The Devil's Brew (Hilary Manningham-Butler Book 3)

by Jack Treby

  ‘Not much chance of that now,’ I muttered. ‘Your Mr Richards is going to have a field day when he finds out the two of us are involved in a murder investigation.’

  ‘Three of us,’ Freddie said. ‘Emily too. But, hey, it’s not as if this has got anything to do with us, is it?’

  ‘It won’t matter. We’re here. We’re involved. I’m already on notice. He’ll hang me out to dry.’ And if Miss Bunting...no, I didn’t even want to think about that. ‘He’ll take great pleasure in dispatching a telegram to London, demanding my dismissal.’

  ‘It won’t come to that, surely? He might not even find out.’

  I snorted. ‘Oh, he’ll find out all right. It’ll be all over the press in a few days time. A murder. They’re not going to let that go.’

  Freddie bit his lip. ‘Perhaps we ought to phone him? Get our side in first?’

  I tapped away some of the ash from my cigarette. ‘That might not be such a bad idea. If we’re ever allowed to leave the house.’ It was a shame the hall telephone was out of order. ‘And you say it was Tejada who investigated Giles Markham’s death?’

  ‘Yes. Bit of a coincidence, really.’ Freddie scratched his ear. ‘But even the minister couldn’t cover up somebody committing suicide like that. Poor old Giles shot himself at point black range. It wasn’t a pretty sight.’ Freddie had been the second person on the scene, after my secretary William Battersby. ‘We had to let the local authorities know, just as a courtesy,’ he added. The passport control office was in a separate building from the legation and it was not technically British territory. Anything untoward that happened there would always be the business of the local police. ‘It was a mad rush to clear out the office, to get rid of anything sensitive before he arrived. God, that was a hell of a morning.’

  ‘But he didn’t find anything amiss? About Markham’s death?’

  ‘No. He was barely there half an hour. I got the impression he found it all beneath his dignity. You know, investigating a suicide.’

  ‘And did he search the flat as well?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’ Freddie considered for a moment. ‘Yes, a day or two later. After we’d given it the once over.’

  ‘Did you see him do it?’

  ‘No, but William was there. Your Mr Battersby.’

  I frowned. ‘And now he turns up here, to investigate the case of a man who slipped on a wet floorboard and fell down some stairs.’

  ‘It does sound a bit funny, when you put it like that,’ Freddie agreed.

  ‘Mr Weiman told me last night that they were friends, Talbot and the general. Well, acquaintances, anyway. I presume that was why he wanted to come here himself, rather than leaving it to some local bod. They would have had to send a policeman, to compile a report for the coroner.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they would.’ Even in a case of accidental death, there were procedures to follow. ‘And he couldn’t have known what he was going to find this morning. Bloody hell, Henry. That poor bastard, murdered in his bed.’ Freddie took another gasp of his cigarette. ‘Do you think it might have been an intruder? A burglar or something?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so. The room was untouched. There didn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle. That’s what confuses me. Surely you’d wake up, if someone tried to slit your throat?’

  Freddie shuddered, exhaling a cloud of smoke. ‘I don’t even want to imagine.’ He gazed at me thoughtfully for a minute. ‘I suppose you’re used to this kind of thing, aren’t you? After what happened to you on that airship?’

  I shook my head. ‘You never get used to it.’

  He knocked the ash from the end of his cigarette. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you out here. It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have got you involved in this, Henry.’

  I pursed my lips. ‘No, you shouldn’t. But what’s done is done. The important thing now is to try to limit the damage. And the only way we can do that is to find out what really happened to Mr Catesby.’

  ‘Isn’t that the police’s job, now that they’re here?’

  ‘Probably. But from what you say, and what Mr Montana told me last night, I’m not sure we can rely on General Tejada to investigate the matter thoroughly.’

  ‘No, probably not,’ Freddie agreed. ‘So where do we start?’

  ‘Well, first of all, we need to work out where everybody was last night.’

  He shrugged. ‘In bed, presumably.’

  ‘You didn’t hear anyone creeping about?’

