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

by Jack Treby

  Alberto came across with the two bottles, which he opened with a bottle opener hanging from his waist. He wiped the table down and placed the bottles in front of us.

  ‘A couple of glasses, too,’ I said. ‘Well, one for me, anyway.’

  ‘Of course!’ Alberto hesitated a moment. ‘The señora, she is upset?’ The barman’s eyes were alive with concern. He must have overheard the start of her telephone call.

  I nodded grimly. ‘Yes, her...husband died yesterday. She’s calling her daughter in Guatemala City to pass on the news.’

  The barman’s face fell. ‘That is very sad,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, rather. Did you know her husband? George Talbot?’

  Alberto frowned. ‘I do not think so, señor. Although the name is familiar.’

  ‘He’s a banker. Or was.’

  ‘Ah yes! My nephew has mentioned him.’ He paused for a second, glancing across at the shutters. ‘The policemen who have arrived in the village.’ The ones out in the street. ‘They are not here for Señor Talbot. There is something else wrong, at the hacienda?’ The question was a tentative one, but the barman could not disguise his curiosity. ‘There are rumours that Señor Catesby...’

  I rolled my eyes. Trust Alberto to be in the know already. But it was pointless trying to cover the matter up. ‘Yes, it’s true I’m afraid. Mr Catesby is dead. The poor fellow was murdered in his bed.’

  Alberto let out a small cry and crossed himself. ‘That is a dreadful thing to happen.’

  ‘You’re telling me. And it gets worse, I’m afraid. They’ve just arrested Joseph Green for his murder.’

  The barman stared at me through his thick glasses, his jaw slack. He blinked a couple of times and then pulled himself together. ‘I will get you your glass,’ he mumbled and headed off to the bar.

  Gonzales had already picked up his bottle and was drinking the beer straight. I waited for Alberto to bring the tumbler and then poured out my own. I was willing to make some concessions to local custom but drinking from the bottle was taking things too far. ‘I’ll be glad to get shot of this place,’ I muttered, taking a quick sip from the glass.

  Mrs Talbot was on the phone for a good fifteen minutes. Alberto tactfully lingered behind the bar and waited for the woman to emerge from the back room. She had taken a moment to collect herself before coming out. She was one of the old school, determined to maintain her composure in public. Goodness knows what emotions were churning around inside, however. I would certainly not have wanted to pass on that kind of news by telephone.

  ‘All finished?’ I rose gently to my feet.

  She nodded. ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Buxton. Not a happy duty.’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  She turned back to the barman. ‘Thank you for the use of the telephone. Let me know how much I owe you.’

  Alberto waved the matter away. ‘Nothing, señora. I am very sorry for your loss.’

  She inclined her head once again. ‘Thank you. I wonder if I might trouble you for a small sherry?’

  ‘Si, si, señora. Of course!’ Alberto leapt across the bar and grabbed a bottle of “jerez” from a shelf. Busily, he prepared the glass, while Mrs Talbot moved across to our table.

  ‘You don’t mind waiting for a few minutes, while I...?’

  ‘That is why you are here, Mr Buxton. You have waited for me, very patiently, and I am content to sit and wait for you. Please be seated, Señor Gonzales.’ The engineer had risen to his feet as the Englishwoman came over. He was a little bit in awe of her, I suspected, and with good reason. She was an admirable woman. It had taken great courage for her to maintain her cool in such trying circumstances.

  I left the two of them together and moved into the back room, closing the door firmly behind me.

  The duty officer at the legation was less than helpful. Derek Plumrose was an unfriendly brute at the best of times and was irritated even to have to answer the phone on a Sunday, which I did not entirely blame him for; but he also took unnecessary pleasure in informing me that the minister was not available. He would not be available, Plumrose added pointedly, until nine am the following morning. Office hours, in other words. The man did not have the courtesy to provide even a basic explanation for this and, although I had stressed the urgency, I was loath to press the matter further. In point of fact, I was rather relieved not to have to speak to Mr Richards directly. It was a conversation I had been dreading all the way down the mountainside; and logging a call with the duty officer would at least confirm that I had attempted to contact him, which might mitigate things somewhat. I hung up the receiver with a clear conscience, cleared the line and then placed a second call via the operator to Guatemala City.

