by Jack Treby
‘Excuse me, madam.’ The attention of the table shifted to the far door, where the housekeeper, Greta, had slipped back into the dining room. She was an impressive barrel of a woman in her late fifties, with dark grey hair scraped back against her head.
‘Yes? What is it Greta?’
‘I am sorry to disturb you, madam.’ The woman’s expression was grave. ‘But Moses has disappeared.’
The colour drained from Mrs Weiman’s face. ‘Disappeared?’
‘I left him in the cottage, peeling potatoes.’ The servants’ cottage, adjacent to the main house. ‘I just went to look and he is not there. He has not even started on the potatoes. He is nowhere to be found.’
‘Oh God!’ Susan Weiman lifted her hands to her face in horror. ‘He’s not running around outside? Not when there’s a curfew in force!’
‘Damn!’ I exclaimed loudly. ‘I thought...’ My voice trailed away and I grimaced, as everyone turned to stare at me. ‘I suppose you might as well know. It was Moses who let Joseph Green go.’
That elicited a horrified gasp from the Weimans.
‘You saw him?’ Gunther Weiman asked, his eyes flashing in alarm.
‘I was upstairs. I couldn’t do anything to stop him. But I thought once he’d unlocked the door and seen the man off he’d just come straight back here.’ I hadn’t for a minute supposed he would put himself in any danger.
‘They must have run away together,’ Mrs Weiman breathed. ‘My poor boy. He’ll be killed out there.’ She let out a strangled sob. ‘My poor little darling.’ Her eyes were already wet with tears.
Miss Bunting regarded the woman in surprise. ‘Your...darling?’
Weiman placed a restraining hand on his wife’s arm. ‘Liebling, don’t...’ he warned. But it was already too late. Freddie, Miss Bunting and I were all staring at the older woman. Hers was not the reaction of a concerned employer.
Susan Weiman raised a hand to wipe the tears from her eyes. She glanced at her husband and took a nervous gulp of air. ‘It’s all right, darling. Moses...he’s...’ Her shoulders slumped as she met our eyes. ‘There’s no point pretending any more. Moses is my son,’ she whispered, her hands trembling on the table top.
‘Good grief,’ I said.
Chapter Fourteen
Frederick Reeves was dumbfounded. ‘Your son...?’ he exclaimed, probably louder than he had intended. Miss Bunting, to his right, was wide eyed with surprise and I doubt I was looking any less flummoxed. ‘That’s not possible,’ the Second Secretary breathed. ‘I mean, he’s coloured!’
‘For heaven’s sake, Freddie,’ I hissed. For all the shock of the revelation, I had no difficulty grasping the mechanics of the situation. ‘Do I have to draw you a diagram?’
Susan Weiman was staring down into her cup, her cheeks red with embarrassment. The admission had not come easily to her but – with her son’s life on the line – it had become impossible for her to conceal the truth.
There was an awkward silence.
‘So...who was the father?’ I asked, eventually, keeping my voice low. ‘One of the labourers?’
Mrs Weiman did not answer. She brought a hand to her face again and gently wiped her eyes. Her husband cut in, to save her any further distress. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he asserted, not wishing to answer the question directly. ‘It is not important now.’
Freddie was still struggling to understand the logistics of the situation. ‘But you must have...I mean, people must have noticed. That you were...well, with child?’ The poor fool was tying himself in knots, trying to address the matter delicately, but in fairness it was not an easy subject to probe.
‘We...we pretended that I had miscarried,’ Mrs Weiman explained.
‘The boy was found abandoned in a nearby village,’ Mr Weiman added, ‘some time afterwards. He was brought up with the other workers.’
‘Does he know?’ I asked. ‘That you’re his mother, I mean?’
Susan Weiman shook her head sadly. ‘He has no idea. He doesn’t even like me very much. He was spirited away as soon as he was born and then “discovered” a few weeks later. Isabel’s mother took charge of him. Mrs Collinson, God rest her soul. She was more of a mother to him than I’ve ever been.’
‘And Joseph Green was a surrogate father. Or at least, an uncle,’ I suggested. That was the way the lad himself had described it. ‘Which presumably is why he helped him to escape.’
