Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse

∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧

33

“I won’t be in for lunch today, Miss Naismith.”

“Oh? I believe I did mention, Mrs Pargeter, that most residents tend to give such information to one of the staff.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” Mrs Pargeter smiled sweetly.

“Something interesting planned…?” Miss Naismith fished.

“Oh yes,” Mrs Pargeter replied unhelpfully.

“Going far…?”

“Quite a distance, yes.”

“Ah.”

“But I should be back for dinner.”

“Oh. Good.”

“Goodbye, then.”

And Mrs Pargeter left, treasuring the expression of frustrated curiosity on Miss Naismith’s face.

♦

The train from Littlehampton to London is not fast, but Mrs Pargeter welcomed the time on her own to sit and think about the case (or the cases).

At Victoria she took a taxi to the Savoy Grill, where she had booked a table, and ate a substantial lunch. She remembered fondly how the late Mr Pargeter had always been most insistent that she should have a good lunch.

From the Savoy she took another taxi to Desmond Chiddham’s showroom and workshop off Bond Street. She had telephoned in the morning to make an appointment, but he was not free when she arrived. While she waited she looked at the displays of jewellery. It was all very good, and without the eye-glass she certainly couldn’t have told whether the stones were real or not.

Desmond Chiddham was profuse with apologies for having kept her waiting. He was a small, bald man with rimless glasses and the upper-crust accent of someone who hasn’t grown up with it but has mixed a lot with people who talk like that. Like his work, he was a fake.

“Well, Mrs Pargeter, and what can I do for you?”

By way of answer, she produced her matching set of rubies from her handbag and laid them on his desk. The little eyes behind the glasses sparkled at the sight.

“I understand, Mr Chiddham, that you could replace the jewels in these with artificial replicas.”

“Oh, most certainly,” he replied. “And replace them with stones that none but a trained eye would have the remotest suspicions about. And many trained eyes would have to look twice.”

“Could you tell me how much that would cost?”

He named a price. It was high, but still represented only ten per cent of the value of the stones he would be replacing.

“And, of course, Mrs Pargeter, I am always happy to arrange the sale of the stones removed. Many of my clients like to take advantage of that part of the service. In that way, rather than their giving me money for the work, they end up by receiving money. Which is usually a more agreeable experience.”

“Yes, I can see that. Could you tell me how long the work would take?”

“Well, our order book is always full, so it might be some time before we started, but once we were under way, it would take about ten days.”

Not long enough for someone as vague as Mrs Selsby to start worrying about having lost something.

Time to change gear and start getting more detailed information, Mrs Pargeter thought. “I got in touch with you because I’d seen some excellent work you had done for someone else.”

“Oh yes?” He looked gratified. “Might I ask who that person was?”

It was a risk, but one worth taking. “Lady Ridgleigh.”

The risk paid off instantly. Desmond Chiddham gave a self-satisfied smile. “Oh yes, I’ve done a great deal of work for dear Lady Ridgleigh.”

“Done most of the Ridgleigh family jewels, have you?”

“Ah, now…” He wagged a finger archly. “Must be discreet. Mustn’t talk about my clients’ affairs.”

“Of course not.” Mrs Pargeter paused. “One piece you’d done for Lady Ridgleigh that I particularly liked was an opal necklace…”

“I remember it well. Particularly difficult to achieve, an imitation of an opal,” he said in a tone of self-congratulation.

“And a beautiful matching emerald set…”

“Yes, remember that, too. Mind you, you’re talking some years back. My relationship with Lady Ridgleigh,” he added smugly, “is of long standing.”

“Of course. She also showed me a matching sapphire set…”

“Remember doing that.”

“…and some turquoise ear-rings.”

“Yes. We’re talking more recently now, of course.”

Mrs Pargeter did not allow her inward elation to show. The last two items she had mentioned did not belong to Lady Ridgleigh; they had belonged to the late Mrs Selsby.

“So you see a lot of Lady Ridgleigh, do you?”

He looked a trifle piqued. This direct question meant he must qualify his name-dropping and define the extent of his hobnobbing with the aristocracy. “Well, I don’t actually see her that often. Our dealings are conducted through an intermediary.”

“Oh?”

“One of her staff tends to come up with the latest item for me to work on. I suppose he’s a butler or footman…”

“What’s his name?” asked Mrs Pargeter ingenuously.

“Unusual name,” replied Desmond Chiddham. “Newth.”