There's Trouble Brewing

by Nicholas Blake

  ‘And that’s all you found?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Quite sure?’

  ‘’Ere, what’s the——?’

  ‘Frisk him, Sergeant.’

  Inspector Tyler was taking no chances. The cleaner had to submit to a thorough examination of his pockets and person.

  ‘Here, you,’ said the inspector when it was over, ‘give me that torch. I’ll take a look inside now.’

  The little group of men on the platform stood still and silent as he climbed awkwardly through the manhole. It somehow impressed them that he should climb straight in without even a preliminary glance at the appalling object that sprawled there. They heard his feet shuffling inside. Then silence. He seemed to be in there an interminable time. Sorn was fidgeting with his fingers. At last the inspector’s face reappeared at the manhole; he was paler even than usual, and beads of sweat stood out below the peak of his cap. With ponderous, deliberate movements he climbed out; then stood for a moment, brushing at his uniform. At last he turned to the head brewer.

  ‘Hmm. That venthole, outlet pipe, whatever you call it—where does it lead to?’

  ‘Into the hop-back,’ said Mr Barnes, ‘If it’s clues you want——’

  ‘Tollworthy, get someone to show you this hop-back and make a thorough search of it. Now then, who’s in authority here?’

  ‘I suppose, in a manner of speaking, I am,’ said Mr Barnes, ‘seeing as how the governor’s been done in and Mr Joe’s away holidaying.’

  ‘Very well, I shall want a private room for the examination of witnesses presently. Will you see about that? I dare say Mr Bunnett’s would do.’

  ‘Oh, the governor would never allow that,’ exclaimed Mr Barnes, in shocked tones. The influence of Eustace Bunnett died hard. The inspector disregarded his protest.

  ‘If you want to make a preliminary examination, doctor, you’d better do it now. I don’t imagine it’ll be of much use, though. There’s not much left to examine,’ he added grimly. ‘Don’t move it, please, sir. Our photographer’ll be here in a minute.’

  Dr Cammison hesitated for a moment, as though to say something, then disappeared into the copper.

  ‘Now,’ said Inspector Tyler, ‘when was Mr Bunnett last seen?’

  ‘He’s not been here today,’ said the head brewer.

  ‘Are you sure of that?’

  ‘Positive certain. The clerk at the inquiry office will tell you he’s not been in. We’d’ve known if he had been about all right, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Mr Bunnett was never what you’d call an Unseen Presence,’ added Gabriel Sorn.

  The inspector turned a suspicious glare upon him for a moment. Sorn did not stand up to it too well.

  ‘What time do the employees arrive here in the morning?’

  ‘Five a.m.—the first of them.’

  ‘I’ll need to see those men. Are they on the premises?’

  ‘No. They’ll have hopped it by now.’

  ‘Well, send for them, please.’

  The head brewer descended the ladder, and was heard to tell one of the men below that the Lord God Almighty wanted to see so and so, so and so, and so and so in the brewery double-quick. To cover up this revelation, which did not seem altogether gratifying to the inspector, Nigel said:

  ‘Mr Bunnett was at a party at the Cammisons’ last night. He left with his wife, between 11 and 11.15. That fixes one end of it. He told me then that he was not going to be at the brewery in the morning, but would meet me here at tea-time.’

  The inspector’s small, light-blue eyes gazed speculatively at Nigel.

  ‘Were you not surprised when Mr Bunnett did not keep his appointment?’

  ‘Only moderately. I thought he would be turning up any moment. Mr Sorn was kind enough to show me round.’

  ‘And Mr Bunnett left no message for you?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Hmm. Very queer.’ The inspector seemed to radiate an atmosphere of suspicion that permeated, like a damp fog, everything he said and the bones of those who listened to him. Nigel put him down as an ambitious man whose ambitions had not been achieved quickly enough and were going sour on him.

  ‘The first job,’ the inspector was saying, ‘is to establish identity and fix the time of death as near as we can.’

