Trouble Brewing

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Jack and Meredith exchanged worried glances. ‘Why do you want to shoot yourself?’ asked Jack cautiously.

  Jaggard waved his hands expansively. ‘Or him. Can’t shoot her. Not my . . . my . . . But she isn’t any longer, is she? He’s back, you know. Why didn’t the swine stay dead?’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Smith. ‘Mark Helston?’

  ‘Mark?’ He squinted at them truculently. ‘Talk sense. Mark’s gone. He won’t come back. He killed Valdez, didn’t he? Didn’t think he would. Not Mark. Shouldn’t have done that. Oh, God.’ He buried his head in his hands. ‘Leave me alone, will you?’

  They quietly left.

  ‘We’ve got to get him out of there before he causes a scene,’ said Jack. He strode into the lobby to find the porter.

  ‘Mr Jaggard, Major?’ said ex-Sergeant Sutton. ‘He’s staying here tonight. If both you gentlemen could help, I’m sure we could help Mr Jaggard up to his room. We don’t want him making a fuss in front of the other members. Mr Jaggard wouldn’t like that at all. He’d be mortified once he realized what he’d done.’

  Confronted with their joint force, Jaggard allowed himself to be persuaded up to his room, where he lay, fully clothed and incapable, on the bed.

  ‘I don’t know how long he’s been drinking,’ said Sergeant Sutton, ‘but they shouldn’t have served him, poor sod, begging your pardon, sir.’

  Jaggard opened one eye. ‘Where’s that bloody gun?’

  ‘Never mind about that now, old man,’ said Jack soothingly. ‘You can’t do it tonight. It’s far too late.’

  Jaggard’s face crumpled. ‘Too late. Oh, God, I feel sick.’

  Jaggard was sick. It was some time, some rudimentary housework and much talk before they could leave, but, as Sergeant Sutton comfortingly said as they walked down the stairs, ‘He’ll be all right now, gentlemen. I’ll keep an eye on him. I should report this to the Secretary, though.’

  Jack felt in his wallet and drew out a pound note. ‘This is for your help, Sergeant. We couldn’t have managed without you. Unless you feel you absolutely must, I can’t see there’s any need to bother the Secretary about it. I don’t want to inconvenience Mr Jaggard more than is absolutely necessary.’

  ‘Right you are, sir,’ said the sergeant, pocketing the money. ‘Least said, soonest mended.’ He grinned to himself. ‘But I wouldn’t like to have his head tomorrow.’

  Bill Rackham, entering his office considerably before nine o’clock the next morning, was surprised to find Jack waiting for him. ‘Hello, old man. What’s up? I’m up to my eyeballs today. I’ve got to be at the Old Bailey to give evidence in the Leigh Abbey case, so I can’t spare you much time.’

  ‘This won’t take long, I hope. I knew you were tied up today which is why I’m here at this unearthly hour. Who, in the Valdez-Helston business, is connected with Jaggard and called Larry? He’s obviously got right up Jaggard’s nose. I think I know the answer, but I want to make sure.’

  Bill frowned. Walking to the desk he opened the drawer and picked out the file. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells. Here we are. Gregory Jaggard . . . Nothing there. Patricia Jaggard . . . There’s a Laurence, if that’s any help. He could be called Larry, I suppose. He was Patricia Jaggard’s first husband. He was killed at Third Ypres.’

  Jack nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. I’ll have to go into this, Bill, but it looks as if the army might have made a mistake. Jaggard was at the club last night, very much the worse for wear. If I understood him correctly, Laurence Tyrell arrived in London yesterday.’

  Bill gaped at Jack. ‘What? Are you sure?’

  ‘Nearly sure.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’ Bill put the file back on the desk like a man in a daze. ‘I’ve never come across a blinking case like it. A man we didn’t know was missing is murdered, a missing man we assumed to be dead is suspected of murder, and now another man, who we all thought was safely dead years ago, strolls in, restored to life. Where the hell’s he been all this time?’

  ‘That’s one of the questions I want to ask.’

  Bill looked at the clock and swore. ‘You’ll have to ask it by yourself. I’ve absolutely got to be in Court. But here’s a thought, Jack. How on earth will it affect that trust fund of the Jaggards?’

