Trouble Brewing

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘He wants me to watch his race on Saturday.’

  Tyrell’s eyebrows crawled upwards. ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Would you mind?’ She was relieved when he shrugged.

  ‘Go if you want to, my dear. I’m your husband, not your keeper. You’ll excuse me from attending, won’t you? I don’t think I’d get an awful lot out of it.’

  She felt irrationally grateful to him. ‘I thought you’d object.’

  He shrugged again. ‘Not in the least.’ He gave a sudden, attractive smile. ‘I can’t put you in a box and I don’t want to. I know how hard this is for you, Pat. When I woke up in that Mission Station it was as if the years since Passchendaele had been wiped out. It took me ages to realize how much time had passed. At first I thought we could simply take up where we left off. Perhaps that was stupid of me.’

  Her hand tightened round his, but she said nothing.

  ‘You go, my dear. D’you know the one thing I envy Jaggard? The fact he has an occupation. I need a job. I want something to do. I’ve talked to your Uncle Frederick about working for Hunt Coffee.’

  ‘Have you?’ she asked, startled.

  He broke off as the waiter arrived with the champagne. When he had gone, Tyrell raised his glass. ‘Here’s to us. And to work, and all sorts of other worthy notions I never thought I’d espouse. But, most especially, to you.’

  ‘I can’t drink my own toast,’ said Pat, laughing.

  ‘Oh yes, you can. And then, Mrs Tyrell, you’re going to dance the night away and then, long, long after your bedtime, I’m going to take you home.’

  He was as good as his word and, thankfully and unusually, there was no further mention of the room he’d booked.

  For the first time since his return, the tacit pressure on her to declare openly she was his wife and his wife only had been lifted. She responded by enjoying his company more than ever before. There was a tense excitement about him that she’d never known before. If he asked me now, she thought . . . but he didn’t and it was with real regret she said goodbye to him on the doorstep of 14, Neville Square, long after the first dawn greyed the sky.

  There were roses on her dressing table next morning. The maid, bringing in her morning tea, nodded towards them.

  ‘Mr Tyrell left those for you, ma’am. He had breakfast with Mr Frederick, but he said not to disturb you.’

  ‘Thank goodness for that, anyway.’ She read the card with a smile and a slight blush.

  Breakfast with Uncle Frederick? Larry must be serious about having a job. Maybe he had changed.

  She was startled by the ferocity of hope the thought brought with it. She’d been scared. Scared at the thought of being landed with his debts once more while she struggled and pinched and faced real, actual want . . .

  That was all over. She was a rich woman. She would never again face that awful blank despair of days with not quite enough to eat, rent to pay and appearances to keep up. Greg had saved her from all that biting worry. She would always be grateful to Greg for that.

  But if Larry was sincere about work, that put a whole new complexion on things. He was going to call for her that evening. She was looking forward to it.

  ‘Who was buying the biscuits this week?’ demanded Rosie O’Connor of her fellow labourers over morning tea in the typists’ room of Hunt Coffee, Limited, Southwark. ‘All the custard creams have gone again.’ She looked up as Sheila Mandeville came in. ‘I’m sorry, Sheila, but there’s only Rich Tea left now. There always is on a Friday if you’re not here first thing.’

  ‘Never mind about biscuits,’ said Sheila, helping herself to the teapot. She was brimming with news. ‘I had a letter this morning from The Daily Messenger. I’ve won the Spot The Stars competition!’

  There was a chorus of awed congratulation. ‘What have you won?’ demanded Cynthia Cullen raptly.

  ‘Twenty pounds and free tickets for two for a month to the Shaftesbury Pavilion,’ said Sheila with shining eyes. ‘It’s not bad, is it? I had to match ten film stars with their films. There’s a reporter coming to see me this evening. They like to publish details of the winner.’

  ‘That’s to show it’s a genuine competition,’ said Margaret Ross from Dispatch knowingly.

  ‘I wonder what the reporter will be like,’ said Eileen Wilks, whose favourite reading was the weekly romance in Peg’s Paper. ‘He might be ever so good-looking. You never know your luck,’ she added enviously.

