Mrs Pargeter's Patio

By Simon Brett

A bizarre discovery right under Mrs Pargeter's patio turns a quiet and sunny June morning into a thrilling hunt for answers in this new instalment of the light-hearted and entertaining Mrs Pargeter mystery series.

When widow Mrs Pargeter decides to have her morning coffee on the patio of her mansion in Chigwell, her intention is to admire her beautiful garden in peace and quiet. Little does she expect one of the patio's paving slabs to crack in two, depositing her on the ground - and revealing a human skull with a neat hole in the middle of its forehead!

Not wanting to bother the police just yet, Mrs Pargeter decides to save them some trouble and starts investigating the curious find herself. And who better to assist than her late husband's 'business associates', private investigator Truffler Mason and chauffeur Gary?

The trio are soon certain that a murder has been committed and the body disposed of under some convenient building works. But who is the mysterious victim? And more importantly, who put the body under Mrs Pargeter's patio?

Mrs Pargeter and her friends must find out the truth and soon, before the finger of suspicion points in an unthinkable direction: towards the late, great Mr Pargeter, whose business dealings Mrs P remains - naturally! - in blissful ignorance of . . .

Mrs Pargeter's Patio is the ninth book in the series by CWA's Diamond Dagger winner Simon Brett. Fans of cozy mysteries will enjoy this funny and exciting ride with unexpected twist and turns.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Severn House
• Release date: Oct 3, 2023
• ISBN: 9781448311293

Simon Brett

Simon Brett worked as a producer in radio and television before taking up writing full time. As well as the much-loved Fethering series, the Mrs Pargeter novels and the Charles Paris detective series, he has written a number of radio and television scripts. Married with three children, he lives in an Agatha Christie-style village on the South Downs. You can find out more about Simon at his website: www.simonbrett.com

Book preview

ONE

Mrs Pargeter liked having a nice garden to look out on from the windows of her mansion in Chigwell. But the idea that she should ever personally do anything to make that garden nice never occurred to her. Gardening, she had always thought, was a dull and dirty occupation, a task that other people should be paid to do. Her attitude was similar to the way she regarded cooking. She could cook, but she’d always much rather go to a restaurant. Mrs Pargeter had never felt any obligation to do things she didn’t want to do.

In this attitude she had been encouraged by her husband. The late Mr Pargeter had not spoiled his wife, but he had been a strong believer in pampering her. Never quite able to believe his luck in securing such a jewel among women, he had seen it as a welcome duty to protect her from the harsher aspects of existence. For example, he never troubled her with the details of his professional life. He had no time for men who brought their work home with them. For him, this approach had the advantage that, if she was ever asked about her husband’s business activities, Mrs Pargeter could, with complete honesty, deny any knowledge of them. And, on the very rare occasions when someone might question the legality of some of his transactions, she could, in all innocence, say she didn’t know what they were talking about. She was very proud of her role as keeper of the late Mr Pargeter’s flame.

Her husband’s death had, of course, caused her great anguish but, being a woman who looked for the positives in any situation, she concentrated more on her good fortune of having been allowed so long to spend with such a man, rather than the negative aspects of widowhood. She did not anticipate – and certainly didn’t search for – any further romantic developments in her life. Instead, she focused on a strong group of friends, many of whom had been business associates of her husband, and did her best to further the late Mr Pargeter’s works in the charity sector.

Mrs Pargeter was a woman who knew her own mind and, by dint of charm rather than coercion, usually managed to get her own way.

Though essentially an urban creature, she had adjusted relatively well to living in the mansion in Chigwell. Essex was, after all, her home county and, so long as she got into central London at least one night a week for some pampering at Greene’s Hotel, life was quite acceptable.

