Trouble Brewing (23 page)

She stood, encircled by his arms, truth burning through her like acid. She'd been hag-ridden by a dream of Larry, bitten with worry, made cynical because Greg thought he could buy her, despising herself because she was up for sale.

He kissed her once more – tenderly this time – then pushed her gently away. ‘It could have worked, couldn't it?'

‘Yes.' There was a world of loss in the monosyllable.

He squared his shoulders and took a deep, ragged breath. ‘D'you know, that makes it better? God knows what'll happen to me, but that really will make it easier to bear.' His eyes grew thoughtful. ‘Perhaps, in the circumstances, it was just as well the race turned out the way it did.'

‘What's that got to do with it, Greg?'

A ghost of a smile twitched his mouth. ‘It was my big scheme to put everything right. Miller knew I was in deep trouble and offered to buy the firm. He's a sportsman, old Johnny, and I told him the truth. I couldn't afford to sell because I'd have to square up the debts. I didn't pull any punches and what I had to say made him think a bit. Anyway, he came up with the idea of a bet. He's always thought the world of that old aero-engined monster of his and offered me a race. If I won, then he'd come in as a partner with enough money to put us back on the right lines. It'd still be my show, but he's got some American connections that could be worth a fortune with the right car. If I lost, then he'd have the firm and take all the existing stock in lieu of the debts. If the cars sold, which they would, then it'd work out slightly to his advantage. It's the interest payments that crippled me. He'd start with a clean sheet. It seemed to solve everything. Not only was it a way out but I believed if I won, we could start again. You thought I was a wealthy man. I've been sailing under false colours. I had nothing left to give you and . . . and . . .' He shrugged. ‘I thought it mattered.'

‘Poor Greg.'

‘Well,' he said in an attempt at a businesslike voice. ‘That's water under the bridge. My immediate problem is how to clear out for long enough to let the police get to the bottom of this murder charge. If I could convince Haldean I'm innocent, he'd help, I know he would.'

‘Major Haldean? D'you think so? H.R.H. thinks he's a washout.'

Jaggard grinned. ‘Don't you believe it. He's the goods all right. Anyway, that's a side issue. I'm going to clear off and lie low for a time. Did you bring any money, Pat?'

‘Yes.' She swallowed. ‘How can I let you go? I mean, after all this?'

‘I'm afraid you're going to have to.' He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Pat, don't take this the wrong way. I know you're not my wife. You can't expect me to like Tyrell. I accept that I'm not the most impartial judge, but I don't trust him. Please be careful.'

‘Careful of what?'

‘Yourself.' He hesitated. ‘Try looking at it without prejudice, Pat. Don't you think there's a chance he's after your money? I'm sure that's what most men of the world would say.'

‘Mr Stafford, the lawyer, hinted as much. But what can I do, Greg?'

‘What did Mr Stafford suggest?'

‘Well, as far as I could follow him, he seemed to be suggesting I should make a will.'

Jaggard looked up sharply. ‘Of course! That's it. If you did that, Pat, then I could rest easy. At the moment all your money goes to Tyrell as your next of kin, doesn't it?'

‘I suppose so. I've never made a will.'

‘Then make one. Leave your money to anyone you like. The Dogs' Home or some stray tramp. No, stick to charities, they're safer. The point is to get it away from Tyrell. What's more, you must tell him that's what you've done.'

‘Oh, this is too silly for words.' Jaggard didn't reply. ‘He's my
husband
, Greg.'

‘That's the point,' said Jaggard drily. ‘If he wants you and only you, he'll accept it. He must see that by coming back now, when you've got an income of eight thousand . . .'

‘Half of it's yours.'

‘I can hardly claim it, can I? Look. The longer Mark's away, I'm afraid the likelier it is that he's gone for good. I feel rotten putting it as bluntly as that because he was a damn good scout, but there it is. In seven years' time he'll be legally dead and you'll be a very rich woman.'

‘So, according to you, I've got seven years of safety.'

‘No.' Jaggard sat on the bed and put a hand to his head. ‘If you, God forbid, die in the meantime, Mark's money, which was coming to you, goes to your husband unless you will it otherwise. I'm honestly frightened for you. Please make a will. Look on it as a last favour to me if you like, but make a will. After all, if Tyrell is as honest and as trustworthy as you believe, you can always make another one in a few years.'

‘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.

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.'