  William Battersby answered the telephone. ‘Mr Buxton!’ he exclaimed in surprise when I told him who it was. The young secretary was well aware of my dislike of telecommunication devices – he had seen the expression on my face when he had informed me that he had a telephone installed at his flat – and he knew I was not in the habit of making long distance calls. ‘Is something wrong, sir?’ he enquired at once. I could picture the frown on his youthful, doe-eyed face. There was a bit of a crackle on the line and I had to press the receiver tightly against my ear to hear him properly.

  ‘I’ll say. Something’s come up. You’ll have to hold the fort tomorrow morning. We’ve missed the train.’

  There was a brief pause. ‘The train’s not until four o’clock, sir.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, William. But we’re a good two hours away from the train station. We’re going to have to stay another night at the finca and catch the early train tomorrow.’

  ‘I see. Of course, sir.’

  ‘Lord knows what time we’ll have to get up, but we should be back by the early afternoon. I tried to get in touch with Mr Richards, to tell him Freddie wouldn’t be in, but it appears he’s out for the day.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s playing golf with the minister from the French legation.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me.’ I grunted. Richards spent more time hobnobbing with other diplomats on the golf course than he ever did working. ‘But you’ll have to get a message through to him somehow. Not just about his secretary. I’m afraid we’ve all been caught up in something rather unpleasant.’

  ‘Sir?’

  I took a deep breath and briefly outlined the events of the last few hours. I kept away from anything sensitive – the phone line could hardly be considered secure – but there was no harm in passing on the basic facts. The details would be known by everyone soon enough. William listened in horrified silence, the colour doubtless draining from his already pale face as he took in the words ‘murder’ and ‘police investigation’.

  ‘Is Miss Bunting all right?’ he asked, with some concern, when I had finished my story. The young fool really did have a crush on that girl.

  ‘Yes, she’s fine,’ I snapped irritably. ‘But we’ll all be out of a job come Monday when the minister hears we’ve been involved in a murder.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with you, though, sir.’

  ‘No, of course not. But that’s not the point. Richards won’t believe it’s a coincidence, the three of us being here this weekend. And even if I convince him there’s no connection to our...well, our other work, there’ll still be all the publicity. You know what the minister’s like. He’ll think the world has fallen in. And I’ll be the one to blame. I’m already on notice. You heard what he said to me on Thursday morning.’

  ‘What can I do, sir?’

  ‘Well, we need to give him the head’s up. Better he hears it from us rather than reading it in the papers.’

  ‘You want me to tell him, sir?’ William was alarmed at the prospect.

  ‘Well, I can’t do it, can I? The duty officer won’t put me through. You’ll have to pop across to the legation, when he gets back from his game.’

  ‘He won’t be happy to be bothered on a Sunday, sir.’

  ‘No, he won’t. But what choice do we ha
ve? Put the best spin on it you can. Nothing to do with us.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

  ‘You certainly can’t make the situation any worse. That’s not the only reason I’m calling, though.’

  ‘Sir?’

  I took a moment to consider my words. ‘The thing is, William, there may be some connection between this murder and the death of my predecessor, Giles Markham.’ There was another long pause on the far end of the line. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I...don’t understand.’

  ‘That business with the flat the other day.’ The break-in. ‘Freddie Reeves has got it into his head that it might be connected in some way with events at the Weiman estate. Mr Markham came here the weekend before he died, apparently. That was why Freddie invited me along. Thought I could do a bit of snooping, the clot. He’d heard all about that business with me and...well, the journey over here.’ The affair of the “Red Zeppelin”, which I had no intention of mentioning on the telephone. ‘And needless to say he got completely the wrong end of the stick. But, in fairness, regarding Markham, I have a horrible suspicion he may be right.’

  ‘But Mr Markham’s death was a suicide, sir. I found the body myself.’