  ‘And that’s not going to be a pushover,’ said Herbert Cammison dryly, emerging from the copper. ‘The flesh has all been digested, so we shall have no help in the way of birthmarks. The lower jaw and a number of small bones have become detached—we shall find them all, no doubt, but it will take some time to articulate the skeleton; luckily the clothes have held it together a bit. If there is any congenital deformity of the bones, or a mended fracture, say—I shall find it when I make my thorough examination, and it might give you a pointer. All I can tell you at the moment is that the remains appear to be of similar height and physique as Bunnett, the clothes are his, and the hair resembles his in colour. As you noticed, the body had got caught over the steamcoil inside the copper. The heat of that pipe alone would have been enough to burn away all the flesh that was touching it. Incidentally, it was the body’s being caught up on this coil that prevented it sinking to the bottom of the copper when the stuff was drawn out and so blocking the mouth of the outlet pipe. Where are the teeth, by the way?’

  ‘The teeth? Ah, I noticed that,’ said the inspector slowly.

  ‘Bunnett, I know, had a complete set of artificial teeth—full upper and lower sets. The upper jaw and the detached lower jaw of the skull in there are both toothless. You’ve got to find those teeth. They would be the best means of identification.’

  ‘I shall attend to that, sir,’ said the inspector, a little testily. ‘Now what about the time of death?’

  ‘Can’t help you. Nor will the post-mortem. The organs are simply not there for us to examine. All I can say is that the body must have been in that copper six hours at the very least to have been reduced to this stage.’

  The inspector turned to Mr Barnes.

  ‘Do they open that manhole before they let the stuff in—the hops and so on—in the morning?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what time does the boiling process commence?’

  ‘Eight a.m.’

  ‘Which means that—as far as we can tell at present—if the body is Mr Bunnett’s, it was put in there some time between 11.15 last night and eight o’clock this morning.’

  Conscious of an attentive audience, the inspector was talking himself into a better temper.

  ‘Mr Barnes, I shall want the name and address of your night-watchman…. Thank you. Now, Dr Cammison, there’s nothing more for you to do here at present. I wonder if you would mind ringing up the wid—Mrs Bunnett. You are the family medical man, so it will come more natural like from you. Don’t alarm the good lady. Just ask her when her husband left the house this morning—you can make some excuse for the inquiry—Mr Strangeways was wondering why he had not kept the appointment—something like that.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Cammison.

  ‘Just a moment, doctor,’ said Tyler, ‘before you do. Does there seem to you any likelihood at all that this is a case of suicide or accident? It hardly seems worth asking, but——’

  ‘Accident, out of the question,’ replied Cammison curtly. ‘Suicide? It would mean that the unfortunate fellow got inside, bolted the manhole—which can’t be done from inside—or if it had been left open someone would have noticed it this morning before the stuff was poured in—and then lain down and waited to be boiled alive. The same applies to his having jumped in some time today, after the boiling process had started: the manhole would have been found open and it would have been reported.’

  ‘No one reported to that effect, Mr Barnes?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘No. I’ll make inquiries tomorrow, if you like, and find out for certain.’

  ‘If you please.’

  ‘No, you can take it from me, suicide is just possible theoretic
ally, but humanly quite impossible,’ said Cammison.

  ‘That’s as I thought,’ said Tyler. ‘And the same goes for the body, eh? Theoretically, I mean, it might be somebody else, but practically it’s pretty certainly Mr Bunnett’s?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go so far as that,’ replied Cammison, relapsing into professional caution. ‘There’s one more thing, by the way. The murderer could not have got the victim through that manhole without first rendering him unconscious. It it was a drug, poison, or anaesthetic, I shan’t be able to help you. If it was anything that would affect the bone-structure—a blow on the head, say—my examination might be able to give you a lead.’

  Herbert Cammison went off to telephone. Shortly after, the photographer and fingerprint man arrived and set to work. Nigel stared at them absent-mindedly, trying to recall something that was at the back of his mind. The copper. Boiling. Ah, yes!——

  ‘Sorn, didn’t you say that there were three separate boilings in this copper today?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of two and a half hours each?’

  ‘More or less. Yes.’