  ‘That, old son, is another one of the other questions. But from what I can remember, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Gregory Jaggard got the wooden spoon. Can you pass me the file? I want to check the solicitor’s address.’

  ‘I need scarcely tell you, Major Haldean, we are not accustomed to impart confidential details relating to our clients.’ John Gervase Stafford peered disapprovingly at Jack over the top of his half-moon spectacles. ‘However, in light of Sir Douglas Lynton’s telephone call, I feel that an exception may be made in this case. Although why we pay rates when the police force deems it necessary to call upon amateurs, I really do not know.’

  ‘The officer in charge has to be at the Old Bailey this morning in connection with another case. As I’ve been retained by Mr Harold Hunt to investigate an associated matter, Sir Douglas thought it best for me to see you, rather than brief another officer previously unconnected with the affair,’ said Jack, blessing the foresight which had made him prompt Sir Douglas to ring Kyle, Stafford and Bruce.

  ‘I see,’ said Mr Stafford, with the suspicion of a sniff. ‘As you have the confidence of both Mr Hunt and Scotland Yard, it would be churlish of me to object any further.’ He permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Please smoke if you so wish. I do not myself indulge in the habit. I consider tobacco to be the cause of most of the nervous agitation so sadly prevalent amongst your contemporaries.’

  Jack’s hand froze on the way to his pocket and he contented himself with bringing both elbows up to the desk and resting his chin on his interlocked hands. Mr Stafford leaned back in his chair and steepled his index fingers together under a prim mouth.

  ‘Well, Major?’ he asked, after a short pause. ‘You do have some questions for me, I presume?’

  Having thus established the prickly Mr Stafford in the role of imparter, rather than withholder, of information, Jack relaxed with a smile. ‘Oh lots, sir. The first and most important is about this chap who turned up yesterday. He is Laurence Tyrell, is he?’

  ‘Undoubtedly, sir. His wife, the former Miss Patricia Helston, currently known as Mrs Jaggard, identified him at once.’

  ‘I see . . . Bit of a shock for everyone, what?’

  ‘A most severe shock. Indeed, had I any inkling of the upset it would cause Mrs Jaggard I would have refrained from letting him confront her without warning.’ He hesitated. ‘To be honest, Major, I thought there must be some mistake, either deliberate or accidental. As far as I was aware, there was no doubt that Laurence Tyrell had been killed at the Third Ypres, and I harboured a suspicion – unworthy as it transpired – that the man claiming to be Mr Tyrell was an impostor. There is a considerable sum of money at stake and, in such cases, I regret to say that false claimants are not unknown. Rather than be a party, however innocent, to any deception, I thought it was best to take immediate action to establish his bona fides.’

  ‘Why did he come to you, sir? Why not go straight to his wife?’

  ‘He was not furnished with her address. I gather he arrived in London yesterday morning. He consulted the telephone directory for a Mrs Tyrell but, naturally enough, found no one listed under that name. He had no idea that his wife had remarried. As the marriage had taken place in good faith, there can be no question of an action for bigamy.’ He glared at Jack as if suspecting him of wanting to drag his client bodily into court.

  ‘No, no, of course there won’t be,’ Jack assured him hastily. ‘But where did the chap spring from? He seems to have popped up like the demon king.’

  ‘For that information you must apply directly to Mr Tyrell himself.’

  ‘Okay . . .’ Jack ran a hand through his hair. ‘Won’t this upset the apple cart rather? I mean about the trust fund and what-have-you?�
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  ‘The point you raise has not escaped my attention, Major. Indeed, I was so exercised upon the question that I have decided to take Counsel’s opinion upon the subject. The rules regulating the operation of trusts are principally determined by the large body of case law upon the subject. In this situation, which I venture to suggest is unique, case law will, I fear, be of little help.’

  ‘Gosh,’ said Jack, with a disarming grin, wondering how it was that Mr Stafford could so successfully turn an admission of ignorance into what sounded like a display of knowledge. ‘It sounds as if this Counsel’s opinion might be fairly key to the whole thing. D’you mind if I come along?’

  ‘Well really, I . . .’ Mr Stafford broke off and gazed uncomfortably at the leather blotting pad on the desk in front of him.

