‘Thank you,’ said Jack, drawing a chair up to the desk. He glanced out of the window where the factory chimney loomed like an emaciated and gloomy Titan over a huddle of buildings. A rich, concentrated and oddly unpleasant smell of roasted coffee funnelled in through the open window. He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have expected you to drink tea, sir.’
Frederick Hunt looked mildly surprised, then smiled in return. ‘What? Ah yes. The factory. Much as I esteem our product, Major, my enthusiasm does not stretch to consuming it at three in the afternoon.’
He smiled at his own pleasantry, then fussily adjusted his glasses, hesitating before he spoke. ‘Major Haldean, I have agreed to see you chiefly to fall in with my father’s wishes. He is an old man and I feel obliged to humour him where possible. However, it is only fair to tell you that I do not see eye to eye with him about the wisdom of consulting an amateur in the matter of my nephew’s disappearance. I feel it could have been safely left in the hands of the police. Inspector Murray struck me as a very able officer.’
‘I agree with you, Mr Hunt,’ said Jack mendaciously. His reading of Murray’s file had led him to characterize that worthy as a conscientious plodder. ‘However, I do have the full support of Sir Douglas Lynton.’
‘That makes a difference, of course,’ said Mr Hunt without much enthusiasm. ‘What precisely do you wish to ascertain?’
Jack stretched out his long legs. ‘I’d like to know the sort of person your nephew was, Mr Hunt. Was he, for instance, careful with money?’
Frederick Hunt was obviously surprised at the question. ‘He certainly wasn’t in debt, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Did he enjoy his work?’
‘Certainly, Major. He always had the interests of the firm very much at heart.’ He picked up a pencil from the desk and twirled it in his fingers. ‘Mark took a very great interest in the business, Major, to the point of actually going to Brazil last year to inspect our plantation in person. There he made a number of suggestions which, if we could afford to finance them, would, I am sure, prove valuable. He was, for instance, concerned about our coffee processing methods. We currently use the tried and tested Dry method. Mark wanted to instigate the newer Wet method. The capital outlay is not, in my considered opinion, justified. I applaud the youthful enthusiasm that informed his preference, but I was able to bring to bear my many years of experience to the proposal and argue against it.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Hunt, you’re going to have to give me a couple of footnotes,’ said Jack. ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
Frederick Hunt gave a superior and benign smile at this expression of ignorance. ‘It is rather technical for the layman to grasp, but, in a nutshell, whereas the Dry method calls for the coffee fruits, or cherries, as they are called, to be laid on a stone floor and exposed to the sun, the Wet method requires galvanized spouting and a water supply to convey the cherries from the field to a tank where a pulping machine liberates the seeds and reduces the fleshy parts of the cherries to a pulp. After several more stages, what we refer to as parchment coffee is produced, as the beans are enclosed in a silver skin of parchment. The parchment coffee requires further treatment before the item you would recognize as a coffee bean is arrived at.’
‘Gosh,’ said Jack, with a disarming smile. ‘I didn’t realize there was all this science involved – you know, galvanized spouting and pulping parchment and so on. I’d always assumed coffee was just coffee.’
Frederick Hunt’s air of self-satisfaction increased at this laughable admission of naivety. ‘A common mistake, Major. Most understandable.’
‘What did your nephew do for entertainment, sir? Did he have any hobbies or interests?’ Apart from wetting coffee, he added to himself.
‘Entertainment?’ Mr Hunt frowned as if the idea was an alien concept. ‘He went to dances, of course, as all you young men do, and he was a member of a number of clubs. The Cicerone on Dover Street was his favourite, I believe. He was a good shot, hunted occasionally and was, I gather, fond of tennis and golf. He enjoyed motor racing, but only as a spectator. My niece’s husband is Gregory Jaggard of Jaggard Cars, and he would always make a point of attending Brooklands when Gregory was racing.’
Mr Hunt put down the pencil. ‘I am afraid I feel somewhat at a loss, Major. I was – am – fond of my nephew but for an assessment of his character, you would be far better to ask his contemporaries. I can only tell you that he was scrupulously honest and moderate in his habits.’
