Before the interview finished, Mrs Pargeter asked Ankle-Deep Arkwright whether their disagreement would mean the end of her ‘Special Treatment’ status, and he fell over himself to assure her that she was still welcome to all of the facilities of the ‘Allergy Room’. Again, half of him seemed desperate to get rid of her, while the other half still wanted to provide all the cosseting due to the widow of the late Mr Pargeter.
She got the feeling he was not blocking her progress from any personal animus, but because of pressure from a person or persons unknown. Since Mrs Pargeter had always favoured pulling bushes up by the roots rather than beating about them, she again asked directly what his problem was or who was making his life difficult, but she got nothing back. Ankle-Deep Arkwright clammed up and brought their interview to an abrupt conclusion.
There was not a lot more she could do that day on the investigation front. She was waiting for more information from Truffler Mason, and her enquiries at Brotherton Hall could not progress further until Lindy Galton returned to work the following morning.
But Mrs Pargeter was not the sort to let this enforced idleness prey on her spirits. She resigned herself philosophically to a day of indulgence. Her exercise programme incorporated an hour in the jacuzzi and another sweet nostalgia-inducing massage session with the ex-baker. And she continued to warm the cockles of Gaston’s heart by the relish with which she despatched his Truite aux Amandes Style Paysan complemented by a Sorbet de Cassis at lunchtime, and his Carre d’Agneau Imperiale followed by Tiramisu at dinner.
With the former meal she drank a young Vouvray; with the latter a mature Rioja Gran Reserva as thick and rich as arterial blood.
There were worse ways of spending a day.
Tracking down Lindy Galton the following morning proved harder than it should have been. The girl on Reception confirmed that Lindy was back at work, but then became evasively ignorant of precisely which duties she had been allocated. Whether this ignorance was genuine or commanded by Ankle-Deep Arkwright was impossible to know.
Kim Thurrock proved more helpful. So immersed had she become in the lifestyle of Brotherton Hall that she seemed to know everything that went on there. Kim, whom Mrs Pargeter found on her back in the gym pushing up impossible-looking weights with her feet, said she thought she’d seen Lindy going through to the Dead Sea Mud Bath area.
So Mrs Pargeter went down to the Brotherton Hall basement, but was denied entrance by an officious teenager with the obligatory perfect body. ‘Only guests who’ve actually booked baths are allowed through,’ she announced in less than perfect vowels.
There was nothing else for it. Mrs Pargeter returned to Reception and booked herself a Dead Sea Mud Bath for ten o’clock.
Beneath Brotherton Hall was a considerable network of cellars. Part of this had been developed into a well-appointed basement area, which had been through many incarnations since the building’s consecration to the religion of health.
Following the passing fads of fitness regimes, it had housed Steam Baths, Ice Baths, Traditional Turkish Baths, Hose Baths, Needle-Sharp Showers, and Electro-Tingle Pools. (These last were introduced for a treatment whereby very mild electric currents were passed through a guest’s bathwater. The facility never proved popular and after a couple of rather nasty electrocutions had been replaced by Stagnant Water Tubs, another failure.)
The basement’s current incarnation was certainly its messiest and, Mrs Pargeter surmised, wrinkling her nose as she entered the bath area, probably its most malodorous. Maybe the Dead Sea did smell like that, but she couldn’t remove from her mind the image of Stan the Stapler and his shovel. A fetid flavour of pondwater hung in the air.
The Dead Sea Mud Bath treatment was, like many such regimes, based on a book. In common with all such fitness books, the argument of New Life From Dead Sea Mud could be expressed in one sentence — in this case: ‘Dead Sea Mud is good for you.’
But, also in common with all such fitness books, this simple thought was backed up by all kinds of pseudoscientific research and lots of charts and graphs. Dead Sea Mud, it was asserted, contained unrivalled concentrations of natural chemicals. Filtered and purified through the varied strata of clay, marl, soft chalk, sand and gypsum, were abundant deposits of sulphide; potassium, magnesium, bromine, chlorine, and sodium chloride. The fact that the Dead Sea was, at four hundred metres below sea level, the lowest terrestrial area of water, meant that it was closer to the health-giving radiances and healing magnetism of the Earth’s core. The mud’s anti-corruptive powers had been proved historically because the Dead Sea was reputed to have engulfed the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah. Its mystical significance could be judged from the fact that it was fed by the sacred River Jordan, as well as streams running through the wadis of al-Uzaymi, Zarqa’Ma’in, al-Mawjib and al-Hasa.
And, needless to say, the book contained some stuff about ley lines.
All of this material had been assembled by a publisher secure in the knowledge that New Life From Dead Sea Mud was not the kind of book that anyone would actually read.
Its tiny thesis, supported by some really arty photographs and a couple of meaningless graphs of mineral analysis or weight/body-fat ratios, would be just the right size to fill a colour supplement serialization, which would recoup most of the production costs.
Then the book itself (published in the run-up to Christmas) would be bought by faddists, friends of faddists, husbands trying gently to hint that their wives were letting their appearance go a bit, and women determined to change their lives completely after the breakdown of relationships.
There were sufficient such purchasers about to ensure reasonable sales figures, or even, with a bit of serendipitous publicity — like, say, a chat-show host showing what a good sport he was by getting into a Dead Sea Mud Bath — an entry into the bestsellers’ lists.
The fact that none of the purchasers or recipients of the book would read more than a couple of pages did not give the publishers a moment’s unease. They felt absolutely confident that they had produced a product with enough confusing words in it to make people think they were learning something. And, more importantly, a product that would sell.
At the end of the process the public consciousness would have assimilated the dubious thesis of the book’s title, that ‘Dead Sea Mud is good for you’.
And it would stay in the public consciousness until the next fitness fad came along.
The one detail never mentioned anywhere in the book was that any fish foolish enough to stray into the waters of the Dead Sea dies instantly.