Mrs. Pargeter's Plot Read Online Free Page A

reached into his pocket and handed her a bundle of fifty-pound notes.
    â€˜Had you heard something from the yard about that horse Prior Convictions?’
    â€˜No,’ Mrs Pargeter replied with a little smile. ‘Just liked the name.’

Chapter Four
    The mid-morning sun fell on the windows of Greene’s Hotel, but the curtains of Mrs Pargeter’s suite were far too opulent to allow any of it in. She lay in the bedroom, under the mound of her duvet, exhaling evenly with a sound that was just the gracious side of a snore.
    The suite was decorated with gratuitous antiques to appeal to the American guests who formed the backbone of Hedgeclipper Clinton’s clientele. In heavy frames on the wall hung assemblages of fruit and dead poultry, interspersed with eighteenth-century portraits of unmemorable people’s even less memorable relatives. The carpet and curtains were deep, as was the shine on the dark oak furniture and the brass light fittings.
    Mrs Pargeter had made no attempt to impose her own style on the rooms. All her furniture was in store. The stay at Greene’s Hotel had been originally intended as a short one, but comfort and convenience had kept her longer. She had then decided that she might as well stay until her house was completed, and had not yet reassessed the situation since recent events had moved that horizon yet nearer to infinity.
    The only personal touch in the suite was a silver-framed photograph on Mrs Pargeter’s bedside table. It was a studio portrait of a highly respectable-looking gentleman in a pinstriped suit.
    The telephone – in the tasteful antique style which would have been the automatic selection of any Regency gentleman, had telephones been available in those times – rang, summoning Mrs Pargeter from a blissful dream of sunlight and strawberries. As she reached blearily towards the bedside table, her eye caught the photograph. ‘Morning, love,’ she said to the late Mr Pargeter.
    She picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
    â€˜Mrs Pargeter,’ said the French-polished tones of the hotel’s manager.
    â€˜Morning, Hedgeclipper.’
    This was greeted by a discreet admonitory cough. ‘I believe I did request you not to use that name within the purlieus of the hotel, Mrs Pargeter.’
    â€˜Oh yes, forgive me. Half asleep.’
    â€˜Well, I’m very sorry to have been the cause of the interruption of your slumbers, but there’s a gentleman down here in the foyer who wishes to see you as a matter of some urgency.’
    â€˜That sounds exciting. Who is he?’
    â€˜His name is Mr Nigel Merriman.’
    â€˜Doesn’t ring a bell. Should I know him?’
    The poshness of Hedgeclipper Clinton’s accent slipped instantly away, to reveal the original Bermondsey beneath. ‘He’s only Concrete Jacket’s bloomin’ solicitor, isn’t he?’
    Once she was dressed, Mrs Pargeter would have gone straight downstairs to breakfast and Nigel Merriman had she not found something rather unusual in the sitting room of her suite.
    It was a monkey.
    She thought she’d heard some rather strange noises while she was dressing, but put them down to a quirk of the hotel’s air conditioning or some extravagance of one of the other guests. (It took only a short stay in Greene’s Hotel for the average person to become extremely broad-minded about the behaviour of other guests, and of course, when it came to broad-mindedness, Mrs Pargeter had a considerable head start over the average person.)
    But when she went through to the sitting room, the noises – pitched somewhere between a chatter and a whimper – were immediately explained.
    It was a nice enough little monkey, if you happen to like monkeys (which Mrs Pargeter decidedly didn’t). It was about the size of a rat (and to her mind the similarities didn’t stop there) with brownish fur and a doom-laden little old man’s face.