A rattle of crockery in the corridor announced the arrival of the tea trolley. Cup in hand, Jack changed tactics. ‘I’m obviously interested in what happened on the ninth of January, Mr Hunt. You and Mr Helston had a meeting with Senhor Valdez on that day, didn’t you?’
‘Indeed we did, sir.’ His eyes gleamed behind his glasses. ‘I understand Captain Smith informed you how disgracefully we were let down by Senhor Valdez. It was all most unsatisfactory. I gave the clearest instructions to Valdez and I expected them to be implemented. Instead, the wretched man left our employment without even the courtesy of a note. We were gravely inconvenienced, most gravely inconvenienced. Our business, Major Haldean, obviously depends upon South America, but it is a constant trial to depend upon South Americans! They do not have our sense of loyalty or stability.’
‘What was Senhor Valdez like? Did you get on with him, I mean?’
Mr Hunt tutted disapprovingly. ‘I find your line of questioning very awkward, Major. I always found Senhor Valdez perfectly amiable. Until he let us down, I had no reason to complain of him.’
Jack tried a new cast. ‘What did he look like? Was he dark or fair? Did he have a beard or moustache or wear glasses?’
‘For a Brazilian he was very fair.’ He paused, cast a covert glance at Jack’s olive skin and dark eyes, and gave a disconcerted cough.
Jack knew what Frederick Hunt was thinking as clearly as if he said it out loud. ‘Fairer skinned than I am, perhaps?’ he suggested.
Frederick Hunt looked embarrassed and relieved at the same time. ‘Yes, now you come to mention it, yes. Exactly right. Precisely so. Senhor Valdez had no beard but a small moustache. He wore gold-rimmed glasses. His hair was dark, but he could easily have passed for an Englishman. His speech gave him away though. He spoke good English but very heavily accented.’
‘And was the meeting of the ninth of January the only occasion Senhor Valdez saw either you or Mr Helston? I gather he arrived in England on the twenty-eighth of December.’
‘We met the day after he arrived, on the twenty-ninth. He spent the New Year in Paris. His meeting here on the ninth of January was the last before he sailed for Brazil on the tenth.’
‘And did Mr Helston attend that earlier meeting? The one on the twenty-ninth, I mean.’
‘No. It was not necessary for my nephew to be present on that occasion. The subject was Valdez’s report on the current state of the plantation with particular reference to a stand of Liberian coffee trees, which had been planted as an experiment. The Liberian tree is, as you may know, rather hardier than the Arabian tree, but lacks its flavour. It was my father who had insisted on growing Liberian coffee on account of its greater productivity but, although the trees have flourished, we shall only be using the coffee in our cheaper blends.’
‘Why wasn’t Mr Helston at the meeting? I’d have thought he’d have been interested to hear how the plantation was doing.’
‘Oh, he was, but young men must have a social life, my dear sir. He spent Christmas and the New Year hunting in Leicestershire and did not return until the fifth.’
‘What was the tone of the meeting on the ninth? The one between the three of you, I mean. Was it amicable?’
Mr Hunt paused. Picking up his tea, he finished his cup then, placing it back on the saucer, ran his finger round the rim. ‘No, it was not,’ he said eventually. ‘If my nephew had a fault, Major – which I am not prepared to admit – it was that he could be rather short-tempered with . . . with . . .’
He cast another sideways glance at Jack and coloured slightly.
‘Foreigners?’ prompted Jack, who was used to these evasions.
‘Foreigners,’ agreed Mr Hunt, gratefully. ‘There had been a suggestion when Mark first joined the firm that he should go to Brazil permanently and, indeed, he was willing to do so. However, it wouldn’t have done at all. The Brazilians as a people are very free and easy and, in my opinion, rather too wedded to a rough-and-ready democracy which did not fit with Mark’s strict ideas of efficiency. Mark disagreed with some of Senhor Valdez’s decisions, and Senhor Valdez resented his tone.’
‘I see. Was there any decision in particular Mr Helston disapproved of?’
‘Not really.’ He sighed. ‘Mark wanted the Brazilian end to be tightened up and put forward various suggestions as to how this could be accomplished. Senhor Valdez took exception to the implication that his methods needed correction. I’m afraid that tempers got slightly strained.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘It could be Mark’s rather high-handed approach which led to Valdez’s abrupt departure. When it became evident that he had left the firm, I was annoyed but not particularly surprised.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Excuse me, Major, but was there anything else you wanted to ask? If so, I would be delighted to see you when I have rather more time at my disposal.’
