There's Trouble Brewing

by Nicholas Blake

  ‘Well, I do then. She’s very kind-hearted, and it’s always those gruff, kindly souls who have secret sorrows—in books, anyway.’

  ‘Oh, books!’

  ‘Books are all right,’ said Nigel; ‘if you don’t let them get a hold over you. Would you say, now, that Joe Bunnett was Miss Mellors’ secret sorrow, by any chance?’

  Sophie burst out laughing. ‘Joe! Oh dear!’ Then, in a soberer voice, ‘Joe Bunnett? Well it might be, ’s matter of fact. She does look at him in rather a doggish sort of way sometimes—faithful, I mean, not playful. And she does mother him a bit too; like going round and seeing his house is clean and warm just before he comes back from his holidays. They live nearly next door to each other, you know.’

  ‘Do they now?’

  ‘Look here, young Nigel,’ said Cammison, ‘just what are you up to?’

  ‘I don’t quite know. Really I don’t. Waiting for the dawn. Does Joe Bunnett wear a signet-ring?’

  ‘No. Never seen him, at least. Have you, Sophie?’

  ‘No.’

  Herbert Cammison regarded Nigel impassively. He said:

  ‘Are you suspecting Joe of killing his brother, by any chance?’

  ‘Things don’t look too good for him.’

  Sophie gave a little gasp. ‘Nigel! you can’t—Joe isn’t—you wouldn’t think that if you knew him.’

  ‘But he’s on a cruise. How could he possibly——’

  ‘Unfortunately, Herbert, he doesn’t seem to be on this cruise. His boat has disappeared, anyway.’

  ‘But whatever reason would he have?’

  ‘You must keep this under your hat for the present, you two: the brewery was in danger of being closed down.’ Nigel told them about Eustace’s negotiations with Roxby’s. ‘So there it is. With his brother alive, Joe would have seen Bunnett’s closed down and all those chaps you admit he was found of and popular with thrown out of work. With Eustace dead, Joe would inherit the controlling interest, and be able to break off negotiations with Roxby’s, and modernise the brewery in the way you and he wanted to.’

  ‘Yes, there’s a lot in that, I suppose,’ said Cammison. ‘But honestly, though Joe is a very good chap and all that, I can’t somehow see him committing murder for such an altruistic motive. He’s too fond of comfort and bonhomie to be one of those it-is-meet-that-one-man-die-for-the-people fanatics.’

  ‘Agreed. But supposing he had a strong personal motive for getting rid of his brother? You say Eustace always had Joe under his thumb—and obviously Eustace’s thumb was a pretty galling one to be under. Well, when the Roxby’s affair happens along, that provides Joe with a rationalisation of his own personal motive and a justification for acting on it.’

  ‘Possibly. Joe was certainly thwarted and repressed by his brother all along the line. The Roxby’s affair might have turned on the extra bit of heat that made him boil over. But, mind you, Eustace didn’t have it all his own way. Joe hadn’t the guts to stand up to him openly, I admit: but he got a good deal past him in more devious ways. Eustace could be managed up to a point, if you took the line of least resistance with him: kow-tow to him a bit, give him the feeling that you thought him the Lord’s anointed, never oppose him openly—and while he was lapping up that kind of flattery, the mice could play: up to a point, as I say. Joe knew that all right.’

  Sophie looked bewildered and indignant. ‘Herbert, how can you? It’s different for Nigel: he doesn’t know Joe like we do. But talking about him as though he was one of your patients’ insides or something—it’s so heartless. Why, think of all the times he’s sat where Nigel is sitting now, enjoying himself; and those comic little men he makes out of fruit and matchsticks, and pretending his teeth had fallen into the soup. It’s——’

  ‘Diagnosis must precede a cure,’ said Herbert rather stiffly. ‘We’re not going to help Joe by pretending he’s someone quite different from what he really is.’ …

  When Nigel got to the police station he found the inspector engrossed over a microscope.

  ‘Here, sir, take a look. What do you make of this?’

  The fragment of seal from the ring was lying on the slide. Nigel looked long and hard.

  ‘Seems like an animal’s bim, with tail attached. What are those vertical lines on either side? A tropical rainstorm?’

  ‘Might be the stems of flowers, or corn, or something.’