‘Moses has always been impetuous,’ Mrs Weiman said. ‘It’s a family trait. My father was the same. And so was Steven.’ She smiled half-heartedly but then her face froze. ‘Oh, God. What’s going to happen to my poor little boy?’
Gunther Weiman could offer no words of comfort.
‘He got a good head start,’ I said, trying to look on the bright side. ‘And it’ll be getting dark soon. There are plenty of places on the estate the two of them could hide out.’ The finca had its fair share of store houses, offices and other empty buildings. ‘He’ll be safe for now. If he’s got any sense, he’ll find somewhere to hide and then slip away after dark and head back to the house. As for Green...’ I gazed down at my glass. ‘I’m afraid he’s beyond our help. That lunatic of a policeman won’t let him get away.’
‘Moses won’t abandon him,’ Mrs Weiman asserted anxiously. ‘You don’t know what he’s like. He can be so stubborn. You should have seen him when Matthew died. He didn’t speak for weeks.’
Mr Weiman was becoming as unsettled as his wife. ‘Liebling...’
‘I’m tired of concealing the truth, Gunther.’ She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘We should tell them about Matthew.’
Her husband let out a weary sigh. It was bad enough, I supposed, to have to admit that his wife had cuckolded him, all those years ago, but the death of Matthew Green at the hands of his cousin reflected even less well upon the family.
I saved them both from any further embarrassment. ‘It’s all right. I know all about Matthew Green. About how he died.’
‘You know?’ Weiman regarded me in surprise.
‘I’ve heard the gossip. From Joseph Green, among others. He told me Mr Catesby threw his brother down the stairs.’
The German shook his head. ‘No, that isn’t quite what happened. Steven didn’t kill Matthew Green.’
I shrugged. ‘That’s what I was told. You’re not trying to suggest it was an accident?’ There had been too many “accidents” already in this affair. I for one was getting heartily sick of them.
‘No, it was not an accident.’ Weiman glanced at his wife and then back at me, her anxiety mirrored in his face. ‘Mr Buxton. Henry. Is there nothing we can do for Moses?’
I scratched the side of my lip. ‘Nothing, I’m afraid. At least, not right now. But, look, don’t be too concerned,’ I said. ‘Even Tejada wouldn’t shoot an unarmed child. Can I get you both a brandy? Help steady the nerves?’
‘No, thank you.’ The Weimans shook their heads in unison. They were a very close couple, I could see. Even now, the two of them had their arms around each other, despite the awkwardness of the seating. Whatever foolishness had forced Mrs Weiman into the arms of another man – and a black man to boot – the matter had clearly been long forgiven.
‘Look, honestly. They’ll be fine, if they just sit tight. I could...maybe try to have a word with the general when he comes back to the house. Try to reason with him.’ Even I could not make that suggestion sound plausible, but the couple did their best to take some comfort from the idea.
‘We have no choice, liebling,’ Weiman said. ‘We must wait.’
I downed the last of the brandy in my tumbler. Freddie was thinking over what our hosts had just told us. ‘But hang on a mo. If Steven didn’t kill Matthew Green, then who did?’ he asked. ‘He did fall down the stairs?’
Weiman drew in a breath. ‘Yes. I am afraid he did. But it wasn’t Steven who pushed him. It was Giles.’
Freddie almost dropped his glass. ‘Giles Markham killed Matthew Green?’ He exchanged a bewildered
look with Emily Bunting. That was not what Alberto had told us.
‘But we heard that Mr Markham...’ I hesitated. ‘Well, to put it bluntly, if you’ll forgive the indelicacy, Mrs...Susan.’ There was no easy way of phrasing this. ‘We heard your cousin had found him and this Green fellow in bed together.’ I cringed at the unfortunate words, even as I spoke them. Sodomy was not an easy subject to broach at the dinner table, but it seemed unlikely that Susan Weiman was in the dark on the matter and both of my colleagues already knew the truth. ‘And he was so disgusted by it that he...’
‘No, that’s not quite how it happened,’ Weiman observed, correcting me gently once again. ‘It wasn’t Steven who discovered Matthew in bed. It was....’ He stopped and grimaced. ‘Forgive me. This is a difficult matter for us to discuss.’
