Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh (14 page)

CHAPTER 29

'And don't worry, Mrs Meredith,' said Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & 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 & 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 and 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 & 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 & 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 & 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 –'

Mrs Pargeter came in on her prearranged cue. 'Oh, it is house purchase we're interested in. The purchase of one house in particular . . .' Keith Wellstrop was momentarily silenced by the intervention, allowing her to continue: 'A house called 17 Doubletrees Lane.'

The purpose in the young man's face was instantly diluted to pink. 'What? I don't know what you're talking about,' he protested feebly.

'Oh, I think you do.' Mrs Pargeter drew a cardboard folder out from under her arm, aware once again of how privileged she was to enjoy the research services of such experts as Ellie Fenchurch and Truffler Mason.

He it was who had provided the data from which she now quoted. 'It was a chain, wasn't it – one of those peculiarly English situations involving six houses, the top one worth half a million and the others getting cheaper and cheaper, right down to 17 Doubletrees Lane, selling for a mere forty-two thousand. And the whole thing was set up, all the purchases sorted out and you in line for very substantial commission when they all went through . . . Not a bad rate of pay for the amount of effort the deals had cost you.'

'I don't think you –'

She overrode him. 'But 17 Doubletrees Lane was the one that threatened the whole deal, wasn't it? Its sale fell through just at the wrong moment. Unless some philanthropist came up with a cash offer, your commission on all the other deals was out the window, wasn't it? Which was why you decided to be that philanthropist. You bought 17 Doubletrees Lane yourself, didn't you?'

By now he'd built up enough head of steam to respond. 'There's nothing wrong with that. It's called chain-breaking. Quite a common practice among estate agents – and one for which many purchasers have reason to be grateful. The agent temporarily buys the house that's causing the problem and breaks up the log-jam. It's not illegal.'

'It is when you use the money other buyers have paid as deposits to fund the purchase.'

Pink again gave way to puce. 'That couldn't happen. The ten per cent deposit paid when an offer's accepted is lodged with the buyer's solicitors until –'

'Are you going to tell me,' asked Truffler Mason quietly, 'that you've never encountered a bent solicitor . . . ?'

'I'm sure such people exist,' Keith Wellstrop blustered. 'Maybe I have met one without being aware of –'

'You've met one. You meet one every week at the Rotary Club . . .'

Mrs Pargeter smiled sweetly and consulted her helpful file. 'A gentleman called Hamish McFee.'

Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh was silent. Pudgy fingers worried at the lapel of his tweed sports jacket.

'We do of course have documentary evidence for all this,' said Truffler Mason.

A last spark of resistance flared briefly. 'But all the deals in the chain went through. None of the vendors or buyers had anything to complain about. Their deposits were all properly paid at the right time.'

'Yes, but it was a close call, wasn't it? Fortunate that just before all those purchasers were due to complete, a deposit was paid on another half-million pound house . . .'

'And fortunate that the new client's solicitor was also Hamish McFee,' Mrs Pargeter added.

'One of the advantages of operating in a small town, I would imagine,' observed Truffler. 'Everyone uses the same professional people.'

'And you can all meet up every week and scratch each other's backs at the Rotary Club,' Mrs Pargeter concluded.

All sparks of resistance were now dead and cold. 'What do you want from me?' asked Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh, a deflated Billy Bunter caught stealing from someone else's tuck-box.

Truffler pointed to the
Private Eye
. 'It's back to this box number, Mr Wellstrop. Tell us what we want to know about that, and we'll go away and you'll never hear from us again.'

'You mean that? You won't expose me and Hamish? I mean, it'd be dreadful. We'd be asked to leave the Rotary Club, apart from –'

'In my view,' said Truffler with a benign smile, 'your having to stay in the Rotary Club will be quite sufficient punishment for any crimes you may have committed.'

'We're not interested in your small-town fiddles,' said Mrs Pargeter. 'We just want to know about this ad. You were the one who put it in
Private Eye
. . . ?'

The estate agent nodded.

'And you got all the letters of application . . . ?'

Another nod.

'Of which I imagine there were quite a few. So you were used as the perfect front – and stool-pigeon in case things went wrong. And presumably, a lot of people would be keen to have five grand in these inflationary times.'

'Yes. There were a lot.'

'And did you have to sift them through to make a shortlist?'

He shook his head. 'No, I passed them on. I was just a kind of contact point, I didn't have to do anything.'

'Oh, well, you'd had lots of practice in that,' Mrs Pargeter couldn't resist saying. 'Then what happened?'

'I didn't have much to do with it after the initial bit. The applicants were cut down drastically, a shortlist was made; then half a dozen people were interviewed and a couple were selected and offered contracts for the job . . .'