There was a sentimental association about the place, as well. Mr Pargeter had bought the plot a long time ago, with a view to their building on it a home for their peacefully shared retirement. That peacefully shared retirement, sadly, had not happened, but the house had happened. In charge of its construction had been a builder known as Concrete Jacket, who over the years had done quite a lot of contracts for the late Mr Pargeter. The quality of his work could not be faulted, though his timekeeping could. He had a recurrent problem with miscarriages of justice, which led to his being unable to ply his trade for extended periods. Some of his clients took a dim view of his absence from their jobs for sentences of up to three years and were not persuaded by his assertions of innocence.

Mrs Pargeter, whose nature was instinctively to believe the best of people, had always shown more sympathy for his misfortunes. Concrete Jacket had just suffered from a very long run of bad luck.

It was a beautiful June morning and the outlook through the French windows at the back of the Chigwell mansion had rarely looked better. The plot had been chosen shrewdly by the late Mr Pargeter because it was not overlooked, and the garden sloped down to a small copse which hid the urban sprawl and muted the sounds of Essex traffic. It would not be imagined by people who did not know the area that such tranquillity could be found so near the metropolis.

The house’s name was a tribute to its purchaser. The late Mr Pargeter’s first name, rarely used by anyone other than his adoring wife, was Lionel, and so she had dubbed the place ‘Lionel’s Den’. Had she been the kind of widow who needed constant reminders of her husband’s absence, the name would have done the trick. But, though Mrs Pargeter led an active and varied life, she never for a moment forgot about Lionel.

She was a woman who liked a substantial breakfast and, had she been at Greene’s Hotel, would have indulged in every variation of the full English. When in Chigwell, however, she restricted herself to several cups of excellent coffee from the most up-to-date Italian machine. It was not just her resistance to cooking that prompted this abstinence. It was also an extension of her charity work. Going out for an early – and large – lunch at one of the nearby hostelries represented a contribution to the local economy. And ordering herself a particularly expensive bottle of wine with the lunch was, to Mrs Pargeter’s mind, an act of pure altruism. What better could be done with money than to spread it around among the less fortunate? She knew that pubs were suffering in adverse economic conditions. And she’d always favoured charities which encouraged people to work, rather than just handing out grants.

So warm was it that morning in Chigwell that she decided to take her third cup of coffee through the French windows and out on to the patio. The garden did look wonderful from there, formal near the house and becoming increasingly casual as it rolled down towards the perimeter copse. Her gardener, Kirstie Rollins, had spoken of the further part of the garden as ‘an experiment in rewilding’. Mrs Pargeter had nodded appreciatively when told this, graceful enough to disguise her total lack of interest in the subject.

Kirstie was another charity project. Their first meeting had been somewhat unlikely. The girl, skinny and wretched-looking, with coffee-coloured skin and matted dark curls, had broken into the Chigwell mansion with burglarious intent. And the fact that she had done that really impressed Mrs Pargeter, when she found the intruder riffling through the jewel box in her bedroom.

The security system in the house was of an exceptionally high standard. It had been installed by no less an expert than Parvez the Peterman, a uniquely well-qualified locksmith who had worked for the late Mr Pargeter. He had recently been hailed as ‘the best security expert in the world’, a title previously held by an iconic figure called ‘Tumblers’ Tate. Tate, unlike Parvez, had used his skills to aid and abet criminality but, with his death, the younger expert inherited the crown. And Parvez, Mrs Pargeter felt completely confident, now only ever worked on the side of good.

Which meant the fact that Kirstie Rollins had managed to circumvent the security system at Lionel’s Den had impressed the house’s owner very much. So, rather than calling the police to arrest the girl, Mrs Pargeter had got into conversation with her.

This was not out of character. The late Mr Pargeter had always been of the opinion – an opinion with which his wife concurred completely – that the police were a fine body of men and women. He wouldn’t hear a word against them. They did an unglamorous job with competence, if not imagination. But they were constantly going on about how understaffed they were, so there was no need to involve them too much in one’s personal business. There was always the danger that they might get the wrong end of the stick and interpret something totally innocuous as suspicious behaviour.

