Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour by Simon Brett

cream.’ Truffler Mason chuckled fondly at the recollection. ‘You know, Paddington Green still smells of raspberry ripple.
    â€˜So, anyway, Mrs P, that was your late husband’s first encounter with Inspector Wilkinson. And from the very start, he realized what we were up against was a one-hundred per cent, copper-bottomed dumbo.’
    Truffler Mason may have finished his anecdote, but Hedgeclipper Clinton had been waiting for some time to chip in with his own recollections of the unfortunate Wilkinson. ‘Then there was that other time,’ he said, the moment Truffler paused for breath, ‘that Hampstead Music Museum job. Only a small place it was, full of biographical memorabilia from various composers, but amongst all the stuff it got was some really nice instruments, violins mostly. One Amati and a couple of Stradivariuses – and a Stradivarius cello. Well, Mrs P, as you’ll remember, your old man always was a great music-lover . . . and, besides, he recognized that that lot’s got quite a good resale value.
    â€˜So, once again, the whole thing’s set up beautifully. Times the curator and his staff go on and off duty checked out. Keyhole Crabbe’s brought in – you remember him, locks and alarms specialist – and he checks out the security system. Finds the best thing to do is set up a little electronic jiggery-pokery that reverses the alarms – like, when they’re switched on, the doors open silently; when they’re switched off and a door’s touched, all hell breaks loose. Dead simple.
    â€˜Anyway, couple of days before the lift, Jukebox Jarvis does his routine hack into Scotland Yard, and blow me if he doesn’t discover that they’re on to this one too.’
    â€˜Now that I’m sure was Posey Narker,’ said Truffler.
    â€˜Probably. Anyway, we find out they’re on to us and, what’s more, the detective in charge of the case is once again – Inspector Wilkinson.
    â€˜Obviously, Mr P and everyone else is dead chuffed to hear this, and the plans for the job are adjusted accordingly. Cut a long story short, the instruments are all successfully liberated from their cases before old Craggy Wilkinson gets there. And he ends up spending the whole weekend locked in the museum. Not sure whether he knew much about music before, but by the time he got out, he could certainly tell his Arne from his Elgar!’
    While Hedgeclipper chuckled at his witticism, Truffler Mason was quick to pick up the conversational baton. ‘Well, by now it had become a pattern. Wilkinson was entirely reliable. Whatever he had to do, we could guarantee he’d screw it up. One time he was even duped into letting us use a Panda as a getaway car. With a police driver, and all!
    â€˜As you can imagine, Mrs P, your late husband saw the potential advantages of all this. Soon, whenever we’d got a big job coming up, he’d get Jukebox Jarvis not only to hack into the police computer for information, but to make a few changes to what he found in there. Particularly in the business of duty rosters. Jukebox’d fix it so that any time we’d got a real biggie, Detective Inspector Craig Wilkinson would be slated to be in charge of the case. Then we knew nothing could go wrong. I tell you, if Wilkinson hadn’t been around, the information Posey Narker was spilling could’ve caused a lot more trouble than it actually did. Your husband used to say that old Craggy Wilkinson was his lucky mascot.’
    Again Truffler Mason roared with laughter at the recollection, and Hedgeclipper Clinton joined him. Their laughter rose to a merry crescendo, then trickled away.
    Both realizing at the same time that they had heard little for some time from the third person present in the bar, they looked across at her. On Mrs Pargeter’s soft, creamy brow was a wrinkle of puzzlement, and even a hint of reproach. ‘I’m sorry,’ she