Trouble Brewing (12 page)

Jack shook his head. ‘Not yet, no. I bumped into Gregory Jaggard last night though. He's taken it rather badly.'

‘I bet he has. What's this chap Tyrell like, Stafford? Disfigured at all?'

‘By no means.'

‘That's something.' He got up and strode around the room, hands behind his back. ‘What's the girl's reaction?'

‘She seemed very happy to be reunited with her husband.'

‘Did she, by jingo? A divorce seems the obvious step but if she's happy to see the man, that could put the cat amongst the pigeons. Let me see the papers,' he added abruptly. ‘Help yourself to more sherry.'

He flung himself into a chair with the documents Mr Stafford produced from his case, muttering comments to himself. He eventually tossed them down on the table beside him before producing a deep-bowled briar which he proceeded to stuff with astonishing quantities of jet-black tobacco.

‘Simple,' he growled, once his pipe had been ignited. ‘No question at all.' He glowered at Mr Stafford through a haze of blue smoke. ‘I'm surprised you needed to consult me, Stafford.'

‘Does Gregory Jaggard lose out then?' asked Jack, seeing that some reply, which Mr Stafford obviously wasn't going to commit himself to, was needed.

‘Lose out? Of course the man loses out. He's had his wife snatched from him by a chap who's played dead since nineteen seventeen. If he's got any emotions at all he'll feel he's very much the loser, wouldn't you say?'

‘I would, certainly. But what about the money?'

‘Oh, that's all right. He gets to keep his income under the trust. Not that that's much consolation, I should imagine.'

‘Does he?' asked Mr Stafford, startled into speech.

‘Of course he does. Look man, it's here in black and white.' He picked up the papers and ruffled amongst them, before stabbing the page with the stem of his pipe. ‘
Gregory Jaggard, husband of the aforesaid Patricia Jaggard
. He's a beneficiary because he's Gregory Jaggard, not because he's Patricia Jaggard's husband.
Error nom nomine
.'

‘
The error is not in the name,
' said Jack slowly.

‘Correct,' said Littleton, casting him an approving glance.

‘So financially speaking, Laurence Tyrell won't be any better off for his reappearance?'

‘Strictly speaking, no. However, his wife does receive an income under the rules of the trust. I suppose he might persuade her to part with some of that.'

Mr Stafford took off his glasses and wiped them carefully. ‘You sound unduly suspicious of Laurence Tyrell's motives, Mr Littleton.'

Littleton gave a crack of laughter. ‘Unduly suspicious! I'll say I am. Ask him what he's been doing for the last few years and why he's only decided to come home now there's some money in the offing. Half of four thousand is a significant sum. He might've thought he was going to get Jaggard's share too. What is it?' he added, swinging round on Jack, who was nursing his sherry thoughtfully.

‘I was just wondering,' said Jack, slowly. ‘At the moment the trust and all the whatjamajigs don't seem to be affected by Tyrell's return. But what if Mark Helston's dead?'

‘If that can be proved – and wait seven years and it doesn't have to be proved – then Patricia, whatever she chooses to call herself, will be a very rich woman.'

‘And the husband?'

‘Will be the next of kin.' His eyes narrowed and he sat back, sending up a huge cloud of smoke. ‘I see what you're getting at, Major. Ugly thought, isn't it?' He turned to Stafford once more. ‘I don't suppose you'll get anywhere with her, Stafford, because in my experience women will not take the most obvious precautions to protect their interests against their family, but it wouldn't hurt to suggest she makes a will leaving her property away from her husband.'

‘But . . .' Mr Stafford repolished his spectacles furiously before replacing them. ‘That sounds as if you are suggesting my client may be in danger. Surely there can be no foundation for such a monstrous idea. I cannot possibly be responsible for putting such notions into her head. Why, Mr Littleton, you talk as if you expected her to be murdered.'

‘Do I?' said Littleton, with a lift of his eyebrows. ‘Well, it occurred to Major Haldean and it occurred to me. But she's your client, Stafford, and you must do as you think best.' He took his pipe from his mouth and gazed at the ashes in the bowl, before glancing up at Stafford once more. ‘Let's just hope that it doesn't occur to anyone else, shall we?'

R
uby was quite definite; Mrs Jaggard wasn't in, nor was the master and she couldn't tell when either of them would be back, not if you offered her a hundred pounds.