As a result, the Pargeters made themselves a rule not to engage the police in their affairs except when it was absolutely necessary (which, strangely, it never was).

So, for Mrs Pargeter to chat to a burglar in her bedroom, rather than having her hauled off to a police station, was entirely natural.

And she discovered a lot about Kirstie Rollins. The girl had an innate bolshiness of which Mrs Pargeter entirely approved, particularly when she heard about her background. An all too familiar story of a broken family, father disappearing when the girl was nine, mother giving in to drugs and alcohol which, after a few years, killed her.

For Kirstie, this had meant life in care and a slide down from petty theft to the more serious kind. On discovering that she was currently living on the streets, Mrs Pargeter immediately made up a bed in the spare room for her. Then, determined to fatten the girl up, she took her out for a lavish dinner at one of her favourite pubs. Mrs Pargeter had always been an advocate of dietary therapy. Amazing how much sausage and mash could cheer a girl up.

In doing this for Kirstie, she was following the charity route initiated by her husband. The late Mr Pargeter had a considerable track record in developing the skills of people who had fallen, through no fault of their own, on to the wrong side of the law. Many of his former associates had had training funded by him, mostly in practical disciplines but with a few being put through university and even law school, demonstrating that there is a way back from criminality.

Mrs Pargeter let Kirstie Rollins stay for a fortnight at Lionel’s Den. And the two of them talked a lot, as the older woman tried to elicit where the younger one’s interests lay. This was a slow process. Kirstie was so unused to anyone considering her priorities that she was initially suspicious. She’d never been questioned before by anyone who didn’t have an ulterior motive. The fear of further exploitation was instinctive to her. The unexplained disappearance of her father when she was so young, not to mention her mother’s lack of interest and death, had deterred her from ever believing in anything.

But, eventually, in the face of Mrs Pargeter’s quiet persistence, she got used to the alien concept of trusting another human being and revealed what she really loved. Plants. There was nothing she wanted more in life than to spend her time nurturing plants.

Though it was not an ambition that Mrs Pargeter could share, she nonetheless focused her best efforts on helping the girl to realize her dream. And in achieving that end, she turned, as she had so often before, to the most valuable of the many legacies she had inherited from her late husband. His little black book.

In this Mr Pargeter had listed the contact details of the many useful people whose services he had used during his business career. They were categorized by skills or profession. So, if his widow needed a missing person traced, if she required something to be retrieved from a lock-up, or wanted a new passport without the tiresome delay of getting it through the traditional channels, all she had to do was consult the little black book to find an expert to meet her needs.

To realize her plans for Kirstie Rollins’s future, she needed less specific assistance. So, she looked under ‘Sorting Stuff Out’. (Mr Pargeter’s classification system in the little black book was, to say the least, idiosyncratic.) And there she found the name of Peregrine Oscar Nixon, a gentleman on whose services she had not previously called. The listing also informed her that he was less formally known as ‘Fixin’ Nixon (No Job Too Unlikely)’.

Over a lavish lunch at Greene’s Hotel, where they were assiduously cosseted by the manager, ‘Hedgeclipper’ Clinton (another former colleague of Mr Pargeter’s), Mrs Pargeter outlined her requirements. Fixin’ Nixon, incidentally, did not at all match her expectations. She had anticipated a slippery wheeler-dealer, but the man who introduced himself in the hotel foyer was tall, soberly dressed in a pinstriped suit and a tie that looked regimental (though it quite possibly wasn’t). His vowels were impeccably public school, definitely more Harrow boy than barrow boy.

‘My credo, Mrs Pargeter,’ he announced when they were addressing their pink gin and tonics, ‘is that there is always a way around things. Systems are only set up to be circumvented, rules to be ignored. Going through the usual channels inevitably involves suffering the usual delays and inefficiencies. I pride myself on my ability to find a direct route to the target, particularly when there is bureaucracy involved.’

