There's Trouble Brewing

  Herbert Cammison said, ‘Yes, he’s a regular old shellback. But he told me he was putting in an auxiliary engine this cruise as he hadn’t found anyone else to go with him and didn’t care for the idea of managing the boat single-handed at his time of life, with nothing but sail. Very sensible. He’s getting on for fifty, you know, and he’s no Viking in physique.’

  ‘I see. And since, what is it—7.45 p.m. on Thursday, he’s been sailing westward, has he?’

  ‘Yes, sir. We’ve warned all the places he may put in—Lyme Regis, Exmouth, Plymouth and the rest—to be on the look-out for his boat, but he’s not put in anywhere yet.’

  ‘Nor will he, I don’t expect,’ said Cammison: ‘he’s got enough stores for a whole trip and a good big keg of water. I went on a cruise with him last year and he kept at sea the whole of the first four days on end. Hove-to at night and sailed all day. A storm’d be the only thing that’d drive him into port.’

  ‘Seems as if we’d better warn shipping to keep a look-out for him. Still, there’s no immediate hurry about that, I reckon. The brewery can get on without him for a day or two longer. Seems a pity to spoil his holiday.’

  After which lamentably unofficial statement, the sergeant sucked his teeth and gazed abstractedly into his tankard. Herbert interpreted these signs correctly; the tankard was refilled.

  ‘This is a lousy case,’ said Nigel. ‘No corpse—to speak of. Everyone’s got a motive. No one seems to have an alibi except Barnes and Parsons—and their alibis are only supplied by their women, which means they’re worth damn all to us. The whole thing is really most unorthodox. The textbooks aren’t going to help us. We shall have to take to a planchette board or a divining-rod or something. What candidates is Tyler backing—or is the old fox keeping an open mind?’

  ‘He fancies Mr Sorn at present, I’d say, sir. The young gentleman stood to gain most by Mr Bunnett’s death. The inspector’s asked the French police to get in touch with Mrs Sorn, but there won’t be anything in that quarter. The lady’s never visited this town—that we do know, so she couldn’t’ve known enough about the brewery to do what was done.’

  ‘You know,’ said Nigel, ‘I feel there’s something we’ve missed. There’s something sort of ringing in my head, connected vaguely with that party after the literary society meeting. Now what the devil is it?’

  Nigel went over in his mind what had happened in this room two nights ago. Mrs Bunnett had taken a firm line about having some sherry. Eustace had said, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a glass of water, my dear?’ or words to that effect. The precise, crackling voice echoed in Nigel’s head; but there was something missing; another sound ought to accompany it. Another sound——

  ‘Ha!’ he exclaimed. ‘Keys! Bunnett jingled a bunch of keys that night. Where are they? Why did the murderer leave everything in Bunnett’s pockets except the bunch of keys?’

  ‘Oh, but we did find them, sir. I made a second search in the hop-back that night, Mr Barnes having stated that the deceased always carried a bunch of keys—and there they was, sure enough. Easy enough to miss them the first time in that lucky dip: filtered it all the second time: found some more teeth too.’

  ‘Gone!’ declaimed Nigel tragically; ‘all, all my little ones! That’s the very last idea I had left. Now I shall resign.’

  Sergeant Tollworthy rose, not without difficulty. ‘Well, gentlemen, I must be getting along. Now don’t you worry, doctor: we’ll get the chap before long. And if that Feather starts talking any more, I’ll knock his block off.’

  ‘A friend at court,’ Nigel said when the sergeant had gone.

  ‘Yes. He’s a good sort. I pulled his boy, Ned, out of a nasty attack of pneumonia last year, and old Tollworthy’s been almost embarrassingly grateful ever since.’

  ‘It certainly is quite a nice change to find a bobby who doesn’t suspect everybody on principle. That’s one of the two bright spots in this stygian case.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Whoever slew Bunnett had his heart in the right place, so we needn’t anticipate any more murders. The fons et origo mali has been—shall we say, choked off? So everyone should be quite happy.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right,’ said Cammison equably.

  VIII

  July 19, 8.20–11.30 a.m.

  Surely the continual habit of dissimulation is but a weak and sluggish cunning, and not greatly politic.