  ‘Look here, Inspector. Cammison said the body couldn’t have got into that state unless it had been undergoing the boiling process for six hours at least. That implies it must have been there during all three boiling periods. Therefore it must have been put in before the first one—before eight o’clock this morning—whether it is Bunnett or somebody else.’

  ‘Yes, sir. That seems correct enough. I didn’t know there were three separate boilings. I thought the copper was working continuously all day.’

  There were other implications of this point, Nigel felt, but his brain was too tired to unravel them. At this moment Sergeant Tollworthy appeared, flushed, dirty and triumphant. His honest yeoman’s head was set squarely on a brick-red neck. He was carrying something carefully in his handkerchief. He opened the handkerchief to reveal the grisliest objects—except for the corpse itself—that had turned up so far in this case. Two dental plates, warped, battered and distorted, with a few of the teeth still in position. In the handkerchief lay also a number of loose teeth, a signet ring and some small bones.

  ‘Recognise this ring?’ Tyler jerked his head curtly towards Mr Barnes.

  ‘That’s the governor’s all right. His crest, see?’

  ‘Must have slipped off the finger-bone when the flesh was eaten away. Sergeant, let the ambulance men get the body out now. I’ll be back at the station in half an hour…. Ah, there you are, doctor. What does she say?’

  Nigel was conscious of a tensening in the atmosphere. Mr Barnes’ black eyebrows were drawn together. Gabriel Sorn was staring fixedly at the back of his right hand; even the inspector seemed to have shed some of his official skin, and was looking excitedly inquisitive. Herbert Cammison’s face was impassive as ever, though; in the same tones that he might have remarked, ‘See that the patient is kept warm, he has a slight touch of fever, nothing to be alarmed about’, he said:

  ‘Mrs Bunnett tells me she has not seen her husband today. He did not appear at breakfast.’

  ‘Not at breakfast?’ exclaimed the inspector. ‘D’you mean to say the deceased was missing from his home all day and his wife has taken no steps about it?’ He glared ferociously at Cammison, as though the doctor were responsible for Mrs Bunnett’s unnatural behaviour.

  ‘It would seem so,’ Herbert replied imperturbably. ‘But you’d better ask her yourself. If you like, we’ll step over there now. I’ll break the news of this discovery to her, and then—if she is in a fit state to be questioned—you can interrogate her.’

  The inspector gave a few more instructions, then prepared to depart.

  ‘I must ask you to remain on the spot, Mr Barnes,’ he said. ‘When I have interviewed Mrs Bunnett, I shall be returning to look over her husband’s private office and interview those men. Will you please hold yourself in readiness.’

  Mr Barnes looked more despondent than ever.

  ‘That’s all right. I shall have to be getting in touch with the excise authorities. A whole day’s brewing wasted—it’s enough to break your heart.’

  Which, thought Nigel as the head brewer walked away, considering the character of Eustace Bunnett, was perhaps the most sensible view of the day’s occurrences that could be taken. Nigel himself was torn between disgust and curiosity. Eustace Bunnett was better dead—there could be no doubt about that, and Nigel had no desire to hound down the person who had eliminated him. Yet he felt himself somehow involved. It was not only the business of Truffles. He could not forget the strange reticences of Sophie Cammison, and that even stranger moment when she had laid her hand on his arm and asked him not to ‘sauce Mr Bunnett any more’; it had been as though the spirit of Fear itself had laid a finger upon him. What was this fear that Sophie had communicated? But no, he thought, impatiently shaking back the lock of tow-coloured hair that drooped over his forehead; it’s all moonshine, hoohaa. I’ll have nothing to do with it.

  ‘Well, I’ll be getting along,’ he said.

  ‘Won’t you come over with us?’ asked Cammison unexpectedly. The inspector frowned. ‘Very irregular, sir; I don’t know that I could——’

  ‘But look here,’ Cammison interrupted. ‘Strangeways is in on this already. The business of Truffles may be connected with Bunnett’s death—or whoever’s death it is that you’re investigating.’

  ‘Oh, come, sir. That’s straining things a bit. There’s no call for mystificating this job any further,’ replied the inspector with irritating superiority.

