Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse

∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧

12

After breakfast on the morning of the 6^th of March, Miss Naismith asked Mrs Mendlingham whether she would mind stepping into the Office for a brief word. The expression in the old woman’s wild eyes suggested that she would mind a lot, but she obediently followed the proprietress out of the Admiral’s Dining Room.

“I wonder what that was about…?”

Miss Wardstone voiced her conjecture to no one in particular. Apart from her, only Eulalie Vance and Mrs Pargeter remained at their breakfast tables. Colonel Wicksteed had made his morning quip about time and tide, and soon been followed out by Mr Dawlish and Lady Ridgleigh. Mrs Pargeter sat relishing the last of her kipper, and Eulalie Vance stayed ostentatiously rereading a letter that had arrived by the morning post.

“I’ve no idea,” said Mrs Pargeter, politely picking up the conversational baton.

“A matter of personal hygiene, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Miss Wardstone sniffed vindictively, though whether this was an illustration of her words or the product of mere habit was not clear.

“Oh?” asked Mrs Pargeter innocently.

“Come on. You must have smelled it. I’m afraid dear Mrs Mendlingham is beginning rather to…lose control.” Miss Wardstone emitted a little bark of unamused laughter and then added grimly, “I think she may be on the transfer list.”

“Transfer list?”

“Miss Naismith is very insistent that the Devereux is for active people. In other words, people who are physically fit and in full control of themselves. I’m not sure that Mrs Mendlingham any longer qualifies.” Again a nasty little laugh.

“And where might she be transferred to?”

“The South Coast isn’t short of Old People’s Homes, Mrs Pargeter. Private hotels like the Devereux are considerably rarer. And Miss Naismith is absolutely right to apply her rules with the maximum stringency.”

Meaning, Mrs Pargeter presumed, that Mrs Mendlingham was being asked to find herself alternative accommodation. That could be a nasty shock for a person of her age, who might be driven to desperate courses to avoid such action being taken against her.

Mrs Pargeter wondered idly whether Mrs Selsby had possessed any firm evidence of Mrs Mendlingham’s incontinence or other disqualifications from residency at the Devereux.

♦

After her excursions of the day before, Mrs Pargeter decided to stay in the hotel that morning. In her enquiries into Mrs Selsby’s death, she still felt that listening was going to be the most productive approach.

Her first encounter did not prove very illuminating. Having finished her kipper and indulged in one final cup of tea, Mrs Pargeter took her Daily Mail into the Seaview Lounge, where she found Lady Ridgleigh wincing over half-glasses at her copy of The Times. The same strings of pearls, she noticed, hung around the thin neck, this time vying with a red and blue check patterned dress. After her expedition during the night, Mrs Pargeter found that she was thinking a lot about jewellery. Lady Ridgleigh’s pearls, her expert eye reaffirmed, were exquisite and very valuable.

The Times was ceremoniously folded and laid flat across bony knees. The half-glasses were placed in a monogrammed case. Lady Ridgleigh, it was clear, was about to make a conversational effort.

Assuming the expression of interest that the Queen adopts when asking Commonwealth leaders about new hydro-electric installations, she said, “Well, I do hope you’ll be very happy here, Mrs Pargeter.”

“I’m sure I will. I had a look round the town yesterday. Littlehampton seems a very nice little place.”

Lady Ridgleigh did not appear completely convinced of the truth of the assertion. “Some of it is very pleasant, certainly. Not as select, perhaps, as Rustington or Middleton-on-Sea. Or, of course, dear Bognor. Still, some of it is quite adequate. Other parts, I fear, are rather less salubrious.”

“Oh?”

“I am afraid so. The summer can be very distressing.”

“Oh dear.”

“Bank Holidays are particularly unpleasant. I make a point of not stirring outside the hotel’s doors on Bank Holidays.”

“Why?”

“The tone is lowered considerably. There have even been instances of violence on the front.”

“From whom?”