  BACON, The Advancement of Learning

  SUNDAY MORNING. MAIDEN Astbury hangs in a state of suspended animation. The Prior chimes have rung out cheerfully for the early service, and ceased ringing: the five-minutes’ bell has played its game of cat-and-mouse with belated worshippers; sounding with quickening impatience, then falling ominously silent so that old ladies lifted their black-satin skirts and took to their heels, then striking up again in leisurely fashion—putting out its iron tongue, no doubt, at the panting old things; then repeating the process all over again. Now the mischievous five-minutes’ bell is silent too, and the streets settle down to doze and enjoy the mild sunlight. Even the pieces of tinfoil and paper, with which a roaring charabanc party littered them yesterday evening, look peculiarly smug and lifeless. The only sound that breaks this Sabbath calm proceeds from the bathroom of Dr Cammison’s house, where Nigel is favouring the chromium-plated taps with a selection from his repertoire. Even the politest Wykehamist would have had some difficulty in expressing an admiration for Nigel’s singing voice: his own friends compared it to the barking of a sea-lion, to the sound of one of the earliest tractors surmounting a particularly steep gradient of ploughed land, to the hoarse shouts of a brutal soldiery mopping up some devoted outpost, to a road-drill, to the croaking of ravens on a wild and rock-bound coast—according to their natural bent and powers of invention. On one thing everyone would agree, and that is the really shattering volume of sound which Nigel, when warmed up, can emit.

  ‘I met with Napper Tandy,

  And I took him by the hand,’

  he roared, beating time with a defeated-looking loofah. Instead, however, of proceeding to enquire how poor old Ireland was and where did she stand, Nigel fell suddenly silent. ‘I met with Napper Tandy and I took him by the hand,’ he said to himself. ‘Now that’s a point that might have struck me before. Did the murderer meet Bunnett at the brewery entrance and say, “Fancy seeing you here at this time of night! Well, as you’re here, just come into the office a minute, will you; I want to slit your throat with this decent little knife I have in my pocket.” Because, if he didn’t, how could he be sure that Bunnett would ever be in a vulnerable position to be murdered? After all, Bunnett had gone there to catch out the watchman in his alleged pilfering: he would keep near Lock, wherever Lock went, so Lock would be a sort of unconscious bodyguard. Of course, the murderer could lie in wait for Bunnett somewhere en route between the brewery gates and—and where, though? Bunnett might decide to go straight to the storeroom, or the place where the bottled beer was kept, or Lock’s cubby-hole. How could the murderer know which route Bunnett was going to take? Of course, he might lurk in the brewery yard and cut his victim off before he entered the actual premises. But the yard was overlooked by the row of houses opposite, and there would be just a chance of someone seeing him in the act. Apart from that, if he killed Bunnett in the yard, why go to all the trouble and danger of dragging him into the brewery and up the steps of the copper platform? Why not leave him weltering in his gore? Which, of course, brought one back to the original teaser—why was Bunnett put in the copper at all?

  ‘Leaving that aside,’ thought Nigel, ‘perhaps my first idea is not so crazy as it sounded. It is quite conceivable that the murderer—call him X—should have met Bunnett at the brewery entrance. What excuse could he have for being there? Holed out in one!—say he had received an anonymous letter; produce it, in fact—he could easily have posted himself one at the same time that Bunnett’s was posted. After that, it should be easy enough to manoeuvre Bunnett into some se
cluded corner where the blunt instrument or whatnot could be wielded with maximum impunity. But not, surely, the copper-room? There could be no possible excuse for dragging Bunnett up there when the two of them were supposed to be padding on the trail of the errant Lock. Bunnett must have been murdered somewhere else—in some room where X could plausibly take him in the process of catching out the night watchman. Where? Well, why not one of the offices—Bunnett’s own room or Joe Bunnett’s, or the clerk’s office? None of these was visited by the night watchman, which would make it easier still. X might say—par exemple—“Look here, this chap Lock may cut up nasty; there’s a jolly little life-preserver (revolver, loaded stick) in so and so’s office: let’s go and fetch it first.” Or—but there were dozens of pretexts for getting Bunnett up there. There ought to have been some signs left, though, if any of the private rooms or offices was used. I must ask the office staff about that: or whoever cleans them out in the morning. I wonder if Joe Bunnett’s room is locked up in his absence. That would have been a good place.

