Trouble Brewing (8 page)

Bill nodded reluctantly. ‘I wouldn't put it quite as baldly as that.'

‘For heaven's sake, man, do stop trying to spare my feelings. To state the matter plainly, you believe that the missing man and the murdered man are part of the same puzzle. I have dealt in facts all my life, Inspector. I cannot blame you for your very natural assumption. But I have one fact you do not, and that is a knowledge of my nephew's character. Granted sufficient provocation, I can imagine Mark hitting out in blind fury and even, although I do not think he would go so far, wresting the knife from the other man's grasp and using it. But what he would
not
do is conceal his actions. He had enough faith in English law to believe that a distinction would be made between manslaughter and murder.'

Frederick Hunt had gone very white around the lips. ‘Murder? Surely not. That was merely sensational newspaper talk. It has to be an accident.'

‘Nonsense,' snapped Mr Hunt. ‘The man was stabbed.'

‘Mark
couldn't
have murdered Valdez or anyone else,' broke in Pat. ‘It's a ridiculous idea.'

Jaggard nodded in support. ‘Absolutely. Valdez went back to South America.'

Jack swapped glances with Bill, then shook his head. ‘Not as far as we can tell.'

‘You are wrong, Inspector,' said Mr Hunt with deadly calm. ‘Mark
cannot
be a murderer. I engaged you to find my great-nephew, Major Haldean. The production of a body, even the wrong one, is proof of some sort of zeal. At least it's more than that fatuous fool, Murray, ever did. To that I add a further commission. Clear Mark's name of this monstrous charge.'

Jack hesitated. ‘I don't know if I can, sir.'

Mr Hunt gave him a shrivelling look. ‘You too, eh? Then discover the truth. You will find it amounts to the same thing.'

‘Look here, Haldean,' said Jaggard. ‘You're barking up the wrong tree if you think Mark bumped off Valdez.'

‘Thank you, Gregory,' put in Mr Hunt quietly.

Jaggard shrugged. ‘It's not the sort of thing Mark would've done. Like H.R.H., I can just about credit an argument that went wrong, but not this hole-in-a-corner business in an empty house. I mean, they might have disagreed about running the plantation, but that's no reason for seeing the bloke off. If Mark felt as strongly as that he could have had the chap sacked.'

Jack's eyes slid to Frederick Hunt. ‘It's been suggested that Mark's aversion to Senhor Valdez was based on more personal grounds. An uncomplicated dislike for dagoes?'

‘Rubbish!' averred Mr Hunt vigorously. ‘Frederick, you met both of them on that last day. You can vouch that Mark had no feeling of that sort.'

‘Well, er . . . I rather thought he did.'

Jaggard shook his head. ‘Not old Mark. That's not like him at all.' He looked curiously at Frederick Hunt. ‘Whatever gave you that impression?'

Hunt shifted uncomfortably. ‘It was the tone Mark employed during the meeting.'

‘How d'you mean?'

‘I am uncertain at this distance of time as to the precise terms used, but they were definitely concerned with Senhor Valdez's origins. More than that I am not prepared to say.'

‘I think you'd better,' said Mr Hunt grimly. Frederick gave him an agonized look. ‘Later, if you prefer, but I want to know, Frederick. However,
if
Mark had a quarrel with Valdez I find it frankly incredible that was the cause. As you know, I always thought you placed far too great a reliance on Valdez's judgements, but that is another issue.' He rose very stiffly to his feet. ‘And now, Major Haldean, Inspector Rackham, I will not presume upon your time any longer. If the body is indeed that of Senhor Valdez, surely it is easier to believe that some tramp lured him into the house for purposes of robbery, violence ensued and the tramp fled, leaving his victim. Mark cannot have had anything to do with it.'

‘Perhaps, sir. This could prove to be nothing more than a mare's nest.'

‘I am glad to hear you say so, Major. Whoever killed Senhor Valdez – and I would dearly like to know – it was certainly not Mark.'