Lady Ridgleigh’s bony shoulders shuddered. “I believe they call themselves ‘Hell’s Angels’.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes,” Lady Ridgleigh straightened her back. “It makes me so thankful that we have the Royal Family.”

Mrs Pargeter could think of no appropriate rejoinder to this, and so started to read her Daily Mail. Lady Ridgleigh, feeling that she had displayed quite sufficient ‘common touch’ for one day, put her half-glasses back on, reopened her Times and found the ‘Court and Social’ page.

♦

The next arrival in the Seaview Lounge was Colonel Wicksteed, returning rather earlier than usual from his ‘constitutional’. He rubbed his hands together as he came in.

“Couldn’t stay out long this morning. Damned cold.” He stopped short. “Pardon my French, ladies.”

Lady Ridgleigh’s bony hand waved gracious forgiveness, and the Colonel deposited himself in his customary armchair in the bay window. The binoculars, around his neck when he entered, were at once raised to scan the slaty expanse of the sea.

In a matter of moments, Mr Dawlish, somehow sensing his friend’s return, entered and, with little bows to the ladies, took his seat opposite the Colonel. He arranged the rug about his thin knees.

“Anything?”

“No.” The Colonel lowered his binoculars to his lap. “Not a thing.” He sighed. “No.” Then a furtive expression crept across his face as, after looking round elaborately, he said in a hoarse whisper, “Saw something this morning rather tickled me.”

“Oh?”

Mr Dawlish adopted an equally exaggerated whisper. The effect of both was to draw attention to what they were saying rather than to obscure it, but, with an amateur dramatic society prompter’s confidence in his inaudibility, the Colonel continued.

“Saw it in the newsagent – went in there to buy the Sporting – erm, erm…Horse and Hound and –”

“Where is it?”

“What?”

“Horse and Hound.”

“Oh, erm, they hadn’t got it. Anyway, in the newsagent, I happened to glance at some of those, er…you know, those things they have in there…bit near the knuckle…”

“Gloves?” Mr Dawlish offered helpfully.

“No, no. Postcards,” the Colonel hissed.

“Oh yes. Postcards.”

“Know the sort I mean?”

“Of course.” Mr Dawlish nodded contentedly. “‘View of West Beach’, ‘View of the Arun Estuary’, ‘View of – ’”

“No, no, not those.” The Colonel leant forward and became even more elaborately conspiratorial. “I mean, postcards with a bit of spice.”

“I’ve never come across those,” said Mr Dawlish. “Whatever will they think of next?”

The Colonel shook his head impatiently, but decided to press on with his story. “Anyway, one of these postcards had this picture of a…young woman…know what I mean?”

Mr Dawlish nodded.

“And she was extremely…what’s the word?”

“I’ve no idea,” replied Mr Dawlish with disarming honesty.

“Well endowed…know what I mean?”

“Oh yes.” Mr Dawlish nodded. “Got lots of money for her old age.”

“No, no. When I say ‘well endowed’, I mean ‘well endowed’…” The Colonel dropped his voice even lower “…physically. Anyway, there she is, scantily clad, looking quite pleased with herself, sitting on the side of a bed – husband in bed asleep – and she’s writing a letter…Bet you can’t guess what the caption is…?”

No, Mr Dawlish couldn’t guess what the caption was.

“‘Dear Sirs’,” Colonel Wicksteed hissed. “‘Last night I used some of your ointment on my husband’s recommendation and there’s been a great improvement’.” He stifled a guffaw. “Do you get it?”

“No,” Mr Dawlish replied evenly.

The Colonel shook his head and sank back despairingly into his chair. “No,” he echoed.

There was a long silence in the bay window.

Then Mr Dawlish volunteered that he had once used some ointment on his doctor’s recommendation.

“Ah,” said Colonel Wicksteed.

“But there was no improvement.”

“Ah. Well…”

“No. Never cleared up. Still got the ruddy thing.”

“Oh.”

They lapsed again into silence. Mrs Pargeter, deciding that her investigation was not progressing much in the Seaview Lounge, rose and, with polite smiles of farewell, left the room.