‘I understand.’
‘But Giles and Steven were not just close friends. They were...involved.’
Freddie had lost the thread of the conversation. ‘Involved? How do you mean, involved?’ I threw him a look and his face reddened. ‘Oh! You mean...?’
‘In an intimate way,’ Weiman confirmed, with a shudder. The notion of two men sleeping together clearly unsettled him. It is surprising how few people are prepared to be broad-minded about such things.
‘We knew nothing about it at the time,’ Susan Weiman assured us, hastily. ‘I had no idea my cousin had those...those kinds of feelings. He had been married, after all.’
‘Old Giles.’ Freddie stared at the table top. He had been shocked, the previous day, when Alberto had suggested Markham had been caught in bed with a labourer, but he had managed to convince himself it had been a one-off event. This new information suggested the behaviour was more entrenched and, like the Weimans, Freddie was having difficulty coming to terms with the idea. ‘I worked with him for two and a half years,’ he exclaimed, blowing out his cheeks. ‘He was always flirting with the typists. They couldn’t get enough of him. I can’t believe he was...’ His voice trailed off.
‘It takes all sorts to make a world,’ I said, with a half smile. Freddie was not quite as cosmopolitan as he liked to appear.
Miss Bunting evidently agreed with me. ‘I thought you were supposed to be a man of the world,’ she teased.
‘Yes, but...’
‘Never mind that now,’ I said. We were straying from the point. ‘You’re suggesting it was Giles Markham who killed Matthew Green?’
‘That’s right,’ Weiman said. ‘He came here that weekend, in March. We were away at the time, visiting friends. But Giles and Steven had some sort of argument, on the Sunday morning. I don’t know what it was about. Giles went off to church with the other members of the household, but had a change of heart on the way down to the village and came back to the house. He found Steven and Matthew in bed together.’
‘Lord,’ I said.
‘And he...well, he must have lost control of himself.’ Weiman shuddered. ‘He beat Matthew black and blue and then threw him down the stairs. Deliberately, as I understand it.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Freddie exclaimed. ‘Giles? Giles did that?’
‘I am afraid so. I cannot explain it. I suppose he must have felt betrayed. He lost his temper and killed the man in a jealous rage. But Steven took the blame for it. When we arrived back on Sunday evening, Giles had already left. We didn’t even known he had been here. It was Steven who told us about Matthew. He said he had caught him stealing and had lost his temper. We believed him, of course. The fall had been an accident. Mr Langbroek helped him to cover it all up. I believe he was the who suggested the story of the theft, though we only found that out later. The police came, but they had no interest in the death of a thief, especially a negro. It was all “brushed under the carpet”. I believe that is the expression.’
‘The policeman who came,’ Miss Bunting asked. ‘Was it the general?’
‘No, it was a local man. I forget his name. Sadly, it was not considered an important matter. The law grants landowners the right to protect their property and that was what Steven claimed to have done.’
‘What happened then?’ I asked. ‘I mean, between Catesby and Markham?’
The German sighed. ‘As I understand it, Steven contacted Giles by telephone a few days later and begged him to forgive him. It must have been a difficult conversation. But he managed to persuade him to come up here again the following weekend.’
‘And that was at the end of March? The weekend before Markham died?’
‘Yes.’ Weiman reached forward and took a final sip of coffee. ‘At that point, you must remember, we knew nothing of his involvement in Matthew’s death. Giles seemed no different to me when he arrived. We played cards and drank a little wine. He seemed in good spirits.’
‘He was never one for showing his emotions,’ Freddie agreed. ‘Too busy having a good time.’
‘But he must have been very hurt,’ Weiman concluded. ‘No matter how well he concealed it. He had been betrayed by a man I suppose he must have loved and then killed another man in a blind rage.’
‘No wonder he topped himself!’ Freddie exclaimed.
‘The guilt must have been unbearable. He could not forgive himself for what he had done, any more than he could forgive Steven. I believe he only came here that weekend to tell Steven it was over, to break off their relationship once and for all. And of course there was no longer any question of them purchasing a farm together. Then, the following day, as you know, Giles took his own life.’
‘We didn’t hear about that until the Tuesday or Wednesday,’ Susan Weiman put in. ‘Steven was devastated.’
