‘Nothing at all,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘That’s Wednesday evening out of the way. Now what about yesterday? That’s Thursday. You must have heard the news about Mrs Pat’s accident.’
There was an interrogative grunt from Bill. Jack gently kicked out to warn him to be quiet.
‘Indeed we did, sir.’ The butler sat up eagerly. ‘The hospital telephoned in the morning to say that Mrs Pat had had an accident but she was out of danger. The master was terribly shaken. He wanted to go to the hospital, but they told him Mrs Pat wasn’t up to receiving visitors. He sent out for the late editions of the newspapers and read them all. Then, instead of going to his club that afternoon as usual, he went into the library.’
‘I know it’s not your place to enquire, Fields, but do you know what your master was doing in the library? It might be important,’ Jack added, seeing Fields bridle slightly.
‘I think he was writing, sir. If he had any correspondence, he always went in the library.’ The butler thought for a moment. ‘There were some letters in the postbag, sir.’ The butler paused. ‘If you’ll excuse me for saying so, I think it was something to do with his legal affairs.’
‘Why’s that, Fields?’ asked Jack, keeping the excitement out of his voice.
The butler coughed. ‘The master had been so long in the library that I took the liberty of going in on the pretence of hearing him ring. He had been so out of sorts that morning I was afraid he might have taken ill and been unable to reach the bell.’
He was encouraged by Jack’s smile of approval. ‘He told me off for hearing things – I expected that – and sat quite still, as if thinking something out.’ Fields swallowed manfully. ‘Then he said he knew I hadn’t heard the bell, and that I was more than a servant to him. He told me to ring up Mr Stafford, his solicitor, and ask him to step round that afternoon. Mr Stafford came about two o’clock and they spent a long time in the library together.’
The butler frowned. ‘There was an odd incident after Mr Stafford arrived, sir. The window cleaners were here yesterday afternoon. Mr Hunt ran the bell and told me to show them both into the library. They stayed for about ten minutes. I don’t know why the master should want to see them.’
Jack felt Bill’s eyes slap on the back of his neck, but ignored him. ‘We’ll ask Mr Stafford about that, Fields. Now for this morning. This is going to be very hard for you, I know. Mr Tyrell came to lunch, I believe?’
‘Yes, sir. There was a consommé, a cutlet and a sweet omelette. They took their coffee in the drawing room afterwards. The master always went in the drawing room after lunch. He sometimes suffered from colic after meals and his medicines were there. He could take them himself without ringing for me.’
‘That was very thoughtful of him,’ said Jack. ‘He was all right today, was he? No upsets at all?’
‘Perfectly well, thank you, sir. In fact he seemed more vigorous than usual. He told me to leave him and Mr Tyrell alone, and they would see to themselves.’
‘Were he and Mr Tyrell on amicable terms?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Over lunch I heard the master compliment Mr Tyrell on his escape from drowning. He wanted to hear all about it.’
‘And you didn’t go in the drawing room again?’
‘Not until I went to clear away the coffee cups, sir. I saw Mr Tyrell in the hall. I was surprised the bell hadn’t rung, but Mr Tyrell explained that he didn’t want to disturb me, and that the master had dropped off for a nap.’ Fields swallowed again. ‘I didn’t want to disturb him either, sir, so I didn’t go into the drawing room for about half an hour, and then, of course, the master wasn’t there.’
‘How did Mr Tyrell seem when you showed him to the door?’
‘Much as usual, sir.’
Jack rose to his feet. ‘Thank you very much, Fields. You’ve been a great help to us by putting things in order. We might have some more questions later, but we’ll leave you alone for now.’ He turned his head. ‘Merry, old son, can I have a word with you?’
‘Certainly, Jack.’
With Bill and Merry following, Jack led the way back up to the drawing room and closed the door. ‘Whew! I think we’re safe to talk in here. That poor beggar, Fields, has been knocked for six all right. Now, Merry, what I want to know is this. Is there anything dodgy going on at Hunt Coffee and did H.R.H. suspect Frederick Hunt was mixed up in it?’
Meredith hesitated. ‘Just between us, I don’t know but I think so. H.R.H. certainly didn’t know but had his suspicions of Frederick Hunt.’
‘Hang on,’ said Bill, forcefully. ‘I want to know about this visit from the solicitor. Why on earth didn’t you ask Fields about it? I wanted to, but you seemed so damned anxious I shouldn’t interrupt your Svengali act.’
