A Nice Class of Corpse (12 page)

The Vauxhall Cavalier followed the motor scooter discreetly and sedately back the way they had come. Mrs Pargeter drove at first in some trepidation, constantly expecting Newth to have another attack and fall off.

But it didn't happen. He drove safely back to the Devereux. Once inside, he went straight to his bedsitter.

Mrs Pargeter kept her hire-car parked near the hotel, ready to follow if he decided to take another excursion. But he didn't. He stayed in the bedsitter all day. At half-past six Mrs Pargeter saw Loxton taking a supper tray down there and was told that Newth was 'a bit off-colour – nothing serious, just not a hundred per cent.'

And that evening after dinner, while some of the others played bridge and she appeared to read in the Seaview Lounge, Mrs Pargeter mulled over the new facts she had found out about Newth: first, that he was a rich man, and, second, that he was a sick man.

Oh, yes, and third – that he was almost definitely a thief.

CHAPTER 28

SATURDAY

9
MARCH
– 9.30 p.m. –
Well, what an exciting life I seem to be leading! Not only can I now call myself a double murderer, I have even had the police taking notice of my humble efforts. Quite a shock that was, when I heard that they'd been called in. And yet, like many of the other excitements I have undergone since I started on my recent course, it was not wholly unpleasureable. Indeed, after a life of almost unbelievable dullness, I seem to get quite a thrill out of living dangerously.

I also gain considerable satisfaction from the ignorance of everyone else at the Devereux. They behave to me exactly as they always have, and I think I can congratulate myself on my acting for behaving as I always have. I wish I had realised earlier the pleasures of leading a double life!

Because, in the last few days, partly perhaps because of the evidence of others' mortality (which I have caused), I have become increasingly aware that my own time is getting short. And this thought has caused an interesting change in my attitude to my murders. Only last week I was unworried by the prospect of arrest and conviction – I just thought it might add to the excitement. But now, perhaps because I've seen the police come so close, I am very determined not to get caught.

A new element has entered my life – call it the thrill of the chase, perhaps, or the appeal of a game of cat and mouse – but, whatever it is, I am determined to get away with my crimes, even if – as poor Mrs Mendlingham found out – this means committing more murders.

In other words, anyone who I find has got near to the truth of what I have done is lining themselves up to be my next victim. The trouble is, I am beginning to develop quite a taste for murder.

CHAPTER 29

Mrs Pargeter decided that she had got as far as she could in her investigation without enlisting outside help. Among the many invaluable legacies of the late Mr Pargeter had been his address book and, though she had rarely had occasion to use it, she knew it to be a wonderfully rich alternative Yellow Pages, which offered access to a wide variety of unexpected services.

She decided it would be unwise to use one of the telephones at the Devereux, since they all went through the hotel switchboard and she did not wish to have her conversation overheard. So, round ten on the Sunday morning, Mrs Pargeter set out with a pocketful of change towards the public phone boxes she had located on her day of reconnaissance.

The curtain of grey cloud had parted to let through a little grudging sunlight. The seaweed smell was strong. Mrs Pargeter breathed deeply. She felt good, healthy in body and with her mind intriguingly occupied.

Although it had been over five years since they had spoken, she was in no doubt as to whom she should ring, but initially she met with disappointment.

'I'm sorry,' said a woman's voice at the other end. 'I'm afraid Mr Hollingberry doesn't live here any more.'

'Oh. You don't mean that he's . . . away for a while but will be back?' asked Mrs Pargeter discreetly.

The woman had obviously never had a relative in prison, because she did not appear to understand the question. 'No, no, he's moved.'

'Do you have a number for him at his new address?'

She was in luck. The woman gave her the number and Mrs Pargeter dialled it.

'Hello,' said an excessively cultured voice when the money went in. 'Bishop's Palace.'

Mrs Pargeter's instinct was to say, 'Sorry, wrong number', and put the phone down, but something held her back. 'Oh. Er, I wanted to speak to a Mr Hollingberry.'

'Just a moment, I'll call him to the telephone.'

There was a wait of nearly a minute and then a familiar voice said, 'Good morning. Can I help you?'

'Kipper?'

