by Jack Treby
‘Your parents worked here, did they?’
‘No, mister.’ His face fell. ‘I am an orphan. My mother died when I was a baby. My father was a vagrant. Mrs Collinson, she looked after me. She brought me up, with Isabel.’
‘The housemaid?’
‘Mrs Collinson was her mother. She was my mother too.’
‘She looked after you?’
‘She was very kind, but very ugly.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘She is dead now.’
‘I see. And...Matthew?’
The boy grinned. ‘He was my uncle. And Joseph too. They used to play with me. Teach me things. Matthew especially.’
‘What sort of things did he teach you?’
Moses grinned again. ‘How to fish in the river. How to set traps to catch animals. He was a very clever man.’ And a practical sort, too, by the sounds of it. ‘He knew a lot of things. He was learning to read. We were helping each other.’
‘You can read too?’
‘A little,’ Moses said. ‘Mr Weiman says Isabel and I must both learn.’
‘That’s very liberal of him,’ I thought. But then everyone had said he treated his workers well. Which begged the question, why did he employ a brute like Mr Langbroek? But we were straying from the point: Matthew Green. ‘Do you remember the day Matthew died? Back in March?’
‘Yes, mister. I remember it well. I was very upset. And Joseph too.’
‘Were you in the house when it happened?’
‘No, mister. I was at church. Everyone was at church, except Mr Catesby. It was only when we came back that we heard he was...was dead.’
‘And how did everyone react? How did the other labourers feel?’
Moses thought for a moment. ‘They didn’t know what to do. They said he had been stealing. And other people said...said he had done bad things. That he deserved what happened to him. But I did not believe that, mister. He was a good man.’
‘I’m sure he was. But tell me: there was another man here that weekend. Giles Markham.’
‘I saw him. Many times. He was your friend?’
‘Er...no, I never met him, actually.’
‘But you took over from him? His job, for the British?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
His eyes twinkled. ‘I heard you talking to Mr Weiman, when you arrived.’
‘You eavesdropped?’
‘Yes, mister.’ The boy was unrepentant.
‘And you told Joseph about me?’
‘Yes, mister. I told him you were here to find out about his brother’s death.’
‘Good lord.’ My jaw dropped open. ‘How on earth could you know anything about that?’ That had certainly not been discussed over coffee on Friday evening.
‘I heard your friend talking, with the nice lady, upstairs. They talked about you. He said you were a detective. That you would investigate.’
Damnation. I stared at the boy. So that explained why Green had been so keen to talk to me. That fool Freddie, mouthing off for everyone to hear. I would have to have serious words with him about that. ‘So you told Green all about me and that was why he wanted to see me?’
‘Yes, mister. He wanted to help you. He thought you could find out what really happened to his brother. If it was true what the others said. Was he really a thief?’
‘And so you passed on a note from him, arranging a meeting on Saturday morning.’
‘Yes, mister.’ His face clouded over. ‘It is my fault. If I had said nothing, he would not have been whipped. And now he would not...he would not...’ The boy was starting to sniffle again.
I scowled and pulled out my handkerchief, which I handed across. The last thing I needed was waterworks. ‘You can’t blame yourself,’ I told him firmly. ‘You weren’t to know what would happen. And it’s not your fault he was arrested for murder. It’s the general who did that; and if an innocent man hangs then it’s his fault, not yours.’ Moses yelped again and blew hard on the handkerchief. Perhaps I could have chosen those last words better. ‘But why did he leave the work party? Why didn’t he choose another time to meet me?’
‘The men only have one break in the day, the same time we serve you lunch. In the evening, it would have been too dark. He didn’t think you would come.’
He had a point there. I wouldn’t have fancied traipsing around the estate in the moonlight hours. I might well have ignored the note. Ah well, what was done was done. ‘We’d better get you back to the house,’ I said. ‘Greta will probably be worried.’
Moses nodded, taking another blow on the handkerchief. ‘She is very strict,’ he lamented. ‘And very fat.’
I laughed. ‘Yes, she is. But I’m sure she has your best interests at heart.’