‘Because if you had interrupted my Svengali act, old fruit, we’d still be there. Fields only talked to me as freely as he did because I’d been a visitor to the house. Besides, what on earth’s the point of asking him? A stiff old bird like H.R.H. wouldn’t chat about his legal affairs to the butler. Stafford’s the obvious person to get hold of. If H.R.H.’s suspicions had got to the point of actual knowledge, I bet he’d cut Frederick out of his will and Frederick might very well react by plugging Dad before it could go any further.’
‘You’ve got an absolute bee in your bonnet about wills and whatnot,’ grumbled Bill. ‘Still, you’re right about one thing, and that’s contacting Stafford.’ The telephone in the hall rang. ‘I’d better answer that,’ said Bill. ‘It might be the Yard.’
He strode into the hall and picked up the telephone. ‘Hello? This is Inspector Rackham speaking. Conway? Have you picked up Tyrell?’ There was a staccato buzz of conversation from the other end of the line. ‘He’s what? I don’t believe . . . Yes, yes, I see that. Stay there. I’ll be as quick as I can. For heaven’s sake keep the hotel staff out of that room.’
He put down the phone and turned to them with an odd expression. ‘We’ve lost our chance to question Laurence Tyrell.’
‘Has he run for it?’ demanded Meredith. ‘I told you to get after him, Jack.’
Bill shook his head. ‘He’s not run for it. He’s dead.’
FOURTEEN
It was the power of the popular press which made Sir Douglas Lynton cancel his Saturday game of golf.
He had been dressing for dinner on Friday evening when Rackham had called with the news and, white tie still in hand, he had listened with a steadily lengthening face. ‘Meet me at the Yard at one o’clock tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Haldean better be there as well. He seems to know as much about it as anyone.’
He thought wistfully of his golf, then dismissed the idea. Jacob Carroll, the crusading proprietor of the Mercury group, who had some hard things to say about Scotland Yard, was a fixture in the clubhouse on Saturday afternoons. The headlines in the papers would be quite bad enough without an account of how the Assistant Commissioner ignored four unsolved murders, a suspected suicide and Jaggard still at large in favour of golf.
When he saw the Saturday newspapers he was glad he’d cancelled his game. Tragedy Stalks Hunt Coffee! screamed the Messenger and, ominously from the Mercury, Scotland Yard At A Loss!
Scotland Yard, embodied in the person of William Rackham, looked downright tired. ‘The trouble is, sir, that Tyrell’s murder has really upset the apple cart. Major Haldean had Tyrell pegged as a would-be killer and, after hearing what Lahone had to say, I agreed wholeheartedly.’
‘Not that,’ put in Jack, ‘we could’ve got Lahone to admit it in court.’
‘No, we probably couldn’t,’ said Bill. ‘However, when we arrived at Neville Square and found old Mr Hunt dead, there was no doubt in my mind it was Tyrell we were after.’ He compressed his mouth tightly. ‘However, I was wrong.’
‘Strychnine poisoning,’ said Sir Douglas, reading from the file. ‘I see that’s been confirmed as the cause of Tyrell’s death.’
‘Yes, sir. The time of death was between half past three and half past five. We’re not sure
when it was taken. According to the doctor, strychnine’s pretty unpredictable. A meal can slow things up dramatically. Strychnine can kill within twenty minutes or so, or the victim can linger on for a good long while. It depends on their constitution and what they’ve eaten.’
‘Could he have committed suicide?’ asked Sir Douglas hopefully. ‘He could have panicked, perhaps?’
Bill pursed his lips. ‘We thought of that, of course, but it doesn’t seem likely. Strychnine must be one of the most gruesome deaths possible. Only a lunatic would commit suicide in that way. That’s your opinion too, isn’t it Jack?’
‘Absolutely. Tyrell wasn’t the sort to panic. There’s not much chance of suicide, as far as I can see. People do the strangest things, I know – I read about a woman who tried to bury herself alive – but I think it’s unlikely.’ He linked his fingers together and looked down at his palms. ‘So, with Tyrell out of it, we’re brought back to the one man who has been in the case from the very beginning and so far has managed to escape serious suspicion.’
