Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse

∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧

21

At three o’clock in the morning the Devereux was silent except for the constant, almost-forgotten, rhythmic swishing of the sea. Maybe some of the residents snored or grunted in their sleep, but none was so lacking in gentility as to let such noises percolate through a bedroom door on to the second-floor landing where the murderer stood.

The diarist felt heady with suppressed excitement, but completely in control of the situation. It would not, after all, be the first time, and the inquest of the previous day had awarded a seal of approval to the quality of the first murder. Quick, efficient, and without raising a whisper of suspicion. That was the sort of standard that must be maintained in the second murder.

The diarist paused for a long moment outside Mrs Pargeter’s door. She was a meddling woman, the diarist reflected, who showed far too much interest in what went on at the Devereux. There was also a shrewd intelligence there, which might all too quickly make unwelcome connections between apparently irrelevant details. Mrs Pargeter could be a threat.

The diarist put an ear to the door, and heard the deep, rhythmic breathing of someone at peace with the world. That was ideal. How very convenient.

Then the diarist went down the stairs to the first-floor landing and, for the second time that evening, opened the door of Mrs Mendlingham’s room.

The curtains were imperfectly drawn, and a slice of greyish light fell across the bedside table and the pillows. On the table the level in the medicine bottle showed gratifyingly lower than it had been when Miss Naismith had brought it upstairs the previous evening. The tumbler was empty, another cause for satisfaction.

The stiffening of Mrs Mendlingham’s draught had been the reason for the diarist’s first visit to her room that night. The equivalent of fifteen 2 ml spoonfuls had been decanted into the tumbler and mixed with the minimum of water. The diarist had anticipated that, as was her custom, the old lady, however strong the sedative, would have woken after a few hours, and turned for comfort to another dose. This was confirmed not only by the empty tumbler, but also by the slow, slow rhythm of the breaths that stirred her body.

The diarist moved forward to the bed and looked down at the old face, around which grey hair sprayed, Medusa-like, on to the pillows. Her position on the bed was very satisfactory, face pressed sideways, almost buried into a pillow.

It was time to remove the ‘almost’ from that burial.

Gingerly, with gloved hands, the diarist lifted the end of the pillow and slowly, slowly moved it up till the surface pressed against the old face.

The body twitched at the discomfort, but was too comatose to make much of a struggle.

The gloved hands exerted a little more pressure, bringing the pillow round to wrap like a gag across the gaping mouth.

The rhythm of the breathing changed to a little choke. The body gave a final twitch of recalcitrance, a final assertion of its atavistic instinct for survival.

But the instincts were too fuddled to co-ordinate the muscles. Sleep, for however long, was more attractive than the efforts of resistance.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the body slumped. With a few small spasms, like those of a child falling asleep, Mrs Mendlingham sank into oblivion.

The diarist slackened the pressure and checked that there was no more breath. Then, slightly pulling out the trapped end of the pillow, the gloved hands arranged it to flop over the motionless face.

The diarist stood back to assess the handiwork. Good. Artistically satisfying. The pillow lay naturally, as if it had been displaced by the burrowing head and fallen accidentally across the drug-slackened face.

Excellent. Yes, riskier than Mrs Selsby’s death, maybe raising more possibilities for suspicion, but basically another job well done.

The gloved hands were rubbed together with satisfaction.

Then the diarist returned to bed, fell instantly asleep and slept well until the morning.