Trouble Brewing (27 page)

‘What's the matter?' asked Bill. ‘You've just pulled off the coup of a lifetime. You should be pretty pleased with yourself.'

‘I don't think pleased is the right word,' said Jack. ‘I'm glad we've found the poor beggar, but we still don't know how he died. Besides that, how on earth am I going to break it to Mr Hunt?'

‘Come with me,' offered Rackham. ‘I'm off to Neville Square to tell him.'

‘I can't say I'm looking forward to this,' said Jack, as he and Rackham walked towards Neville Square. ‘I'm no doctor, Bill, but I wouldn't say old Mr Hunt's heart was up to much. I'm a bit nervous in case the news sees him off altogether.'

Bill shrugged. ‘He asked you to find his great-nephew and that's what you've done. If he doesn't think it's an outstanding piece of work, I'm going to tell him.'

Jack looked at him wryly. ‘If you're expecting enthusiasm you'll be disappointed. We've only got half a story. We've found Helston all right, but who put Helston in Richard Wainstall's place? And who the dickens is Richard Wainstall anyway?'

‘Now that I can tell you. I looked him up. He's aged twenty-seven, served with the Royal Engineers, promoted to corporal, and was badly gassed at Cambrai. He was demobbed in 1919 and had a variety of casual jobs. He was a doorman for a time, a night watchman and a builder's labourer, but had to give that up because of a chest complaint. He had a sister who lives in Suffolk, but she hadn't seen him for months before he apparently died. As far as I can tell, he has absolutely no connection with Mark Helston, Hunt Coffee or anyone else we've come across.'

‘So where's Wainstall now? He's either disappeared on purpose, leaving his identity to Helston, or he's dead himself. Of the two, I'm inclined to think he's dead. If he were alive, it would give him a dickens of a hold over Helston's killer.'

‘The Chief thinks he's dead,' said Bill. ‘He was only throwing out ideas, but he suggested that the man we found in Gower Street wasn't Valdez but Richard Wainstall.'

Jack wrinkled his nose. ‘It can't be. If the murderer had gone to that sort of trouble, he'd hardly leave the Gower Street body untouched. He couldn't have known it was going to be so long before it was discovered. It could have been found within hours. I know Wainstall was on his uppers, poor devil, but someone would have recognized his photo eventually. If the body had been disfigured, then yes, I'd think there was something to be said for the notion but as it is, it won't wash.

‘His other idea,' said Bill heavily, ‘is that Valdez is still alive and he murdered both Helston and Wainstall.'

‘That's loopy. Again, if that was the case, the Gower Street body would be disfigured in some way.'

‘That's what I said. I put it a little more tactfully, of course. I'm sure Valdez is dead. Not only has he utterly vanished from the world, he had a good bit of money tucked away in a bank account in São Paulo. That's still there. From what we know of the man, he liked the good life and he'd need that money to live it.'

‘This case is like one of those Russian dolls,' said Jack grumpily. ‘However many you open, there's always another one inside.'

Bill looked at Jack and grinned. ‘My money's on Jaggard but I know who you want to pin it on.'

‘Go on, mind reader. Who do I want to finger?'

‘Tyrell, of course. You're itching to find a way it could have been him, but you can't.'

‘Go to the top of the class.'

‘I knew it!' said Bill in triumph.

‘Helston's death does benefit him,' put in Jack slyly.

‘But he didn't
know
it was going to, did he? As far as anyone could guess, all Helston's grandmother had to leave was a cupboard full of old china and a couple of cats. Tyrell's account of his motives for coming back to London may be as dodgy as you like, but his account of his actions has got a lot of supporting evidence, and those actions clear him of Helston's murder.'

Jack sighed. ‘You're right, old thing.'

They walked for a few paces in silence. ‘You know who we've left out as a possible?' said Jack. ‘Frederick Hunt. If things are amiss at Hunt Coffee, he very well might have a motive for knocking Mark Helston on the head.'

‘But he didn't have the opportunity. He was at that Mansion House dinner, remember?'

‘I remember,' said Jack gloomily. ‘Anyway, none of this has helped in the least with the immediate problem. What on earth do we say to old Mr Hunt?'

They turned the corner into Neville Square.

