Mrs Pargeter 02; Mrs, Presumed Dead mp-2

by Simon Brett

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Well, that’s very kind of you, Vivvi. And once again, thank you so much for Friday.”

  As she put the phone down, Mrs Pargeter looked puzzled.

  What was the strange note that had come into Vivvi Sprake’s voice when she started talking about Rod Cotton?

  And, come to that, why had Vivvi Sprake got Rod Cotton’s old office number in her address book?

  ∨ 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.

  ∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧

  Twelve

  On the other hand, it did make a lot of things clear. If Theresa Cotton was about to enter some sort of religious order and make a complete break from the galloping consumerism of her old life, at least some of her behaviour was explained.

  But the explanation only went so far. And in fact it raised almost as many questions as it answered. Particularly, it raised questions about her husband. Was Rod Cotton aware of his wife’s plans, was the change in her lifestyle something which they had discussed? Or had he, like everyone else, been misled by false information? Was Theresa intending just to vanish from his life and spend the rest of her days as Sister Camilla? Come t
o that, did Rod know that his wife proposed to donate the proceeds of their house sale to some obscure religious foundation?

  What on earth was the Church of Utter Simplicity? Mrs Pargeter felt certain that she had never heard the name before. There were some alternative sects which were never out of the news, usually with bad publicity, but this one was completely unfamiliar. What were the precepts of the Church of Utter Simplicity? And how much money were they hoping to receive from their latest convert?

  Mrs Pargeter hesitated for a moment. Now, thanks to the letter, even though it did raise all these questions, she knew where Theresa Cotton had gone. Though she might not approve of the deception the woman had practised, the mystery was cleared up. The more dramatic explanations of Theresa Cotton’s disappearance which had been encroaching on Mrs Pargeter’s thoughts could be dismissed. The truth was bizarre, but at least it did explain things. The fortunes of the Cottons were now no longer Mrs Pargeter’s business.

  And yet…

  There was still something that niggled in her mind. To call it an anxiety would have been to overstate the case, but there was a little shadow of disquiet there. Something didn’t quite add up, and Mrs Pargeter knew that she wouldn’t really relax until she had checked just one or two details.

  All she needed to do was confirm the truth of what the letter implied, and then her mind would be set at rest.

  ♦

  Though the existence of the Church of Utter Simplicity sounded much less likely than that of ‘Elm Trees’, Bascombe Lane, Dunnington, Directory Enquiries had no difficulty in providing her with its number.

  She rang through and was quickly answered by an efficient American female voice. “Church of Utter Simplicity.”

  The words still sounded incongruous to Mrs Pargeter, but she supposed that if you said them every time the phone rang they ceased to be odd. Certainly the American voice gave no sign of being amused.

  “Good morning. Could I speak to Brother Michael, please?”

  “Just a moment.”

  The line clicked, then she heard, “Hello? Brother Michael speaking.”

  The fruitiness of the voice was unmistakable. It was the man who had interrupted her sleep on the previous Friday afternoon, the man who had asked her where Theresa Cotton was. Just as she was now asking him. The little flicker of disquiet in Mrs Pargeter’s mind pulsed more strongly.

  “Good morning,” she said without identifying herself. “I am trying to contact a Mrs Theresa Cotton…”

  “Oh,” said the man’s voice. “I didn’t know anyone knew she was supposed to be coming here.”

  “She did confide in a few friends,” Mrs Pargeter lied.

  “That was foolish of her.” As in their previous conversation, the man made no attempt to be pleasant.

  “Well, since I do know she’s there,” Mrs Pargeter insisted, “I wonder if it would be possible for me to speak to her…?” Though quite what she’d say if her request was granted Mrs Pargeter had no idea.

  This was a problem she did not have to face, because Brother Michael immediately snapped, “No. If she were here, you wouldn’t be allowed to speak to her, anyway. That is not the sort of contact we encourage for our members. But, since she isn’t here –”

  “She isn’t there? But she told me that she was going to join you last Wednesday.”

  “That is what she told me,” said Brother Michael in an aggrieved tone. “However, she didn’t appear last Wednesday.”

  “Oh?”

  “And she hasn’t appeared since. But, if you do see her,” he continued, anger building in his voice, “please tell her that her change of mind – if that’s what it is – has caused great inconvenience to me, and wouldn’t, I’d have thought, have done her much good with the Living God! Goodbye!”

  And the phone was slammed down.

  The disquiet in Mrs Pargeter’s mind by now would have qualified for the description of anxiety.

  ♦

  “Hello? C,Q,F&S.”

  If Mrs Pargeter had been hoping that the girl on the switchboard might give some helpful gloss on what those initials stood for, she was destined to be disappointed.

  “Oh, good morning. Could I speak to Mr Rodney Cotton, please?”

  There was a silence from the other end. Then, presumably having checked in some list, the girl announced, “Sorry, we don’t have anyone of that name working here.”

