A Nice Class of Corpse

by Simon Brett

  This was said with such finality that it reduced Miss Wardstone to only a sniff by way of riposte. Colonel Wicksteed and Mr Dawlish took advantage of the change of mood to rise and, murmuring ‘We hope you will excuse us, ladies’, to go off and watch what was left of Coronation Street.

  Miss Naismith swept out after them.

  Mrs Pargeter looked at the expression of fury on Miss Wardstone’s face. The spinster did want that sea-front room with an intensity that was almost obsessional.

  But enough to kill for it? Of that Mrs Pargeter was not yet sure.

  11

  Mrs Pargeter rarely spoke of the late Mr Pargeter, except in the most general terms. It was clear from her conversation that he had been a devoted husband, and also a wealthy one, who had left his widow exceptionally well-protected against the financial buffetings of the world. But, as Lady Ridgleigh had found out, enquiries into the sources of the late Mr Pargeter’s wealth were deflected by enigmatic answers.

  Mrs Pargeter, however, retained a deep and lasting affection for her late husband. Though his life had been unconventional, though their marriage had been interrupted by his occasional long absences, their love for each other had never faltered.

  And Mrs Pargeter had cause to be grateful to him for the many, many useful things that he had taught her.

  She thought this once again as, at two-thirty in the morning of the 6th of March, she slipped the relevant blade of the late Mr Pargeter’s skeleton keys into the lock of the sea-front room that, until the previous day, had been occupied by Mrs Selsby.

  She was acting on intuition. Various ideas were connecting in her mind, but she needed more information to convert those connections into a solid chain of logic.

  It was Mrs Selsby’s pearls that had put her on the track, and something Miss Naismith had said during the evening that had kept her going in the same direction. In Mrs Selsby’s room she hoped to find out whether she was proceeding on the high road to a solution or up a blind alley.

  The lock gave and the door opened with the silent deference that characterised all the fittings of the Devereux. Inside the room the curtains were drawn, perhaps as a mark of respect to the deceased, but Mrs Pargeter did not risk switching on the lights. Instead, she produced a small pencil torch, another invaluable legacy of the late Mr Pargeter’s working life.

  She moved straight to the bureau in the bay window. In the front of the hotel she was much more aware of the insistent wash of the sea.

  She wore gloves (another of the useful things the late Mr Pargeter had taught her), and the well-oiled drawers of the bureau slid obligingly open at her touch. No need to use the skeleton keys again.

  Mrs Pargeter quickly found what she was looking for. Two drawers were full of slim black jewellery boxes. Screwing into her eye the jeweller’s glass that the late Mr Pargeter had also always found so useful, she expertly opened each box and examined its contents in the thin beam of her torch.

  As she closed the last box, she smiled with satisfaction. She couldn’t be sure about the settings, but every one of the precious stones confirmed her suspicions.

  Mrs Pargeter was silent as she left the sea-front room, and silent as she relocked the door with the skeleton key. She moved silently back up to her second-floor back bedroom, was quickly in bed, and quickly asleep.

  Which was why she did not hear the sounds of someone else breaking into Mrs Selsby’s room later that night.

  12

  After breakfast on the morning of the 6th of March, Miss Naismith asked Mrs Mendlingham whether she would mind stepping into the Office for a brief word. The expression in the old woman’s wild eyes suggested that she would mind a lot, but she obediently followed the proprietress out of the Admiral’s Dining Room.

  ‘I wonder what that was about . . . ?’

  Miss Wardstone voiced her conjecture to no one in particular. Apart from her, only Eulalie Vance and Mrs Pargeter remained at their breakfast tables. Colonel Wicksteed had made his morning quip about time and tide, and soon been followed out by Mr Dawlish and Lady Ridgleigh. Mrs Pargeter sat relishing the last of her kipper, and Eulalie Vance stayed ostentatiously rereading a letter that had arrived by the morning post.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Mrs Pargeter, politely picking up the conversational baton.

  ‘A matter of personal hygiene, I wouldn’t be surprised.’ Miss Wardstone sniffed vindictively, though whether this was an illustration of her words or the product of mere habit was not clear.

  ‘Oh?’ asked Mrs Pargeter innocently.

