Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧

Fifteen

Veronica Chastaigne looked very small, almost doll-like, sunken amongst the covers and pillows of the hospital bed. Around her in the private room loomed the impedimenta of serious illness – the row of monitors, the stand for the drip that disappeared into bandages round her left wrist, the cylinder of oxygen and its mask, not currently in use but standing by in ominous readiness. On top of the covers, Mrs Pargeter’s plump fingers reassuringly encompassed the old lady’s bony hand, as she asked gently, “So you can’t think of anyone who might have known about the paintings?”

Veronica Chastaigne shook her head forcefully, but with little strength. Her voice sounded deeply tired as she replied, “Nobody did. Very few people ever came to the house, and none of them was allowed to see the gallery.”

“And you don’t think news of the paintings’ existence would have got round in…” Mrs Pargeter paused for a moment to come up with a phrase of appropriate discretion “…the sort of circles where people might have been interested in that kind of thing…?”

“No,” the old lady asserted firmly. “My husband was meticulous about the ‘need to know’ principle. He recognized the importance of keeping certain things quiet.”

“So did mine,” said Mrs Pargeter, with a momentary flicker of wistfulness.

“No. No one outside the family knew of the gallery’s existence. Bennie made absolutely certain of that.”

Mrs Pargeter looked thoughtful. She remembered that Truffler Mason had heard rumours of the hidden stash of famous paintings, but didn’t think it the moment to mention that. “Well, someone knew they were there…” she mused.

“The only person who’d been in that gallery since Bennie died – apart from Toby and myself – was you.”

“Yes.” Realizing the potential implication of the old lady’s remark, Mrs Pargeter flushed. “But surely you don’t think that I would have –”

“Not you yourself, obviously, Mrs Pargeter,” said Veronica Chastaigne evenly. “Some of your helpers, however, have in the past been involved in criminal activities.”

“I don’t deny it. In the past, though. Not now. Now they’re all honourable men – really. I can assure you, none of them would have broken my trust in that way.”

“I hope you’re right!”

The doubt in the old lady’s voice offended Mrs Pargeter, but she did not let it show. After all, if Truffler had heard rumours, maybe they were common currency in certain circles. “What about Toby…?” she asked diffidently.

Veronica Chastaigne was offended in her turn, and she made no attempt to hide it. “You’re not suggesting my own son might be involved in this burglary?”

“No, no,” Mrs Pargeter soothed. “I just meant – how has he reacted to what’s happened?”

The invalid’s expression soured. “I regret to say he’s delighted.” In response to a quizzical look, she went on, “The removal of the paintings by thieves saves him what he might anticipate to be embarrassing scenes with the police after my death.”

“Ah. Yes… So he had no idea of your plans to return the goods?”

“Good heavens, no. And, even though their disappearance in the way you and I had intended would also have let him off the hook, I’m sure he would never have given his blessing to what we were proposing to do. He has rather different moral attitudes from mine.” The thin face formed a grimace of distaste. “Though I don’t like to say it about my own son, I’m afraid in Toby I have produced an insufferable prig.”

Mrs Pargeter chuckled. “There’s no one more self-righteous than first generation straight. Like people who’ve just given up smoking, or reformed alcoholics.”

Through the frosted glass of the door the outline of two men in suits was visible. “Looks like the doctor’s come to check you out.” Mrs Pargeter gave the thin old hand a final pat. “I’d better be on my way. Leave you to get some rest.”

“Yes.” Veronica Chastaigne looked suddenly more frail than ever. “I am extraordinarily tired…”

Leaning forward to plant a kiss on the pale cheek, Mrs Pargeter whispered, “Don’t worry, Veronica, I’ll sort it out. Track down those paintings and get them back to where they should be.”

“I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble…”

“No problem. Soon get it sorted.” Moving, as ever, daintily for someone of her bulk, Mrs Pargeter crossed to the door. “Cheerio,” she said as she opened it.

Veronica Chastaigne raised a tired hand in farewell and seemed to sink even deeper into the bedclothes.

The two suited men who faced Mrs Pargeter in the corridor did not look like doctors. One she recognized as Veronica’s son, but the other was unfamiliar to her. The suit he wore, however, had overtones of a profession other than the medical. Financial? Legal, perhaps?

Though she knew full well who Toby Chastaigne was, they had not officially met, so Mrs Pargeter just gave the two men a cheery smile and hurried off.

Toby’s small eyes followed her suspiciously down the corridor until she was out of sight. Then, with a nod to his companion, he opened the door to his mother’s room. “Come on in.”

Through the slit of her drooping eyelids, Veronica Chastaigne took in the new arrivals without enthusiasm.

“Good morning, Mother,” said Toby, bending down to give her cheek the most perfunctory dusting with his lips. “I brought my solicitor along, so that we can tie up a few loose ends…”

Veronica Chastaigne feigned sleep.