Tip was driving the Rover. Almost as soon as they were clear of the narrow little road in which the Masters’ lived, the DCS began his briefing, and with a little help from Green, put the two sergeants fully in the picture.
“I can see what you are worried about, Chief,” said Berger, who had listened attentively to every word. “Whiffs of scandal and all that, but there are several things I think you ought to remember. Apart from the fact that there is no hint of corruption, that is.”
“Let’s have it then, lad,” grunted Green, who, though never happy when travelling in a motor car, nevertheless found this pleasant Sunday morning run on roads free of lorries less unsettling than usual.
“First, as the Chief said, we don’t know that we have a crime on our hands. Second, as far as we know there is no known criminal involved or even anybody in whom the Yard is or has been interested. Third, the Chief has completed no deal over this new house, and is unlikely to before anything that is going to break does so. Fourth, and I think this is as important as any of the others, the Chief has told us three about his negotiations. How can you be accused of corruption if you have given every last detail of your business to three police officers of the rank and standing of Scotland Yard detectives? We don’t benefit in any way, so we can’t be said to be a party to any jiggery pokery. That means nobody, not even the AC (Crime), can accuse the Chief of … well, whatever it is you two think he might try to clobber him for.”
“Good arguments, all of them, lad,” said Green. “In return for that compliment you can give me one of your fags.” As Berger turned to offer the packet, Green continued: “I particularly like that bit about giving every detail of the transaction to three people of CID rank and standing. It sounded good.”
“Because it was right,” said Tip.
“You keep your attention on the road, lass, and keep your piping treble for more pertinent remarks than that,” retorted Green.
“Very good, sir,” replied Tip, sweetly, staring straight ahead. “As my small pipe best fits my little note, perhaps I shouldn’t say what I have in mind.”
“Now what are you on about?” demanded Berger.
“I was merely going to remark that the Chief should let me do the report today. If I were to type it all out and date it with today’s date and sign it and put it in the file there would be proof that our concern was recognised and discussed before anything untoward could happen.”
“Better still,” said Green, “date it as of last Friday, which was when His Nibs first broached the subject, and I’ll sign it as my report for the file.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And cut out all that sort of rubbish,” growled Green, “or I’ll prove the point that a little WPS best fits a little shrine.”
“Chief,” wailed Berger, “what are these two on about?”
“Surely you know,” replied Masters. “A little meat best fits a little belly.”
“I didn’t,” confessed Berger, “but one thing I am sure of, and that is that what you’ve just said doesn’t apply to the DCI.”
“How come, lad?”
“With your appetite it would have to be a gargantuan meal.”
“For that, son, you can buy me my first drink.”
“We’re going on a picnic, remember, not a pub crawl.”
Masters intervened. “Keep a sharp lookout along here, Tip. The road winds and I think my wife will be pulling up any time now.”
“Nearly there, are we?” asked Green.
“Very close. What do you think of the area?”
“Couldn’t be beaten anywhere,” said Green, “though, come to think of it, you could say that about so many places in this country that you’re spoilt for choice when you try to select a lovely spot to live.”
“The Jag’s pulling in a couple of hundred yards ahead,” said Berger quietly to Tip.
“The gate to Housmans,” said Wanda as the Rover drew in and they all descended. “There’s the house, William. What do you think of it?”
“At first glance,” said Green with a grin, “I’d say it had a funny-shaped roof.”
Wanda turned to her husband. “Darling? What do you think of it? This is your first sight.”
Masters smiled. “I’m delighted. Can we go in?”
“Of course. Into the garden only at the moment, because I have to fetch the key from Margot. You can run your car in and look round the outside for a while. I shall only be gone about twenty minutes.”
As Wanda was about to drive off, Masters said to her: “Would you ask Hugh and Margot if I could have a word with them after lunch?”
“When we take the key back?”
“That would suit me very well.”
“You want to talk about buying the house?”
“If we decide on it definitely, yes. But just mention that I have some other business in mind, too.”
“What about?”
“Sorry, I was forgetting I hadn’t told you. The powers-that-be are a little worried about where Carla Sanders picked up the bug that killed her. We’ve been asked to help trace the source. As she was at Hugh’s party on the Saturday before she died I want to ask if she went frolicking in any barns or hayricks.”
“That’s highly likely, I’d have said. Right, darling. There’s coffee in the Thermos flasks. Help yourselves.”
“Thank you.”
Green, waiting a few paces away during this conversation, came up to Masters as the Jag drew away. “My missus is in raptures, George. Asking all manner of questions about the house. I know nothing about them, so can you enlighten her?”
Masters smiled. “As you might guess, Bill, as soon as the idea that we might move to Housmans was mooted, Wanda went out to the library and she even bought a book on oast-houses. I’ve been through it, so I know just about enough to give you an idiot’s guide.”
“Salient points only?”
“Some of them, at least. I’ll spout while we have coffee, if you like.”
The car had been drawn into the drive and they were all congregated about it as Doris and Tip prepared the coffee and a beaker of diluted orange juice for Michael.
