Trouble Brewing (10 page)

‘But what d'you think of the idea?' prompted Jack. ‘Could there be some sort of jiggery-pokery going on? You said yourself not so long ago you thought there was something odd.'

‘Yes . . . Although that was based more on meaningful conversations with H.R.H. than anything I'd seen for myself. He'd told me to keep my eyes and ears open.'

He clicked his tongue in irritation. ‘You see, although it seems a very simple comparison, it's not as straightforward as all that. We don't just pay the plantation for coffee, we make a regular payment which not only covers the cost of the coffee, but such things as wages and salaries, maintenance of the equipment and buildings, processing, shipping costs and replanting. The very high-quality coffee, such as the peaberry, is also included in the flat payment. There's other things as well, but those are the main expenses. We also buy unprocessed coffee in Brazil, as we don't produce anything like enough to meet our demand. Any comparison is bound to be misleading because you're not comparing like with like. However . . .' He stubbed out his cigarette with a gesture of finality. ‘I'll look into it. It seems damned strange when you put it like that, I agree.' He hesitated. ‘Did she think it was likely that Helston was guilty? Of seeing Valdez off west, I mean?'

‘Absolutely not. She was emphatic about it. She believed he could've had a quarrel with the man, but would have stopped far short of murdering him. Everyone seems very definite about that. But if Helston didn't account for Valdez, who did? The murderer has to be someone to do with Hunt Coffee.'

‘But who does that leave? There's only Frederick Hunt and H.R.H. – I'm not counting the junior staff – and I can't see either of them stabbing a naked man in an empty house. Incidentally, if Valdez was up to something dodgy, Frederick Hunt would be bound to discover it eventually.'

‘Could he be in on it?'

Meredith Smith laughed. ‘You don't pull your punches, do you? I suppose he
could
, but I'm blessed if I know how he'd work it. The accounts are all A.O.K., you know.'

‘What about Frederick Hunt's private life? What do you know about that?'

‘Not much.' Smith shrugged. ‘He has a taste for gambling, but that's not a crime. He often goes to the races, he holidays in Monte Carlo and I had a very peculiar phone call the other day which was wrongly put through to me instead of him. If the bloke on the other end wasn't a bookie, I'm a Dutchman.'

‘What was the tone of the call? Friendly or threatening?'

‘Oh, friendly, definitely. Why?'

‘Because if he was in need of money, it'd be interesting to know.'

‘But Valdez's death didn't benefit him and neither does this business with Helston. In fact I can't see Valdez's death benefits anyone, which makes it a real puzzler.' Smith rose to his feet. ‘D'you fancy a game of billiards? Inspiration might strike while we're playing. I'm blowed if Helston sounds like the bloke responsible, yet it's more or less got to be him because everyone else is accounted for.'

‘As far as I can see no one gained, except Pat and Gregory Jaggard,' said Jack, putting down his glass. ‘And even they didn't know they were going to. Not that that helps with Valdez, of course. Oh, to hell with it. I'll play you a hundred up and the loser stands the tab.'

He got up and led the way to the billiard room. ‘We're in luck, the table's free,' he said, then stopped. Gregory Jaggard was sitting slumped by the table in the corner. ‘I'm sorry,' he began, then stopped as he saw Jaggard's flushed face.

‘Smith and Haldean,' said Jaggard. He laughed. ‘Sounds like a gun I had. A Smith and Wesson, don't you know? Must find it. It'll come in useful.' He attempted to sit upright, glaring at them. ‘Won't it?'

‘It might,' temporized Jack, trying to gauge just how drunk Gregory Jaggard was.

Jaggard slumped back. ‘I'll need a gun to shoot myself.'

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?'

‘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.