Mrs Pargeter’s Plot

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Plot ∧

Eighteen

Mrs Pargeter’s wardrobe was both extensive and expensive. It very firmly reflected her character. Not for her were the muted fondant colours patronized by senior members of the British Royal Family. Not for her the subtle beiges and fawns which some women of ample proportions favour as a means to anonymity, to draw attention away from their bulk.

Mrs Pargeter had never attempted to hide her dimensions. She knew that such a task was hopeless, anyway, and that apparent success at it could only be self-delusion; but, apart from that, she had never felt the need to disguise her outline. Rather she gloried in it. Mrs Pargeter had always felt herself to be the right size for the person she was – and certainly the late Mr Pargeter had never had any complaints.

He had always been a lavish provider – and even, in some cases, purchaser – of clothes for his wife. He knew her style exactly, and on his varied travels would always be on the lookout for the bold silks and cottons that so flattered her generous curves.

Since his death, Mrs Pargeter had had to do all her own shopping, but so distinct was her sartorial identity that she never had any problems making decisions about what to buy. A dress or a suit was either right for her or wrong. Trousers and hats were never right for her. Nor were tights; Mrs Pargeter always wore silk stockings. Her underwear, even though her husband was no longer around to appreciate it, remained frivolously exotic. And the right shoes for, Mrs Pargeter always had surprisingly high heels, which gave a pleasing tension to her well-turned calves and ankles.

She dressed carefully for the appointment she had made following her consultation of the Yellow Pages. And she dressed excitedly, rather relishing the idea of taking on another identity. It wasn’t fancy dress, though; she wore her own clothes, but selected the brightest and most ostentatious to create a heightened version of her natural style. What she was after for the encounter to come was an ensemble which breathed too much money.

And she was happy that the effect had been achieved. She had asked Hedgeclipper Clinton – and Erasmus, it was impossible these days to have one without the other – to bring up her jewellery box from the hotel safe, and selected a matching set of ruby-and-diamond necklace, bracelet and cluster earrings. They were gems which had once belonged to a Cabinet minister’s mistress, but the late Mr Pargeter had thought his wife a much more suitable proprietor and had arranged the transfer of ownership in his own inimitable way. Mrs Pargeter would under normal circumstances only have worn them in the evening, but their daytime brightness gave just the right over-the-top quality to the character she was proposing to play.

When she was dressed to her satisfaction, she did a little twirl for the benefit of the late Mr Pargeter’s photograph on the bedside table. “What do you think, love? Teetering on the edge of vulgarity – hm? Yes. Just about right, I’d say.”

She grinned and sat down on the bed. “Now I’m going to be a good girl,” she continued to the photograph, “and make sure that someone is aware of where I’m going, and what I’m going to do when I get there. I remember what you taught me, love – never take any unnecessary risks.”

She reached for the telephone.

♦

In Truffler Mason’s outer office Bronwen looked on admiringly as her boss ushered Seb out. Truffler shook an admonitory finger at the boy, saying, “And remember, young man – in future you keep on the right side of the law.”

Seb grinned lazily. “All right, all right. You sound like a blooming community policeman.” He beamed a roguish look at Bronwen and let a ripple run through his uncovered biceps. “See you again I hope, gorgeous.”

The secretary gazed after him dreamily as he winked and went out through the door. “Oh…” she sighed, her voice Welsher than ever in its wistfulness. “What would I have to have to get one like that?”

“Plastic surgery?” her boss suggested mildly.

“Now listen, Truffler! Don’t you – ” But her fury was cut short by the telephone’s ringing. She snatched up the new receiver as if prepared to do Grievous Bodily Harm to that one too. “Hello, Mason de Vere Agency.” She looked across vindictively at Truffler. “Yes, the bastard is here.” Standoffishly, she thrust the phone towards him. “Mrs Pargeter.”

He grinned and moved towards his office. “I’ll take it through there.”

Mrs Pargeter found herself in the unusual situation of being embarrassed. Telling Truffler what she proposed to do had seemed easy when she thought of it. Now she was actually talking to him, she could anticipate all the kinds of objection he was likely to make. So she began with a little prevarication before moving on to the real subject of her call.

“Nothing more been heard from Fossilface O’Donahue, has it?” she fluted ingenuously.

“Not from my end, no. I should think he’s gone to ground again. Why – Hedgeclipper hasn’t had any more trouble, has he?”

“No, no. In fact, from Hedgeclipper’s point of view, Fossilface has done him a favour. That bloody monkey. Hedgeclipper’s just devoted to Erasmus – still walks round the hotel most of the time with the thing on his shoulder. They’re inseparable.”