“Just one technical word before we go any further,” started Masters, as he accepted his coffee. “Plenum. The heart of an oast-house is the plenum chamber.”
“Plenum?” queried Tip. “Something to do with full, Chief?”
“Derived from that. I had to look it up myself. A plenum chamber in this sense is actually a cavity or roomfull of matter or material through which air can be forced.”
“Ah!” said Berger. “Hot air through piles of hops to dry them out.”
“In a nutshell, yes. That is the only raison d’être of an oast-house.”
“Three-storied buildings just for that?” asked Doris. “Surely there was more to it than that.”
“A little, but not much. Most people, I suppose, imagine oast-houses with roundels, that is, the round tower at one end with the conical roof and a cowl on top.”
“I must say that is what I was expecting to see, George. But you’ve got a square one,” said Doris.
“I know. It seems a pity in some respects, because the round kilns look so very picturesque, but Wanda tells me that as an oast-householder I should be pleased because the rectangular ones are stronger. They have quoins at the corners for strength whereas you can’t have strengthened corners in a circle.”
“Good thinking,” grunted Green.
“Anyhow,” continued Masters, “on the ground floor of the kiln were the hearths for the fires. Literally, just hearths with all manner of simple brick constructions above them, perforated at the top to direct the hot air upwards into the plenum chamber. It was kept in there by walls sloping from the top of the kilns out to the side wall. So they got an enormous funnel of hot air, and across the top of it they had the floor of the drying chamber, only it wasn’t a true floor. Just well-spaced slats to let the air through. On these slats they used to lay a covering like a blanket—an open-w
eave cloth, at any rate—and onto this cloth they tumbled a good thick layer of fresh hops for drying. The hot air rose through the hops and carried the moisture off up the conical roof and out through the cowl.”
“The cowl moved, I suppose?”
“Yes. About a third of it was open to allow the reek to escape.”
“It was a nasty smell, was it?” asked Doris.
“I’ll bet,” said her husband. “If you’ve ever been near a genuine brewery, like they used to be in the old days, the pong of hops was pretty foul at that stage in the process when they were doing whatever it is they did with hops.”
“Reek is the proper term,” said Masters. “I suppose it started as the name for the smell of drying hops and then passed into the language to describe any similar odour. I know Wanda says my jackets reek of smoke.” He set down his cup on the grass. “The cowl was on a long central spindle and could be turned by hand until the opening was downwind so that the fumes weren’t driven back in. But the later ones had flyboards—like weather vanes—that automatically kept the cowl opening away from the wind.”
“That thing with the cut-out of a horse on it up there?” asked Doris, pointing upwards.
“That’s right. The Horse of Kent.”
“I’d like a round one,” said Michael, handing his drinking mug back to Doris. “Thank you. No more,” he said.
“A round what, darling?”
“House with a horse on top.”
“Sorry, old son,” said his father. “If we have this house we’ll have to have the square tower.”
“Why?”
“Because that is how it is built.”
“Oh! I saw a round one in the motor car.”
“Yes. You passed lots like that on the way here.”
“Why can’t we have one of those?”
“Because other people are living in them.”
Michael seemed to accept this and turned to Green. “Mr. William,” he said, “do you like round ones?”
“I do, son, but you can’t always have the one you like best.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Green, breaking into a ditty with a reasonably well known tune, and thus recognisable even when he was singing it:
“There’s round ’uns and square ’uns,
There’s square ’uns and round ’uns,
But you can’t put your muck in our dust tin,
Our dust tins’s full.”
“Bill,” exclaimed Doris, scandalised. “The things you teach that child. You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m horrified.”
“Besides,” said Berger, trying to keep the mirth out of his voice, “why teach the boy that rubbish is put in tins when everybody knows it’s bins.”
“Not in this case,” replied Green airily. “Have you ever seen a square dustbin?”
“No, but … ”
“There you are, then. One has to be strictly accurate and factual with the young.”
“Exactly,” said Masters drily, looking towards the gate as he did so. “Ah, here’s Wanda with the key.”
“Now the dog will be able to see the rabbit,” said Green, heaving himself to his feet.
“Where is the rabbit, Mr. William?”
“Sorry, son, there isn’t one. I was just hoping there was. It looks like rabbity country, you see. The sort where they like to live and … ”
“Hush,” said Tip, urgently, and took Michael by the arm. “Across there, look. On that sort of little grass path.” She pointed his arm in the right direction.
“I’ll be damned,” said Green quietly.
The rabbit lolloped unconcernedly away.
“There was a rabbit, Mr. William,” said Michael accusingly.
“Come along, everybody,” said Wanda, handing a bunch of keys to Masters. “Opening-up time.”
The door was of heavy vertical planks, painted white, with large wrought-iron T-hinges, the curlicues of which reached almost across its width.
“This leads into the barn part,” said Tip.
“We can see that, love. The whole place is like a barn shoved end on to a church tower with a comic roof. I wonder if they’ve got any bells in there.”
“Barn?” demanded his wife. “Church tower?”
