Trouble Brewing (9 page)

‘Would his illusions be shattered? There are worse things you can say about a man other than he doesn't like dagoes. God knows, it's a point of pride with some people. Jaggard didn't believe it, though. Talking about old Mr Hunt, he was damn quick on the uptake about the implications of the body not being Mark Helston's.'

‘I'll say. Old or not, he's nobody's fool. He's certainly got more about him than his son.'

‘Frederick's certainly not the human dynamo, is he?' said Jack with a grin. ‘I'll tell you something that struck me, though. When you announced the dead man was Valdez, Frederick Hunt radiated smugness. It was almost as if he was expecting it.'

Bill nodded. ‘Yes. I picked that up, too. However, if the quarrel between Helston and Valdez really was bitter, he might have had his suspicions of Helston all along. Obviously he wouldn't want to say so in front of the family, but he was the only person who seems to have known both parties at all well. Mark Helston's our obvious suspect, no matter what his relatives believe. Like you though, I want to know why the clothes were taken.'

‘I suppose there could be some clue on the clothes, some stain or other that would give the game away, but
what
game for heaven's sake?'

They turned into Grosvenor Place, wincing against the wind which whistled across Buckingham Palace Gardens. ‘Any alibi Helston might have was shot when he disappeared.' Jack shrugged himself further into his coat and kicked out at a paving stone. ‘I don't get it. As you said, the only corpse that would do anyone any good is that of Mark Helston, but we know it's not Helston because of the dentist's evidence. If we'd found the body straight away, as we could've done, there wouldn't be the slightest doubt about who it was.' He frowned. ‘I suppose you've cabled the Brazilian police?'

‘I have,' said Bill, quickening his pace against the wind, ‘but when we'll get a reply is anyone's guess, if we ever do. By the way, I've asked a couple of the right people about Jaggard's car firm. It's hovering on the brink of Queer Street, all right. Apparently disaster's only been staved off this long because of Helston's money, otherwise it would have gone under a couple of months ago.'

‘That means it's only Helston's death which would benefit Jaggard. He
might
be trying to accuse Helston of murder and thereby get him hanged but we've got to lay hands on Helston first. Having the chap vanish into thin air doesn't help anyone.'

Ruby, the parlour maid, came down the hall to greet the Jaggards on their return. ‘You've got visitors, ma'am. Mr Stafford from the lawyer's office and another gentleman. I showed them into the drawing room. They've waited ever such a long time but Mr Stafford said as how it was important and he didn't want to leave without seeing you.'

‘I wonder what Stafford wants?' said Jaggard. He glanced at the grandfather clock. ‘It's past his office hours.'

‘It'll be something to do with the trust, I expect,' said Pat absently. She couldn't get up enough energy to be curious. ‘You see to him, Greg. I want to go and change.'

She walked up the stairs to her room and shut the door behind her. Greg would deal with it. It would be strange to have a world without Greg in it. Empty . . . Peaceful? She supposed so. She wished Mark was still here. She could have talked to Mark. She never realized how much she did talk to Mark until he was gone.

A vision of Mark, quite wonderfully indignant on her behalf, rose up. A very faint smile curved her lips. There was at least as good a chance that Mark would have squirmed with embarrassment. She could almost hear his voice. ‘You'll have to handle it yourself, Pat. You can't expect me to get involved. Besides, I like old Greg.' And he had liked Greg, too. More than he'd liked Larry. It was horrible what Greg had said about him. A spark of anger flamed through the dull greyness. How
dare
he . . .

A knock sounded on her door and Greg walked in. ‘You'd better come downstairs,' he said abruptly.

‘Why?'

He seemed to be finding it difficult to speak. ‘Just come downstairs, Pat. Now.'

Without waiting for a reply he strode off. Shrugging, she followed him. He was waiting for her outside the drawing room. Silently, he opened the door and stood back for her to enter. With a puzzled shake of her head she went into the room. Mr Stafford looked up as she walked in and gave a little cough.

‘Ah, Mrs Jaggard. Thank you for coming. This is a very delicate business and it seemed best to see you as soon as possible.' He indicated the man beside him. ‘This gentleman . . .'

