Mrs. Pargeter's Principle

by Simon Brett

  ‘I did indeed.’

  ‘What a remarkable coincidence.’

  ‘I prefer to call it “serendipity”,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Go on, tell me – you’ve had a cancellation?’

  ‘Well, yes, we have. I’d just put the phone down to the poor girl when you rang. She was in a terrible state.’

  ‘What, had she just found out that her fiancé had been sleeping with the chief bridesmaid?’

  ‘How did you know that was it?’

  ‘It usually is. So the twenty-seventh of May is currently available?’

  ‘Well, yes, it is.’

  ‘Then I would like to book it, please, Shereen.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, Mrs Pargeter. I should warn you there’s a rather substantial deposit required to …’

  ‘Non-returnable?’

  ‘Non-returnable,’ Shereen confirmed.

  ‘So you’ll be hanging on to the deposit from the girl who cried off, won’t you?’

  ‘Well, we—’

  ‘Going to be a profitable day for you, twenty-seventh of May, isn’t it?’

  ‘There are costs involved in a cancellation,’ Shereen responded rather sniffily. ‘Some outside people booked for the wedding – the registrar, musicians and so on – have to be paid off.’

  ‘My heart bleeds for you. Anyway, I’ll pay you your deposit. Can I do that right now with a card?’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Pargeter. And I should warn you that if you were to cancel within three weeks of the booked date, you would be liable for paying the full costs of our services. And because of the late booking, that three weeks is approaching rather soon.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Mrs Pargeter blithely. ‘And once I’ve paid, I’d like to fix up a date when the bride, whose name’s Samantha Pinkerton, and her fiancé, who’s Kelvin but I don’t know his surname, can come along and check out the premises.’

  The very substantial deposit was made on Mrs Pargeter’s card, and a visit for Sammy and Kelvin was provisionally arranged for the following Monday. Mrs Pargeter agreed that she would check that the two young people would be free then and only ring back if the date had to be changed.

  Then, as she was about to say her goodbyes, Shereen interrupted. ‘Oh, there is one other thing …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The couple who were going to be married on the twenty-seventh of May were going to use the chapel and have a religious service.’

  ‘Very nice too.’

  ‘So I don’t know whether Samantha and Kelvin would like to do the same?’

  ‘They would.’

  ‘Good. That means I don’t have to cancel the vicar.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you do,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Stand him down. We’ll be bringing our own vicar.’

  St-Crispin-in-the-Closet is one of the lesser known churches in the City of London and also one of the few medieval structures to have survived the Great Fire. A narrow building, it is squashed between tall corporate edifices in a little alley off Lace Bobbin Street, like a pocket bible on a shelf between atlases.

  Gary’s Bentley didn’t look so conspicuous in the City that afternoon. There were a lot of them around. Also, as if neatly to point out the downside of consumerism, a scruffy man with a scruffy dog sat on the pavement at the corner of Lace Bobbin Street hawking The Big Issue. He didn’t look particularly enamoured of his task, but sales of the magazine were hopefully helping to get him off the streets.

  As Gary opened the car’s back door outside the church’s round-topped Norman archway, he asked, as ever, ‘Come with you or stay, Mrs P?’

  ‘Stay – or go off and do something else for an hour. I don’t want to frighten him by being with someone he might recognize from the old days.’

  ‘Right you are.’ Gary’s eyes followed her generous figure as she handed twenty pounds to the Big Issue seller and refused the magazine. Continuing to watch as Mrs Pargeter entered a small door inset into the two large ones, Gary realized once again why all of his relationships ended in disaster. His heart was committed elsewhere. None of the girls who were so willing to go to bed with him could match up to Mrs Pargeter.

  Inside the church a short chubby man in a cassock was at the altar replacing burnt-down candles in the candlesticks with new ones. The top of his head was bald, but encircled by an almost monastic horseshoe shape of long grey hair. He looked up nervously at the sound of the opening door, but his brow cleared when he saw who the new arrival was. (Mrs Pargeter had taken the precaution of a preliminary phone call.)

