Trouble Brewing

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘They’re coming!’ shouted Pat Tyrell, crammed against the iron railings in the enclosure. With a ground-shaking rumble, as if an earthquake had been canned and set on wheels, the race leaders streaked past the white grandstand, leaving a trail of smoke and the heady smell of burnt castor oil in their wake. ‘Did you see him?’ she called, clutching at Jack’s arm in an agony of excitement. ‘Did you see him? He’s past Miller. That’s what he cared about. He’s past Miller.’

  The grin that Jaggard wore as he flashed past the grandstand hardened into a frown. He knew Pat was there, willing him on. He’d caught a glimpse of the distinctive red hat she always wore on race days as he’d gone to the car and he thought he’d seen her wave.

  He caught up with the slow-moving cars at the back of the field and the next few minutes were pure concentration. Hillhouse’s Fiat was there, seeming to stand still. He must be having trouble with his supercharger. Jaggard distrusted superchargers. They were quick but unreliable . . . Ah! The Fiat coughed its way to the side of the track and Jaggard weaved in and out of the remaining traffic, playing follow-the-leader with the Mercedes. He touched the brakes, feeling the lightened brake shoes slacken the speed just long enough to avoid disaster with Noble’s Mercedes before a throaty roar a note or two below his own well-bred sound warned him that Miller was on his coat tails. Then the leaders were away once more and Jaggard settled down to slug it out for second place.

  ‘They’re coming round Byfleet Banking once more, ladies and gentlemen,’ crackled the public address system. ‘They should be in sight very shortly. In the lead is Captain Woolf Barnato in the Bentley followed by Mr Ronald Noble in his four-cylinder Mercedes . . .’

  The cars thundered past. ‘Where’s Greg?’ cried Pat. The third car past the grandstand was the Miller Special.

  The address system crackled once more. ‘We’re getting reports of an accident on the Byfleet Banking, ladies and gentlemen. The marshals are going to the scene now.’

  Pat turned a white, agonized face to Jack.

  ‘It’s Mr Gregory Jaggard in the Jaggard Six. The car’s on fire, ladies and gentlemen.’

  Pat raised a hand to her mouth.

  ‘The driver was flung clear and . . . Yes! He’s on his feet. He seems quite unharmed.’

  Pat made a choking noise.

  ‘Miller is running a superb race in third place, gaining on the Mercedes . . .’

  ‘I must get to the sheds,’ said Pat. All the colour had drained out of her face. ‘I must see him. Oh, poor Greg. He’s lost his race.’

  With George and Anne Lassiter beside him, Jack took her arm and led her out of the crowd. ‘The race doesn’t matter, surely?’ he said.

  ‘It does matter,’ insisted Pat. ‘Greg was keyed up about this race. He had a bet of some sort on with Johnnie Miller. I’m sure he had a lot riding on it. More than money, I mean.’

  It took them a long time to get through the enclosure to the sheds. By the time they arrived, there was quite a crush outside the double doors. Pat determinedly made her way though, Jack and the Lassiters following on behind.

  Gregory Jaggard was sitting on an upturned oil drum, with a man in a tweed jacket, who was obviously a doctor, dabbing at his forehead with piece of damp lint. Jaggard seemed completely oblivious of the doctor’s care.

  ‘It’s all over, Joe,’ they heard him say to the man beside him. He looked utterly beaten. Then he looked up and saw Pat.

  He made a fluttering motion with his hand. Pat drew in her breath as she looked at the deep, dirty gash that the doctor had only partially cleaned. ‘It’s only a graze,’ Jaggard said, and repeated it three or four times. ‘Don’t fuss. It’s only a graze.’

  ‘It’s rather more than a graze,’ said the doctor, soaking the cloth and wringing it out in the bowl of water beside him.

  ‘I’ll say,’ said Joe Hawley. ‘That was a hell of a smash you had, begging your pardon, Mrs Jaggard. The poor beggar’s tyres blew. The car’s burnt out. You were damn lucky, old man.’

  Jaggard shuddered. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He tried to fend off the doctor’s hand. ‘Just leave me alone. It’s all over.’

  ‘Whatever’s the matter with you, Greg?’ demanded Pat. ‘You’re still in one piece. You’re alive, for heaven’s sake.’