P
at Jaggard sat back as Gregory's practised hands steered the great car smoothly through the traffic. She enjoyed Greg's driving; able without ostentation. Not like that lout, Tim Lahone. He crashed the gears, over-revved the engine and flung the car from one side of the road to the other in a swaggering display of what he fondly imagined was skill. He
liked
cutting up other motorists and watching pedestrians scurry at his approach. And then he had stopped the car . . .

She winced at the thought of Tim's alcoholic breath, gin-soaked endearments and pawing hands. Greg had been right about him. When Greg used to hold her, she remembered feeling nothing but pleasure. He was good at that, too . . . So why,
why
had he betrayed her? If it hadn't been for Greg she would never have been in Tim Lahone's car in the first place.

Greg half turned his head to her. ‘Anything wrong?'

‘Tim Lahone tried to make love to me.' The engine stuttered briefly.
That
gear-change wasn't so smooth, she noted with satisfaction.

His lips set in a thin line. ‘I see. What d'you want me to do about it? Endure it politely or knock his block off?'

At one time he would have acted, not asked. His knuckles where he gripped the steering wheel had gone white. Dangerous hands, she thought with a shock. ‘Do you mind?'

‘Mind!' He almost shouted. ‘Of course I mind. You're my wife, for God's sake.'

‘It's a pity you didn't remember that before.'

For a few moments he said nothing, keeping his gaze rigidly ahead. Then he shook himself like a man coming up from underwater. ‘Pat . . .' His eyes stayed fixed on the road. ‘If . . . If you want to call it off, then tell me. Let's have a clean break. I don't know how much longer I can go on living like this. If you want me to say I'm sorry, I'll say I'm sorry. God knows, I'm sorry. I don't want to split up but I'd rather have anything than keep dragging out this charade.'

‘Can you afford a divorce?'

He did look round then. ‘Whatever d'you mean?'

‘You talked about the truth. I'd like the truth, Greg, about a few things. For instance, do you need Mark's money or don't you?'

‘I don't,' he said tightly.

And she knew, with an inner conviction that nothing could shake, that he had told her another lie. She sighed and rested her arm along the sill, feeling the cool air rush over her hot skin. She suddenly felt utterly weary. What the hell was the point anyway? If he wanted a divorce she supposed she'd play the outraged wife when some slimy photographer turned up with evidence from a hotel somewhere. Perhaps he could get
that woman
– his mistress – to play the part. Keep everything cosy, as it were. Then, at least, the outrage would be real. It was with a slight shock she realized he was speaking to her.

‘I said, what other things would you like the truth about?'

She roused herself with an effort. ‘It doesn't really matter any more, does it? Not now it's all over.'

‘I think it does.'

‘Why. I suppose that's the question. Why?'

To do him justice he thought about the answer, and when it came it surprised her. ‘Laurence Tyrell.'

‘Laurence? My husband, you mean? Whatever's Larry got to do with it?'

He smacked the steering wheel. ‘Ever since we've been married it's been like living with two people. You and him. You've always judged me against him but he's dead. I can't fight a ghost. You've built up this glorious picture in your mind and it's false, Pat, utterly false. Why did he marry you in the first place?'

‘Because
he
loved me,' she snapped out, stung.

‘Oh yes? What about his godfather's will? Did he tell you about that? Tyrell got his godfather's money when, and only when, he got married. He needed that money, Pat.'

‘You've got that all wrong. His godfather wanted to make sure Larry had enough money to get married on. Don't shake your head in that
I know best
manner. It's the truth.'

‘So what happened to it? Tyrell's money, I mean? He ran through it pretty damn quickly, didn't he?'

‘He was unlucky.'

‘Luck! He threw away a small fortune and landed you with a sackful of gambling debts. I paid the last of them, if you recall.'

‘How very kind of you to remind me,' she said icily.

He winced. ‘Oh,
hell!
I take that back. I really do, Pat. It's just that when I think of him and how you feel about him it makes me see red. He's always there and I hate it. Then I . . . I made a fool of myself. I'm sorry. Dear God, I wish you could guess how sorry I am, but something had to crack. We couldn't have gone on as we were.'

‘Nor, apparently, as we are.' She was still smarting about the attack on Larry.

He executed two corners, before bringing the car to a halt in front of the garage on Tanyard Mews. Switching off the engine he turned round in his seat. ‘So which is it to be?'

