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

‘Odd that the three paintings the thieves left at Chastaigne Varleigh should be from the same haul . . .’
    â€˜Yes.’ Mrs Pargeter seized on the thought. ‘Suggests they knew quite a lot about what they were dealing with.’
    But Palings Price, who was after all an expert in these matters, was unconvinced. ‘Not necessarily,’ he said. ‘Could just be coincidence.’
    â€˜Hmm.’ Mrs Pargeter sighed a contented little sigh. ‘We’ll probably know more when Truffler’s tracked down the rest of the stuff that was stolen.’
    â€˜You sound very confident that he’ll find it.’
    â€˜Well, of course he will, Palings. Truffler’s the best in the business, isn’t he?’
    â€˜That’s true.’
    Mrs Pargeter looked again at the paintings. ‘Well, at least we’ve got these three, so we can make a start. Do you reckon there’s going to be any problem getting these back to where they came from, HRH?’
    The travel agent’s magnificent mane of white hair shook confidently. ‘No. Berne’ll be easy. Fritzi the Finger’s based in Salzburg. Your husband got him out of a few spots. He’ll be honoured to help, won’t he, Palings?’
    â€˜Absolutely. This sort of job’s meat and drink to him, anyway.’
    HRH was thoughtful for a moment. ‘No, the only problem will be finding a courier to get the goods out of this country . . .’
    â€˜Couldn’t I do that?’ Mrs Pargeter volunteered eagerly.
    It was just her skittish mood of the morning finding expression, but the suggestion clearly shocked Hamish Ramon Henriques. There was a strong tone of disapproval in his voice as he said, ‘I wouldn’t want you to put yourself at any risk, Mrs Pargeter.’
    â€˜Besides,’ the gallery owner interposed, ‘smuggling old masters is actually a criminal activity . . .’
    â€˜Oh yes.’ She was properly contrite. ‘Sorry, I got carried away there.’
    Palings Price continued to spell out the situation for her. ‘And you’ve never been personally involved in anything illegal, have you?’
    An innocent blush suffused her cheeks at the very idea. ‘Good heavens, no,’ said Mrs Pargeter.

Chapter Twenty
    The studio of VVO still looked as cluttered, but this time Mrs Pargeter was aware of how
hygienic
all of its clutter was. Having met the houseproud Deirdre Winthrop, she could no longer believe in the reality of the husband’s bohemianism. The studio now appeared to her like a stage set, its dust neatly scattered, its cobwebs recently sprayed on. Even the splashes and splodges of paint on every surface no longer looked random; their exact positioning and their precise level of exuberance had been carefully calculated.
    Since his last encounter with Mrs Pargeter and HRH, VVO had been busy – though not as busy as he’d have had to be if all the pictures from Chastaigne Varleigh had been saved. The fruits of his labour were there to be seen, but this time there was no fake Rubens flesh to excite charming comparisons. What VVO had been busy on was his own work, the kind of paintings which he believed he had been placed on this earth to produce.
    â€˜Oh dear,’ thought Mrs Pargeter, as she looked at the latest creations. There were three of them. In one a lamb with a watermelon grin, wearing a pink bow whose wingspan would not have shamed a jumbo jet, cavorted in front of a quaint windmill. On the second, two lovable ducklings skidded hopelessly on an icy lake, trying to catch up with the mother and the rest of her family procession. And in the third – returning to one of the artist’s favourite themes – a winsome Scottie dog in a natty little tartan coat circled a blossom-laden tree, from whose branches a fluffy white pussy cat grinned down cheekily.
    Two of the paintings were already fixed into aluminium frames,