Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh (6 page)

CHAPTER 12

The difficulty with mud – whether from the Dead Sea or from the pond of an English stately home – is keeping it muddy. In a centrally heated interior it has a distressing habit of setting, and the mud in the basement of Brotherton Hall needed constant dilution to maintain it at a properly glutinous level.

The Dead Sea Mud Bath unit had, in common with every other facility at the health spa, been installed to a very high specification. Given the costs of that, and the costs of keeping the area spotless, it was no surprise that the Dead Sea Mud Baths were promoted so heavily to the guests. Ankle-Deep Arkwright had to see his installation money back before the arrival of the next fitness fad would require the unit's complete refurbishment.

There were four baths in all, each in a cubicle separated from the others by eight-foot-high walls. The baths themselves were sunken, filled from incongruously gleaming lion's head sluices, and drained by some unseen but presumably very powerful pumping system. Brotherton Hall assured guests that their baths would be individually filled, so that no one had to step into someone else's dirty mud, and presumably that was one of the reasons for the exorbitant costs of the treatment. (Mrs Pargeter's natural cynicism – and knowledge of Ankle-Deep Arkwright's customary business practices – made her pretty sure that some kind of mud-recycling would be going on, but she had no proof of this.)

The lion's heads were fed from a large central tank, in which a stew of mud was kept in constant motion and, it was to be hoped, fluency, by a rotating blade like that used in the mixing of cement or the manufacture of toffee. Because of the viscous nature of its contents, the outlets to this tank frequently became clogged and indeed, when Mrs Pargeter arrived that morning, Stan the Stapler was up on a ladder poking away with a long instrument at some blockage.

By happy coincidence, the other users of the unit were demonstrating the sequence of the treatment.

Through the half-open door of Cubicle One Mrs Pargeter could see a body lying at full length in its tub. So complete was the covering of pale brown sludge (participants were encouraged to smear their faces and work the mud into their hair) that she could not even have told the sex, let alone the identity of the bather. This immersion part of the process was recommended to last for an hour, during which 'the natural salts and minerals can get really deeply into the pores' (Mrs Pargeter shuddered at the very idea).

On a bench outside Cubicle Two, in the glare of a kind of sunlamp, another participant was enjoying the second part of the treatment. This involved letting the mud dry 'naturally' on the skin till it formed a pale beige crust. During this stage guests were encouraged to keep as still as possible, to avoid cracking and flaking. The recommended drying time was also one hour, and again Mrs Pargeter could form no opinion about the identity of the participant – or even whether she had on any underwear.

Cubicle Three was empty, but from it came an abdominal rumbling and gurgling, which presumably denoted that the bath was being drained. On the other side of the unit, the cubicle's most recent occupant was undergoing the most gruelling part Of the Dead Sea Mud treatment – getting the bloody stuff off.

Under a ferocious shower a streaked body scrubbed away at itself, directing high-speed jets of water from a hose into its most intimate crevices. Mrs Pargeter had heard from Kim Thurrock that this cleansing process took hours; 'and still at the end of the day when I undressed I found flaky bits in my knickers . . .' The depth of Kim's love affair with everything related to Brotherton Hall can be judged from the fact that she then added fervently, '. . . which
shows
it must've been doing some good.'

Lindy Galton, perfectly proportioned and still immaculately uniformed in spite of the mud that surrounded her, stepped forward to meet her latest client.

'Mrs Pargeter, isn't it?'

'That's right.'

'If you'd like to come through to Cubicle Four, the bath should just about be full now.'

Mrs Pargeter stood inside the doorway, dressed as instructed in only her Brotherton Hall towelling gown over swimwear, and looked down at the contents of the bath as the last strainings plopped in from the lion's head sluice.

The mud could have been said to look like liquid milk chocolate, with a consistency like that of Bolognese sauce – though it has to be confessed that the similes which sprang instinctively to Mrs Pargeter's mind were rather less elegant.

There was a silence as the two of them looked down at the sluggish sludge. 'Well,' Lindy Galton prompted eventually, 'aren't you going to get in?'

'Good heavens, no,' said Mrs Pargeter. 'What on earth do you take me for?'

'Then why are you here?' The girl looked confused rather than alarmed.

Before answering, Mrs Pargeter moved forward to a console of switches on the wall and pressed the one marked 'Empty'. The room was filling with the kind of sounds that can be the consequence of an ill-considered curry.

Lindy Galton stepped towards the console, her face sharp with anger. 'What are you doing? The bath's only just been filled.'

'I'm paying for the Dead Sea Mud Bath treatment,' Mrs Pargeter replied coolly. 'Whether I choose to have it or not I'd have thought was up to me.'