Jack got to his feet. ‘Not at all, sir. I’ll push off now. I’m grateful to you for seeing me at such short notice. There’s just one more thing. Which hotel did Senhor Valdez stay in?’
‘He stayed at the Montague Court, I believe.’
‘And in Paris?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you, Major.’
‘Never mind. It’s probably unimportant. Thanks again. I’ll see myself out.’
This, however, did not prove necessary. Jack reached the stairwell when he heard his name called. It was Meredith Smith.
‘Hi! Don’t go yet. I’ll walk down with you. How did you get on with Mr Hunt?’ he asked in an undertone as they clattered down the stairs. ‘Bit of an old fuss-budget, isn’t he?’ Jack pulled a wry face. ‘Like that, was it? Tell me more outside.’
As they walked towards the factory gates, Smith burrowed for more information. ‘Could he tell you anything about Valdez?’
‘Not much. Are you certain the firm hasn’t heard from him?’
‘Quite sure.’ Smith cocked an eyebrow at Jack. ‘Putting two and two together?’
‘Perhaps. I might be horribly wrong, of course. Look, Merry, could you ask around for me? Was Helston fairly imperious in his manner, particularly with foreigners – Brazilians, I mean – or was he reasonably easy-going? Don’t let Mr Hunt know you’re asking questions, otherwise he’ll know I’m checking what he said, and I don’t want to put his back up. There’s another thing. Apparently Helston thought Valdez was a bit of a slacker and had a set-to with him at this meeting on the ninth. I’d like another account of that meeting. Mr Hunt says there were voices raised, so someone might have heard.’
‘They might have, old man. There’s nothing like an office for gossip, especially when there’s been a quarrel.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Look here, Jack, I know this sounds a bit melodramatic but, granted Valdez has disappeared, I don’t suppose Mark Helston could be responsible, could he?’
‘You mean did Mark Helston bump off Valdez and then scoot?’
Meredith Smith winced. ‘That’s putting it very bluntly.’
‘Very bluntly, yes. It could have happened the other way round, of course. Valdez could have bumped off Helston. Or the two disappearances could be nothing but coincidence.’
‘There has to be more to it than coincidence,’ muttered Smith. He looked at Jack anxiously. ‘I don’t like this. H.R.H. is a great old boy. I’ve got tremendous respect for him. If you do dig anything up, be certain of your facts, won’t you? His heart’s not as strong as it might be and the old bird really cared about Helston.’
Jack stopped by the gates, hands in pockets. ‘It might come to nothing, Merry. Thinking of old Mr Hunt, I hope so. But if someone asks you to dig, then, like a good dog, you’ve got to show them what you’ve unearthed.’
‘Yes,’ said Smith unhappily. ‘I suppose you have.’
Gregory Jaggard paused, cocktail shaker in hand. ‘Would you like another, Pat?’
She smiled cynically. ‘It’s all right. You can drop the pretence. Inspector Rackham and Major Haldean have left.’
His lips tightened. ‘Pat – please! We can be civil to each other at least. We can’t go on like this.’
She raised her eyebrows, her head cocked to one side. ‘Why not, Gregory? After all, the arrangement seems to work.’ She fixed a cigarette in its holder, lit it and blew out a long cloud of smoke. ‘I’d like a cocktail, thank you.’
Jaggard poured two cocktails, gave one to his wife and leaned back against the mantelpiece with sudden boiling irritation.
Home! Home, sweet bloody home. Pat picked up her glass with elegant hands. Everything about Pat was elegant; the way she dressed, the way she moved, the way she held her dark glossy head on that perfect neck. Not many women could wear their hair cut close but it framed Pat’s high-cheekboned face with her cool blue eyes to perfection. But there were dark smudges around those eyes and around her mouth were faint lines of strain. ‘You were damn late last night,’ he said brusquely. ‘I don’t care for Eve Lahone’s crowd.’
