by Simon Brett
‘No, he used to be an accountant and . . . Hey, just a minute . . .’ Recollection dawned. ‘You know him, Mrs P.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. He worked with Mr Pargeter. He done the budgeting side on Milton Keynes.’ A note of awe came into his voice at the mention of one of the late Mr Pargeter’s most spectacular business coups. ‘Didn’t your old man never mention him to you?’
‘Gaston? No, I never heard of anyone called Gaston.’
‘No, well, of course he wasn’t called Gaston in them days, was he? Called Bennett Wilson, that’s his real name – “Nitty” for short. Come on, he done that job in Streatham too . . . you know, that security van. You must remember. The one that went wrong.’
A slight frost had settled on Mrs Pargeter’s amiable features. ‘My late husband never talked to me about his work. He was always of the opinion that his business life and his home life should be kept well separated.’
‘Can see his point. Very sensible that – given the kind of business it was. I mean, it’s always the case, isn’t it – what your old lady don’t know, she can’t stand up in court and . . .’
The end of the sentence trickled away as Ankle-Deep Arkwright caught the full blistering beam of Mrs Pargeter’s violet eyes. With deliberate tact, he misinterpreted the cause of her displeasure. ‘Sorry, don’t know what come over me – calling you an “old lady” and that. Very sorry.’
Mrs Pargeter’s sudden frost was caused not only by her habitual desire to know as little as possible about her late husband’s business affairs (a desire, incidentally, that he had enthusiastically encouraged), but also by the mention of Streatham.
The late Mr Pargeter’s involvement with Streatham had not been one of his most successful business enterprises. Indeed the venture had gone so badly wrong that its aftermath had kept him absent from the conjugal home for some three years.
Mrs Pargeter had felt this enforced separation keenly. Partly, this was because of the close and loving relationship which she and her husband shared, which meant that she had missed him rotten. But her pain had been aggravated by the fact that she knew he had been betrayed in Streatham by one of his closest associates.
Though she kept knowledge of her husband’s business affairs to a minimum, the conversation of the men he delegated to ‘keep an eye on her’ during his involuntary absence did not allow her to be completely unaware of what had happened.
The villain had been Julian Embridge, an unsuccessful research chemist whose fortunes had changed remarkably when he had been taken under her husband’s ever-philanthropic wing. The late Mr Pargeter found employment for many varied talents in his spreading empire, and at that time had decided (from a purely altruistic love of knowledge and respect for the sciences) that he wished to direct some of his resources towards chemical research into the comparative efficacy of different explosives.
The disaffected Julian Embridge, then currently embarrassed by misplaced suspicions about the disappearance of valuable drugs from the laboratory that employed him, had been delighted to become the recipient of the late Mr Pargeter’s patronage. Their relationship blossomed and – a rare occurrence – Embridge was even introduced socially to his employer’s beloved wife, Melita.
She had enjoyed the company of this short, chubby, straw-haired chemist, though she had always felt some reservations about his ultimate reliability. Occasionally into his blue eyes came a too uncompromising light of avarice.
But her husband was delighted with the new recruit, and gave him ever-increasing responsibility and prominence in his business organization. If the late Mr Pargeter could have been described as a captain of industry, then Julian Embridge was the nearest he ever came to appointing a lieutenant. The relationship grew closer and closer.
Until Streatham.
The precise details of what happened were never clear to Mrs Pargeter, but the outcome was not in doubt. Basically, Julian Embridge had confided all of the late Mr Pargeter’s punctiliously laid plans to the very authorities from whom they should most religiously have been kept hidden. The result was that at what should have been the climax in Streatham, the happy resolution of all his preparations, the late Mr Pargeter had found himself confronted by those authorities. And the consequence of that unhappy confrontation had been the separation which still so rankled with Mrs Pargeter.
What rankled even more was the knowledge that Julian Embridge had escaped with all of the Streatham profits (a sum well into seven figures) and then, so far as anyone could tell, vanished off the face of the earth.
Mrs Pargeter was not a vengeful person, but she had made a vow that, if ever the opportunity arose, she would arrange a rendezvous between Julian Embridge and justice.