Jack stopped short of such fantastic inducements but, aided by an excess of charm that made him feel slightly hot under the collar to think of (Bill was right, damn him! He
could
switch it on) elicited that the house was at Sixes and Sevens.

A Man had mysteriously appeared and the mistress had taken on ever so before going off with him. The master had looked
reelly
ill – as white as a sheet – before leaving the previous night. Mrs Jaggard was stopping with her uncle, as she knew for a fact, as she'd sent round for Ellen, her maid, to bring some clothes that morning and if Major Haldean could tell her, Ruby, what was behind it all, she, Ruby, would be very glad to know as neither she, or Cook, or any of the other servants knew what it was all about or even if they'd still have a place at the end of the month; no, not even Mr Kennett, who was Mr Jaggard's valet and had been with him all through the war.

14, Neville Square did indeed prove to contain the missing lady.

‘Mrs Jaggard, sir?' enquired Fields ponderously. ‘I will enquire if she is At Home.'

Jack, left in the hall like a parcel, waited with as much patience as he could muster. Mrs Jaggard, it transpired, was At Home but currently engaged with Mr Hunt and Captain Smith. If Sir would care to step into the morning room, Mrs Jaggard would join him shortly.

Sir, ridding himself of his hat, coat and stick, did care. There was, as Fields informed him, as he led the way to the morning room with elephantine tread, a lady in the morning room, also waiting to see Mrs Jaggard.

The lady turned out to be an old friend.

‘Anne!' exclaimed Jack with genuine pleasure.

It was Anne Lassiter, a brown-eyed, brown-haired, capable, kindly, thoroughly good sort, who was married to one of Jack's old friends, George. He shouldn't, Jack thought, be surprised to see her here. After all, it was George's grandfather, old Mr Lassiter, who had urged Mr Hunt to seek his help and he knew that Pat Jaggard and Anne Lassiter were good friends. He couldn't think of anyone better for Pat to turn to.

‘Have you heard about Larry Tyrell, Jack?' asked Anne, clasping his hand warmly. ‘Pat rang me first thing this morning. You know Meredith Smith's here? He's with old Mr Hunt. I think he's got some news about Mr Tyrell.'

Jack's forehead creased in a frown. ‘Whatever sort of news can Merry Smith have about Tyrell?'

‘I don't know the ins and outs of it,' said Anne, ‘but Pat said Mr Hunt asked him to call. It's something to do with Brazil. Apparently Larry Tyrell actually worked for Hunt Coffee in Brazil.'

‘
What?
' Jack stared at her. ‘Pat's husband worked for Hunts?'

‘I know,' said Anne nodding vigorously. ‘Isn't it amazing?'

‘Didn't anyone notice he was there? Come to that, didn't he think to mention who he was?'

‘No, that's just it. He didn't know who he was.' Anne leaned forward earnestly. ‘It's something to do with the war. He was badly blown up and suffered from shell shock. He lost his memory and it's taken him ages to find out who he really is.'

‘Blimey,' said Jack, settling down in a chintz-covered chair. ‘That'll be a story worth hearing.' He took out his cigarette case. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?'

‘Not at all,' said Anne, taking a cigarette from the case Jack offered her.

‘How does Mrs . . .' Jack broke off and grinned sheepishly. ‘D'you know, I was about to say “Mrs Jaggard” but I don't suppose it's right to call her that, is it? How does she feel about it all?'

‘Confused, I think,' said Anne. ‘She certainly sounded confused on the phone, but there's more to it than that. There's going to be some very unkind people who'll think Pat planned this in some way, but I can tell you she honestly believed Larry Tyrell was dead until he walked in last night.'

‘I'll take your word for it, Anne. Why on earth should anyone think she planned it?'

Anne shook her head distractedly. ‘Pat wasn't happy with Greg. You know the beastly construction people put on things, but it wasn't her fault.' She looked at him quizzically. ‘You like Gregory Jaggard, don't you?'

Jack shrugged. ‘I've always got on with him.'

‘Most people do.' Anne clicked her tongue. ‘The trouble is that Pat always looked on Greg as second best. It worried me. I tried to talk to her about it, but you can't live other people's lives for them, can you?' She looked at him helplessly. ‘I knew they weren't happy. He was always too polite to her, if you know what I mean.'