'Which they accepted?'

The estate agent was back to nods now.

'And do you know if one of the successful candidates was a girl called Jenny Hargreaves?'

There was a hesitation, while he weighed up the possible advantages of his situation. Quickly concluding there weren't any, Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh nodded.

'Do you know what the work she was contracted for involved?'

'No, I don't. Honest to God, I never asked and I haven't a clue.'

It sounded convincing. Airs Pargeter and Truffler exchanged brief looks and nodded agreement.

'So . . .' she said, 'only one major question remains . . .'

'Yes,' said Truffler.

'Who was it? Who did you do this little job for?'

The estate agent squirmed awkwardly. 'Look, I only did it for the money. If there was anything wrong, I wasn't aware of it.'

'We asked you who it was,' said Mrs Pargeter implacably.

'Yes.'

'Another fellow Rotarian, was it?' asked Truffler.

This received a further nod. Then came a hesitation, broken by Mrs Pargeter's voice, suddenly steely. '
Who
?'

'It was Percy Arkwright.'

'The Percy Arkwright who runs Brotherton Hall?'

Keith Wellstrop of Wellstrop, Ventleigh & Pugh nodded.

'I never knew his name was Percy.'

Truffler Mason broke the heavy silence in Gary's limousine as it drove them back to Greene's Hotel.

'No,' said Mrs Pargeter. 'Nor did I.'

But she sounded distracted. Truffler knew her reason. It always pained her to find out something bad about one of her late husband's associates. The thought that Ankle-Deep Arkwright had been deceiving her hurt a lot. It brought back the ugly feelings that had followed Mr Pargeter's betrayal by Julian Embridge.

Truffler observed what he knew to be inadequate comfort. 'Always going to be a few bad apples . . .'

'Yes . . .' Mrs Pargeter shook her head in distress. 'It's difficult to readjust your thoughts . . . you know, suddenly to think of someone as bad when you've always liked them and . . .'

'Hm.'

She gathered herself together with an effort. 'Still, it must be done. From now on I have to cast Ank in the role of villain . . .'

' 'Fraid so.'

And whatever wickedness I can think of realize that he's capable of it.'

'Yup.'

There was a silence. 'Mind you . . .' Mrs Pargeter said ruminatively.

'Hm?'

'I still find it hard to think of him as a member of the Rotary Club.'

CHAPTER 30

'Just a little bit off the bum,' Kim Thurrock pleaded. 'You really can't object to that, Melita.'

'But I don't think there's anything wrong with your bum,' Mrs Pargeter countered. 'I'm not an expert on these matters, but I'd have thought your bum was exactly what the bum of a woman your age should be.'

'Yes, that's just it – "a woman of my age". But I don't want to be "a woman of my age". I want to be the woman Thicko remembers from before I had the girls. I did have a good bum then, though I say it myself.'

'But Thicko's not expecting to see the woman he knew before you had the girls. He's not stupid,' said Mrs Pargeter (though the last point was arguable).

'I just want him to see me at my best.' Then, rather plaintively, Kim voiced her real anxiety. 'I want him still to fancy me.'

'Of course he'll still fancy you, love. Just relax.'

'I just feel, you know, if I can promise him that my bum is, sort of, in hand – that I am getting something done about it – then he won't worry.'

Mrs Pargeter shook her head, half in pity, half in exasperation. 'He won't worry anyway. Look, Kim, I want you to promise me you won't do anything about this plastic surgery business without talking to Thicko first.'

'Well . . .'

'Promise me.'

'Oh, all right.'

Having made that concession, Kim seemed to relax. She looked out through the crawling traffic of the Euston Road and consulted her fake Rolex. 'Hope we won't be late.'

'We'll be fine,' Mrs Pargeter reassured her. 'Incidentally, is your mother still staying with you?'

'No, thank God. It was hopeless trying to keep on any kind of diet with her around. She kept forcefeeding me cream cakes. Honestly, her generation have just got things so wrong about eating.'

Mrs Pargeter, who was closer to Mrs Moore's generation than her daughter's, smiled comfortably. 'She looks pretty good on it.'

'Yes, but . . .' A light of fanaticism came into Kim's eye. 'Anyway, I'm not going to backslide. I put on a pound or two while Mum was staying, but I've hardly eaten anything since . . .'

'Kim, you must look after yourself.'

'Of course I do. My body is a shrine, a temple.'

'It's not a temple you seem very relaxed in.

'That's because I haven't got it perfect yet. But don't worry, I will. I'll do it. On my own. "No one can make me better than I can make myself." You know, Sue Fisher is an inspiration to women all over the world.'

'Oh yes,' said Mrs Pargeter drily.