A tall, fair-haired man was standing by the fireplace. She looked at him with a vague feeling of recognition, then there was a buzzing in her ears and her mouth went totally dry. She felt dizzy, as if she were going to faint. ‘Larry?' She gasped out the word. ‘Larry? You're dead.'

He smiled and it was as if the picture on her dressing table had uncannily moved and come to life. Then his hands caught her and they were real hands. Living hands of flesh and blood, not images in a frame. Strong hands. She looked down and with a catch in her throat she saw the little finger with the twist where he had broken it long ago. She'd forgotten that. It was hidden on the photograph and she'd forgotten it. She'd seen him as a flat picture in black and white for so long, she'd forgotten what the real Larry was really like. She looked up and found his grey eyes fixed on her. She'd forgotten his slate-grey eyes.

His arm slid round her shoulders. ‘I've given you an awful shock, Pat.' His voice was deeper than she remembered, more virile, more
real.
‘I wish I could've warned you in some way. Please. Come and sit down.'

M
iss Sheila Mandeville decorated the bottom of the top copy of the weekly accounts with a line of neatly interspersed noughts and dashes, pressed the release lever on her typewriter, and taking the top copy, carbon and flimsy out of the machine, started to read it through. The bell on her desk rang, causing her forehead to wrinkle in a faint line of annoyance. Gathering up the papers, she went to answer it.

‘I'm terribly sorry, Captain Smith, I haven't had time to check . . . Oh!' She stopped short. Sitting beside Meredith Smith's desk was the tall, rather foreign-looking Major Haldean she had shown into Captain Smith's office half an hour ago. As she entered the room he rose to his feet and inclined his head with an easy courtesy.

‘Miss Mandeville?' He had a pleasant, low voice in which she could hear his smile. ‘We met earlier, but we weren't properly introduced. Forgive me for asking, but I wondered if you'd heard what I'm doing here?'

Sheila Mandeville smiled bashfully. ‘I did hear something about it, Major.'

Meredith Smith grinned. ‘You're too well known, Jack. It caused an absolute sensation in our little world when you came the other day.'

Jack looked wryly at Miss Mandeville. ‘I can't say I enjoy everyone knowing who I am, but it does save a lot of wearisome explanations.' He hesitated. ‘The thing is I could do with talking to someone who knew Mark Helston and, as you looked after him, I wondered if you'd be kind enough to spare me some of your time. I know it's jolly short notice, but would you allow me to buy you tea? My car's outside and we could run up to the Ritz or somewhere. I know it's a beastly cheek imposing myself, but you really would be doing me a favour. Captain Smith will vouch for my table manners and the fact that I wash behind my ears and behave myself in public places and so on.' He looked at her with mild anxiety, waiting for her answer.

Bless the man, she thought indulgently, mentally replacing her tea-shop poached egg on toast with a vision of Palm Courts. He isn't worried I'll refuse, is he? He looks as if he is. Even if I don't really know him, he's obviously all right, especially as he's a friend of Captain Smith's.

She liked Captain Smith, and his friendship with the famous Jack Haldean, which had been dissected over tea and biscuits three mornings running – ‘
He really knows him well, Sheila. He was in the war with him and everything. Have you read any of his stories? They're awfully clever
' – added a welcome tinge of glamour. She was pleasantly conscious that she would share in this reflected glory. ‘I'd be delighted,' she said, noting with satisfaction how pleased he appeared.

‘Then that's all settled. Good. When do you finish for the day? Five o'clock?'

‘Oh, go now,' said Meredith Smith in a put-upon voice. ‘Have the extra quarter of an hour with the compliments of Hunt Coffee and welcome. Will you be at the club tonight, Jack?'

‘I should be.'

‘Good-oh.' Smith smiled at her. ‘You're in luck, Miss Mandeville. When he wants something from me, I usually end up buying the drinks myself. I've never managed to get a meal out of him yet.'

‘So how,' said Smith over the whisky which, despite the comments he had made earlier, was on Jack's account, ‘did you get on with my Miss Mandeville?' There was an unconscious emphasis on the word
my.

‘
Your
Miss Mandeville . . .' Jack paused and shot a swift look at Smith.

Smith met his gaze, colouring slightly. ‘Well, what about it?'