  ‘And then there is another thing. If my theorising is correct, it eliminates Mrs Bunnett, Miss Mellors and Herbert Cammison from the list of suspects: because none of them could conceivably have claimed that “Well-wisher” had sent them a letter telling them how to catch out the night watchman. Joe Bunnett might also be eliminated: he couldn’t plausibly assert that he’d returned from his cruise on the strength of an anonymous letter. No, not plausibly to anyone but a semi-maniac like his brother. Eustace Bunnett, in his horrible zeal to catch out his employees anywhere and anyhow, might overlook a consideration like that. Joe cannot be absolutely eliminated. That leaves me with Gabriel Sorn, the head brewer, Ed Parsons, and—more doubtfully—Joe Bunnett as starters in the suspicion stakes.’ Nigel was aroused from his reverie by a banging on the door.

  ‘Hoy!’ a voice cried. ‘Have you had a syncope? Or are you carrying out experiments with boiling water? I want a bath.’

  ‘Sorry, Herbert. I was just thinking.’

  ‘Well, your thinking is less offensive than your singing, I’ll admit, but equally inconvenient for your fellow men.’

  Nigel made some lurid observations on the verbiage of pedants, and prepared to get out….

  Two hours later he was entering the neat and unassuming residence of Mr H. Barnes. He was shown into a parlour which, for sheer heat and luxuriance of fern-growth, fell little short of a tropical forest. The head brewer shortly appeared, in his shirtsleeves. He greeted Nigel with one eyebrow lifted and the other depressed.

  ‘Well, sir, and what brings you to my humble abode so early in the morning?’ he asked jocularly.

  ‘I wanted a word with your daughter, Lily. I’m supposed to be running the Truffles angle of this case, and I thought I’d make a beginning with the office staff.’

  Mr Barnes scratched his bristly chin. ‘Well, I suppose that’s all right,’ he said dubiously. ‘If you like wasting your time, it’s none of my affair. Don’t worry Lil, will you sir? She’s not been herself lately. Don’t know what’s up with her: but tell her old dad about it—not she. Shouldn’t wonder if it wasn’t nothing but them daft film magazines she spends her money on,’ he added darkly.

  ‘No, I’ll not worry her. Just a few harmless questions I want to ask. But, look here, there are one or two things perhaps you could tell me first.’

  Nigel elicited the information that (a) Joe Bunnett’s room was locked in his absence, but there was a master-key in the office which would open it; (b) the private rooms and offices had not been cleaned the morning of the murder, but the police had been through them since; (c) that Eustace Bunnett was no loss to the world, and the brewery would be a different place with Mr Joe in command.

  ‘Yes, put it on its legs again, he will,’ said Mr Barnes.

  ‘That reminds me. Didn’t you say, that afternoon in your office when Mr Sorn and I were there, that there were rumours about Bunnett selling the brewery?’

  Mr Barnes tapped the side of his nose. ‘Don’t ask no questions, and you’ll be told no lies.’

  ‘But surely it can’t make any difference now. Eustace is dead, so presumably the thing’ll fall through.’

  ‘Yes, there’s something in that,’ said the head brewer, who clearly liked confidences to be extorted from him with due deliberation and ceremonial. ‘Mind you, Mr Strangeways, I’m not saying it’s gospel. It may have been a canard. Yes, a canard,’ he repeated with relish: ‘but it did come to my ears, through channels which I will not specify, that Roxby’s—that big Midland firm—were in negotiation with Mr Bunnett to buy him out.’

  ‘Why should he—I mean, it seems odd that Bunnett should have contemplated selling the business when he got so much kick out of bossing it.’

  ‘Put that way, it does. But that’s only half the matter,’ said Mr Barnes magisterially, ‘you see—mind you, I’m making no assertions—there’s such a thing as selling out and there’s such a thing as being sold up.’

  ‘You mean the brewery was bankrupt?’

  The head brewer’s eyebrows nearly shot off the top of his head with horror.

  ‘Now, please, Mr Strangeways,’ he protested, ‘really, you mustn’t leap to conclusions like that. The truth of it is this. The guv’nor was hidebound; he didn’t like newfangled ways and he didn’t like spending money—and there’s no use shutting our eyes to it. Consequentially, the brewery was having a hard time to compete with firms that’ve got better methods and newer equipment. Bunnett’s wasn’t bankrupt, but I doubt we’d not have stood the racket another ten years—or even five, may be.’

