Mrs, Presumed Dead (20 page)

Truffler rang back within the hour.

'Only found out one thing about the Burchfield-Brown woman,' he announced, like an undertaker discreetly offering his price-list.

'Yes?'

'Well, she's not the genuine article.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean, the accent, all that . . . the education – it's phoney.'

'She wasn't at Roedean or finishing schools or anything like that?'

'No. She left a comprehensive in Essex at sixteen and worked in the checkout in Tesco's.'

'What? Well, how on earth did she transform herself into this Sloane Ranger figure that she is now?'

'Don't know all the details. She had elocution lessons, certainly, started grooming herself, met a few of the right sort of people, I suppose . . .'

'Married one of the right sort of people?'

'Maybe.'

'He must know, though, mustn't he? Alexander, her husband. I mean, she could fool neighbours and people when she moved into a new area, but she couldn't keep that kind of secret from someone she was living with, could she?"

'No, I doubt if she could. But then it seems that he's no more the genuine article than she is.'

'What, so all his family silver and Range Rover and upper-crust manners and Hooray Henry accent are just made up?'

'That's the way it seems, Mrs Pargeter, yes.'

She was thoughtful. 'It does make sense of certain things, actually. Fiona's constant fear of letting her husband down, for a start. And I suppose actually it's an easy enough front to maintain somewhere like this. You move to a new area, you present yourself as you choose, and people accept you at face value. No problem. Particularly in Smithy's Loam, where nobody's that interested in anyone else, anyway.'

'Well, as I say, Mrs Pargeter, that's it. They're both acting like they've got a social background that they haven't. Common enough deception, I suppose.'

'Yes.' It was, however, a deception whose necessity Mrs Pargeter could never understand. Not once in her life had she ever tried to change herself in any particular. People either took her as she was or they didn't. And as for those who didn't . . . well, she never reckoned it was
her
loss.

'But,' Truffler went on dolefully, 'I mean, that's a secret, OK. But it's not a secret anyone would kill to keep quiet, is it?'

'I'm not so sure,' said Mrs Pargeter. 'You don't know what people are like in Smithy's Loam.'

CHAPTER 36

Now more than ever Mrs Pargeter felt convinced that Theresa Cotton had been murdered by one of the women in Smithy's Loam. One of the women who had been visited in Theresa's final mind-clearing circuit on the evening she died.

There were five suspects, each with a guilty secret. And if Theresa had confronted each one with those secrets, as seemed likely, then any of the five might have had a motive for murder.

In her mind, Mrs Pargeter went round the close once more. Fiona Burchfield-Brown in 'High Bushes'; in 'Perigord', Sue Curle (and of course Kirsten, but Kirsten had not been in at the time of Theresa's confrontations, so she had to be excluded); Vivvi Sprake in 'Haymakers'; Jane Watson in 'Hibiscus'; and Carole Temple in 'Cromarty'.

Fiona Burchfield-Brown had to maintain secrecy about her true origins.

Sue Curle was trying to keep quiet the affair with her boss, the West Indian Geoff, desperate lest her husband should find out and use it as a lever in his fight for custody of their children.

Vivvi Sprake had to keep her husband in ignorance of her little flutter with Rod Cotton.

Jane Watson thought that Theresa represented a threat to take her back to the hated Church of Utter Simplicity.

And Carole Temple had no doubt been confronted with the news of her husband's transvestism. Not that it had probably been news to her; for Carole the terrible part would be that someone else knew about it.

Five women with five secrets. And one secret so important to its owner that it could justify murder.

Mrs Pargeter thought she had done well. She had worked most of it out on her own, and had had an unrivalled support team to follow up her ideas.

But she still hadn't reached the solution. She still didn't know who had killed Theresa Cotton. It was very frustrating.

Hmm, what was that expression Truffler Mason had used? Heroics, yes, that was it.

Maybe, Mrs Pargeter thought, with an irrepressible flicker of glee, it is time for a few heroics.

