A Nice Class of Corpse

∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧

30

When she got back to the Devereux, she was interested to see a red Porsche parked untidily outside the main entrance. As soon as she entered the Schooner Bar just after twelve for a pre-lunch drink, she was introduced to its owner.

Though the word ‘introduce’ was perhaps inadequate to describe the production Lady Ridgleigh made of showing off the young man with her to the Devereux’s newest resident.

“Mrs Pargeter,” she gushed, “I don’t believe you’ve had the pleasure of meeting my son, Miles.”

“No, I haven’t. How do you do?”

The young man who took her hand was tall like his mother, but in him the bony outline took on an adolescent gawkiness, which was at odds with his receding gingerish hair and the tight nets of lines around his pale blue eyes. He must have been at least thirty-five.

“How do you do? Delighted to meet you.” His voice had the vacuous resonance of a public-school education not backed up by native intelligence.

“Can I get you a drink?”

His hand moved towards the inside pocket of his blazer, but it was a half-hearted gesture, like that of the average husband offering to help with the washing-up; it expected to be stopped.

And indeed it was. Lady Ridgleigh came in smartly on her cue. “No, no, Miles, please. Down here you’re my guest.”

“Oh, very well, old thing,” he said, conceding without even the pretence of a struggle.

Lady Ridgleigh reached into a crocodile-skin handbag, produced a monogrammed purse and gave Newth the order. She was drinking a Martini, Mrs Pargeter noticed, wondering whether this was a regular Sunday indulgence or just in honour of her visitor.

The visitor in question took a long swill from his pint of beer, winced, and gave Mrs Pargeter a weak smile.

“Irrigating the old system, you know. Got a bit cheteaued last night. Some damned hop at the Grosvenor House. When will I ever learn?” he asked in the voice of someone who had no intention of ever learning.

“Your car outside, is it?” asked Mrs Pargeter.

“The old Porky Porsche? Yes. Goes all right, this one.”

“You mean you’ve got more than one?”

Miles Ridgleigh guffawed. “That’ll be the day. No, I’ve had more than one, though. Have a nasty habit of wrapping them round lamp-posts – don’t I, Mums?”

He appealed to his mother for approbation and was rewarded by an indulgent ‘boys will be boys’ smile. Lady Ridgleigh was totally transformed by her son’s presence. She looked radiant, almost skittish. She beamed fatuously like a young girl in love. Mrs Pargeter wondered whether this was how she had behaved in the company of the late lamented Froggie. She thought, on balance, it was unlikely.

“You work in London, then, do you, Miles?”

This suggestion was greeted by another empty guffaw. “Well, I live in London, anyway. Most of my chums are up there. Though, as you see, I’m not above coming down to the old Costa Geriatrica to do the dutiful son bit.”

Lady Ridgleigh looked disproportionately grateful for this magnanimity.

Mrs Pargeter watched Miles continuing to do his ‘dutiful son bit’ throughout Sunday lunch. It seemed to consist largely of telling loud, unresolved anecdotes and of drinking a great deal. The Ridgleighs had two bottles of wine with the meal, and the mother could not have drunk more than a couple of glasses.

With coffee in the Seaview Lounge Miles downed a couple of hasty brandies, then rose abruptly and announced, “Got to be off, old thing. Promised to drop in on some chums Hay wards Heath way.”

Lady Ridgleigh’s face dropped. Clearly she had not expected this exquisite visit to be so suddenly curtailed.

But Miles either didn’t notice or ignored her expression. “So got to dash. But don’t worry, I’ll be down again soon to salve the old social conscience.”

“Oh, well, Miles –”

“Not a word of thanks. Won’t hear of it, old thing. My pleasure.” Then his tone changed. “Perhaps you’d like to see me out…?”

The intonation on the last words clearly had some private meaning for them both.

“Oh. Oh yes,” said Lady Ridgleigh, and started for the door.

“Mustn’t forget this, must we?” Miles lifted up her crocodile handbag with what was almost a leer.

“No. No. Of course not.”

It was nearly five minutes before Miles could be seen from the windows of the Seaview Lounge approaching his Porsche. Mrs Pargeter felt fairly sure that she knew the nature of the transaction that had delayed him.

With a cheery wave, he folded his long body into the driving seat, and the Porsche scorched off erratically down South Terrace.

♦

But Mrs Pargeter soon forgot about Miles Ridgleigh. As she seemed to read the Sunday papers, she thought about what she had to do.

It would have to be another middle-of-the-night mission, she decided. There were too many people in and out of the Hall during the day for her to risk going into the Office then. So she continued to read the Sunday papers, ate a large tea and a light supper, played Scrabble in the evening with Eulalie Vance, and contained her excitement.

If the Office safe yielded what she hoped, it would represent the most significant advance since she had started her investigation.

Mrs Pargeter went to bed at half-past ten, programming herself to wake four hours later.