Pat’s eyes opened wider, then she looked away. Jaggard knew what she was thinking. That’s rich, coming from you. And, God help him, she had a point. Rather more than a point to be fair. I shouldn’t have done it. He knew that. He’d known it at the time, but Pat had been away, the firm was in its usual state of crisis and all he’d really wanted was some sympathetic conversation over dinner.
He’d broken off with Elise before he was married. He had had the honest intention of being faithful but . . . Elise knew the rules and he had been wretchedly alone. It didn’t mean anything. No messy emotional scenes, no heartbreak, no ghastly recriminations. Just one night of their old relationship of lover and mistress, which had, fool that he was, continued.
Then, of course, some kind friend felt it ‘Her duty’ to write to Pat and Pat locked herself into this hurt shell of mannered indifference which nothing could crack. It was so horribly civilized.
He didn’t want to be civilized, not with Pat. Pat was, and always had been, the only woman he cared for. He knew just how much he’d wounded her but if only she would tell him so! He’d welcome a row, a scene, a chance to fight and be forgiven. All she gave him was cold decency. If she would only smile at him with that heart-stopping lift of the mouth . . . If only she’d want to throw something at him!
Yet, even before he fouled his nest, that time which he now regarded as a golden age, he had the bitter honesty to acknowledge that things weren’t perfect. He knew Pat had been married before. If anyone had told him it would have ever mattered he would have laughed out loud. For, after all, what had Pat’s married life amounted to?
She had been desperately young and had spent, when Laurence Tyrell was killed, a total of sixteen days with her husband. Thousands of war-widows married again. But it did matter. It mattered damnably.
Second best. He’d never been anything else. Tyrell’s picture was on her dressing table and Tyrell’s shadow stalked through their lives, all the more potent for being unmentioned. He had been measured by an invisible standard and found wanting. He could have fought Tyrell in the flesh but this wraith defeated him. And the irony of it was that Laurence Tyrell had precious little to recommend him. He’d heard stories which painted that gentleman in a very different light to the one in which Pat regarded him. Stories which he couldn’t, in common decency, pass on.
‘I said, do you think they’ll find Mark?’ It took him a moment to realize that she had spoken. He wrenched his thoughts back to their recent visitors.
‘Inspector Rackham seems an improvement on that other policeman. I like Haldean. I’ve met him befo
re.’
‘Have you? I didn’t care for him much.’
‘He’s not so bad, Pat. Did you know he’s a friend of Meredith Smith’s?’
‘Is he? My mysterious cousin?’ She played nervously with her cigarette. ‘I think if I were Meredith Smith I’d rather resent things being as they are. After all, he seems to have as much right to my Grandmother’s money as we do.’
‘I don’t think Smith sees it that way.’
‘Very noble of him.’
‘Well, you never minded that Mark scooped the pool.’
‘Didn’t I?’ A very faint smile touched her lips. ‘I did, actually. But Mark would have played fair. He’d have shared Grandmama’s money. He knew she was absolutely silly about him. She never made any secret of the fact she preferred men to women. Why, my dear, she only arranged things as they were because I was married to you.’
‘It’s your money, Pat,’ he said stolidly.
She gave him a sideways glance. ‘Not in the eyes of the law, it isn’t. Joint beneficiaries. What was the legal phrase Mr Stafford used? Cestui que use. For your use and mine.’ She finished her drink, then hesitated. ‘I . . . I heard from one of the Lahone crowd that you could use some money, Gregory.’ She looked at his face with sudden, sharp attention. ‘My God, it’s true, isn’t it?’
‘No.’ It was a lie, but it salved his self-respect. ‘Even allowing for income tax, how can it be?’
‘And there’s always the firm,’ she said softly.
‘There’s always the firm,’ he repeated. ‘Actually, I stand to make a goodish bit in the next couple of weeks.’ He swallowed. ‘There’s a race coming up. I’ve got a bet with Johnnie Miller on the strength of it.’
He looked up and surprised an expression which made him catch his breath. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Did she know – how could she know? – the desperate nature of his gamble with Miller? She was looking at him with odd intensity. He smiled humourlessly. ‘It adds a bit of spice, don’t you think?’ She dropped her gaze and he gave an involuntary sigh of relief.
Trouble Brewing Page 3
