Simon Brett - Mrs. Pargeter's pound of flesh

‘Sounds like someone’s deliberately stopping you from getting a result.’

‘Yeah. That doesn’t make it any less frustrating. I’ll find a way, don’t worry.’ But the gloom in Truffler’s voice was terminal.

‘How about Dr Potter? Anything on him?’

‘Well, yes…’ There was still no hint of satisfaction in his tone. ‘Don’t like it, though.’

‘Nasty secrets, do you mean?’

‘No — no nasty secrets, that’s what I don’t like about it. Kind of model history for a medical man. Did all the right training, worked as a GP in England for ten years, then out to Hong Kong. Twelve years out there — good doctor, highly respected professionally, well liked personally — then comes back here and gets the job at Brotherton Hall. I don’t like it,’ he repeated sepulchrally.

‘Why?’

‘Because it doesn’t seem to tie in with the way he’s behaving now, does it? From your encounters with him, you’d hardly call Dr Potter a good doctor, would you? Not one you’d recommend to your friends for his bedside manner?’

‘No.’

‘Anyway, I’m still pursuing it. Got feelers out with my contacts in Hong Kong — may be able to get some dirt.’

He didn’t sound optimistic. But then, come to that, Truffler Mason never did sound optimistic.

‘Don’t worry,’ Mrs Pargeter comforted. ‘At least now with this box number you’ve got something positive to investigate.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s true.’

Only someone who knew Truffler extremely well would have recognized from his tone that this reminder had actually cheered him up.

Perhaps from frustration at the blocking of his other enquiries or from a need to prove himself (completely unnecessary so far as Mrs Pargeter was concerned), Truffler Mason was back to his brilliant best in investigating the Private Eye box number. Indeed, she had just arrived back at Greene’s and was only half-way through Hedgeclipper Clinton’s fulsome welcome when the girl on Reception announced that a Mr Mason was on the line asking for her.

Mrs Pargeter took the call right there in the foyer.

‘I’ve tracked it down!’ Truffler announced with mournful glee. ‘Tracked him down, I should say.’

‘Brilliant!’ said Mrs Pargeter, with a little extra effusiveness to reassure Truffler she attached no blame to him for the blanks he had drawn on his other enquiries. ‘Who is he?’

‘Would you believe an estate agent?’

‘What — so it was an estate agent who was offering the job?’

‘Well, yes, but not on his own account, of course. When do estate agents ever do anything on their own account — except present bills? No, he was doing it on behalf of a client.’

‘Do you know who the client is?’

‘Not yet, but we can get it from him,’ Truffler replied with grim confidence.

‘And have you found out whether Jenny Hargreaves did actually apply for the job?’

‘Not exactly. But the speed with which the geezer clammed up when I mentioned her name makes me pretty certain I’m on to something.’

‘Good work, Truffler. What’s the next move?’

‘I’ve fixed an appointment to go and see the gentleman tomorrow morning.’

‘Me too?’

‘You bet, Mrs Pargeter. You can help me nail the bastard.’

‘Why, have you got some dirt on him?’

‘Not yet,’ came the sardonic reply, ‘but give me time. You can always get dirt on an estate agent.’

‘And don’t worry, Mrs Meredith,’ said Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh amp; Pugh into the telephone on the Monday morning. ‘I’m well aware of your concern for wildlife and for the way you’ve encouraged the pheasants to breed in the grounds of Ragley House. I will make it my personal business to ensure that we find you a purchaser who has just the same priorities. Yes, yes, of course, Mrs Meredith. I’ll call you soon, goodbye.’

He put two fingers down on the buttons of the telephone and, with a wave to the couple who’d just come into the office, immediately started dialling another number. ‘With you in a moment. One quick call.’

Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason smiled acquiescence and pretended interest in the property details on the walls, as the chubby, florid young man made his connection. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Atkins, it’s Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh and Pugh. Good morning. Look, new property just come on the books. Wanted you to be the first to know about it, not telling anyone else it’s on the market for a day or two. Ragley House… yes. Well, I thought you’d be particularly interested because it does have excellent pheasant shooting. Yes, good. I’ll get the details in the post to you today. Fine. Byee.’

Again he did the fingers-on-the-button-and-instant-redial routine. ‘Just one more,’ he assured his clients. ‘Oh, hello, Mr Carver, it’s Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh and Pugh. Good morning. Look, new property just come on the books. Wanted you to be the first to know about it, not telling anyone else it’s on the market for a day or two. Ragley House… yes. Well, I thought you’d be particularly interested because it does have excellent pheasant shooting. Yes, good. I’ll get the details in the post to you today. Fine. Byee.’

Three more identical calls followed before Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh amp; Pugh finally put the receiver back in its cradle and turned to Mrs Pargeter and Truffler with an apologetic spread of his hands. ‘So sorry to have kept you. Short-staffed this morning. Flu epidemic on, I gather. So… what can I do for you?’

Mrs Pargeter, who had heard nothing about a flu epidemic, did not anticipate the appearance of any staff, let alone Messrs Ventleigh amp; Pugh. She was convinced that Keith Wellstrop was reduced by the property slump to running a one-man band.

But she said nothing and, according to their plan, let Truffler initiate the conversation. ‘Yes, my name’s Mr Mason, this is Mrs Pargeter, we’ve come about some information.’

‘Oh, good. Well, what sort of property are you looking for?’

‘It’s one specific property we’re interested in.’

‘What, you saw a Wellstrop, Ventleigh and Pugh board outside and you wanted to-?’

‘No,’ Truffler interrupted firmly. ‘The property we’re interested in is Brotherton Hall.’

Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh amp; Pugh folded his hands smugly over a well-upholstered stomach. ‘Well, I’m sorry. I’m afraid that property is not on the market. It’s currently being run as a very successful health spa.’

‘But did you handle the sale when Brotherton Hall was last on the market?’

‘No. We don’t deal in properties of that size. Six, seven-bedroom country houses, yes — mansions, no. Now I do have some details here of-’

Truffler cut through all this. ‘Do you know any of the management at Brotherton Hall?’

‘No. No, I don’t.’ For the first time suspicion had come into the estate agent’s piggy eyes. ‘What is this? What do you want?’

‘As I said, we want some information.’

‘About house purchase?’

‘No.’

‘Then I don’t believe I can help you, Mr, er…’

‘Oh, I think you can.’ From an inside pocket Truffler Mason produced the copy of Private Eye, folded open at the small ads. ‘I’m interested in this box number, Mr Wellstrop.’

The patches of colour on the estate agent’s face spread, conjoining into a uniform purple. ‘And what makes you think this has anything to do with me?’

‘I know it does,’ Truffler replied evenly.

‘Well, I’m afraid you’re mistaken.’ Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh amp; Pugh rose from his chair in a display of authority. ‘And if it’s not house purchase you’re interested in, I do have rather a lot of work to do this morning and-’