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?’