Mrs Pargeter 06; Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour

∨ Mrs Pargeter’s Point of Honour ∧

Thirty-One

“We need to talk to Veronica Chastaigne,” Sergeant Hughes announced.

“Now just a minute, just a minute,” said his boss. “I’m the one who decides who we need to talk to.”

“All right, you make the decision, but the fact remains that we need to speak to Veronica Chastaigne.”

“On what grounds? She hasn’t done anything wrong. We can’t charge her with anything.”

“We don’t need to talk to her as a suspect. We need to talk to her as a witness. Come on, she’s lived all those years at Chastaigne Varleigh. There’s no way that she was unaware of what there was up in the Long Gallery.”

“We have no proof that there was anything there shouldn’t have been up in the Long Gallery.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

Inspector Wilkinson’s moustache (which he had, incidentally, decided to let grow) bristled with affront. “What did you say, Hughes?”

The Sergeant looked subdued. “Sorry, sir.”

“I should think so.”

The Sergeant looked less subdued. “What I meant to say was: ‘Oh, for God’s sake, sir!’”

Wilkinson stared narrowly at his colleague. “There’s a very disrespectful tone creeping into your voice, Hughes, and I don’t like it. Never forget that I am your senior officer.”

“I don’t get much chance to forget it, do I… sir?” The worm, which had always shown a propensity for at least looking over its shoulder, was certainly turning now. “I thought, when I joined the Police Force, that it was an organization in which people worked together.”

The Inspector removed his habitual cigarette to draw in a sharp breath through pursed lips. “I don’t know where you got that idea from.”

“Listen, I was the one who got on to Posey Narker. I was the one who followed Reginald Winthrop. I suspected that he was carrying the stolen paintings and had him detained at Dover. And then what did I do? I shared my findings with you. And I just wish you’d occasionally repay the compliment.”

Wilkinson shook his head knowingly. “A good copper, Hughes, is not in the business of repaying compliments. He’s in the business of frustrating criminals, and he does that by relying on his experience.”

“But, sir –”

“You don’t have any experience, Hughes, so I’m afraid it’ll be some time yet before you can be regarded as a good copper.”

Sergeant Hughes slumped in his chair, deflated by the hopelessness of his frustration. Inspector Wilkinson sat at his desk, smiling complacently, puffing on his cigarette and occasionally stroking his slowly burgeoning moustache.

“You know,” he announced after a long silence, “we need to talk to Veronica Chastaigne.”

♦

Gary’s limousine insinuated itself smoothly through the anonymous suburban streets of North London. In the back, between the brown suits of Truffler Mason and Hamish Ramon Henriques, Mrs Pargeter, resplendent in silk print, sat like the filling of a particularly exotic sandwich.

She reached out and gave Truffler’s huge hand a maternal pat. “I hope you weren’t taking unnecessary risks.”

“Nah.” A rueful laugh shook his massive frame and he rubbed his chin. “I was all right, but there was four of them. Rod and three heavies. It’s not going to be that easy to get the stuff out.”

“The simplest thing would be just to give the police a tip-off, you know,” HRH suggested.

But Mrs Pargeter quickly quashed that idea. “No. I gave Veronica Chastaigne my word I’d get those paintings back to their rightful owners.”

The travel agent instantly accepted the logic of her words. “Yes, of course. I understand completely, Mrs Pargeter.”

Gary’s voice filtered through from the front of the car. “It’s a tricky one. We could really do with Mr Pargeter around right now. He’d see the way through this, no problem. One of the great planning brains of all time, he’d got.”

“Exactly, Gary,” said Mrs Pargeter, as the limousine slowed to a halt in front of the anonymous terraced house. “Which is the very reason why we’re going to see Jukebox. We can still take advantage of my husband’s planning brain, you know…”

♦

With his spaghetti junction of computer equipment and his four guests, there was very little space in Jukebox Jarvis’s front room, but by the odd click of the mouse and the odd tap at the keyboard he steered himself deftly through the data on his screen. He fed in the complex demands of the current problem, and rattled through the proffered options until he found exactly what he wanted.

“Chelmsford!” Jukebox Jarvis pronounced triumphantly. His eyes sparkled through the thick glasses.

A communal smile of fulfilled recollection settled on the faces of the three men who watched him. “Yeah.” An impressed Truffler Mason nodded. “Chelmsford, of course.”

Gary shook his head in admiration. “Brilliant. Lot of clever driving needed for Chelmsford, if I remember right.”

HRH grinned with satisfaction. “And some intriguing specialized work required on the vehicles.”

“Of course,” said Mrs Pargeter demurely, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But I’m willing to be guided by you in such matters.” She turned the full beam of her violet-blue eyes on the computer expert. “You’re sure Chelmsford’s the one, Jukebox?”

He nodded. “Definitely the closest match to what’s needed for this case.”

“Yeah,” Truffler agreed. “Only the goods are different. Chelmsford was used fivers, this time it’s paintings. Same basic strategy’d work, no problem.”

An infectious bubble of excitement was building up in all of them. It was comforting to have the quality of Jukebox Jarvis’s archives to rely on. Inside his computer system every one of the late Mr Pargeter’s greatest exploits was neatly catalogued and chronicled, providing a perfect template of action for any situation that could possibly arise. Many public companies would give half their annual profits for an infrastructure of such efficiency.

Mrs Pargeter spread the benison of her richest smile around the assembled company. “Right, if you say so – Chelmsford it is.”

“Terrific,” said Jukebox, reaching forward to his computer. “I’ll print out the whole plan for you.” Gleefully, he touched a key and his printer burst into manic activity.

“This is great, isn’t it?” Gary spoke for all of them. “Almost like having Mr Pargeter back with us again.”

The other men grinned, but Mrs Pargeter, a trifle misty-eyed, murmured, “Almost, Gary… but not quite.”