The Devil's Brew

by Jack Treby

  She wiped her eyes again. ‘Just a bit over-wrought, thank you, Joseph. It’s been a rather trying day.’

  ‘Maybe things will be better from now on,’ he suggested, hopefully.

  ‘I do hope so.’ Mrs Weiman was busily pulling herself together. ‘We’ll be sorry to see you go,’ she declared, with apparent sincerity.

  ‘Thank you Mrs Weiman. I am sorry to go. This has been my home. I have been very happy here.’

  ‘The place won’t be the same without you.’ She held out her hand and Green grabbed it eagerly. I bit my lip, ignoring the hypocrisy. ‘Thank you for all your hard work.’ She stepped aside, to allow the man to pass through the gate. ‘I wish you well in the future. You too, Henry. Thank you for...your consideration. Godspeed to you both.’ And with that, she made her way hurriedly across the garden towards the cottage.

  Green hovered at the gate, reluctant to make a final move.

  ‘We’d better get on,’ I told him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The officer at the checkpoint had a rifle slung casually over his shoulder. He was an odd looking cove, wide and muscular, with a three day stubble and enough creases in his shirt to keep an iron busy for the better part of a week. He looked down at the passport and then up at me suspiciously. It was not the first time I had fled the scene of a crime in somebody else’s clothing and I doubted it would be the last. I had covered the back of my head with a large bonnet, to disguise my short hair, but I was not sure if that would be enough. In the passport photograph, which Maurice had taken some weeks earlier, I had been wearing a wig.

  Joseph Green’s eyes were out on stalks the first time he caught sight of me in Miss Bunting’s floral dress. Despite the tension of the situation, his face had broken into a wide smile. ‘Mister,’ he grinned, taking in my secretary’s rather bright travel clothes, ‘do you think maybe I should wear the dress?’

  We had left the hacienda at eight thirty on Sunday evening. Maurice had proved surprisingly competent at the wheel of the motor-bicycle, in Gonzales’ borrowed goggles and helmet. Green had taken the back seat, while I was shoe-horned into the bullet shaped sidecar. Thankfully, my valet was a better driver than the engineer, but I had still been treated to an unwelcome reprise of my earlier bone-crunching descent as we made our way slowly down the mountainside.

  We by-passed the village and drove for some time before pulling up to change into our new clothes. Maurice had thought it better for us to be well clear of the estate before I struggled into Miss Bunting’s ill-fitting garments. I had wanted to stop off in the village first, to nobble the police van in the square, but my valet had talked me out of it. ‘If the general reaches the village,’ he suggested gravely, ‘he will have no need of a motor vehicle.’ That, sadly, was true enough. Tejada could knock up the postmaster at any hour and send a telegram ahead, warning the authorities of our escape. Fortunately, any such alert would be for three men rather than two men and a woman.

  Maurice had conferred with Ricardo Gonzales regarding the route we should take. The engineer had been disconcerted to discover that we would be borrowing his motor-bicycle for the journey, but I had promised him faithfully that we would find a way to return it. Gonzales could not provide us with anything like a map – the roads hereabouts were too new for that – but he did give us some comprehensive directions. There were so few proper roads anyway that we were unlikely to get lost. The big concern would be the check points between the hacienda and the port. At least three of them, Gonzales had reckoned, and every one a potential disaster.

  We dipped the bicycle into a small clearing away from the road and I broke out the sandwiches, anxious to keep Maurice’s strength up for the night ahead. Green was looking rather pensive, the enormity of what we were doing only now beginning to sink in. Events had overtaken him somewhat, the poor fellow.

  ‘I found out what happened to your brother,’ I told him, as we sat on the grass to eat. We had brought a lamp with us and placed it on the ground in the darkened forest. Thankfully, it was rather a warm night. The insects buzzed around us but they did not seem in the mood for biting. ‘It wasn’t Mr Catesby who killed him,’ I explained, opening up the pack of sandwiches. ‘It was Giles Markham.’ Green’s eyes widened in surprise. That was news to him. ‘They had some kind of argument that day, the day your brother died, at least according to Mr and Mrs Weiman. I don’t know what it was about. Your Mr Langbroek, perhaps. The extent to which he was becoming involved in their scheme. Mr Catesby wasn’t altogether fond of him, I gather.’