It was clear that something was up. The door to number 14 was open and Meredith Smith was on the doorstep, looking feverishly up and down the square. He ran to them with relief. His hair was dishevelled and his face was strained with worry. ‘Thank God you're here! I phoned Scotland Yard.'

‘Merry, what's happened?'

Meredith Smith swallowed hard. ‘Murder!'

‘Murder?' Jack felt sick. ‘Not Pat?'

‘Pat? Of course not.' His voice wavered. ‘It's H.R.H.'

‘What!' roared Bill. He sprang up the steps. Smith made to go after him but Jack stopped him.

‘Merry, wait! Tell me what happened.'

‘It's awful,' said Meredith. He was pale and spoke in little, jerky sentences. ‘It was bad enough when Sheila was killed. This is dreadful. When's it going to end, Jack? Can't you stop it? When I saw him there . . .'

‘Merry! Tell me what happened.' The note of command in Jack's voice had its effect. Meredith took a deep breath.

‘H.R.H. was shot. It's a bullet through the side of his head. It must've been instant.'

‘D'you know when?'

Meredith shook his head. ‘Sometime this afternoon. Tyrell came to lunch and left about three o'clock. He must have done it, Jack, he absolutely must have.'

‘
Tyrell
did it?'

‘It simply has to be him. Fields said he'd been to lunch. Poor Fields has taken it very badly. Frederick Hunt's here. You'd better go in. I've come out to look for the police. They're taking ages . . . here they are now.'

A police car, its bell ringing, swung round the top of the square and squealed to a halt. Two uniformed officers got out. ‘Are you Captain Smith? We had a telephone call. Is Inspector Rackham here?'

‘Yes,' said Meredith. ‘Go on in.'

The two men ran quickly up the steps.

Jack caught hold of Meredith's arm. ‘Before you follow them, tell me everything you know. Mr Hunt saw Tyrell, you say?'

‘Yes, that's right. Shouldn't you be getting after him, Jack?'

‘He'll keep for a few minutes. What happened after Tyrell had gone? Did anyone see Mr Hunt?'

‘No. They'd been in the drawing room, but when Fields went into the room to clear away the coffee cups after Tyrell had left, H.R.H. wasn't there. Frederick Hunt arrived home about half three or so. He knew Tyrell had been, because he asked Fields if Tyrell was still here. When Fields told him Tyrell had left, he went off to his own study at the back of the house. I arrived about six o'clock or so. That's . . .' he glanced at his watch. ‘Dear God, it's only twenty minutes ago.'

‘Why are you here?'

‘I've been dropping in the last few evenings. H.R.H. enjoyed being brought up to date on what was happening in the firm. I don't think Frederick Hunt tells him much and I was keeping him posted. Anyway, I stood in the hall while Fields went to root out H.R.H. for me. He looked in the drawing room, but he wasn't there, and then Fields went into the library. The poor devil came out as white as a sheet. I honestly thought he was going to faint, Jack. I pushed past him, and there at the table was H.R.H. It was absolutely horrible. Fields went to get Frederick Hunt. He rushed downstairs and then we rang the police. Do come into the house, Jack.'

They walked into the hall. Fields was sitting on a chair by the foot of the stairs, staring sightlessly in front of him. Jack put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You need a good stiff drink, man, and so does Captain Smith.'

The butler looked at him, evidently not hearing the words. His eyes were watery. ‘No one ever had a better master, sir. I've been with Mr Hunt all my life. All my life. He said to me only yesterday . . .' The butler's voice trembled. ‘He said “I don't know what I would have done without you. You've been more than a servant to me . . .” He had such a lot to endure. I always did my best.'

‘I know you did,' said Jack gently. ‘D'you think you could give Captain Smith a drink? He really needs one, you know.'

Fields stirred as years of training reasserted itself. ‘Captain Smith? The master enjoyed his visits. He looked forward to them.' He blinked and his eyes focused. ‘Why, Captain Smith, you're here, sir.' He raised himself heavily to his feet.

‘Look after him, Merry,' hissed Jack. ‘He's bowled over. Don't leave the poor blighter alone. When the doctor arrives, I'll send him along.'

‘Right-oh.' Meredith touched the butler on the arm. ‘Shall we go to your pantry, Fields? We'll be more comfortable in there. You show me the way.'

Jack walked into the library.