  ‘M’m. Gryphon couchant on field of blé. Or perhaps it’s a dog. Too many dogs in this case. Well, that ought to be some help. By the way, the Cammisons say they’ve never seen Joe Bunnett wearing a signet-ring.’

  ‘They’re friends of his, though.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s obvious.’

  ‘H’m. “Foxey—our revered father, gentlemen.”’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Nothing. A Fragrant Moment from Charles Dickens. Have you bent your mind to the great problem that I proposed you?’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Why did our murderer alter his plans? Obviously he had everything rigged up to make it look like an accident. He had tampered with that emergency bell. Bunnett was to have been induced to enter the refrigerator-room and then the door would have been shut on him. He could have banged away and yelled himself hoarse, but the watchman wouldn’t have heard: the room is sound-proof; that’s why the bell was installed. Bunnett would have been frozen to a chip by next morning; hadn’t the stamina to keep moving all night, like the last bloke who got shut in. Anonymous note found later, to explain his presence in the brewery; or maybe destroyed—yes, it’d have been safer for the murderer to have destroyed the note; Bunnett was always snooping around the brewery, after all. Emergency bell found broken down. It would have been almost impossible to prove it hadn’t been an accident. So why, when he had a ripping little scheme like that all taped out, did he put Bunnett on to boil instead.’

  ‘That’s easy, sir. The reason must have been that he failed to get his victim into the refrigerator-room without a struggle. Bunnett may have pulled the murderer in with him: or he may have opened his mouth to yell and the murderer decided to drag him inside before the watchman heard. Anyway, there was a struggle and the murderer knocked Bunnett out in some way that left a mark on him. That ruined his idea of making the whole thing look like an accident. What’s more, I still believe that something was done to Bunnett then that would have given away the identity of the murderer, and that’s why the body was put into the copper.’

  ‘Yes, that all seems plausible enough. Though, mind you, marks found on Bunnett’s body could easily have been attributed to his beating himself in frenzy against the locked door of the refrigerator-room. Still, the murderer might quite likely overlook that, being all of a dither with his original plan going wrong. But what could be these tell-tale marks on Bunnett?’

  ‘Well, sir, the murderer might’ve brought some acid, vitriol say, to throw at Bunnett, supposing his plan went wrong. What sort of person would that suggest?’

  ‘A woman, I suppose.’

  ‘Or a doctor?’ asked Tyler, a sly and dangerous look in his eyes.

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘Well, then, there might have been marks of acid-burning on Bunnett’s face. Or supposing the murderer was left-handed. Medical evidence can generally show when a blow has been struck by a left-handed person. That’d be a give-away all right, eh?’

  ‘Ingenious. Um. I prefer the left-handed idea. Vitriol’s a bit too melodramatic. Are any of our troops left-handed?’

  ‘Afraid I haven’t noticed, sir. The idea only came to me today. We’ll find out soon enough, though.’

  ‘Well, I’m going along to see Miss Mellors, I think. Get some more dope on Joe Bunnett. Have you any affectionate messages for her?’

  ‘You can ask her what she was doing that afternoon the anonymous letter was posted, and what the devil she means by refusing to give Tollworthy the information.’

  ‘OK. I’ll turn on the heat. What’s her number? I’d better ring
up and see if she’s in.’

  Nigel put through the call and was informed by a maid that Miss Mellors was expected back to tea at four o’clock. He filled in the time walking about the town, drinking in the sunlight and the fragrance of limes and wallflowers. As the Priory clock boomed the hour, Nigel was strolling up Acacia Road, looking for Le Nid, as Miss Mellors’ house was rather unsuitably named. Ah, there it was. And two doors away stood a neat stone house, the ground-floor shutters closed and the blinds drawn upstairs, presumably Joe Bunnett’s. On an impulse, Nigel walked up its stone-flagged path round to the back, and peeked in through the kitchen window. Everything looked tidy, spick-and-span, and deserted.

