Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse

∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧

10

An interesting conversation took place after dinner that night between Miss Wardstone and Miss Naismith.

Dinner itself was a formal affair, a kind of static square dance to which, Mrs Pargeter recognised, there were fixed rules. That evening she was content to be an observer, not yet committing herself as to whether she intended to abide by those rules.

All of the residents sat at separate tables, except for Colonel Wicksteed and Mr Dawlish who seemed happy to share. There was no ordering; the day’s menus had been displayed in the Entrance Hall in the morning and they had all made their choices for the two main meals before eleven o’clock.

Some of the guests drank wine. The Colonel and Mr Dawlish shared a bottle of Cftes du Rhone. A half-empty litre of Italian white with a stick-on label reading ‘Miss Vance’ was on Eulalie’s table when she arrived; from this she filled her glass regularly and took long, sighing draughts. Lady Ridgleigh had in front of her a bottle of Malvern water, though her conversation constantly implied that, but for her doctor’s orders, she would be outdoing them all in her discriminating use of the wine list.

Mrs Mendlingham and Miss Wardstone drank ordinary water. The latter did not hide her disapproval of alcoholic indulgence; many sniffs were heard whenever the subject was discussed. She frequently reasserted that she had never touched the beastly stuff and appeared to regard even the intake of food as a regrettably sybaritic necessity.

Mrs Pargeter contented herself that night with a half-bottle of Beaujolais. It complemented Mrs Denyer’s excellent steak pie. The cabbage and carrots had also been carefully cooked, avoiding the curse of sogginess, which afflicts most English provincial cuisine.

Mrs Pargeter was pleased. Her life with the late Mr Pargeter had taught her to appreciate good food, and, after two dinners, she felt cautiously optimistic about the standards of the Devereux’s kitchen.

The square dance quality of dinner at the Devereux also applied to the conversation, though here the rules were so complex that Mrs Pargeter reckoned it might take her some time to understand them fully.

Colonel Wicksteed and Mr Dawlish maintained their customary eliptical sequence of non sequiturs, but they were sitting at the same table. For the ladies, each marooned on her own island, the protocol was less straightforward. Remarks to the entire company were, of course, proscribed, but it was permissible for conversational lines to be cast from one island to the next. These castings were, however, erratic and discontinuous; no conversational flow could be said to have developed.

Mrs Pargeter inwardly decided that something would have to be done to enliven this state of affairs. But, for that evening, she contented herself with almost complete silence.

What did strike her, though, was how little impact Mrs Selsby’s death had had. The old lady had slipped beneath the surface, causing scarcely a ripple to the still waters of life at the Devereux. Her image was already indistinct to Mrs Pargeter, and seemed to be fading as fast for those residents who had known her longer. The Television Room was now unoccupied and none of the residents knew of its brief tenancy by a corpse.

As discreetly as the curtains close behind a coffin at a crematorium, a veil had been drawn over Mrs Selsby’s death.

♦

Loxton was clearing the sweet plates (apple and blackberry crumble in Mrs Pargeter’s case, also excellent) and Newth busying himself with pouring coffee, when Miss Naismith swanned into the room. Basing her conclusion on two evenings at the Devereux, Mrs Pargeter decided that this appearance must be a nightly occurrence.

It was a sort of ‘Everything all right?’ call on behalf of the management (not of course so vulgar as a chef’s appearance from the kitchen, nearer perhaps to a commanding officer’s final tour of his encampment). It was an opportunity for any anxieties or complaints to be voiced by the residents.

Miss Naismith’s entry also seemed to occupy the role with regard to television that the Loyal Toast does with regard to smoking. No one went into the Television Room before Miss Naismith appeared (though there might have been a little covert watching of portables in the bedrooms during the day).

But she did time her appearance tactfully at seven-twenty-five. This meant that on the relevant nights Colonel Wicksteed and Mr Dawlish would not miss any of their favourite programme, Coronation Street. (This the two of them, neither of whom had ever in their lives travelled north of Cheltenham, watched with the fascinated bewilderment many people accord to Science Fiction.)

“Good evening,” said Miss Naismith, using her privilege of addressing general remarks on the evening of the 5^th of March. “I do hope that you have all had as pleasant a day as was possible…under the circumstances.”

This was as near as her gentility would allow to a mention of Mrs Selsby’s death. But she need not have worried about offending any sensibilities; the mumbled chorus of affirmation suggested that none of them could think of any reason why they shouldn’t have had a pleasant day.

Miss Naismith granted her new resident a glowing smile. “I trust you feel that you are settling in, Mrs Pargeter.”

“Yes, thank you, Miss Naismith,” Mrs Pargeter replied dutifully.

“Well, if there aren’t any points anyone wishes to raise…?” Miss Naismith inclined her body towards the door.

“There is something.”

Miss Wardstone’s voice came out too loud, with the harshness of someone who had never in her life attempted to make herself agreeable.

“Yes, Miss Wardstone?”

“When can I move in?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mrs Selsby’s room is now vacant. It has a sea-front position. It is the room that I quite clearly stated I wanted when I came to the Devereux. You said that I would be put on a waiting list for the room when it next became vacant. That moment has arrived, and I want to move in.”

Miss Naismith’s forehead wrinkled with pain at this lapse of etiquette. “Miss Wardstone, it is not yet twenty-four hours since Mrs Selsby’s…passing-on.”

“I don’t care. I want to get into that room. It’s mine now.”

“Yes, but –”

“I tried to get into the room this afternoon, but it was locked,” said Miss Wardstone in a tone of accusation.

“Yes. Of course it is locked at the moment. I thought that was appropriate until Mrs Selsby’s relations or solicitor should arrive to take charge of her possessions.”

“You can put them in a box-room or somewhere.”

“No, Miss Wardstone. Mrs Selsby had certain items of considerable value – jewellery in particular. I do have to think of the matter of security. It would be most inappropriate if anything were found to be missing when her possessions came to be claimed.”

“Well, I want to get into that room.” Miss Wardstone’s reptilian jaw-line set hard and firm. “You said I would definitely be the next to go into it.”

Miss Naismith refrigerated another smile. “I know that, Miss Wardstone. And I can assure you that I have no intention of going back on my word. The changeover will be made, but I do not think that it would be suitable to make it before Mrs Selsby’s funeral.”

This was said with such finality that it reduced Miss Wardstone to only a sniff by way of riposte. Colonel Wicksteed and Mr Dawlish took advantage of the change of mood to rise and, murmuring ‘We hope you will excuse us, ladies’, to go off and watch what was left of Coronation Street.

Miss Naismith swept out after them.

Mrs Pargeter looked at the expression of fury on Miss Wardstone’s face. The spinster did want that sea-front room with an intensity that was almost obsessional.

But enough to kill for it? Of that Mrs Pargeter was not yet sure.