  ‘Come on. You must have smelled it. I’m afraid dear Mrs Mendlingham is beginning rather to . . . lose control.’ Miss Wardstone emitted a little bark of unamused laughter and then added grimly, ‘I think she may be on the transfer list.’

  ‘Transfer list?’

  ‘Miss Naismith is very insistent that the Devereux is for active people. In other words, people who are physically fit and in full control of themselves. I’m not sure that Mrs Mendlingham any longer qualifies.’ Again a nasty little laugh.

  ‘And where might she be transferred to?’

  ‘The South Coast isn’t short of Old People’s Homes, Mrs Pargeter. Private hotels like the Devereux are considerably rarer. And Miss Naismith is absolutely right to apply her rules with the maximum stringency.’

  Meaning, Mrs Pargeter presumed, that Mrs Mendlingham was being asked to find herself alternative accommodation. That could be a nasty shock for a person of her age, who might be driven to desperate courses to avoid such action being taken against her.

  Mrs Pargeter wondered idly whether Mrs Selsby had possessed any firm evidence of Mrs Mendlingham’s incontinence or other disqualifications from residency at the Devereux.

  After her excursions of the day before, Mrs Pargeter decided to stay in the hotel that morning. In her enquiries into Mrs Selsby’s death, she still felt that listening was going to be the most productive approach.

  Her first encounter did not prove very illuminating. Having finished her kipper and indulged in one final cup of tea, Mrs Pargeter took her Daily Mail into the Seaview Lounge, where she found Lady Ridgleigh wincing over half-glasses at her copy of The Times. The same strings of pearls, she noticed, hung around the thin neck, this time vying with a red and blue check patterned dress. After her expedition during the night, Mrs Pargeter found that she was thinking a lot about jewellery. Lady Ridgleigh’s pearls, her expert eye reaffirmed, were exquisite and very valuable.

  The Times was ceremoniously folded and laid flat across bony knees. The half-glasses were placed in a monogrammed case. Lady Ridgleigh, it was clear, was about to make a conversational effort.

  Assuming the expression of interest that the Queen adopts when asking Commonwealth leaders about new hydro-electric installations, she said, ‘Well, I do hope you’ll be very happy here, Mrs Pargeter.’

  ‘I’m sure I will. I had a look round the town yesterday. Littlehampton seems a very nice little place.’

  Lady Ridgleigh did not appear completely convinced of the truth of the assertion. ‘Some of it is very pleasant, certainly. Not as select, perhaps, as Rustington or Middleton-on-Sea. Or, of course, dear Bognor. Still, some of it is quite adequate. Other parts, I fear, are rather less salubrious.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I am afraid so. The summer can be very distressing.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Bank Holidays are particularly unpleasant. I make a point of not stirring outside the hotel’s doors on Bank Holidays.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The tone is lowered considerably. There have even been instances of violence on the front.’

  ‘From whom?’

  Lady Ridgleigh’s bony shoulders shuddered. ‘I believe they call themselves “Hell’s Angels”.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lady Ridgleigh straightened her back. ‘It makes me so thankful that we have the Royal Family.’

  Mrs Pargeter could think of no appropriate rejoinder to this, and so s
tarted to read her Daily Mail. Lady Ridgleigh, feeling that she had displayed quite sufficient ‘common touch’ for one day, put her half-glasses back on, reopened her Times and found the ‘Court and Social’ page.

  The next arrival in the Seaview Lounge was Colonel Wicksteed, returning rather earlier than usual from his ‘constitutional’. He rubbed his hands together as he came in.

  ‘Couldn’t stay out long this morning. Damned cold.’ He stopped short. ‘Pardon my French, ladies.’

  Lady Ridgleigh’s bony hand waved gracious forgiveness, and the Colonel deposited himself in his customary armchair in the bay window. The binoculars, around his neck when he entered, were at once raised to scan the slaty expanse of the sea.

  In a matter of moments, Mr Dawlish, somehow sensing his friend’s return, entered and, with little bows to the ladies, took his seat opposite the Colonel. He arranged the rug about his thin knees.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘No.’ The Colonel lowered his binoculars to his lap. ‘Not a thing.’ He sighed. ‘No.’ Then a furtive expression crept across his face as, after looking round elaborately, he said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Saw something this morning rather tickled me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Mr Dawlish adopted an equally exaggerated whisper. The effect of both was to draw attention to what they were saying rather than to obscure it, but, with an amateur dramatic society prompter’s confidence in his inaudibility, the Colonel continued.

