Trouble Brewing (29 page)

I
t was the power of the popular press which made Sir Douglas Lynton cancel his Saturday game of golf.

He had been dressing for dinner on Friday evening when Rackham had called with the news and, white tie still in hand, he had listened with a steadily lengthening face. ‘Meet me at the Yard at one o'clock tomorrow,' he said. ‘Haldean better be there as well. He seems to know as much about it as anyone.'

He thought wistfully of his golf, then dismissed the idea. Jacob Carroll, the crusading proprietor of the Mercury group, who had some hard things to say about Scotland Yard, was a fixture in the clubhouse on Saturday afternoons. The headlines in the papers would be quite bad enough without an account of how the Assistant Commissioner ignored four unsolved murders, a suspected suicide and Jaggard still at large in favour of golf.

When he saw the Saturday newspapers he was glad he'd cancelled his game.
Tragedy Stalks Hunt Coffee!
screamed the
Messenger
and, ominously from the
Mercury
,
Scotland Yard At A Loss!

Scotland Yard, embodied in the person of William Rackham, looked downright tired. ‘The trouble is, sir, that Tyrell's murder has really upset the apple cart. Major Haldean had Tyrell pegged as a would-be killer and, after hearing what Lahone had to say, I agreed wholeheartedly.'

‘Not that,' put in Jack, ‘we could've got Lahone to admit it in court.'

‘No, we probably couldn't,' said Bill. ‘However, when we arrived at Neville Square and found old Mr Hunt dead, there was no doubt in my mind it was Tyrell we were after.' He compressed his mouth tightly. ‘However, I was wrong.'

‘Strychnine poisoning,' said Sir Douglas, reading from the file. ‘I see that's been confirmed as the cause of Tyrell's death.'

‘Yes, sir. The time of death was between half past three and half past five. We're not sure when it was taken. According to the doctor, strychnine's pretty unpredictable. A meal can slow things up dramatically. Strychnine can kill within twenty minutes or so, or the victim can linger on for a good long while. It depends on their constitution and what they've eaten.'

‘Could he have committed suicide?' asked Sir Douglas hopefully. ‘He could have panicked, perhaps?'

Bill pursed his lips. ‘We thought of that, of course, but it doesn't seem likely. Strychnine must be one of the most gruesome deaths possible. Only a lunatic would commit suicide in that way. That's your opinion too, isn't it Jack?'

‘Absolutely. Tyrell wasn't the sort to panic. There's not much chance of suicide, as far as I can see. People do the strangest things, I know – I read about a woman who tried to bury herself alive – but I think it's unlikely.' He linked his fingers together and looked down at his palms. ‘So, with Tyrell out of it, we're brought back to the one man who has been in the case from the very beginning and so far has managed to escape serious suspicion.'

‘Frederick Hunt,' said Sir Douglas thoughtfully. He pushed his chair back and walked to the window. He leaned back against the sill and, folding his arms, looked at Bill. ‘I know you think Frederick Hunt could have murdered his father. Could he have murdered Tyrell as well?'

‘It's possible. I questioned Hunt's chauffeur and Hunt arrived home at half past three, after Tyrell had left the house. However, poison's not like shooting or stabbing. Hunt could have simply put a strychnine tablet in the bottle of aspirin by Tyrell's bedside and waited for the inevitable. It's easy enough to get into a hotel bedroom.'

‘What about the motive?'

‘Inspector Rackham and I have talked about this, sir,' said Jack. ‘If Frederick Hunt murdered both his father and Tyrell, then the motive has to be something to do with the running of the firm. Everyone who's been in a position to know – Mark Helston, Meredith Smith and old Mr Hunt himself – thought there was something wrong. Tyrell was interested in joining the firm and certainly talked to Frederick Hunt. Tyrell was a very sharp customer. He could've easily worked out Frederick Hunt was up to no good.'

‘Was that why old Mr Hunt invited Tyrell to lunch, I wonder?' said Sir Douglas. ‘To find out what he knew?'

‘It might very well be the reason,' said Jack. ‘If Tyrell did say anything, though, it would have been to his advantage. He was very much out for his own ends. However, he might very well have tried to blackmail Hunt, and used the threat of informing old Mr Hunt to really put the screws on.'

‘At which point Frederick Hunt assumes that Tyrell has told his father everything, panics and strikes out,' said Sir Douglas thoughtfully.

