Pargeter, with a momentary flicker of wistfulness.
âNo. No one outside the family knew of the galleryâs existence. Bennie made absolutely certain of that.â
Mrs Pargeter looked thoughtful. She remembered that Truffler Mason had heard rumours of the hidden stash of famous paintings, but didnât think it the moment to mention that. âWell, someone knew they were there . . .â she mused.
âThe only person whoâd been in that gallery since Bennie died â apart from Toby and myself â was you.â
âYes.â Realizing the potential implication of the old ladyâs remark, Mrs Pargeter flushed. âBut surely you donât think that I would haveââ
âNot you yourself, obviously, Mrs Pargeter,â said Veronica Chastaigne evenly. âSome of your helpers, however, have in the past been involved in criminal activities.â
âI donât deny it. In the past, though. Not now. Now theyâre all honourable men â really. I can assure you, none of them would have broken my trust in that way.â
âI hope youâre right.â
The doubt in the old ladyâs voice offended Mrs Pargeter, but she did not let it show. After all, if Truffler had heard rumours, maybe they were common currency in certain circles. âWhat about Toby . . .?â she asked diffidently.
Veronica Chastaigne was offended in her turn, and she made no attempt to hide it. âYouâre not suggesting my own son might be involved in this burglary?â
âNo, no,â Mrs Pargeter soothed. âI just meant â how has he reacted to whatâs happened?â
The invalidâs expression soured. âI regret to say heâs delighted.â In response to a quizzical look, she went on, âThe removal of the paintings by thieves saves him what he might anticipate to be embarrassing scenes with the police after my death.â
âAh. Yes . . . So he had no idea of your plans to return the goods?â
âGood heavens, no. And, even though their disappearance in the way you and I had intended would also have let him off the hook, Iâm sure he would never have given his blessing to what we were proposing to do. He has rather different moral attitudes from mine.â The thin face formed a grimace of distaste. âThough I donât like to say it about my own son, Iâm afraid in Toby I have produced an insufferable prig.â
Mrs Pargeter chuckled. âThereâs no one more self-righteous than first generation straight. Like people whoâve just given up smoking, or reformed alcoholics.â
Through the frosted glass of the door the outline of two men in suits was visible. âLooks like the doctorâs come to check you out.â Mrs Pargeter gave the thin old hand a final pat. âIâd better be on my way. Leave you to get some rest.â
âYes.â Veronica Chastaigne looked suddenly more frail than ever. âI am extraordinarily tired . . .â
Leaning forward to plant a kiss on the pale cheek, Mrs Pargeter whispered, âDonât worry, Veronica, Iâll sort it out. Track down those paintings and get them back to where they should be.â
âIâm sorry to put you to so much trouble . . .â
âNo problem. Soon get it sorted.â Moving, as ever, daintily for someone of her bulk, Mrs Pargeter crossed to the door. âCheerio,â she said as she opened it.
Veronica Chastaigne raised a tired hand in farewell and seemed to sink even deeper into the bedclothes.
The two suited men who faced Mrs Pargeter in the corridor did not look like doctors. One she recognized as Veronicaâs son, but the other was unfamiliar to her. The suit he wore, however, had overtones of a profession other than the medical. Financial? Legal, perhaps?
Though she knew full well who Ibby Chastaigne was, they had not officially met, so Mrs Pargeter just