‘Where to?’
‘The gym,’ Dr Potter replied.
She realized just before they got there what he had in mind. Nothing so crude as hanging her from ropes or crushing her with weights. No, it would be the passive exerciser, the one that Kim had tried to lure her on to.
She could do nothing. She was not strong enough to break free and there seemed little point in screaming or arguing. She knew Dr Potter would be impervious to argument, and she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how terrified she really was.
So she submitted while towels were wrapped round her wrists and ankles to prevent marking by the ropes with which she was bound on to the passive exerciser’s lounger-like surface.
‘The first bit,’ Dr Potter told her solicitously, ‘you will not find unpleasant… quite relaxing, actually. After about half an hour your limbs’ll start to ache and you’ll begin to sweat. From then on the pull on your muscles will get harder and harder, and the strain on your heart will get greater and greater…
‘I’ll be very surprised if you’re still alive by four o’clock. We’ll come back at six to remove the ropes… but don’t comfort yourself with the idea that if you’re still alive then you will have survived. This isn’t a trial by ordeal, Mrs Pargeter, it’s just a convenient way of killing you. So, in the unlikely event that you are still breathing at six o’clock… we’ll finish you off.’
The two men backed away and Dr Potter, a satisfied smile on his parchment-like face, threw a switch on the passive exerciser’s mounting. As he had promised, the first movements felt reassuring, soothing, even relaxing.
And what a comfort it must be to you, Mrs Pargeter,’ was his parting shot, ‘to know that you will die having lost an enormous amount of weight.’
Dr Potter let out an abrupt laugh; then he and the ambulance man left the gym.
Mrs Pargeter felt her unresistant body fold and unfold to the relentless rhythm of the exerciser. The sensation was still almost obscenely pleasant, but she knew that it would not long remain so.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
She was extremely annoyed. Not at the prospect of dying. That, Mrs Pargeter knew, had been an option from the moment of her birth, and life with the late Mr Pargeter, though wonderfully fulfilling, had kept the possibility of sudden death ever to the forefront of her mind.
No, it was the manner of her proposed dying that offended her. For Mrs Pargeter to end her days on an exercise machine was just so out of character. Of course, no one who knew her would ever imagine that she had got on to the thing voluntarily, but there might be people less familiar with her who thought the death was for real, who imagined that she, like many others of her age, had expired in an ill-judged attempt to recapture her lost youth. It was that thought she couldn’t tolerate.
Still, it didn’t seem she was going to have a lot of choice in the matter. The seductively soothing motion of the passive exerciser was now becoming more stressful. The machine itself had not accelerated — it maintained the inexorable evenness of its rhythm — but Mrs Pargeter’s unaccustomed limbs were beginning to feel the strain. With each rise and fall she could sense a mounting tension in her shoulders and a regular tug at the back of her knees. Sweat had started to trickle into all the crevices of her body.
Not only was it an inappropriate death, Mrs Pargeter thought ruefully, it was also an extremely cruel one. A death that would take such a long time, apart from anything else, slowly sapping her body’s strength, slowly winding up the tension around her heart.
‘This is not the way I want to go!’ she shouted suddenly. ‘I would like it known that this is not the way I want to go!’
She felt better for saying it. Not that she deluded herself anyone might hear her. The gym was a long way away from the bedrooms in which the righteous guests of Brotherton Hall dreamed of self-indulgence. There was no chance of rescue. But she still felt better for saying it.
Given that she had time on her hands before she died — or before the welcome intervention of unconsciousness — Mrs Pargeter took the opportunity for a quick mental review of her life.
Couldn’t complain, really. Except for this bloody death making the ending all untidy, it had been a good life. And an exciting one, thanks to the late Mr Pargeter. Also, thanks to the same benefactor, an emotionally fulfilled one. She had known the beauty of a truly balanced marriage, in which each partner loved the other equally, without inhibition or competition. Many people had to be content with far less.
And, as a bonus to the great central relationship of her life, she’d always been surrounded with friends. The value of devotion from someone like Truffler Mason was something she could never overestimate. And Truffler was only one of many associates of the late Mr Pargeter who’d made it their business to protect and cherish his widow.
It was a comfort too, before the end, to have had her suspicions of Ankle-Deep Arkwright and Stan the Stapler dissipated. The late Mr Pargeter really had commanded extraordinary loyalty.
Except in one quarter.
Julian Embridge.
Yes, as the last sands trickled through the hourglass of her life, that was Mrs Pargeter’s one regret. Would have been nice to bring Julian Embridge to justice before she snuffed it.
Still, she reflected philosophically, can’t have everything.
A door clicked gently open behind her.
Mrs Pargeter tried craning round to see who had come in, but the strapping impeded her.
She heard the soft tread of approaching feet. Then, in the thin light diffused from the ‘Exit’ sign, she was aware of a human figure lowering over her. She looked up to see the dull blue gleam of a knife-blade in its outstretched hand.
‘Told you I’d settle up with you one day, didn’t I, Mrs Pargeter?’
Chapter Thirty-Eight
She recognized the voice and sobbed with relief, as Jack the Knife continued, ‘Didn’t know the chance’d come this quickly, though.’
Then he switched off the passive exerciser and knelt down to cut her bonds. ‘You all right?’
‘Yes,’ she murmured, flexing the muscles of her arms and legs. Even after their short exposure to the motion of the machine, they felt strained and shaky. ‘Fine,’ she asserted. ‘Just fine. What on earth brought you here, though, Jack? Just a happy coincidence?’
‘Bit more than that,’ the surgeon replied. ‘Had a call from Truffler Mason just before he came down here with you. Said he was going to Brotherton Hall on what might turn out to be “pressing business”… if you know what that means…?’
‘I know,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Truffler and Ank — and Stan the Stapler — are all imprisoned down in the cellars by Dr Potter and his heavies.’
‘Yes, I did a quick recce before I came along here. Brought it all back,’ he whispered excitedly, ‘what it was like working with your husband in the old days. Oh, it was great back then. He was a wonderful man, Mrs Pargeter. A real life-enhancer — he lit up everything he touched.’
She nodded fondly, but realized this wasn’t the moment for wistful elegies. ‘We’ve got to save the others!’ she hissed.
Jack the Knife nodded in the thin light and reached into his pocket. ‘One for each of us. Think we should be able to jump them all right.’
Mrs Pargeter felt the cool bulk of an automatic pistol pressed into her palm. As a rule, she didn’t like firearms — indeed, she didn’t favour violence of any kind — but these were exceptional circumstances.
They moved noiselessly out of the gym, along the corridor and down the stairs to the cellar entrance. Though presumably in his Harley Street practice he had little chance to practise them, Jack the Knife’s skills of stealth and subterfuge showed no signs of rustiness. He drew back the cellar door without a sound and beckoned Mrs Pargeter to follow him down.