  ‘I know that. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’ William had given me a thorough account of the events of that day shortly after I had arrived in Guatemala. He had queried a small item in the ledger the Friday before Markham had died and it had subsequently transpired that he had been cooking the books. This time, however, I was seeking some rather different intelligence. ‘Look, there’s no easy way of asking this: when did Miss Bunting arrive in Guatemala?’

  ‘Emily? I don’t understand. Why...?’

  ‘Just answer the question, dammit!’

  William swallowed hard and tried to remember. ‘Well, Miss Stanton, her predecessor, finished on the Friday evening and Miss Bunting must have started on the following Wednesday, I think.’

  ‘Yes, I know that. But when did she arrive in the country? In Guatemala?’

  ‘Oh...erm, well, on Sunday evening, I think.’ He took a moment to reflect. ‘Yes, that’s right. She spent the night in Puerto Barrios.’ That was the port town on the east coast. ‘It was too late to catch the train. She stayed the night in a hotel and then hopped on the train the following morning. She would have arrived in Guatemala City on Monday afternoon sometime, probably quite late. She had a day to settle herself in and then started work on the Wednesday, as I said. Look, sir, why are you asking me all this? You surely don’t think Miss Bunting...?’

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ I snapped. ‘I’m just trying to ascertain everyone’s movements that week. Anyone who has the slightest connection to Giles Markham.’

  ‘But Emily didn’t have a connection to him, sir. She never met him. He committed suicide before she arrived here.’

  ‘But he was the one who approved her appointment, to the office?’

  ‘Not really, sir. He was informed of it, of course, but she was assigned by London. As we all are.’

  I pursed my lips. That was true enough. Roles like ours tended to be appointed from on high rather than locally. ‘What about this Miss Stanton? Was she close to Mr Markham?’

  ‘Not really, sir. She was a very efficient woman. Quite intimidating.’ Miss Stanton had been some years older than William, I recalled. I had looked over her file when I had started working at the legation. ‘I think she disapproved of him a little,’ the secretary added. ‘His drinking and gambling. Not that there’s anything wrong with that,’ he asserted hastily. William knew that I was partial to both.

  ‘Tell that to Mr Richards. And she was transferred to Mexico City? Miss Stanton?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A step up for her.’

  ‘And what about Miss Bunting? She was previously in Madrid?’ It had been a while since I had last looked at her file.

  ‘That’s right, sir. Her first posting. As you know, her Spanish is very good.’ His voice was full of youthful admiration. ‘Much better than mine,’ he added.

  ‘And when did she move into Markham’s flat?’

  ‘On the Thursday, sir. She stayed a couple of nights in a hotel, to begin with, while we sorted out the accommodation.’

  ‘And she didn’t mind moving into a dead man’s flat?’

  ‘No, sir. I’d cleared it out by then. Not that there was much to clear. And it wasn’t as if he’d shot himself in there. The place was barely lived in.’

  ‘Yes, so you’ve said before.’

  ‘Sir, is Emily all right? She isn’t involved in this in some way? She can’t be, surely? She doesn’t know any of the people at the farm.’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ I agreed. ‘But we’re all involved now, William. The police have made an arrest, but they may have got the wrong man. You might well have heard of the investigating officer. A General Tejada? Julio Tejada?’ There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. ‘Yes, Mr Reeves said you would recognise the name.’

  ‘He...he was the investigating officer for Mr Markham’s suicide. And he’s at the estate?’ William was incredulous.

  ‘Yes, he is. Making a damned nuisance of himself.’

  ‘I...I would be very careful what you say about him, sir. He has a reputation for...’

  ‘Yes, I know all about that.’ I had seen Tejada’s brutality first hand, though I was not about to say so over the telephone. ‘But Markham? Did he do a thorough job there? The investigation?’

  ‘Not really, sir. He was only called in as a courtesy. Mr Richards wanted the whole matter kept quiet and General Tejada didn’t seem to have much interest in it anyway. He seemed to think it was beneath him.’

  ‘But he did visit the flat?’

  ‘Yes, sir. A day or two later.’

  ‘The Tuesday or the Wednesday?’

