Free Charters and Caldicott by Stella Bingham Page A

don’t doubt it.’
    â€˜And yet there isn’t one single, solitary photograph of the murdered girl, his daughter. Odd, that, isn’t it?’
    Charters and Caldicott exchanged worried glances. ‘Very,’ Caldicott gulped, finally.
    Josh Darrell buzzed through to his secretary on the intercom and summoned her, plus notebook, to his office. ‘And ask Mr St Clair if he can give me three more minutes.’
    Cecil St Clair, who had followed Jenny into Darrell’s outer office and had since been patiently reading the Financial Times , half rose. ‘That’s quite all right. I have all the time in the world.’
    The secretary picked up her notebook and departed. Jenny watched the door close behind her, then glanced over to St Clair. She caught his eye and they both smiled. With assumed nonchalance, Jenny walked over to the filing cabinet, opened one of the drawers and searched through the files. Finding the one she was looking for she took it out, cast a wary look at Darrell’s office door and a disarming smile at St Clair, and began to go through its contents. Unnoticed by Jenny, St Clair watched with great interest.
    Charters and Caldicott repaired to the Club bar for a much­needed restorative aperitif. ‘ “Mix Well and Serve,”’ said Charters thoughtfully as the barman poured them two dry sherries.
    The barman looked up in surprise. ‘Not the sherry, Eric,’ said Caldicott. ‘Mr Charters was just thinking aloud.’
    Charters signed the chit and when the barman had moved out of earshot, said, ‘What was the idea of claiming it was a catchphrase?’
    â€˜Because he thought it was a coded message between the three of us. He was just on the verge of accusing us of taking Moscow gold.’
    Charters snorted. ‘Easier to make that kind of accusation against the dead! I still can’t credit that yarn, Caldicott.’
    â€˜I wish I couldn’t, Charters – but thinking about it, you know, Jock Beevers did move in mysterious ways. And how do we account for the forged passport? There can only be one explanation.’
    â€˜There could be two. That he was an agent for them , as Inspector Snow professes to believe, or, as I prefer to believe, an agent for us.’
    â€˜That’s what Jenny thinks, if you recall. Whichever way round it is, it could certainly explain why he was bumped off and why all the world and his wife were hell-bent on getting hold of that trunk.’
    â€˜It could even explain why that wretched Helen Appleyard was murdered in mistake for poor Jenny.’
    â€˜Why “poor” Jenny?’
    â€˜Well – if she hears about this Russian spy nonsense.’
    â€˜Need she?’
    â€˜You’re right, Caldicott. Not a word.’
    Caldicott mused in his turn upon Jock Beevers’ odd message. ‘“Mix Well and Serve.” He was trying to tell us something, you know Charters.’
    â€˜Yes, I realise that, Caldicott. I’m not a complete dunderhead, you know.’
    â€˜Or, more specifically, asking us to do something, in the event of his not getting here. “Just in case my plane nosedives or the old ticker packs up before I get there – Mix Well and Serve.”’
    Charters produced his own photocopy and studied it. ‘Do you know what, Caldicott? I’m pretty sure this is one of Jock’s little games.’
    â€˜I’ve gathered that, Charters. Nor am I a complete dunderhead.’
    â€˜We were neither of us a match for Jock Beevers, with his conundrums and teasers and riddles, were we?’
    â€˜What was that thing he always used to catch me with? Brothers and sisters have I none but my wife’s mother is my uncle’s son – no, that’s not it. Now how does it go?’
    Charters had been scribbling on the back of his copy of the letter. ‘Rex ends Mall view,’ he said.
    â€˜Come again?’
    â€˜Anagram of Mix Well