  ‘Saw it in the newsagent – went in there to buy the Sporting— erm, erm . . . Horse and Hound and—’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Horse and Hound.’

  ‘Oh, erm, they hadn’t got it. Anyway, in the newsagent, I happened to glance at some of those, er . . . you know, those things they have in there . . . bit near the knuckle. . . .’

  ‘Gloves?’ Mr Dawlish offered helpfully.

  ‘No, no. Postcards,’ the Colonel hissed.

  ‘Oh yes. Postcards.’

  ‘Know the sort I mean?’

  ‘Of course.’ Mr Dawlish nodded contentedly. ‘“View of West Beach”, “View of the Arun Estuary”, “View of—”’

  ‘No, no, not those.’ The Colonel leant forward and became even more elaborately conspiratorial. ‘I mean, postcards with a bit of spice.’

  ‘I’ve never come across those,’ said Mr Dawlish. ‘Whatever will they think of next?’

  The Colonel shook his head impatiently, but decided to press on with his story. ‘Anyway, one of these postcards had this picture of a . . . young woman . . . know what I mean?’

  Mr Dawlish nodded.

  ‘And she was extremely . . . what’s the word?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ replied Mr Dawlish with disarming honesty.

  ‘Well endowed . . . know what I mean?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Mr Dawlish nodded. ‘Got lots of money for her old age.’

  ‘No, no. When I say “well endowed”, I mean “well endowed” . . .’ The Colonel dropped his voice even lower ‘. . . physically. Anyway, there she is, scantily clad, looking quite pleased with herself, sitting on the side of a bed – husband in bed asleep – and she’s writing a letter. . . . Bet you can’t guess what the caption is . . . ?’

  No, Mr Dawlish couldn’t guess what the caption was.

  ‘“Dear Sirs,”’ Colonel Wicksteed hissed. ‘“Last night I used some of your ointment on my husband’s recommendation and there’s been a great improvement.”’ He stifled a guffaw. ‘Do you get it?’

  ‘No,’ Mr Dawlish replied evenly.

  The Colonel shook his head and sank back despairingly into his chair. ‘No,’ he echoed.

  There was a long silence in the bay window.

  Then Mr Dawlish volunteered that he had once used some ointment on his doctor’s recommendation.

  ‘Ah,’ said Colonel Wicksteed.

  ‘But there was no improvement.’

  ‘Ah. Well . . .’

  ‘No. Never cleared up. Still got the ruddy thing.’

  ‘Oh.’

  They lapsed again into silence. Mrs Pargeter, deciding that her investigation was not progressing much in the Seaview Lounge, rose and, with polite smiles of farewell, left the room.

  13

  In the hall she met Miss Naismith, who had on her face an expression compounded of surprise, distaste and sheer triumph.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Pargeter,’ she said with a smile that made no attempt at geniality. ‘I was just coming to look for you. I wonder if you would be so kind as to step into my Office for a brief word.’

  Mrs Pargeter saw no objection to doing this. Inside the Office was a balding man wearing a pin-striped suit and a look of professional disapproval.

  ‘Mrs Pargeter – this is Mr Holland. He is the late Mrs Selsby’s solicitor, who has come down to take charge of her affairs.’

  ‘How do you do?’ Mrs Pargeter proffered a plump hand, which was shaken without enthusiasm.

  ‘Shall we all sit down?’ suggested Miss Naismith.

  They sat, and she looked at Mr Holland to begin the proceedings.

  ‘The fact is, Mrs Pargeter, that, as Miss Naismith said, I have, since the death of her husband – incidentally, her last surviving relative – handled Mrs Selsby’s affairs. As soon as I could after hearing the sad news of her . . . er, passing-on . . .’ (Mrs Pargeter had the feeling that this was not the expression he would instinctively have used. Maybe Miss Naismith had already rapped him over the knuckles that morning for insufficient delicacy.) ‘. . . I came down here to make suitable arrangements. Now I believe that you have only recently moved into the hotel . . .’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘. . . but perhaps you are aware that Mrs Selsby was the owner of a considerable amount of jewellery.’

