Trouble Brewing

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Are you sure you’re right? About the legal side of it, I mean?’

  ‘Not a hundred per cent,’ said Jaggard. ‘I know enough to be worried, though, and that’s good enough for me.’ He took her hands once more and looked earnestly into her eyes. ‘Make a will, Pat. You might hurt his feelings, but that’s a small price to pay for safety.’

  Harold Rushton Hunt kept to the old-fashioned custom of ordering a selection of newspapers. They stared up at Jack from the Hunts’ drawing-room table and, on a day in which there had been a dearth of news, there was no doubt which item had caught the attention of the Press. Jaggard Escapes! screamed the Daily Messenger, and the same story was repeated with variations of text, type and emphasis in all the other papers. It was obvious they’d all been read.

  Although the Messenger story carried no byline, Jack knew, because he had been told as much that lunchtime, that its author was his old pal, Ernie Stanhope. He had successfully run Stanhope to ground in the Cheshire Cheese. Brooding over a melancholy whisky, Stanhope had accused Jack of deliberately making his load heavier to bear. ‘I know you’re in on it, Jack, You’ve got to give me a break. The Yard’ve clammed up. Who’d be a poor bloody reporter?’

  It was with difficulty that Jack persuaded Stanhope that he didn’t know where Jaggard was, hard work to convince him that he had no knowledge of any special relationship between Sheila Mandeville and the missing man, and a real uphill struggle to get him to believe that he simply didn’t know if there was any connection between Sheila Mandeville’s murder, Ariel Valdez’s murder and the disappearance of Mark Helston.

  ‘So what do you want?’ asked Stanhope morosely. ‘You didn’t come to Fleet Street to gaze into my beautiful blue eyes.’ He listened incredulously. ‘The film competition? The film competition? What has that to do with . . .? Okay, have it your own way. If you say it’s important, it’s important. You’d better see Frankie Taylor. He does all the competitions. Well, let me finish my drink . . .’

  The winner of last Monday’s Spot The Stars had been a Miss Margery Westbury of Walthamstow. Had Miss Mandeville won any of the newspaper’s competitions? No, she had not. Was he sure? Of course he was sure. Interview the winner? For a twenty-quid competition? Frankie Taylor was highly amused.

  But, thought Jack, as he took his leave to keep his appointment with old Mr Hunt, that hadn’t tied in with what Rosie O’Connor, Cynthia Cullen, Margaret Ross and the rest of the clerical staff of Hunt Coffee had told him earlier that day. According to them, Sheila Mandeville had been determined to get home on time last Friday because she’d had a letter from the Daily Messenger to say a reporter was coming to interview her about the pleasing fact that she’d won twenty pounds in Monday’s Spot The Stars competition. So who had written the letter? Someone who wanted to make sure she’d be at home early on Friday evening . . .

  He gazed at the spread of newsprint in front of him. The drawing-room clock continued to tick in its mellow, unhurried way. He checked the time with his watch. Old Mr Hunt was keeping him waiting. That had been a very curt note requesting him to call. Jack had an uncomfortable suspicion that he wasn’t top of Mr Hunt’s list of favourite people . . .

  Laurence Tyrell had been at Hunt Coffee on Friday; all afternoon, Agnes Clement, Frederick Hunt’s confidential clerk had told him. He’d been shown round by Mr Hunt. She thought they’d gone to the club after they’d left. She didn’t know which club. Frederick Hunt, impatient at being interrupted, had curtly confirmed he’d been with Tyrell all day. Dash it, Major Haldean, that did include the early evening as well. Tyrell had come for a couple of drinks at the club and had been persuaded to have a spot of dinner before leaving at about half past nine to go back to his hotel to change. Which club? The Archias on Carteret Street, St James’s, not that it was any of his business.

  The porter at the Archias remembered Mr Tyrell well. Nice gentleman, Mr Tyrell, with a very pleasant way with him. Mr Tyrell and Mr Hunt had come in at quarter past five. His watch had stopped and he’d asked for the time. Oh yes, he’d been around all evening. The steward could bear him out. He must have left about half past nine or so. He’d said goodnight on the way out. No, his watch hadn’t stopped again. Mr Tyrell had said as much, he’d said, ‘Good, I see my watch is still working.’ Plenty of people had seen him, including the waiter who had served him.

