Trouble Brewing (7 page)

The door opened and Jack, dressing-gowned and damp, came into the room. He stopped short with a smile of welcome as he saw his visitor. ‘Hello, old man. You're an early bird. I was in the bath.' He rang the bell, then pulled up a chair to the table. ‘Sit down, Merry. Have you had breakfast or will you join me? There's kippers on their way and we can probably run to a couple of eggs as well.'

‘It's not eggs I want, Jack, but an explanation.'

‘An explanation of what?' asked Jack, picking up the coffee pot. ‘'Scuse me for mentioning it, old thing, but you seem rather agitated. Milk in yours? Oy! Careful with that book. Don't chuck it down like that. I couldn't write without my Bartlett.'

‘Write! I want you to do more than write.'

Jack put down his coffee cup and gazed severely at his visitor. ‘Merry, old bean, if you won't actually come to the point and tell me what it is you do want, then this conversation is going to prove an uphill struggle. I haven't a clue what you're talking about and I'm blowed if I'm going to have raised voices before breakfast. In fact . . .' He glanced at the clock and then back at Smith. ‘What are you doing here at this hour of the morning? I thought you'd be toiling away, earning the daily crust.'

Smith seized the newspaper from the table, ignoring Jack's protest. ‘I'll tell you what I'm doing here.' He opened the paper and searched it briefly before jabbing a finger at a column on page three. ‘Read that. Just read that.'

Jack, eyebrows raised, took the
Daily Messenger
. ‘
Gruesome Discovery on Gower Street. The decayed body of a man was found yesterday in a deserted house on . . .
Oh, Lord.
Violent means . . . Well-known author and investigator . . .
Oh, crikey . . .
Inspector Rackham, one of Scotland Yard's most able . . .
He'll like that.
The body has not been identified but is thought to be that of the missing businessman Mark Helston . . .
Hell's bells! How the devil did they get hold of this?'

‘That's what I want to ask you,' said Smith, grimly. ‘H.R.H., who still gets up at the crack of dawn, found that waiting for him when he came down to breakfast. He got me on the phone before I left for work, and left me in no doubt about his thoughts on the matter. He wants you to go to the house and explain things to him as, not unnaturally, he feels he should have been informed before the press got hold of it.'

‘But there's nothing to tell him,' said Jack. ‘Not yet, anyway.'

‘That's not what . . .' He stopped as the door opened and Mrs Pettycure came into the room, carrying a tray.

‘Here we are, Major,' she said cheerfully. ‘Kippers with a dab of mustard sauce, just how you like them. And your porridge, of course.'

Jack took the tray from her hands. ‘Thanks, Mrs Pettycure. Do you want anything to eat, Merry?'

‘No, I don't,' said Smith, forcibly.

‘Well, it's up to you. Now then,' Jack said, when the landlady had left the room. ‘I can see that you're upset and I don't blame you. But honestly, old thing, we don't know if it's Helston or not.' He pulled a chair up to the table and, removing the cover from his bowl, poured milk onto his porridge. ‘Do stop pacing up and down. It's putting me off my feed. The only definite thing I can tell you is that we found a body yesterday in a deserted house.'

‘And what took you there?' asked Smith, suspiciously. ‘Luck?'

‘Partly,' agreed Jack between mouthfuls of porridge. ‘Bill and I worked out that Helston and Valdez had met up in the evening. The probability was that Helston went to see Valdez, rather than the other way around. Valdez had been staying at the Montague Court, so I went for a walk – a jolly long walk – in a rough circle round the hotel, hoping to pick up some notion of where a murderer could deposit the doings so it would remain undiscovered for all this time. Obviously, after I'd tumbled to it, the police were in and out and the mortuary van was outside the door, so it didn't take long for the bright lads of the press to roll up. All they were told though, were the bare facts of what was found, how long it had been there and that it was murder. Stanhope from the
Messenger
got hold of me, but I stayed stumm as regards who it might be. The only thing I can think of is that he married up the date of Helston's disappearance with the age of the corpse and made a guess.'

‘Murder,' muttered Smith. ‘Are you sure it's murder?' he demanded, rounding on Jack.