  ‘Er...the Wednesday, I think. Yes, the Wednesday. We went in to check the place out on Tuesday, just to make sure Mr Markham hadn’t left anything sensitive in there.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Mr Reeves and I’

  ‘Freddie helped you clear out the flat?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  I frowned. ‘Was he there when Tejada searched the place?’

  ‘No, sir. Just me. I let him in with one of his deputies.’

  ‘Oh, you mean that boggle eyed fellow? Sergeant Velázquez?’

  ‘I don’t recall the name. No, that doesn’t sound like him.’

  ‘Never mind. And you were there the whole time?’

  ‘No, sir. I just let them in. I was running the office single-handedly that week. I’d already spent half a day clearing out the room. I couldn’t afford to spare any more time. The office was closed to the public for the week, but there was still a mountain of paperwork to get through.’

  ‘So you left Tejada in the flat?’

  ‘Yes, sir. One of his officers returned the key later that day. That was the last we heard. There was an inquest a couple of weeks later and a typed up report. And that was it.’

  ‘I see.’ I paused for a moment, taking it all in. Not that there was much new information. But it did seem like an awful lot of people had been in and around that apartment at one point or another. General Tejada. Freddie Reeves. Miss Bunting. And Catesby himself had been in town on the evening of the burglary. What about the other house guests? I wondered. The Montanas and the Talbots both lived in Guatemala City. And then there was that overseer fellow. If anyone was born to be a burglar it was him. Could he be connected to Giles Markham in some way? ‘Have you ever heard of a man named Langbroek?’ I asked William. ‘I think he may be South African.’

  ‘The name doesn’t ring a bell, sir.’

  ‘Just a thought. What about...erm...Montana? Arthur Montana?’

  ‘Montana.’ William thought for a while. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘How can you not be sure? He’s a United Fruit executive. One of those damned banana people.’

  ‘No, I don’t know him, sir.’


  Who else? ‘What about George Talbot? He was the one who fell down the stairs. A banker. Worked for Anglo South American.’

  ‘Talbot.’ William paused. ‘That names does sound familiar. Just a minute.’ He considered briefly. ‘Yes, Mr Markham used to meet up with him. We’ve got it on file somewhere. Just an informal thing. He had a few useful connections, in the business world.’

  ‘George Talbot was...was one of our advisers?’ I asked, in surprise. ‘I’ve never seen anything in the files about him.’ Not that I had read every word.

  ‘Mr Markham liked to keep some things close to his chest. He didn’t always keep comprehensive records. Just in case things fell into the wrong hands.’

  ‘But he used to meet up with George Talbot?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so, sir, on occasion. Although as I say, it was just an informal thing. We had him down as quite a straight-laced chap, if I remember rightly. Not that I ever met him. He passed on a few bits of useful informa...er, advice. Had a bit of a bee in his bonnet about corruption, bribery. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Government corruption?’

  ‘Yes, indirectly. Corruption in the banking sector, I think. Misuse of funds, by the government and by the police. You know what they’re like, sir.’

  ‘The police?’ I felt a sudden shiver of fear.

  ‘I believe so, sir. Protection rackets. Bribery. Some pretty horrendous stuff. Business rivals being made to disappear. Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t...’

  ‘And Talbot was passing on information about that, to us?’

  ‘I think so, sir. Not just to us. To his superiors at the bank. I remember Mr Markham saying he was on something of a crusade about it.’

  ‘Good lord.’ I shuddered. That was the last thing I needed to hear.

  Chapter Twelve

  Steven Catesby’s body was being carried out on a lightweight stretcher. The corpse was covered respectfully with a sheet, hiding the blood stained pyjamas and the heavy cut across his throat. Gunther Weiman was standing with Mrs Weiman on the front steps of the hacienda, watching mournfully as the body was transported across the lawn towards a rough looking wooden cart. The policemen from the village had been co-opted to carry the wicker stretcher as soon as they had arrived. They were a solid, grim looking pair with hard eyes and weather beaten faces. Against all the odds, they had beaten us back to the estate and were already being put to good use.