  ‘That is true, mister,’ Green acknowledged, examining the sandwich I had given him. The filling was roast beef, left over from Saturday lunch. ‘Nobody likes Mr Langbroek. He is a cruel man.’

  ‘He’s certainly that,’ I agreed. Cruel and unpopular. It was only later, when Langbroek had helped Catesby to cover up Matthew Green’s death, that the farm manager had come to see the value of the fellow.

  Joseph Green knew little of the plans the men had had to buy a farm, so I filled in a few of the details for him now.

  ‘Anyway, Markham stormed off to church that morning and Catesby sought solace with...with your brother.’

  ‘I understand.’ Green did not sound surprised.

  ‘You knew about his...unorthodox predilections?’

  ‘I knew, mister. Most of us knew. Apart from Moses. He was too young. But the others.’ Green shook his head sadly. ‘They did not understand. They thought it was unnatural. An affront to God. But they were wrong. Matthew was different, not better or worse. He was a good man, mister. A kind man.’

  ‘I’m sure he was.’

  ‘But I did not know that he had slept with Mr Catesby.’ Green frowned, struggling to digest the idea. ‘There were rumours, after he died. That my brother was a thief. That he had been in bed with Mr Markham and Mr Catesby had found them together.’

  ‘Yes, that was Mr Langbroek’s doing, deliberately confusing the issue.’

  ‘But I did not believe it. That is why, when you came here, I wanted to talk to you. I thought you would be able to discover the truth. Moses told me that you were here to investigate the death of Mr Markham.’

  ‘Well, after a fashion,’ I agreed. ‘But the rumours were wrong. It was Markham who discovered Catesby in bed, not the other way round. He came back early and found them together. He must have flipped. I don’t think he meant to kill your brother. It was a jealous rage. He lost control, started beating him and then pushed him down the stairs. There was not much more to it than that.’ I leaned back against the tree trunk. ‘So, really, what you heard at the time wasn’t that far from the truth.’

  ‘I would not have believed it. I thought Mr Markham was a decent man.’

  ‘Love does funny things to people. Sorry, that’s probably not much consolation.’

  ‘I wanted to know the truth. But I am sorry that I involved you in this, mister. It was wrong of me.’

  ‘Oh, don’t concern yourself.’ I took a munch of one of Greta’s sandwiches and winced. The beef was chewier than ever. ‘It’s only natural you would want to know what happened to your brother. It was Freddie who dragged me down here for the weekend. He’s to blame if anyone. And he’s the one who’s going to have to explain it all to the minister tomorrow.’

  ‘All these deaths,’ Green lamented, brushing away an insect that had landed on his shirt sleeve. ‘It is a terrible thing.’

  ‘Mrs Montana. It’s my fault she died,’ I said. I could still see her body, sprawled out on top of Mr Langbroek.

  ‘That was an accident, mister. It was not your fault.’

  ‘Doesn’t make it any easier. And Mr Montana. I can’t really blame him for what he tried to do. He didn’t deserve to die either.’

  ‘All these people dead.’ Green shook his head. ‘Mr Talbot, Mr Catesby. Mr and Mrs Montana. And no-one held to account.’

  He was right. It was a dreadful injustice. Julio Tejada had set in chain a horrific sequence of events, without any thought fo
r the consequences, and other people had paid the price. ‘You're a good fellow, Green. But the world’s not a fair place. We just do what little we can. At least we’ve kept you safe. Prevented a further injustice.’

  ‘You are right, mister. I am grateful.’

  ‘Henry, please. We might as well dispense with the formalities, now that we’re both on the run.’ I smiled at him briefly. ‘Oh, but not when we get to the boat.’ Green had agreed to take on the role of manservant for that journey. ‘And it will have to “sir” rather than “mister”. Or “madam” in my case.’ I would be posing as Maurice’s wife and Green would be our servant. It was not an ideal set-up, but there had not been time to think of anything better.