Jack sighed. ‘Merry, you prize idiot, the last thing I want to do is put your nose out of joint. You should've invited yourself along. If it comes to that, why don't you invite her out yourself? Why didn't you tell me you felt like that about her?'

‘There's nothing to tell,' said Smith, defensively. ‘And you know how it is. Private life and business don't mix very well. For one thing, she's so horribly efficient. It stops me in my tracks every time. She's a highly competent confidential clerk and I have to tell her what to do. It's not as easy as you might think when you work with a girl.'

‘Yes, I can see that. If you're used to asking someone to take a letter, bunging in your hand and heart at the end of it may prove awkward. Even a small sherry might be difficult.'

‘You've got no idea,' agreed Smith, earnestly.

Jack sipped his whisky. ‘Failing all other solutions, you can always write to the queries page of
On The Town
for advice to the lovelorn. Setting aside your natural bias in her favour, do you think she's trustworthy, old thing? I mean, how objective would she be about Mark Helston?'

‘Totally, I would think.'

‘Umm. She liked him, obviously, and thought he was honest and hard working, if not, perhaps, the brightest of sparks.'

‘She should know. She was with Ainsworth and Richards before she came to us. Ainsworth was bright enough for anyone. When the crash came she was out of a job for over a month.'

Jack put down his glass. ‘That explains why brightness wasn't something she particularly appreciates. I'm beginning to get a picture of Helston. A conscientious, solid sort, with conventional hobbies who was quite happy to continue in the path his great-uncle, old Mr Hunt, laid down for him. Not much originality there, perhaps, but a desire to do the best he could. By the way, he was really keen on going to Brazil, but Frederick Hunt stopped him by pointing out how valuable he was at home. Apparently he got on with Valdez perfectly well.'

Smith frowned. ‘I don't see how Miss Mandeville knows that.'

‘She was going off what Helston said about him. Er . . . If I tell you what she said, am I speaking to Meredith Smith, the eager beaver of Hunt Coffee, or Meredith Smith, the human Sealed Tomb?'

‘Oh, the Sealed Tomb all the time,' replied Smith with a grin.

‘Good . . . because, to put it bluntly, she thinks Valdez was a crook but doesn't want anyone to know she said it. He oozed too much sex appeal for her liking. She said it was as if he'd heard what a South American charmer was like and was trying to live up to it. Rather like a cross between Rudolph Valentino and a dance-band leader.'

‘How the devil does she know? She never met the man.'

‘But she did. She saw him on the twenty-ninth, before his first meeting with Frederick Hunt. She spent a good few minutes with him whilst he was waiting to be shown in to Mr Hunt. As Helston was away, she was filling in by doing various bits and pieces, and that morning she was chief hand-holder to any visitors.'

‘So what? The fact she didn't like him doesn't make him a crook. Besides, he can't have been up to anything. Someone would have spotted him.'

Jack gave him a significant look. ‘Maybe they did. It's a glimmer of a motive for the quarrel which took place between Valdez and Helston on the ninth, at any rate.'

‘But . . .' Smith stopped, trying to put his thoughts in order. ‘If Valdez was up to something rum, it'd have stopped after he died, wouldn't it?' Jack nodded. ‘That's not happened, Jack. As far as the financial side's concerned, there's been no change. Did Miss Mandeville have any idea of what form the crookedness might take?'

‘Yes. She worked for a stockbroker before she came to Hunt Coffee . . .'

‘Ainsworth and Richards.'

‘Ainsworth and, as you say, Richards. She got into the habit of checking the City page in the papers. Well, according to her, the spot-market prices for coffee have recently varied from between one hundred and eleven shillings to one hundred and ninety-four shillings a hundredweight, depending on the quality. Now, the cost of the coffee from Hunt's own plantation is one hundred and fifty-four shillings and upwards which she says is crazy, when you consider they actually own the thing.'

Meredith Smith took a cigarette from his case, absently offering one to Jack. He struck a match and smoked for a while in silence. Then he rubbed his hand through his hair and looked up with a rueful grin. ‘She's got me there. Apart from to see how the market's doing in general, I haven't checked the City page for ages, and certainly not the small print of the spot markets. One hundred and eleven shillings, eh? That must be East African or Indian. South and Central American coffee always carries a premium. The one hundred and ninety-four shillings will be peaberry.' He brooded over his cigarette.