A grey weariness enfolded her. It was difficult to think . . . and all the time, Greg's voice sounded as if from the other end of a tunnel, pushing her, needling her to make a decision.

She didn't care if he was sorry. She wouldn't believe him if he said he was. She didn't really care about living any longer. One day and then another day and every day like this. Let him do what he liked. She didn't care about anything at all. It had all been so different when Larry had been alive.

Jack watched the Jaggards drive by with a feeling of admiration. That was some car Jaggard had built. The meaty, yet well-bred engine sounded as if it could match anything on the road. He was looking forward to talking engines with Jaggard. There was fifty-brake horsepower at a guess under that sleek maroon bonnet. Match the engine with a lightweight body and the speed would be . . .

‘I don't think much of the idea it was a tramp,' said Bill, interrupting these wayward reflections as they continued up the street together. It was a cold, blustery day where March seemed to have displaced May. Bill stopped, gave his gloves to Jack to hold and did up the top button of his overcoat. ‘You don't really think it's got anything going for it, do you?' he asked, taking back his gloves.

Jack shook his head. ‘No. It's not impossible, of course, and it would explain the clothes being pinched. A tramp wouldn't want to leave those but if the bloke's got a strong enough stomach to take the clothes and shoes, then he'd hardly leave all the other bits and pieces. Incidentally, you owe me a thumping great debt of gratitude. Following your instructions to the letter, I kept mum before you arrived, although I was longing to put poor old Mr Hunt out of his misery. Why are you so certain it's Valdez? All you really told me on the phone were the results of the post-mortem.'

‘The man's age is about right for Valdez, and, as far as we can tell, the body fits the description in his passport, but the identification hinges on the things which were in the room. They're all his. We know he wore gold-rimmed spectacles, the card case has his cards in it, as well as the one from Frederick Hunt, the watch has his name engraved inside, and both the wallet – which was empty, by the way – and the cigarette case had his monogram on them. The ring he was wearing was his, too. It had
A.V.
engraved on it.'

‘None of which are inextricably part of him, if you see what I mean. Someone could have simply left them in the room.'

‘Yes, but why? If the murderer was trying to confuse us, then he was going a jolly funny way about it. It's a damn funny business altogether. You'll hardly credit the story behind the house. Apparently it's the subject of a long-running legal wrangle between two branches of the same family. It's been empty for the last year and a half. Can you imagine leaving a house like that standing empty in this day and age? Some people really do have more money than sense. They couldn't even agree to put a caretaker in, so it's been left to moulder.'

‘Could the murderer know that?'

‘I don't see how. The body could have been found the next day. The post-mortem proved that the face had been untouched and the hands, which had been complete with fingerprints, were still intact. If we'd have found a complete stranger in that room, we'd have known it wasn't Valdez, no matter how many of his bits and pieces were scattered around. Now if someone had tried to make out it was Helston who was dead, I could see some sense in it. Helston's death would benefit Gregory and Patricia Jaggard very directly and, for all I know, Uncle Frederick might not be sorry to see the back of him, but no one gains from Valdez's death.'

‘No one we've come across, that's for sure. Yet why take his clothes? Especially if you're going to leave all his things.' Jack sighed impatiently. ‘I'm going to chase up Miss Mandeville, Helston's clerk. She should be able to tell me more about Helston other than that he was old Mr Hunt's white-headed boy. What about the knife, Bill? Was it silver? It looked like it.'

‘The hilt was made of strands of silver wire set into a solid silver bar. The blade was inlaid steel and the whole thing must be worth a few bob. There's no prints on it, worse luck, but we might have expected that. It's a nice little thing in its way. I'd say it was a paperknife from a gentleman's study.'

‘A gentleman, eh? That goes with the hip flask whose traces were on the mantelpiece. The knife and the hip flask are the only things we've come across which seem to belong to the murderer rather than the corpse. Speaking of gentlemen, what d'you think of Frederick Hunt?'

Bill shrugged. ‘He didn't enjoy being put on the spot about Helston's feelings towards Valdez, did he? Which could either mean that his account of the meeting wasn't true or that he didn't want to shatter his father's illusions.'