by Simon Brett
She could not forget the noises she had heard in the night at the Devereux.
She could not help speculating about the cause of Mrs Selsby’s death.
And she could not prevent those speculations moving inexorably to the conclusion that it had not been accidental.
9
Mrs Pargeter returned to the Devereux for tea, arriving at almost exactly the same time as she had the day before. The afternoon was growing dark and bleak, with that peculiar melancholy of a seaside resort out of season. The wind swooped restlessly, setting up ripples of rattling among the shutters of the sea-front kiosks.
But Mrs Pargeter did not feel cold. She had always been a good walker, and she had kept moving most of the time. Her calves ached a little from the exertion, but generally she felt pleased with her day. She had found her bearings in Littlehampton. She now knew where the Devereux stood in relation to the sort of services she was bound to need – newsagent, bank, chemist, hairdresser, public telephone, car rental agency, betting shop. Increasingly the conviction grew that she had found the right place – at least for the time being.
She was also increasingly intrigued by what she now thought of as Mrs Selsby’s murder. And she thought what an attractive project for an elderly person with time on her hands would be finding out who had committed that murder.
Loxton’s memory for the minutiae of her job was excellent, and Mrs Pargeter’s tray arrived at her table with a pot of strong Indian tea. Mrs Pargeter poured herself a cup in silence and listened to the conversations around her. She had decided that listening was going to be her most effective method of investigation.
‘Sad business, sad business,’ observed Colonel Wicksteed, after a swallow of his own strong Indian brew.
‘Yes, indeed. Will come to us all, though.’ Mr Dawlish was suddenly and unaccountably struck by the humour of what he had said, and let out another of his manic giggles.
‘Oh yes. “Don’t ask who the bell tolls for,” the Colonel misquoted again. ‘“It’s for you.”’
‘Is that a ketch?’ asked Dawlish, abruptly pointing out to a smudge on the darkening sea.
Colonel Wicksteed’s binoculars shot up to his eyes. It was too dark to distinguish anything through the bay window, but he pronounced with authority, ‘No, no. Some bloody nouveau riche gin-palace.’
‘Ah.’ Mr Dawlish nodded, content with the answer.
‘What is so sad . . .’ Eulalie Vance dropped her voice thrillingly low on the word ‘. . . is that we could be the only people at the funeral.’
‘You don’t know that,’ said Miss Wardstone combatively.
‘Well, no one ever came to see her here, did they?’
‘Doesn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t got anyone. Lots of people never visit their elderly relatives while they’re alive and then turn up gushing tears at their funerals.’ Miss Wardstone spoke as bitterly as if she anticipated suffering in the same way herself, but since the spinster’s customary manner was one of bitterness, Mrs Pargeter did not allow herself to form any conclusions from this.
‘Oh, I know. But it must be terrible to feel that no one cares. That’s one of the advantages of living a full life, you know. Oh, there’s pain and heartbreak, of course. . . . But I do like to think that when I die, there will be one or two people left in whom a little spark of memory still glows. That is,’ Eulalie added archly, ‘unless I live to a very great age.’
Predictably, this was greeted by a sniff from Miss Wardstone. ‘Depends usually on whether the person who dies had any money or not. If they think they’re in with a chance of inheriting something, it’s surprising how many relatives suddenly come out of the skirting board.’
‘Well, Mrs Selsby always gave the impression of being extremely . . . comfortable,’ observed Eulalie.
‘Comfortable? She was loaded,’ Miss Wardstone snapped. ‘Her jewellery alone was worth more than most people’s life savings.’
The mention of jewellery brought both of them unconsciously to turn and look at the newest resident of the Devereux. Mrs Pargeter studiously peered into her teacup.
Miss Wardstone realised she was staring and snapped her beady eyes away. ‘Oh well, it will be interesting to see who does inherit, won’t it, Miss Vance?’
Yes, thought Mrs Pargeter. It most certainly will.
‘It is distressing,’ commented Lady Ridgleigh to no one in particular, ‘how much people are obsessed by money.’