  ‘Who’ve you asked?’ put in Jack, easily. ‘I was wondering if I’d ever run across him. My godfather’s a K.C., you know. He’s called Archie Wilde, if that means anything to you.’

  Mr Stafford brightened visibly. ‘Indeed it does, Major. We have never briefed Mr Wilde as ours is an exclusively civil practice, but I am, of course, familiar with the name. I have an appointment with Thomas Littleton, K.C. at his rooms in Lincoln’s Inn at three o’clock this afternoon. In the circumstances it would, perhaps, be in order for you to accompany me.’

  ‘That’s very good of you, sir,’ said Jack, rising to his feet. ‘Shall we say the Chancery Lane entrance outside Stone Buildings at quarter to three?’

  And I only hope, he added to himself as he took his leave and walked out onto Southampton Row, that the learned Mr Littleton is rather more forthcoming than the reticent Mr Stafford.

  Meredith Smith laid down his pen and looked thoughtfully at the open ledger in front of him.

  The accounts, as accounts, were fine, culminating in a row of figures scored under with a double line and resulting in a worthwhile profit. And really, he thought, looking at the signature of Francis Mason, Chartered Accountant, who had audited and signed last year’s accounts, he wouldn’t have expected anything else. Mason and Schofield was a well-respected firm; if there was anything dodgy it was unlikely to show up in the official records. They were scrutinized far too closely.

  So why, in the face of all the evidence, to say nothing of his own careful accounting, did he think something was wrong? H.R.H.’s hints? Maybe, but the hints had been so guarded that he might have read too much into them. He’d been nettled, too, by Miss Mandeville’s spotting of the discrepancy between the plantation price and the spot-market price. He should have been aware of that. Having their own plantation ensured a regular supply of high-quality coffee and that, surely, was worth paying a premium for, but . . .

  He pulled down a set of accounts at random. 1919. That was too early. The market was still settling down after the war. He went forward a couple of years. Prices had steadied at 115 shillings. The next year showed a total rise to 131 shillings and the year after that it had shot to 146 before rising to 154 where it had been for the last two years. They were buying a lot more chicory than in previous years but that price had fallen slightly. Instead of buying chicory in Yorkshire, they were shipping it from Belgium, which, oddly enough, was cheaper. The total production of the factory had remained about the same for the last three years.

  Hang on. If coffee was being bulked out by chicory, and the production was the same, that should mean less coffee – expensive, taxable coffee – was being imported which should mean a reduction in costs. So where was the saving? He glanced over his figures again, drumming his pencil on the table. Surely the profits should have risen more? There was a profit, but he would have expected it to have grown. With the last three years’ accounts in front of him, he ran his eyes up and down the columns of figures while the idea for a fraud took root and grew in his mind.

  He suddenly became aware of the complete silence of the office; lunchtime. He glanced at his watch. The siren had sounded ages ago. He had roughly half an hour to test out his idea. Through the open window overlooking the factory yard came the shouts of an impromptu game of football. The factory would be deserted too.

  He walked rapidly down the stairs, out into the yard and across to the factory. The bottling department was eerily quiet. The great green-painted machines stood ready to clank into rattling life, jetting clouds of steam into innumerable waiting bottles before they each received a precise eight fluid ounces of ready-made Royale Coffee. When he had been here before it had resembled, with the heat, the noise and the hissing steam, a picture of a mechanical hell.

  He had to shout at the man next to him to make himself heard; now his footsteps rang out on the tiled floor. He opened the far door into the outside air and skirted round the various buildings until he got to the warehouse, walking through the towering piles of sacks, with their clean, sharp smell of jute, until he reached the far doors looking out onto the slowly flowing Thames.

  The watchman sat dozing in a chair pulled up to the open doors of the dock entrance. He looked round with sleepy eyes as Smith approached and put down the newspaper that covered his knees. ‘Would you be wanting anything, sir? The offices is round the other side.’

  ‘I know,’ said Smith with a friendly smile. ‘I work there. I thought I’d come and have a look at the warehouse instead of sitting at a desk all day.’ This eccentric behaviour was met with a nod which implied ‘suit yourself’, better than any words could have done. ‘Smoke?’ he asked, offering his case.

