Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour (23 page)

VVO emerged first, with an ecstatic Deirdre Winthrop hugging him. In honour of his court appearance, the painter was dressed in a sedate grey suit and sober tie. There was no sign of his trademark beret, and there wasn't even paint under his fingernails.

The happy couple were followed out by an equally delighted Mrs Pargeter, escorted by Jukebox Jarvis and an enormously fat man in a pin-striped suit, whose huge body tapered down to tiny black shoes. He was Arnold Justiman, one of the most eminent barristers of his generation, whose services had been frequently called on by the late Mr Pargeter. Arnold Justiman's record for ironing out the misunderstandings which had led to his clients being falsely accused was so impressive that it was said he could have got Vlad the Impaler off with a caution.

For a man of his skills, ensuring the dropping of all the charges against Reg Winthrop – a.k.a Vincent Vin Ordinaire – had been an intellectual fleabite, but that didn't make Mrs Pargeter any the less grateful for his efforts. ‘Well done, Arnold,' she enthused.

‘Not very difficult,' he said modestly. ‘With all the other paintings having been returned, there wasn't much of a case against him. Now the two Madonnas and the Rubens nude will be returned to their rightful owners in the normal way.'

‘And neither Bennie Logan nor Veronica Chastaigne's names will ever be mentioned in connection with them.'

‘Good heavens, no.' He was shocked even at the idea.

‘Anyway, many thanks. And full marks for keeping it out of the papers.'

Arnold Justiman shrugged and smiled a smile of patrician confidence. ‘Most things can be arranged if you know the right people.'

‘Yes,' Mrs Pargeter agreed. ‘I've always found that.' She looked at her watch. ‘And now we'd better go and pay our other call.'

The barrister nodded.

‘I'll just say goodbye.' She moved across to the group celebrating the painter's acquittal and shook him firmly by the hand. ‘Congratulations, VVO – marvellous news!'

He clasped her hand in both of his. ‘Can't thank you enough, Mrs Pargeter.'

‘No, nor can I,' said Deirdre. ‘I mean, what it must have cost to get Mr Justiman to—'

Mrs Pargeter raised a hand to stop her and beamed beatifically. ‘It was my pleasure.'

‘Well, you're a saint, Mrs Pargeter, a real saint.'

At that moment Truffler Mason emerged from the law courts. His long arms were wrapped around the three VVO originals which had covered the valuable paintings in the Winthrops' abortive smuggling expedition. ‘Here, these exhibits were released for you, VVO,' he called across.

‘Oh, terrific!' cried the genius, delighted to be reunited with his masterworks. He gazed fondly at the top painting, the pink-bowed lamb frolicking in front of its winsome windmill.

But the effect of the picture on its creator was as nothing to the impact it had on Jukebox Jarvis. The archivist's jaw fell open; he was transfixed by the canvas in front of him. ‘Hey, who did this?' he asked in an awestruck voice. ‘Can I see the others?'

‘Sure.' VVO revealed the lovable ducklings on the frozen pond and then, with a dramatic flourish, the Scottie dog and the fluffy white cat. He looked into Jukebox Jarvis's mesmerized face. ‘Do you like them?'

The archivist replied in a voice low with reverence. ‘Like them? I think they're absolutely wonderful. I may not know much about art, but by golly I know what I like.' He looked plaintively at the artist, not daring to hope. ‘They're not for sale, by any chance, are they . . .?'

‘Well,' replied VVO, unable to disguise how delighted he was by the question, ‘since you ask . . .'

As the artist began to expatiate to his new fan on his art, his struggles, his intentions, his ambitions, Mrs Pargeter grinned across at Truffler Mason. Together with Arnold Justiman, they moved across to get into Gary's limousine.

Since they had last visited her, Veronica Chastaigne seemed to have shrunk even further. Her body looked lost amidst the bedclothes, her skin tighter, her tiny bones more prominent. Had she been able to stand up, a breath of wind could have blown her away. Only the fierce sparkle in her eye showed the indomitable will which was keeping her alive until all her earthly business had been discharged to her satisfaction.

Arnold Justiman, looking even bigger looming over the birdlike figure in the hospital bed, had taken her through the provisions of the new will. As Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason looked on, he proffered a fountain pen to the invalid and pointed to the relevant line on the document.