  ‘No, not me. But I was out like a light. I always fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow.’

  I envied him that. ‘You didn’t get up at all? Any nocturnal visits I should know about?’

  Freddie laughed. ‘What, to see Emily, you mean? No, it hasn’t quite got to that stage yet. She’s quite protective of her reputation.’

  ‘She’s knows a scoundrel when she sees one,’ I teased. ‘But actually, I meant trips to the little boys’ room.’

  He chuckled again. ‘No, some of us have a little self control.’

  ‘I’ll remind you of that when you’re my age. But, seriously, you didn’t hear anyone wandering around?’

  ‘No, I didn’t hear anything at all. Steven went to bed early, didn’t he? After he’d gone out to look at the generator.’ Catesby had not joined us at supper. ‘Could he have been done away before the rest of us went to bed?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Doctor Rubio wasn’t sure of the time of death but it sounds like it was probably in the middle of the night. Which means it might be anyone.’

  ‘What about George? Do you think he was bumped off as well? By the same person?’

  ‘It’s a possibility. Lord. Two murders. And the generator sabotaged as well. It must be...’

  ‘Sabotaged?’ Freddie’s eyes widened. This was the first he had heard of that. He had obviously not been paying attention last night.

  ‘No doubt about it,’ I said. ‘I saw a fellow running away from the outhouse. Well somebody running away. It was too dark to make out who it was.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to sabotage the generator?’

  ‘Lord knows.’

  ‘It’s not as if they need the electricity. They’ve got plenty of candles lying about.’ Freddie took a last drag of his cigarette and then dropped it to the floor, stubbing it out with his foot and kicking it through the balustrade onto the grass.

  ‘Nevertheless, the thing was deliberately put out of action.’

  ‘Out of spite, you think?’

  ‘It looks like it,’ I said. But you did not cut someone’s throat out of spite.

  Maurice removed the clothes peg from his mouth and peered down at the small flower shaped earring in the palm of my hand. ‘It is hers, isn’t it?’ I asked. The manservant had a much better eye for detail than I did and would always take careful note of what people were wearing. It was part of his job, after all.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur,’ he confirmed, without hesitation.

  I growled and closed my hand, quickly pocketing the errant jewellery. ‘So she was definitely in his room.’

  Maurice nodded gravely and attached the clothes peg to the fold of my shirt. ‘It would appear so, Monsieur.’ The valet had come out to the kitchen garden to hang a couple of my shirts on the line. The sun was at its best mid morning and my man was determined to make the most of it.

  The interviews had already begun in the main house. General Tejada had finally addressed the household, though only to inform us – in a rather disdainful manner – that his deputy would be taking our statements, while he pursued other lines of enquiry. An estate worker had been despatched to the village to request a truck and some additional personnel. The bodies would need to be removed as well so that a proper post mortem could be conducted. Tejada and his deputy had arrived at the house on a motor-bicycle and that was hardly a suitable means of conveyance for a corpse. The deputy had only come at all because the general needed a driver – Tejada had travelled in the sidecar – which made it all th
e more galling that this young fellow would be the one conducting the interviews.

  Sergeant Velázquez was an odd looking cove, bearded and boggle-eyed, not ugly as such but the kind of fellow you would think twice about letting shine your shoes. Of course, one should never judge a book by its cover, but the malevolent gleam in his eye did not present much cause for optimism.

  I had not been in quite the right frame of mind to submit to another interrogation, so I had done my best to melt into the background as the sergeant surveyed the dining hall, searching for his first victim. Happily, after lingering for a moment on Mrs Arthur Montana and her rather revealing dress, his wandering eye had come to rest on Miss Emily Bunting, the prettiest girl in the room. A typical man. The sergeant grinned, taking in her blonde ringlets and bright blue eyes, and then pointed a bony finger. Miss Bunting rolled her eyes but allowed herself to be led away into the living room to be interviewed.

  She was not wearing any earrings this morning, I noticed. I had taken a quick peep at her earlobes as she passed me by. Had she been wearing them last night, I wondered, when I had seen her wandering about? I could not be sure.