‘Well, there’s certainly bureaucracy involved this time,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘Bureaucracy in the educational system.’

‘Excellent.’ Fixin’ Nixon rubbed his hands together with relish. ‘One of the least efficient of our country’s services, full of unnecessary complication and obfuscation. As I always used to say to your late husband, Mrs Pargeter, the more red tape there is, the more I like cutting through it.’

‘Splendid.’

‘He was a very wise mentor to me, your husband,’ said Fixin’ Nixon in reverential tones. ‘I started out with a certain aptitude for the business I am in, but Mr Pargeter it was who honed my skills. He was a prince among men.’

‘He certainly was,’ Mrs Pargeter agreed, allowing herself a brief moment of sentimentality. A tear glinted in a violet-blue eye.

Then she leant forward, before their first course of Royal Whitstable native oysters, and told Fixin’ Nixon what she wanted him to arrange for Kirstie Rollins.

She could not believe how quickly he got back to her. The next morning, she was home at Lionel’s Den, deciding which of the local pubs she would favour with her charitable lunchtime custom that day, when her landline rang.

‘All sorted,’ Fixin’ Nixon announced. ‘Your young lady starts a two-year degree course at Hadlow College near Tonbridge on Monday.’

‘That’s wonderful, Fixin’,’ said Mrs Pargeter. ‘But don’t university courses usually start in September or October?’

‘Oh, I got round that,’ he said airily. She was to discover, on further acquaintance, that that was Fixin’ Nixon’s catchphrase. He’d got round more things than a slalom skier. ‘Also, I’ve arranged for all Kirstie’s tuition fees and accommodation to be paid.’

‘I was ready to do that,’ said Mrs Pargeter, almost aggrieved.

‘No need. I’ve found an educational charity that’s giving her a bursary. And I’ve arranged for her to have a flat in Tonbridge to live in right through the course.’

‘Well, Fixin’, you really are a miracle worker.’

‘All part of the service, Mrs P. A small recompense, when I think of everything your husband did for me when I was starting out on my career …’

And so it was arranged. Kirstie Rollins loved her time at Hadlow College. And she spent all her days off at Lionel’s Den, keeping the garden in immaculate condition. Mrs Pargeter insisted on paying her for that. Every time she came to Chigwell, the first thing Kirstie would do would be to tell her employer what her horticultural plans were for the day. And every time Mrs Pargeter gave a passable impression of someone who might be interested. It was an invaluable social skill which she had developed and refined over many years.

So, that June morning, a year after she’d first met Kirstie Rollins, when Mrs Pargeter took her third cup of coffee out on to the patio, she had a beautiful garden to look at. It was not one of the girl’s working days, so she didn’t have to pretend to want to know what the various flowers were called. She only had to look at them. And decide where to have lunch. She anticipated a tranquil day.

In this expectation she was, however, due for disappointment.

As her elegantly shod foot – Mrs Pargeter favoured heels on all occasions, her husband had liked the shape they gave to her calves – landed from the sitting room on to the surface of the patio, something gave way.

One of the paving slabs from which the patio surface had been so carefully constructed, presumably by Concrete Jacket, cracked in two, depositing Mrs Pargeter on the ground.

It was a soft landing. She wasn’t hurt.

She picked herself up and peered into the void revealed by the broken slab.

The first thing she saw was a human skull.

TWO

Mrs Pargeter knew that she should call the police. She was as public-spirited as the next person. When you found evidence of what might be a crime, you contacted the police. That was the correct procedure. The late Mr Pargeter, a stickler for correctness, would always insist that, in such circumstances, the police should be called.

He would also insist, though, that the police should not be called straight away. It was important that the discoverer of the evidence should find out as much about that evidence as they could before the police arrived. The ‘proper authorities’ did not appear to believe in the principle of ‘Finders Keepers’. It was much more difficult to check out evidence once the police were on the scene. For reasons of their own, they favoured keeping all information to themselves. And the fact that Mrs