Littleton grinned suddenly. ‘Make a damn dull book, eh? Smoke if you want to, Major. The box is on the table beside you. I understand sherry’s one of the few wines you can smoke with, not that it ever bothers me. So, what’s it all about? I know the rough outline of Stafford’s query, but what’s your interest in the matter?’
‘I’ve been asked by Mr Harold Hunt to look into the disappearance of his nephew, Mark Helston. As the trust concerns Mark Helston’s money, it might be relevant to the case.’
‘So old Hunt’s got you involved in that, has he? Yes, that makes sense. It was you, wasn’t it, who turned up that body on Gower Street the other day? I was glad to read in this morning’s paper it wasn’t Helston after all. I came across him a few times.’
Littleton relaxed back, his hands folded across his chest, and when he spoke it was in a softer voice. ‘Damn fine boy, Helston. He was with my son on the Jupiter. He came to see me on his first leave after Andrew had . . . Well, that’s all over now. No point living in the past.’
He picked up his sherry and for a moment concentrated very hard on the light refracting through the glass. ‘Yes, a damn fine boy. Old Hunt did his best to ruin him, of course, together with that precious grandmother of his, but he came through unscathed. Anything that boy wanted he could have, which is the quickest way to the devil I know of, but he weathered all their efforts to spoil him. There’s a sister, isn’t there? Wouldn’t be surprised if she had more than a touch of jealousy about the way they glorified young Helston. It’d only be natural.’
Mr Stafford gave a little legal cough in the back of his throat. ‘It is about the sister I wish to consult you. As far as I am aware, her relations with her brother were always cordial, although, as you say, there was a marked difference in the treatment of brother and sister by my client, their grandmother, Mrs Enid Burbage. I might have ventured to remonstrate with her about the extremely unequal division of her property, but, at the time her will was drawn up, I had no idea of the sums involved. She gave no indication that she was a wealthy woman and, indeed, I questioned more than once the expense she incurred by her lavish partiality for Mark. She insisted on making him a most generous allowance which I believed she could ill afford.’
‘What was Mark’s reaction?’ asked Jack. ‘How did he feel about getting the dibs?’
‘He had considerable reservations, Major, if I understand your question correctly.’ Mr Stafford gave a thin smile. ‘However, he managed to overcome them, as I believe most young men would. To be just, he probably believed Mr Harold Hunt was his real benefactor. He was rather inclined to accept matters at face value and not probe too deeply into what lay behind them. As he was aware that the situation pleased his grandmother and most certainly suited him, he was content to let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘What about this trust?’ snapped out Littleton, rather in the manner of an abruptly wakened dog himself.
‘I have the original documents with me,’ said Mr Stafford, ‘but the essence of the case is this: under the terms of Enid Burbage’s first will, Patricia, née Helston, received two thousand pounds free of duty, but, after various small bequests to servants and charities, the whole of the residue went to Mark. Now, I may say that Mrs Burbage was a very strong-minded old lady, but her physical condition was no match for her mental state. She was very upset by Helston’s disappearance, the more so because of a tactless remark made by the police officer in charge of the case. Two weeks after his disappearance, she suffered a minor heart attack. As far as she was concerned, the writing was on the wall and she felt it her duty to make a new will in case Mark’s absence should be prolonged. Acting upon her instructions, I drew up a will whereby she put her entire property, minus the bequests to servants and charities, which were to be paid upon her death, into a trust.’
He paused. ‘I may say that at the time I drew up the will I had no idea of the amounts involved. Her property, which was chiefly in shares, amounted to two hundred thousand pounds, which results, as it is currently invested, in an annual income of eight thousand pounds. Patricia and her husband, Gregory Jaggard, could draw upon the income from the trust, but the capital sum was to remain untouched. If Mark reappeared within seven years, then the provisions of the original will as they related to himself and Patricia, would stand. However, if within seven years following Mrs Burbage’s death, Mark was proved to be deceased or there was still no trace of him, thus allowing the legal presumption of death to be made, the trust would be dissolved and Patricia Jaggard would become her grandmother’s residuary legatee.’
‘No mention of the husband in that final disposition?’