  Breakfast was abandoned at this point, barely eaten, and Isabel and Moses quietly cleared away the plates.

  I slipped away up the hall stairs to my bedroom. Tobacco was all well and good but what I really needed was a spot of whisky to steady my nerves. Events were spiralling out of control and I needed time to think. Standing at the west window, looking out across the terrace into the kitchen garden, I had spotted my man heading out with a wash basket. I knocked back the whisky in one gulp and made my way down the hall stairs to join him. For all his many and varied faults, Maurice was a good listener. Whenever I needed to work through a few ideas, he was happy to act as a sounding board.

  ‘Could she really have done it?’ I breathed, staring at my oversized underpants as the valet pegged them to the line. ‘Could she have crept into his room and slit his throat, in cold blood?’

  Maurice bent down to pull out a pair of socks from the basket. ‘It does not seem likely, Monsieur.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t. But I can’t help thinking...well, she did spend a couple of weeks living in my flat, after Giles Markham died. And she did hold onto that key for rather a long time afterwards, for no real reason. That’s suspicious in itself.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  ‘And of course Mr Catesby was in town on business last week. What if they knew each other, somehow?’

  ‘They did not appear to know each other, Monsieur.’

  ‘No, they didn’t.’ The two had acted like perfect strangers when they had been introduced late on Friday afternoon. ‘But if Catesby was in town, he might have been the one who clobbered you back at the flat and stolen whatever it was that was taken from the bureau. What if she gave him the key? What if she let him in?’

  ‘The window had been opened, Monsieur.’

  ‘Yes, but he could have done that from the inside, to make it look like a proper break in.’

  ‘If Mademoiselle Bunting gave him the key.’

  ‘Well, exactly.’ I scratched my head. ‘But if the two of them were involved, why would she kill him now?’

  Maurice considered for a moment. ‘Perhaps they had a falling out.’

  ‘That’s possible, I suppose. I didn’t ever see the two of them talking, though. Not once. If they were...’ I gripped my hands. ‘Oh, lord. This is awful. If she is involved, Morris, it’s the end of me. You do realise that?’

  ‘Not necessarily, Monsieur.’

  ‘What do you mean, “not necessarily”. Of course it is. That blasted woman knows everything there is to know about me. Which is your bloody fault, I might add, letting her into the flat in the first place while I was having a bath.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  ‘If she’s carted away, she’ll have no reason to hold her tongue. She’ll tell them everything. Especially if I’m called to testify against her. She’ll spill the beans to Mr Richards and I’ll be out on my ear. We both will be.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  ‘Unless...’ I growled. ‘Unless we keep quiet about it. I mean, neither of us knew Catesby from Adam before this weekend. And it’s not our responsibility to bring his murderer to justice. That’s the general’s job. We don’t even know if Miss Bunting is responsible. What if it was an accident? Or self defence?’

  Maurice was dubious. ‘Cutting a man’s throat. Monsieur? That is not self defence.’

  ‘Well, no, but...there might be mitigating circumstances. And she wouldn’t get a fair trial, not in this country. Don’t look at me like that, Morris. I’m just considering my options. Wouldn’t it be better just to keep quiet? To say nothing and let things be?’

  The valet was very firm on that point: ‘No, Monsieur.’

  I let out a long sigh. ‘You’re right,’ I agreed, a little resentfully. If Miss Bunting was a murderess – and, for my own sake, I hoped to God she wasn’t – then she would have to be held to account, whatever the inadequacies of the Guatemalan justice system. I would just have to hope I had got the wrong end of the stick, somehow. ‘The murder weapon,’ I exclaimed, seizing on anything I could think of which might exonerate the girl. ‘A cut-throat razor. That can’t have been hers. And if it belonged to Mr Catesby, how would she have known he would have it? In his room, I mean, easily to hand. You wouldn’t creep into somebody’s bedroom on the off-chance they might have a murder weapon lying around that you could use.’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  ‘And if she did murder Catesby, did she also push that banker down the stairs? Or was that really just an accident? She was very keen last night to suggest that it wasn’t. Why would she draw attention to it, if she was involved herself?’