  ‘He might be all right,’ said Sheila absently. With Wednesday at the Ritz still golden in her memory, she wasn’t interested in reporters. She hadn’t told the girls about dinner at the Ritz. That sort of gossip would go round like wildfire. It was a pity in a way. The girls would simply adore hearing about her encounter with Mr Jaggard, to say nothing of Mr Tyrell. It was the oddest thing about Mr Tyrell. She was sure she’d seen him somewhere before. Meredith (Meredith! She had better think of him as Captain Smith in the office!) said she was imagining things, but she wasn’t.

  ‘What will you spend the money on?’ asked Rosie O’Connor, interrupting her thoughts.

  ‘A new dress,’ said Sheila Mandeville dreamily. ‘And a bag and shoes and gloves. Something really special.’

  Standing beside the Brooklands track, Joe Hawley watched the great maroon and silver car come round the banking, throttle back and coast gently to a standstill. Jaggard revved the engine once more, then let it idle into silence.

  Hawley ran to the car as Jaggard climbed wearily out. ‘I’ve got the lap times, Jag. They’re damn good. One-oh-three point six on that final stretch.’

  Jaggard pushed up his goggles, unbuckled his helmet and tossed them into the car. He passed a hand over his face, leaving streaks of burnt castor oil. ‘One-oh-three? It’s not nearly enough, Joe. That chain-driven monster of Miller’s can go like the clappers.’

  He buried his head in his hands. Hawley had never seen him look so exhausted.

  ‘We’ve got to win,’ Jaggard muttered fiercely. ‘We’ve got to get more speed.’

  ‘You’re all in, old man,’ said Hawley, practically. ‘Why don’t we go and get something to eat?’ He broke off as a boy approached. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve got a message for Mr Jaggard, sir. There was a telephone call for you.’

  Jaggard took the note, read it, then looked up, grinning broadly. ‘It’s from Pat. She wants to meet me this evening at Miss Mandeville’s flat. I’d rather go there than Neville Square, that’s for sure.’

  He fumbled inside his overalls and, bringing out a shilling, tossed it to the boy. ‘Here you are, sonny.’

  ‘Thanks, guv,’ said the boy, catching the coin with alacrity.

  ‘Now, about this car,’ said Jaggard, turning to Hawley. He looked suddenly refreshed and the deep lines on his forehead had disappeared. ‘The rear wheels are locking as I brake and she’s shifting under the weight, which means I brake down too soon and lose speed on the curves. If we saw about two inches off the rear brake shoes, that just might do it. Help me get her into the sheds, Joe. We’ll get to work, then I can take her out again this afternoon.’

  In the kitchen of 42, Dunthorpe Mansions, Mrs Chard put down the potato peeler, sighed ominously and went into the attack. She disapproved heartily of her next-door neighbour, Miss Mandeville – Mrs Chard disapproved of most of her neighbours – and she most certainly disapproved of the noise in the hall.

  She sallied forth to see a solid, well-dressed, fair-haired man, who was certainly old enough to know better raise the knocker on Miss Mandeville’s door yet again. ‘Young man! Must you make all that racket? If Miss Mandeville was at home she would have surely answered the door by now.’

  Gregory Jaggard turned. A woman with repressive spectacles, a repressive hairstyle and an alarmingly repressive expression was looking at him from the open door of the neighbouring flat.

  Jaggard forced himself to smile. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I haven’t been able to get an answer.’

  ‘I’m
not surprised,’ said Mrs Chard with a sniff. ‘She’s been out till all hours the past couple of nights. She knows I’m a martyr to insomnia and yet I heard her giggling in the hallway. And she had a man with her. If it occurs again I shall have to speak to the management.’

  Jaggard ignored her. To the accompaniment of a sharp intake of breath from Mrs Chard, he knocked vigorously on the door once more and rattled the handle. Much to his surprise, the door swung open.

  He looked into the empty hallway of the flat. ‘Pat? Pat? Are you there?’

  ‘Miss Mandeville’s Christian name is Sheila, I believe,’ said his unwelcome companion.

  Jaggard turned his head impatiently. ‘I’m not looking for Miss Mandeville, I’m looking for my wife.’ He stepped cautiously into the flat. ‘It’s all right,’ he said as the woman made to follow him. ‘You needn’t come in as well.’

  Mrs Chard drew herself up. ‘Indeed I must. I consider it my responsibility – my duty even – to see that Miss Mandeville’s flat is not ransacked. You say you are looking for your wife. How do I know that story is not a complete fabrication?’

