At last the words came out, expelled by a ferocious effort of will. “The fact is, Mrs Pargeter, that I owe you an apology.”
After this painful sentence had been spoken, Miss Naismith seemed to relax. She moved back to her desk, sat down and placed the paper-knife on its surface, neatly aligned with her blotter.
“You may remember, Mrs Pargeter, that we had an unfortunate misunderstanding a few days ago.”
“Oh?” Mrs Pargeter wasn’t going to make it easy; she was determined that Miss Naismith should finish up every scrap of her humble pie and then wipe the plate.
“With regard to Mrs Selsby’s jewels…”
“Ah.”
“And I made an accusation that was, in retrospect, extremely ill-considered.”
Mrs Pargeter smiled pleasantly.
“The fact is, I have now discovered who the real perpetrator of the crime was.”
Mrs Pargeter didn’t volunteer that she also knew. Apart from anything else, she wanted to know how Miss Naismith had found out the truth.
“The identity of the criminal is not, I’m afraid, something that reflects favourably on the Devereux.”
Mrs Pargeter bit back the temptation to say, “You amaze me.”
“Mrs Selsby’s jewels were stolen by a member of my staff.” Oh, how it hurt her to say the words!
Mrs Pargeter allowed herself the indulgence of a raised eyebrow.
“Newth, Mrs Pargeter. It was Newth. I am terribly disappointed to have to say this, and I feel utterly betrayed, but I’m afraid it is the truth.”
Mrs Pargeter still kept silence, confident that all the details would come out if she bided her time.
“Perhaps because of a guilty conscience or perhaps because he thought that his crimes were about to be discovered, it seems that Newth ran away from the hotel last night. Unfortunately, however, he is not a fit man – he has been suffering for some years from a heart condition – and the effort of running…or the strains of his guilt…led him to have a heart attack. He collapsed, it seems, on the outskirts of Littlehampton, where he was discovered in the small hours of this morning and taken to hospital.
“There he was examined and found to be in need of major surgery – open-heart surgery, I believe they call it. When he heard this, it seems that, aware of the risks of such an operation, he wanted to make a clean breast of his crimes. The police were summoned to the hospital, where Newth confessed that not only did he steal Mrs Selsby’s jewellery the night after she died, but also that he had stolen it before!”
Mrs Pargeter nodded, and Miss Naismith looked rather disappointed. She had expected more reaction to this bombshell.
“Apparently – and you can imagine how distressed I was to hear this – over a period of months Newth had been stealing individual items of Mrs Selsby’s jewellery and replacing them with imitations!”
This revelation was rewarded by no more than another nod.
Miss Naismith looked disgruntled, but had to continue. “I need not tell you how shocked I was by this revelation. The police telephoned me about half an hour ago and I could hardly believe what they told me. However, I am reluctantly forced to the conclusion that it is the truth.”
There was another silence. Miss Naismith was being made to work every inch of the way.
“So, Mrs Pargeter, once again I apologise. I cannot tell you how appalled I am by what has happened. I have spent a good part of my life building up the reputation of the Devereux, and to have that reputation sullied by a crime on the premises is a severe blow to everything that I have ever believed in.”
Yes, Mrs Pargeter thought, you really mean that. The gentility, the ‘niceness’, the ‘class’ of the Devereux matters to you more than anything in the world. Which is why you would never threaten its image by committing a crime here yourself. Which is why I must strike you too off my list of murder suspects.
“So, Mrs Pargeter…Please. Please may I ask you to accept my apology…?”
Mrs Pargeter was not vindictive. She had had her triumph, she had won the battle, and was not the sort to gloat over her victory.
“Of course, love,” she said, and held out her hand.
Miss Naismith reached hers daintily across the table and they shook hands.
Not soul-mates, perhaps, but at least no longer in a state of open war.
∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧
40
Eulalie Vance was sitting alone in the Seaview Lounge when Mrs Pargeter entered after her interview with Miss Naismith. The former actress was ensconced in one of the armchairs that were usually occupied by Colonel Wicksteed and Mr Dawlish. She was looking out over the mournful sea.
In her hands she held a hard-covered dark blue diary.
“Good morning,” said Mrs Pargeter companionably, settling into the other armchair.
“Good morning,” Eulalie contrived to make the words a long sigh as well as a greeting.
“You don’t look too perky.”
“No.”
“Problems?”
This was met by a little laugh that seemed to suggest that a new word was needed to describe the sort of problems Eulalie had.
“Anything that talking would help?” asked Mrs Pargeter. “I mean, I don’t want to pry, but…you know, a trouble shared and all that…”
“Yes.” Very quickly the actress made the decision that talking would help. “Are you a creature of passion, Melita?”
“I have been,” Mrs Pargeter replied cautiously.
“Then you know what it is like to have done things in a moment of passion, things that you subsequently come to regret?”
“Ye-es.”
“I have always been a slave to my passions,” Eulalie Vance announced with a kind of helpless pride. “As a result, there are many things in my life that I have come to regret.”
“And some, presumably, that you remember fondly?”
“Of course. God, at my age what have I got left but memories? No, there have been moments…moments again of passion, but of a different kind, that I will treasure till my dying day. Which,” she added gloomily, “may, I fear, not be far away.”
“Oh, come on. You’re good for a few years yet.”
This idea raised a desperate little laugh of cynicism. Then Eulalie’s eyes narrowed and she looked hard at her companion. “Do you believe that all is fair in love and war?”
Mrs Pargeter maintained her cautious approach. “I’ve certainly heard it said.”
“Amor vincit omnia,” Eulalie announced despairingly.
“I’ve heard that said, too.”
“Yes. What I mean is that love is so powerful, love so upturns the soul, that anything can be done in the cause of love.”
“You mean that someone in love is above the restrictions of conventional morality?”
“Exactly!” To emphasise her point, Eulalie banged the diary down on her knee. Then she became quiet and abstracted, as if the director had told her that the next scene was to show a marked change of mood. “I believe…firmly believe…that love can justify anything. But when someone is dead, it is hard not to feel the prickings of conscience…”
“When a lover’s dead…?” Mrs Pargeter prompted gently.
“Huh.” Another wild little cry of despair. “Nearly all my lovers, I fear, are dead. That is perhaps the ultimate cruelty of age, for those of us who believe in reality.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“I mean there are two sorts of people. There are those who separate love and life, who compromise, settle down with one person, marry perhaps, and keep love as a cherished fantasy. And then there are those who live the fantasy, those who do not dream of one perfect lover, but take the lover of the moment – and take all the heartbreak that involves…”