  ‘It is difficult to say, Monsieur.’ The valet’s attention had been diverted from the washing line to the far corner of the house. The kitchen garden was adjacent to the regular lawn at the rear of the hacienda. General Tejada had stepped out onto the grass with Gunther Weiman. The two men were making their way across to the far side of the garden. After a moment, they disappeared from view, but I knew where they were heading: the outhouse.

  ‘What about that business with the generator yesterday evening?’ I had already confided to Maurice some of my suspicions regarding that. ‘Miss Bunting couldn’t have sabotaged it. She was in the living room with the others at the time. I remember speaking to her, just before the lights went out.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur.’

  ‘And I saw some blackguard running away from it half a minute afterwards.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. You have already told me.’

  ‘That couldn’t have been Mr Catesby either. He was in the house. I saw him and Mr Weiman walk out together a minute or so afterwards, like the general just now. So neither he nor Miss Bunting could have been involved in damaging the equipment.’

  ‘No, Monsieur. And I believe the damage to the generator was quite substantial.’

  ‘You’ve had a look at it, have you?’ The valet sounded very sure of himself.

  ‘No, Monsieur. But the housekeeper went out this morning. She said a thick branch had been rammed into the mechanism, preventing one of the wheels from rotating. She was in no doubt that it had been done deliberately.’

  ‘Lord. And did she say who she thought might be responsible?’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’

  ‘So we have...what?’ I waved my hands in the air. ‘Three, four unexplained events. The break in, the generator, and now two murders.’

  ‘Or perhaps one murder and an accident,’ Maurice corrected.

  ‘Well, possibly. But it can’t all be coincidental, Morris. General Tejada is right. These events must be connected somehow. There can’t be two separate murderers, a saboteur and a burglar, just happening along all at the same time.’

  ‘It does not seem likely, Monsieur.’ The valet finished attaching the last of my socks to the line. He sounded every bit as baffled as I was.


  ‘Perhaps I should just confront Miss Bunting,’ I said. ‘Show her the earring. See how she reacts. She might give herself away. Then at least we’d know one way or the other.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur,’ Maurice agreed. ‘It occurs to me, however, that there may be an innocent explanation as to how that earring arrived in the room.’

  ‘Oh?’ I was willing to consider anything.

  ‘Perhaps the Mademoiselle lost it out on the terrace. Someone else might have trod on it later on and inadvertently attached it to their shoe. The pin has been damaged, after all. It might have lodged itself into the sole of a shoe and the murderer might then have inadvertently walked it into the room.’

  I laughed. That idea was too ridiculous for words. ‘Don’t be absurd Morris. You might just as well suggest Catesby cut his own throat. In any case, that doesn’t explain why she was creeping about last night.’

  ‘No, Monsieur.’ The valet looked past me towards the kitchen. Moses, the house boy, was gesticulating at us across the lawn.

  ‘What the devil does he want?’ I wondered.

  Maurice had the answer to that. ‘I believe it is your turn to be interviewed, Monsieur.’

  Chapter Nine

  The picture was an informal family portrait, a small group of relatives gathered together on some long forgotten lawn, bathed in glorious sunshine. The men were in their shirt sleeves, the older woman in a pleated skirt. The little girl on the left, with her hair in bunches and a toothy grin, was a young Susan Weiman. ‘My mother took that photograph when I was seven year’s old,’ she told me, her voice wavering slightly. The death of her cousin had hit the woman hard and she was having some difficulty maintaining her composure. The little girl in the picture was holding hands with a tall, elegant looking gentleman. ‘That’s my father,’ she said. ‘And that’s Uncle Joe next to him, and his wife Anne. And if you look at the tree over there.’ She gestured to the far right corner of the photograph. ‘You can just see Steven, poking his head out.’ A mass of curly black hair framed a scrunched up face, peering mischievously around the trunk of the tree. The boy – who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine – was poking his tongue out at the photographer. Susan Weiman smiled sadly. ‘He was a precocious boy even then.’