‘Hardly surprising,’ I muttered. ‘In the circumstances.’
‘He was distraught. I had never seen him so upset.’ Gunther Weiman shifted his coffee cup sadly. He may not have liked the man but he had a natural sympathy for anyone in pain. ‘And it was then we found out the truth. He told us everything. His relationship with Giles. There had been lots of rumours, of course, after the accident. That, I believe, was why the other workers did not protest when Matthew was killed.’ They had been no more tolerant of a sodomite in their ranks than the Weimans had been. ‘But nobody said anything directly to us. The story, I think, soon became garbled. People said Giles and Matthew had been the ones discovered together and that Steven had killed Matthew. That was certainly the story that Mr Langbroek put about. And, for a time, that was what everyone believed.’ Even the gossips in the village, like Alberto. ‘After all, Steven had confessed to it, after a fashion.’
‘So how did it make you feel, discovering the truth?’ Miss Bunting asked.
‘We were shocked, of course,’ Mrs Weiman said. ‘Bewildered, that he would involve himself in such an unnatural relationship. We had known they were close, but not...’
‘He gave us no choice,’ Weiman asserted. ‘As soon as we found out, we told Steven he would have to leave. He could not continue as manager here. It would be too disruptive.’
‘And what did he say to that?’
‘He asked us for three months grace. He said he thought he could get the money to complete the purchase of the farm and we agreed he could stay on until the beginning of July. He went into town last week, with Mr Langbroek, to make the final arrangements. We thought he was organising some sort of loan.’
My eyes boggled. ‘Langbroek came to town with him?’ Freddie and I swapped looks. ‘I didn’t think Catesby even liked him.’
‘No, I don’t believe he did. But he found him to be an effective overseer. I confess I have always been a little uneasy about that man.’ Weiman grimaced. ‘He does not treat the workers well. It was Steven who insisted he stay on here and, as he was manager, I deferred to his judgement. I suppose he must have felt beholden to him. Mr Langbroek had been very helpful, covering up the incident with Matthew. I believe he would have followed Steven to the new farm, if that had ever happened.’
‘So Langbroek must have been the bloke who broke into your flat,’ Freddie concluded. ‘If he was in town la
st week.’
‘I wouldn’t put it past him,’ I agreed. ‘And clobbered my man too, the devil.’
As if on cue, a piercing scream erupted from another part of the house. Miss Bunting gave a start but I smiled with satisfaction. It was Langbroek, over in the living room. ‘That’ll be Doctor Rubio. Setting his leg for him.’ Quite a painful procedure, by the sounds of it. Served the fellow right.
Freddie glanced back at the living room door. ‘So, do you reckon Mr Langbroek could be our murderer?’ he asked, the cogs in his mind whirring at an unprecedented speed. ‘He might have killed Steven to get hold of that money.’
‘It’s possible,’ I agreed. It was more than possible, in fact. ‘Nine thousand dollars would be a hell of a temptation.’
There was one last grunt from the living room and then silence. Langbroek had probably fainted from the pain. For all his bulk, he did not strike me as a particularly brave man. Bullies never were.
‘Perhaps he was behind everything,’ Miss Bunting suggested, hopefully.
That would tie things up rather neatly, I thought. It would be nice, for a change, if there was a real bastard to blame for everything. ‘He couldn’t have killed Mr Talbot, though,’ I realised, with some irritation. ‘Whatever motive he might have had. Langbroek was out on the road when that happened. You remember, Freddie? We passed him by on the way back from the village, supervising the work party.’
The Englishman remembered. ‘It couldn’t have been him,’ he agreed. ‘Or Joseph. He was there too.’
‘You think George may have been killed?’ Mrs Weiman asked. ‘As well as Steven?’
‘I do,’ I admitted sadly. ‘It can’t be a coincidence. Not if he was in possession of that banker's draft. It ties him in to everything else.’
Mrs Weiman shuddered, but her husband saw the logic in the argument. ‘You are right. It cannot be a coincidence.’
‘But your man Green couldn’t have known anything about the money,’ I said. ‘Which means, whoever killed your cousin was someone in this house. It could even be one of us.’