‘Anorexia,’ said Ankle-Deep Arkwright. ‘Anorexia nervosa.’ Mrs Pargeter made no response, so he went on, ‘It’s an illness when adolescent girls deliberately stop eating and-’
‘I know what it is.’
‘Yeah. Well, that’s what the hospital says it was. It’s quite common, apparently.’
‘Not common for people actually to die of it.’
‘Happens.’
He shrugged. She could sense he was ill at ease. He kept getting up and moving round his little office behind the main Reception at Brotherton Hall, and his eyes wouldn’t meet hers.
Also he’d tried to get out of the meeting. She’d searched him out before breakfast on the Tuesday morning and asked about the body, but he’d been evasive. Pleading pressures of other business, he’d said he couldn’t talk about it then; but if she came to his office at half-past eleven, he’d be free for a short while.
This was unlike the Ankle-Deep Arkwright Mrs Pargeter remembered — indeed, it was unlike the Ankle-Deep Arkwright she had seen up until that moment at Brotherton Hall. His outgoing helpfulness had vanished; he seemed shifty, preoccupied, almost afraid.
‘Look, Ank…’ she’d said, always believing in the direct approach, ‘is there something funny going on here?’
He’d jumped like a cat attacked by a water-pistol. ‘Funny? No, why should there be? I’m just busy, that’s all. Look, we’ll talk at half-past eleven. Everything’ll be a lot clearer then.’
Though whether everything would be a lot clearer for her or for him, Ankle-Deep Arkwright didn’t say.
Now that the eleven-thirty meeting had arrived, however, he didn’t seem any more relaxed or forthcoming.
‘But, Ank,’ Mrs Pargeter persisted, ‘why on earth didn’t Dr Potter spot what was wrong with the girl?’
‘’Cause he didn’t see her till after she was dead. Then of course he knew what was wrong instantly. Said he knew the hospital would come up with the same diagnosis.’
‘So did Dr Potter sign the death certificate?’
‘No. He said it would be more ethical for the hospital to do that.’
Why this sudden concern with ethics, Mrs Pargeter wondered, as Ankle-Deep Arkwright went on, ‘Look, the kid only arrived yesterday. She would have weighed in and that this morning; then obviously someone would’ve seen there was something wrong and called Dr Potter. She just didn’t give us the chance.’
‘But why was she allowed to check in in that condition?’
‘We didn’t know she was in that condition!’ Ankle-Deep Arkwright replied testily. ‘Look, someone makes a reservation on the phone, you accept it in good faith. You don’t say, “Oh, by the way, you aren’t by any chance about to die of anorexia nervosa, are you?” You just don’t do that, do you, Mrs P.?’ he concluded on a note of pleading.
She wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily. ‘Surely whoever checked her in at Reception must’ve thought she looked odd?’
He gave another of his shifty shrugs. ‘If a girl arrives in a big baggy coat, and she’s got a hat on so you can’t see her hair’s falling out… come on, who’s to notice. It’s not our business to be nosy.’ His voice took on a note of piety. ‘Here at Brotherton Hall we pride ourselves on respecting our guests’ privacy, you know.’
Mrs Pargeter snorted. ‘There’s a difference between respecting your guests’ privacy and letting them die for lack of medical attention.’
He was angry now. ‘Look, I told you — the girl only arrived yesterday!’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Mrs Pargeter asked gently. She could not remove from her memory the words she had heard at five o’clock the previous morning; nor could she help feeling they were linked to the girl’s death.
‘Of course I’m bloody sure!’
‘So who checked her in yesterday?’
He was momentarily confused. ‘Well, I can’t remember who was on duty… There are rosters and things that we could have a look at.. Oh, just a minute, though… Yes, it was Lindy Galton. Lindy Galton was on Reception four to eight yesterday afternoon.’
‘Oh well, I could check it out with her then,’ said Mrs Pargeter casually.
‘You could, yes. But not today. Lindy’s day off.’
‘That’s a pity…’
‘Yes.’ But he didn’t seem to think it was as much of a pity as she did.
‘… because Kim and me’re off tomorrow.’
He shrugged in satisfied helplessness, then changed tack and tried an appeal for sympathy. ‘Look, you must realize, Mrs P., that this, er
… incident is extremely embarrassing. I mean, particularly embarrassing given the nature of the business I’m running here. A death from anorexia at a health spa — just think what kind of a meal the tabloids could make of that one.’