  He turned away and entered the gate of Le Nid. There was a witch-ball hanging outside its front door, and on the lintel a rune of welcome done in poker-work and rather indifferent verse. This prepared Nigel for the array of arts and crafts that awaited him within: the drawing-room was full of papier-mâché articles, amateur leatherwork, insipid statuettes, home-made mats and the like. A reproduction of a Van Gogh flower-painting was the most daring exhibit on view. Apart from this, there was nothing but objects of far too easy virtue. Oh, no; Nigel perceived a small table tucked away behind a screen at the other side of the room, with a few pieces of silver standing upon it. He walked over. Very nice too: heirlooms, presumably: two snuff-boxes, a crucifix, a coffee-pot, a card-case and one of those miniature ivory hands on long, slim handles employed by elegant eighteenth-century ladies when they wished to delouse themselves in public. Nigel was never backward about prying into other people’s possessions. He took up a snuff-box and clicked it open: then he fiddled with the lid of the coffee-pot; then he suddenly picked up the snuff-box again and peered at it closely. Stamped on it there was a crest—a dog of dubious ancestry and truculent appearance sitting in a field of corn, with the legend beneath—Semper Fidelis. Nigel bent over quickly, and saw the same crest engraved on the coffee-pot and the card-case. Quite absent-mindedly, he slipped the snuff-box into his pocket: and at that moment the voice of Miss Mellors boomed behind him, ‘Do you make a habit of pocketing the silver, young man?’

  Nigel was covered with confusion.

  ‘R-really,’ he stammered, ‘I’m t-terribly sorry. No, I don’t. I was just thinking of something else at the moment, and it sort of——’

  ‘Conveyed itself into your pocket. I know. And what is this something else you were thinking of?’

  ‘Well,’ thought Nigel, ‘two can play at shock tactics.’ He said:

  ‘I was just wondering whether you have a signet-ring with the same crest on it.’

  Now it was Miss Mellors’ turn to be confounded; and confounded she certainly was. A painful blush spread over her face and neck; her heavy features seemed to dissolve and set again in a queerly lopsided expression.

  ‘A ring? No, I haven’t. I mean, I had; but I gave it away. Quite a long time ago.’

  Nigel was almost as much taken aback by the success of his question as Miss Mellors had been by the question itself. However, drawing a bow at a venture, he asaid:

  ‘To Joe Bunnett, you mean?’

  ‘Joe—yes—how did you know that? He promised never to——’ She broke off, eyeing Nigel suspiciously.

  ‘Never to wear it in public?’ he asked.

  She nodded silently. Nigel felt a bit ashamed of himself; a bit embarrassed, too, by the utter self-betrayal of her expression when Joe’s name was mentioned. Miss Mellors took a grip on herself and said, with something of her old, hearty manner:

  ‘You’re a very inquisitive young man, you know. Steal my silver first and then start worming secrets out of me. Are you collecting material for a novel?’

  ‘God forbid!’ exclaimed Nigel fervently. ‘I may be a thief, but at least I’m not a novelist.’

  Miss Mellors grinned at him, and gave a sharp bark of laughter.

  ‘Well, that’s something to be thankful for. All filth and fornication. However, I don’t suppose you’ve come here to discuss the modern novel. What do you want to know? And what’s all this about my—Mr Bunnett’s ring? Has it been found somewhere?’

  ‘Well, yes and no. In a sense—er—that is.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks! The ring has been found or it hasn’t. Make up your mind, young man.’

  ‘No, really. I mean, a piece of it has been found—a piece of the seal.’

  Nigel tried to keep his tones smooth and ingenuous; but Miss Mellors was not buying it. Her face took on that lopsided appearance again. She asked sharply:

  ‘Found? Where?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, yet. I should be very grateful, though, if you would tell me more about the ring—and about Joe Bunnett. It’s impertinent of me, I know, but——’

  ‘You mean Joe Bunnett is suspected of murdering his brother, and the police want you to do their dirty work for them?’

  ‘Joe is only one of several suspects. You yourself are another——’

  ‘Me? Oh, really, Mr Strangeways——’

  ‘And as for “dirty work”, you’d probably find that the inspector was a very much better hand at it than myself.’

  ‘All right, young man, don’t lose your wool. If you’re afraid of a little plain speaking, you’ve come to the wrong shop.’

  ‘I’d welcome a little plain speaking. That’s why I’m asking you about Joe Bunnett.’