  Cammison said patiently:

  ‘It may be coincidence, of course. But it’s at least odd that, within a fortnight, first a dog and then its master should be killed in the same way. Isn’t it possible that Truffles’ death was a dress-rehearsal for Bunnett’s?’

  Even the inspector had to be impressed by this unnerving suggestion—all the more unnerving for being put forward in Cammison’s calm, business-like tones.

  ‘Well, sir, there may be something in that,’ he said. ‘But I like to do things regular, and——’

  ‘Great Scott, man, this is a murder, not a case of traffic-obstruction. If you want to regularise the position, ring up Sir John Strangeways at the Yard tonight, and he’ll give you Nigel’s bona-fides.’

  So in the end Nigel found himself walking out of the brewery with the other two. He noticed that he was the only one not to be consulted; both Tyler and Cammison apparently took it for granted that he was an eager—if amateur—bloodhound straining on the leash. Oh, well, let it go. The Bunnetts’ house was only a minute’s walk from the brewery, a pretentious red-brick affair on the outskirts of the town, asserting itself crudely against Maiden Astbury’s mellow, time-honoured dignity; a fitting habitation for its late owner, thought Nigel.

  Dr Cammison left them in the morning-room, while he went to speak with Mrs Bunnett. The inspector sat solid and upright, his hands on his knees, looking straight in front of him. Nigel prowled restlessly about, fingering the furniture absent-mindedly. There was a studio portrait on the mantelpiece that attracted his attention; the head and shoulders of a middle-aged man; a roundish face, heavily brilliantined hair parted in the middle, a military moustache that only half-concealed the weakness of the small, too amiable mouth. The eyes held an expression half-apologetic, half-hearty. Nigel felt that this was the sort of man who would retain in civil life a temporary military title—yes, he would enjoy being called ‘Captain so and so’; he would probably address you as, ‘Well, chaps, how’s things!’ Order drinks all round, and tell you a not very subtle dirty story. He would, without realising it, fear unpopularity more than anything else, but he would be popular—particularly with his ‘social inferiors.’ As to profession—he might be an unsuccessful chicken-farmer or a successful commercial traveller. He would, Nigel fancied, be exceptionally plausible when making excuses.

  ‘Know who this is?’ he asked the inspector.

  ‘That’s Mr Joe Bunnett—Mr Bunnett’s
brother.’

  ‘Good Lord! He’s not a bit like Eustace. At least, the whole expression is different. There is a resemblance in feature, when you come to look at it.’

  What struck Nigel as more odd, however, was Sophie’s having said that they were very fond of Joe; he really didn’t look a bit their sort. Nigel was still pondering this when Dr Cammison appeared at the door.

  ‘Mrs Bunnett is ready to talk to you now. I’ve told her that we are very much afraid her husband has met with his death. It would be desirable to keep off the unpleasant details.’

  ‘How is she taking it?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Well, it is naturally a severe shock to her,’ replied Dr Cammison. Nigel sensed some reservations behind this noncommittal statement. Even the inspector eyed Cammison curiously, as though expecting him to amplify it. The doctor, however, silently led the way to Mrs Bunnett’s drawing-room. While the inspector was expressing his condolences, Nigel studied Emily Bunnett. Her dazed eyes, feverishly flushed cheeks and trembling hands; the untidy mass of grey hair, a loop of it falling over her ear; the dowdy disarray of her dress, and the quivering at the corners of her long, weak, down-curving mouth—it all reminded Nigel of, what could it be? Something very different from the sorrowing widow. Yes, she was exactly like one of those repressed, lonely, queer old spinsters who suddenly, for no apparent reason, after a blameless lifetime, break out one day and get drunk and screech out blasphemies in the middle of the street and sorely embarrass the policemen who have to remove them. Nigel had seen just such a one, years ago, being dragged off through an applauding crowd in Pimlico.

  Inspector Tyler was saying:

  ‘Now, ma’am, you say you have not seen your husband since you both returned here about 11.20 last night. You went straight to bed. Your husband, who occupies a separate room, said he had a little work to do. You went to sleep at once and did not hear him go up to bed. Is that right?’