Trouble Brewing (17 page)

Meredith Smith filled up his glass, laughing. ‘Did the gullible Miss Molnar say when she and Jaggard were in Paris?'

‘Jaggard was there from the first to the seventh of January.'

‘Valdez was killed on the ninth,' said Bill slowly. ‘Was Jaggard in London?'

Jack nodded. ‘Yes, I'm afraid he was. Elise Molnar stayed on in Paris for another fortnight, but Jaggard left on the seventh. He spent the evening of the seventh on the boat but the evening of the eighth and the next few evenings he spent at the Young Services Club. I've checked that. All this time, of course, he was supposed to be in Birmingham. He was meant to have arrived back on the eleventh.'

‘That puts him firmly in the frame,' said Bill. ‘I'm glad you got the information, Jack, but the trouble is I can't see there's any chance that Elise Molnar will testify, not after you've convinced her it's all a communist plot.'

‘You could always ask the concierge of the apartments on the rue de la Paix to identify him,' suggested Jack.

‘That's true. Valdez stayed in the Hotel Maurice on the Avenue Victoria. How close is that to the rue de Whatsits, where Jaggard was?'

‘I imagine it'd take about half an hour to walk there, but it doesn't really matter. The rue de la Paix is one of the most expensive, glamorous streets in Paris. Any visitor is more or less bound to end up there. We can't, of course, prove that they met or that Valdez either saw or recognized Jaggard, but they were certainly in the same area at the same time.'

‘Jaggard's well known,' said Bill thoughtfully. ‘Very well known in motoring circles, and, of course, there's the connection with Hunt Coffee. It's not too much to suppose that Valdez would recognize him.' He finished his beer pensively. ‘What's in your mind? Blackmail?'

‘That's about the size of it.'

‘It's an idea, Jack. We know Helston was worried about something the day he disappeared. We've taken it that he was worried about the firm, but it might just as well be his sister he was bothered about.'

‘It sounds as if he was justified,' put in Meredith. ‘My clerk, Miss Mandeville, told me that Helston was very protective of Pat. If Valdez told Helston he'd seen Jaggard in Paris, Helston wouldn't like it one bit.'

Bill rested his chin on his hands. ‘Valdez said he was going to meet a friend. The friend could easily be Jaggard. He wouldn't take kindly to being blackmailed. I think he could be dangerous. Say he did see off Valdez. If Helston found out about it, Jaggard would have to kill him too to keep him quiet.'

He sucked his cheeks in reflectively. ‘I think I'd better check exactly what Jaggard says he was doing that evening.' He took in Jack's unhappy expression. ‘What's the matter? Don't tell me you can't see Jaggard committing murder.'

‘That's the trouble,' said Jack, unhappily. ‘I can. I've seen him drive and he's got an ice-cold nerve. He's more than bright enough to dope out a scheme that would work. However, saying that he could do it is a million miles away from saying that he did do it. And, of course, we've got the question of what happened to Helston's body.'

‘He could have loaded it in his car and dumped it anywhere,' said Bill. He lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out thoughtfully. ‘I think you might be onto something, Jack.'

Meredith Smith tramped morosely down Chandos Place before turning up Bedford Street towards Leicester Square and home. The name Primrose Street caught his attention. In some odd way it was familiar. The name brought a little tinge of pleasure in its wake. He stopped to fill his pipe at the corner, idly wondering why.

Primrose Street itself was unlikely to generate any sort of pleasure. It was dominated by a huge and hideous bulk of blackened brick and grimy glass, built, so a plaque told him, by the charity of one Josiah Dunthorpe in 1883 as dwelling for Artisans, Labourers and their Dependants. It was so encrusted with soot it seemed to have been carved from some dull jet.

And then, incredibly, Dunthorpe Mansions became a thing of beauty; for there was a tap on his arm and beside him stood Sheila Mandeville.

‘Hello! What brings you here?'

‘Miss Mandeville!' He raised his hat. ‘I was just on my way home. I don't live very far away.'

‘Really?' She nodded towards Dunthorpe Mansions. ‘I live here.'

Of course! That's why Primrose Street was familiar. ‘Isn't it full of artisans and things?'

‘Oh, they wouldn't be seen dead in a place like this. It's flats, you know, all full of people like me.'

