Trouble Brewing (28 page)

‘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.'

‘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.'