Simon Brett - Mrs. Pargeter's pound of flesh

‘Ah, did she?’ Ellie Fenchurch pounced on the detail with relish. It was exactly the kind of pointer that could set her going on a new investigation. ‘I’ll look into that, Mrs Pargeter.’

‘What, for your article?’

The journalist contemplated her long painted fingernails. ‘Oh, I don’t know whether I’ll actually do an article on Sue Fisher.’

‘But I thought that was the reason why you cancelled Warren Beatty. I thought Sue Fisher was going to be your big interview for this Sunday.’

‘No.’

‘Well, she’d clearly got the impression that she would be.’

Ellie Fenchurch’s face took on the post-coital expression of a female praying mantis. ‘Yes, I know she did. No, I just set this up to help you out.’

‘Well, that’s extremely kind, but it does seem a bit of a waste. Do you mean you’re never going to publish it?’

‘May do, may not. The important thing is that Sue Fisher thinks I’m going to publish it — or that I might publish it at some point. She’ll always have that threat hanging over her.’

‘I see.’

‘And rest assured, Mrs Pargeter, if there’s anything else you ever want to find out from her, that threat will still be quite sufficient for her to tell you anything she knows.’

‘Good.’

Ellie Fenchurch’s face glowed as a female praying mantis’s might after the first satisfying bite of husband. ‘No, she’s made a lot of other people sweat. It’ll give me a lot of pleasure to let the guru of Mind Over Fatty Matter herself sweat for a while.’

When Mrs Pargeter returned to Brotherton Hall after lunch, the receptionist handed her an envelope embossed with the health spa’s quasi-heraldic logo.

Mrs Pargeter opened it when she reached her room. The contents were word-processed on thick notepaper headed with the same logo.

Dear Mrs Pargeter,

I am so sorry that I’m not able to say goodbye to you in person, but I’ve been called away on urgent pressing business. I do hope that you have enjoyed your stay at Brotherton Hall, and that you will feel welcome to use our facilities again whenever you so wish — and to recommend them to any friends who you think might also enjoy them.

We do offer a range of special discounts and bargain breaks for regular customers, and hope to see you again before long.

Yours sincerely,

P. T. Arkwright

Manager

It was an odd letter. She knew that there had been a cooling in her relationship with Ankle-Deep Arkwright, but that did not seem to justify this awkward formality. The contents read like a form letter which might be sent out to any client. It was as if she and Ank had never met.

The only personal touches were the signature and the change of the word ‘urgent’ to ‘pressing’. Both of these were in what looked like Ankle-Deep Arkwright’s handwriting.

If that was all he had to say, why had he bothered sending the letter? No communication at all would have been less hurtful than the impersonality of this one.

Her pondering of the anomaly was interrupted by a knock on the door. Kim Thurrock burst in, dressed in yet another Mind Over Fatty Matter outfit and full as ever of the joys of Brotherton Hall.

‘Thought I saw you come back, Melita. Just popped in to check you’re OK.’

‘Fine, thanks.’

‘Oh, good. Must dash. So much to fit in, what with this being our last day. I’m really determined to be right down for tonight’s Nine O’Clock Weigh-In.’

‘Good luck.’

‘Thanks. I’ll do it, don’t worry.’ Her voice took on a note of religious awe. ‘I’m going to get further from what I am, and get closer to what I can be.’

Mrs Pargeter winced at the pervasiveness of Sue Fisher’s cracker-motto philosophy. She wondered whether Kim’s hero-worship would have survived the sight of the shifty-looking woman whom Ellie Fenchurch had so discomfited that morning, and decided it probably would. Faith as fervent as that could never be deflected by mere reality.

Kim skipped to the door. ‘Can’t waste a second. Must keep going.’

‘Because “Fulfilment is just around the next corner”…?’ Mrs Pargeter suggested.

But the irony was wasted. ‘Yes, exactly,’ Kim Thurrock agreed as she opened the door.

‘Incidentally, Kim… one thing…’

‘Yes?’

‘I heard a rumour of something nasty that happened down in the Dead Sea Mud Baths on Wednesday night…’

Kim stopped. ‘Oh yes. That poor girl Lindy Galton.’

So news of the murder had not been totally suppressed.

‘What exactly happened?’ asked Mrs Pargeter ingenuously.

‘Well, she had an accident. She was killed, poor kid.’

‘Oh.’

‘Slipped and banged her head and drowned in the mud.’ Kim Thurrock’s face became pious. ‘That’s what comes of having unsupervised treatment. It’s very important that all exercises and treatments should be conducted under proper supervision.’ She quoted a Brotherton Hall tenet. ‘See you.’

So, thought Mrs Pargeter, the ‘accident’ theory of Lindy Galton’s death was now official.

And for a moment she almost wished she could believe it.

Gary drove them away from Brotherton Hall the following morning, the Saturday. Kim Thurrock’s only regret about the experience was that it had to end. At the Nine O’Clock Weigh-In the previous evening she had achieved her lowest weight since arrival and, though of course complacency would have been politically incorrect according to the Sue Fisher ethic, she did feel quite pleased with herself.

‘Oh, the whole time’s been so great, Melita. I can’t thank you enough for organizing everything. Just been wonderful, hasn’t it?’

Mrs Pargeter, whose experience at Brotherton Hall had not been one of unalloyed joy, made some suitably non-committal response and moved the conversation on. ‘How long now till you see Thicko?’

Kim Thurrock grinned nervously. ‘Only a week. Next Friday. Oh, I can’t wait. And I daren’t imagine what state Thicko himself is in. He’s a very stable kind of bloke normally, but he always gets funny a month or so before he comes out. I think most of them do. Did you find that your…?’

A sharp look from Mrs Pargeter dried up the flow of the sentence and Kim hastily changed the subject. ‘Ooh, incidentally, I’ve got another favour to ask, Melita…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I know it’s something you don’t approve of…’

The twinkle was back in the violet eyes as Mrs Pargeter asked, ‘Oh really? Now I wonder what you could be talking about?’

‘It’s this plastic surgery business.’

‘Thought it might be.’

‘Look, I have actually gone to the extent of making the first appointment with this Mr Littlejohn… you know, the free consultation…’

‘Oh.’

‘There, I knew you’d start criticizing me about it.’

‘Kim, all I said was “Oh”.’

‘Yes. Yes. Well, the appointment’s for next Tuesday and the thing is…’

‘You feel nervous about going up to Harley Street on your own and wonder whether I’d mind going along with you for moral support…?’ Mrs Pargeter suggested.

‘Well, yes.’

Kim was rewarded with a warm, comfortable smile. ‘Course I’ll come with you, love.’

‘Oh, bless you, Melita.’

‘It’s this one, isn’t it?’ asked Gary, as the limousine drew up outside the Thurrocks’ modest house in Catford.

For the next hour Mrs Pargeter was caught up in the tornado of Kim Thurrock’s reunion with her three daughters, poodles, and mother. There were lots of hugs, and, from the poodles, lots of slobbering. Mrs Pargeter was included in the hugs, but, mercifully, not the slobbering.