  ‘Thanks, guv. Don’t mind if I do,’ said the watchman. ‘There’s many,’ he said, obviously feeling called upon to make some remark, ‘who’d do better to come rhand ’ere a bit more often. Take old Mr Hunt now. He knew everyone who worked for him by name. Saw a lot of him, we did.’

  Smith let this remark drop into silence. ‘There’s an awful lot of coffee in there,’ he said, with a glance into the warehouse. Now that was an idiotic thing to say. Of course there was a lot of coffee in there. ‘What happens when it comes in?’ he asked quickly. ‘I mean, how d’you know where to put it all?’

  ‘It all depends. There’s some bags we put up the side for storage and there’s some going to be used right away. Mr Wilkins, the foreman, he takes care of that. He tells the lads where to put everything right enough.’

  ‘Do you store coffee for a long time?’

  ‘Sometimes. There’s sacks in there we’ve had for the last two, three years and more.’ He gave a slow smile. ‘Don’t ask me why.’

  ‘I suppose you know how much you’ve got?’

  ‘Mr Wilkins does. He keeps tabs on it all. We don’t want no one sticking one of these bags under their arm and walking orf with it, do we?’ he said with a smile, jerking his thumb to indicate the warehouse.

  This was the opening Smith had been waiting for. ‘They’d take some lifting, wouldn’t they? They must weigh a ton.’

  ‘There’s a hundredweight to each sack and when you’ve shifted a few of those you know about it. I’ve done enough of that in my time. I can’t manage no more because of me back, but if I had a penny for every sack I’ve shifted, I’d be a rich man.’

  ‘I bet you would. Are some sacks lighter than others?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed the watchman. ‘Mind you, they don’t feel lighter at the end of the afternoon, but you take the old coffee, for instance. I could move two of those for every one of the others.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  The watchman shrugged. ‘Blessed if I know. But those sacks is a lot less heavy when they go out than when they come in. Mr Wilkins knows all about it. He often says, “Come on, lads, it’s an easy job this afternoon.” Funny, innit?’

  It was funny, thought Smith on the way back to the office. So funny he thought he’d like a word with Mr Wilkins. He felt a sense of tingling excitement. It seemed as if his idea just might be right after all.

  ‘Sherry, eh?’ Thomas Littleton, K.C., taking Jack’s assent for granted, jerked the liquid into a glass, completely heedless of the splashes on the silver
tray or the faded but beautiful Turkish carpet and handed it to his guest. ‘What d’you think?’

  Jack’s eyes widened in appreciation. ‘It’s a very fine oloroso, sir. In fact –’ he took another sip – ‘I’d say it was what my Spanish grandfather would call a palo.’

  ‘Would he, by George? That means it’s good, eh? Appreciate your opinion, sir.’ He spoke in a succession of short barks and Jack found himself irresistibly reminded of a stout, tetchy but agreeably inclined Jack Russell. ‘I can’t tell one from another myself but I got a case from a client. Oakshot versus Imperial Alloys, Stafford. Remember that?’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ said Mr Stafford with feeling. ‘And I may say it was fortunate for Oakshot that you took the brief. He would have been a much poorer man without your assistance, although I cannot feel that justice was truly served.’

  ‘Justice?’ Littleton flung himself in an armchair and raised two bristling eyebrows at Mr Stafford. ‘You mustn’t confuse yourself with notions of justice, man. Justice is what the judge says it is or where would we poor barristers be? If the law was a simple matter of justice then every man could be his own advocate, the courts would be clogged with every Tom, Dick or Harry who has a fancied grievance and complete anarchy would reign.’

  Mr Stafford mildly disassociated himself from any desire to inflict elemental chaos on the law courts, but Littleton had turned his attention back to Jack. ‘You ever read for the bar? I ask because you always get it right in your books. They’re some of the few detective stories I can read without wanting to argue with the author.’

  Accepting this, as indeed it was, as a compliment, Jack shook his head. ‘I’ve no legal training myself, but I check anything I’m not sure about with my godfather, Archie Wilde.’

  ‘Ah. I thought there was some expert knowledge there. So you’re Wilde’s godson, are you? Sound man.’ He pugnaciously wriggled forward in his chair. ‘So what’s your interest in trusts? Going to put them in a book?’

  ‘I sincerely hope not,’ exclaimed Mr Stafford, shocked.