Trouble Brewing by Dolores Gordon-Smith Page B

with her address. I gather he arrived in London yesterday morning. He consulted the telephone directory for a Mrs Tyrell but, naturally enough, found no one listed under that name. He had no idea that his wife had remarried. As the marriage had taken place in good faith, there can be no question of an action for bigamy.’ He glared at Jack as if suspecting him of wanting to drag his client bodily into court.
    â€˜No, no, of course there won’t be,’ Jack assured him hastily. ‘But where did the chap spring from? He seems to have popped up like the demon king.’
    â€˜For that information you must apply directly to Mr Tyrell himself.’
    â€˜Okay . . .’ Jack ran a hand through his hair. ‘Won’t this upset the apple cart rather? I mean about the trust fund and what-have-you?’
    â€˜The point you raise has not escaped my attention, Major. Indeed, I was so exercised upon the question that I have decided to take Counsel’s opinion upon the subject. The rules regulating the operation of trusts are principally determined by the large body of case law upon the subject. In this situation, which I venture to suggest is unique, case law will, I fear, be of little help.’
    â€˜Gosh,’ said Jack, with a disarming grin, wondering how it was that Mr Stafford could so successfully turn an admission of ignorance into what sounded like a display of knowledge. ‘It sounds as if this Counsel’s opinion might be fairly key to the whole thing. D’you mind if I come along?’
    â€˜Well really, I . . .’ Mr Stafford broke off and gazed uncomfortably at the leather blotting pad on the desk in front of him.
    â€˜Who’ve you asked?’ put in Jack, easily. ‘I was wondering if I’d ever run across him. My godfather’s a K.C., you know. He’s called Archie Wilde, if that means anything to you.’
    Mr Stafford brightened visibly. ‘Indeed it does, Major. We have never briefed Mr Wilde as ours is an exclusively civil practice, but I am, of course, familiar with the name. I have an appointment with Thomas Littleton, K.C. at his rooms in Lincoln’s Inn at three o’clock this afternoon. In the circumstances it would, perhaps, be in order for you to accompany me.’
    â€˜That’s very good of you, sir,’ said Jack, rising to his feet. ‘Shall we say the Chancery Lane entrance outside Stone Buildings at quarter to three?’
    And I only hope, he added to himself as he took his leave and walked out onto Southampton Row, that the learned Mr Littleton is rather more forthcoming than the reticent Mr Stafford.
    Meredith Smith laid down his pen and looked thoughtfully at the open ledger in front of him.
    The accounts,
as
accounts, were fine, culminating in a row of figures scored under with a double line and resulting in a worthwhile profit. And really, he thought, looking at the signature of Francis Mason, Chartered Accountant, who had audited and signed last year’s accounts, he wouldn’t have expected anything else. Mason and Schofield was a well-respected firm; if there was anything dodgy it was unlikely to show up in the official records. They were scrutinized far too closely.
    So why, in the face of all the evidence, to say nothing of his own careful accounting, did he think something was wrong? H.R.H.’s hints? Maybe, but the hints had been so guarded that he might have read too much into them. He’d been nettled, too, by Miss Mandeville’s spotting of the discrepancy between the plantation price and the spot-market price. He should have been aware of that. Having their own plantation ensured a regular supply of high-quality coffee and that, surely, was worth paying a premium for, but . . .
    He pulled down a set of accounts at random. 1919. That was too early. The market was still settling down after the war. He went forward a couple of years. Prices had steadied at 115 shillings. The next year showed a