  “Ah,” said Mrs Pargeter, sticking to her prepared script. “It’s possible that he may have been transferred to your northern branch. Could you give me their number?”

  “Do you mean Carlisle, York or Blackburn?”

  “York.”

  The girl gave the number. Mrs Pargeter rang through to York and received exactly the same answer as she had in London. The accent was different, but the message was the same. “Sorry, we don’t have anyone of that name working here.”

  She thought about it. Southerners are extraordinarily vague about the North of England; for most of them Carlisle, York or Blackburn would be pretty much interchangeable. To the denizens of Smithy’s Loam Rod Cotton would just have gone ‘up North’. Perhaps it was only the false address Theresa had given that had pinpointed York.

  Mrs Pargeter went back to Directory Enquiries and got the Carlisle and Blackburn numbers of C,Q,F&S. She also got some extra information gratis when the man said, “Oh, you mean the computer people?” So at least she now knew in which industry Rod Cotton worked.

  Carlisle hadn’t heard of him.

  Nor had Blackburn.

  Puzzled and by now quite uneasy, Mrs Pargeter again rang the London number and asked to be put through to the Personnel Department.

  “Good morning,” she said to the fast-talking young man who answered. “I’m trying to make contact with one of your employees.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “A Mr Rodney Cotton.”

  “Just a moment.” There was a silence. No rustling of papers, so presumably he was checking some computer record. “No. Sorry. No one of that name.”

  “Well, that’s most odd. I mean, I know he was definitely working in your London branch six months ago.”

  “Six months ago? Just a moment.” Another silence, while further data was summoned up on to a screen. “Oh yes. Rodney Cotton. Yes, he was one of our Sales Directors. He doesn’t work here any longer.”

  “What?”

  “The company let him go.”

  “Let him go?”

  “Took him out.”

  “Took him out?”

  “Yes, took him out! Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t you understand – he was fired.”

  “Fired?” Mrs Pargeter echoed softly.

  “Yes. You understand that word, don’t you?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do. So what you’re saying is that Rodney Cotton hasn’t worked for your company for the last six months?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you’re sure he wasn’t transferred to one of your northern branches?”

  “Madam, he has not worked for any part of C,Q,F&S since the eleventh of March this year.”

  “Oh. What, so, I mean, would he have got some sort of redundancy payment?”

  “I dare say he’d have got some sort of package, but not a great deal. He hadn’t been with us that long. He went as part of the rationalisation earlier this year.”

  “Oh. I don’t suppose, by any chance,” Mrs Pargeter asked politely, “you would know where he’s working now…?”

  There was a grim laugh from the young man in Personnel. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. Mind you, I think he’d be lucky to be working anywhere.”

  “What do you mean? Was he very bad at the job?”

  “I’ve no idea. Never met the poor devil. All I mean is his end of the business is not exactly a growth area at the moment. There was a lot of over-recruitment in sales when micros were first launched. Now the balance of the market’s shifted, I’m afraid there are a good few people like Mr Cotton around.”

  “And all ch
asing the same few jobs?”

  “That’s it. What I’m saying, Madam, is if Mr Cotton has now got another job at the same sort of level as he had here, then he’s performed a bloody miracle.”

  Mrs Pargeter thanked the young man for his help and went into the kitchen finally to make herself that cup of coffee. She needed it.

  Nestled into her favourite armchair, she took a welcome sip and gave in to the stampede of thoughts rampaging through her head.

  Now there was not just one missing person who had covered their tracks with lies. There were two.

  And one of them might have been missing for as long as six months.

  ∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧

  Thirteen

  It was time, Mrs Pargeter decided, to summon help. She was fortunate in having a rich repertory of assistants on whose services she could call. Their names were contained in the late Mr Pargeter’s address book, which, she sometimes considered, was the most valuable part of the rich estate he had left her. It was an unrivalled list of contacts which, had it fallen into the wrong hands, could have caused considerable unpleasantness.

  Mrs Pargeter looked up the name ‘Wilson’ and dialled the number listed there. The gentleman who replied identified himself as ‘Mickey’s Motors’ and regretted that Mr Wilson no longer worked with him. “No, he’s gone up in the world. West End, now. Big showroom in Hanover Square. Only deals in Rollers and Bentleys, that kind of stuff. Mind you, sure I can help. Got a great little ‘B’-Reg. Maxi. Only sixty thou on the clock, one lady owner – she was a nun – and it runs like a blooming Swiss watch. I could do you a deal if –”

  Mrs Pargeter managed to stop the flow, apologising that she really wasn’t looking for a car, but needed to contact Mr Wilson urgently. Did Mickey’s Motors, by any chance, have the Hanover Square number?

  He obliged and their conversation concluded amicably with assurances on his part that, if she ever needed some ‘really ace wheels’, he had the biggest selection south of the Thames and could do her a deal that’d be grounds for having him certified.