Mrs Pargeter did not give an inch, and stayed silent.
‘Surprising, I suppose, that it doesn’t happen more often,’ Ankle-Deep Arkwright floundered on. ‘Presumably for an anorexic girl, there is a kind of logic about it. You’re obsessed with losing weight, so you book into a health spa to lose more.’
‘I’m not sure that that’s how it’d work. Anorexics rarely draw attention to their condition. It’s something very private for them, something whose existence a lot of them won’t even admit.’
‘Well… Well…’ He looked lost. ‘Clearly in this case the girl’s mind worked differently. Listen, Mrs P.’ — pleading had now been replaced by begging — ‘it’s very important that we keep what’s happened to ourselves. I mean, it could be absolutely disastrous for business if-’
Mrs Pargeter cut through all this. ‘What’s the girl’s name?’
‘Jenny Hargreaves. Well, that was the name on the things I found in her room. I went up there this morning to check the place out.’ He hastily remembered something else. ‘And Jenny Hargreaves was of course what she registered under, so I can only assume it was her real name.’
‘You’re positive it was only yesterday that she did register?’
‘Of course I am! Really, Mrs P. — don’t you trust me or something?’ He thought better of giving her time to answer the question. ‘I can show you the records. Our registration system is all computerized.’
He went through to the reception area and returned almost immediately with a couple of sheets torn off a computer print-out. These he thrust towards her. ‘Look, Mrs P., there you are — Jenny Hargreaves checked in at six-forty yesterday evening.’
The details were undeniably printed out. ‘Why is the credit-card reference blank?’ asked Mrs Pargeter.
There was an infinitesimal pause before Ankle-Deep Arkwright replied, ‘Not everyone pays by credit card. We accept cheques — or even old-fashioned cash,’ he added with an unsuccessful attempt at humour.
‘Hmm…’ Mrs Pargeter still looked at the print-out in front of her. ‘Her address is a college in Cambridge.’
‘So…?’
‘I’d’ve thought Brotherton Hall was rather an expensive place for a student, wouldn’t you?’
Once again, Ankle-Deep Arkwright just shrugged.
‘Mason de Vere Detective Agency.’
The voice was terminally lugubrious and immediately recognizable.
‘Truffler. It’s Mrs Pargeter.’
‘Oh, how wonderful to hear you,’ he said, in the tones of a man who’d just received a ransom demand for his only daughter. Truffler Mason’s manner had been gloomy back in his days of working for the late Mr Pargeter, and when, following his beloved boss’s death, he moved into a more publicly acceptable area of private investigation, the gloom had gone with him.
‘What’s with all this answering your own phone, Truffler? Haven’t you got any staff?’
‘Had to let them go. There is a recession on, you know,’ Truffler Mason replied, sounding a little more cheerful now he had something genuinely depressing to talk about.
‘Enough of a recession for you to have time to do a little investigation for me, Truffler?’
‘Doesn’t need to be a recession for that, Mrs Pargeter. Recession, boom-time, any time, you know you have only to ask. Anything. Honestly, when I think of all the things the late Mr Pargeter done for me-’
‘Yes, yes. I do appreciate your saying that, Truffler…’ And she did. It was just that she had heard it so many times before.
‘So what is it then?’ he asked, suddenly businesslike. ‘You haven’t got yourself involved in another murder, have you, Mrs Pargeter?’
‘No. Well, at least I’m fairly sure I haven’t. I have got myself involved in an unexplained death, though.’
‘Where are you calling from?’
‘Brotherton Hall, don’t know if you know the place. It’s a health spa.’
‘Oh? Unexplained death at a health spa… I say, that sounds as if someone’s been wasted,’ he said from the even deeper gloom which signified that he was telling a joke.
‘You don’t know how horribly near the truth you are, Truffler.’
Putting the inadvertent lapse of taste behind him, he hastily asked, ‘So what can I do for you?’
‘I want you to find out everything you can about the dead girl. Her name was Jenny Hargreaves, she was apparently a student at Cambridge University, and there seems little doubt she died of anorexia nervosa.’
‘Oh,’ said Truffler Mason.
‘I’ve got a college address for her, but that’s all. Be enough for you to get started, will it?’
‘Mrs Pargeter, I’m offended you had to ask.’
But Truffler Mason’s voice didn’t sound offended. Instead it was weighed down with that extra despondency which signified his excitement at the beginning of a new investigation.