  ‘Look,’ said Jaggard testily. ‘If I wanted to break in, I’d hardly come hammering on the door, would I?’

  The woman sniffed. ‘That’s as may be.’ She was darting glances around her, obviously enjoying this chance to explore. ‘The sitting room is directly ahead.’

  The room, which also did duty as a dining room, was empty, but a handbag lay on the sofa.

  ‘She’s been in, then,’ said Jaggard, pointing to the bag.

  ‘Oh yes,’ agreed Mrs Chard. ‘She’s always in at this hour. She usually switches on the wireless. I have frequently had occasion to speak to her about the noise, but my views, I am sorry to say, apparently count for nothing.’

  Jaggard glanced back into the hall. A coat was hanging up on the pegs beside the door and a hat was on the shelf by the mirror. ‘This is damned strange,’ he said. He paid no attention to Mrs Chard’s intake of breath and scandalized protest of ‘Language!’

  He quickly looked into the tiny kitchen before pausing self-consciously at the bedroom door. ‘Er . . . d’you think you could?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Mrs Chard pushed open the door. The bed stood empty against the wall. A chest of drawers, a ponderous wardrobe and a chair were the only other furnishings. There was no one in the room.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ muttered Jaggard. ‘Where the devil is she?’

  He strode back into the hall, pausing before the only door they hadn’t opened. ‘What’s in here?’

  Mrs Chard hesitated. ‘The . . . er . . . facilities,’ she said, primly.

  He rapped on the door before pushing it open. The bathroom was as empty as the rest of the flat.

  ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ declared Jaggard. He threw back his head and shouted. ‘Pat! Miss Mandeville! Pat!’

  The only sound was the quiet ticking of the sitting-room clock.

  ‘I trust,’ said Mrs Chard, gazing at him in fascinated horror, ‘you will not do that again.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Jaggard, restraining his temper with difficulty. ‘I won’t.’ He looked at his watch impatiently. ‘It’s nearly half past six. She should have been here twenty minutes ago.’ He went back into the sitting room and, scribbling a note, left it propped up against the clock.

  Meredith Smith raised the knocker of 43, Dunthorpe Mansions, once more, but, before he could bring it down, the door of the neighbouring flat flew open and an alarming woman, her face suffused with fury, issued forth.

  ‘Will you . . .’ she began, then stopped. ‘I beg your pardon,’ she said in a tone which made it clear she thought Meredith Smith should be begging hers. ‘I assumed you were the other young man.’ She looked at him with distaste. Clearly the change was no improvement.

  Meredith Smith raised his hat. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you. I was looking for Miss Mandeville.’

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ said the woman with a sniff. ‘Miss Mandeville is clearly not at home. As I told the other young man . . .’

  ‘What other young man?’ demanded Meredith.

  ‘The one who was here earlier. I didn’t care for his manner at all, although I’m sure I went out of my way to be helpful. I even went so far as to look round Miss Mandeville’s flat with him, otherwise I am convinced he would still be hammering at the door. I am a martyr to neuralgic headaches and find this constant disturbance most trying.’

  Meredith Smith tried his hand at pacification. ‘Look, I’m awfully sorry to have bothered you, Miss . . .?’

  ‘I am a married woman, young man,’ she said, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘My name is Mrs Chard.’

  Meredith briefly marvelled at the reckless heroism of the absent Mr Chard before trying another dollop of oil on troubled waters. He didn’t want to set Sheila at odds with her neighbours. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been disturbed, Mrs Chard, but I’ve nothing to do with anyone else who was here. Er . . . How did you get into the flat?’

  ‘The door is unlocked,’ she replied icily.

  Meredith tried the handle. ‘No, it’s not.’

  Mrs Chard strode to the door and tried the handle. The door remained closed. ‘Well, all I can say it was open earlier. And really, although there is a very nice class of people in these flats, I think that leaving a door unlocked in that manner is nothing less than putting temptation in the way of those who may be weaker than oneself.’

  Meredith stood undecided in front of the door. He looked at his watch. Half past seven. The show started at eight o’clock and Sheila had promised she’d be ready. She might have made a mistake, of course, and assumed he was going to meet her at the theatre. He’d better be off, or else he might miss her there . . .

