Mrs. Pargeter's Principle Read online

  But, although she’d never considered having a television in her bedroom (it was far too pretty a room), she did have one downstairs in the sitting room which she would occasionally switch on to see the BBC news.

  And so it was that on Thursday evening she heard another reference to Sir Normington Winthrop. It was quarter to eleven, and she had missed the nightly chronicling of the day’s disasters, so she switched on Newsnight … where she found one of its feistier female presenters called Jenny Nagle interviewing a plump man who was vaguely familiar from the newspapers but to whom she couldn’t put a name.

  Obligingly, the presenter identified him as Derek Bardon, leader of BROG, the ‘Britons, Restore Our Greatness’ party. (Why was it, Mrs Pargeter wondered, that all minority political groupings had such silly names? UKIP, she’d always thought, sounded like an invitation to go to sleep – and having listened to the party’s candidates outlining their policies she’d frequently felt encouraged to do just that.)

  Anyway, remembering the connection between the late Sir Normington Winthrop and BROG, Mrs Pargeter listened with increased concentration to what its leader was saying.

  ‘It sounds to me as if your researchers have let you down, Jenny.’ Though this was undoubtedly a criticism, Derek Bardon’s tone was not harsh. He was using the voice a dog-lover would use to an overexcited puppy. ‘Those accusations of racism within BROG were put to bed a good three years ago. There was a full internal inquiry, which resulted in the expulsion of two – only two, Jenny – members of the party. I absolutely defy you now to find any evidence of racism amongst our membership – or, indeed, in our policies.’

  Jenny Nagle, an attractive woman with expertly highlighted long brown hair, was not about to be patronised in that way. She came back at him strongly. ‘But surely even the name of the party – “Britons, Restore Our Greatness” – has overtones of at least jingoism, harking back to the glory days of the British Empire?’

  ‘You may feel that, Jenny, but I can assure you that there is no nostalgia in BROG for what you call “the glory days of the British Empire”. We have no plans to recolonize the world. Our only aim is to bring back Great Britain’s self-respect – a self-respect which has been eroded in the last thirty years by the attitudes of a series of governments led by this country’s two main parties. That, Jenny, is all that BROG is trying to achieve.’

  He was good, Mrs Pargeter could see that. Good in the way that all media-savvy politicians had to be. His constant use of the presenter’s name; his avuncular manner which stayed just the right side of patronizing, while still managing to emphasize her relative youth and inexperience.

  ‘Jenny,’ he said, continuing the same approach, ‘I’m not really a politician. I don’t share the ambitions that most poli-ticians have. I’m just an ordinary Joe, the man in the street, the man, if you like, on the Clapham Omnibus – and that dates me, doesn’t it? But all I’m trying to do, all that BROG is trying to do, Jenny, is to bring a little common sense into British political life. As I say, I don’t share the ambitions of most politicians, but I look around and I see so many things wrong with this great country of ours. What I don’t see, though, Jenny, is anyone rolling up their shirtsleeves to put those things right. Everyone seems quite happy to sit back and watch Great Britain degenerate into a third world country. Well, I’m not like that. I see a mess, I immediately want to sort it out. That’s why I’m involved in the mucky business of politics. That’s why I’m the leader of BROG.’

  It was one of the oldest populist stances in the book – the man of the people who simply wants to do good and realizes, to his great frustration, that he can only be in a position to make changes by entering the murky waters of politics. But Mrs Pargeter had to admit Derek Bardon played the role quite well.

  The presenter, Jenny Nagle, also had that feeling and was anxious to move her interview on. ‘Could we, Derek, talk about the late Sir Normington Winthrop?’

  ‘Of course we could, Jenny. A very fine man who will be sorely missed.’

  ‘I’m sure. But he’ll be particularly sorely missed by BROG, won’t he?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Because, in a sense, didn’t he give respectability to the party?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Jenny. I’m not with you.’

  ‘Well, in the early days BROG was dismissed by some people as a collection of crackpots and misfits.’

  ‘Not by any people I ever met, Jenny.’

