The Devil's Brew

by Jack Treby

  This question was aimed squarely at me. I blanched in surprise. ‘It was...er...very pleasant.’

  Weiman had a mischievous gleam in his eye. ‘You are not a coffee drinker, Mr Buxton?’ George Talbot must have told him what I had said about the stuff at breakfast and the German, it appeared, was not above a little teasing.

  ‘Er...no, not really,’ I admitted, with some embarrassment. ‘But if I was, I’m sure this would be the first place I would come to for my supplies.’

  Weiman beamed. ‘A very diplomatic answer.’

  I laughed, despite myself. ‘I do my best.’

  Jane Talbot, the banker’s wife, was seated between me and the German. ‘It’s good to know standards are not slipping at the Foreign Office,’ she declared, with just a twinge of humour. ‘One always hopes for decent representation in the far corners of the world.’

  ‘Well, quite,’ I said. ‘And, of course, if you ever need your passport stamped...’

  Anita Montana, the Italian woman, was gazing at me across the table. ‘I would love to visit England,’ she declared dreamily. ‘The spires of Oxford. The green and pleasant land.’ Her eyes twinkled seductively.

  ‘Yes, it’s...very pretty,’ I agreed. ‘Can be rather chilly though. Not what you’re used to, I expect. Nothing approaching a Mediterranean climate.’

  ‘I’m sure it must be beautiful in summer though,’ she said. Her mouth creased into a wide smile. She was rather a striking woman, Mrs Montana; still handsome in her late thirties with thick auburn hair and a pleasingly full figure.

  ‘Whereabouts in Italy are you from?’ I asked her.

  ‘I was born in Naples. But my parents moved to South Carolina when I was a little girl. And that was where I met Arthur. Isn’t that right, honey?’

  The American beamed contentedly. ‘It sure is. It was love at first sight.’

  ‘Have you ever been back? To Italy?’

  ‘No, I never have. I would like to, though. I hear it’s beautiful at this time of year.’

  ‘What about you, Mrs Talbot?’ I turned to face the Englishwoman. ‘Any regrets leaving the old country behind?’

  ‘One or two, perhaps,’ she admitted.

  ‘I do miss the old place some times,’ George Talbot said. ‘The drizzle and the snow. It must be, what, six, seven years since we left?’

  ‘Something like that,’ his wife agreed, her nostrils flaring. ‘We do pop back occasionally. The last time was for Julie’s wedding, do you remember, George?’

  ‘Yes,’ he recalled sourly. ‘It rained the whole time.’

  I chuckled. ‘Probably better as a fond memory than a holiday destination.’

  ‘How long is it since you left Britain?’ Mrs Talbot asked me.

  ‘Coming up to two years. I spent a little time in Gibraltar, then arrived here at the beginning of May. I do still get the occasional twinge for the old place.’

  Mr Weiman was of a different opinion. ‘I am glad to be away from Germany. It has not been a happy place since the war.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ I agreed. ‘Things haven’t been going well.’ Germany had been particularly badly hit by the depression.

  Mrs Talbot did not want to get into a discussion of economics. ‘Mrs Montana, what do you think of the pâté?’ she asked.

  The younger woman gazed down happily at her plate. ‘It was divine.’

  ‘Coming from an Italian, that’s something of a compliment,’ Jane Talbot said.

  ‘Indeed,’ Weiman agreed. ‘Not local produce, I’m afraid. Steven brought the pâté back with him from Guatemala City. Greta gives him a list whenever he goes into town.’

  ‘You were in Guatemala City this week?’ I enquired of Mr Catesby. That was a surprise.

  ‘On Wednesday and Thursday,’ the German answered for him. ‘A business trip.’

  ‘It was nice to get away for a couple of days,’ the Englishman said.

  Good lord, I thought. Wednesday and Thursday. It had been in the early hours of Thursday morning that some bounder had broken into my flat. I put down my knife and bit my lower lip. I was beginning to think that Joseph Green might have been right about Steven Catesby after all.

  ‘It felt rather leathery,’ Frederick Reeves declared. ‘A really strong grip. It wasn’t about to fall off in a hurry.’

  I shuddered. ‘A tarantula?’

