Simon Brett - Mrs. Pargeter's pound of flesh

Mrs Pargeter was about to turn away to check the last cubicle when she realized that there was something half-submerged in the mud.

It took a moment to work out what it was. A small archipelago of rounded, mud-slimed promontaries broke the surface. And there, against what was presumably the side of the bath, protruded something like a bedraggled marsh plant.

A catch of horror clasped at her throat as she took in what it really was.

A muddy hand!

Mrs Pargeter removed her shoes and stepped forward as quickly as she dared over the treacherous surface. She felt voracious mud close over her feet, instantly penetrating her tights and squeezing obscenely between her toes. Clutching a rail and testing each footstep to keep her from plunging into the bath itself, she edged forward.

Bracing herself with one arm against the rail she reached for the body and tried to pull it upwards. But she could get no purchase on the slimy limbs, which kept slopping back into the mud.

At last she contrived a grip under the neck and raised the head above the surface. Mud slipped glutinously back off the features and clogged hair.

But not enough mud slipped off to make an identification.

Mrs Pargeter had to wipe at the filthy slime with a towel before she could recognize the face.

Lindy Galton.

The girl’s mouth gaped open. Inside, it was full of the Dead Sea Mud that had asphyxiated her.

There was a house phone in the central area with a sheet of internal numbers stuck on the wall beside it. Mrs Pargeter rang Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s extension, but there was no reply.

She got through to Reception and announced, with considerable self-restraint, that there had been ‘an accident’ in the Dead Sea Mud Bath unit. The receptionist, using those perky upward inflections with which girls at reception school are trained to greet pools wins and pogroms alike, assured her that ‘Someone will be down as soon as possible, madam.’

Mrs Pargeter had no thought of leaving the unit. There was mud all over her, but cleaning-up would have to wait. A series of mountingly unpleasant conjectures about the causes of Lindy Galton’s death built up in her head.

She had made one more attempt to get the corpse out of the bath, to give it a little dignity in death, but then given up. Probably better to leave things as they were, anyway, for the inevitable police enquiry.

So, while increasingly disturbing thoughts erupted in her mind, Mrs Pargeter sat on a bench and waited to see who would be ‘down as soon as possible’.

It was Dr Potter.

He was as dapper as ever. A double-breasted suit in Prince of Wales check over his angular frame, suede shoes whose distinctive shape proclaimed them to be hand-made.

He took in Mrs Pargeter’s presence before he looked at Cubicle Three, from which mud was still inexorably advancing over the immaculate tiles.

‘What seems to be the trouble?’ he asked. (Presumably doctors are so conditioned to using that question that they have difficulty in framing others.) ‘Reception said there had been some kind of accident.’

‘Yes.’ Mrs Pargeter pointed to the open cubicle door and the mud-spattered area beyond.

Dr Potter looked across and his thin face pursed with annoyance. ‘If there’s something wrong with the sluices, that would appear to be a job for a plumber rather than a doctor.’

‘It’s not just the sluices. There’s a body in the mud.’

‘What?’ He turned his silt-coloured eyes on her in amazement.

‘Lindy Galton. She’s under that lot — drowned.’

Dr Potter tutted, like a bureaucrat who’s found a form incorrectly filled in. ‘Oh really! This kind of thing happens far too often at Brotherton Hall, you know.’

‘What — people getting killed?’ Mrs Pargeter asked eagerly, thinking she really was on to something this time.

Dr Potter quickly disabused her. ‘No. Staff using the facilities without permission. It happens in the gym, in the swimming-pool, everywhere. And the trouble is, they do it at times when the facilities aren’t properly supervised, which raises terrible problems with insurance. It’s been inevitable that something like this would happen one day.’ He tutted again, then added as an afterthought, ‘You’re sure she is dead?’

‘Well, she looked dead to me, but then I’m not an expert.’

‘No.’

Mrs Pargeter waited in vain for him to pick up the prompt, so continued, ‘Whereas you are. I’d have thought the first thing a doctor should have done would be to pull the body out and try to revive her.’

‘Don’t you start telling me what I should have done, Mrs Pargeter!’ But her words had had some effect. ‘Yes, I suppose I’d better take a look at her,’ he conceded reluctantly. After a moment’s hesitation, he removed his jacket, folded it neatly on to a bench and started towards the cubicle.

‘Surely you’re going to take your shoes off?’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘That stuff’ll ruin them.’

‘Whether I choose to ruin my shoes or not is, I would have thought, my decision, Mrs Pargeter,’ he said, placing a suede-clad foot firmly into the mud, which rose to cover it.

‘Yes, yes, of course.’

Oblivious to the splashes on his clothes, Dr Potter took hold of the rail and reached down to grab the body. With surprising strength, he dragged Lindy Galton out of the bath in one movement, then slid her along to the central area. The manhandling scraped enough mud off to show that the girl had been naked when she got into the bath.

Dr Potter bent over the body. No pulse-listening or breath-checking. Not even the thought of resuscitation.

Just a quick look, and he turned to the wall telephone.

He got an outside line and barked instructions about collecting the body to whoever answered him.

‘Was that the police?’ Mrs Pargeter asked as he put the receiver down.

‘The hospital.’

‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’

‘After an accident like this it is usual to call the hospital first. They may be able to do something.’

‘Something you couldn’t do?’

‘I don’t understand you, Mrs Pargeter.’ The dull eyes flickered a cold look at her.

‘Well, look, you’re a doctor. Either she’s dead… or there’s something that can be done for her. If there’s something that can be done, it would stand more chance of succeeding if you did it here — now.’

He moved closer to her and lowered his voice. ‘I don’t think you quite realize what is at stake here, Mrs Pargeter. Brotherton Hall is a substantial business, and one whose reputation could be seriously affected by something like this. I can assure you we are not going to let an accident caused by one of the staff abusing her position here jeopardize the company’s future.’

‘So you think it’d be simpler to have Lindy Galton registered “Dead on Arrival” at the hospital, rather than having the police in here inspecting the scene where she actually died?’

‘Exactly, Mrs Pargeter. You show a very acute understanding of the situation.’

‘And is that what happened with Jenny Hargreaves?’ she asked coolly.

‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’ The response was immediate. The name prompted no flicker of recognition.

‘She was a girl-’

‘All I do know,’ Dr Potter steamrollered over her, ‘is that a lot of people have a lot of investment riding on Brotherton Hall; and that anyone who threatened the success of this enterprise would… would be very unwise.’

This limp second thought about how to finish the sentence was more chilling than if he had actually spelt out the threat.

Mrs Pargeter was lost in thought as she walked slowly up to her room. So lost that she didn’t see Kim Thurrock until her friend was right alongside her in the ill-lit corridor. (The corridors at Brotherton Hall were all lit in a manner which the interior designer had described as ‘discreetly modern’, but which came across as old-fashioned murky.)