  ‘My dear creature!’ he said, bustling up the aisle to throw his arms around her. ‘How wonderful to see you!’

  ‘You too, Holy.’ It was perhaps inevitable that someone called the Rev. Smirke should be known to Mr Pargeter’s associates as ‘Holy’ Smirke.

  ‘Sad to think we haven’t met since I conducted your dear husband’s funeral.’

  ‘It was a sad occasion, yes, but you did it beautifully.’

  ‘I had a lot of help from so many people. Truffler Mason guarding the main doors, dear Gary providing the getaway cars …’

  ‘The hearse and funeral cars, Holy,’ she gently corrected him.

  ‘Yes, of course, that’s what I meant.’

  She looked round the church. ‘Lovely place. You seem very settled in here.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mrs Pargeter. A case of the prodigal having returned. I’m up to here with fatted calf, you know. I’m in charge of one of the most beautiful churches in the City of London – or anywhere else, come to that.’

  Mrs Pargeter took in her surroundings. Tall arching columns, stone monuments, a floor paved black and white, darkly gleaming wood, shiny brass, and the whole subtly lit by the colours from the stained glass windows. A celebration of all that was beautiful. Mankind bringing the best of its skills to the celebration of the Almighty. Though not a believer herself, Mrs Pargeter understood how surroundings like these could foster faith in the most cynical of hearts.

  ‘And are you settled domestically as well?’ Mrs Pargeter recalled that the Rev. Smirke, in spite of his unprepossessing appearance, had had a surprisingly varied emotional life.

  ‘Oh yes, thank you. There is a very nice little flat just behind the church. And I have a housekeeper. A French housekeeper,’ he added with relish.

  She looked at him quizzically. ‘Is that a “housekeeper” in the sense that some Catholic priests have “housekeepers”?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he replied roguishly. ‘Except, of course, because I’m an Anglican, for me there’s no sin involved.’

  ‘Isn’t there something in the Bible about not having sex outside marriage?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it’s put quite like that. And it’s not one of the important bits. There’s lots of stuff in the Bible that God didn’t really mean.’

  ‘I see. And who is the judge of which bits God did mean and which he didn’t?’

  ‘Well, I am, obviously. I am his priest, his representative on earth.’

  ‘You’ve got it all worked out.’

  ‘I certainly have.’

  ‘Very satisfactory.’

  He reached into his cassock and produced a card, which he passed to her. ‘That’s the office number and the flat. If a woman answers—’

  ‘A woman with a French accent?’

  ‘Yes. Her name’s Ernestine.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘Anyway, take a pew.’ Holy Smirke chuckled. ‘I do love saying that in church. People use the expression so often, but so rarely in the right context. And then, of course, there’s the old schoolboy joke which never fails to tickle me: “He who farts in church must sit in his own pew!”’

  Another loud chuckle, in which Mrs Pargeter joined. ‘I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour, Holy.’

  ‘Heaven forfend that any of us should ever lose our sense of humour, Mrs Pargeter. Where would we be without it?’

  ‘Do you think God has a sense of humour?’

  ‘Of course he does. It’
s evident wherever you look in all of his creation. Don’t try telling me that the power which contrived to create the duck-billed platypus didn’t have a sense of humour. Then again, how else do you explain the politicians God has put in place to rule over us … not to mention many of the people he has chosen to become television presenters? But enough of this idle badinage. You are here on professional business, Mrs Pargeter. Of which of my many services –’ he chuckled again – ‘and I use the word advisedly – do you wish to take advantage?’

  ‘I want you to officiate at a wedding.’

  ‘What kind of wedding?’

  ‘Well, an ordinary church wedding.’

  ‘No, Mrs Pargeter, I meant: is this a legal wedding? Will the young couple have met before the day of the ceremony? Will they see each other again after the ceremony? Or is it a sham? Is the event set up merely to cement the immigration status of one or other of them?’

  ‘It is a completely legal wedding!’ said Mrs Pargeter with some vehemence. ‘I thought you’d put all that other stuff behind you, Holy.’

  ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Pargeter,’ he said shamefacedly. ‘Old habits die hard.’

