Mrs. Pargeter's Pound of Flesh Read Online Free

are going to be all right, Melita – aren't you?'
    'Yes,' Mrs Pargeter replied. 'Yes, Kim, I think I'm going to be absolutely fine.'
    The alcohol brought deep and dreamless sleep, but also ensured that Mrs Pargeter woke at five o'clock, needing the comforts of her ensuite bathroom.
    As the flushing of the lavatory gurgled to nothing, she was aware of a slight scraping noise from outside.
    She peered through the curtains. It was June and already nearly light. Mrs Pargeter found she was looking down on the ornamental fish-ponds of the landscaped gardens which were one of Brotherton Hall's chief glories. Just on the edge of her vision, she could see something moving. It appeared to be human, but the angle of the building impeded her view.
    Intrigued, and now wide awake, Mrs Pargeter found her curiosity aroused. Surely it was a bit early for gardening . . . ?
    Then she remembered that at the end of the corridor by the stairs was a large window commanding a view directly over the fish-ponds. Why not? It was worth a look. Donning her Brotherton Hall towelling gown, Mrs Pargeter slipped quietly out of her room and along the corridor.
    The window at the end was covered only by a thin net curtain, through which she could clearly see what was going on.
    Two wheelbarrows stood by the largest fish-pond and between them was Stan the Stapler with a shovel. The squat figure kept reaching into the pond and dragging out shovelfuls of weed or mud. The weed he slopped into one wheelbarrow, the mud into the other.
    It was possible that he was gardening, doing some essential maintenance work on the ponds.
    It was possible that he was engaged in some more sinister activity.
    Recovering a cache of drugs?
    Attempting to drag the pond for a body?
    But Mrs Pargeter had a more prosaic explanation for what was going on. And it was one that would conform well with what she knew of Ankle-Deep Arkwright's business practices. She loved Ank dearly, but would have found it hard to hold him up as a paragon of probity.
    No, Mrs Pargeter felt pretty convinced that Stan the Stapler was stocking up with Saragossa Seaweed and Dead Sea Mud.
    She was just turning back towards her room when she heard the click of a door opening on the floor above.
    It lasted only a few seconds. The door clicked open; a snatch of a woman's voice was heard; the door was softly closed and a key turned in the lock. That was all.
    But it was what the woman said that stopped Mrs Pargeter in her tracks and traced a little finger of ice down her spine.
    A young woman's voice. A voice full of pain, anguish, and despair.
    It had said, 'But there's nothing you can do about it. They're going to kill me, and nobody can stop them.'
    CHAPTER 5
    Mrs Pargeter and Kim Thurrock spent the Monday, their first full day at Brotherton Hall, rather differently.
    Kim, in common with all the other guests (well, except for Mrs Pargeter) started with the Seven-Thirty Weigh-In. This ceremony – not actually called a 'ceremony', but treated with all the pomp of a coronation – was designed to instil into everyone a proper sense of humility. Harsh reality, spelt out in unarguable pounds and ounces, induced shame and an increased incentive to attain the fantasy of a few pounds or ounces less.
    After that sobering experience, Kim Thurrock, fortified by her hot water and lemon breakfast, underwent an hour of aerobics, followed by swimming and weight-training. Her lunch, an exotic melange of cottage cheese and lettuce (garnished with more cottage cheese), preceded a Dead Sea Mud Bath, which set on her like mortar and, if only they could have got it off in one piece, would have made the perfect mould for anyone interested in producing Kim Thurrock clones.
    After this she was lashed savagely with Saragossa Seaweed by Lindy Galton. (The Brotherton Hall staff were all qualified to perform all the varied tasks of the health spa, and undertook them in turn, according to some elaborate roster.) Kim then had her pores