Trouble Brewing (20 page)

Bill Rackham turned to Jack with relief. ‘I'm glad she's out of it.'

‘What the devil happened, Bill?' asked Jack in a low voice. ‘Is it true? Sheila Mandeville's been
murdered
?'

‘Only too true, I'm afraid,' said Bill. He motioned with a jerk of his head for Jack to follow him and stepped outside the doors of the shed. It was good to be in the open air again. Outside, the thrum of engines and the noise of spectators from the track came to them clearly. It seemed strange that the whole world hadn't come to a halt, transfixed by tragedy.

Rackham lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. ‘We found Miss Mandeville's body in her flat. She'd been strangled.'

Jack felt sick. ‘Dear God. I liked her, you know. Liked her a lot.' His stomach twisted. ‘What the devil can I say to Merry? I was meant to be seeing him at the club at six o'clock.'

‘That's one task you're spared, at any rate,' said Bill grimly. ‘It was Captain Smith who found her. He was in a hell of a state. I didn't realize there was anything between them.'

‘There wasn't until a couple of days ago.' Jack lit the cigarette Bill offered him. ‘Where is she? Miss Mandeville, I mean.'

‘At the mortuary. Do you want to have a look at the flat? The Chief won't object, I know.' He glanced back over his shoulder into the shed. ‘I'll get my laddo in there safely disposed of and we can have a look round together.'

‘This is where she was killed,' said Bill, in the sitting room of Sheila Mandeville's flat. ‘She was lying slumped by the sofa.'

Jack looked round Sheila Mandeville's sitting room. It was neat and well cared for, with only the finest film of dust on the table under the window. The curtains moved gently in the breeze from the window and a vase of daffodils splashed a rippling reflection of yellow on the polished wood. The fabric on the chintz-covered arms of the sofa had worn smooth and, for some reason, this innocent evidence of use made him swallow hard.

He didn't sit down. It felt wrong to even consider the idea. If Sheila were still alive he'd have had to ask her permission. She'd probably have apologized for the shabby condition of the furniture and he'd have thought of some light-hearted remark to put her at her ease, as he had done that day at the Ritz.

He leaned on the mantelpiece, resting his forehead on his hand. ‘Tell me again what happened,' he said, finding his voice.

‘Dr Roude, the Divisional Surgeon – he was the doctor called into Gower Street – says she was killed between five and nine yesterday evening, give or take a reasonable margin. The cause of death is strangulation and, from the bruising on the neck, it appears that a scarf of some sort was used.'

Jack frowned. ‘Between five and nine is four hours. That's a fairly long time.'

‘It is, but we can narrow it down a bit. Jaggard called here yesterday evening at ten past six or thereabouts. The neighbour, a Mrs Florence Chard, heard him knocking at the door. Mrs Chard – who between you and me is a bit of an old fidget – came out and asked him what he was up to. Now, the funny thing is, is that he said he was looking for his wife. He said she'd arranged to meet him here. Anyway, after banging at the door again, Jaggard tried the handle and found the door wasn't locked. Jaggard came into the flat, still apparently searching for Mrs Tyrell. Mrs Chard came in with him, thinking it was her bounden duty, as she more or less said, to see he didn't sack the joint. According to Mrs Chard, the place was deserted. It was obvious, however, that Sheila Mandeville had been home, because her handbag was on the sofa and her coat and hat were hanging up in the hall.'

‘Could she have slipped out for a few minutes? To a neighbour, say?'

‘She could have done, very easily. I've got a couple of lads going round knocking on doors now. Needless to say, there was no sign of Mrs Tyrell. After a while, Jaggard gave up and left a note propped up against the clock. That was half past six or so.' Bill opened his briefcase and handed a folded half sheet of paper to Jack. ‘We found the note. That's it.'

Jack read out the note. ‘
Dear Pat – I called as you asked but missed you. I'll be at the R.A.C. all evening and the track tomorrow. I hope all's well. Please get in touch. Love, Greg.
What happened next, Bill?'

‘What happened next is that Captain Smith called. That was just before half past seven, according to both Captain Smith and Mrs Chard. She heard him knocking and sallied forth to do battle again, thinking it was Gregory Jaggard who had returned to disturb her evening. Anyway, the door was locked and Miss Mandeville obviously wasn't in.'

