Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh by Simon Brett Page B

crevices. Mrs Pargeter had heard from Kim Thurrock that this cleansing process took hours; 'and still at the end of the day when I undressed I found flaky bits in my knickers . . .' The depth of Kim's love affair with everything related to Brotherton Hall can be judged from the fact that she then added fervently, '. . . which shows it must've been doing some good.'
    Lindy Galton, perfectly proportioned and still immaculately uniformed in spite of the mud that surrounded her, stepped forward to meet her latest client.
    'Mrs Pargeter, isn't it?'
    'That's right.'
    'If you'd like to come through to Cubicle Four, the bath should just about be full now.'
    Mrs Pargeter stood inside the doorway, dressed as instructed in only her Brotherton Hall towelling gown over swimwear, and looked down at the contents of the bath as the last strainings plopped in from the lion's head sluice.
    The mud could have been said to look like liquid milk chocolate, with a consistency like that of Bolognese sauce – though it has to be confessed that the similes which sprang instinctively to Mrs Pargeter's mind were rather less elegant.
    There was a silence as the two of them looked down at the sluggish sludge. 'Well,' Lindy Galton prompted eventually, 'aren't you going to get in?'
    'Good heavens, no,' said Mrs Pargeter. 'What on earth do you take me for?'
    'Then why are you here?' The girl looked confused rather than alarmed.
    Before answering, Mrs Pargeter moved forward to a console of switches on the wall and pressed the one marked 'Empty'. The room was filling with the kind of sounds that can be the consequence of an ill-considered curry.
    Lindy Galton stepped towards the console, her face sharp with anger. 'What are you doing? The bath's only just been filled.'
    'I'm paying for the Dead Sea Mud Bath treatment,' Mrs Pargeter replied coolly. 'Whether I choose to have it or not I'd have thought was up to me.'
    'But why are you emptying it away? Someone else could have the mud.'
    'Why, do you want it?' asked Mrs Pargeter, deliberately frivolous.
    The reaction – and the distaste – were instinctive. 'No, thank you!'
    'Oh, you know where it's come from then, do you?'
    The girl seemed about to agree, then remembered her professional role and replied frostily, 'I can't personally go into the mud because of an allergy. I've tried the treatment and I'm afraid it brings me out in a rash.' She gave her client a beady look. 'You still haven't explained why you're emptying the bath.'
    'I've started that for the noise . . . so's we can't be overheard,' said Mrs Pargeter in an even whisper.
    Now there was a light of alarm in Lindy Galton's eye. 'What is this?'
    'I want to ask you about a guest registration you made at Reception a couple of days ago.'
    'Oh?'
    'A registration for someone called "Jenny Hargreaves".' The girl's eyes told her instantly that she was on to something. 'You see, I think that Jenny Hargreaves arrived at Brotherton Hall earlier than that registration record implies. I think you only keyed those details into the computer because Mr Arkwright told you to.'
    Lindy Galton licked a lip that seemed suddenly to have become dry. 'Why do you want to know about this? Why're you interested, Mrs Pargeter?'
    'Because I think it could have something to do with a mystery guest at Brotherton Hall. Someone who was staying in a room on the third floor . . . until a couple of nights ago.'
    However good Lindy Galton may have been at body sculpture, she had no skills in the art of deception. 'How much do you know about it?' she blurted out.
    'Well, clearly not as much as you do, Lindy. Which is why I'm asking you these questions.' Mrs Pargeter moved closer. ' Was the girl on the third floor Jenny Hargreaves?'
    Lindy Galton's mouth opened to reply, but she was distracted by a slight clang from above. They both looked over the top of the cubicle wall to the ladder from which Stan the Stapler was still doing his Dynorod routine.
    The oddjob man was not looking at