‘I know exactly what you mean,' said Jack. ‘That's a very good way of putting it.'

‘It was almost inevitable it would go wrong and, of course, it did.'

‘What happened? Did Jaggard – let me think how to put this – did Jaggard stray off the straight and narrow?'

Anne let out a long breath of relief. ‘You are quick on the uptake, Jack. That's exactly it. Pat was terribly hurt. She retreated into a horrible cold, hard shell. She runs round with that beastly Lahone crowd for no other reason, I'm sure, than to spite Greg. He hates it, but he really only has himself to blame. Have you ever heard of Elise Molnar?'

Jack frowned. ‘The name's vaguely familiar for some reason. Hang on. Is she a singer?'

‘That's right. It's a few months ago now, but George and I went to the Dead Lucky in Piccadilly with Pat and some friends. Elise Molnar was singing. I knew something was wrong. Pat told me the whole story.'

She leaned forward confidentially. ‘Gregory Jaggard saw an awful lot of Elise Molnar before he married Pat. She's Scandinavian, with very striking fair good looks. She makes rather a hobby of rich, good-looking men, if you see what I mean.'

Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Jaggard fits that bill.'

‘Absolutely he does. Well, Pat found out that he'd started seeing her again. Men can be such fools, Jack. Pat knew perfectly well there was something going on. He'd have unexplained nights away – sometimes as much as a week – and expect her to believe some cock-and-bull story about where he'd been. When she found out it was Elise Molnar, the fat really was in the fire.'

‘Poor beggar,' commented Jack. ‘Has the affair continued, do you know?'

‘I don't,' said Anne with a shrug. ‘Pat says she couldn't give a damn. Whether that's true or not, I don't know. The rotten thing is, I'm sure Greg cares about Pat, cares a lot.'

‘I think you're absolutely right,' said Jack. Jaggard's behaviour the previous evening was still vivid in his mind. ‘The idiot had a pretty rum way of showing it, though.'

‘I know. I can't excuse him, but I must admit I feel sorry for him. I like Greg and Pat's one of my best friends. I hoped that eventually the pair of them would make it up, but now Larry Tyrell's returned, there's no hope of that.'

‘Have you ever met Tyrell?'

She shook her head. ‘No. Pat thought the world of him. So much so, I don't see how anyone
could
be as wonderful as she thought he was. I'll tell you something else, Jack.' She crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘It may be very mean spirited of me, but I can't help feel suspicious of his motives. Why's he come back now? Now Pat's got some money, I mean?'

‘That,' said Jack, dryly, ‘is precisely the question that occurred to me.'

In the drawing room, the question of Laurence Tyrell's motives was also up for debate. Mr Hunt closed the file Meredith Smith had brought with him. It was a little while before he spoke. ‘So, according to our records, it would seem that Mr Tyrell's account of himself – Mr Tyrell's
remarkable
account of himself – is true.'

Pat pushed an impatient hand through her glossy hair. ‘Of course Larry's telling the truth. He has to be telling the truth.' She bit her lip. ‘It's beastly to check up on him like this.'

Harold Hunt and Meredith Smith exchanged glances.

‘It's as well to be sure, my dear,' said Mr Hunt. ‘You cannot blame me for wanting to be as certain as possible under the circumstances.' His sharp blue gaze fixed on her. ‘What are you going to do?'

‘I don't know,' she said miserably. She was, as Meredith Smith warily saw, close to tears. ‘It's all so
difficult
.'

Mr Hunt drew a deep breath. ‘Don't rush into things. Your welfare is very dear to me, Pat. You are welcome to stay here until you come to a decision. Out of sheer justice to both Laurence Tyrell and Gregory Jaggard you will have to decide, but your happiness is the most important consideration.'

Pat blinked away sudden tears and kissed him impulsively. ‘H.R.H, you're an absolute dear. You don't know how grateful I am.' She braced herself. ‘I'd better go and see what Major Haldean wants. Anne's waiting, too. Do you want to see Major Haldean, Meredith?'

‘As a matter of fact, I'd appreciate a word with Mr Hunt on a matter of business. Is this a convenient moment, sir?' asked Merry, glancing at Mr Hunt. Mr Hunt nodded in agreement. ‘After that, I really had better get back to Southwark. I'd be obliged if you could give Haldean my regards and make my excuses.'