At the end of this reassurance, Eulalie Vance rose. “Thank you for saying that. It makes me feel a lot better.”
Mrs Pargeter reflected that it wasn’t what she had said that had made Eulalie feel better; it had just been the talking. Having made the mistake of showing an interest once, Mrs Pargeter realised that she might be letting herself in for a whole lot more confidences about the actress’s purple past.
“I’m going out for a walk, Melita. Clear my head.”
“Good idea.”
“Oh, I found this on the chair.” She held out the diary. “Could you give it back?”
“Whose is it?” asked Mrs Pargeter.
“Well, this is Mr Dawlish’s chair. I assume it’s his.”
∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧
41
TUESDAY, 12 MARCH – 1.45 p.m.
I am losing control. This is ridiculous. After last night’s failure with the cyanide, I have now committed the total idiocy of leaving this diary around the hotel!
Just a couple of days ago I felt so confident, and now I am in a state of trembling agitation like a schoolboy outside the headmaster’s study. I must get a grip on myself, and recapture that coolness and detachment with which I planned and executed my two murders. I must not give way to morbid doubts.
God knows what I have unleashed by my carelessness with this book. I sat at lunch looking round the room, wondering who had handled it, and – worse – who read it. That snooper, Mrs Pargeter, certainly had it, and, I don’t doubt, read every word. Then that idiot Eulalie Vance had her paws on it, too. Maybe even others, closer to me, have also looked inside.
The trouble is, this opens everything up so. Until my stupidity of leaving the book around, I thought that all I had to do to feel safe was to get rid of Mrs Pargeter – now I won’t feel secure until I’ve disposed of everyone living under the roof of the Devereux. Any one of them might have read this and be able to incriminate me.
At least I won’t be caught that way again. I’ll never let this book out of my sight – keep it in my pocket at all times in future.
I must keep calm. Take things one at a time. So far no one else has said anything to me. So far the only person I know to be a threat to me is that busybody, Mrs Pargeter. I must get rid of her as soon as possible, and then I can assess calmly whether or not I have to murder anyone else.
I will watch her every movement. If she leaves the hotel at any time of the day or night, I will follow her. And this time I will not make any mistakes!
∨ A Nice Class of Corpse ∧
42
Mrs Pargeter decided that the time had come for decisive action. She had done enough abstract, intellectual investigation; the moment had arrived to draw the murderer out of hiding and confront him.
The annoying thing was she didn’t yet know who he was. She had narrowed the candidates down to the two men, but she could not yet be positive which of them had committed the murders.
She had seen both round lunchtime. Colonel Wicksteed, referring to a slight brightening of the weather, had observed that it was about time ‘the dogs of spring were let off their winter traces’.
And Mr Dawlish, to whom she had presented the diary just before lunch, had given her a most peculiar, abstracted, surprised look.
Of course she hadn’t read any of the diary. She hadn’t even opened it. This was another legacy of her life with the late Mr Pargeter. He had kept a diary, but had always discouraged her from reading it. “It’s not that there’s anything in it I’m ashamed of, Melita my love,” he always used to say. “It’s just that what you don’t know, you can’t be made to stand up in court and say.”
Mrs Pargeter could respect the wisdom of that. Although there had been a temptation to read the diary that she had returned to Mr Dawlish, to see if it contained anything that might be relevant to her investigation, it was a temptation she had resisted.
But the need for decisive action was strong. She felt the pressure and she knew that the murderer was feeling the pressure, too. The attempt to poison her had failed, but another attempt on her life must follow soon.
This time, however, she would be expecting the attack. That would give her the edge, and she reckoned she had a reasonable chance of turning the tables on him.
♦
In her bedroom after lunch she had a little nap and then started to make her preparations.
She stowed the late Mr Pargeter’s small binoculars in her handbag, and then hesitated. Should she or shouldn’t she?
The late Mr Pargeter had not been a man of violence, although he had recognised the occasional necessity for it in a world depressingly lacking in moral standards. His attitude to violence was very similar to his attitude to the question of bringing in the police: Don’t do it unless there really is no alternative.
Mrs Pargeter tried to decide whether her late husband would have thought there was any alternative in her current situation.
She came to the conclusion that the late Mr Pargeter’s priority would be, as it had always been, that she should be well protected. And, while some husbands leave their widows only pensions, annuities and insurance policies, the late Mr Pargeter had ensured that his should also have more practical means of protection.
She took the gun out of its secret compartment in the bottom of her suitcase. It was of American manufacture, a neat little weapon with a three-inch barrel, ideal for a lady’s handbag. She slipped it in with the binoculars and put on her boots and mink coat.
She knew the risk she was taking, but she had got to the point where she had to find out the solution.
And she knew that whoever followed her out when she left the hotel would be the murderer of Mrs Selsby and Mrs Mendlingham.
She went into the Seaview Lounge and found all the surviving residents of the Devereux sitting there. Lady Ridgleigh was reading Country Life, Miss Wardstone The Church Times, and Eulalie Vance The Stage. In the bay window Colonel Wicksteed was looking out to sea with his binoculars.
“Japanese job out there,” he pronounced.
“Ah,” said Mr Dawlish.
“Tanker. Make a lot of tankers, the Japs.”
“Oh.”
“Why there are so many problems in the Scottish shipyards, you know.”
“Oh, really?” said Mr Dawlish.
This little conversational surge having come to its end, Mrs Pargeter announced to the assembled company, “Just going out for a stroll. Won’t be long.”
They all nodded or waved acknowledgement of this information.
♦
In spite of the brighter weather, by late afternoon there was a brisk March wind beating along the Littlehampton sea front. Mrs Pargeter, who had decided her route in advance, started walking firmly along the Promenade towards the mouth of Arun, the route on which she had followed Mrs Mendlingham less than a week before.
She went about two hundred yards before looking back, but there was no one hurrying after her from the Devereux.
She disciplined herself not to look back again until she reached the corner of the Smart’s Amusements building. There was a fluttering inside her, a fluttering of fear, certainly, but a fluttering that also contained a strong element of excitement, and even glee. It was a familiar sensation, one that she had often felt during her eventful life with the late Mr Pargeter.
It seemed a very long time before she reached Smart’s Amusements, but once there she stopped and knelt down, apparently to make some adjustment to her right boot.