  ‘Hiding in a little rock. Gunther stuck a stick in there, the tarantula came out and he grabbed it from the top. It’s his party trick. I’ve seen him do it a couple of times.’

  ‘And you let him put it on your hand?’ I boggled.

  Freddie shrugged. ‘He said it was perfectly safe. Even if it stings you, it’s not likely to be fatal. A baby maybe or an elderly person. But not you or me. In any case...’ He grinned. ‘Emily was first in line and I could hardly say no after she’d done it, could I?’ That made sense, I thought, with a smile.

  Freddie and I were walking down from the hacienda to the village. It was a good hour’s trek but I had wanted to get the Second Secretary away from the house, so that we could have a proper talk, away from prying ears. There was a lot to discuss. Freddie had got me involved in all this, so the least he could do was listen as I babbled away, trying to make some sense of it.

  We passed the road builders shortly after leaving the estate. The overseer tipped his hat to us but his expression was not friendly. Joseph Green was toiling away once again alongside the other negroes. He was stripped to the waist now and I could see the marks on his back, which had already started to scab over. It didn’t seem right, sending him back to work so soon after that whipping this morning, even if it was only three lashes. But he was a strong fellow and doubtless he would cope. There were a couple of buckets of water at the side of the road that the labourers could use to refresh themselves and the canopy either side provided some protection from the mid afternoon sun.

  ‘Was that him?’ Freddie asked, jerking his thumb back to the work party once we were some way down the road. I nodded sadly. I had told Freddie about our clandestine meeting earlier in the day. ‘He must have a hell of a grudge against Steven, to risk getting flogged like that just to talk to you. How did he even know who you were?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I suppose somebody in the house must have overheard us talking last night. The maid, perhaps, or that house boy of theirs. You know how these things travel. Mind you, Green was quick off the mark, sending me that note.’

  ‘And he told you not to trust Steven?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  Freddie grimaced. ‘An odd thing to say,’ he thought.

  ‘Yes. And now I find out Mr Catesby was in Guatemala City last Wednesday, the night my flat was burgled.’ I scratched the side of my face. ‘You know, ridiculous as it may sound, I’m beginning to think he may have been the one who broke in.’

  ‘What, Steven?’ Freddie was sceptical. ‘I can’t picture him doing anything like that. I mean, the bloke’s not afraid to get his hands dirty, but coshing your valet...’

  ‘It does seem unlikely,’ I conceded. ‘But, all the same, he did look rather uncomfortable when Mr Weiman mentioned his trip to town. And we know Giles Markham was a house guest here, so there is definitely some connection between the two of them.’ I stopped for a moment. A stone had got into my shoe and I leaned a hand on a nearby telegraph pole so I could bend over and remove the offending item. ‘You must have seen them together,’ I said, looking up. ‘Did they get on?’

  ‘Yes, they were great pals. Always laughing and joking.’

  I put my shoe back on. ‘Catesby doesn’t seem much of a joker.’

  ‘No, not this weekend,’ Freddie admitted, as the two of us moved off together. ‘You’re right. He does seem a bit on edge. Not his usual self at all. But Giles, he was such a card.’ Freddie grinned. ‘He did make me laugh. Bit of a ladies man too. Always chatting up the girls in the typing pool. Mr Richards had to tell him off a few times about that.’ He chuckled. ‘He brought out the best
in people, did Giles. Liked a drink too.’

  ‘And he came here quite often, to the finca?’

  ‘Yes, he was good friends with Steven. He came down here much more than I did. Maybe once a month.’

  ‘And did you hear anything about Catesby and this black fellow? About him dying?’

  ‘No. Not a thing. It didn’t happen when I was here, that’s for sure.’

  I frowned. ‘But if one of the labourers had been beaten to death, then surely everyone would know about it?’

  ‘You’d think so,’ Freddie agreed.

  ‘Not least the head of the household.’

  ‘Gunther.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, he must have known about it. And he wouldn’t bury it under the carpet. I mean, these thing happen, but he’d have done right by the family. He’s good like that. He knows how important his workers are. Not like some people hereabouts.’

  I smiled quietly. ‘You like him? Mr Weiman?’