'But why are you emptying it away? Someone else could have the mud.'

'Why, do you want it?' asked Mrs Pargeter, deliberately frivolous.

The reaction – and the distaste – were instinctive. 'No, thank you!'

'Oh, you know where it's come from then, do you?'

The girl seemed about to agree, then remembered her professional role and replied frostily, 'I can't personally go into the mud because of an allergy. I've tried the treatment and I'm afraid it brings me out in a rash.' She gave her client a beady look. 'You still haven't explained why you're emptying the bath.'

'I've started that for the noise . . . so's we can't be overheard,' said Mrs Pargeter in an even whisper.

Now there was a light of alarm in Lindy Galton's eye. 'What is this?'

'I want to ask you about a guest registration you made at Reception a couple of days ago.'

'Oh?'

'A registration for someone called "Jenny Hargreaves".' The girl's eyes told her instantly that she was on to something. 'You see, I think that Jenny Hargreaves arrived at Brotherton Hall earlier than that registration record implies. I think you only keyed those details into the computer because Mr Arkwright told you to.'

Lindy Galton licked a lip that seemed suddenly to have become dry. 'Why do you want to know about this? Why're you interested, Mrs Pargeter?'

'Because I think it could have something to do with a mystery guest at Brotherton Hall. Someone who was staying in a room on the third floor . . . until a couple of nights ago.'

However good Lindy Galton may have been at body sculpture, she had no skills in the art of deception. 'How much do you know about it?' she blurted out.

'Well, clearly not as much as you do, Lindy. Which is why I'm asking you these questions.' Mrs Pargeter moved closer. '
Was
the girl on the third floor Jenny Hargreaves?'

Lindy Galton's mouth opened to reply, but she was distracted by a slight clang from above. They both looked over the top of the cubicle wall to the ladder from which Stan the Stapler was still doing his Dynorod routine.

The oddjob man was not looking at them, but he did seem almost too studiously preoccupied with his task. The two women exchanged glances. 'Can't talk now,' Lindy Galton breathed. 'Later in the day.'

'All right. When?'

'Quarter past nine. Down here. Everyone else'll be involved in the Weigh-in.'

Mrs Pargeter gave a quick nod, as Lindy Galton crossed to cancel the 'Empty' switch and say in a voice that was suddenly loud, 'No, I'm very sorry, Mrs Pargeter, but I think it would be unwise. The salts and minerals in the mud could all too easily trigger off your allergy.'

With appropriate expression of annoyance and frustration at this cruel deprivation, Mrs Pargeter left the Dead Sea Mud Bath unit.

CHAPTER 13

There was another message to ring Mr Mason when she got back to her room. Truffler, as ever, had done his stuff. He'd tracked down Tom O'Brien, Jenny Hargreaves' boyfriend.

'How did you find him – through Cambridge?' asked Mrs Pargeter.

'No,' Truffler replied dolefully. 'I had to track him down by . . . other routes.'

She knew better than to enquire further. 'Any chance of my meeting him?'

'Oh yes, I've set it up. That is, if you'd be able to get out of that place for a while . . .'

'For heaven's sake, Truffler. Brotherton Hall isn't Colditz.' Though when she came to think of it, there were similarities.

'Good. Well, he said he could give us an hour at lunchtime today. In London, that'd be.'

'Great. Shall I book us into the Savoy Grill?'

'Erm. I don't think that'd be exactly young Mr O'Brien's style, Mrs Pargeter.'

Young Mr O'Brien's style proved to be a greasy spoon cafe round the back of King's Cross Station. He and Truffler were tucking into the All-Day Breakfast – bacon, egg, sausage, tomatoes, beans, fried bread, and a huge mug of tea – when Mrs Pargeter arrived. Though she turned a few heads in her scarlet linen jacket over floral silk print, she did not look out of place. Mrs Pargeter had that rare quality in any surroundings of being always conspicuous, but never out of place.

After basic introductions, Truffler asked if he could order her anything. ' 'Fraid they probably won't have that much that'll fit in with your Brotherton Hall diet.'

'Oh well,' said Mrs Pargeter nobly, 'can't be helped.' She looked at their plates. 'I'll have the same as you.'

While Truffler vied with a couple of gas fitters for attention at the fat-smeared counter, Mrs Pargeter made a quick assessment of the boy opposite her.

He was good-looking, black hair slicked back, and pale blue eyes, which at that moment were giving her a sullen once-over. Tom O'Brien had not a spare ounce of fat on him. He wore a shapeless navy-blue raincoat over a black T-shirt and jeans, and sat in a defensive posture that firmly stated he was there under sufferance.