‘That, I think, is about the size of it,' agreed Bill.

‘
Is
there anything wrong with Hunt Coffee?' demanded Sir Douglas.

Bill held his hands wide. ‘We simply don't know. Old Mr Hunt certainly thought so, though. His new will tells us as much.'

Sir Douglas sat down on the corner of the desk and rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘You'll have to run through this business about a new will, Rackham. I've got your report, of course, but I've only had time to skim through it.'

‘Right you are, sir. I managed to get hold of Mr Stafford, the Hunt family solicitor, at his house last night. Old Mr Hunt asked him to call on Thursday afternoon. Mr Hunt wanted to add a codicil to his will. He owned, at the time of his death, sixty per cent of the shares in Hunt Coffee, with the other forty per cent being held by Frederick. I got chapter and verse on this, how Hunt Coffee Limited is a private limited company by virtue of the Companies Act 1907, as amended by the Consolidating Act of 1908, etcetera, etcetera, with all the various section numbers and what-have-you.'

Bill ran his fingers through his hair. ‘As far as I can make out, it's a legal way of having your cake and eating it. It was old Mr Hunt himself who turned Hunt Coffee into a private limited company back in 1909, so he could have all the advantages of limited liability without a board of directors breathing down his neck. He was a pretty shrewd businessman in his day. He had previously made provision for Mark Helston to inherit forty per cent of his holding, which would leave Frederick Hunt as the majority shareholder, with sixty per cent. That, in the main body of the will, remains unchanged, should Mark Helston reappear. However, should Helston still be missing at the time of Mr Hunt's death, then the forty per cent intended for Mark Helston goes to Meredith Smith, who has as much claim upon the title of great-nephew as Helston did. If Mark returned, they would split the shareholding, with twenty per cent each.'

Sir Douglas nodded. ‘The only surprise is that he didn't codify his intentions earlier.'

‘He never lost hope Mark would return,' put in Jack.

‘Yes,' agreed Bill. ‘As far as that goes, it seems like a perfectly sensible provision. However, the sting's in the tail. The codicil states that Frederick Hunt gets sixty per cent on Mr Hunt's death if – and this is the nasty bit – Frederick Hunt has not been found guilty of, or is facing prosecution for, any criminal activity, or is subsequently found guilty of any criminal activity for the period preceding Mr Hunt's death. If he
is
facing prosecution but is acquitted, then the original sixty-forty allocation of the shares stands. If he's found guilty, however, Meredith Smith scoops the lot. It makes you wonder what old Mr Hunt thought his son was capable of, doesn't it, sir?'

‘It certainly does.' Sir Douglas tapped the desk with his fingers. ‘Financial irregularities or murder? Either's covered very neatly by that provision. Was the codicil signed?'

‘Yes, sir. The witnesses were Thomas Potter and Joseph Wyre, the window cleaners. Mr Hunt gave them ten shillings each for their trouble. Mr Stafford said that old Mr Hunt was in considerable haste to get the document signed.'

‘So if Frederick Hunt did know about it, there was precious little he could do. However, his father certainly suspected he could be guilty of
something.
' He cocked his head to one side and looked at Jack. ‘You probably won't like the idea, but have you thought this new will gives Meredith Smith a motive for murder? After all,' he added, ‘Smith was on the spot at Neville Square.'

‘The thought did occur to me, sir,' said Jack with a grin, ‘and, in light of the new will, I thought I'd think it before anyone else did. After all, if we do catch Frederick bending, Smith scoops the pool. With that in mind, I've come hotfoot from Southwark. I wanted to check the facts while they were still fresh in everyone's mind and I'm glad to say Smith's alibi for Friday afternoon is as cast iron as they come. He was seen by loads of people all afternoon – I've jotted down who they are, of course – who say that Meredith Smith was at Hunt Coffee, Southwark, until just after five o'clock.'

‘So we're back to Frederick Hunt,' said Sir Douglas. He sighed unhappily. ‘It'll be the devil to prove, though.'

He picked up the file and flicked through it at random. ‘I see you traced the knife Valdez was killed with, by the way. That proves there's a link between the Hunts and Valdez's murder, not that we doubted it.'