Moses was not convinced. ‘You will find out who killed Mr Catesby?’
‘I don’t know, Moses. But I will try.’
‘Do you have any suspects?’
I stifled a laugh. ‘Er...well, let’s just say I have a few ideas. But I’ll need time to investigate, to gather evidence.’
He peered up at me then. ‘How will you do that?’
‘Well, first of all,’ I said, ‘I need to make a telephone call.’
Chapter Eleven
A battered police truck had pulled up on the edge of the square. It was a large open backed vehicle, sturdy and mud spattered, with thick, heavy tyres and a murky front cabin. Two muscular officers had stepped down from the cab and were having a quiet smoke, having presumably driven some distance to get here. The truck would not get much further, though, even along the newly constructed road. It wasn’t worth risking the axle trying to manoeuvre the vehicle all the way up to the hacienda. A couple of horses were tethered outside the post office and I recognised one of them as the surly brown nag I had ridden on Friday afternoon. Tejada must have sent the horses down to the village with Mr Langbroek when he had summoned the reinforcements. I had no idea how the bodies of the deceased would be carried down here when the time came. Not on horse back, presumably. That would be taking things too far. Perhaps the general would requisition a few of the carts Mr Weiman used to transport his coffee. The bodies would be brought down to the village and then loaded onto the truck and driven to Guatemala City for a proper autopsy.
I was surprised to find myself away from the estate this afternoon. I had been prepared for an abrupt rebuff when I had tentatively floated the idea of travelling down to the village to make a phone call. Those of us who had come from the capital had already, in effect, missed the afternoon train, so it wasn’t as if we were likely to abscond; and if we had to remain up in the mountains for another day, it was only fair we had the opportunity to pass on the change of plan to everyone back home. General Tejada was not ordinarily a man to be persuaded by anything approaching a logical argument but, luckily for us, he was in a relaxed mood, now that he had caught his man. Having settled down with another pot of coffee in the courtyard, to await the arrival of the reinforcements, he regarded my entreaty with indifference rather than outright scorn.
Gunther Weiman was kind enough to add his support to the idea and it was this which tipped the balance. ‘I did promise that I would take Jane into the village this morning,’ the German told him, ‘so she could telephone her daughter. Miss Talbot doesn’t know her father has passed away.’
Tejada grunted, sipping at his coffee. ‘You need to get that telephone of yours fixed, señor. Very well.’ He placed his cup down on the table and regarded me with a steely eye. ‘You and the señora can go and make your phone calls. Provided you are back here on the estate within the hour.’
I blinked. ‘An hour? That...might be a tall order.’ It would take that long just to walk down to the village.
‘An hour!’ Tejada insisted. He gestured across to a second table, where Ricardo Gonzales was sitting with his wife Consuela. ‘Señor Gonzales can drive you.’
The engineer started at the sound of his name, but had no objection to the plan, when he realised what we were about. And so the matter
was agreed.
It was not until we stepped out of the hacienda, however, that I fully understood what I had agreed to. We would be travelling down to the village on the back of Mr Gonzales’ 496cc Victoria. I almost gave up on the idea at that moment. I am not built for motor-bicycles. It was only the general’s glaring eyes back in the courtyard that persuaded me it would not be a good idea to have a change of heart, now that he had granted us his permission to leave.
Ricardo Gonzales was an amiable fellow with a neat moustache and a diffident manner. His wife accompanied us as we moved across the lawn, and he took a moment to kiss her goodbye before unlocking the bicycle, a public display of affection which made the rest of us rather uncomfortable, but was typical of his uncomplicated manner.
He helped me onto the back of the bicycle. Once I was in position, he guided Mrs Talbot into the bullet shaped sidecar and pulled on his helmet and goggles. That done, he clambered swiftly into position and kick-started the vehicle. The engine roared into life beneath us.