  ‘I understand, mis...Henry.’ Green munched on his sandwich disconsolately. ‘I will miss the farm, though. My friends. It has been my life.’ He struggled to swallow a mouthful of the beef. ‘What will happen to Mr and Mrs Weiman?’

  I shrugged. In truth, I had no idea. ‘They should be all right, if they keep their heads down.’

  ‘They were good to me. I would not want anything bad to happen to them.’

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ I assured him, with greater conviction than I felt.

  A brief silence descended. The insects continued to buzz but like me they seemed to have no interest in the sandwiches.

  ‘Do you think Mr Montana was responsible for the death of Mr Catesby?’ Green asked. That was what I had been telling everybody back at the hacienda.

  ‘Who knows?’ I shrugged again, refusing to be drawn. The fewer people who knew about Mrs Weiman’s involvement, the better for everyone. ‘Very probably,’ I added.

  ‘I did not like him. Mr Catesby. I did not trust him. I thought he was responsible for my brother’s death. But he did not deserve to die like that.’

  ‘No, he didn’t. And neither did Mr Talbot.’

  ‘Was General Tejada responsible for his death?’

  I nodded grimly. ‘Yes, he was. He admitted it to me, the callous brute. He didn’t do it himself, of course. He must have had somebody there ahead of time, acting on his behalf. I can’t think who it might have been. I thought perhaps Mr Gonzales, but he denied that flat out.’

  Maurice had been tightening up a couple of nuts on the front wheel of the motor-bicycle, but had been listening to our conversation. ‘I believe I may know who it was, Monsieur,’ he said, belatedly throwing his twopenn’orth in.

  ‘Oh?’ I offered him the last of the sandwiches as he came over and sat himself down. He took one look at the filling and waved it away.

  ‘It had to be someone who had been at the house for some time. Someone who knew the family well, but was not of the family.’

  I frowned. ‘What, if they were to be an informer, you mean?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. As we know, the government has ears everywhere, in every town and village.’

  ‘That is true,’ Green said. ‘People have to be careful what they say.’

  ‘And it occurred to me that the most likely suspect would be the housekeeper, Greta.’

  I snorted loudly. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Morris! She wouldn’t work for General Tejada. She hated the fellow.’

  Joseph Green agreed with me. ‘She does not like the police. She is afraid of them, as we all are.’

  ‘And she was the one who clobbered him,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. With some force, I understand.’

  ‘Well, that’s hardly a surprise. Tejada was taking pot shots at her boy. It was natural that she would try to protect him.’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. But I believe there may be more to it than that.’ The woman had been been very angry when she had hit him, I recalled, as well as being scared. ‘I believe the madame may have had a long lasting hatred for the police and for the general in particular. Imagine if, for years, she had been an informer; had earned a small amount of money, passing on information about the family and the community she lived in, like many people hereabouts. That information would have been filed away somewhere, unnoticed, until it became relevant or useful.’

  ‘She knew all about Mrs Weiman,’ I reflected. ‘About Moses. You think she would have told them about that?’

  ‘I am sure she would, Monsieur.’

  Green was looking a little confused. He had not been privy to that particular fact and I was not about to enlighten him.

  ‘The information would have been recorded and locked away,’ Maurice added.

  ‘Until it became useful to someone on high. Like the general?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur. General Tejada had decided to get rid of Monsieur Talbot, a thorn in his side. He knew the man was friends with the Weimans. The finca would be the perfect place to dispose of him. A quiet estate in the middle of nowhere; and a family who would not dare to complain.’

  ‘Yes, I understand that. But you think Greta did the actual deed?’ I could not hide the incredulity in my voice. ‘That he just rocked up and said, thanks for all the intelligence over the years, by the way, could you push a man down the stairs for me? Don’t be absurd, Morris.’

  ‘It would not be a request, Monsieur.’

  ‘He threatened her, you mean? Or one of his underlings did?’

  ‘Threatened her and the boy, I suspect; and the family and the farm. General Tejada has it in his power to destroy them all. If he had wanted to make a house boy disappear, it would be easy enough to arrange. Many people in this country disappear at the hands of the police. Madame Greta would know he was making no idle threat.’