‘So if you could just sign there, Mrs Chastaigne . . . assuming, that is, you're happy with the provisions . . .'

Her voice was very feeble as she said, ‘I'm delighted with them,' but the signature that she affixed to the will was firm and definite.

The barrister turned to Mrs Pargeter and Truffler. ‘And if you two could just sign as witnesses . . .?'

‘Melita Pargeter' was appended in Mrs Pargeter's round, almost childish, hand, and as she passed the document across to Truffler, she said, ‘It'll be nice for you to know that the National Trust's looking after Chastaigne Varleigh, won't it, Veronica?'

The response from the fading figure in the bed was surprisingly robust. ‘It'll be even nicer to know that Toby's getting absolutely nothing from me! Serve him right for trying to disclaim his own father.' She chuckled breathily. ‘Toby always insisted he wanted to stand on his own two feet. Well, now he can see what it feels like.'

A peaceful smile stole across her lined face. ‘And now I know the paintings are back where they belong . . . there's nothing left to worry me.'

Arnold Justiman took the will from Truffler Mason and folded it neatly into an envelope. ‘So . . . all done.'

‘Yes. By me, Veronica Chastaigne . . .'

‘. . . being of sound mind . . .' Mrs Pargeter supplied.

‘Absolutely,' the old lady agreed. ‘No problems there. It's only this wretched body that's giving out. Oh well, never mind. It's not as if I haven't had a good run for other people's money . . .'

And she chuckled wheezily, but merrily, at the thought.

Now it was just the two women in the private room. ‘I asked you to stay,' Veronica Chastaigne murmured, ‘because there is one more thing . . .'

‘Yes?' said Mrs Pargeter. ‘You tell me. Whatever it is, I'll see that it gets done. It's a point of honour with me to sort out all my late husband's unfinished business.'

‘It's about Toby.' A hard look came into the old lady's eyes. ‘I still don't think Toby's suffered enough.'

‘Well, he hasn't really suffered at all yet. He doesn't even know Chastaigne Varleigh's going to the National Trust. But don't worry, I think he will suffer,' Mrs Pargeter reassured her. ‘The people who actually stole the paintings from the Long Gallery are in police custody. They're bound to implicate Palings Price – that's Denzil Price, the interior designer – and then I'm sure he'll shop your son.'

‘And what will Toby be charged with?'

‘I don't know what the technical expression will be – “aiding and abetting a robbery” perhaps? I mean, he must've given the information to the thieves about the secret hoard at Chastaigne Varleigh. Or perhaps it'll be “handling stolen goods” . . .'

‘And you think he'll get a custodial sentence?' asked the old lady eagerly.

‘I would imagine so. Depends as ever, of course, on the kind of legal representation he gets. As Arnold Justiman would tell you, the right lawyer can get anyone off anything.'

‘Yes.' Veronica Chastaigne shook her head thoughtfully. ‘No, I want something more watertight than that.'

‘Sorry? What do you mean?'

‘I mean that I want to ensure Toby goes to prison for a long, long time.' Mrs Pargeter was taken aback by the venom with which these words were spoken. A fanatical light blazed in the pale eyes, as Veronica Chastaigne went on, ‘What he was trying to do was a complete betrayal of me – and, even worse, of his father. Having spent his whole life disapproving and being sniffy about Bennie's career, and having claimed he wanted nothing to do with the paintings in the Long Gallery, Toby was actually proposing to get them sold on the black market. He was intending to profit from the very business he claimed always to have despised. I've never had a problem with good, honest criminality, but if there's one thing I cannot tolerate it's hypocrisy!'

‘Yes,' Mrs Pargeter agreed. ‘I'm with you on that one.'

‘So I don't want Ibby to get away with it. I want to ensure that he gets punished for what he's done.'

Mrs Pargeter grimaced. ‘The trouble is, he hasn't done that much. He undoubtedly intended to sell off the paintings, but since they were returned to their rightful owners before the selling process could be started, he never got round to that part of the crime.'

‘No.' Veronica Chastaigne's mouth twitched angrily from side to side. It was amazing the intensity of seething that could fit into such a tiny body. ‘Well, that's what I want you to do something about, Mrs Pargeter,' she said finally.