“Well, you must admit, love, those windows look a bit ecclesiastical.”
“They are lovely,” said Doris, “with stone surrounds and shutters everywhere.”
“Bogus,” snorted Green, “else why aren’t they closed over the glass?”
Wanda, who had led the way in, turned to speak to them all. “I’m not going to give you a lecture, but this hall was originally part of the stowage space for the big bags of dried and pressed hops. To the left is the kiln room. The hearths have been removed, of course, but the floor is still of brick. That will be our sitting room. To your right is the space where the great hop press operated. That will be the dining room. That’s basically all the ground floor except for kitchen and pantry and things like that behind here.”
“She means loos,” whispered Green to his wife.
Wanda continued, “When you go up the stairs at the back of the hall you’ll see there is a funny sort of arrangement of floors and doors. That’s because the barn side of the house has three floors, where the kiln has only two, though the latter is the higher. So, on your right, and first, you will find two bedrooms and a bathroom built in what was once the area for cooling the dried hops and the top of the great press. To your left and half a floor up, as it were, is another bedroom which occupies what was the drying floor. There’s been a ceiling put in there halfway up the cone. Then, another half floor up on the barn side you will find three smaller bedrooms, and they are in the space where the green hops were taken in by the hoist you’ll still see sticking out above the window—which used to be a loading door—at that end.” She looked round. “That’s everything I think I need to say for you to understand the layout.”
“Thanks, love,” said Green. “I think we’ve got the picture.”
“I don’t think I have,” wailed Doris.
“I’ll draw it for you,” said her husband. “Have you got an old envelope in your bag?”
As the others went off to explore, Green drew a rough outline sketch for his wife. “It’s a simple, early production line, love. Henry Ford didn’t invent it. Blokes who worked in places like this did. Look. The bags of newly picked hops were brought by horse and cart to the end of the barn where the gantry is. They were hauled up onto the top floor and pulled towards the kiln. There they were tumbled through the top door onto the blanket they were to be dried on. The fires were lit down below. The hops dried out. The blanket they were on was rolled up and pulled out by the lower door onto the middle floor to cool. From that heap, on the same floor, they were put into the press shaft which ran down to the bottom floor where more big bags were hooked on. The cool hops were pressed into the bag which was waiting for them. When full, the bags were stored just about here where we’re standing. Got it?”
“I think so.”
“You will as we go round. Keep the drawing and I’ll explain each bit.”
“It’s in tidy nick, George,” said Green as they sat down to the picnic lunch. “Inside walling good, floors sound, windows not rotted or anything like that.”
“I thought the stairs weren’t very straightforward,” said Doris. “Not for Michael. All little turns and half steps.”
“Not half steps, love. Half risers.”
“Well, yes, but you know what I mean. They’re not regular.”
“That’s part of the charm,” said Wanda.
“Oh, I know that, and I think it’s lovely. I was just thinking of the little ones.”
“I think a judicious use of stairway gates will cut out any danger on that score,” said Masters.
“Didn’t you tell us the ground floor room in the kiln was brick, Chief?” asked Tip.
“So I did. I thought it was. Now Wanda tells me the brick floor is still there,
covered by about an inch of pitch and then floored on top of that, so it should be dry and warm.”
“Especially with that nice big fireplace they’ve put in. And I like the way the chimney has been hidden. And the ceiling in … ”
The conversation went on and on until finally Masters said: “It’s time we went to see Carlyle.”
“All four of us, Chief?”
“Yes, please. I don’t want to make too big a thing of this officially, but equally I don’t want to give the impression that I’m only there for a cosy little chat and don’t mean business.”
“Understood, Chief,” said Berger. “We wear our helmets but leave our truncheons behind.”
“Quite.”
As they got into the Yard car, Wanda said, “We others will see you in about an hour. I’ll bring the key back then.”
“Fair enough, sweetheart.”
“Then we can all drive home and have tea together. I’ve made one of my special Chantilly cakes for William.”
“Not one with all green and red bits in and bags of nuts?” asked Green.
“Yes.”
“Let’s get this interview over, George. My mouth’s already watering.”
“Pig,” said his wife.
“And herringbone noggins to you, too.”
“What did he mean by that?” demanded Doris as the car drew away.
“Noggins are the areas of brickwork between the oak posts in the building. Perhaps you noticed they were laid in a herringbone fashion,” explained Wanda.
“Hugh, let me introduce my immediate colleagues. DCI Bill Green and Detective Sergeants Berger and Irene Tippen.”
“How d’you do,” said Carlyle. “As you can see, it’s a bit difficult for me to rise to meet you.” He turned to the girl who had shown the quartet into the sitting room. “Thank you, Freda. Would you tell Mrs. Carlyle we’d like tea for five in about an hour?”
“Yes, sir. She’s out working in the garden.”
“Splendid.” As the girl left, Carlyle waved them to seats. “Now, George, what’s all this about? I understand it is sort of semiofficial.”
“I’d like you to regard it that way, Hugh, but the investigation we are on is totally official.”
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