Trouble Brewing (19 page)

Meredith Smith tried his hand at pacification. ‘Look, I'm awfully sorry to have bothered you, Miss . . .?'

‘I am a married woman, young man,' she said, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘My name is
Mrs
Chard.'

Meredith briefly marvelled at the reckless heroism of the absent Mr Chard before trying another dollop of oil on troubled waters. He didn't want to set Sheila at odds with her neighbours. ‘I'm sorry you've been disturbed, Mrs Chard, but I've nothing to do with anyone else who was here. Er . . . How did you get into the flat?'

‘The door is unlocked,' she replied icily.

Meredith tried the handle. ‘No, it's not.'

Mrs Chard strode to the door and tried the handle. The door remained closed. ‘Well, all I can say it was open earlier. And really, although there is a very nice class of people in these flats, I think that leaving a door unlocked in that manner is nothing less than putting temptation in the way of those who may be
weaker
than oneself.'

Meredith stood undecided in front of the door. He looked at his watch. Half past seven. The show started at eight o'clock and Sheila had promised she'd be ready. She might have made a mistake, of course, and assumed he was going to meet her at the theatre. He'd better be off, or else he might miss her there . . .

‘But she wasn't there, Jack,' he said next day on the telephone. ‘I hung around the theatre until the interval, then left her ticket at the box office in case she showed up later. I called round to her flat again, but she still wasn't in and this morning she hasn't shown up for work. I did wonder if she'd been called away unexpectedly, but it seems odd she hasn't let me know. I'd have expected her to send word that she wasn't coming into the office at the very least.'

‘It does sound odd,' said Jack. Smith could hear his hesitation. ‘Look, I'm a bit stuck at the moment. The Lassiters are calling for me. They'll be here at any minute. We're going to Brooklands with Pat Tyrell to see Jaggard's race this afternoon. Hold on a minute, Merry.'

Smith could hear the sound of muffled voices over the telephone.

‘I'll have to go. Can you meet me in the club at six o'clock? Try not to worry. There's probably a perfectly reasonable explanation.'

And so there might be, thought Meredith Smith, staring sightlessly at the ledger in front of him. It's just that he was damned if he could think of it. He put down his pen and strolled to the window, where he leaned on the sill, looking out over the factory buildings. Where the blazes was she? Damn, damn, damn! To be stuck here on a Saturday morning . . . At least he had the afternoon free.

He looked impatiently at the clock. He'd like to go to Dunthorpe Mansions now, but he was seeing Wilcox from Buchanan Glassworks first thing on Monday morning and the costings needed work. Reluctantly he went back to his desk and, pulling the ledger and a sheaf of letters towards him, tried to bury himself in estimates. Work was better than having nightmares about Sheila.

When the twelve o'clock hooter sounded, all his ruthlessly subdued fears suddenly sprang into overwhelming life. He put the cap on his fountain pen with shaking hands and left the office at a run.

At 43, Dunthorpe Mansions, the door remained obstinately closed. Meredith Smith pounded on the door. Mrs Chard, thank God, must be out. Just for once, she'd have every reason to complain about the noise he was making. Sheila could be out, too, but . . .

Meredith Smith swallowed hard and went to get the porter.

Grumbling, the porter reluctantly left his cubbyhole in the basement and consented to unlock Sheila's door with his pass key.

Merry pushed past him into the hall. ‘Sheila!'

There was no response. He knew there wouldn't be. She simply
couldn't
have ignored the hammering at the door, but a feeling of intrusion made him shout her name once more.

He opened the door to the sitting room. He'd told himself that he was a fool to worry so, that he was allowing his imagination to run away with him, that he was a complete idiot . . . and everything he dreaded was suddenly true. Only the real thing was far, far worse.

Sheila's broken body lay slumped on the floor against the couch, her face distorted and her eyes staring.

The porter, still grumbling, came into the room behind him. ‘And I'll have to tell the management . . .
God Strewth!
' He made a noise as if he was going to be sick. ‘The police! We'll have to get the police! She's been
murdered
!'

G
regory Jaggard watched the blue Bugatti of Sandy Keyne streak past on the inside. Never mind. The Bug was lighter, but his car, with its greater weight and low-revving engine, needed time to build up speed. The wind tore at his face and he felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders take the strain as he swung the six-cylinder car up the banking under Member's Bridge. He pulled the air intake control out to full, then floored the accelerator as the Railway Straight opened out in front of him.