  He looked at her with blank eyes. ‘Alive? I wish to God I wasn’t.’ With a sudden burst of temper he forced the doctor’s hands away. ‘For Christ’s sake, stop it! I don’t need help! You don’t understand, Pat. You don’t know what I’ve done.’

  There was a movement at the back of the crowd and turning, Jack saw, to his absolute astonishment, two uniformed policemen force their way into the shed followed by, of all people, Inspector William Rackham.

  Bill nodded to him. ‘I knew you’d be around, Jack. I’ll talk to you later. This is official business.’ He approached Jaggard and, with a sympathetic look at Pat Tyrell, tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Gregory Jaggard? It is my duty to arrest you for the murder of Miss Sheila Mandeville. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be used in evidence . . .’

  He stepped back in alarm as Gregory Jaggard, his face paper-white, clumsily staggered to his feet, made as if to walk forward, then collapsed in a dead faint.

  With a swift movement, the doctor knelt beside Jaggard, supporting the unconscious man’s head. ‘Clear a space everyone,’ he said peremptorily. He pointed to Hawley. ‘You! Help me sit him up.’

  Together he and Hawley sat Jaggard up against the oil drum. As the doctor loosened Jaggard’s collar, he spared a glance over his shoulder for Rackham. ‘What did you say you were doing? Arresting him for murder? Nonsense, man. I’ve known Mr Jaggard for years. There must be some mistake.’

  ‘There’s no mistake, I’m afraid, sir. I’m Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard. I’ve got a warrant for the arrest of Gregory Jaggard.’

  The doctor snorted disparagingly. ‘Absolute poppycock. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Inspector, but Mr Jaggard isn’t going anywhere except hospital. That cut needs properly cleaning and stitching. Ideally I’d like to keep him under observation for a couple of days. In my opinion he’s suffering from severe concussion and I can only hope he’s not fractured his skull.’

  Rackham pursed his lips. ‘When will he be fit to answer questions?’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘Certainly not today and I’d be unhappy about him saying much tomorrow. I know you’re eager to make an arrest, but this man is my patient.’

  Rackham held up a conciliatory hand. ‘Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ve no desire to see my name in the papers as an example of the third degree. Take him to hospital by all means, but this is a serious charge he’s facing. We’ll need to have a police officer present.’

  ‘If you must, I suppose you must, although it’s a lot of damned nonsense.’ He turned to Hawley. ‘Did you send for an ambulance, man? Well, for God’s sake, go and do it! Never mind what Mr Jaggard wanted. The poor devil’s in no state to make any decisions.’

  He glanced at Pat who, frozen with shock, was gazing down at Jaggard. He looked at the worried faces of the group. ‘This woman needs some help. Who’s with her? Anyone?’

  ‘I am,’ said Anne Lassiter, coming forward.

  The doctor looked relieved. ‘Take her away. Make sure she’s all right. She’s in no fit condition to be left alone.’

  ‘Greg,’ said Pat, forming the words with difficulty. ‘I want to stay with Greg.’

  Anne Lassiter looked at the doctor, who quickly shook his head. ‘Greg’s in good hands,’ she said, slipping her arm round her. ‘George,’ she said, turning to her husband. ‘Help me get Pat out of here. Come on, Pat. We’ll take you home.’ With great patience, Anne Lassiter escorted the protesting Pat out of the shed.

  Bill Rackham turned to Jack with relief. ‘I’m glad she’s out of it.’

  ‘What the devil happened, Bill?’ asked Jack in a low voice. ‘Is it true? Sheila Mandeville’s been murdered?’

  ‘Only t
oo true, I’m afraid,’ said Bill. He motioned with a jerk of his head for Jack to follow him and stepped outside the doors of the shed. It was good to be in the open air again. Outside, the thrum of engines and the noise of spectators from the track came to them clearly. It seemed strange that the whole world hadn’t come to a halt, transfixed by tragedy.

  Rackham lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply. ‘We found Miss Mandeville’s body in her flat. She’d been strangled.’

  Jack felt sick. ‘Dear God. I liked her, you know. Liked her a lot.’ His stomach twisted. ‘What the devil can I say to Merry? I was meant to be seeing him at the club at six o’clock.’

  ‘That’s one task you’re spared, at any rate,’ said Bill grimly. ‘It was Captain Smith who found her. He was in a hell of a state. I didn’t realize there was anything between them.’

  ‘There wasn’t until a couple of days ago.’ Jack lit the cigarette Bill offered him. ‘Where is she? Miss Mandeville, I mean.’