  ‘I had heard that, yes.’

  ‘Now, unwisely, and against my advice, Mrs Selsby was in the habit of leaving this valuable jewellery around her hotel room.’

  ‘Against my advice, too,’ Miss Naismith righteously interposed. ‘I constantly recommended her to put such valuables in the hotel safe. As Lady Ridgleigh does with her extensive collection of jewellery. But Mrs Selsby wouldn’t hear of it. “No,” she would repeatedly say. “I like to have it near me, where I can look at it.”’

  ‘Which was rather ironic, wasn’t it,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘considering that her eyesight was so bad?’

  ‘Be that as it may. . . .’ Mr Holland’s tone implied that he did not like having his monologue interrupted. ‘Needless to say, one of my first actions on arriving here was to check the inventory of jewellery that I knew Mrs Selsby to possess.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mrs Pargeter smiled.

  ‘Now, I asked Miss Naismith where Mrs Selsby kept her jewellery and discovered that it was her rather careless custom to leave it in unlocked drawers of her bureau.’

  Mrs Pargeter nodded. She felt confident she knew what was coming.

  But she was wrong. The words that did come took her breath away as if they had been physical blows.

  ‘Imagine my surprise then, Mrs Pargeter, when I found all of Mrs Selsby’s bureau drawers to be empty.’

  Mrs Pargeter gaped.

  ‘Needless to say, I immediately searched the rest of the room, but found nothing. Which leads me to the unpleasant conclusion that Mrs Selsby’s jewellery has been stolen.’

  ‘Which is a very regrettable word for me to hear used in this establishment,’ said Miss Naismith. ‘There have never been any thefts here before, and an uncharitable enquiry into the incident might first ask the question . . . who is the most recent arrival in the hotel?’

  ‘If you are suggesting I stole the jewellery, Miss Naismith, I’d advise you to be careful. It’s not the sort of accusation that should be thrown around lightly.’

  Miss Naismith was enjoying herself. ‘I agree. Nor would I throw it around lightly. However, when I have a witness to the fact that one of the hotel residents broke into Mrs Selsby’s locked room at half-past two l
ast night, I feel the circumstances may be a little different.’

  Mrs Pargeter did not allow herself to be rattled. ‘What are you saying?’

  Mr Holland took over the indelicate situation. ‘Miss Naismith is saying that you were seen breaking into the room last night. Since she checked that the jewels were in place before locking the room yesterday morning, there can be little doubt that you stole them. Which is why, I am afraid, we will be obliged to telephone for the police.’

  Mrs Pargeter still did not reveal any emotion. Nor did she make any attempt to deny her actions. ‘May I ask you who saw me enter Mrs Selsby’s room?’

  ‘Mrs Mendlingham. She was on the landing.’

  Miss Naismith no longer attempted to hide her triumph. On first meeting Mrs Pargeter, she had recognised that conflict between them was inevitable. But she had expected that the conflict would be a long-drawn-out campaign of attrition. To have her adversary play so quickly and clumsily into her hands was more than the proprietress of the Devereux had dared hope for.

  14

  Mrs Pargeter folded her plump hands on her lap.

  ‘So . . . you are going to call the police?’

  ‘Yes.’ On the face of someone less genteel, Miss Naismith’s expression would have been described as a leer. ‘Can you tell me any reason why we shouldn’t?’

  ‘No. None at all. I’m sure, in the event of a robbery in a hotel like this, the police should definitely be informed.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad you agree.’ Miss Naismith nodded to Mr Holland, who reached towards the telephone on her desk.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Mrs Pargeter continued without raising her voice, ‘I think you would be very ill-advised to make the same accusation to the police as you have to me.’

  Mr Holland’s hand stopped in mid-air.

  ‘Oh. And why do you think that?’ asked Miss Naismith, as usual accentuating the ‘h’ in ‘why’.

  ‘I think it because I did not take the jewels. I don’t deny going into Mrs Selsby’s room last night. I don’t deny taking the jewels out of the bureau and looking at them. But I then put them back.’