‘None.’ Mr Stafford sat even straighter, if that were possible, in his chair. ‘Mrs Burbage, remember, thought Mark would return in the near future and none of these provisions would, in fact, be enacted. If the trust did come into operation she wanted Gregory Jaggard to have an equal hand in the administration.’
‘I see. So what’s your problem?’
‘The problem, Mr Littleton, is this: the trust documents refer to Gregory Jaggard in his capacity as Patricia’s husband.’ Mr Stafford paused with an unconscious flair for drama. ‘Last night that marriage was proved to be invalid.’
‘Good God! Why?’
‘By the return of her first husband, Laurence Tyrell. Laurence Tyrell married Patricia Helston in April 1916, whilst serving as a lieutenant in the Irish Guards. He was later reported missing, presumed killed, at the battle of the Third Ypres—’
‘Passchendaele.’
‘Or, as it is more popularly known, Passchendaele. Patricia remarried two years ago in the firm belief that she was a widow. I need hardly tell you that the question which most concerns me is the implication for the trust.’
Mr Littleton’s eyebrows shot up to alarming heights. ‘The question which concerns me is the human one. Good Lord, Major Haldean, this is like one of your books. Have you met the feller?’
Jack shook his head. ‘Not yet, no. I bumped into Gregory Jaggard last night though. He’s taken it rather badly.’
‘I bet he has. What’s this chap Tyrell like, Stafford? Disfigured at all?’
‘By no means.’
‘That’s something.’ He got up and strode around the room, hands behind his back. ‘What’s the girl’s reaction?’
‘She seemed very happy to be reunited with her husband.’
‘Did she, by jingo? A divorce seems the obvious step but if she’s happy to see the man, that could put the cat amongst the pigeons. Let me see the papers,’ he added abruptly. ‘Help yourself to more sherry.’
He flung himself into a chair with the documents Mr Stafford produced from his case, muttering comments to himself. He eventually tossed them down on the table beside him before producing a deep-bowled briar which he proceeded to stuff with astonishing quantities of jet-black tobacco.
‘Simple,’ he growled, once his pipe had been ignited. ‘No question at all.’ He glowered at Mr Stafford through a haze of blue smoke. ‘I’m surprised you needed to consult me, Stafford.’
‘Does Gregory Jaggard lose out then?’ asked Jack, seeing that some reply, which Mr Stafford obviously wasn’t going to commit himself to, was needed.
‘Lose out? Of course the man loses out. He’s had his wife snatched from him by a chap who’s played dead since nineteen seventeen. If he’s got any emotions at all he’ll feel he’s very much the loser, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I would, certainly. But what about the money?’
‘Oh, that’s all right. He gets to keep his income under the trust. Not that that’s much consolation, I should imagine.’
‘Does he?’ asked Mr Stafford, startled into speech.
‘Of course he does. Look man, it’s here in black and white.’ He picked up the papers and ruffled amongst them, before stabbing the page with the stem of his pipe. ‘Gregory Jaggard, husband of the aforesaid Patricia Jaggard. He’s a beneficiary because he’s Gregory Jaggard, not because he’s Patricia Jaggard’s
husband. Error nom nomine.’
‘The error is not in the name,’ said Jack slowly.
‘Correct,’ said Littleton, casting him an approving glance.
‘So financially speaking, Laurence Tyrell won’t be any better off for his reappearance?’
‘Strictly speaking, no. However, his wife does receive an income under the rules of the trust. I suppose he might persuade her to part with some of that.’
Mr Stafford took off his glasses and wiped them carefully. ‘You sound unduly suspicious of Laurence Tyrell’s motives, Mr Littleton.’
Littleton gave a crack of laughter. ‘Unduly suspicious! I’ll say I am. Ask him what he’s been doing for the last few years and why he’s only decided to come home now there’s some money in the offing. Half of four thousand is a significant sum. He might’ve thought he was going to get Jaggard’s share too. What is it?’ he added, swinging round on Jack, who was nursing his sherry thoughtfully.
‘I was just wondering,’ said Jack, slowly. ‘At the moment the trust and all the whatjamajigs don’t seem to be affected by Tyrell’s return. But what if Mark Helston’s dead?’
‘If that can be proved – and wait seven years and it doesn’t have to be proved – then Patricia, whatever she chooses to call herself, will be a very rich woman.’
‘And the husband?’