‘Money does come in handy,’ said Mrs Pargeter judiciously, looking across at the speaker. Lady Ridgleigh was wearing a silk dress in pale green and beige Paisley. Around her neck were the same strings of pearls, unsuitable with this ensemble, lost in the colours of the pattern.
‘Oh, I agree one needs it, Mrs Pargeter, but one ought not to have to think about it. That’s why one employs little men like bankers and accountants.’
‘Yes. You certainly need someone around who’s good with money.’
‘I suppose so.’ Lady Ridgleigh dismissed the idea airily. ‘Froggie – my husband – was not good with money.’
‘I was lucky. Mr Pargeter was very good to me. Very generous.’
Lady Ridgleigh was piqued by the implicit criticism. ‘It’s not an issue of generosity. Froggie was extraordinarily generous. To a fault, perhaps. Generous to everyone. I suppose that’s why he lost all our money.’
‘Couldn’t you have stopped him?’ asked Mrs Pargeter, appalled at the idea.
‘Good heavens, no. If a man can’t lose his own money, what rights does he have?’
‘But weren’t you furious?’
‘About the fact that he lost it? Good heavens, no. Mind you, the thought of some of the people he lost it to still rankles.’ Lady Ridgleigh turned her head graciously to look at Mrs Pargeter. ‘Tell me, what was Mr Pargeter’s money in?’
Mrs Pargeter coloured. ‘Oh, come, come, Lady Ridgleigh, you wouldn’t answer if I asked you what Froggie’s money was in, would you?’
‘Of course I would. It was quite simple. His was in the family.’
Mrs Pargeter smiled. ‘Well, so’s Mr Pargeter’s now.’
At that moment there was a commotion in the Seaview Lounge. Mrs Mendlingham had raised her teapot to pour another cup of tea and suddenly lost control of it. The pot had fallen, catching the edge of her tray, which was not centred on its table, and sending everything flying.
Mrs Mendlingham rose to her feet, whimpering, though whether she was in pain from the hot tea that stained the front of her grubby skirt, or whether, as the wildness of her eyes suggested, some sudden memory had upset her, it was hard to tell.
Mrs Pargeter went forward to take her arm, and was once again aware of the acrid smell that emanated from the old lady. This time there was no mistaking; it was stale urine.
‘There. Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Yes, I’m sorry.’ The wild, faded eyes tried to focus on Mrs Pargeter’s.
‘What’s the matter? What’s upsetting you?’
‘I just . . . I just remembered something.’
‘What was it?’
‘Well, I saw . . .’ But the confidence stopped short. A light of cunning came into the old eyes. ‘I’m sorry. My memory’s not good these days. It comes and goes, you know.’
‘I think we all find that,’ said Mrs Pargeter soothingly, trying to re-establish the confessional intimacy.
‘But it seems to be getting worse. Sometimes I completely forget what I’ve done, can’t remember if I’ve eaten meals or . . .’
‘Don’t worry about it. Worrying just makes it worse.’
‘I’ve tried all kinds of things to make it better. Trying to concentrate, talk to people about things. At one stage I tried just writing down everything that happened.’
‘A sort of diary?’
Mrs Mendlingham nodded.
‘That sounds a good idea. Do you still keep it?’
Again the shutter of cunning seemed to flick across the old eyes. ‘Oh, no. Not any more. I’ve give
n that up. It didn’t work.’
‘I’m surprised. Still, never mind.’
‘No.’
Mrs Pargeter had by now manoeuvred the old lady back into her armchair. ‘Can you remember what it was that frightened you? Do you want to talk about it?’
The old head was shaken vigorously. ‘I can’t remember. It comes and goes, the memory. Sometimes things are very clear, and sometimes I just can’t remember what I’ve done. There are great big blanks in my life. Great . . . big . . . blanks.’ She lingered over the words, then, again suddenly devious, added, ‘Which is perhaps just as well.’
Further conversation was halted by the majestic entry of Miss Naismith from the hall. ‘I heard a noise,’ she announced, and moved across to stand accusingly over the wreckage of Mrs Mendlingham’s tea.
‘An unfortunate accident,’ said Mrs Pargeter in a conciliatory tone.