CHAPTER 37

It had been quite an achievement for Sue Curle to persuade Jane Watson to come along to the discussion meeting about the proposed Indian restaurant. When receiving hers, Mrs Pargeter had asked whether an invitation had also been issued to 'Hibiscus', and Sue had said no, there was no point, Jane never came to anything. Mrs Pargeter had been of the opinion that it was still worth trying and made an exploratory phone call herself to prepare the ground. Her words must have been effective, because Sue Curle's invitation was accepted, and Jane Watson, looking nervous but defiant, appeared at 'Perigord' on the dot of six o'clock when the meeting was due to start.

It was held in Sue Curle's front room, whose decor favoured the now slightly dated Laura Ashley cowshed look. Dark brown paint, stripped pine furniture, curtains with little flowers on them, tiny framed Victorian prints and polished agricultural implements hanging on the walls.

Through the hatch to the kitchen, the sound could be heard of Kirsten giving supper to the two subjects of the custody battle. Sue had put wine bottles and glasses out to welcome her guests, though Carole Temple, for one, thought this introduced an unwarranted element of frivolity into the proceedings. 'We are here to have a serious meeting,' she said, 'not a social occasion.' And then, in an undertone, 'And I still think it's ridiculous not to have the men along.'

The others seemed happy enough to accept a drink, though Jane Watson asked for Perrier (tranquillised up to her eyebrows, Mrs Pargeter reckoned, couldn't risk mixing it with alcohol).

Mrs Pargeter had come to 'Perigord' a fraction early, so that she could monitor the arrival of the other women of Smithy's Loam. She wanted to take a further, contemplative look at each of them, hoping without much hope that one might give some clue to identify her as Theresa Cotton's murderer.

Mrs Pargeter hadn't quite worked out yet what form her 'heroics' were going to take, but she did feel an inward pressure to force the issue, to bring things to a head that evening. Who could say when she'd have another chance of seeing all the women together?

Though the subject of the murder was by now old news, given the short attention-span of the Smithy's Loam residents, its sensational nature did still justify an occasional airing, so Mrs Pargeter had no difficulty in raising the topic.

'It's really sad, isn't it,' she said ruminatively, 'to think of what went on inside the Cottons' marriage . . . you know, the kind of pressures that could build up to murder . . .'

'Yes, it is dreadful,' Vivvi Sprake agreed in a detached, automatic way.

Fiona Burchfield-Brown supplied the inevitable platitude. 'Still, you can never really see inside another marriage.'

'No, well, everyone's private life is secret, isn't it? I mean, I'm sure most marriages contain a few secrets which the participants would rather stayed that way.'

Mrs Pargeter stared directly at Carole Temple as she said this, and was rewarded by the other woman looking sharply away and announcing, 'I think we really should get this meeting going.'

Ignoring this, Mrs Pargeter rode on. 'Yes, I think everyone's got secrets.' Then, suddenly seeing a way of staging her 'heroics', she continued, musing, 'Maybe that's what was in Theresa Cotton's notebook . . .'

'Notebook?' Sue Curle repeated sharply.

'Yes,' said Mrs Pargeter, improvising like mad, 'I found this notebook of hers only a couple of days ago. Stuck behind a radiator in the hall,' she added, remembering the late Mr Pargeter's instruction always to incorporate as much truth as possible into anything one said. 'It had got a list of all your names, all the women who live in Smithy's Loam.'

'Oh?' asked Fiona Burchfield-Brown, more curious than alarmed. Goodness, how phoney her accent sounded to Mrs Pargeter now she knew the truth. Not real cut glass, more like the cheap stuff that gets given away with petrol.

'Yes, I thought it was strange.' Mrs Pargeter chuckled ingenuously. 'Pretty funny idea, isn't it, keeping notes on your neighbours?'

'What sort of notes?' asked Carole Temple, tight-lipped. 'What did the book say about us?'

'Ah . . .' Mrs Pargeter hesitated for a moment. She should have thought this through. The question had been inevitable and she hadn't prepared a way of dealing with it. Then she had an inspiration/Well, I don't know, you see. Your names are all written out in block capitals, but the rest of the stuff's in shorthand.'