He was gaining on the Bugatti now, the roar of the crowd on the bridge coming faintly to him over the deep thrum of his engine. His revs were building as the long stroke picked up the power. Keyne was slowing, trying to see a way past the huge Frazer-Nash in front of him. Jaggard touched the wheel and saw a window of clear track ahead, blocked by Johnny Miller in the Miller Special.

The smell of cut grass twanged his senses. The grass had been cut by a car crashing off the track. There it was! Reggie Palmer in an overturned Voisin, broadside on, its wheels still spinning in the air. He caught a brief flurry of movement by the wrecked car. Palmer should be all right.

He eased off the accelerator slightly before pressing down hard. The engine, the beautiful, handcrafted, lovingly tuned engine, responded like a nervy horse and shot forward, passing both the Bugatti and the Frazer-Nash. A flick of the wheel saved him from disaster and he was past Miller with only Ronnie Noble's Mercedes and Barnato's Bentley to master. He took the high ground on the Byfleet Banking and settled down to wear out the Merc.

‘They're coming!' shouted Pat Tyrell, crammed against the iron railings in the enclosure. With a ground-shaking rumble, as if an earthquake had been canned and set on wheels, the race leaders streaked past the white grandstand, leaving a trail of smoke and the heady smell of burnt castor oil in their wake. ‘Did you see him?' she called, clutching at Jack's arm in an agony of excitement. ‘Did you see him? He's past Miller. That's what he cared about. He's past Miller.'

The grin that Jaggard wore as he flashed past the grandstand hardened into a frown. He
knew
Pat was there, willing him on. He'd caught a glimpse of the distinctive red hat she always wore on race days as he'd gone to the car and he thought he'd seen her wave.

He caught up with the slow-moving cars at the back of the field and the next few minutes were pure concentration. Hillhouse's Fiat was there, seeming to stand still. He must be having trouble with his supercharger. Jaggard distrusted superchargers. They were quick but unreliable . . . Ah! The Fiat coughed its way to the side of the track and Jaggard weaved in and out of the remaining traffic, playing follow-the-leader with the Mercedes. He touched the brakes, feeling the lightened brake shoes slacken the speed just long enough to avoid disaster with Noble's Mercedes before a throaty roar a note or two below his own well-bred sound warned him that Miller was on his coat tails. Then the leaders were away once more and Jaggard settled down to slug it out for second place.

‘They're coming round Byfleet Banking once more, ladies and gentlemen,' crackled the public address system. ‘They should be in sight very shortly. In the lead is Captain Woolf Barnato in the Bentley followed by Mr Ronald Noble in his four-cylinder Mercedes . . .'

The cars thundered past. ‘Where's Greg?' cried Pat. The third car past the grandstand was the Miller Special.

The address system crackled once more. ‘We're getting reports of an accident on the Byfleet Banking, ladies and gentlemen. The marshals are going to the scene now.'

Pat turned a white, agonized face to Jack.

‘It's Mr Gregory Jaggard in the Jaggard Six. The car's on fire, ladies and gentlemen.'

Pat raised a hand to her mouth.

‘The driver was flung clear and . . . Yes! He's on his feet. He seems quite unharmed.'

Pat made a choking noise.

‘Miller is running a superb race in third place, gaining on the Mercedes . . .'

‘I must get to the sheds,' said Pat. All the colour had drained out of her face. ‘I must see him. Oh, poor Greg. He's lost his race.'

With George and Anne Lassiter beside him, Jack took her arm and led her out of the crowd. ‘The race doesn't matter, surely?' he said.

‘It
does
matter,' insisted Pat. ‘Greg was keyed up about this race. He had a bet of some sort on with Johnnie Miller. I'm sure he had a lot riding on it. More than money, I mean.'

It took them a long time to get through the enclosure to the sheds. By the time they arrived, there was quite a crush outside the double doors. Pat determinedly made her way though, Jack and the Lassiters following on behind.

Gregory Jaggard was sitting on an upturned oil drum, with a man in a tweed jacket, who was obviously a doctor, dabbing at his forehead with piece of damp lint. Jaggard seemed completely oblivious of the doctor's care.

