Mrs Pargeter 01; A Nice Class of Corpse

∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧

44

It was a quarter to four when she got back to the hotel. There was no one in the Entrance Hall, and in the Seaview Lounge only Mr Dawlish sat, in his customary armchair. The other residents must have gone to powder their noses before reassembling to await the arrival of Loxton’s tea trolley.

Mr Dawlish had removed his cap, but was still wearing his overcoat. In spite of this, the usual rug was drawn over his thin knees.

On Mr Dawlish’s lap lay the familiar dark blue diary. Mrs Pargeter undid her mink coat and sat opposite the old man.

“Presumably he had no chance?”

Mr Dawlish shook his head. “‘Fraid not. Water’s very fast at that time of the tide. And very cold. Shock of that might have killed him before he drowned.”

“So…the same person killed Mrs Selsby…and Mrs Mendlingham…and now Colonel Wicksteed…”

“Yes.” He looked across at her. “I thought you seemed to be an intelligent woman, but I didn’t realise you’d worked it all out. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” There was silence. Then she said softly, “Can I ask why?”

Mr Dawlish sighed. He reached down to his lap and picked up the dark blue diary that lay there.

“I think this’ll explain everything,” he said, as he handed it across.