‘Could Jaggard and Mrs Chard have locked the door as they left the flat? Without knowing it, I mean?'

Bill shook his head. ‘No. The lock's the Chubb type, which you have to turn with a key.'

‘Which means, of course, that either Miss Mandeville locked herself in when she returned or that the murderer took the key and locked the door after him.'

‘Exactly. Now, Captain Smith had asked Miss Mandeville out to the theatre. He thought there was just a chance she'd mistaken the arrangements and gone to meet him there. When she hadn't shown up by the interval, he came back, but she still wasn't in.'

‘I know,' said Jack. ‘He rang me this morning. She wasn't at work and he was worried about her.'

‘That's right. He called round as soon as he finished work this lunchtime and this time, when he still couldn't get an answer, he went and found the caretaker for the flats. The caretaker let them in with his pass key and they found Miss Mandeville. That would have been about one. Captain Smith contacted us at once, and I came over with Dr Roude.'

Jack winced. ‘It's damn rough on Merry. D'you know where he is now? I'll have to see him.'

‘He went off to tell the Hunts – old Mr Hunt in particular – what happened. I don't think the shock had really hit him when I saw him. He's probably better doing something rather than sitting brooding about it.'

‘Yes, I bet you're right about that. How was the murder actually committed?'

Bill clicked his tongue. ‘What I imagine happened is that Jaggard came to see Miss Mandeville. He knocked on the door, not realizing how the sound would travel, and, when Mrs Chard appeared on the scene, made up a cock-and-bull story about meeting his wife here. As soon as he decently could, he got rid of Mrs Chard, then re-entered the flat and waited until Miss Mandeville came back.'

Jack gave him a puzzled look. ‘But why, Bill? Do you suspect Jaggard just because he was seen here? On those grounds Meredith Smith's equally suspect.'

‘No, it's not that.' Bill opened his briefcase again and took out an envelope. ‘I found this in Miss Mandeville's handbag. It's an unfinished letter. Come and have a look.' He took out a typed sheet of paper and laid it flat on the table.

‘
Dear Mr Jaggard,
' read Jack. ‘
I'm shocked you should think I could be bought off with a few pounds. I had no intention of saying anything until I saw you at the Ritz, but now I really think I should tell the police about that day at the booking office in January
. . . January, eh? That sounds as if she saw him booking tickets for Paris.'

‘That's what I thought,' said Bill. ‘In the envelope were four five-pound notes. It clicks into place, doesn't it? Meredith Smith says Jaggard was at the Ritz on Wednesday night, as were Mr and Mrs Tyrell. Jaggard wanted to speak to Mrs Tyrell alone. He got the waiter to tell Tyrell he was wanted on the telephone and asked Sheila Mandeville, who he'd met in the lobby, to hold Tyrell up for a few moments by bumping into him and dropping her bag.'

He shrugged expressively. ‘It sounds as if Jaggard might have said something about this encounter at the booking office. I can't imagine Sheila Mandeville attached any importance to it, but it looks as if Jaggard tried to bribe her, which, of course, would make her realize there's something to conceal.'

‘It all hangs together,' agreed Jack. ‘There's more than enough evidence there for a circumstantial case.'

‘That's why I got the warrant. We should be able to trace the banknotes fairly easily and the typewriter shouldn't present any problems. Obviously I'm going to ask Mrs Tyrell if she did arrange to meet him here, but I'll be very surprised if the answer's yes. I didn't want to question her at Brooklands. I thought she was so bowled over that doctor would've had my guts for garters.'

He broke off as a knock sounded at the door and a uniformed constable came into the room. ‘Well?'

‘We've been round the flats, sir. There's a couple of people we haven't managed to get hold of, but no one we've spoken to saw Miss Mandeville last night.'

‘Thank you, Collins. Make a note of who you haven't spoken to and call back later. I think we're about finished here. Jack? Is there anything else you want to see?'

‘Well, there's something I wouldn't mind doing, actually. I know Mrs Chard heard Jaggard knocking. What else could she hear, I wonder? Was she able to say what time Sheila Mandeville got home?'