‘It's all over, Joe,' they heard him say to the man beside him. He looked utterly beaten. Then he looked up and saw Pat.

He made a fluttering motion with his hand. Pat drew in her breath as she looked at the deep, dirty gash that the doctor had only partially cleaned. ‘It's only a graze,' Jaggard said, and repeated it three or four times. ‘Don't fuss. It's only a graze.'

‘It's rather more than a graze,' said the doctor, soaking the cloth and wringing it out in the bowl of water beside him.

‘I'll say,' said Joe Hawley. ‘That was a hell of a smash you had, begging your pardon, Mrs Jaggard. The poor beggar's tyres blew. The car's burnt out. You were damn lucky, old man.'

Jaggard shuddered. ‘It doesn't matter.' He tried to fend off the doctor's hand. ‘Just leave me alone. It's all over.'

‘Whatever's the matter with you, Greg?' demanded Pat. ‘You're still in one piece. You're alive, for heaven's sake.'

He looked at her with blank eyes. ‘Alive? I wish to God I wasn't.' With a sudden burst of temper he forced the doctor's hands away. ‘For Christ's sake,
stop it
! I don't need help! You don't understand, Pat. You don't know what I've done.'

There was a movement at the back of the crowd and turning, Jack saw, to his absolute astonishment, two uniformed policemen force their way into the shed followed by, of all people, Inspector William Rackham.

Bill nodded to him. ‘I knew you'd be around, Jack. I'll talk to you later. This is official business.' He approached Jaggard and, with a sympathetic look at Pat Tyrell, tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Gregory Jaggard? It is my duty to arrest you for the murder of Miss Sheila Mandeville. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be used in evidence . . .'

He stepped back in alarm as Gregory Jaggard, his face paper-white, clumsily staggered to his feet, made as if to walk forward, then collapsed in a dead faint.

With a swift movement, the doctor knelt beside Jaggard, supporting the unconscious man's head. ‘Clear a space everyone,' he said peremptorily. He pointed to Hawley. ‘You! Help me sit him up.'

Together he and Hawley sat Jaggard up against the oil drum. As the doctor loosened Jaggard's collar, he spared a glance over his shoulder for Rackham. ‘
What
did you say you were doing? Arresting him for
murder
? Nonsense, man. I've known Mr Jaggard for years. There must be some mistake.'

‘There's no mistake, I'm afraid, sir. I'm Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard. I've got a warrant for the arrest of Gregory Jaggard.'

The doctor snorted disparagingly. ‘Absolute poppycock. Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Inspector, but Mr Jaggard isn't going anywhere except hospital. That cut needs properly cleaning and stitching. Ideally I'd like to keep him under observation for a couple of days. In my opinion he's suffering from severe concussion and I can only hope he's not fractured his skull.'

Rackham pursed his lips. ‘When will he be fit to answer questions?'

The doctor shrugged. ‘Certainly not today and I'd be unhappy about him saying much tomorrow. I know you're eager to make an arrest, but this man is my patient.'

Rackham held up a conciliatory hand. ‘Don't worry, Doctor. I've no desire to see my name in the papers as an example of the third degree. Take him to hospital by all means, but this is a serious charge he's facing. We'll need to have a police officer present.'

‘If you must, I suppose you must, although it's a lot of damned nonsense.' He turned to Hawley. ‘Did you send for an ambulance, man? Well, for God's sake, go and do it! Never mind what Mr Jaggard wanted. The poor devil's in no state to make any decisions.'

He glanced at Pat who, frozen with shock, was gazing down at Jaggard. He looked at the worried faces of the group. ‘This woman needs some help. Who's with her? Anyone?'

‘I am,' said Anne Lassiter, coming forward.

The doctor looked relieved. ‘Take her away. Make sure she's all right. She's in no fit condition to be left alone.'

‘Greg,' said Pat, forming the words with difficulty. ‘I want to stay with Greg.'

Anne Lassiter looked at the doctor, who quickly shook his head. ‘Greg's in good hands,' she said, slipping her arm round her. ‘George,' she said, turning to her husband. ‘Help me get Pat out of here. Come on, Pat. We'll take you home.' With great patience, Anne Lassiter escorted the protesting Pat out of the shed.