  Jack frowned. Was there a chance there? There was an insistence on the time, which seemed fishy, but any idle remark seemed fishy if examined long enough. Tyrell couldn’t, simply couldn’t, have moved the body after half nine. By that time it would have started to stiffen and it would have been obvious it had been moved.

  Besides, he didn’t have time to get from the Archias to Dunthorpe Mansions, then back to his hotel to change before calling for Pat that evening. Tyrell had certainly arrived at Neville Square at ten o’clock, in full evening dress. Pat Tyrell had told him so. Poor Pat. There was no doubt that Jaggard’s escape had been a complete shock to her.

  Jack looked at his watch again. Where the devil was old Mr Hunt?

  As if in answer to his unspoken question, the door opened and Mr Hunt, supported on Fields’ arm, came into the drawing room. He walked with obvious difficulty, stopping to draw breath, and his lips had an unhealthy blue tinge. He looked at Jack but did not speak until Fields had settled him in the winged chair by the fireplace. When he spoke it was to the butler. ‘You can go now.’

  Fields didn’t move. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, sir?’

  ‘Of course I’ll be all right!’ He waved an irritated hand at the bottles on the tray beside him. ‘I’ve got every sort of medicine for every complaint known to man – not that any of it is a farthing’s worth of use – and I am perfectly capable of ringing the bell should it be necessary.’ Fields still didn’t move. A thin smile touched Mr Hunt’s lips. ‘You’re a stubborn man, Fields, and your concern does you credit, but I don’t intend to die just yet. Off you go.’

  Reluctantly the butler left the room.

  ‘Now, sir!’ said Mr Hunt, as if calling a meeting to order. ‘I suppose I should thank you, Major, for calling in response to my note. However –’ his thin hand grasped the arm of the chair – ‘I must own I am extremely disappointed in your progress. The newspapers this morning were a disgrace. My family’s name has been dragged through the gutter and for what? Are you any closer to discovering what happened to Mark? No, you are not. I am not a complete fool. I know what people are saying. If you had deliberately set out to blacken my family’s name you couldn’t have made a better job of it.’

  Jack was prepared to take a good deal from an old man, especially one who looked so very frail, but he was not prepared to take that. ‘I think you’re being unfair, Mr Hunt. I admit I haven’t managed to trace your nephew but I warned you at the time it would be difficult. As for blackening your name . . .’

  ‘You have been only too successful. Thanks to you, everyone – everyone – believes that Mark is guilty of murdering Ariel Valdez. Laurence Tyrell has returned in a blaze of publicity which was certainly not of my making . . .’

  ‘Or mine.’

  ‘Really? I’d like to know exactly how the papers did get hold of it, then. Patricia assures me she was not responsible and I refuse to credit that any of my family, servants or employees would carry such tittle-tattle to the popular press.’

  Jack bit his lip. He felt disinclined to lay any more blame on Gregory Jaggard’s shoulders. ‘Gossip will almost always get out, sir.’

  ‘Gossip! You tell me my family is the subject of gossip and expect me to be cheered? But that, Major, is almost by the way. A young girl has been murdered and, yet again, there is a damning connection with Hunt Coffee. She was my employee and I cannot help but feel responsible for her. If that was not enough, her murderer has escaped justice. Although Jaggard is not and, apparently, never was, part of the family, the link is there and the papers have pounced on it.’ He stopped, gasping for breath. ‘My drops,’ he croaked.<
br />
  Jack crossed swiftly to his side, quickly found the small brown bottle Mr Hunt was pointing to, and, shaking some into a glass of water, held it to his lips. Very gradually the colour came back to the old man’s face.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said eventually. From the hall came the jangling of the front-door bell, but Mr Hunt ignored it. He closed his eyes and waited for a long moment.

  ‘I have rarely,’ he said at long last, ‘felt so helpless.’ He opened his eyes. ‘I have had a long and varied life, Major. I was eighteen when I sailed for Brazil. I made an expedition up the Amazon and held a gun against a revolutionary mob. I carved the plantation out of virgin land and always, always, relied on my own wits and abilities. If I still had a fraction of my strength I would hunt down Jaggard and make him confess to Valdez’s murder. If Jaggard killed this girl then surely he killed Valdez as well. It can’t be Mark. You see that, don’t you? Mark’s name would be cleared and Patricia would be free for good.’

