Mrs, Presumed Dead

∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧

Eight

Mrs Pargeter called in at ‘High Bushes’ on the way home. After she had rung the bell, she looked down the extremely sane paving to the wrought-iron gate set in a neat low wall. There was not a bush, high, low or of any other description, in sight. Either the original high bushes had since been cut down, or else the person who named the house had had a sense of humour.

Fiona Burchfield-Brown came to the door, and the look of surprise on her face suggested, as Mrs Pargeter had suspected, that neighbourly calls were not common in Smithy’s Loam.

Fiona, well-brought-up girl that she was, recovered quickly and invited her caller in.

“Well, just for a moment, thank you. It’s getting chilly, these late afternoons, isn’t it?”

Fiona Burchfield-Brown agreed that it was, as she ushered Mrs Pargeter into the kitchen. Hoped she didn’t mind it being the kitchen, but they were giving a dinner party that evening. No, Mrs Pargeter didn’t mind. She promised she wouldn’t be long.

It’s not fair to judge anyone on what their kitchen looks like when they’re preparing a dinner party, but Fiona’s did seem to be particular untidy. The sink was piled high with crockery, and on every available surface utensils were spread about under a fine dusting of flour. In the middle of the floor a large, sloppy Labrador spread itself as only a Labrador can.

Fiona made the mandatory offer of tea or coffee, but was clearly relieved when Mrs Pargeter, unwilling to compound the chaos, refused both. Returning to a slightly charred chicken carcase from which she proceeded inexpertly to remove the meat, Fiona asked what she could do to help her new neighbour.

Mrs Pargeter had decided there was no need to share her suspicions. Remembering the late Mr Pargeter’s precept that one should always endeavour to tell the truth and nothing but the truth (though not necessarily the whole truth), she explained that she had had a phone call from someone asking exactly when Theresa Cotton had left Smithy’s Loam. “And I didn’t know exactly, Fiona, but I know you said you’d been watching out for your jacuzzi people all week, so I thought you might have noticed.”

Fiona Burchfield-Brown wrinkled her brow and then wiped it, leaving a little smear of chicken grease above her right eye. “Well, I think it was Monday evening. I’m sure it was. Theresa came round sort of sixish…to…well, you know, to say goodbye, that sort of thing, and then, um, well, I saw the car drive off about…I don’t know, seven, quarter past…But then it was back ten minutes later, and shortly after that, I suppose about half-past, it went off for good.”

“And was Theresa alone when she left?”

“I don’t think so. Well, put it this way, a man arrived shortly before she went and I didn’t see him leave any other way, so I suppose he must have been in the car with her.”

“Couldn’t she have been driving him somewhere when she went off for the short trip at quarter past seven?”

“No. I think maybe he was driving the car that time. I’m not sure. It came out of the garage and drove off, then it came back ten minutes later, back into the garage, and the man came out of the garage and went to the front door again.”

“And Theresa let him in?”

“I suppose so.”

“So presumably she hadn’t been in the car with him that time?”

“No, I suppose not.”

“You didn’t see him get in the car the second time?”

“No, but then I wouldn’t have done. The car was in the garage, so they’d have gone through from the house to get into it.”

“But didn’t one of them get out of the car to close the garage door?”

Fiona stopped her dissection, Sabatier knife poised in midair. “Do you know, I don’t think they did. That’s strange, isn’t it? I mean, when you’re leaving somewhere for good, you’d surely make a point of locking up properly, wouldn’t you?”

“Well…” Mrs Pargeter shrugged casually. Then, unwilling to encourage thoughts of strangeness, she moved on quickly. “You didn’t actually see that they were both in the car, did you?”

“No. I mean, it was after dark. I just saw the headlights go by. Couldn’t really see inside. But they must have gone together, mustn’t they?”

Not necessarily, thought Mrs Pargeter, and then asked with an air of innocence, “The man wasn’t Rod, was he?”

“Good Lord, no. I mean, I’ve hardly seen Rod since he got transferred up North, but he couldn’t have changed that much. This man who came looked pretty scruffy. Wearing some sort of overall and a woolly hat, I seem to recall. And he had a beard. I mean, Rod would never have had a beard. He was a really fussy dresser, you know, the complete executive.”

“Oh, well…” said Mrs Pargeter, playing for time, wondering which tack to move on to next.

But fortunately Fiona, unprompted, filled the silence with more information. “I remember thinking at the time it was a coincidence Theresa should have two bearded men visit her the same day.”

“Two…?” Mrs Pargeter echoed diffidently.

“Yes. The other one came early afternoon, while it was still light.”

“You’re sure it wasn’t the same man?”

“Oh, quite sure. The afternoon one was much taller. And thinner. No, I could see him quite clearly.”

“Did he arrive in a car?”

“No. Walked. He arrived about…half-past two, I suppose, rang the doorbell, Theresa let him in, and then he was there…I should think about half an hour.”

“And was he smartly dressed?”

“No, he was scruffy, too. Really old clothes. You know, old to the point of being out of fashion.”

“Ah.” Mrs Pargeter stood up. Didn’t want to appear too inquisitive. “Well, look, thank you very much. If the gentleman rings back, I’ll be able to give him chapter and verse of Theresa Cotton’s departure.”

“Yes.” Fiona started to rub her greasy hands on an equally greasy tea towel. “Let me –”

“Please, don’t worry. I’ll see myself out.”

“Oh, well, if you’re sure. I am a bit up to my ears…”

Fiona looked around the kitchen in a kind of despair tinged with panic. How on earth would she ever get a Cordon Bleu meal together and get the place tidied up and change before her guests arrived?

“Oh, one thing…” Mrs Pargeter hovered in the doorway. “The man who rang also asked for Theresa’s new address. And I couldn’t find the piece of paper that I’d scribbled it down on. I don’t suppose, by any chance…?”

“Yes, she did give it to me. Let me think. I remember, I asked for it just as she was leaving. And she told me and I scribbled it on the pad on the telephone. It’s in the hall. You’ll see it as you go out.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” Again Mrs Pargeter turned to go, and again stopped. “I’m sorry, there’s one other thing, Fiona. This really is the last one, I promise. Then I’ll leave you to get on with things.”

“No problem,” said Fiona. No, Mrs Pargeter’s questions weren’t a problem; compared to the problem of getting this dinner party together, everything else paled into insignificance.

“I just wondered if you knew the name of the removal firm that Theresa used. I’ve a feeling they may have taken some light fittings that were meant to be left, and I want to check with them.”

Well, it was only a small lie. The late Mr Pargeter wouldn’t have minded that. He had always been a pragmatist; he didn’t object to lies on principle, only when they were likely to lead to further lies and complications of consistency.

“Yes, I remember,” said Fiona helpfully. “Couldn’t forget it, really, seeing that dirty great lorry opposite for the best part of a day. They were called Littlehaven’s.”

“Ah.”

“I remember thinking it was an unusual name. Didn’t recognise it. Certainly not one of the local firms. But I suppose she wouldn’t necessarily use a firm from down here if she was moving up North.”

No, she wouldn’t, thought Mrs Pargeter. Not if she was moving up North.

The hall was dominated by a large coatstand with a mirror, from whose hooks an assembly of Barbour coats, tweed caps and green quilted jerkins hung. In the umbrella-rack at the bottom stood a shooting-stick, a few golf clubs and a riding crop. As Fiona had promised, there was a pad of paper on a low table by the telephone. Mrs Pargeter had to turn back several pages before she came to the scrawled address.

“Elm Trees, Bascombe Lane, Dunnington, North Yorkshire.”

At least Theresa Cotton’s lies had been consistent.