  ‘Gunther? Yes, he’s a good bloke. A gentle soul. Well, you’ve seen. Quiet but good-humoured. There aren’t many like him.’

  The village was a single large square surrounded by hills, with a white-washed church, several low buildings – also in white with green windows and doors – and a few narrow paths scattering off in various directions. It was a sleepy looking place, even on a Saturday afternoon. A couple of trees marked the centrepiece of the plaza and a handful of ragged children were playing a game of tag, making use of a dry stone fountain. A trio of elderly men were slumped outside one of the buildings to my left and two women were passing the time of day at the door of the village shop. A wizened old crone sat behind the grill, ready to dole out the necessary supplies.

  The new road did not pass directly through the village – it had more important places to go – but a short, knobbly path led up from it to the plaza. Freddie and I were gasping for breath as we arrived at the top. I was beginning to regret having suggested this walk. It had been bad enough on the way down, but the return journey would be murderous. To make matters worse, the sky had clouded over in the last twenty minutes and I had a horrible suspicion we would not be able to get back to the farm before the heavens opened.

  ‘Do they have a telephone anywhere here?’ I asked Freddie. In light of everything we had discussed, I had half a mind to phone my secretary, William Battersby. He knew more about the circumstances of Markham’s death than I did and it might be worthwhile to get him to rehash a few of the details.

  ‘In the post office, I think. It won’t be open now, though.’

  ‘Pity,’ I said. ‘I’m parched. Is there anywhere we can get a drink?’

  Freddie’s face lit up. ‘Now you’re talking! There is one place.’ He gestured to the opposite side of the square. The word “BAR” was stencilled on a far wall, with a green arrow pointing around the corner.

  There were two customers inside and no-one at the counter. The bar was even deader than the square. It was a dark, dusty place with an unswept floor and heavily shuttered windows. Not the kind of establishment that ever saw much sunlight, I suspected. A lizard flicked up an internal wall and out through a crack in the ceiling.

  Freddie banged amiably on the counter and a figure emerged from a small back room. ‘Alberto! Long time no see.’

  The barman’s face lit up. ‘Señor Reeves. Welcome!’ He raised a hand in greeting. Alberto was a lively bald man with heavy spectacles and a wide smile. ‘It is good to see you!’ he said. He wore a checked shirt and a set of bright red braces. A couple of drinks were poured out for us and Alberto dusted down a table near the window, pulling back the shutters to allow in some light.

  ‘Alberto’s lived here all his life,’ Freddie explained. Poor fellow, I thought. But the man himself was grinning animatedly. ‘His son’s a book-keeper. Works at the finca. I’ll have to point him out to you. Pull up a chair, Alberto. Come and join us.’

  The barman hesitated, his eyes flicking briefly to me.

  ‘It’s all right. He doesn’t mind, do you, Henry?’

  ‘Er...no. No, of course not.’ Why wouldn’t I want to have a drink with some random fellow in a bar?

  The man got himself a beer and seated himself opposite us. We exchanged a few pleasantries. I was identified as a work colleague of Freddie’s, which was true enough. Finally, the Englishman leaned forward and got to the point. ‘We wanted to ask you something.’

  ‘Si, si, if I can help.’ Alberto was eager to please.

  ‘What do you know about a man named Matthew Green?’

  The barman considered for a moment. ‘He was a labourer at the finca. A resident. He is dead now.’

  ‘What do you know about his death?’

  ‘Only what I’ve heard, señor.’ The man leaned in. I had the distinct impression that Alberto was the village gossip. Doubtless everyone passed through his bar at one time or another. ‘He was caught stealing, in the house.’

  ‘Stealing?’ Green hadn’t mentioned that. But then, our conversation had been cut short rather.

  ‘Si, si. It was a Sunday afternoon, when everyone was at church. Señor Catesby – the farm manager – he found Señor Green in one of the bedrooms. He dragged him out and beat him. But Señor Green fell down the stairs and broke his neck. That was the official story, anyway.’

  ‘And unofficially?’ I asked.

