Mrs Pargeter 02; Mrs, Presumed Dead

∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧

Thirty-Five

Which really just left Fiona Burchfield-Brown.

Mrs Pargeter wondered whether there could be anything that Theresa Cotton had challenged Fiona Burchfield-Brown with when she visited her on the night before her death. Fiona seemed so aristocratically bumbling, so earnestly incompetent, so transparent, that it was hard to imagine her as the possessor of a guilty secret. But Mrs Pargeter was far too canny an old bird to be deceived by appearances.

She settled down that evening over a large vodka Campari to think about what might worry Fiona Burchfield-Brown.

It didn’t take long for her to decide to ring Truffler Mason. He had after all investigated the residents of Smithy’s Loam in his search for Rod. Was it possible that his Welsh ‘market researcher’ had come up with something that might be relevant?

♦

His voice sounded as mournful as ever, but it contained no trace of resentment. He was still quite happy to give Mrs Pargeter any assistance she might require.

“I’ll ask and get back to you,” she said. Then, with a note of concern in his voice, he continued. “Does this mean, Mrs Pargeter, that you’re still on the case…?”

“Well…”

“I thought the husband-kills-wife scenario was a bit obvious myself.”

“I think it’s just worth my asking around a bit.” Mrs Pargeter conceded cautiously. “You know, see if I get any leads.”

“Hmm. All right. But you be careful.”

“What do you mean, Truffler? I’m not in any danger.”

“Don’t you believe it. You’re up against someone completely ruthless.”

“Yes, but I’ll keep a low profile and –”

“Look, the murderer has already killed two people to keep whatever secret it is quiet.”

“Two?”

“Well, I’d have said quite possibly two, yes, Mrs Pargeter. Do you really think Rod Cotton fell in the Thames by mistake?”

“I had assumed that, yes. Or it might have been suicide. I mean, he was in such a hopeless state, he had no idea what he was doing. He’d already fallen and had one accident. He could hardly stand up straight.”

“Make him all the easier to push in, wouldn’t it?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Look, Mrs Pargeter, you’ve established that the murderer knew about what had happened to Rod Cotton…”

“I think so, yes.”

“Must be right. Only someone who knew the state he was in would have dared to dispose of the body that way. The murderer was counting on the fact that either the police wouldn’t be able to find Rod Cotton or that, if they did, they wouldn’t be able to get any sense out of him…”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“So if Rod had made contact with the murderer recently, the murderer might have reckoned he knew too much for safety.”

“But why would Rod make contact?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because of something you said when you talked to him…”

“Oh, good heavens, I never thought of that.”

“I may be wrong. All I’m saying, Mrs Pargeter, is that you’re up against someone who won’t hesitate to use violence again. So, if you are planning any heroics –”

“I don’t think heroics are my style at all,” said Mrs Pargeter coyly.

“From what I’ve seen of you, I think they just might be. Anyway, if you are planning any kind of confrontation, make sure that I’m around.”

“Very well.” She spoke contritely, like an obedient little girl. It was rather comforting, though, the thought that she had a protector on hand when she needed one. Comfortingly familiar – it was, after all, a feeling she got used to while the late Mr Pargeter had been alive.

♦

Truffler rang back within the hour.

“Only found out one thing about the Burchfield-Brown woman,” he announced, like an undertaker discreetly offering his price-list.

“Yes?”

“Well, she’s not the genuine article.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, the accent, all that…the education – it’s phoney.”

“She wasn’t at Roedean or finishing schools or anything like that?”

“No. She left a comprehensive in Essex at sixteen and worked in the checkout in Tesco’s.”

“What? Well, how on earth did she transform herself into this Sloane Ranger figure that she is now?”

“Don’t know all the details. She had elocution lessons, certainly, started grooming herself, met a few of the right sort of people, I suppose…”

“Married one of the right sort of people?”

“Maybe.”

“He must know, though, mustn’t he? Alexander, her husband. I mean, she could fool neighbours and people when she moved into a new area, but she couldn’t keep that kind of secret from someone she was living with, could she?”

“No, I doubt if she could. But then it seems that he’s no more the genuine article than she is.”

“What, so all his family silver and Range Rover and upper-crust manners and Hooray Henry accent are just made up?”

“That’s the way it seems, Mrs Pargeter, yes.”

She was thoughtful. “It does make sense of certain things, actually. Fiona’s constant fear of letting her husband down, for a start. And I suppose actually it’s an easy enough front to maintain somewhere like this. You move to a new area, you present yourself as you choose, and people accept you at face value. No problem. Particularly in Smithy’s Loam, where nobody’s that interested in anyone else, anyway.”

“Well, as I say, Mrs Pargeter, that’s it. They’re both acting like they’ve got a social background that they haven’t. Common enough deception, I suppose.”

“Yes.” It was, however, a deception whose necessity Mrs Pargeter could never understand. Not once in her life had she ever tried to change herself in any particular. People either took her as she was or they didn’t. And as for those who didn’t…well, she never reckoned it was her loss.

“But,” Truffler went on dolefully, “I mean, that’s a secret, OK. But it’s not a secret anyone would kill to keep quiet, is it?”

“I’m not so sure,” said Mrs Pargeter. “You don’t know what people are like in Smithy’s Loam.”