She was so carried away in these painful recollections that it took another subservient ‘Sorry’ from Ankle-Deep Arkwright to bring her back to the present.
His apology was accepted with a gracious inclination of her head and he went on, ‘Yeah, well, old “Nitty” . . . after Milton Keynes, he’d got a little stash and he decided he wanted out of the business. Always desperate to be a chef, apparently, but his parents’d pushed him into accountancy – wanted their son in a job which was “reliable and respectable” . . . which is a bit of a laugh considering the kind of accountant “Nitty” ended up as.’
Mrs Pargeter greeted this reference to possible wrong-doing with a wrinkled brow of puzzlement. ‘So, straight after Milton Keynes, he went to Switzerland and started training?’
“Sright. Loved every minute of it – cooking exotic dishes. Always used to say it made a change from cooking the books!’
Mrs Pargeter did not seem particularly amused by this witticism, and Ankle-Deep Arkwright moved quickly on. ‘So, anyway, when I set up this gaff, I asked old “Nitty” – or “Gaston” as he was by then – if he’d come in with me. Wasn’t keen at first, but, you know, old pals’ act, honour among—’ He recovered himself just in time. ‘Well, you know what I mean . . .’
‘And is he the only one of my late husband’s associates whose help you’ve enlisted?’
‘Few’ve been in and out – you know, when other commitments permitted . . . but the only other regular’s Stan.’
‘Stan who brought the food?’
‘Yeah. Didn’t you recognize him?’ Mrs Pargeter shook her head. ‘Used to do a lot of legwork for Mr P. Fixed up everything, and the things – usually people – he couldn’t fix up, well, he stitched them up, didn’t he? That’s how he got his nickname.’
‘Which is . . .?’
‘“Stan the Stapler.”’
‘Ah.’
‘There was other reasons why he got called that, actually. If people was being a bit . . . difficult . . . you know, unwilling to talk and that, Stan used to have this great staple gun that . . .’ Once again, Mrs Pargeter’s expression decided Ankle-Deep Arkwright against continuing. ‘Yeah, well, anyway . . . don’t know how I’d manage without Stan. He can do it all.’
Mrs Pargeter decided it would be imprudent to ask precisely what this ‘all’ comprised. ‘He didn’t seem particularly friendly towards me when he came in.’
‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Just his manner. Stan can’t talk, you know, never could, something wrong at birth. Makes him, like, a bit shy, awkward with people, know what I mean?’
Mrs Pargeter felt partially reassured. ‘Going back to Gaston, though . . .’
‘“Nitty”, yeah?’
‘Does he get many orders like mine tonight?’
Ankle-Deep Arkwright shook his head firmly. ‘No way. Very much verboten at Brotherton Hall.’
‘But I’m sure some of the old biddies’d be happy to pay for decent food.’
‘Oh, certainly, but that’s not the point. Very competitive, like I said, this health spa business. Real dachshund-eat-dachshund out there it is.’
‘Why do you say “dachshund”?’
‘Because it’s a low-fat dog!’ Once again the delivery was a reminder of his stand-u
p days. Ankle-Deep Arkwright chuckled at his witticism before continuing, ‘No, but to be serious. Lot of competition. If it got around that women coming to Brotherton Hall was actually’ – he shook his head with disapproval before italicizing the phrase – ‘having a good time . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, that’d be the end, wouldn’t it?’
Chapter Four
At the end of their meal, Ankle-Deep Arkwright had opened a venerable and princely Armagnac; for some hours they had indulged in that and further reminiscence. So Mrs Pargeter was a little unsteady as she moved up the staircases and through the corridors of Brotherton Hall to her room on the second floor. (Guests’ rooms were all on the first and second floors; the third, marked ‘Private’, contained staff accommodation.)
In the course of their conversation, Ank and Mrs Pargeter had established some useful ground-rules for her stay at the health spa. She was to be accorded ‘Special Treatment’ for an unspecified medical condition. (Mrs Pargeter had suggested ‘gluttony’, but Ankle-Deep Arkwright was far too much of a gentleman to go along with that.)