‘Certain, old scream. The corpse was still wearing a knife. About the only thing it was wearing apart from a ring,' he added. ‘That's why we can't say who it was,' he added, pushing his empty bowl to one side and turning his attention to the kippers. ‘He was naked.' He tapped the newspaper with his knife. ‘It says so in there. So that means no tailor's tags and no laundry marks. There was a little heap of personal stuff on the mantelpiece, which looked as if the man had emptied his pockets, but who those pockets belonged to, I don't know.'

‘What about his face?'

‘Come on, Merry. You were in the war. The doctor said the body had been there for the best part of four months or so. It didn't
have
a face. It hardly had a body, if you see what I mean. Between you, me and the gatepost, we've assumed, as a working proposition, that it is Helston and the murderer's Valdez, but unless Mark Helston went to the dentist and therefore left a record of his teeth, we're stuck. Teeth don't decay,' he said, then seeing that Smith was trying to make sense of this statement added, ‘well, they do, of course, but not after you've popped your clogs.'

Smith shook his head. ‘I wish I knew what to tell H.R.H. You'll have to see him. He's blistering.'

‘Hrr-o-eh?' asked Jack, considerably hampered by kippers.

‘Yes, really. I've never seen him angry before. I'm not anxious to repeat the experience. I've heard before how he ruled the company. Benevolent, you understand, but definitely the boss.'

‘The iron fist,' Jack offered, able to speak once more, glancing at the copy of Bartlett which had fallen open on the table. ‘It says as much here. “The iron fist in the velvet glove”.'

‘Exactly. He really cares. I'm willing to bet that's one of the reasons why he was so fond of his great-nephew. Frederick Hunt, between the pair of us, is a bit of a washout. He's competent enough but he's got no enthusiasm. He couldn't care what the factory turned out as long as he gets a living from it. It wouldn't matter to him. Now Helston did share H.R.H.'s love of coffee. He wanted to know all about it, from the soil the plants are grown in, to the temperature it's roasted at. H.R.H. was a real pioneer, you know. I mean, coffee essence has been around for ages, but he experimented with getting exactly the right strength, then mixed it with condensed milk and syrup so all you have to do is add hot water.'

‘Dear God,' said Jack, who loathed bottled coffee.

‘I know, I know. I don't care for it either, but a lot of people do. You must have seen Royale Coffee with the blue and yellow label.'

‘Oh, I've seen it all right,' agreed Jack dubiously. ‘I've had to drink it on occasion. My landlady's under the illusion it's fit for human consumption. I didn't know it was made by Hunts. I take it “Royale” is a pun on H.R.H.?'

‘That's right. He's tremendously proud of it. And before you turn your nose up, you should know that it sells by the million. That brand alone is worth a fortune and there's so much chicory in it, it's actually very cheap to produce. It's good business, Jack. But I honestly don't think it was just the money H.R.H. was after. It was all the excitement of seeing something he'd made really take off and become a household word. Helston, by all accounts, felt like that too. He was very keen on new sorts of trees and different flavoured roasts. As far as Frederick Hunt's concerned, coffee's coffee. All he's really bothered about is getting a decent income.'

‘And old Mr Hunt wanted a bit more fire and passion?'

‘That's right. He thought he'd found it in Helston. You have to see him.'

‘I will, I will,' said Jack, holding up his hands. ‘Pax,
Kamerad
, and all of that, but I need to know more. Rackham will have the post-mortem reports today, he'll have looked at the stuff that was in the room, and I know he was going to speak to Helston's dentist, if he had one. Then we've got some hard thinking to do. How did the body come to be in the house? Why was it naked? There were two sets of shoe prints in the room and the hall and no track of bare feet. Were only two men, the murderer and the victim involved, or was there a third man who helped to carry the body into the house? And, what, hanging over all those questions, was the motive? At least one, and I hope more, of those questions can be answered today and when they are we'll have a better idea of the answer to the others.'

‘So you will see H.R.H.?'

‘Yes, dash it, of course I'll see him, but before I do, I must get in touch with Bill. Depending on what else he's got planned, I imagine we'll both call on Mr Hunt. To have enough time to get the various reports that we need, I should think it'll be around teatime. Say four o'clock and you won't be so far off.' He glanced at the clock. ‘But if I'm going to get hold of Bill, I can't do it in my dressing gown.' Smith didn't move. ‘Which means, old thing, that I want to get shaved and dressed in reasonable privacy. I'd like you to pop off and tell Mr Hunt that I'm very sorry about the stories in the press, but it wasn't me, honest, guv.'