Harold Hunt was sprawled at the desk, a blackened mess of blood disfiguring the white hair over his ear. He looked like a wispy doll. The pistol was under his outstretched hand. Bill and the two police officers were standing by him and Frederick Hunt was by the fireplace.

Bill looked up as he entered. ‘Hello, Jack. He's dead all right. We're expecting Doctor Roude.'

Jack nodded. ‘Yes. Meredith Smith says Laurence Tyrell did it.'

‘What?' Bill swung round on Hunt. ‘Tyrell's been here? Why didn't you tell me?'

‘Really, Inspector, it never occurred to me,' said Frederick Hunt primly. ‘As for Captain Smith's disgraceful suggestion, I would advise you to dismiss it completely.' He licked his lips nervously. ‘It's obvious my unhappy father took his own life.'

‘That's a great deal more than I know,' growled Bill. ‘When did Tyrell leave the house?'

Frederick Hunt polished his glasses. ‘Before I arrived home at half three. More than that I cannot tell you. For more precise information you will have to question Fields.'

‘The poor devil isn't in a fit state to answer any questions,' put in Jack. ‘Smith's looking after him at the moment.'

‘Maybe Mr Tyrell will enlighten us. He's at the Fitzroy, or was, at any rate.' Bill turned to the two policemen. ‘Conway, Hawkins, call the Yard and ask for another couple of men to join you at the Fitzroy Palace Hotel. It's on Rupert Street off Piccadilly. If Tyrell isn't at the hotel, leave two men there and find him. I want Tyrell at the Yard for questioning by the time I get back. Off you go.'

The two men left and Bill shifted his eyes back to Frederick Hunt. ‘Mr Hunt, you have my sympathies, sir. What makes you think your father killed himself?'

Frederick Hunt tutted in irritation. ‘Any other suggestion is absurd, Inspector. The gun which my unhappy father used has been in his possession for many years. I cannot, simply cannot, credit that Mr Tyrell would walk in here and shoot my father in broad daylight. What possible reason could he have? It must be self-inflicted. It absolutely has to be.'

‘We'll know more about that when the doctor comes. In the meantime, Mr Hunt, perhaps you could give us an account of your own actions.'

‘Really, I . . .'

‘What time did you arrive home, sir?'

‘About half past three, Inspector. I've been at the office all day. My chauffeur drove me here.'

‘Did you know where your father kept his gun?'

‘Yes. It was kept in its case on the bookshelf, but the bullets were kept in the drawer of his desk. It's ridiculous to suppose that Tyrell could have found both the gun and the bullets, loaded it and shot my father.'

‘Did you see your father, sir?'

‘I did not.'

‘You wanted to see Tyrell, didn't you?' put in Jack.

‘I . . . er . . .' Frederick Hunt polished his glasses again. ‘Yes. I knew he intended to lunch with my father and I wondered if he was still here. Purely a matter of courtesy, you understand.'

‘What was Tyrell's business with Mr Hunt?'

‘I really don't know. I imagine it concerned my niece, Patricia.' He stopped as the door opened and Doctor Roude entered the room.

The doctor made a quick examination of old Mr Hunt's body before standing back, shaking his head. ‘Well, Inspector, this is a sorry case. The poor old soul doesn't look as if he had much longer to go as it was.'

He looked at his thermometer, glanced at his pocket-watch and did a rapid calculation. ‘It's twenty-five to seven now. Death occurred about three and a half hours ago. I'd say you were looking at half two to four o'clock. Death would have been instantaneous. Anyone hear it? No?'

‘Could it be suicide, Doctor?' asked Rackham

Roude put the thermometer back in its case and rested his hands on the desk, looking carefully at the body. ‘It's the obvious solution, but in my experience it's not the old who take their own lives. It does happen, of course, usually if a man's been told he's facing a long and painful illness, but by and large it's the young who feel they can't face things any longer. By the time you get to his age, you've faced most of the things life has to throw at you. What about the fingerprints on the pistol?'

‘It's yet to be tested but it's easy enough to wipe a pistol and press someone's hand round it,' said Bill.

‘M'yes. Was there a note?'

Bill shook his head.

‘That surprises me.' Dr Roude looked round the tidy library. ‘He was obviously a man with a sense of order. It's odd he didn't leave a note.'

‘Can you see Fields, the butler?' asked Jack. ‘He discovered the body and he's dreadfully cut up over it.'