This ‘Special Treatment’ excused her any form of other treatment that she didn’t fancy. It was like a school sick note that would get her off aerobics, exercise bicycling, swimming, weight-training . . . presumably also Sargasso Seaweed Massage and Dead Sea Mud Baths, if they were prescribed. Any activities she did want to have a go at, she was of course at liberty to indulge in. And any that she did want to do one day but didn’t want to the next (or vice versa), she could do or not do as the whim took her.
Her ‘Special Treatment’ status would be confirmed by the Brotherton Hall resident medic, Dr Potter.
‘But won’t he make a fuss about it, Ank?’ Mrs Pargeter had asked.
‘Good heavens, no, Mrs P.!’ Ankle-Deep Arkwright had roared with laughter. ‘Dr Potter’ll sign anything I tell him to.’
Also because of her unspecified medical condition, Mrs Pargeter would not be allowed to eat with the rest of the guests. Instead, her meals would be served in a specially prepared ‘Allergy Room’ (situated conveniently adjacent to Gaston’s kitchen). All she would have to do each evening would be to check through the following day’s menu and make her selections (bearing in mind that, because of his Swiss training, almost all Gaston’s main dishes came accompanied by rosti, and that the primary ingredient of all his sweets was cream).
Oh yes, and she’d get a wine list each evening to make her selection from that too.
To Mrs Pargeter this all seemed very satisfactory.
As she swanned dreamily along the corridor to her room, she was surprised to see the adjacent door open and Kim Thurrock’s face peer anxiously out. Mrs Pargeter felt a moment’s guilt for having so completely forgotten her friend.
‘Was it all right?’ Kim hissed.
‘Was what all right?’
‘The allergy, of course.’
‘Oh.’ Mrs Pargeter recovered herself. ‘Yes, I think they’ve probably got the measure of it.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Yes. Sorry I couldn’t get back earlier. I hope you haven’t been too bored . . .’
‘Oh no!’ Kim Thurrock’s eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘I’ve had a wonderful time. They have lectures every evening, you know. And tonight it was – Sue Fisher!’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Pargeter, to whom the name carried less immediate import than it clearly did for her friend. ‘Sue Fisher?’
‘You know, the one who wrote Mind Over Fatty Matter.’
‘Oh.’ Yes, it did ring a bell now. Indeed, one would have to have been immured as a hermit over the previous two years for the name to set up no tintinnabulation at all. The Mind Over Fatty Matter book and its sequels had taken up permanent residence in the bestsellers’ lists; the Mind Over Fatty Matter television series seemed to be screened daily; the Mind Over Fatty Matter videos crowded the shelves of record shops; and one could not walk down a high street in the British Isles without passing a display of Mind Over Fatty Matter leotards, leggings, and exercise bras, or enter a food store without seeing Mind Over Fatty Matter microwave meals and dietary supplements.
All this had made Sue Fisher, the originator of the Mind Over Fatty Matter diet and exercise regime, extremely rich. Like some tropical parasite she had burrowed her way into the national obsession with weight, there to take up residence and feed – though not of course fatten – herself on that collective neurosis.
‘Was she interesting?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
‘Oh, she was wonderful!’ The enthusiasm invested in the word made it clear that only the inconvenient organization of shop opening hours had prevented Kim from rushing out already to stock up with books, videos, leotards, leggings, exercise bras, microwave meals and dietary supplements.
Still, the fact that her friend had had a good time made Mrs Pargeter feel less guilty about the contrasting way in which she had enjoyed her own evening. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased, Kim,’ she said comfortably. ‘Well, I must get to bed.’
‘Yes, see you in the dining-room for breakfast . . . though I think it’s just hot water and lemon the first day.’
‘Ah. Well, actually,’ said Mrs Pargeter, ‘I won’t be having my meals in the dining-room.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘Erm . . .’ She prevaricated. ‘Something to do with the allergy.’
‘Oh?’ Alarm sprang into Kim Thurrock’s eyes. ‘You are going to be all right, Melita – aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Pargeter replied. ‘Yes, Kim, I think I’m going to be absolutely fine.’