'Yes. Who is this?'

'It's Melita Pargeter.'

'Mrs Pargeter! Oh, what a pleasure to hear your voice, Madam. May I say, Madam, that I think of you a great deal. You and, of course, poor Mr Pargeter. I know it's been over five years since he passed on, but I do find I still miss him, you know.'

'Yes,' said Mrs Pargeter wistfully. 'I know.' Then, warding off introspection, she asked, 'What on earth are you doing in a Bishop's Palace?'

'I work here,' Kipper Hollingberry replied with dignity.

'Oh?'

'I am his Lordship's chauffeur.'

'I didn't know that was your line of country, Kipper.'

'I have always,' he said rather primly, 'aspired to the quiet of a Cathedral Close. That is where I always wished to spend my later years. An ambition perhaps deriving from an early affection for the works of Trollope.'

'Oh. Well, perhaps if you've changed direction so completely, you won't be able to help me . . .'

'Mrs Pargeter, I would always help you. I can never forget yours and Mr Pargeter's kindness to me on so many occasions. Any service to repay a little of my debt of gratitude I will gladly perform.'

'I know that, Kipper. I was only thinking that, now you're out of the swing, you probably won't have the information I require.'

'I am by no means "out of the swing", Madam.'

'What, you're still in business?'

'In a smaller way. My service is now, let's say . . . a consultancy.'

'And you run it from the Bishop's Palace?'

'Yes. Only for selected clients, of course.'

'Hmm. You've still got the Directory?'

'Certainly. And I pride myself on keeping the information in it right up to date.'

The pips went. Mrs Pargeter put in more money.

'Give me the number,' said Kipper. 'Next time that happens I'll call you back.'

'What about the Bishop's telephone bill?'

'His Lordship trusts me implicitly.' There was a note of reproof in Kipper's voice. 'Now what can I do for you?'

'It's a safe.'

'Yes?' he sounded unsurprised. 'What make?'

'Clissold and Fry – Excalibur Two.'

'Hmm. They're pretty straightforward. Plastic explosives. Doesn't need much, they're not very robust.'

'No, no. I don't want any sign that it's been opened.'

'Ah. Combination job. Right.'

'That's the sort of information you'd have on the Directory, isn't it?'

'Should do, certainly. Depend a bit when the safe was sold. My contact at Clissold & Fry got, er, a little careless. I'm afraid he's been . . . um, away for the last three years and I haven't as yet been able to replace him. But, if it's more than three years ago, I'll have copies of the lot . . . sales invoice, combination.'

'I should think it probably has been there three years. Doesn't look very new.'

'Well, where is the safe?'

'The Devereux Hotel, South Terrace, Littlehampton.'

'Any idea of the name of the purchaser?'

'The current proprietress's name is Miss Naismith.'

'Splendid. I'll check it out for you, Madam.'

'How long's it likely to take, Kipper?'

'Five minutes maximum. Shall I call you back on that number?'

'If you wouldn't mind.'

'Of course not. I must say, Mrs Pargeter, it's a real tonic to hear from you again. And I'm delighted to be able to help you. Even a tiny thing like this. Please remember, if there's ever anything more I can do for you . . . you know, anything bigger . . . don't hesitate to ask.'

'That's very kind of you, Kipper.'

'My pleasure. Not that I wouldn't have done it anyway, but you know, before he went, Mr Pargeter asked me to look after you, help out if you ever needed anything.'

'Oh. I didn't know that.'

'Well, he did. He was a good man, Mr Pargeter.'

'Yes.'

'I'll ring you back.'

After she had put the phone down, Mrs Pargeter allowed herself the rare indulgence of a tear. It was true, he had been a good man. How many widows, she wondered, were as well looked after in such varied, unexpected ways?

Kipper Hollingberry rang back two and a half minutes later.

'Invoice dated the seventh of May 1975.'

'Quite a long time ago.'

'Thought it would be. That Excalibur's pretty out of date, been superseded.'

'And have you got the combination?'

'Of course,' said Kipper, and gave her the number.

CHAPTER 30

When she got back to the Devereux, she was interested to see a red Porsche parked untidily outside the main entrance. As soon as she entered the Schooner Bar just after twelve for a pre-lunch drink, she was introduced to its owner.