  ‘Well, that suggests to me that you don’t see many people, Derek. That maybe you ought to get out more.’

  He was offended by that. But before he could shape a response, the presenter pressed on: ‘So it was useful for your party to have an establishment figure like Sir Normington Winthrop on board. He enhanced your image, didn’t he?’

  ‘All I know, Jenny,’ said Derek Bardon, his coolness regained, ‘is that I was proud to have Norm in my party. He was one of our core supporters. He was part of the BROG vision from the very moment I had the idea for the party.’

  ‘Without Sir Normington Winthrop there wouldn’t be a BROG?’

  ‘No, there wouldn’t, Jenny. Not in its current form.’

  He had fallen into her little trap. ‘Because, in fact,’ she said triumphantly, ‘Sir Normington Winthrop funded the entire operation, didn’t he?’

  Derek Bardon didn’t like that either. Across his face there flashed a considerably less avuncular look: a look almost of pure evil. It was only there for a second before the politician’s instinct reasserted itself.

  ‘We do have other donors, Jenny,’ he said smoothly. ‘While hugely grateful for what Norm did for us – and what he did for the party in so many ways – I can assure you, Jenny, that his absence – though very sad for me personally – will in no way affect the future success of BROG. We have got a lot of forward momentum in the party and, come the next election, Jenny, BROG is going to be a force to be reckoned with throughout the country.’

  The presenter looked as if she wanted to ask more, but time was against her. She thanked Derek Bardon and moved on to introduce the next item, about the government’s plans to reduce subsidies on the installation of stairlifts for the elderly.

  The last shot of Derek Bardon showed him looking triumphant.

  Up in her bedroom, reaching round to unzip her dress, Mrs Pargeter suddenly remembered what she still had in her handbag. Gizmo Gilbert’s latest invention. The ‘Zipper Zapper’.

  She held it over her shoulder and pressed the button. Her dress instantly unzipped itself.

  It was a really useful device. With the proper marketing … As she drifted into the sleep of the righteous, Mrs Pargeter wondered whether there’d be the name of someone in her little black book who was an expert in starting up companies. There almost definitely would be.

  THIRTEEN

  She rang Truffler Mason first thing the next morning. ‘I’m in a state of confusion,’ she said.

  ‘That’s unlike you, Mrs P. I always think of you as being positive under any circumstances.’

  ‘Yes, I try to be. But my current circumstances aren’t making me feel very positive.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ There was genuine alarm in the private investigator’s voice.

  ‘No, it’s nothing to worry about on a cosmic scale. I just feel frustrated because I’ve got all these leads wiggling off in different directions and I can’t get any of them to join together. There’s Sir Normington Winthrop’s link to my husband; there’s Holy Smirke being kidnapped … Oh, I’d just like to be able to join them all together, make a few connections, see a way forward.’

  ‘Doing an investigation’s often like that,’ said Truffler with what was meant to sound like reassurance. ‘Just at the very moment when you think you’re never going to make sense of it, you get a breakthrough. Remember, they always say that the darkest hour is just before dawn.’

  ‘Do you really believe that, Truffler?’

  His natural pessimism reasserted itself. ‘No. Mind yo
u, I can inform you of some progress. I wouldn’t go as far as to call it a breakthrough, but it might be worth pursuing.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Mrs Pargeter eagerly.

  ‘Well, you know I’ve been employed by Lady Winthrop to try and find out as much as I can about her husband’s origins.’

  ‘Yes. Which is more or less exactly what I’m trying to do.’ Again, she sounded excited. ‘Why, have you got something?’

  ‘Not really. He seems to have kept his wife in complete ignorance about his background, certainly his early days. But what you just said … I’d been thinking about that too.’

  ‘Which bit of what I just said?’

  ‘The bit about you and Lady Winthrop both investigating the same thing.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I suggested to her that it might be a good idea if the two of you met – you know, that you should pool your resources.’

  ‘Not that I’ve currently got many resources to pool.’ But she was only downcast for a moment. ‘I still think it’s a brilliant idea, though, Truffler.’