‘No, she wasn't,' said Bill. ‘She didn't hear her come in yesterday.'

‘In that case . . .' Jack stood for a moment, frowning. ‘Look, would you mind going next door? I'm afraid it means coming up against Mrs Chard again, but I'd be interested to know what sounds do come through these walls. If you hear me shout, yell back, would you?'

‘Mrs Chard?' asked Bill, warily. ‘All right, if I must. How long shall I give you?'

‘I'll knock on the door when I've finished,' promised Jack.

Once alone in the flat, Jack took the chance to look round undisturbed. He found it very easy to imagine Sheila at home. A silver-framed photograph of a middle-aged couple stood, amongst others, on the highly polished small table in the alcove. Her parents, at a guess.

Everything was clean, but with a cheerful, lived-in air. The mantelpiece contained, as well as the clock, little china ornaments from various south-coast resorts and a jar of coloured spills. The paper rack by the side of the fireplace contained a week's copies of
The Daily Messenger
,
Film Star Weekly
and the latest copy of
On The Town.
He winced when he saw
On The Town
. His name was on the cover. She'd probably bought it on the strength of meeting him. He put the papers back in the rack, idly noting that Sheila had clipped out the entry for the competition in Monday's
Messenger.

With a feeling of trespass he went into the bedroom. It was a small room, floored in oilcloth with two bright rugs. He kneeled at the door and squinted along the floor, but it looked as if the oilcloth had been recently mopped.

He opened the wardrobe thoughtfully, shaking his head as he saw the dresses and skirts hung up, all covered with cotton bags. Six pairs of shoes and two suitcases stood on the bottom of the wardrobe. He lifted a suitcase slightly, seeing its outline marked by a thin line of dust. He replaced it carefully and shut the door.

The top of the chest of drawers was covered with a plate of thick glass and on it lay her hairbrushes, a hand mirror, a powder compact and a lipstick. The powder compact was open with a scattering of powder dropped from the powder-puff which lay beside it. Jack frowned at these for a moment without touching them, then, with a glance at his watch to mark the time, threw back his head and shouted. No call answered his.

The neatly made bed was an iron frame, the sheets and blankets covered with a blue candlewick bedspread. Jack knelt down beside it and lifted the bedspread to look under the bed. The floor underneath the main part of the bed was clean, but dust rimmed the edges against the walls. He let the cover drop and went into the kitchen, lifting the kettle from the hob. A cup, saucer, egg cup, plate and teapot stood on the draining board and the dishcloth was hung up to dry.

All the time he kept listening for sounds from the flat next door but no noise came through the walls.

The tiny bathroom was as clean and well cared for as the rest of the flat. A toothbrush in the rack, a cake of soap in the dish with no smears of soap, a towel hung up on the rail and a tooth-glass turned upside down to dry. The underside of the soap was damp.

A tall cupboard outside the bathroom held, on the one side, an ironing board, a mop bucket, an ordinary bucket, a long brush and a mop. A short brush and a pan stood against the wall while a bag proved to contain nothing more exciting than clean, washed rags. The other side was divided into shelves of neatly folded towels and linen.

The topmost sheet looked more crumpled than the rest and, taking it out, he carried it through to the sitting room, laid it out on the sofa and unfolded it along the ironed lines. A very faint dark mark was etched in one of the creases. Wetting a finger, he touched the mark, smelled it, then brought it to his lips.

Soot. The laundry mark was inked in red at the bottom and beside it was a small snag where a thread had pulled.

He shook his head and stepped back into the hall. Here, for the first time, he caught the faint murmur of voices from next door.

There was a key hanging down on the inside of the door from a long piece of string beside the letterbox. He opened the door and, standing outside, put his hand through the slit. He found the string easily and pulled, bringing the key through. He shut the door, then opened it with the key. He fed the key through the letterbox so it hung once more on the inside.

He paused before knocking on the door of the Chards' flat and thought of the woman whose home had been full of prosaic happiness. It seemed unbearably sad.

It was Monday morning, a day and a half since the discovery of Sheila Mandeville's body. Sir Douglas Lynton, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, glanced at the clock on his desk, then at Jack, leaning against the windowsill of his office.