Mrs Pargeter 06; Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧

Twenty

The studio of VVO still looked as cluttered, but this time Mrs Pargeter was aware of how hygienic all of its clutter was. Having met the houseproud Deirdre Winthrop, she could no longer believe in the reality of the husband’s bohemianism. The studio now appeared to her like a stage set, its dust neatly scattered, its cobwebs recently sprayed on. Even the splashes and splodges of paint on every surface no longer looked random; their exact positioning and their precise level of exuberance had been carefully calculated.

Since his last encounter with Mrs Pargeter and HRH, VVO had been busy – though not as busy as he’d have had to be if all the pictures from Chastaigne Varleigh had been saved. The fruits of his labour were there to be seen, but this time there was no fake Rubens flesh to excite charming comparisons. What VVO had been busy on was his own work, the kind of paintings which he believed he had been placed on this earth to produce.

“Oh dear,” thought Mrs Pargeter, as she looked at the latest creations. There were three of them. In one a lamb with a watermelon grin, wearing a pink bow whose wingspan would not have shamed a jumbo jet, cavorted in front of a quaint windmill. On the second, two lovable ducklings skidded hopelessly on an icy lake, trying to catch up with the mother and the rest of her family procession. And in the third – returning to one of the artist’s favourite themes – a winsome Scottie dog in a natty little tartan coat circled a blossom-laden tree, from whose branches a fluffy white pussy cat grinned down cheekily.

Two of the paintings were already fixed into aluminium frames, and VVO was easing the Scottie dog into the third. Empty, propped against the wall, stood the finely wrought wooden frames of the Rubens and the two Madonnas.

“There,” said VVO, as he screwed the last crosspiece into position at the back of the canvas.

Palings Price looked admiringly at the framed Scottie. “Great. And no one would ever know there was a Rubens under that piece of…” Discretion intervened and his words trailed away.

“Under that piece of what?” asked VVO suspiciously.

“Under that piece of very fine modern painting,” said Mrs Pargeter, ever the conciliator. “I think is what Palings was about to say, isn’t that right?”

“Oh. Yes. Of course,” the interior designer lied.

VVO didn’t seem entirely convinced by the cover-up. “After I’m dead, you know,” he said truculently, “the true value of my work will be recognized.”

“Yes, VVO, I’m sure it will,” Mrs Pargeter agreed, her soothing tone disguising the ambiguity of her words.

VVO was reassured, anyway. “Thank you, Mrs Pargeter. At least you recognize what I’m capable of.”

“Oh, certainly.” And before the painter had time to spot another double-edged compliment, she rubbed her hands together with relish and said, “Great, terrific. So all we need now is a courier to get the paintings down to Berne…”

VVO looked hopefully round the room until his glance engaged with Mrs Pargeter’s. She did feel tempted to give in to the appeal in those dog-like eyes. The skittish mood was still with her. The courier job wasn’t complicated. Surely VVO couldn’t mess it up. And the late Mr Pargeter had been renowned for constantly opening up new opportunities for his staff, trusting them with ever greater responsibilities.

But her indulgent fantasies were interrupted by the voice of Hamish Ramon Henriques. Shaking his head decidedly, the travel agent pronounced a firm “No.”

“Oh, come on,” the artist wheedled, “you could let me do this. It’s not fair, I’m never allowed to do any of the exciting stuff. And it’d be so easy for me to be your courier. Me and Deirdre could be going off in the camper for a continental holiday. Why not? it’s something we often do.”

But that suggestion prompted another shake of HRH’s fine Iberian head. “I said no. Apart from anything else, it’s always a risk entrusting this kind of thing to someone with a criminal record. The police are –”

Fury burned in the eye of VVO. “Now hang on a minute. Just because you’ve got a criminal record, there’s no need to imagine –”

“How dare you!” HRH snapped back. “I can assure you I do not have –”

Mrs Pargeter raised her hands as if to smooth out a lumpy duvet. “Please, please. There’s no need to argue. I’m sure no one in this room has any kind of criminal record.”

VVO and HRH looked a little sheepish after their outburst, and Palings Price’s face was fixed in a rictus of self-righteousness. Mrs Pargeter gave a reassuring smile to all of them. “Good. See, no worries on that score.”

“No,” HRH agreed, eager to sweep the disagreement hastily under the carpet. “Your late husband took enormous care of the people who worked for him.”

Palings Price gave a nostalgic nod. “Oh yes. You know, I was just thinking, Mrs Pargeter…”

“Yes?”

“… what a fine man your husband was…”

“Thank you.”

“And, you know,” the interior designer went on, “one of the wonderful things about him was the way he encouraged the people who worked for him by always giving them new challenges, offering them the chance to do something a little different…”

This so closely echoed Mrs Pargeter’s recent thoughts that she found herself nodding. Even HRH said, “He was excellent at that, I agree.”

“So…” Palings Price went on, “I think we should follow his example…”

“By doing what?” asked Mrs Pargeter.

“By letting Vincent Vin Ordinaire be our courier.”

“Oh, please!” the painter squealed, though the expression on HRH’s face, which had been moving towards the conciliatory, had quickly changed and was now far from endorsing the suggestion.

Palings Price gestured to the three aluminium-framed pieces of artwork. “I’m sure VVO’s capable of getting these three…” another word hovered on his lips, but he managed in time to convert it to “…paintings down to Fritzi in Berne.”

Hamish Ramon Henriques shook his head dubiously. “I’m not sure that –”

But Palings Price had the bit between his teeth and was not to be deflected. “Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy, HRH. If Mr Pargeter hadn’t given you your chance, you’d still be working for –” – the travel agent tried to interrupt, but he was too late – “London Transport,” the art dealer concluded implacably.

HRH turned away in shame, effectively handing the victory to Palings Price. “So I think we should definitely give VVO the chance to be the courier for once.” He turned to face their late employer’s widow. “What do you say, Mrs Pargeter?”

She was torn. Caution told her that Hamish Ramon Henriques was in the right, but her natural generosity drew her towards the idea of giving VVO a break. And the thoughts she’d been entertaining about her husband suggested that he might have been inclined towards indulgence.

“Please, please!” the painter begged. “You won’t regret your decision. I’ll do the job perfectly, I promise.”

Mrs Pargeter was not a weak or vacillating woman, and in this instance her natural big-heartedness did not allow her to hesitate for long. “Oh, very well,” she said. “You be our courier, VVO.”

“Yippee!” The painter punched the air with delight, and did a little jig around the clutter of his studio. Mrs Pargeter looked at Palings Price and saw how pleased he was by what she’d said. But she avoided the eye of Hamish Ramon Henriques. She had a feeling his view might be rather different.