Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour Read Free

could have the benefit of each other’s input.’
    â€˜
Input?
’ Inspector Wilkinson enunciated the word with distaste. ‘When I want your input, Hughes, I will ask for it. Anyway, that hasn’t really answered my question about how much you need to know.’
    â€˜To put it at its most basic,’ said the Sergeant with a note of exasperation in his voice, ‘if I don’t know what we’re looking for in this surveillance, then I’m not going to recognize it when I see it, am I?’
    â€˜A good answer.’ Wilkinson nodded. ‘Yes, a good answer – were it not for one small detail. A good copper, you’ll find, will always notice that one significant detail in any scenario. Any idea what the detail might be in this case?’
    â€˜No,’ said the Sergeant, who didn’t want to get caught up in elaborate guessing games.
    â€˜The detail is that
you
’re not looking for anything.’ The Inspector tapped his binoculars. ‘
I
am looking for things and telling you what I see.
You
are simply writing down what I tell you.’
    â€˜Yes,’ Sergeant Hughes agreed listlessly. He hadn’t got the energy to point out that Wilkinson had so far missed the most important detail to have come up during their surveillance. They still had no idea what Veronica Chastaigne’s first visitor looked like.
    â€˜But I will give you one piece of information relevant to the case . . .’ the Inspector went on with new magnanimity.
    â€˜What?’ There was now a spark of animation in the Sergeant’s eye.
    â€˜It concerns criminals.’
    â€˜Oh.’ The spark was extinguished. ‘Thank you very much, Inspector.’
    Back in the big house, Toby Chastaigne was himself involved in surveillance. All the way through their supper he kept a watchful eye on his mother, his anxious scrutiny masked by a veil of solicitude.
    â€˜You should eat more,’ he said, as he watched her peck at a flake of salmon.
    â€˜Why?’ Veronica asked abstractedly.
    â€˜Build yourself up,’ Toby replied, as he reached across to replenish his plate with a mound of buttered new potatoes and dollops of mayonnaise.
    â€˜What for?’
    Her son looked thoughtful, but decided not to answer this. He let a pause hang between them, then, with over-elaborate casualness, asked, ‘Have you done anything about the will yet?’ Veronica looked up sharply, as he hastened to soften his bluntness. ‘I speak as an accountant, not as your son. This is the advice I’d give to any of my clients. It’s just that one has to be practical – one should always have all the loose ends neatly tied up.’
    A pale smile came to Veronica Chastaigne’s thin lips. ‘That could almost be your motto, Toby, couldn’t it?’
    He looked injured by the injustice of her implied slight. ‘Mother, I’m only thinking of you.’
    â€˜Very kind.’ She smiled again, a kindly smile, though neither of them was in any doubt that the conversation was gladiatorial rather than benign. The courtesy was no more than a front. ‘Though I don’t really see how . . .’ Veronica went on lightly, ‘because loose ends aren’t going to worry me too much, are they?’
    â€˜Well . . .’
    â€˜After I’m dead,’ she continued easily, ‘they’ll be someone else’s problem.’
    Toby coughed in embarrassment, sending a fine spray of potato over his plate. ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about it, Mother.’
    â€˜Why not?’ asked Veronica, enjoying her son’s discomfiture. ‘You said you wanted me to be practical. I’d have thought preparing for something you know is going to happen is extremely practical. And my death is certainly going to happen – in the not-too-distant future. You know, your father always used to say—’
    Toby raised an admonitory hand.