  Alberto took a swig of beer from his bottle and raised a finger. ‘Well, señor.’ He grinned. ‘You did not hear this from me. I only tell you because you are a good friend.’ He beamed at Freddie. ‘The rumour was – according to my son – that Señor Green was found sharing a bed with a white man. One of the guests.’

  ‘Good lord,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Si, si.’ Alberto affirmed. ‘That was why Señor Catesby lost his temper. It was a very shameful thing to happen, in his own home. Two men together like that.’

  I scoffed. ‘What, so he beat him to death?’

  ‘Si. I am afraid so, Señor.’

  ‘And the white man? Do you know who that was?’

  ‘I do not know. He was an Englishman, I think. But the whole thing was...’ The barman searched for the right phrase.

  ‘Hushed up?’ I prompted.

  ‘Si, si. Señor Weiman and his wife were not at home that weekend. They were visiting friends. Señor Catesby told them about the theft when they returned to the estate. But that was just a story.’

  ‘I see.’

  The door to the bar swung open and another customer walked in behind us. Alberto rose to his feet, all smiles again. ‘Miguel! Buenas tardes! You will have to excuse me.’ He hurried off to grab a beer for the new arrival, a tattered looking farm hand who looked as if he needed a bath more than any refreshment.

  Freddie and I remained at our own little table, digesting what Alberto had told us. ‘Lord,’ I said. ‘That wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. Was it Giles Markham, do you think? The Englishman?’

  ‘It would have to be, if Gunther was away that weekend. But I can’t believe...’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘A sodomite! Giles? It can’t be true.’

  ‘Would it really be so surprising?’

  Freddie took a swig of beer. ‘You never met him. He was such a lively bloke. The girls were all over him. I wouldn’t have thought for a minute...’ He put down his glass and shook his head again.

  ‘It takes all sorts to make a world, Freddie.’

  ‘I know. But sleeping with another man.’ Freddie shuddered. ‘And a coloured bloke too...’

  I lifted a finger. ‘What people get up to behind closed doors is their own affair,’ I said. I have never really understood why people take such exception to the notion of two men sharing a bed. I have met my fair share of sodomites over the years and, on the whole, they have been a fairly decent bunch. ‘But I agree, it was a devil of a risk to take.’ I lifted my glass and took a thoughtful sip. ‘Markham was a fool, bringing him into the house like that. He should have found somewhere private, where no-one was likely to stumble across them.’


  Freddie downed the last of his beer. ‘Yes, that’s a lesson I learnt this morning.’ He grinned, recalling the incident with Miss Bunting.

  ‘You weren’t trying hard enough. But it’s the timing I don’t understand.’ I took another swig from my glass. ‘Markham came down here the weekend before he died. That can’t have been the weekend he was discovered in bed with this labourer.’

  ‘No,’ Freddie agreed. ‘I was there that weekend. And so was Susan and Gunther. But I think Giles came up here a couple of times in March. It must have been the time before.’

  ‘But that still doesn’t make sense. If he’d been found in bed with another man, in the house, why on earth would they have invited him back? They’d have cut him dead, surely? If Catesby was so upset at the idea of two men sleeping together, there’s no way Markham would have been allowed back in the house. And if your Mr Weiman found out about it...’

  ‘He must have known,’ Freddie said, glancing across the bar. ‘Believe me, if Alberto knows then everyone knows.’ Perhaps that was why the other labourers had not complained. There was no reason to suppose the workforce at the farm were any more broad minded than the owners. ‘But I suppose it might have been a while before the whole story came out. Maybe when Giles killed himself?’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain why he was invited back,’ I said. ‘Unless Catesby was blackmailing him. “I know what you did, give me some money.” That sort of thing.’

  ‘Could be,’ Freddie thought. ‘But then, it was Steven who clobbered Matthew Green, not Giles.’

  I sat back on my stool and sighed. ‘Well, anyway. Whatever the truth, it looks like none of this has anything to do with us. No government secrets gone astray. No foreign agents. No diplomatic faux pas. Not even gambling debts. Just a sad man caught with his pants down, suffering the consequences.’

  Freddie shook his head again. ‘A black man though.’

  ‘We all have our weaknesses, Freddie. Don’t think too harshly of him. You know, I think it might be better for all concerned if we just forget all about this.’