  ‘At the mortuary. Do you want to have a look at the flat? The Chief won’t object, I know.’ He glanced back over his shoulder into the shed. ‘I’ll get my laddo in there safely disposed of and we can have a look round together.’

  ‘This is where she was killed,’ said Bill, in the sitting room of Sheila Mandeville’s flat. ‘She was lying slumped by the sofa.’

  Jack looked round Sheila Mandeville’s sitting room. It was neat and well cared for, with only the finest film of dust on the table under the window. The curtains moved gently in the breeze from the window and a vase of daffodils splashed a rippling reflection of yellow on the polished wood. The fabric on the chintz-covered arms of the sofa had worn smooth and, for some reason, this innocent evidence of use made him swallow hard.

  He didn’t sit down. It felt wrong to even consider the idea. If Sheila were still alive he’d have had to ask her permission. She’d probably have apologized for the shabby condition of the furniture and he’d have thought of some light-hearted remark to put her at her ease, as he had done that day at the Ritz.

  He leaned on the mantelpiece, resting his forehead on his hand. ‘Tell me again what happened,’ he said, finding his voice.

  ‘Dr Roude, the Divisional Surgeon – he was the doctor called into Gower Street – says she was killed between five and nine yesterday evening, give or take a reasonable margin. The cause of death is strangulation and, from the bruising on the neck, it appears that a scarf of some sort was used.’

  Jack frowned. ‘Between five and nine is four hours. That’s a fairly long time.’

  ‘It is, but we can narrow it down a bit. Jaggard called here yesterday evening at ten past six or thereabouts. The neighbour, a Mrs Florence Chard, heard him knocking at the door. Mrs Chard – who between you and me is a bit of an old fidget – came out and asked him what he was up to. Now, the funny thing is, is that he said he was looking for his wife. He said she’d arranged to meet him here. Anyway, after banging at the door again, Jaggard tried the handle and found the door wasn’t locked. Jaggard came into the flat, still apparently searching for Mrs Tyrell. Mrs Chard came in with him, thinking it was her bounden duty, as she more or less said, to see he didn’t sack the joint. According to Mrs Chard, the place was deserted. It was obvious, however, that Sheila Mandeville had been home, because her handbag was on the sofa and her coat and hat were hanging up in the hall.’

  ‘Could she have slipped out for a few minutes? To a neighbour, say?’

  ‘She could have done, very easily. I’ve got a couple of lads going round knocking on doors now. Needless to say, there was no sign of Mrs Tyrell. After a while, Jaggard gave up and left a note propped up against the clock. That was half past six or so.’ Bill opened his briefcase and handed a folded half sheet of paper to Jack. ‘We found the note. That’s it.’

  Jack read out the note. ‘Dear Pat – I called as you asked but missed you. I’ll be at the R.A.C. all evening and the track tomorrow. I hope all’s well. Please get in touch. Love, Greg. What happened next, Bill?’

  ‘What happened next is that Captain Smith called. That was just before half past seven, according to both Captain Smith and Mrs Chard. She heard him knocking and sallied forth to do battle again, thinking it was Gregory Jaggard who had returned to disturb her evening. Anyway, the door was locked and Miss Mandeville obviously wasn’t in.’

  ‘Could Jaggard and Mrs Chard have locked the door as they left the flat? Without knowing it, I mean?’

  Bill shook his head. ‘No. The lock’s the Chubb type, which you have to turn with a key.’

  ‘Which means, of course, that either Miss Mandeville locked herself in when she returned or that the murderer took the key and locked the door after him.’

  ‘Exactly. Now, Captain Smith had asked Miss Mandeville out to the theatre. He thought there was just a chance she’d mistaken the arrangements and gone to meet him there. When she hadn’t shown up by the interval, he came back, but she still wasn’t in.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jack. ‘He rang me this morning. She wasn’t at work and he was worried about her.’

  ‘That’s right. He called round as soon as he finished work this lunchtime and this time, when he still couldn’t get an answer, he went and found the caretaker for the flats. The caretaker let them in with his pass key and they found Miss Mandeville. That would have been about one. Captain Smith contacted us at once, and I came over with Dr Roude.’

  Jack winced. ‘It’s damn rough on Merry. D’you know where he is now? I’ll have to see him.’