I closed my eyes as we moved off down the path, consoling myself with the thought that this way we would at least avoid the rains. I would rather my man had been at the wheel, however. Maurice was a competent rider, having owned a motor-bicycle back in France. Gonzales, by contrast, was an absolute demon. For all his mild manners and modest bearing, the man seemed to have no fear of the road at all. My bones ricocheted like sweets in a half empty jar as we began our brutal descent. I cannot say precisely what speed we were going as we hurtled down that hill, except to say that it was at least three times as fast as any sane man would have contemplated. I was sitting behind Gonzales, pressed up uncomfortably close to the diminutive Guatemalan as I straddled the back seat, holding onto the man’s waist but not wanting to press against him too tightly. I confess, at times I just closed my eyes and held on for grim death.
Jane Talbot may have had the worst of it, though, in that rickety sidecar. She was clinging tightly to her bonnet the whole way down.
The first smattering of rain was just beginning to fall as we arrived in the village and Gonzales pulled up the motor-bicycle. He lifted the goggles from his face, smoothed down his moustache and stepped off the machine. He looked back and smiled, catching sight of my pale face. ‘Are you all right, señor?’ he asked, kindly.
‘Very well, thank you,’ I lied. I moved to swing my leg over the top of the motor, but my foot snagged on the seat and I nearly fell off the side. My thighs were feeling very sore after all that juddering. I might just as well have come down on horse back. I grabbed the leather upholstery and righted myself, before carefully dismounting the vehicle.
Gonzales had moved around the bicycle and was helping Jane Talbot up from the sidecar. She too was a little windswept but her manner was its usual calm self. ‘Thank you, Señor Gonzales,’ she said, as she stepped out onto the rough cobbles. ‘An exhilarating, if rather bumpy, experience.’ The engineer beamed with pleasure.
Mrs Talbot took a moment to absorb the quiet, dusty plaza. She tutted at the sight of the police truck and the two men with the cigarettes, then moved grandly around the front of the motor-bicycle, coming to a rest at my side. ‘So, Mr Buxton. Where is this telephone of yours?’
‘It’s just across there.’ I gestured to the far side of the plaza. ‘There’s a bar, just down that alleyway. Freddie and I – Mr Reeves – visited it yesterday afternoon.’
‘A bar?’
‘Yes. They have a telephone apparently.’ Not that I had been aware of the fact the previous day.
‘I suppose it was too much to hope for a post office to be open on a Sunday.’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Well, then, Mr Buxton, lead the way.’
I nodded and gestured the woman across the street. Gonzales remained behind to lock up his bicycle as the two of us navigated gingerly around a pile of horse manure and stepped onto the green. The rain was starting to fall quite heavily now, so we quickened our pace, passing the lifeless stone fountain as the engineer hurried to catch us up.
Alberto’s bar was just where I had left it the day before, a little way off the main drag. A grubby little boy was squatting in the dirt outside, cleaning his teeth with a small twig. The badly painted door was pulled back, though the shutters were half closed and there was no sign of any customers. I wasn’t entirely sure if the place was open. In England, at this time on a Sunday afternoon, everywhere would be shut up, but I had not been in Guatemala long enough to familiarise myself with the licensing laws. Regardless, we stepped through the doorway into the fetid, gloomy interior. The cobwebs around the window frames did not seem to have moved in the last twenty four hours. ‘It’s a bit dusty in here, I’m afraid,’ I said, as my companion took stock of the grim interior.
‘It cannot be helped,’ Mrs Talbot replied. ‘We are not here for the décor.’
I wiped a finger on the dust of a nearby chair. ‘Probably just as well.’
There was no sign of activity behind the bar either. ‘Anyone at home?’ I called through. The saloon was bereft of life. Perhaps the locals were all at home, enjoying a siesta. I heard a short clutter in response to my cry and, a few seconds later, a cheerful figure emerged from the back room, dish cloth in hand. It was the barman, Alberto. ‘Good afternoon, Alberto,’ I said. ‘Sorry to trouble you. You remember me? I was in here yesterday with Freddie Reeves.’
Alberto beamed. ‘I remember. Welcome! Ah, Señor Gonzales.’ He knew the engineer already. ‘Bienvenidos!’
‘And this is Mrs Jane Talbot.’