Smith still hesitated. ‘Between the two of us, Jack, do you think it was Helston?'

Jack pulled a face. ‘Between the two of us, I really don't know, but it very well might be.'

‘And so, Major Haldean, you are unable to tell me any more than the bare facts that the body of a man has been discovered.' Old Mr Hunt accompanied this remark with a reproving glare, but Jack met his eyes squarely.

‘At this stage, sir, that is all I
can
say. I hope Inspector Rackham will be able to add to our knowledge. When I spoke to him earlier he said he would be here. I don't think he expected the entire family to have turned out though.'

For Jack, like a latter-day Daniel, had walked into a den of Hunts. He had expected old Mr Hunt of course, and it was no great surprise that Frederick Hunt should be there as well. Hovering protectively by his father's chair, he had favoured Jack with the curtest of greetings. He hadn't bargained for Gregory Jaggard though, who stood stiffly by the window, and still less for Patricia Jaggard, who occupied the other end of the large sofa from Meredith Smith. An odd family trick of expression stamped them as relatives. Disapproval hung like a rain cloud in the air.

Frederick Hunt puffed his chest out. ‘I need hardly say, Major, that the item in this morning's press occasioned us all very great alarm and, furthermore, a sense of outrage that you should have betrayed our confidence in this public manner. I think I speak for the entire family when I state that our thoughts flew to my father, who has invested his trust . . .'

Mr Hunt reached up and placed his hand on his son's arm. ‘Major Haldean has explained himself, Frederick.'

He stopped as the doorbell sounded, followed by the heavy tread of the butler's footsteps down the hall. Still holding onto Frederick's arm, he rose slowly to his feet as Bill entered the room. He took a deep breath and looked at him with crackling anticipation. ‘Well, Inspector?'

‘It's good news, sir,' said Bill. ‘It's not your great-nephew.'

There was a rustle of reaction in the room. Jack, who knew what Bill had to say but who had been asked to keep quiet, covertly watched everyone's response. Mr Hunt closed his eyes in momentary relief. Patricia Jaggard relaxed. Gregory Jaggard, on the other hand, seemed disappointed. Meredith Smith looked puzzled and Frederick Hunt gave a smug snort of disapproval.

‘
Not
Mark? We have been put through all this for nothing?'

‘Quiet, Frederick,' said Mr Hunt sharply. There was a sharp intelligence in his next question. ‘Then who is it, Inspector? How can you be sure it's not Mark? Please, do take a seat.'

Bill sank into an armchair. ‘Thank you, sir. We traced your nephew's dentist from his address book, which is in store with the rest of his effects from his flat. The dentist confirmed that whoever the man is, it's not Mr Helston. As to who it actually
is
– well, I'm afraid it looks as if it might be Senhor Ariel Valdez.'

‘Valdez?' rapped out old Mr Hunt. He sat down and put his hand to his mouth. ‘Valdez? That's awkward. That's very awkward indeed.'

Bill felt in his inside pocket and taking out his notecase, opened it and produced a white visiting card. ‘This was found in the dead man's card case, together with a number of cards bearing the name of Ariel Valdez.' He held it out to Frederick Hunt. ‘This card is one of yours, sir. Can you confirm that you gave it to Senhor Valdez?'

Hunt took the card and looked at it, turning it over in his hand. ‘Yes, Inspector, this is one of mine. Look, here on the back I've scribbled a note of the time and date of our meeting in January. I remember giving it to Senhor Valdez at our first meeting in December.'

Old Mr Hunt moved impatiently. ‘The newspaper said the man had been dead for a matter of four months. Is that an accurate statement?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Mr Hunt's lips compressed. ‘Then your next move is obvious. But you're wrong, Inspector, totally wrong. If only you had known Mark you would understand how wrong you are.'

Frederick Hunt looked at his father in bewilderment. ‘What on earth are you talking about?'

‘Oh, don't be a greater fool than God made you, Frederick. I'm talking about murder. Until Valdez was discovered the police had no explanation for Mark's disappearance. Now they believe they have. I am right, aren't I?'