  His hands clenched momentarily. ‘I have to rely on others! Age makes such idiots of us all. But old or not, I wish I could get to grips with Jaggard. I’ve rarely been wrong about a man but I was wrong about him.’ A new light crept into his eyes. ‘I’ve said some hard things to you, sir. Perhaps it’s only my age that made you listen. I mean them; I mean everything I’ve said. But the hardest thing for me to realize is that Jaggard deceived me so completely.’

  ‘Have you considered that Jaggard might be innocent?’ asked Jack tentatively.

  ‘Don’t be a damn fool, man,’ began Mr Hunt, then stopped, keenly searching Jack’s face. ‘You’ve got something in mind, haven’t you? Out with it, sir!’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t, Mr Hunt. For all I actually know, both you and the police may be correct.’

  ‘But you’ve got other ideas than the official ones, haven’t you?’ he said, continuing to stare at Jack acutely. ‘I wonder if old George Lassiter was right about you, after all. Well, ideas are not enough. There’s a girl murdered. Ideas didn’t save her, did they? If you knew what was going on, why didn’t you take some action?’

  ‘Because I . . .’ Jack stopped in exasperation as the door opened and Fields entered the room.

  ‘There’s a Mr Robert Waldron to see you, sir.’

  For a moment Mr Hunt looked blank, then he gave a broad smile. He looked suddenly younger and fitter. ‘Robert? Robert Waldron? John Waldron’s son? My word, I had no idea he was in London.’ He tried to lever himself out of his chair before glancing impatiently at Fields. ‘Give me a hand up.’

  ‘If you would care to wait here, sir, I will show the gentleman in.’

  ‘Wait here? Stuck in this chair? I’m going to meet Robert standing on my own two feet, not lolling about like some old fogey.’ Fields, resigned to the inevitable, helped his master to stand. ‘That’s better. No, not your arm. Pass me my stick.’ He slowly walked into the hall, obviously trying to recapture some of his former strength. Jack glanced at Fields, and the butler gave him the very slightest suspicion of a shrug. If the man had said, ‘What can I do?’ his meaning couldn’t have been clearer.

  They followed Mr Hunt into the hall. Standing by the front door was a sallow-skinned, wiry man in his vigorous early sixties. He strode forward to take Mr Hunt’s outstretched hand with pleasure.

  ‘Mr Hunt! You’re looking remarkably fit, sir.’

  ‘Don’t flatter me, Robert, I’m nothing of the sort. I’m older than your father was when he died. My word, though, it’s good to see you again after all this time.’

  He broke off as the door to the morning room opened and Pat, followed by a very disgruntled-looking Laurence Tyrell, stepped into the hall.

  ‘My mind’s made up,’ she said over her shoulder to Tyrell. ‘Those are the only terms I’ll accept.’ She stopped and looked at the men in the hall. ‘I’m awfully sorry, Uncle. I had no idea you had visitors.’

  ‘Major Haldean is just leaving us, my dear, but this is a very old friend of mine who’s turned up out of the blue. Robert, this is my great-niece, Mrs Patricia Tyrell, and her husband, Laurence Tyrell.’ He said the names with an air of defiance, but they clearly meant nothing to Waldron.

  ‘Larry’s just going as well, aren’t you, Larry?’ said Pat. There was an odd deliberation in her choice of words.

  Mr Hunt went for the sound rather than the sense. ‘Is there anything wrong?’

  ‘Wrong?’ Pat pushed her hair back from her face and laughed. ‘Nothing much. After all, Larry’s got what he wants, haven’t you, my dear?’

  For a man who had, apparently, got what he wanted, Tyrell was clearly finding it quite a struggle to be civil. ‘We’ll talk about it later, Pat.’ Then he relaxed and smiled. ‘I’ll call for you this evening as we arranged.’

  The hall was lit by a long window over the stairs and, as Tyrell spoke, the sun came out from behind a cloud, lighting up Tyrell’s face as if he were under a spotlight. Maybe it was that which gave Jack a sudden feeling of unreality. It was like watching an actor. Tyrell’s smile was as attractive as ever, but his eyes were calculating and very cold. Jack felt Mr Hunt stiffen beside him. He had seen it too.

  For a split second Jack felt as if he had stepped out of time. It was as if he was watching a group of statues, then Tyrell had hold of Pat’s hand and the odd, frozen moment passed.