‘Impossible,' he returned, gallantly, and he saw her colour deliciously as she caught the implication. That did it. He paused again, then rushed on. ‘Have you eaten yet? There's a decent A.B.C. tea shop in Leicester Square. How about mangling a bun with me?'

Sheila Mandeville took his proffered arm with a smile. She
liked
Captain Smith.

J
ack Haldean was the cause, albeit the unwitting cause, of Meredith Smith and Sheila Mandeville dining at the Ritz.

Seated in the A.B.C. teashop with scrambled eggs, a pot of Ceylon tea, a plate of mixed cakes and Sheila Mandeville, Meredith Smith was completely happy. The only jarring note occurred when Sheila, dabbing her lips with her napkin, had remarked that it was a real treat to be taken out to tea and when Major Haldean had taken her to tea at the Ritz . . .

The rest of the sentence was lost on Meredith Smith. He regarded his coconut pyramid with sudden dissatisfaction. An A.B.C. tea shop was
all right
and there was nothing wrong with tea, but there were, dash it, other places and other meals.

Dinner at the Ritz?

Sheila Mandeville tentatively objected that they both had to work in the morning. Work was dismissed in a lordly fashion. Sheila Mandeville was in the mood to dismiss work and consented to be called for at quarter to nine.

And now, dinner over, the hour was nudging towards the fashionable, and the Ritz was filling up with those fortunates for whom work was something that other people did.

‘Good Lord,' said Meredith Smith, looking at the new crop of arrivals. ‘There's Pat Tyrell. She's got Laurence Tyrell in tow.'

‘Really? Where?' Sheila Mandeville looked out discreetly from behind the vase of flowers that stood on the centre of the table. There weren't many dancers on the floor and she had a good view of a dark-haired woman and a fair-haired man sitting at the other side of the room. ‘Oh, yes.'

She stopped, blushing. ‘I suppose I ought to pretend to know nothing about it, but it was in all the papers and it's difficult not to take an interest, especially as she's Mr Hunt's great-niece.'

‘And even more difficult not to talk about it?' asked Smith with a grin.

Sheila looked at him apologetically. ‘You know how it is in the office. The subject did crop up. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have gossiped about her. She's your cousin, isn't she?'

‘Yes, but I didn't know she existed until H.R.H. introduced us.'

‘She's lovely,' said Sheila, and added, with a certain amount of envy, ‘I wish I could dress like that. It must be wonderful to come to places like this and to feel you really belonged.'

‘You look as if you belonged,' said Smith admiringly. ‘Absolutely to the manner born. I don't know what you've done to your hair, but it's absolutely knockout and that dress is a smasher.'

Sheila Mandeville smiled. She was pleased with her hair, but well aware, even if Meredith Smith wasn't, of the difference between her dress (‘
price forty-two shillings and sixpence – original price eight guineas – of knitted artificial silk made in a new fancy stitch from best quality yarn in a very becoming style
')
from Derry and Tom's January sale, and the Real Thing, so casually and energetically displayed on the dance floor by the other women in the room.

It was different for men; they could cheerfully say ‘I haven't got a bean', and everyone laughed. But all they needed was one set of evening clothes whereas she
couldn't
give this dress another airing for at least another fortnight without feeling positively dowdy. What on earth could she wear next time? She glanced at his admiring eyes and felt a stab of pleasure. She was sure there was going to be a next time.

That dinner was damn good, thought Meredith Smith. She looks beautiful. Perhaps next time we could just go dancing? A few more meals like that would punch a real hole in the weekly envelope, even on the money I'm pulling in from old H.R.H. If only I hadn't had so many debts! That couple of months off work really did for me. Maybe dancing would be okay. We'll need a taxi, of course. I'd rather walk but girls always seem to have such awkward shoes. It'd be fun to walk through London. Just the two of us. Stop by a coffee stall somewhere and watch the sun come up over the Thames. I wish we didn't have to work tomorrow. I'd like to dance until three, but I suppose I'd better have her home long before then.

He looked at her profile as she gazed across the dance floor and caught his breath. I'd like to give her a better home than that poky flat in that hideous building. Maybe . . .

‘I felt sorry for her husband,' said Sheila, concentrating on the Tyrells. ‘Mr Jaggard, I mean. It must be awfully hard on him. I like him and he's so glamorous, isn't he? He used to call at the office sometimes for Mr Helston. What's this man like?'

