Trouble Brewing

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘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.’

  ‘R
eally, 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.’

  ‘I’d like to question him,’ said Bill quickly.

  ‘Let me see him first,’ said the doctor. ‘Where is he? In his pantry? Don’t worry, I can find my own way.’

  ‘Now, Mr Hunt,’ said Bill, when the doctor had left. ‘I think we’ll all be more comfortable in another room. The police photographer and the fingerprint men will arrive shortly and then we can make arrangements for your father to be taken away. I still have some questions for you.’

  ‘By all means, Inspector, but I would like to say that, profound as my respect for the medical profession is, I must insist you treat my father’s death as suicide.’

  ‘Insist?’ repeated Bill with a slight note of warning.

  ‘Insist, sir.’

  ‘Bill!’ broke in Jack, sharply.

  Bill looked up, annoyed at the interruption. Jack was standing by the bookcase, holding out a paperknife.

  Bill’s eyes widened. The knife had an inlaid steel blade and a hilt made of strands of twisted silver wire set into a silver bar. It was identical to the weapon they had found in Gower Street.

  Bill’s voice was a whisper of astonishment. ‘What the devil is that doing here?’ He took it from Jack and turned to Frederick Hunt. ‘Can you tell us anything about this knife?’

  Frederick Hunt adjusted his glasses and blinked at the knife. ‘That’s my father’s paperknife, Inspector.’

  ‘Where did it come from?’

  ‘My nephew, Mark, gave it to him, I believe. He had it made during the war when he was out in the East.’

  ‘Did he have any others made of a similar pattern?’

  Frederick Hunt thought for a moment. ‘I think there were three knives in all. He gave one to his grandmother, one to his sister and the other to my father. Is it of any consequence, Inspector?’

  ‘It might very well be, Mr Hunt. If you don’t mind, I’ll hold on to it for the time being. I’ll issue a receipt, of course. Now sir, if we could go to another room . . .’

  In the drawing room Frederick Hunt repeated at some length what they had already heard: he’d returned home at half three, went straight to his own study at the back of the house and remained there until he was alerted by the row at six o’clock.

  ‘Do you think he did it?’ asked Bill, once Frederick Hunt had departed.

  Jack frowned. ‘I think he might have done it, but that’s a different kettle of fish. Frederick Hunt knew Tyrell had lunched here. He was interested enough to ask if Tyrell was still here, but wasn’t, apparently, interested enough to ask his father what had been said. I think that’s odd.’ He shrugged. ‘You don’t need me to tell you that Frederick Hunt could’ve easily gone into the library, shot his father, and then disappeared into his study.’

  There was a knock on the door and Cartland, the forensic man, looked round the door. ‘We’re ready, sir, if you want to join us.’

  When Bill returned to the room, Jack was standing by Mr Hunt’s old chair, looking at the tray of medicines on the table.

  ‘The pistol had old Mr Hunt’s fingerprints on it, sure enough,’ said Bill. ‘I must say, they looked perfectly natural. Could it be suicide, Jack?’

  ‘That’s what Frederick Hunt wants us to think,’ said Jack, frowning at the tray. ‘He certainly didn’t like the idea that Tyrell was responsible.’

  ‘If it comes to that, why aren’t you jumping up and down at the thought that Tyrell did it? I’d have thought you’d have leapt at the idea.’

  ‘Because it’s the wrong method. Tyrell’s an intelligent man. This is far too obvious.’ He took a spill from the jar on the mantelpiece and pointed at a brown bottle on the tray. ‘Look at this, Bill. It’s a bottle of ether. It’s nearly empty.’

  Bill walked across the room and looked to where Jack was pointing. ‘Well? What of it? Ether’s common enough.’

  ‘Yes. It’s occasionally prescribed for stomach upsets, which is, I imagine, why Mr Hunt had a bottle, but you must have read about people drinking it for fun. A couple of spoonfuls and the effect is as if you were very, very drunk.’ He paused. ‘Pat Tyrell seemed very, very drunk.’

  Bill snapped his fingers. ‘Of course! So you’re saying that Tyrell laced her champagne with ether? Hang on. Why didn’t he just take the bottle?’

  ‘He didn’t want the bottle to be missed. He might have got another bottle altogether, of course, but I bet he didn’t want to be seen buying it. His fingerprints should be on it. No, blast, they won’t be. Say I’m right and Tyrell got the urge to see off Pat after she’d told him about her will. Tyrell called here for Pat in full evening dress. White tie, white waistcoat and, damn it, white gloves. He comes early and gets shown into here to wait, tips some into a bottle he’s brought with him, and bingo! And once again, I can’t prove a ruddy thing.’

  ‘That’d work if he knew he was going to be alone in here,’ said Bill.

  ‘Fields will know the household routine. Tyrell’s been here so often he’ll know it too.’

  ‘The doctor should have finished with Fields by now. I must say, I’ll feel a lot happier when we’ve got our hands on Laurence Tyrell. Apart from anything else, I want to know what old Mr Hunt said to him. It might give us some idea of his state of mind.’

  ‘Fields might be able to tell us that, too. Let’s go and root him out.’

  They went down into the kitchen where an elderly maid directed them to the butler’s pantry, a comfortable room in the basement of the house. Fields was sitting by the green-baize covered
table with the doctor in attendance. Meredith Smith, brandy and soda in hand, had propped himself by the wooden draining board beside the sink.

  Dr Roude looked up as they walked in. ‘I was just coming to find you. Fields feels a great deal better now, don’t you, Fields?’

  ‘Are you up to answering some questions, Mr Fields?’ asked Bill.

  The butler looked at him warily. ‘I’ve never had anything to do with the police.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t,’ said Jack. The butler looked at him and blinked in recognition. ‘We’re just going to ask you a few questions,’ he continued, keeping his voice cheerfully matter-of-fact. ‘You’ll know the answers to most of them and if you don’t, just tell us that, too. But the Inspector and I know you’d like to help. I’m sure you want to see this sorry business cleared up as soon as possible, don’t you?’ The butler sat up marginally straighter and nodded. ‘Good man,’ said Jack, softly. He glanced at Rackham. Bill nodded for him to carry on.

  ‘Do you remember Wednesday? I was here, if you recall, and so were Mr and Mrs Tyrell.’

  ‘That’s the day Mrs Pat had her accident, isn’t it, sir?’ His voice became stronger. ‘It was a mercy she was saved. You helped her, didn’t you, sir? That’s the day Mr Waldron came to see the master. I remember.’

  ‘Well done.’ Jack drew out a chair and sat down. ‘Now, on Wednesday evening, Mrs Pat went out with Mr Tyrell. Did Mr Tyrell call for her?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘And was Mrs Pat ready when he called?’

  The butler gave a ghost of a smile. ‘Why no, sir. You know what ladies are. He had to wait at least twenty minutes before she came down. I showed him into the drawing room and he waited there.’

  ‘Was Mr Hunt in the drawing room?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Fields looked shocked. ‘The master always went upstairs at half nine, unless we had company, and even then he never stayed up much beyond ten. With him not being as young as he was, it took him a long time to get ready for bed.’

  ‘Was Mr Frederick Hunt in the drawing room?’

  Fields shook his head. ‘Mr Frederick was at his club that evening. He often dines there. I’m afraid Mr Tyrell had to wait by himself. I hope there’s nothing wrong in that, sir.’