“Isn’t that causing problems for him professionally? I mean, doesn’t the average guest somewhere as swish as Greene’s Hotel find it a bit odd that the manager is always accompanied by a marmoset?”

“Not at Greene’s, no. Because the ‘average guest’ here is an American with more money than sense, and they’re ‘just thrilled’ by what they regard as another heart-warming example of ‘lovable British eccentricity’.”

“Ah. With you.” A silence. “Was that what you were actually ringing about, Mrs Pargeter?”

“Well, erm… in a way,” she replied evasively, and moved into further delaying tactics. “Maybe Fossilface has given up on his campaign of ‘restitooshun’?”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said Truffler darkly. “I’ve a feeling our charitable loose cannon’s still out there, priming his powder for yet another hideously inappropriate gesture.”

“Oh dear.”

“You heard what he did to Keyhole Crabbe, did you?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody nasty, that could have been, if the screws in Bedford had found the stuff… Keyhole’s always been so careful about his reputation. I mean, if word got around that he was the kind of geezer who leaves his professional equipment lying around in the nick… well, his image’d be well and truly scuppered.”

“You’re right.”

“No, I think we should still be very much on the lookout for Fossilface’s next attempt to demonstrate his sense of humour.”

“Yes, ‘cause, of course, although he did Hedgeclipper over and tied him up, he still hasn’t made his act of ‘restitooshun’ there, has he?”

“No. And he hasn’t paid his dues to Gary yet either. Or to Concrete Jacket. Or to me,” Truffler concluded gloomily. “Don’t forget I’m on his list too.”

“What kind of ‘restitooshun’ do you reckon he’s going to make to you? How did he do the dirty on you in the past? Because if you knew what kind of thing he was likely to come up with, you could be on your guard, couldn’t you?”

“Huh. You make it sound easier than it actually is, Mrs Pargeter. A man could go mad trying to piece together the bizarre way a mind like Fossilface O’Donahue’s works.”

“But you must know what wrong he did you… what offence he’s likely to try and make ‘restitooshun’ for?”

“All right. Fossilface got at my records – burnt a whole lot of them.”

“What kind of records?”

“I’d got some dirt on him and some of his mates. Pretty inflammatory stuff.”

Mrs Pargeter couldn’t resist the joke. “Probably that was why he found it so easy to burn.”

But Truffler was too resentfully deep in memories to respond to her humour. “Irreplaceable, that material was. I’d built it up over years… just like your husband told me to. ‘Never hurts to have a bit of information on people you’re working with,” he always said to me. “You never know when it’s going to come in handy’.”

“What for?” asked Mrs Pargeter innocently.

“Well, when you’re dealing with villains, it’s good to have something against them. So you can put the screws on, come heavy with the blackmail or…” he seemed to sense disapproval creeping into the unseen eyes and quickly changed direction, “… or pass the information on to the police like a good citizen.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Oh well, good luck, Truffler. Maybe by now Fossilface O’Donahue will have learnt how a sense of humour works, and make you some form of ‘restitooshun’ that’s actually appropriate.”

“Yes,” Truffler growled. “And maybe Lord Lucan’ll be the next prime minister.”

There was a silence. Mrs Pargeter knew she could no longer put off the real purpose of her call.

“Truffler, it’s all right,” she found herself saying a few minutes later, soothing the predictable outburst detonated by the announcement of her plan.

“Well, I don’t like it,” Truffler grumbled. “You’re taking an unnecessary risk.”

“I know what I’m doing. There’s no way he could have a clue who I really am, anyway. The appointment’s made in the name of Lady Entwistle.”

He didn’t sound mollified. “It’s still a risk. Clickety Clark’s a nasty piece of goods, and if he’s got Blunt working with him too –”

“I’ll be all right.”

“Hm.” Still not convinced. “So… what’s Lady Entwistle like?”

“Well, I was just deciding that. She’s a widow, definitely, and her husband left her very well provided for.”

“Typecasting?” Truffler suggested.

Mrs Pargeter was affronted by the idea. “Oh no. Lady Entwistle’s got more money than sense. Keeps complaining she doesn’t know what to do with the stuff.”

“Sounds a perfect mark for an unscrupulous conman…”

“Exactly. That’s the aim of the exercise. Lady Entwistle is a real sitting duck. Much younger than her late husband, needless to say. Oh no, she was a bimbo before the word was invented. And she’s dead common.” A smile crept over Mrs Pargeter’s generous features as she came up with the perfect background detail. “Yes,” she said, “her husband got knighted in Harold Wilson’s Resignation Honours List, that’s it.”

Truffler chuckled. “Well, you just be careful. Bloke you’re up against may have a veneer of civilization, but deep down he’s a real nasty mean villain.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mrs Pargeter. “I’ve dealt with a good few of them in my time.”