‘Laurence Tyrell?' said Meredith Smith, suppressing a surge of jealousy. ‘I've never met him to speak to, but he was at the inquest this afternoon.'

Sheila peered from behind the flowers once more. ‘He's vaguely familiar, for some reason. He looks a bit like Mr Jaggard, doesn't he? Not properly, I mean, but at first glance. I wonder if . . .'

Meredith Smith coughed. He wanted to talk about himself, herself, his feelings, her feelings and perhaps touch on his plans for the future. He would be more than happy to explore Sheila's views on these matters, but he had no intention of talking about his cousin and her matrimonial problems. ‘Shall we dance?' he asked, with his most inviting smile and was rewarded, minutes later, with the sensation of her in his arms.

‘Oh, look,' said Patricia Tyrell. ‘There's my cousin, Meredith Smith.'

Laurence Tyrell glanced up. ‘The chap who works for Hunts, you mean? I'd never heard of him until the other day.'

‘I didn't know he existed until a few months ago until H.R.H. suddenly produced him. It's all bound up with some desperately mysterious Victorian scandal.'

Tyrell's eyes narrowed as he followed the couple round the room. ‘Who's he with?'

‘I can't remember her name, but I think she works for the firm. What is it, Larry? You look as if you recognized him.'

He laughed. ‘He seemed familiar, that's all.' His eyes continued to follow them. ‘I must be mistaken.' He touched her arm as she raised her hand to wave across the room. ‘No, don't call them over, Pat. I don't want crowds of people round. I'd like there to be just you and me – for a time anyway. In fact . . .' He hesitated and took her hand. ‘Don't go back to your uncle's tonight. Stay with me. I've booked a room.'

Her hand moved in his. ‘I can't, Larry. I haven't got anything with me.'

‘Does it matter?' he said passionately.

‘Of course it matters.'

He let go of her hand and stared down at the table for a long moment. ‘All right,' he said eventually. ‘I'll be patient. God knows, I've waited long enough.'

He broke off as a waiter came to the table. ‘Yes?'

‘Mr Tyrell, sir? There's a telephone call for you.'

He frowned in annoyance. ‘I don't know who that can be.' He rose to his feet. ‘Excuse me, will you, Pat?'

He left the room. Pat watched the dancers for a few moments, idly noticing that Meredith Smith was no longer amongst them. If only she knew what to do! Maybe a talk with Anne Lassiter would help. She shook her head in irritation as the hackneyed succession of thoughts started once more. She fumbled in her bag for her cigarette case.

As she took out her lighter a familiar voice said, ‘Let me do that for you.' She turned, startled.

It was Gregory Jaggard.

He pulled out a chair and sat down, gazing at her admiringly. ‘You look absolutely stunning.'

‘Greg, I'm with Larry,' she said urgently. ‘You're not going to make a scene, are you?'

Jaggard shook his head. ‘No, I'm not. I'm sorry about what happened at Neville Square. Nothing like that will happen again, I promise. I know Tyrell's here. I got rid of him for a few minutes.' He grinned. ‘I had an ally. I met that nice girl in the lobby who used to work for Mark and she promised to hold him up. I simply had to speak to you.'

He looked at her, rueful yet shy. ‘I made you a rotten husband. I know you were unhappy but there were all sorts of things going on that you didn't know about. If there's any chance at all, it'd be different, Pat.' He looked suddenly haggard. ‘It's driving me nearly insane, seeing you together. You're my
wife
.'

‘We're not married,' she said coldly. ‘We never really were.'

‘I know, damnit,' he said with a flash of his old temper. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to go into that.' He dropped his hand onto hers. ‘I want you to do something for me. It's the race on Saturday, my race with Johnnie Miller. Will you come and watch me?'

‘I – I don't know if I can.'

‘Please, Pat. You don't have to come to the sheds or the owners' enclosure. Just knowing you're in the crowd would be enough.' He smiled hopefully. ‘Please. You've always watched me race. It wouldn't be the same without you. Wear your red hat. I can always spot it. You see . . .' He stopped and swallowed. ‘This race could change everything, Pat. If I win on Saturday, things will be different. Will you come? If you could come to the sheds afterwards, that'd be wonderful.'