  ‘Have you any idea how long these negotiations had been going on?’

  ‘With Roxby’s? Couldn’t say for certain. Quite recently, I should guess.’

  ‘Oh, well, we’ll get in touch with Roxby’s about that.’

  ‘That’s all right. But don’t forget’—Mr Barnes did complicated things with his eyebrows—‘I told you nothing.’

  ‘You——? Oh, of course. No, we’ll call it “information received”. Tell me one thing more. If Roxby’s had taken over Bunnett’s, would it have meant big changes in the staff?’

  Mr Barnes gave Nigel one of his unexpected shrewd glances. ‘I see what you’re getting at.’ He was silent a moment. ‘No, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr Strangeways. I don’t reckon the transfer would’ve affected our staff—they’re good lads, worth their money, all of ’em. They’d not be turned off.’

  ‘And what about Joe Bunnett, yourself and Mr Sorn?’ said Nigel, meeting frankness with frankness.

  ‘What? The key men in the place? Now you’re joking, sir.’

  Mr Barnes laughed heartily.

  ‘Too heartily?’ thought Nigel: ‘mightn’t Roxby’s have made a clean sweep? Of course, Joe has a share in the brewery; they couldn’t do anything about that: but they could install a new manager in his place. And surely Sorn, a pupil brewer, couldn’t be called a key man.’

  ‘Well, many thanks,’ said Nigel. ‘Can I have a word with your daughter now?’

  ‘Righty-ho. I’ll call her.’

  Mr Barnes ambled to the door, his long arms swinging loosely.

  ‘Hey, Lil!’ he called up the stairs.

  ‘Yes, Dad?’

  ‘Gentleman wants to see you.’

  This announcement was received with an audible giggle, and ‘Tell Ed not to be so fresh! I’m all in my best Sunday undies. He’d better try!’

  ‘It’s not Ed. It’s a gentleman—he’s staying with Dr Cammison. Look sharp and get dressed, my girl!’

  There was a stifled shriek. Then silence. Mr Barnes put his head in at the door of the parlour and said—with that air of deep significance which his lugubrious face contrived to impart to the most ordinary statements:

  ‘Two’s company, Mr Strangeways. I’ll get along. Lil will be down in a minute.’

  Whatever Nigel was expecting—and certainly, after the exchanges he had just heard, he expected the worst—he could not have anticipa
ted the apparition that entered the room five minutes later. Lily Barnes inherited her long face, long arms and lanky body from her father; on this groundwork she had built up a remarkably accurate representation of Greta Garbo. Her coiffure evidently dated from ‘Christina of Sweden’, a sort of tawny mane flopping along her shoulders: she had powdered her face till it was stark-white as any film close-up of the great original: she had used no make-up, except for the subdued red on her long, drooping mouth. Lily Barnes wore an old raincoat—and nothing between it and the ‘best Sunday undies,’ Nigel suspected. She slouched into the room, her hands in the pockets of the raincoat, leaning her back against the door and mooed huskily at Nigel.

  ‘You want to see me?’

  Nigel, with superhuman efforts, restrained himself from replying, ‘No, I tank I go ’oame,’ and said:

  ‘Er—yes, just for a few minutes. I want—I say, won’t you sit down?’

  ‘I like to stand.’

  ‘Oh—er—well, you please yourself.’ He pulled himself together. Shock tactics might be best for this Garbo. ‘I want to talk to you about Mr Bunnett’s dog, Truffles.’

  One of Lil’s hands came out and began stroking the woodwork of the door. That was foolish of her, thought Nigel, noticing how the hand shook. She kept up her end, however.

  ‘Truffles? Yes. Poor little dog,’ she mooed wearily.

  ‘Now, I have good reason to believe that, when Truffles—er—met his end, everyone in the brewery was satisfactorily accounted for except the office staff,’ said Nigel briskly. ‘I have also reason to believe that the killing of the dog may be connected with the killing of Mr. Bunnett.’

  ‘So what?’ asked Lily sharply, with a temporary lapse into Jean Harlow.

  ‘So, as I’m sitting in on this case, I thought I’d come to one of the office staff and see what she had to say about it.’