‘Frederick Hunt,’ said Sir Douglas thoughtfully. He pushed his chair back and walked to the window. He leaned back against the sill and, folding his arms, looked at Bill. ‘I know you think Frederick Hunt could have murdered his father. Could he have murdered Tyrell as well?’
‘It’s possible. I questioned Hunt’s chauffeur and Hunt arrived home at half past three, after Tyrell had left the house. However, poison’s not like shooting or stabbing. Hunt could have simply put a strychnine tablet in the bottle of aspirin by Tyrell’s bedside and waited for the inevitable. It’s easy enough to get into a hotel bedroom.’
‘What about the motive?’
‘Inspector Rackham and I have talked about this, sir,’ said Jack. ‘If Frederick Hunt murdered both his father and Tyrell, then the motive has to be something to do with the running of the firm. Everyone who’s been in a position to know – Mark Helston, Meredith Smith and old Mr Hunt himself – thought there was something wrong. Tyrell was interested in joining the firm and certainly talked to Frederick Hunt. Tyrell was a very sharp customer. He could’ve easily worked out Frederick Hunt was up to no good.’
‘Was that why old Mr Hunt invited Tyrell to lunch, I wonder?’ said Sir Douglas. ‘To find out what he knew?’
‘It might very well be the reason,’ said Jack. ‘If Tyrell did say anything, though, it would have been to his advantage. He was very much out for his own ends. However, he might very well have tried to blackmail Hunt, and used the threat of informing old Mr Hunt to really put the screws on.’
‘At which point Frederick Hunt assumes that Tyrell has told his father everything, panics and strikes out,’ said Sir Douglas thoughtfully.
‘That, I think, is about the size of it,’ agreed Bill.
‘Is there anything wrong with Hunt Coffee?’ demanded Sir Douglas.
Bill held his hands wide. ‘We simply don’t know. Old Mr Hunt certainly thought so, though. His new will tells us as much.’
Sir Douglas sat down on the corner of the desk and rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘You’ll have to run through this business about a new will, Rackham. I’ve got your report, of course, but I’ve only had time to skim through it.’
‘Right you are, sir. I managed to get hold of Mr Stafford, the Hunt family solicitor, at his house last night. Old Mr Hunt asked him to call on Thursday afternoon. Mr Hunt wanted to add a codicil to his will. He owned, at the time of his death, sixty per cent of the shares in Hunt Coffee, with the other forty per cent being held by Frederick. I got chapter and verse on this, how Hunt Coffee Limited is a private limited company by virtue of the Companies Act 1907, as amended by the Consolidating Act of 1908, etcetera, etcetera, with all the various section numbers and what-have-you.’
Bill ran his fingers through his hair. ‘As far as I can make out, it’s a legal way of having your cake and eating it. It was old Mr Hunt himself who turned Hunt Coffee into a private limited company back in 1909, so he could have all the advantages of limited liability without a board of directors breathing down his neck. He was a pretty shrewd businessman in his day. He had previously made provision for Mark Helston to inherit forty per cent of his holding, which would leave Frederick Hunt as the majority shareholder, with sixty per cent. That, in the main body of the will, remains unchanged, should Mark Helston reappear. However, should Helston still be missing at the time of Mr Hunt’s death, then the forty per cent intended for Mark Helston goes to Meredith Smith, who has as much claim upon the title of great-nephew as Helston did. If Mark returned, they would split the shareholding, with twenty per cent each.’
Sir Douglas nodded. ‘The only surprise is that he didn’t codify his intentions earlier.’
‘He never lost hope Mark would return,’ put in Jack.
‘Yes,’ agreed Bill. ‘As far as that goes, it seems like a perfectly sensible provision. However, the sting’s in the tail. The codicil states that Frederick Hunt gets sixty per cent on Mr Hunt’s death if – and this is the nasty bit – Frederick Hunt has not been found guilty of, or is facing prosecution for, any criminal activity, or is subsequently found guilty of any criminal activity for the period preceding Mr Hunt’s death. If he is facing prosecution but is acquitted, then the original sixty-forty allocation of the shares stands. If he’s found guilty, however, Meredith Smith scoops the lot. It makes you wonder what old Mr Hunt thought his son was capable of, doesn’t it, sir?’
‘It certainly does.’ Sir Douglas tapped the desk with his fingers. ‘Financial irregularities or murder? Either’s covered very neatly by that provision. Was the codicil signed?’