  She recalled the chilling threat in Edmund Grainger’s phone call when he’d told her not to contact Lady Winthrop, but she wasn’t the kind of woman to be daunted by considerations like that. She knew she was being perverse, but she was determined that she wasn’t going to let a bully win. ‘Can you arrange for us to meet this afternoon?’ she asked Truffler.

  ‘’Course I can, Mrs P.’

  She had a call soon after that from Erin Jarvis. The girl said she’d thought of a new line of enquiry. ‘You remember, Mrs Pargeter, you told me that Holy Smirke had known your husband since schooldays?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I thought of doing a bit of research into where they went to school. Obviously, if Holy Smirke was around we could ask him, but for equally obvious reasons we can’t.’

  ‘I think that’s a really good idea, Erin. And in your researches you might also find out whether there were any other, er, associates of my husband who he knew all that way back.’ Suddenly, she saw a snag. ‘Trouble is, though, my husband never talked to me about those days. I don’t even know the name of the school he went to.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Pargeter,’ said Erin coolly. ‘I’ve already found that out.’

  Greene’s Hotel turned out to be a convenient location for Lady Winthrop, and she was at least as keen as Mrs Pargeter for their meeting to take place. So they arranged to meet for coffee in the Blenheim Room at three thirty.

  Arriving before the appointed hour, Mrs Pargeter was greeted by Hedgeclipper Clinton, who asked if she wanted her customary bottle of champagne. She could think of no reason to oppose the suggestion, so was halfway down the first glass when her guest arrived.

  Having only seen Helena Winthrop on the occasion of her husband’s funeral, when she had been decorously swathed in black, Mrs Pargeter found her to be younger and prettier than she’d remembered. The blondness of the woman’s hair had only been slightly assisted. She wore very high heels and a well-cut suit in a shade of scarlet that a lot of women couldn’t have got away with.

  When she spoke, her vowels were as cut-glass as the glasses from which they were drinking their champagne. (Lady Winthrop had made no demur about the substitution of the promised coffee.)

  Mrs Pargeter started with a formal condolence for the loss of Sir Normington Winthrop.

  ‘Thank you. I’m sorry that we didn’t get introduced at the funeral. I gather from Mr Mason that you, too, are widowed.’

  ‘Yes. My husband died quite a long time ago, though.’

  ‘And is time the great healer that people promise it to be?’

  ‘It does help a bit … though, of course, one never fully recovers. But I feel that it’s very important not to just live on one’s memories.’

  ‘No. Not that I’m really sure about the memories I might have to live on.’

  Mrs Pargeter looked puzzled. ‘I don’t quite know what you mean, Lady Winthrop.’

  ‘Oh, please call me Helena.’

  ‘Very well, Helena. But what did you mean about your memories?’

  ‘Well, the more I find out about my husband’s past, the less I feel that I really knew him at all. There are whole areas of his life of which I was completely ignorant.’

  ‘Ah.’ Some people might have thought that the same was true of Mrs Pargeter’s marriage, but she was entirely confident that that had not been the case. Yes, there were details of the late Mr Pargeter’s business affairs of which she knew nothing, but that had been for shrewd, pragmatic reasons. ‘What you do not know about, Melita my love,’ he had frequently said to her, ‘cannot be extracted from you, even by torture.’ Fortunately, torture had never been involved, but there had been occasions when, questioned about her late husband’s activities, she’d had cause to be grateful for her ignorance.

  Mrs Pargeter went on: ‘I, too, am very interested in your husband’s past, as I’m sure Truffler has told you.’

  ‘I’m sorry? Who’s Truffler?’

  ‘Ah. I mean Mr Mason of the Mason De Vere Detective Agency. He is universally known as Truffler.’

  ‘Oh.’ A small smile crossed Helena Winthrop’s face. ‘What a very suitable nickname. I won’t be able to think of him as anything else now. Will he mind if I call him Truffler?’

  ‘He’ll be delighted if you do.’