The alcohol brought deep and dreamless sleep, but also ensured that Mrs Pargeter woke at five o’clock, needing the comforts of her ensuite bathroom.
As the flushing of the lavatory gurgled to nothing, she was aware of a slight scraping noise from outside.
She peered through the curtains. It was June and already nearly light. Mrs Pargeter found she was looking down on the ornamental fish-ponds of the landscaped gardens which were one of Brotherton Hall’s chief glories. Just on the edge of her vision, she could see something moving. It appeared to be human, but the angle of the building impeded her view.
Intrigued, and now wide awake, Mrs Pargeter found her curiosity aroused. Surely it was a bit early for gardening . . . ?
Then she remembered that at the end of the corridor by the stairs was a large window commanding a view directly over the fish-ponds. Why not? It was worth a look. Donning her Brotherton Hall towelling gown, Mrs Pargeter slipped quietly out of her room and along the corridor.
The window at the end was covered only by a thin net curtain, through which she could clearly see what was going on.
Two wheelbarrows stood by the largest fish-pond and between them was Stan the Stapler with a shovel. The squat figure kept reaching into the pond and dragging out shovelfuls of weed or mud. The weed he slopped into one wheelbarrow, the mud into the other.
It was possible that he was gardening, doing some essential maintenance work on the ponds.
It was possible that he was engaged in some more sinister activity.
Recovering a cache of drugs?
Attempting to drag the pond for a body?
But Mrs Pargeter had a more prosaic explanation for what was going on. And it was one that would conform well with what she knew of Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s business practices. She loved Ank dearly, but would have found it hard to hold him up as a paragon of probity.
No, Mrs Pargeter felt pretty convinced that Stan the Stapler was stocking up with Sargasso Seaweed and Dead Sea Mud.
She was just turning back towards her room when she heard the click of a door opening on the floor above.
It lasted only a few seconds. The door clicked open; a snatch of a woman’s voice was heard; the door was softly closed and a key turned in the lock. That was all.
But it was what the woman said that stopped Mrs Pargeter in her tracks and traced a little finger of ice down her spine.
A you
ng woman’s voice. A voice full of pain, anguish and despair.
It had said, ‘But there’s nothing you can do about it. They’re going to kill me, and nobody can stop them.’
Chapter Five
Mrs Pargeter and Kim Thurrock spent the Monday, their first full day at Brotherton Hall, rather differently.
Kim, in common with all the other guests (well, except for Mrs Pargeter) started with the Seven-Thirty Weigh-In. This ceremony – not actually called a ‘ceremony’, but treated with all the pomp of a coronation – was designed to instil into everyone a proper sense of humility. Harsh reality, spelt out in unarguable pounds and ounces, induced shame and an increased incentive to attain the fantasy of a few pounds or ounces less.
After that sobering experience, Kim Thurrock, fortified by her hot water and lemon breakfast, underwent an hour of aerobics, followed by swimming and weight-training. Her lunch, an exotic mélange of cottage cheese and lettuce (garnished with more cottage cheese), preceded a Dead Sea Mud Bath, which set on her like mortar and, if only they could have got it off in one piece, would have made the perfect mould for anyone interested in producing Kim Thurrock clones.
After this she was lashed savagely with Sargasso Seaweed by Lindy Galton. (The Brotherton Hall staff were all qualified to perform all the varied tasks of the health spa, and undertook them in turn, according to some elaborate roster.) Kim then had her pores deep-cleansed with something that in any other environment would have been recognized as a pan-scourer. An hour more aerobics and a very long ride on an exercise bicycle ensured that she was more than ready for her supper, which offered the gastronomic treat of the day – breast of a chicken which had evidently been a recent winner of Brotherton Hall’s Slimmer of the Year Contest. This sliver of meat was parsimoniously garnished with, yes, more lettuce, and the whole complemented by a rather soapy mineral water.
Kim’s day was then completed by a lecture on Body-Tautness Through Yoga, followed by another ugly encounter with the collective conscience of all the guests, the Nine O’Clock Weigh-In. At this ritual those who had put on weight were vilified, those who had kept the same weight were castigated, and those who had lost weight were discouraged from complacency and asked why they hadn’t lost more.