‘Yes,’ Miss Naismith agreed frostily.
Mrs Mendlingham shrank into her armchair, avoiding the proprietress’s eye.
Mrs Pargeter continued to mediate. ‘Mrs Mendlingham suddenly remembered something that upset her. You know, as she says, her memory is a little erratic.’
‘It is not!’ Mrs Mendlingham spoke with surprising venom. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs Pargeter. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my memory.’ She rose out of her chair. ‘The reason for the accident was that the teapot handle was greasy. That is not the first time I have noticed a certain slapdashness in the washing-up in this establishment. I trust, Miss Naismith, that this situation will shortly be remedied.’
Flinging this exit line behind her, she moved out of the Seaview Lounge with as much dignity as can be mustered by an elderly lady who has tea stains down the front of her skirt.
Her unexpected change of manner had the rare effect of striking Miss Naismith dumb.
And the proprietress of the Devereux was then presented with another bombshell.
‘Well, I’ve done quite a lot of walking today,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘I think I’ll go up and have a bath now.’
Miss Naismith rediscovered the power of speech. ‘Um, no, Mrs Pargeter. Residents of the Devereux tend to have baths before breakfast or after dinner.’
‘Oh. Well, I tend to have baths when I feel like them.’
An icicle formed on Miss Naismith’s smile. ‘We all have to adjust our behaviour a little when we enter a new environment.’
‘Are you saying that there is no hot water at this time of day?’
Miss Naismith looked shocked. ‘No. Of course not. The boiler is always on. There is constant hot water in the Devereux.’
‘Good,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Then I’ll go and use some of it.’
She had a good, long soak, continually topping the bath up with more hot water.
And, as she lay there, Mrs Pargeter thought long and deeply about the late Mrs Selsby.
And the still-living Mrs Mendlingham.
10
An interesting conversation took place after dinner that night between Miss Wardstone and Miss Naismith.
Dinner itself was a formal affair, a kind of static square dance to which, Mrs Pargeter recognised, there were fixed rules. That evening she was content to be an observer, not yet committing herself as to whether she intended to abide by those rules.
All of the residents sat at separate tables, except for Colonel Wicksteed and Mr Dawlish who seemed happy to share. There was no ordering; the day’s menus had been displayed in the Entrance Hall in the morning and they had all made their choices for the two main meals before eleven o’clock.
Some of the guests drank wine. The Colonel and Mr Dawlish shared a bottle of Côtes du Rhone. A half-empty litre of Italian white with a stick-on label reading ‘Miss Vance’ was on Eulalie’s table when she arrived; from this she filled her glass regularly and took long, sighing draughts. Lady Ridgleigh had in front of her a bottle of Malvern water, though her conversation constantly implied that, but for her doctor’s orders, she would be outdoing them all in her discriminating use of the wine list.
Mrs Mendlingham and Miss Wardstone drank ordinary water. The latter did not hide her disapproval of alcoholic indulgence; many sniffs were heard whenever the subject was discussed. She frequently reasserted that she had never touched the beastly stuff and appeared to regard even the intake of food as a regrettably sybaritic necessity.
Mrs Pargeter contented herself that night with a half-bottle of Beaujolais. It complemented Mrs Denyer’s excellent steak pie. The cabbage and carrots had also been carefully cooked, avoiding the curse of sogginess, which afflicts most English provincial cuisine.
Mrs Pargeter was pleased. Her life with the late Mr Pargeter had taught her to appreciate good food, and, after two dinners, she felt cautiously optimistic about the standards of the Devereux’s kitchen.
The square dance quality of dinner at the Devereux also applied to the conversation, though here the rules were so complex that Mrs Pargeter reckoned it might take her some time to understand them fully.
Colonel Wicksteed and Mr Dawlish maintained their customary eliptical sequence of non sequiturs, but they were sitting at the same table. For the ladies, each marooned on her own island, the protocol was less straightforward. Remarks to the entire company were, of course, proscribed, but it was permissible for conversational lines to be cast from one island to the next. These castings were, however, erratic and discontinuous; no conversational flow could be said to have developed.