  ‘Good.’ There was a silence. Helena Winthrop seemed somewhat nervous of what she was about to say. ‘May I ask you, Mrs Pargeter, why you are interested in my late husband’s past?’

  There was no reason not to tell the truth, so Mrs Pargeter explained about the name ‘Normington Winthrop’ appearing in the invaluable little black book which her husband had bequeathed to her. ‘And it’s such an unusual name. I cannot imagine there being many Normington Winthrops in the world.’

  ‘No,’ Helena agreed. ‘That is an odd coincidence. It suggests that our husbands must at one stage have known each other.’

  ‘That would seem to be the logical conclusion, yes. So how far back can you trace your husband’s history?’

  ‘Well, only since he arrived in this country from Africa.’

  ‘Africa?’ Mrs Pargeter echoed with considerable surprise.

  ‘Yes. Normington had worked in the Congo. I think it was there that he made his first fortune. And, I believe, married his first wife.’

  ‘Really? Did you ever meet her?’

  ‘No. She didn’t come to England with him. Maybe she died in Africa. Maybe they were divorced. I’ve no idea.’

  ‘But your husband was brought up in England, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That I’m not absolutely sure about, but I rather think not. Though he never positively confirmed it, he gave me the impression that he was brought up in South Africa.’

  ‘Did he speak with a South African accent?’

  ‘No. He spoke quite respectably after a while. Another of the reasons he married me, I think, to improve his vowels.’

  ‘But when he first came to England, did he have a South African accent then?’

  ‘No. Then his accent was just –’ with a slight shudder – ‘uncouth. I’m surprised you never heard him speak.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t.’

  ‘Not even on television? Extolling the virtues of the BROG party?’

  ‘I didn’t, no, but by coincidence I did hear Derek Bardon talking on Newsnight last night.’ Helena Winthrop’s shudder was more evocative than any words would have been.

  ‘Not your favourite person?’

  ‘No. I really have no idea why Normington involved himself in that nonsense.’

  ‘Didn’t he ever tell you?’

  ‘No. That was another subject on which his lips were sealed.’

  ‘And how long ago was it that he settled in this country?’

  ‘Seventeen years. We met soon after he arrived.’

  ‘And where did you meet? I always like to hear people’s romantic stories.’

  Helena Winthrop’s
face took on a hard look. ‘Ours was not, I’m afraid, that romantic. When he arrived in this country, Normington had a great deal of money but very little class. That’s what he was hoping to acquire by marrying me.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I do have a title in my own right. I’m not just a lady because of his knighthood. But my family were classic aristocrats. Lots of class, family tree going back to the Norman Conquest, but never two pennies to rub together. Normington offered a way out of that. And I was pushing forty, not overwhelmed with other offers … so I thought our pragmatically sensible relationship might turn into love. It didn’t.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, there were compensations … not having to worry about money all the time being the main one. And I fulfilled my side of the bargain. Acted as the perfect consort and hostess, eased Normington way up the ladder of respectability. I’m sure there have been many worse marriages.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

  ‘This may, incidentally, explain why you don’t find me prostrated with grief. The main feeling Normington’s death prompted in me was relief.’

  Always interested in the possibility of foul play, Mrs Pargeter said, ‘Do you mind if I ask how your husband died?’

  ‘Prostate cancer. He’d had it for some years. Had lots of treatments which staved off the inevitable for a while, but it finally caught up with him.’

  ‘So not unexpected?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Mrs Pargeter nodded thoughtfully, then gestured to a hovering waiter to fill up their glasses. ‘We’re still no nearer finding out how our husbands met, are we?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What really intrigues me, though, is what your late husband got up to in Africa.’

  ‘It intrigues me too,’ said Lady Winthrop.

  FOURTEEN

  She was back in the Chigwell house that Friday evening, looking with distaste at the pink and white china cat on the mantelpiece and wondering how she could get rid of it without hurting Gary’s feelings, when she had a call from Erin Jarvis. ‘I’ve found out quite a lot about your husband’s schooldays.’