Mrs Pargeter 02; Mrs, Presumed Dead

∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧

Eleven

One of the luxuries of Mrs Pargeter’s new home was its plethora of telephones. There was one in the sitting-room, one in the main bedroom and one in the hall. It was the last of these that she had used to phone Littlehaven’s. Somehow being in the hall seemed more purposeful, more businesslike than operating from the comfort of her favourite high-backed armchair.

The hall phone stood on a little shelf just above a central heating radiator. Deciding it was still a little early to put her call through to ‘C,Q,F&S’ (whatever they might be), she turned away towards the kitchen to make herself a cogitative cup of coffee. But, in doing so, she dislodged the scrap of paper on which she had written the firm’s number and watched with dismay as it slipped against the wall and disappeared down the back of the radiator.

One of the annoying things about moving into a new house is that, though you quickly know where the large items in your possession are, it takes some time before you locate all the small but crucial pieces of impedimenta that make life possible. Amongst such pieces of impedimenta that Mrs Pargeter could not at that moment find was something long enough to reach behind the radiator and retrieve the missing telephone number.

It was ridiculous. There must be something in the house, she told herself. She went through the kitchen and tried the handles of various brooms and sweepers, but they all proved too thick to fit the narrow space. She went out to the shed, but encountered the same problem with all of her garden tools. She tried upstairs, rifling through cupboards and some still unpacked boxes in one of the spare rooms, but again drew a blank.

This was infuriating. She must have something. It would be too pathetic to have to knock on one of the other front doors of Smithy’s Loam to ask for help.

She stood on the landing in a quandary of irritation. It was such a simple thing she was looking for. Mrs Pargeter prided herself on her independence, and was determined not to be defeated by something so trivial.

It was then that she remembered the late Mr Pargeter’s swordstick.

She had put it in one of her high bedroom cupboards the previous week, and now she had to climb on a chair to get it down.

The stick felt reassuringly smooth and solid in her hand. Its dark wood tapered down to a brass ferrule and was topped by a substantial brass grip in the shape of some fanciful heraldic beast. Remembering its secret, Mrs Pargeter gave the grip two little half-twists and withdrew the gleaming blade. It was nearly three feet long and at no point wider than an inch. Both edges and the point were razor-sharp.

The late Mr Pargeter had abhorred violence, and it was his proud boast that he had never had occasion actually to use the swordstick. However, there had been occasions in his particular line of business when he had found its presence in his hand a considerable source of reassurance.

As she went downstairs, Mrs Pargeter looked at her watch and saw with irritation that it was now half-past ten. Her search of the house had taken a disproportionately long time. Still, at least it was no longer too early to make the call which she hoped would locate Rod Cotton.

She squinted down behind the radiator and saw how the paper was trapped. It was caught on the ledge at the top of the skirting-board. She slid the swordstick blade down the gap from above and worked it along to dislodge the missing phone number.

Successful first time. The sheet of paper fluttered on to the carpet at her feet.

But that was not the only object which the swordstick dislodged.

There was also a letter with a first-class stamp but no postmark. It was addressed in a firm feminine hand to: “Brother Michael, The Church of Utter Simplicity, Dunstridge Manor, Dunstridge, Sussex.”

The decision to open the letter was made instantly. Though Mrs Pargeter had a proper respect for individual privacy, she felt that Theresa Cotton’s subterfuge with the false address justified a relaxation of customary moral usages. And she knew that the letter had been written by the former occupant of ‘Acapulco’. They had had correspondence about the details of the fittings which were to be left in the house, and Mrs Pargeter recognised the handwriting.

The letter must have slipped off the telephone shelf, just as the piece of paper had, and, probably in the confusion of moving, Theresa Cotton had forgotten that it had never reached the post-box.

Mrs Pargeter opened the letter and read it, still standing in the hall.

It was written on notepaper headed with the Smithy’s Loam address and dated the Thursday before the move.

Dear Brother Michael,

Most of my preparations are now made and I cannot wait to get this part of my life over with. Ever since I made the most important decision of my life, time has dragged painfully.

I have thought over what you said about the money at our last meeting, and have decided that I would rather hand over the cheque at my Becoming Ceremony. Somehow that seems right to me. At the moment that I shed the personality of Theresa Cotton and become Sister Camilla, I want also to shed the material trappings of Theresa Cotton. I hope you understand. Apart from anything else, the money will not be through until the house sale actually takes place, and I don’t like the idea of writing postdated cheques.

I have also given a lot of thought to what you said about my mental preparation, particularly about getting my mind into a state of maximum receptiveness. I know that I should clear it of all grudges and resentment, as well as of material thoughts. I must confess at the moment I am finding getting rid of the material thoughts easier than the others! But I will keep trying. I think the solution will probably be for me to wait until I am about to leave and then, in as short a time as possible, to go and see all the people towards whom I feel resentment or about whom I know secrets, and just talk to them, clear the air. As you said, confrontation of the things that worry us is always better than avoidance. Otherwise bad thoughts grow and fester. I am determined to come to you with a mind as free of the past as I can make it. With a mind in which there is as much room as possible for God.

Following your advice, I have worked out a way of obscuring my precise destination when I leave here. I am sure God will forgive me a small lie in such a good cause! So far my story has not raised any awkward questions and, given the lack of interest in others amongst most of the people of my acquaintance, I don’t see why it ever should!

As I said when we last spoke, I propose to leave here on Monday evening, but I do not wish to come straight to the Church. Some instinct tells me that I will need twenty-four hours’ break between my old life and the new. I will come to the Church next Wednesday in the morning, with my mind clear and unsullied by material or evil thoughts. The time cannot come too quickly when I will be with you in God.

Yours ever (though not much longer, thank God, in this identity)

Theresa Cotton

Well, thought Mrs Pargeter, there’s a turn-up.