'And you don't read shorthand?' asked Vivvi Sprake anxiously.

'Oh, what? No, no,' Mrs Pargeter replied, over-acting to give the impression, to those who would take it that way, that she might be lying.

'Well, I'm sure it's not important.' Sue Curle spoke evenly, in her hostess role, trying to dismiss the subject. 'Now perhaps we ought to get on with—'

'What are you going to do with it?' Jane Watson's voice was sudden and tense, too loud compared to the others.

'I'm not sure,' Mrs Pargeter replied, exaggerating her casualness. 'I suppose I really should give it to the police.'

'There's no need to do that!' Jane Watson shrieked.

'No,' snapped Carole Temple. 'Completely unnecessary.'

'I wouldn't really bother the police,' said Fiona Burchfield-Brown in a more reasonable tone. 'I mean, they've always got so much on their plates, and in this case, having decided who killed Theresa—'

'We don't know they have decided that,' Mrs Pargeter interjected.

'No, but it seems a reasonable assumption that they have,' Fiona continued, 'and I'm sure, much as they would appreciate your public-spiritedness if you did give the notebook to them, they wouldn't really have the time to deal with it.'

'Maybe not . . . ' Mrs Pargeter appeared to vacillate. 'Mind you, they did ask me to get in touch if I found anything in the house that looked important . . .'

'Oh, I'm sure it's not important,' said Vivvi Sprake brightly. 'Just an old shorthand notebook.'

'I'm not sure. I think it could be very important,' asserted Mrs Pargeter, fuelling the suspicions of anyone who thought that perhaps she
could
read shorthand, after all.

'Well, the police are never that pleased about having their time wasted,' Sue Curle advised.

Mrs Pargeter nodded. 'True. On the other hand, I think I probably
should
give it to them. Yes,' she concluded, reaching a decision, 'I'll take it down to the local station tomorrow morning.'

There was a silence among the women of Smithy's Loam. Each one looked as if she might be about to break that silence, but each one thought better of it.

It was their hostess who spoke eventually. 'Well, perhaps we ought to get on with what we came here for. I mean, this business of the proposed Indian restaurant just on the corner of Smithy's Loam . . .'

There were murmurs and mumbles as they all settled down to discuss the issue.

'There's an important thing I'd like to say before we start,' Sue Curle continued, 'and that is that any objections I'm raising to this proposed development have nothing to do with the fact that it's an
Indian
restaurant being proposed. I mean, I'm not against it on racial grounds, I'm against it on environmental grounds.'

There were murmurs of middle-class approval for these sentiments. Carole Temple then went off into a paean of praise for all the advantages of Smithy's Loam, its delightful rural aspect, its proximity to so many amenities, its sense of community.

Mrs Pargeter reflected that she still had to see some evidence of this last quality, but she hadn't time to stay and argue. Having set up her challenge somewhat impetuously, she now had to go and organise her protection.

She saw it like this. The murderer was bound to appear at 'Acapulco' some time before the next morning, with the intention at least of appropriating Theresa Cotton's mythical notebook of secrets (though, given the murderer's track record, Mrs Pargeter was afraid the intention might be more extreme, not to say terminal).

So it was necessary to ensure that, when the murderer arrived, Mrs Pargeter was ready for her.

She knew she was safe for at least an hour, probably two. The murderer would not want to draw attention to herself by leaving before the end of the meeting and, as discussion about cooking smells and litter and property values grew more intense, it was clear that that would come later rather than sooner.

'Oh, heavens!' said Mrs Pargeter, interrupting Vivvi Sprake in full flood on the revolting nature of curry smells (revolting from the environmental rather than the racial point of view, of course). 'I've just realised I've left a casserole in the oven! It'll be burnt to a cinder! I must dash across and see what's happened!'

So, with many hurried apologies, Mrs Pargeter made good her escape.

Or at least her escape out of the frying-pan.