Mrs. Pargeter's Point of Honour by Simon Brett Page A

said. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t understand a single word of what you were talking about.’
    Truffler Mason and Hedgeclipper Clinton fell over themselves in their confusion and assurances that they couldn’t think what’d come over them, that they’d been well out of order, that they didn’t wish in any way to imply that the late Mr Pargeter had at any level been connected with any activity which did not fit within the strictest parameters of the British legal system.
    Eventually Mrs Pargeter inclined her head, gracefully accepting their apologies.
    â€˜All we were really saying,’ said Truffler Mason plaintively, ‘is that if Inspector Wilkinson’s sniffing around you, you have absolutely nothing to worry about.’
    â€˜Thank you.’ But the puzzlement hadn’t entirely left Mrs Pargeter’s innocent face. ‘I can’t imagine why it took you so long to tell me that.’ She smiled easily, letting them off the hook. ‘Now, did you say HRH and I were going to see Palings Price tomorrow . . .?’

Chapter Nineteen
    They were once again in the back room of ‘DENZIL PRICE INTERIORS’. Propped up on a minimalist steel chair was the Rubens that the thieves had left at Chastaigne Varleigh. Against the wall stood the two minor Madonnas which had also escaped abduction. The rich colours of the paintings spoiled the room’s monochrome image, but the designer didn’t seem to mind.
    Mrs Pargeter and Hamish Ramon Henriques looked on in respectful silence while he made his expert assessment.
    An expression of almost gastronomic relish played around Palings Price’s mouth as he gazed at the painting. He wasn’t quite licking his lips, but very nearly.
    â€˜Now this is very beautiful . . .’ he murmured.
    â€˜Yes . . .’ Mrs Pargeter agreed mistily. She had felt a great warmth for the fake Rubens in VVO’s studio, but the sight of the real thing was even more potent. The painting’s voluptuous flesh glowed down the centuries and found a welcoming glow in her own voluptuous flesh. Like called to like. Mrs Pargeter felt a sudden pang of sorrow that her husband was dead. The late Mr Pargeter would have really responded to that painting. It embodied everything he had ever looked for in a woman.
    Maybe it was the conversation with Truffler and Hedgeclipper at Greene’s Hotel the evening before that had set her mind on the track, but she found she’d been thinking a lot about her husband that morning. Not morbid thoughts. No, rather she had a little bubble of excitement inside her, gratitude for the wonderful years that they’d had together, and a great sense of well-being. The last shadow of disappointment about the failure to get the paintings from Chastaigne Varleigh had passed. Now she felt entirely confident that Veronica Chastaigne’s request would be fulfilled, and it was stimulating to be a part of the operation that would fulfil it. Mrs Pargeter felt free and irresponsible, almost skittish.
    â€˜One of the best examples of Rubens’s mature period,’ Palings Price was saying. ‘The model was his second wife Hélène Fourment.’
    â€˜It’s stunning,’ Mrs Pargeter agreed. ‘My husband would really have loved it.’
    â€˜Why particularly?’ asked HRH.
    â€˜Well, obviously, because he liked his women—’ But no. She checked herself. That was private. ‘This was the sort of thing he liked,’ she concluded lightly.
    â€˜Oh. Right.’
    Mrs Pargeter felt the need to move the conversation hastily on. ‘Where was it stolen from?’
    â€˜Pantheon Gallery, Berne. In 1982,’ said Palings Price. He pointed to the Madonnas. ‘Those two were taken at the same time. Big fuss when it happened. All over the international press.’
    â€˜I’ll bet it was.’
    HRH ran a thoughtful hand through his splendid moustache.