Mrs Pargeter inwardly decided that something would have to be done to enliven this state of affairs. But, for that evening, she contented herself with almost complete silence.
What did strike her, though, was how little impact Mrs Selsby’s death had had. The old lady had slipped beneath the surface, causing scarcely a ripple to the still waters of life at the Devereux. Her image was already indistinct to Mrs Pargeter, and seemed to be fading as fast for those residents who had known her longer. The Television Room was now unoccupied and none of the residents knew of its brief tenancy by a corpse.
As discreetly as the curtains close behind a coffin at a crematorium, a veil had been drawn over Mrs Selsby’s death.
Loxton was clearing the sweet plates (apple and blackberry crumble in Mrs Pargeter’s case, also excellent) and Newth busying himself with pouring coffee, when Miss Naismith swanned into the room. Basing her conclusion on two evenings at the Devereux, Mrs Pargeter decided that this appearance must be a nightly occurrence.
It was a sort of ‘Everything all right?’ call on behalf of the management (not of course so vulgar as a chef’s appearance from the kitchen, nearer perhaps to a commanding officer’s final tour of his encampment). It was an opportunity for any anxieties or complaints to be voiced by the residents.
Miss Naismith’s entry also seemed to occupy the role with regard to television that the Loyal Toast does with regard to smoking. No one went into the Television Room before Miss Naismith appeared (though there might have been a little covert watching of portables in the bedrooms during the day).
But she did time her appearance tactfully at seven-twenty-five. This meant that on the relevant nights Colonel Wicksteed and Mr Dawlish would not miss any of their favourite programme, Coronation Street. (This the two of them, neither of whom had ever in their lives travelled north of Cheltenham, watched with the fascinated bewilderment many people accord to Science Fiction.)
‘Good evening,’ said Miss Naismith, using her privilege of addressing general remarks on the evening of the 5th of March. ‘I do hope that you have all had as pleasant a day as was possible . . . under the circumstances.’
This was as near as her gentility would allow to a mention of Mrs Selsby’s death. But she need not have worried about offending any sensibilities; the mumbled chorus of affirmation suggested that none of them could think of any reason why they shouldn’t have had a pleasant day.
Miss Naismith granted her new resident a glowing smile. ‘I trust you feel that you are se
ttling in, Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Yes, thank you, Miss Naismith,’ Mrs Pargeter replied dutifully.
‘Well, if there aren’t any points anyone wishes to raise . . . ?’ Miss Naismith inclined her body towards the door.
‘There is something.’
Miss Wardstone’s voice came out too loud, with the harshness of someone who had never in her life attempted to make herself agreeable.
‘Yes, Miss Wardstone?’
‘When can I move in?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mrs Selsby’s room is now vacant. It has a sea-front position. It is the room that I quite clearly stated I wanted when I came to the Devereux. You said that I would be put on a waiting list for the room when it next became vacant. That moment has arrived, and I want to move in.’
Miss Naismith’s forehead wrinkled with pain at this lapse of etiquette. ‘Miss Wardstone, it is not yet twenty-four hours since Mrs Selsby’s . . . passing-on.’
‘I don’t care. I want to get into that room. It’s mine now.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘I tried to get into the room this afternoon, but it was locked,’ said Miss Wardstone in a tone of accusation.
‘Yes. Of course it is locked at the moment. I thought that was appropriate until Mrs Selsby’s relations or solicitor should arrive to take charge of her possessions.’
‘You can put them in a box-room or somewhere.’
‘No, Miss Wardstone. Mrs Selsby had certain items of considerable value – jewellery in particular. I do have to think of the matter of security. It would be most inappropriate if anything were found to be missing when her possessions came to be claimed.’
‘Well, I want to get into that room.’ Miss Wardstone’s reptilian jaw-line set hard and firm. ‘You said I would definitely be the next to go into it.’
Miss Naismith refrigerated another smile. ‘I know that, Miss Wardstone. And I can assure you that I have no intention of going back on my word. The changeover will be made, but I do not think that it would be suitable to make it before Mrs Selsby’s funeral.’