  ‘In that case, he should have just “disappeared” Mr Talbot,’ I muttered. But the banker had been too prominent a citizen for that. ‘Why would Greta care so much, though? If she’d already been betraying the family for all those years?’

  ‘She probably believed the information she provided was too trivial ever to be used. It was nothing of national importance. It was just a little extra money for her. But after living on the farm for so many years, she became attached to the family. She watched the boy growing up. She looked after him. A second mother, Madame Weiman said, after Isabel’s mother had died. And, as we know, a mother will do anything to protect her son.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ It had certainly been true in Mrs Weiman’s case.

  ‘It is just a theory, Monsieur. I could of course be completely wrong.’

  ‘Yes, very probably.’ I grunted. But thinking about it, I could just picture Greta at the top of the stairs, pruning the flowers in those baskets as the rain eased off, waiting for George Talbot to come by. It wouldn’t take much of a shove to ensure he didn’t survive the fall. Those outside stairs were lethal. Then she could have sped along the terrace to the west side, nipping into the Gonzales’ bedroom just as the engineer had come out the other side. That must have been the blur Miss Bunting had seen. Yes, it was all horribly plausible. Another woman doing what she had to do to protect her own. ‘I don’t suppose it matters now either way,’ I said, gazing down at the remnants of my discarded sandwich.

  ‘No, Monsieur,’ Maurice agreed. He peered at his wristwatch. ‘It is getting late. Perhaps we should move on?’

  I nodded. ‘Just as soon as we’ve changed clothes.’ I stood up and walked across to the motor-bicycle, to retrieve Miss Bunting’s holdall. Joseph Green would need to change too, and while he was fiddling with some of Maurice’s clothes, my valet helped me quietly into the flowery dress. We kept our distance from Green as I changed, Maurice masking my body as much as possible, so that he did not catch sight of the bandages laying beneath the shirt and tie.

  When the labourer finally saw me in my dress, my shawl and my over-sized bonnet, his eyes boggled and it was then that he had started laughing. We had already outlined the plan to him but the details were only now beginning to sink in. After a quick mutual inspection, the three of us were ready to assume our new roles: Mr and Mrs Harold Bannerman and Mr John Johnson, our servant, heading for a new life in British Honduras. If we could get past the road blocks.

  W
e were lucky to begin with. The policeman at the first checkpoint waved us through without a second glance. This was at ten thirty in the evening. The second road block, in the early hours, had been abandoned for the night. It was only when we approached the third, shortly before dawn, that our luck gave out.

  A policeman stepped out from behind a makeshift barrier – two oil drums and a plank of wood – and signalled for us to draw to one side. My hands were shaking as the officer approached. ‘Out of the vehicle,’ he commanded, in Spanish.

  Maurice had to help me up from the sidecar.

  ‘Passports,’ the man snapped. He could see at a glance that we were not locals. Maurice, as the husband, handed them across. The officer examined each one in turn and then scrutinised the three of us with his beady eye. I tried not to stare at the rifle he was carrying. We had kept one of the revolvers with us, but that was buried away in the depths of the sidecar and was of no use to us here. The policeman frowned, scanning my absurdly bright attire. With the best will in the world, a square jaw does not sit happily atop a summer dress. It is one of the many ironies of my life that, despite having been born a woman, whenever I am forced to wear women’s clothing I end up looking like a man in drag. But my passport at least was in order. There was even an entry stamp in there, courtesy of Giles Markham. The office back in Guatemala City had a large collection of counterfeit stamps, to aid in our secret service work. My only real concern was the photograph in Joseph Green’s passport, which had been pasted into place in rather a hurry. Thankfully, the officer did not look twice at his documentation. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked curtly.

  That was a damn fool question. We were on the road to Puerto Barrios. There was nowhere else we could be going. But I bit my lip and answered politely.

  ‘A bit early to be up and about,’ he observed.

  ‘We wanted to catch the early boat.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Coming from Guatemala City?’