‘Sorry? What exactly?'

‘I want you to ensure that my son Toby goes to prison for a long, long time.'

‘On what charge?'

‘I've told you – hypocrisy!'

‘Mmm . . .' said Mrs Pargeter tentatively. ‘Although I'm fully in agreement with you that hypocrisy is a despicable crime, I don't think you'll find that in the British system of justice—'

‘I'm not talking about justice!' the old lady snapped. ‘I'm talking about what's right!'

‘Ah. Well, those are two very different things,' Mrs Pargeter agreed.

‘And which do you believe to be the more important?'

‘What's right, obviously.'

‘Exactly!' There was a gleam of triumph in the faded eyes. ‘So I want you to arrange that what's right gets done. I want Ibby to go to prison for a long time to pay for his crimes.'

‘Even the ones he didn't technically commit?'

‘Yes! Particularly the ones he didn't technically commit!' She looked pleadingly across at the younger woman. ‘Could you do that for me?'

Mrs Pargeter smiled comfortably. What she was being asked to do did fit in rather well with a plan that was already formulating in her mind. ‘Yes, Veronica. I can do that for you. No problem.'

As she left the hospital, thinking back to the display of mother love she'd just witnessed, Mrs Pargeter decided it was probably just as well she'd never had children.

Once she had decided what needed doing, it was all done very quickly.

Immediately after her visit to the hospital, Mrs Pargeter convened a meeting with Truffler Mason and Hamish Ramon Henriques, and spelled out her plans to them. They were in complete agreement with what she proposed.

Their first port of call was the little terraced house where Jukebox Jarvis lived. He immediately accessed the police computer system (that day's six-letter codeword was ‘peeler', an inventive historical variation), and discovered that Sergeant Hughes had not used an office machine on which to compile his dossier.

This was only a minor setback, and indeed one that they had been anticipating. While still inside the police computer system, Jukebox Jarvis found Sergeant Hughes's home address, and was also able to confirm from the duty rosters that the young man was at work all that day.

Keyhole Crabbe, the late Mr Pargeter's most trusted security expert, had been alerted to a possible call-out, and was immediately summoned from his home in Bedford. Accompanied by Jukebox Jarvis, he went to Sergeant Hughes's flat, where the double locks and burglar alarm proved only a momentary obstacle. Once inside, Jukebox quickly found the Sergeant's laptop, located the file from which his dossier had been printed, and deleted the entire contents of that and its back-up. He resisted the temptation to leave a cheeky message.

All that remained to be done then was for Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason to concoct an alternative dossier on the alleged criminal activities of the late Mr Pargeter and his associates.

It was a work of great simplicity, but, in the view of its creators, considerable beauty.

Sergeant Hughes had done well in his researches. He was a gifted detective, who might well have lived up to his first name of Hercule, had not the jealousy of crusty old superiors like Inspector Wilkinson (and a little finessing by associates of Mrs Pargeter) held back his career.

Hughes had made the link between Chastaigne Varleigh and the series of international art thefts initiated by Bennie Logan. He had identified the role of Palings Price in these crimes and the interior designer's current association with Toby Chastaigne.

More disturbingly, he had traced the links from Bennie Logan and Palings Price back to the late Mr Pargeter. Once that connection had been made, a whole set of new names became ripe for investigation. By going back into the old files from the period immediately before Mr Pargeter's death, when Inspector Wilkinson had been getting close to arresting the whole gang, Hughes had named Truffler Mason, Hedgeclipper Clinton, Hamish Ramon Henriques, Keyhole Crabbe and Gary the chauffeur.

Truffler had not been guilty of hyperbole when he described the contents of the dossier as dynamite.

Still, the original had now been deleted from the Sergeant's laptop. All that remained was to ensure that it was never reconstructed in the same form, and that Sergeant Hughes was discreetly removed from the scene.

It was to achieve this first aim that Mrs Pargeter and Truffler Mason compiled their revised dossier. The document did not attempt to excise all reference to the late Mr Pargeter. It was more subtle than that. As in Sergeant Hughes's researches, links were traced between the dead man and a series of associates. It was in the names of these associates that the new dossier diverged from the original.