‘Will be the next of kin.’ His eyes narrowed and he sat back, sending up a huge cloud of smoke. ‘I see what you’re getting at, Major. Ugly thought, isn’t it?’ He turned to Stafford once more. ‘I don’t suppose you’ll get anywhere with her, Stafford, because in my experience women will not take the most obvious precautions to protect their interests against their family, but it wouldn’t hurt to suggest she makes a will leaving her property away from her husband.’
‘But . . .’ Mr Stafford repolished his spectacles furiously before replacing them. ‘That sounds as if you are suggesting my client may be in danger. Surely there can be no foundation for such a monstrous idea. I cannot possibly be responsible for putting such notions into her head. Why, Mr Littleton, you talk as if you expected her to be murdered.’
‘Do I?’ said Littleton, with a lift of his eyebrows. ‘Well, it occurred to Major Haldean and it occurred to me. But she’s your client, Stafford, and you must do as you think best.’ He took his pipe from his mouth and gazed at the ashes in the bowl, before glancing up at Stafford once more. ‘Let’s just hope that it doesn’t occur to anyone else, shall we?’
SIX
Ruby was quite definite; Mrs Jaggard wasn’t in, nor was the master and she couldn’t tell when either of them would be back, not if you offered her a hundred pounds.
Jack stopped short of such fantastic inducements but, aided by an excess of charm that made him feel slightly hot under the collar to think of (Bill was right, damn him! He could switch it on) elicited that the house was at Sixes and Sevens.
A Man had mysteriously appeared and the mistress had taken on ever so before going off with him. The master had looked reelly ill – as white as a sheet – before leaving the previous night. Mrs Jaggard was stopping with her uncle, as she knew for a fact, as she’d sent round for Ellen, her maid, to bring some clothes that morning and if Major Haldean could tell her, Ruby, what was behind it all, she, Ruby, would be very glad to know as neither she, or Cook, or any of the other servants knew what it was all about or even if they’d still have a place at the end of the month; no, not even Mr Kennett, who was Mr Jaggard’s valet and had been with him all through the war.
14, Neville Square did indeed prove to contain the missing lady.
‘Mrs Jaggard, sir?’ enquired Fields ponderously. ‘I will enquire if she is At Home.’
Jack, left in the hall like a parcel, waited with as much patience as he could muster. Mrs Jaggard, it transpired, was At Home but currently engaged with Mr Hunt and Captain Smith. If Sir would care to step into the morning room, Mrs Jaggard would join him shortly.
Sir, ridding himself of his hat, coat and stick, did care. There was, as Fields informed him, as he led the way to the morning room with elephantine tread, a lady in the morning room, also waiting to see Mrs Jaggard.
The lady turned out to be an old friend.
‘Anne!’ exclaimed Jack with genuine pleasure.
It was Anne Lassiter, a brown-eyed, brown-haired, capable, kindly, thoroughly good sort, who was married to one of Jack’s old friends, George. He shouldn’t, Jack thought, be surprised to see her here. After all, it was George’s grandfather, old Mr Lassiter, who had urged Mr Hunt to seek his help and he knew that Pat Jaggard and Anne Lassiter were good friends. He couldn’t think of anyone better for Pat to turn to.
‘Have you heard about Larry Tyrell, Jack?’ asked Anne, clasping his hand warmly. ‘Pat rang me first thing this morning. You know Meredith Smith’s here? He’s with old Mr Hunt. I think he’s got some news about Mr Tyrell.’
Jack’s forehead creased in a frown. ‘Whatever sort of news can Merry Smith have about Tyrell?’
‘I don’t know the ins and outs of it,’ said Anne, ‘but Pat said Mr Hunt asked him to call. It’s something to do with Brazil. Apparently Larry Tyrell actually worked for Hunt Coffee in Brazil.’
‘What?’ Jack stared at her. ‘Pat’s husband worked for Hunts?’
‘I know,’ said Anne nodding vigorously. ‘Isn’t it amazing?’
‘Didn’t anyone notice he was there? Come to that, didn’t he think to mention who he was?’
‘No, that’s just it. He didn’t know who he was.’ Anne leaned forward earnestly. ‘It’s something to do with the war. He was badly blown up and suffered from shell shock. He lost his memory and it’s taken him ages to find out who he really is.’