‘Encantada, señora!’ The balding barman peered happily across at the Englishwoman, his chunky spectacles magnifying his sparkling eyes.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Mrs Talbot responded, extending a hand politely. She did not ruffle an eyelid when he took the hand and kissed the back of it, though I doubted she approved of such familiarity.
‘Welcome!’ Alberto declared again, folding his dish cloth and secreting it behind the bar. It looked like we had interrupted him during his daily chores. He probably had a few glasses to clean up from the night before.
I got straight down to business. ‘We were wondering if we might use your telephone? I was told you had one here?’
His face lit up. ‘Si, si! Of course!’ He gestured enthusiastically to the back room. The man seemed incapable of responding calmly to any statement. One has to make allowances for locals, of course, but Gonzales at least knew how to contain himself in the presence of strangers.
‘Mrs Talbot,’ I said, nodding in the direction of the back room, where the barman had indicated. ‘I think your call is the more urgent.’
She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, Mr Buxton. Through here?’
Alberto nodded and escorted the woman eagerly into the far room. ‘It is here, on the wall. No coins. It is a private phone!’ This last he declared with some pride. I couldn’t help smiling at that. It was not something I would ever feel inclined to boast about.
I stood awkwardly for a moment at the bar, with Gonzales to my left, and then turned my attention back to the saloon. There was a table in the far corner which did not look quite as dusty as the others. ‘Shall we?’ I suggested. He bobbed his head and we moved across. ‘It was good of you to bring us down here,’ I said, dusting off the seat with my handkerchief before taking my place.
Gonzales shrugged modestly. ‘It was no trouble, señor. I could not let the señora wait any longer to pass on her sad news.’
‘I really must have a word with Mr Weiman, tell him to get that damned phone fixed up at the hacienda.’ The general had been right about that if nothing else. ‘Then we wouldn’t have to bother with all this.’
‘The phone company...it takes time,’ Gonzales said diplomatically.
‘You don’t have to explain. It’s the same back in England. Can take weeks to get the damned things installed. Though why anyone would want one in their home is beyond me.’ I had always hated telephones. ‘You live quite near here, don’t you?’
Gonzales smiled. ‘Yes. Consuela and I have a small apartment in the next town.’
‘Will you be heading home later today?’
‘I hope so. My wife, she is very upset by everything that has happened.’
‘Hardly surprising.’ I sat back in my chair. ‘No-one was expecting this.’
‘It was kind of Señor Weiman to invite us, but it was a mistake to bring Consuela this weekend.’ People hadn’t exactly been friendly towards the Guatemalan couple. I suppose it had been a little awkward, breaking bread in a formal setting with people of such low status, but that was no excuse for bad manners. ‘It will be good to get home,’ he concluded. ‘If we leave by four o’clock, we should be able to get there before it gets dark. If the general allows us to leave.’
‘No reason why he shouldn’t, now his men are here. But you’ll be back in a day or two, I presume, to continue on the road?’
The engineer shook his head. ‘My work on this section is nearly complete. I offer advice only.’ He smiled shyly. ‘The others do the hard work.’
‘Men like Joseph Green?’
‘Yes.’ He looked away.
‘That overseer fellow. What’s his name? Langbroek? You’ve worked with him?’
‘A little.’ Gonzales rubbed his moustache self-consciously. ‘He is not an easy man to work with. He has a bit of a temper. He drinks a lot. And...he does not get on with the local people.’
‘Bit of a bigot? Yes, so I gathered. There was no need for him to be so rough with that Green fellow, no matter what he might be guilty of.’
‘Do you think he killed Señor Catesby?’
‘Lord knows.’
Alberto had returned to the bar. He closed the connecting door behind him to give Mrs Talbot a bit of privacy.
‘I don’t suppose we could get a drink?’ I called across to him.
‘Si, si, señor!’
‘A couple of beers?’ I looked to Gonzales. The engineer nodded his agreement. ‘Dos cervezas, por favor.’ I am not much of a beer drinker, as a rule, but after the horrors of the motor-bicycle I needed something to quench my thirst. I could order a whisky later on, if there was time.