Mrs Pargeter smiled at him. 'I want to find out about Jenny.'

'So do I,' he replied, the sourness in his tone accentuating a slight Irishness. 'That's why I'm here. Mr Mason said you had some information.'

This was difficult. The information Mrs Pargeter did have was the last information the boy would want to hear. Anyway, it was not information she could divulge. At that moment she couldn't be sure that the starved body she had seen was that of Jenny Hargreaves. She had only Ankle-Deep Arkwright's word to go on, and he was clearly lying about at least some aspects of the case.

Seeing the hunger for news in Tom O'Brien's face, for a moment Mrs Pargeter entertained the attractive idea that the body had not been Jenny's, that Ank had invented a name just to cloud the water.

But if that were the case, why had he come up with an address too? And an address which matched the name he had chosen?

This, Mrs Pargeter realized, was not the moment to pursue such questions. 'I don't so much have information,' she said gently, 'as maybe some pointers to where Jenny's been the last few months.'

Tom O'Brien was instantly alert. 'Well, that's more than I've managed to get. What have you found out?'

Truffler's return to the table, placing a large mug of tea in front of her, gave Mrs Pargeter a moment to shape her reply. 'It's just that I've heard Jenny's name mentioned round Brotherton Hall . . . you know the place I mean?'

The contemptuous nod showed exactly what Tom O'Brien thought of health spas – and the kind of people who frequented them.

'I've heard rumours,' Mrs Pargeter went on, 'that Jenny may even have booked in there for a while.'

The interest faded from the boy's eyes. 'Well, they're crap rumours then. Even assuming Jenny would ever want to go to a place like that . . . And she wouldn't! Just because she's at Cambridge, don't imagine she's some bone-headed upper-class snob. Jenny's got her head firmly screwed on – she's not a class traitor like some of those social-climbing girls you meet at . . .' He realized he was getting off the subject. 'What I'm saying is there's no way she could have afforded to go to somewhere like Brotherton Hall. That was Jenny's problem, for God's sake – she didn't have any money.'

'But, just imagining for a moment that she somehow found the money . . .'

'If she'd found any money, there's a million other things she would have spent it on.'

'Or if someone had given her the stay at a health spa as a present . . .'

The thought he might have a rival brought a haunted look into Tom's eyes. 'Who?' he demanded. 'Do you know there was someone?'

'No, no, I'm just imagining. But what I really want to know is – would Jenny have had any reason to go to a health spa?'

The boy looked confused by the question.

'What Mrs Pargeter means,' Truffler elucidated, 'is – was Jenny fat?'

'Oh. No. Well, not particularly.' A distant hunger of recollection, softened his words. 'She was . . . well-rounded and . . .' He cleared his throat. 'Certainly not thin, anyway.'

Mrs Pargeter tried to force from her mind the skeletal body she had seen on the trolley at Brotherton Hall. 'And she never expressed a desire to go to a health spa?'

'No, no, of course she didn't. She wouldn't have dared.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because she knew I'd disapprove of poncy places like that.'

'And she wouldn't have done anything you disapproved of?'

The question was casual, but Tom O'Brien was instantly aware of its subtext. 'And I don't mean because I was a chauvinist, Mrs Pargeter. Jenny and I talked a lot, about everything. We thought alike about the really important things.'

'And what would you say
are
the really important things?'

There was no hesitation about his reply. The issues were ones he had thought through in great detail and about which he was passionate. 'The environment, obviously. That's the most important item on the world's agenda. If we don't get that sorted out, then it's all over for humankind. We've got to make people think differently. So long as their dominant motive remains profit and money-making, nothing's going to get any better. There'll be more poison pumped into the atmosphere, more forests cut down, more animal species sacrificed in the cause of consumerist experimentation. We've got to change the world whilst we still have a world left to change!'

Mrs Pargeter, though never an activist herself for any cause, could respect such fervour in others. And there was no doubting the boy's sincerity.

'So in order to change the world, do you reckon you can use any methods?'

'Of course you can.'

'
Any
methods? I mean, even violence and terrorism?'

Tom O'Brien's lips set in a hard line. '
Particularly
violence and terrorism.'

'You think the end justifies the means?'

'It must do! If you stop and think of the violence that man's committed against the natural world, then a bit of necessary violence against man to restore the balance . . . well, it's a small price to pay.'

'And what kind of violence are you talking about? Sabotage? Bombings?'

'Yes.'

'Killing people?'

'Oh yes. When it's necessary,' Tom O'Brien replied with the quiet righteousness of the fanatic.