‘Blimey,’ said Jack, settling down in a chintz-covered chair. ‘That’ll be a story worth hearing.’ He took out his cigarette case. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’
‘Not at all,’ said Anne, taking a cigarette from the case Jack offered her.
‘How does Mrs . . .’ Jack broke off and grinned sheepishly. ‘D’you know, I was about to say “Mrs Jaggard” but I don’t suppose it’s right to call her that, is it? How does she feel about it all?’
‘Confused, I think,’ said Anne. ‘She certainly sounded confused on the phone, but there’s more to it than that. There’s going to be some very unkind people who’ll think Pat planned this in some way, but I can tell you she honestly believed Larry Tyrell was dead until he walked in last night.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, Anne. Why on earth should anyone think she planned it?’
Anne shook her head distractedly. ‘Pat wasn’t happy with Greg. You know the beastly construction people put on things, but it wasn’t her fault.’ She looked at him quizzically. ‘You like Gregory Jaggard, don’t you?’
Jack shrugged. ‘I’ve always got on with him.’
‘Most people do.’ Anne clicked her tongue. ‘The trouble is that Pat always looked on Greg as second best. It worried me. I tried to talk to her about it, but you can’t live other people’s lives for them, can you?’ She looked at him helplessly. ‘I knew they weren’t happy. He was always too polite to her, if you know what I mean.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ said Jack. ‘That’s a very good way of putting it.’
‘It was almost inevitable it would go wrong and, of course, it did.’
‘What happened? Did Jaggard – let me think how to put this – did Jaggard stray off the straight and narrow?’
Anne let out a long breath of relief. ‘You are quick on the uptake, Jack. That’s exactly it. Pat was terribly hurt. She retreated into a horrible cold, hard shell. She runs round with that beastly Lahone crowd for no other reason, I’m sure, than to spite Greg. He hates it, but he really only has himself to blame. Have you ever heard of Elise Molnar?’
Jack frowned. ‘The name’s vaguely familiar for some reason. Hang on. Is she a singer?’
‘That’s right. It’s a few months ago now, but George and I went to the Dead Luc
ky in Piccadilly with Pat and some friends. Elise Molnar was singing. I knew something was wrong. Pat told me the whole story.’
She leaned forward confidentially. ‘Gregory Jaggard saw an awful lot of Elise Molnar before he married Pat. She’s Scandinavian, with very striking fair good looks. She makes rather a hobby of rich, good-looking men, if you see what I mean.’
Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Jaggard fits that bill.’
‘Absolutely he does. Well, Pat found out that he’d started seeing her again. Men can be such fools, Jack. Pat knew perfectly well there was something going on. He’d have unexplained nights away – sometimes as much as a week – and expect her to believe some cock-and-bull story about where he’d been. When she found out it was Elise Molnar, the fat really was in the fire.’
‘Poor beggar,’ commented Jack. ‘Has the affair continued, do you know?’
‘I don’t,’ said Anne with a shrug. ‘Pat says she couldn’t give a damn. Whether that’s true or not, I don’t know. The rotten thing is, I’m sure Greg cares about Pat, cares a lot.’
‘I think you’re absolutely right,’ said Jack. Jaggard’s behaviour the previous evening was still vivid in his mind. ‘The idiot had a pretty rum way of showing it, though.’
‘I know. I can’t excuse him, but I must admit I feel sorry for him. I like Greg and Pat’s one of my best friends. I hoped that eventually the pair of them would make it up, but now Larry Tyrell’s returned, there’s no hope of that.’
‘Have you ever met Tyrell?’
She shook her head. ‘No. Pat thought the world of him. So much so, I don’t see how anyone could be as wonderful as she thought he was. I’ll tell you something else, Jack.’ She crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘It may be very mean spirited of me, but I can’t help feel suspicious of his motives. Why’s he come back now? Now Pat’s got some money, I mean?’
‘That,’ said Jack, dryly, ‘is precisely the question that occurred to me.’
In the drawing room, the question of Laurence Tyrell’s motives was also up for debate. Mr Hunt closed the file Meredith Smith had brought with him. It was a little while before he spoke. ‘So, according to our records, it would seem that Mr Tyrell’s account of himself – Mr Tyrell’s remarkable account of himself – is true.’
Trouble Brewing Page 9
