty-Five
Since they had last visited her, Veronica Chastaigne seemed to have shrunk even further. Her body looked lost amidst the bedclothes, her skin tighter, her tiny bones more prominent. Had she been able to stand up, a breath of wind could have blown her away. Only the fierce sparkle in her eye showed the indomitable will which was keeping her alive until all her earthly business had been discharged to her satisfaction.
Arnold Justiman, looking even bigger looming over the birdlike figure in the hospital bed, had taken her through the provisions of the new will. As Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason looked on, he proffered a fountain pen to the invalid and pointed to the relevant line on the document.
“So if you could just sign there, Mrs Chastaigne… assuming, that is, you’re happy with the provisions…”
Her voice was very feeble as she said, “I’m delighted with them,” but the signature that she affixed to the will was firm and definite.
The barrister turned to Mrs Pargeter and Truffler. “And if you two could just sign as witnesses…?”
‘Melita Pargeter’ was appended in Mrs Pargeter’s round, almost childish, hand, and as she passed the document across to Truffler, she said, “It’ll be nice for you to know that the National Trust’s looking after Chastaigne Varleigh, won’t it, Veronica?”
The response from the fading figure in the bed was surprisingly robust. “It’ll be even nicer to know that Toby’s getting absolutely nothing from me! Serve him right for trying to disclaim his own father.” She chuckled breathily. “Toby always insisted he wanted to stand on his own two feet. Well, now he can see what it feels like.”
A peaceful smile stole across her lined face. “And now I know the paintings are back where they belong… there’s nothing left to worry me.”
Arnold Justiman took the will from Truffler Mason and folded it neatly into an envelope. “So… all done.”
“Yes. By me, Veronica Chastaigne…”
“… being of sound mind…” Mrs Pargeter supplied.
“Absolutely,” the old lady agreed. “No problems there. It’s only this wretched body that’s giving out. Oh well, never mind. It’s not as if I haven’t had a good run for other people’s money…”