  ‘So long as they die, that’s all that concerns me.’

  ‘Oh, they do. They do die. They are long dead. I haven’t offended against either the criminal code or the moral code since … ooh, let me think.’

  ‘When was it? A very long time ago, I hope.’

  He coloured. ‘I’m afraid I have to confess that it was last Sunday. The Devil tempted me to trouser a twenty-pound note from the collection.’

  ‘Holy!’

  ‘Oh, the Devil can be very persuasive, you know. Even Our Lord found him a fairly tricky customer in the wilderness. Besides, it is so rare that we get a twenty-pound note in the collection bag. I felt I really had to keep it for its souvenir value.’

  ‘That doesn’t wash with me, Holy. You see that that twenty pounds is returned to the collection next Sunday!’

  ‘Mrs Pargeter, you are a hard taskmistress.’

  ‘Are you going to return it?’ She could be quite scary when she was in this mode.

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Or do you think God’s got such a good sense of humour that he’ll regard you keeping the money as a huge joke?’

  ‘I have always believed in a benevolent God.’

  ‘So benevolent that he would condone robbery?’

  ‘Well, yes. I have thought this through, you know. I’ve even written a sermon on the subject.’

  ‘The subject of God approving of robbery?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you delivered it yet?’

  ‘No, I’m waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘You might have a long wait. So what’s your argument?’

  ‘Well, it’s all based on scriptural fact. And most of it comes from Jesus the Son rather than God the Father.’

  ‘OK. Go on.’

  ‘Now, you’ll agree with me that Jesus Christ, as traditionally represented, is not acquisitive and is very forgiving?’

  ‘I’ll give you that, yes.’

  ‘So if I were to steal something from him, it wouldn’t matter to him, because he’s not acquisitive. And because he has a forgiving nature, he’d forgive me …’

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Mrs Pargeter cautiously, concentrating on the argument.

  ‘So Jesus isn’t hurt by the theft …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘… which means it’s a victimless crime.’ Mrs Pargeter was too gobsmacked to say anything as Holy Smirke continued: ‘Now, there’s an instance in the Bible where Jesus shows that he’s on the side of thieves.’

  ‘I very much doubt that, Holy.’

  ‘Oh, there is. It’s mentioned in all four gospels. Sometimes called “The Cleansing of the Temple”.’

  ‘When he threw out the moneylenders?’

  ‘Exactly. And in Matthew he says the moneylenders have turned the temple into a “den of thieves”.’

  ‘But he doesn’t say that with any sense of approval.’

  Holy Smirke held up his hand. ‘If you would let me finish, Mrs Pargeter. Now, what’s the other thing Jesus does in the temple? He overturns the tables of the moneylenders. And what is on these tables? Money, of course – they’re moneylenders, aren’t they? So if you overturn a moneylenders’ table – and remember they didn’t have notes in those days – all the coins are going to go rolling all over the floor, aren’t they? And you get coins rolling all over the floor in a den of thieves – what’s going to happen? Obviously, the thieves are going to pocket as many of the coins as they can. Which means –’ the clergyman spread his hands wide, as if his thesis had just been proved – ‘that Jesus not only approved of thieves, he actually acted as their accomplice.’

  There was quite a long silence before Mrs Pargeter said, ‘You didn’t train as a Jesuit, did you, Holy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I still think I’d leave it a while before you deliver that sermon.’

  ‘But you can’t fault its logic, can you?’

  ‘Well, I think there might be one or two minor flaws in there, actually.’

  ‘Oh.’ Holy Smirke sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘As I say, I believe in a benevolent God, and I’m sure it would be in his nature to overlook the minor peccadillos of some of his less scrupulous—’

  ‘That’s not the point, Holy. What I want to know is: are you going to return that twenty pounds you took from last Sunday’s collection?’

  He crumbled instantly. ‘Yes, of course, Mrs Pargeter.’

  ‘Good.’ She was glad to be moving on from religious exegesis to more practical matters. ‘Now, the date of the wedding for which your services are required is the twenty-seventh of May.’

  ‘What day of the week is that?’