‘Yes, sir. The witnesses were Thomas Potter and Joseph Wyre, the window cleaners. Mr Hunt gave them ten shillings each for their trouble. Mr Stafford said that old Mr Hunt was in considerable haste to get the document signed.’
‘So if Frederick Hunt did know about it, there was precious little he could do. However, his father certainly suspected he could be guilty of something.’ He cocked his head to one side and looked at Jack. ‘You probably won’t like the idea, but have you thought this new will gives Meredith Smith a motive for murder? After all,’ he added, ‘Smith was on the spot at Neville Square.’
‘The thought did occur to me, sir,’ said Jack with a grin, ‘and, in light of the new will, I thought I’d think it before anyone else did. After all, if we do catch Frederick bending, Smith scoops the pool. With that in mind, I’ve come hotfoot from Southwark. I wanted to check the facts while they were still fresh in everyone’s mind and I’m glad to say Smith’s alibi for Friday afternoon is as cast iron as they come. He was seen by loads of people all afternoon – I’ve jotted down who they are, of course – who say that Meredith Smith was at Hunt Coffee, Southwark, until just after five o’clock.’
‘So we’re back to Frederick Hunt,’ said Sir Douglas. He sighed unhappily. ‘It’ll be the devil to prove, though.’
He picked up the file and flicked through it at random. ‘I see you traced the knife Valdez was killed with, by the way. That proves there’s a link between the Hunts and Valdez’s murder, not that we doubted it.’
‘There’s a bit more to it than that, sir,’ said Jack. ‘Frederick Hunt stated yesterday that Helston had three knives made, one for his grandmother, one for Mr Hunt and one for his sister. But I spoke to Pat Tyrell this morning and she told me Helston had four knives made in all, including one for himself. Now, if it is a lie and not a mistake, then it’s a silly, pointless lie, and it makes you wonder why he bothered to tell it.’
Sir Douglas pulled at his moustache. ‘Why should it matter how many knives there were? Dash it all, three are enough to be getting along with. Have you traced the others?’
‘Pat Tyrell found two for me,’ offered Jack. ‘Her own and her grandmother’s. Old Mr Hunt’s makes three.’
‘Which means Helston’s own knife was the murder weapon,’ said Sir Douglas. He continued to pull at his moustache. ‘The case against Hunt is purely circumstantial. If we
could get to the bottom of what is wrong at Hunt Coffee, that’d help. I’d like to bring Hunt in for questioning, but unless we’ve got a shrewd idea what old Mr Hunt had in mind, we’ll be wasting our time. What one old man thought isn’t evidence. Hunt will simply deny everything, kick up the dickens of a row, and we’ll end up with egg on our faces.’ The spectre of Jacob Carroll and the Mercury reasserted itself. ‘The last thing I want to do is give the press another stick to beat us with.’ He boxed his papers together. ‘See me on Monday morning, Rackham, unless there’s any developments over the weekend. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.’
Leaving Sir Douglas at his desk, they left the room.
‘Can I give you a lift anywhere, Bill?’ asked Jack, as they walked out of the door into the yard. ‘I’ve got the Spyker outside. I drove here from Southwark.’
He stopped. Meredith Smith, arms folded, was leaning against the bonnet of the Spyker.
As they approached, he looked up, his face grim. ‘So there you are, Jack. I knew I’d find you here. What the devil d’you mean by asking questions in the office about me?’
Jack stopped. ‘Ah.’
‘You might well say, Ah. Do you honestly think there’s the slightest chance I’d shoot poor old H.R.H.? Honestly?’
‘No, I honestly don’t, but in view of this new will, I thought it as well to prove you couldn’t. Otherwise you might come up against someone without my beautifully trusting nature.’
‘What new will?’ snapped Meredith.
Jack and Bill exchanged glances. ‘You’d better tell him,’ said Jack. ‘He’s going to find out soon enough anyway.’
Meredith listened in bewildered silence. ‘I get the lot?’ he asked in astonishment when Bill had finished. ‘That’s crazy.’
‘Only if Frederick Hunt’s not a good boy,’ Jack reminded him.
‘But that’s still forty per cent. Good God, this is incredible. What did H.R.H. suspect Frederick of? You don’t think he killed Sheila, do you?’ Unconsciously, his hands twisted together. ‘If I thought that . . .’
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