But it’d keep for a little while. She was going to need all her wits about her for that conversation. Just give herself a few minutes for recuperation.
She knew why she felt so exhausted. It was the release of tension. She had been really terrified of Newth, because she could recognise the logic of a murderer’s mind. The person who had killed Mrs Selsby had also killed Mrs Mendlingham when she revealed that she had witnessed the first murder. Mrs Pargeter, by her hints in the Schooner Bar that evening, had alerted the murderer to her own suspicions, and from that moment had put herself at the top of the list of prospective victims.
It was a huge relief to have survived that interview with Newth.
She felt drowsy, as if she might drift off to sleep.
But still there was a nasty metallic taste in her mouth. Probably just dry, she thought, another reflection of the strain I’ve just been under for the last hour.
Still, she didn’t want to wake again with a nasty taste. She reached sleepily round for the atomiser on her bedside table and brought it to her mouth.
It was an uneven ridge she felt along the side of the little cylinder that stopped her short.
She peered at the tiny atomiser and saw that the two parts of it were marginally out of alignment.
She was instantly alert. The unit was sealed, but with a little force could be opened. She tried it. The cylinder unscrewed without any force at all. It had been opened before.
With unpleasant foreboding, she continued to unscrew the top from the atomiser and lowered her nose to sniff the exposed liquid within.
She recognised the smell instantly. Though the late Mr Pargeter had never used toxic substances in his own business, he had occasionally been at risk from other less scrupulous operators in the same field; and among the many other useful things he had taught his wife had been how to recognise the major poisons.
The atomiser contained cyanide.
Mrs Pargeter went rigid with shock.
Not just shock because someone had tried to kill her.
But shock because she’d used the atomiser without adverse effects immediately before going down to the Seaview Lounge, where she had found Newth.
Which meant that Newth could not have had the opportunity to fill it with cyanide.
Which meant that the murderer at the Devereux was somebody else.
∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧
38
TUESDAY, 12 MARCH – 7.30 a.m.
Damn! It didn’t work. For the first time one of my little shots has failed to reach its target. I suppose it always was the least likely to work. With the other murders there was never any question about the method’s efficacy, because I was there to do it myself. This was my first attempt at a remote control murder, and I suppose for that reason the most susceptible to failure.
I know it didn’t work, because I have just seen my intended victim walking down to breakfast. All right, I suppose it’s possible that she hasn’t used the spray yet and my scheme still has a chance of success, but instinct tells me that is not the case. What is much more likely, I fear, is that not only has the cyanide in the spray failed, it has also alerted her to my intentions towards her.
I must tread warily. And I must watch her like a hawk. Any attempt she makes to contact the police must be thwarted. Indeed, nothing has changed. Now more than ever I have to murder her. But the next time there must be no mistakes. No more overconfident remote control ideas. The next time I must get her alone and do it in person, so that I can be sure that she’s dead.
In the meantime, I will act naturally. Down to breakfast with me. Even after this recent setback, I still feel good. Who would ever have imagined that I would derive such pleasure from leading a double life!
∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧
39
Mrs Pargeter sat over her kipper and looked round at the other residents breakfasting in the Admiral’s Dining Room. It was a peaceful scene of geriatric gentility, marred only by her knowledge that one of the other people in the room was a murderer.
She looked at them one by one.
Lady Ridgleigh was spearing small pieces of bacon with her fork and stabbing them into her mouth. She had avoided Mrs Pargeter’s eye that morning, mindful of their conversation of the night before. But that conversation had ruled her out as a candidate for the title of the Devereux murderer.
Miss Wardstone munched disapprovingly on her dry toast and marmalade. Butter, being something she might enjoy, was rigorously excluded from her diet, and, from the expression on her face, she had selected the tartest of marmalades. Miss Wardstone exuded such unadulterated bitterness that it was tempting to think some might have been channelled into murder. She had made no secret of her delight at Mrs Selsby’s death and her impatience to claim the old lady’s sea-front room.
But, reluctantly, Mrs Pargeter had to rule this candidate out too.
It was the cyanide attack that put Miss Wardstone out of the running. Mrs Pargeter felt convinced that the attempt on her life had been prompted by what she had said in the Schooner Bar the night before. Though she hadn’t intended it quite that way, she now realised that her words could have been interpreted by the murderer as a warning that she was on his or her track. And, of course, because of Miss Wardstone’s avoidance of anything that might dilute her natural sourness, she had not been in the bar the previous night.
That left three – the two gentlemen, already deep in their customary conversation of gnomic non sequiturs, and Eulalie Vance.
Mrs Pargeter thought about the former actress. There was certainly a lot of emotion there on the surface, but that might hide more complex emotions surging underneath. The heart that is worn on the sleeve is not always the true heart. And an actress is trained to deception. Mrs Pargeter wondered what possible motive Eulalie could have had against Mrs Selsby.
“Mrs Pargeter.”
The voice was so close that she started. Absorbed in her thoughts, she had not noticed anyone else come into the room.
“Good morning, Miss Naismith.”
“I wonder,” said the proprietress silkily, “whether it would be possible for you to step into the Office for a quiet word in a moment…?”
“Yes. Of course. Time for me just to have another cup of tea?”
“Certainly, Mrs Pargeter.”
As Miss Naismith glided out of the Admiral’s Dining Room, it occurred to Mrs Pargeter that there was another person who had witnessed what she had said the previous night in the Schooner Bar.
♦
“Come in,” called the voice from inside the Office door.
Mrs Pargeter entered. Miss Naismith sat behind her desk, looking atypically ill at ease. Her fingers fiddled nervously with what appeared to be a paper-knife.
“Mrs Pargeter. Thank you for coming. Please sit down.”
Mrs Pargeter obeyed. Miss Naismith’s fingers still fiddled, twitchily feeling along the blade of the knife. This was out of character, a lapse of breeding that denoted considerable inward perturbation.
“What’s the problem, then?” asked Mrs Pargeter comfortably.
“The fact is…” Miss Naismith rose from her desk and moved across to check that the door was closed. “The fact is that something rather distressing has occurred.”
“Oh yes?”
“Yes.”
Miss Naismith’s voice was now behind her, but Mrs Pargeter did not turn round as she asked, “What’s that, then?”
There was a long silence, as though the proprietress were steeling herself to some distasteful duty.