  ‘He went off to tell the Hunts – old Mr Hunt in particular – what happened. I don’t think the shock had really hit him when I saw him. He’s probably better doing something rather than sitting brooding about it.’

  ‘Yes, I bet you’re right about that. How was the murder actually committed?’

  Bill clicked his tongue. ‘What I imagine happened is that Jaggard came to see Miss Mandeville. He knocked on the door, not realizing how the sound would travel, and, when Mrs Chard appeared on the scene, made up a cock-and-bull story about meeting his wife here. As soon as he decently could, he got rid of Mrs Chard, then re-entered the flat and waited until Miss Mandeville came back.’

  Jack gave him a puzzled look. ‘But why, Bill? Do you suspect Jaggard just because he was seen here? On those grounds Meredith Smith’s equally suspect.’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’ Bill opened his briefcase again and took out an envelope. ‘I found this in Miss Mandeville’s handbag. It’s an unfinished letter. Come and have a look.’ He took out a typed sheet of paper and laid it flat on the table.

  ‘Dear Mr Jaggard,’ read Jack. ‘I’m shocked you should think I could be bought off with a few pounds. I had no intention of saying anything until I saw you at the Ritz, but now I really think I should tell the police about that day at the booking office in January . . . January, eh? That sounds as if she saw him booking tickets for Paris.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Bill. ‘In the envelope were four five-pound notes. It clicks into place, doesn’t it? Meredith Smith says Jaggard was at the Ritz on Wednesday night, as were Mr and Mrs Tyrell. Jaggard wanted to speak to Mrs Tyrell alone. He got the waiter to tell Tyrell he was wanted on the telephone and asked Sheila Mandeville, who he’d met in the lobby, to hold Tyrell up for a few moments by bumping into him and dropping her bag.’

  He shrugged expressively. ‘It sounds as if Jaggard might have said something about this encounter at the booking office. I can’t imagine Sheila Mandeville attached any importance to it, but it looks as if Jaggard tried to bribe her, which, of course, would make her realize there’s something to conceal.’

  ‘It all hangs together,’ agreed Jack. ‘There’s more than enough evidence there for a circumstantial case.’

  ‘That’s why I got the warrant. We should be able to trace the banknotes fairly easily and the typewriter shouldn’t present any problems. Obviously I’m going to ask Mrs Tyrell if she did arrange to meet him here, but I’ll be very surprised if the answe
r’s yes. I didn’t want to question her at Brooklands. I thought she was so bowled over that doctor would’ve had my guts for garters.’

  He broke off as a knock sounded at the door and a uniformed constable came into the room. ‘Well?’

  ‘We’ve been round the flats, sir. There’s a couple of people we haven’t managed to get hold of, but no one we’ve spoken to saw Miss Mandeville last night.’

  ‘Thank you, Collins. Make a note of who you haven’t spoken to and call back later. I think we’re about finished here. Jack? Is there anything else you want to see?’

  ‘Well, there’s something I wouldn’t mind doing, actually. I know Mrs Chard heard Jaggard knocking. What else could she hear, I wonder? Was she able to say what time Sheila Mandeville got home?’

  ‘No, she wasn’t,’ said Bill. ‘She didn’t hear her come in yesterday.’

  ‘In that case . . .’ Jack stood for a moment, frowning. ‘Look, would you mind going next door? I’m afraid it means coming up against Mrs Chard again, but I’d be interested to know what sounds do come through these walls. If you hear me shout, yell back, would you?’

  ‘Mrs Chard?’ asked Bill, warily. ‘All right, if I must. How long shall I give you?’

  ‘I’ll knock on the door when I’ve finished,’ promised Jack.

  Once alone in the flat, Jack took the chance to look round undisturbed. He found it very easy to imagine Sheila at home. A silver-framed photograph of a middle-aged couple stood, amongst others, on the highly polished small table in the alcove. Her parents, at a guess.

  Everything was clean, but with a cheerful, lived-in air. The mantelpiece contained, as well as the clock, little china ornaments from various south-coast resorts and a jar of coloured spills. The paper rack by the side of the fireplace contained a week’s copies of The Daily Messenger, Film Star Weekly and the latest copy of On The Town. He winced when he saw On The Town. His name was on the cover. She’d probably bought it on the strength of meeting him. He put the papers back in the rack, idly noting that Sheila had clipped out the entry for the competition in Monday’s Messenger.