  ‘It’s a Saturday.’

  ‘Oh, that should be all right. I tend to have certain commitments on Sundays, but otherwise my time’s my own.’

  ‘I thought your time was God’s.’

  ‘Yes, well, we kind of share it. A celestial timeshare.’

  ‘Hm.’ Mrs Pargeter focused her violet eyes on Holy Smirke’s face. ‘So, have you really gone straight?’

  ‘Oh, I like to think so.’

  ‘I’m sure you like to think so – I’d like to think so too – but that doesn’t really answer my question.’ She repeated it, lest there be any uncertainty about what she meant. ‘Have you really gone straight?’

  ‘Well, up to a point,’ was the best answer he could supply.

  Mrs Pargeter shook her head with frustration. ‘My husband worked very hard to look after all the people who worked for him.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I—’

  ‘Quiet, I haven’t finished! And before he died he offered training and job opportunities to all of his staff, so that they could make their legitimate way forward in life.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘My husband paid for you to go to theological college so that you could become properly ordained. He changed you from someone who wore a dog collar so that people wouldn’t suspect him to the genuine article. Are you not grateful for what he did for you?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’m extremely grateful, but—’

  ‘I know. Old habits die hard; you’ve already told me that.’

  ‘I mean, Mrs Pargeter, in no way am I now a professional criminal …’

  ‘I am glad to hear that.’

  ‘… but I do like to dabble a bit on the side. You know, in a strictly amateur way.’

  ‘Like it’s a hobby?’

  ‘Exactly. That’s a very good way of putting it.’

  ‘Well, get another hobby!’ said Mrs Pargeter with a firmness that could not be denied.

  ‘Yes, of course, immediately,’ he hastened to assure her. Then he looked dubious. ‘I wonder if I’d be any good at macramé …’

  ‘Anyway, I must go.’ She took out her mobile and texted Gary so that he would have the Bentley outside waiting.

/>   ‘Yes, of course.’ Holy Smirke sighed nostalgically. ‘Oh, I keep thinking back to the wonderful times we had when I was working for your husband. I miss him.’

  ‘So,’ said Mrs Pargeter with a wry grin, ‘do I.’

  ‘Of course, of course you would. I suppose what I mean is that I miss the excitement of the very early days, you know, when we were involved in setting up a brand-new enterprise. It was seat-of-the-pants thrilling, and your husband was such a brilliant organizer. I knew that I was in at the start of something that was going to be monumentally successful. And so, of course, it proved.’

  Mrs Pargeter nodded fondly, proud of her husband’s great achievements. Then a thought struck her. ‘Holy, you said you were in with my husband right from the start?’

  ‘Absolutely. Founder member.’ As he reminisced, his vicarly tones gave way to something more East End and earthy. ‘We was at school together. That’s where it all started.’

  ‘So,’ asked Mrs Pargeter, ‘did you know someone called Normington Winthrop?’

  NINE

  Before she could ask any more questions there was the sound of the small door at the front of the church opening. Holy Smirke looked up and checked his watch. ‘Oh dear, I’d forgotten. I have a four o’clock appointment. Woman coming to talk about arrangements for her husband’s funeral. I’m afraid she’s a stickler for detail,’ he whispered. ‘Could take some time.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you a call. Are you in this evening?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said with relish. ‘Ernestine’s cooking cassoulet.’

  ‘Very nice too. I’ll call you … what, round nine?’

  ‘That would be perfect. By then the cassoulet will be sitting lightly on my stomach and I’ll be enjoying a digestif.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  The two women exchanged discreet nods, and as she made her way to the exit Mrs Pargeter heard a very fulsome Holy Smirke say, ‘My dear lady, I was so sorry to hear of your loss.’

  ‘No loss to me,’ the woman replied with frosted Kensington vowels. ‘I’m just glad to be shot of the old git.’

  Safely delivered back home by Gary in the Bentley, Mrs Pargeter looked vaguely into her kitchen but didn’t even get as far as opening the fridge. She wouldn’t cook that evening. When the time came she’d phone for a takeaway from her favourite local Indian.