‘There's a bit more to it than that, sir,' said Jack. ‘Frederick Hunt stated yesterday that Helston had three knives made, one for his grandmother, one for Mr Hunt and one for his sister. But I spoke to Pat Tyrell this morning and she told me Helston had four knives made in all, including one for himself. Now, if it is a lie and not a mistake, then it's a silly, pointless lie, and it makes you wonder why he bothered to tell it.'

Sir Douglas pulled at his moustache. ‘Why should it matter how many knives there were? Dash it all, three are enough to be getting along with. Have you traced the others?'

‘Pat Tyrell found two for me,' offered Jack. ‘Her own and her grandmother's. Old Mr Hunt's makes three.'

‘Which means Helston's own knife was the murder weapon,' said Sir Douglas. He continued to pull at his moustache. ‘The case against Hunt is purely circumstantial. If we could get to the bottom of what is wrong at Hunt Coffee, that'd help. I'd like to bring Hunt in for questioning, but unless we've got a shrewd idea what old Mr Hunt had in mind, we'll be wasting our time. What one old man thought isn't evidence. Hunt will simply deny everything, kick up the dickens of a row, and we'll end up with egg on our faces.' The spectre of Jacob Carroll and the
Mercury
reasserted itself. ‘The last thing I want to do is give the press another stick to beat us with.' He boxed his papers together. ‘See me on Monday morning, Rackham, unless there's any developments over the weekend. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.'

Leaving Sir Douglas at his desk, they left the room.

‘Can I give you a lift anywhere, Bill?' asked Jack, as they walked out of the door into the yard. ‘I've got the Spyker outside. I drove here from Southwark.'

He stopped. Meredith Smith, arms folded, was leaning against the bonnet of the Spyker.

As they approached, he looked up, his face grim. ‘So there you are, Jack. I knew I'd find you here. What the devil d'you mean by asking questions in the office about me?'

Jack stopped. ‘Ah.'

‘You might well say,
Ah
. Do you honestly think there's the slightest chance I'd shoot poor old H.R.H.? Honestly?'

‘No, I honestly don't, but in view of this new will, I thought it as well to prove you couldn't. Otherwise you might come up against someone without my beautifully trusting nature.'

‘
What
new will?' snapped Meredith.

Jack and Bill exchanged glances. ‘You'd better tell him,' said Jack. ‘He's going to find out soon enough anyway.'

Meredith listened in bewildered silence. ‘I get the lot?' he asked in astonishment when Bill had finished. ‘That's crazy.'

‘Only if Frederick Hunt's not a good boy,' Jack reminded him.

‘But that's still forty per cent. Good God, this is incredible. What did H.R.H. suspect Frederick of? You don't think he killed Sheila, do you?' Unconsciously, his hands twisted together. ‘If I thought that . . .'

‘There's nothing to suggest Frederick Hunt's guilty of that,' said Bill.

Meredith covered his mouth with his hand. ‘Poor Sheila. Why should anyone want to harm her? Who was she?' His face softened. ‘Nobody special, I suppose, but I . . .'

Jack stared at him. ‘Merry,' he said in an odd voice. ‘Would you mind answering your own question?'

Meredith looked at him, uncomprehendingly.

‘Go on. Who was Sheila Mandeville?'

‘She was my clerk, of course.' He looked doubtfully at Jack. There was a gleam in his friend's black eyes which made him pause. ‘You knew that.'

‘I did. And I'm wondering how I came to forget it for so long.'

Bill looked at him sharply. ‘If you've got an idea, spit it out.'

Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not yet. I need more time to think. I'll look you up this afternoon. By the way, you remember Robert Waldron?'

‘Who? Hang on, he was the chap who called to see Mr Hunt, wasn't he? What about him?'

‘I've got a feeling he knows a whole lot more than we've imagined. Mr Hunt greeted him as an old friend. He didn't know Waldron was in London. I remember looking at the chap and thinking that a man with his yellow, sun-baked skin didn't look as if he belonged in England. Now, where would you expect Mr Hunt's old friends to live?'

‘Anywhere on earth except London, I suppose, if he was surprised Waldron was in Town. In Brazil, at a guess.'

‘Exactly,' said Jack triumphantly.

‘Does that help?'

‘It might.' He opened the car door. ‘Hop in, everyone. I've got some work to do. For one thing, I need to see Pat Tyrell.'

‘I wish I could see what the dickens you're getting so excited about,' grumbled Bill, climbing into the car. ‘D'you want me to ask Frederick Hunt about this Robert Waldron bloke?'