  ‘When shall we say? Ten o’clock? I’ll be here earlier if you like. Why don’t you ask your friends, the Lassiters, to come?’ He turned to Jack. ‘Would you like to join us? We’ll have supper at the Savoy, but we can always go on somewhere else if you fancy it.’

  Jack was stupefied by the implications of that look. With a huge effort he spoke as naturally as he could. ‘Thanks very much. I’d be glad to, especially if the Lassiters are going to show up.’

  ‘Good. Half ten in the Savoy?’ He squeezed Pat’s hand affectionately. ‘Do ask your friends, Pat. After all, we’ve got something to celebrate.’

  Mr Hunt and Mr Waldron retreated into the drawing room. Fields opened the door to show Jack and Tyrell out but, as he opened it, Jack drew back, patting his pockets.

  ‘I think I’ve left my cigarette case. You go on, Tyrell. I’ll see you this evening.’ He stepped back as Tyrell went down the steps and the door closed behind him. Fields murmured, ‘Excuse me, sir,’ and left Jack with Pat.

  He grinned apologetically at her. ‘I’m sorry. I’m guilty of telling whoppers. I’ve got my cigarette case, but I wanted a few moments alone with you.’

  She looked at him apprehensively. ‘Why? What is it?’

  He nodded in the direction of the front door. ‘Laurence Tyrell. I’m sorry if this sounds like vulgar curiosity, but I would like to know what you’ve got to celebrate.’

  She shrugged. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t know. It’ll be common knowledge soon enough. I’m going to tell H.R.H. when his visitor’s gone. I’ve decided to live with Larry as his wife.’

  Jack nodded slowly. ‘I see. Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?’

  ‘No, I’m not!’ she broke out. ‘I’m not certain of anything, but I can’t go on like this.’ She gave him a challenging stare. ‘Everyone thinks Larry’s after my money. Do you?’

  ‘It’d crossed my mind.’

  ‘Well, it’s crossed mine, too. I hate all this. I’d love to be able to trust him absolutely but I just can’t. Anyway, I’ve taken a step which should give me the truth of the matter.’

  Jack looked at her inquisitively. ‘And that is?’

  ‘I’ve made a will. At least, I’ve given instructions to Mr Stafford and he’s drafting it for me. I’m leaving all my money to the Red Cross. Larry asked me why, and, of course, I can’t spell it out for him.’

  ‘He’ll have guessed,’ said Jack.

  ‘Yes . . . It’s horrible to be so cold blooded about it, but I can’t think what else to do.’

  Jack looked at her thoughtfully and decided to back a hunch. ‘Was this Jaggard’s idea?’
<
br />   Her intake of breath told him he was right. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘You’ve seen him, haven’t you?’

  She gazed at him speechlessly, then slowly bowed her head.

  ‘It’s a pretty good idea,’ continued Jack conversationally. Apart from a fairly major flaw, he added to himself.

  ‘How did you know?’ Her voice was a whisper.

  ‘You, principally. Oh, it’s nothing you said, but after he escaped you were desperate. You’re still worried, but it’s about Tyrell, not Jaggard. Therefore something’s happened to make you stop worrying about Jaggard so much. It’s the idea about the will that made me twig, though. You might have thought of it, but I don’t honestly think you’d have taken such definite action off your own bat. And,’ he shrugged, ‘I must admit I was guessing. Jaggard needs clothes, food and money and I thought he was as likely to ask you for them as anyone.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked quietly.

  ‘Nothing very much. Did you meet him at your old house?’

  She nodded.

  ‘He did jolly well to get through the cordon. Rackham had men posted all round the place. You’ve been watched, too. Is he still there?’

  ‘He’s gone. Please don’t betray him. He asked me to help. I couldn’t live with myself if I let him down. Whatever he’s done, he didn’t kill Miss Mandeville. He wants you to know that. He believes you can find out the truth.’

  Jack caught hold of her hands. ‘Easy, now, easy. Can you contact him?’

  She didn’t speak but her expression was plain to read. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Jack quickly. ‘I won’t split. For one thing, what you’ve told me isn’t evidence and, for another, I don’t see what good it’ll do.’ He felt her hands convulsively clasp his. ‘Don’t be too grateful. I might ask you to tell the police yet, but let’s hope for the best, shall we?’