Though the word 'introduce' was perhaps inadequate to describe the production Lady Ridgleigh made of showing off the young man with her to the Devereux's newest resident.

'Mrs Pargeter,' she gushed, 'I don't believe you've had the pleasure of meeting my son, Miles.'

'No, I haven't. How do you do?'

The young man who took her hand was tall like his mother, but in him the bony outline took on an adolescent gawkiness, which was at odds with his receding gingerish hair and the tight nets of lines around his pale blue eyes. He must have been at least thirty-five.

'How do you do? Delighted to meet you.' His voice had the vacuous resonance of a public-school education not backed up by native intelligence.

'Can I get you a drink?'

His hand moved towards the inside pocket of his blazer, but it was a half-hearted gesture, like that of the average husband offering to help with the washing-up; it expected to be stopped.

And indeed it was. Lady Ridgleigh came in smartly on her cue. 'No, no, Miles, please. Down here you're my guest.'

'Oh, very well, old thing,' he said, conceding without even the pretence of a struggle.

Lady Ridgleigh reached into a crocodile-skin handbag, produced a monogrammed purse and gave Newth the order. She was drinking a Martini, Mrs Pargeter noticed, wondering whether this was a regular Sunday indulgence or just in honour of her visitor.

The visitor in question took a long swill from his pint of beer, winced, and gave Mrs Pargeter a weak smile.

'Irrigating the old system, you know. Got a bit cheteaued last night. Some damned hop at the Grosvenor House. When will I ever learn?' he asked in the voice of someone who had no intention of ever learning.

'Your car outside, is it?' asked Mrs Pargeter.

'The old Porky Porsche? Yes. Goes all right, this one.'

'You mean you've got more than one?'

Miles Ridgleigh guffawed. 'That'll be the day. No, I've
had
more than one, though. Have a nasty habit of wrapping them round lamp-posts – don't I, Mums?'

He appealed to his mother for approbation and was rewarded by an indulgent 'boys will be boys' smile. Lady Ridgleigh was totally transformed by her son's presence. She looked radiant, almost skittish. She beamed fatuously like a young girl in love. Mrs Pargeter wondered whether this was how she had behaved in the company of the late lamented Froggie. She thought, on balance, it was unlikely.

'You work in London, then, do you, Miles?'

This suggestion was greeted by another empty guffaw. 'Well, I
live
in London, anyway. Most of my chums are up there. Though, as you see, I'm not above coming down to the old Costa Geriatrica to do the dutiful son bit.'

Lady Ridgleigh looked disproportionately grateful for this magnanimity.

Mrs Pargeter watched Miles continuing to do his 'dutiful son bit' throughout Sunday lunch. It seemed to consist largely of telling loud, unresolved anecdotes and of drinking a great deal. The Ridgleighs had two bottles of wine with the meal, and the mother could not have drunk more than a couple of glasses.

With coffee in the Seaview Lounge Miles downed a couple of hasty brandies, then rose abruptly and announced, 'Got to be off, old thing. Promised to drop in on some chums Hay wards Heath way.'

Lady Ridgleigh's face dropped. Clearly she had not expected this exquisite visit to be so suddenly curtailed.

But Miles either didn't notice or ignored her expression. 'So got to dash. But don't worry, I'll be down again soon to salve the old social conscience.'

'Oh, well, Miles—'

'Not a word of thanks. Won't hear of it, old thing. My pleasure.' Then his tone changed. 'Perhaps you'd like to
see me out
. . . ?'

The intonation on the last words clearly had some private meaning for them both.

'Oh. Oh yes,' said Lady Ridgleigh, and started for the door.

'Mustn't forget this, must we?' Miles lifted up her crocodile handbag with what was almost a leer.

'No. No. Of course not.'

It was nearly five minutes before Miles could be seen from the windows of the Seaview Lounge approaching his Porsche. Mrs Pargeter felt fairly sure that she knew the nature of the transaction that had delayed him.

With a cheery wave, he folded his long body into the driving seat, and the Porsche scorched off erratically down South Terrace.