  ‘Good. Now we know where we stand. But let me tell you, if you’ve got it into your head that Joe killed that unspeakable little swine of a brother of his—though God knows Eustace richly deserved it—you’re making the biggest mistake of your young life.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so. Well, now, you were going to tell me–—’

  ‘When Joe came back from the war, he and I struck up a friendship. We became attached to one another. I had looks in those days—yes, yes, yes, there’s no need for you to be polite, I know I’m a battered old war-horse now, though I am on the right side of fifty still. An attachment, yes. No sentimental rubbish——’ Miss Mellors glared truculently at Nigel—‘I never thought Joe was a Greek god or a pantechnicon of all the virtues and I never shall; but we got on all right, and after a bit I popped the question—or he did—I’ve forgotten which, and we decided to get spliced up. But I made one condition. Joe had got to cut adrift from that blasted brewery. I’m no more bigoted than the next man, but my father drank himself to death and I had to nurse him during the last stages—and if you’ve ever seen the sodden, snivelling, maudlin wreck that drink can make out of a good man, you’d understand well enough why I wouldn’t marry Joe as long as he had anything to do with the liquor trade. Well, Joe started to argue; but I soon shut him up—he’d got to take it or leave it. In the end, he decided to leave it—the brewery, I mean. But he’d reckoned without that ruffian, Eustace. God knows what hold Eustace had over him? Joe always had been under his thumb, but I thought he’d have the guts to break away for my sake. Well, he hadn’t. So that was that. I’ll never forget that afternoon Joe came to me and said he couldn’t do it; white and trembling, and darned ashamed of himself—as well he might be. How I came to fall in l——, to get fond of a weak-willed little whippersnapper like him, the Creator alone knows. But there it is. Well, I’d given Joe that ring of mine, and when he begged me to let him keep it still—I suppose I was a bit sentimental in those days—I hadn’t the heart to take it back. But I wasn’t going to have him wearing it in public, and I told him so; there are limits beyond which I won’t go as laughing-stock of Maiden Astbury, and that was one of them. Of course, Joe said we’d only got to wait and everything would come out all right. A touch of Mr Micawber, Joe’s always had. I knew better. We’ve remained the best of friends; but I reconciled myself to dying an old maid, however much poor Joe might blather about silver linings and Came the Dawn. I suppose you’re wondering why I tell you all this? Girlish confidences of a decayed gentlewoman, hey?’

  ‘Well, I——’

  ‘You’ve a sympathetic face, young man, even
though you are no Clark Gable. But it’s not that—don’t flatter yourself. I suppose you’ve found Joe’s ring, or whatever it is, on the scene of the crime. Believe me, you’re chasing the wrong hare, If Joe was going to murder that brother of his, he’d have done it when Eustace first came between us. He wouldn’t wait the best part of fifteen years to do it. Stands to reason, doesn’t it? If he hadn’t the sense to cut that little rotter’s throat fifteen years ago, he’d certainly not do it last week. I might have been worth doing murder for in those days, but I’m no prize now and I know it. Why doesn’t that blasted girl bring in the tea?’

  Miss Mellors rang the bell-cord violently. It was an outlet for her emotion and gave her an opportunity to turn away and hide it. When the maid had gone out again, Nigel said:

  ‘Thank you for telling me all this. I agree with what you say: but unfortunately Joe seems to have had other possible motives besides that.’

  Miss Mellors broke a shortbread biscuit with unnatural deliberation.

  ‘Other motives? I don’t believe it. What are they?’

  ‘Well, he inherits his brother’s share of the business.’

  ‘Yes…. Yes, I suppose he does. I hadn’t thought of that. But, damn it, Mr Strangeways, Joe has his faults, but he’d not commit murder for gain.’

  ‘N-no. I dare say he wouldn’t.’ Nigel did not feel justified in telling Miss Mellors about Roxby’s. She must have sensed that he was keeping something back, for she said:

  ‘What’s on your mind, young man?’

  ‘I’m wondering,’ Nigel prevaricated, ‘whether it would help Joe at all if you gave me the information you refused to give Sergeant Tollworthy.’

  ‘Vacuum-cleaners,’ said Miss Mellors decisively, after a short pause.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘That’s what you ought to be doing. Selling them. You’ve missed your vocation. Just the right combination of plausibility, low cunning and ruthless sales-talk.’

  ‘And, like a vacuum-cleaner, I go around picking up the dirt?’

  ‘Why should it help Joe? Eustace wasn’t murdered that afternoon.’