  ‘But she wasn’t there, Jack,’ he said next day on the telephone. ‘I hung around the theatre until the interval, then left her ticket at the box office in case she showed up later. I called round to her flat again, but she still wasn’t in and this morning she hasn’t shown up for work. I did wonder if she’d been called away unexpectedly, but it seems odd she hasn’t let me know. I’d have expected her to send word that she wasn’t coming into the office at the very least.’

  ‘It does sound odd,’ said Jack. Smith could hear his hesitation. ‘Look, I’m a bit stuck at the moment. The Lassiters are calling for me. They’ll be here at any minute. We’re going to Brooklands with Pat Tyrell to see Jaggard’s race this afternoon. Hold on a minute, Merry.’

  Smith could hear the sound of muffled voices over the telephone.

  ‘I’ll have to go. Can you meet me in the club at six o’clock? Try not to worry. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation.’

  And so there might be, thought Meredith Smith, staring sightlessly at the ledger in front of him. It’s just that he was damned if he could think of it. He put down his pen and strolled to the window, where he leaned on the sill, looking out over the factory buildings. Where the blazes was she? Damn, damn, damn! To be stuck here on a Saturday morning . . . At least he had the afternoon free.

  He looked impatiently at the clock. He’d like to go to Dunthorpe Mansions now, but he was seeing Wilcox from Buchanan Glassworks first thing on Monday morning and the costings needed work. Reluctantly he went back to his desk and, pulling the ledger and a sheaf of letters towards him, tried to bury himself in estimates. Work was better than having nightmares about Sheila.

  When the twelve o’clock hooter sounded, all his ruthlessly subdued fears suddenly sprang into overwhelming life. He put the cap on his fountain pen with shaking hands and left the office at a run.

  At 43, Dunthorpe Mansions, the door remained obstinately closed. Meredith Smith pounded on the door. Mrs Chard, thank God, must be out. Just for once, she’d have every reason to complain about the noise he was making. Sheila could be out, too, but . . .

  Meredith Smith swallowed hard and went to get the porter.

  Grumbling, the porter reluctant
ly left his cubbyhole in the basement and consented to unlock Sheila’s door with his pass key.

  Merry pushed past him into the hall. ‘Sheila!’

  There was no response. He knew there wouldn’t be. She simply couldn’t have ignored the hammering at the door, but a feeling of intrusion made him shout her name once more.

  He opened the door to the sitting room. He’d told himself that he was a fool to worry so, that he was allowing his imagination to run away with him, that he was a complete idiot . . . and everything he dreaded was suddenly true. Only the real thing was far, far worse.

  Sheila’s broken body lay slumped on the floor against the couch, her face distorted and her eyes staring.

  The porter, still grumbling, came into the room behind him. ‘And I’ll have to tell the management . . . God Strewth!’ He made a noise as if he was going to be sick. ‘The police! We’ll have to get the police! She’s been murdered!’

  TEN

  Gregory Jaggard watched the blue Bugatti of Sandy Keyne streak past on the inside. Never mind. The Bug was lighter, but his car, with its greater weight and low-revving engine, needed time to build up speed. The wind tore at his face and he felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders take the strain as he swung the six-cylinder car up the banking under Member’s Bridge. He pulled the air intake control out to full, then floored the accelerator as the Railway Straight opened out in front of him.

  He was gaining on the Bugatti now, the roar of the crowd on the bridge coming faintly to him over the deep thrum of his engine. His revs were building as the long stroke picked up the power. Keyne was slowing, trying to see a way past the huge Frazer-Nash in front of him. Jaggard touched the wheel and saw a window of clear track ahead, blocked by Johnny Miller in the Miller Special.

  The smell of cut grass twanged his senses. The grass had been cut by a car crashing off the track. There it was! Reggie Palmer in an overturned Voisin, broadside on, its wheels still spinning in the air. He caught a brief flurry of movement by the wrecked car. Palmer should be all right.

  He eased off the accelerator slightly before pressing down hard. The engine, the beautiful, handcrafted, lovingly tuned engine, responded like a nervy horse and shot forward, passing both the Bugatti and the Frazer-Nash. A flick of the wheel saved him from disaster and he was past Miller with only Ronnie Noble’s Mercedes and Barnato’s Bentley to master. He took the high ground on the Byfleet Banking and settled down to wear out the Merc.