by Jack Treby
Maurice secured the door and closed the blinds, then came across to unfasten my shirt. I slipped out of it gratefully. The valet unwound my bandages, which were beginning to chafe, and then secured a fresh set. I took a moment to wash my face in a bowl, while Maurice laid out my trousers and a clean shirt. The whole ritual was completed in blissful silence. This was one morning when my man’s lack of conversational initiative was deeply appreciated. I had managed to avoid a full-blown hangover but I was still feeling a little delicate. Maurice bent down and banged out my shoes on the wooden floor. I did not complain. It was as well to make sure no scorpions or other creepy crawlies had taken up residence during the night. I laced up the shoes as he pulled back the blinds a second time, then stood up and walked over to the chair where I had slung my jacket the night before. I dug inside for the note and handed it across. ‘What do you make of this?’
The valet stared down at the scrawled message, his battered face completely unreadable. ‘Most peculiar, Monsieur. Do you know who sent it?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest. It was given to me by the house boy, Moses. Said it was from “a friend”. Judging by the spelling, it must be one of the natives.’
Maurice refrained from comment.
It was the reference to Mr Catesby that troubled me the most. Do not trust him, it said. ‘You’ve been back stairs. What’s the atmosphere like?’
‘Efficient, Monsieur. Perhaps a little strained.’
‘Three servants, aren’t there? In the house, I mean.’
‘Yes, Monsieur. Moses, Isabel and the housekeeper, Greta.’
‘Ah yes. She’s a Kraut, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. Of German descent.’
I shuddered. ‘That explains the soup. But nothing odd going on, that you’re aware of?’
‘No, Monsieur.’
‘Oh well, just a thought. How is your accommodation, by the way?’ Maurice had been berthed with the other servants in a small cottage a little way off from the main house.
‘Satisfactory, Monsieur.’
I chuckled. ‘Lord, as bad as that, eh?’ My valet was never one to complain but his disapproval was evident. ‘Well, it’s only for a couple of days. You’ll just have to put up with it.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’ He handed me back the note and I folded it up, slipping it inside my waistcoat pocket. ‘Will you go to the dry store at 11 o’clock?’
I nodded. ‘I don’t see why not. It can’t do any harm. Always assuming I can work out where it is. But first things first. A bit of breakfast, I think.’
There were three things I would have preferred to avoid at the breakfast table. The first, inevitably, was the coffee, which festered in a large silver pot at one end of the table. The second was a radiogram in the corner, which was blaring out some light orchestral music. The third was George Talbot, the dreary but fastidious banker. He was alone at the table, examining a copy of El Imparcial, a local rag. He nodded a greeting as I pulled up a chair and gestured to the coffee pot.
‘No, thank you,’ I said, taking my seat opposite him. ‘Don’t tell our hosts, but I’m much more of a tea drinker.’
‘I do understand,’ Talbot replied, dabbing his lips with a napkin. ‘I’ve grown accustomed to the coffee but I can’t pretend I enjoy it.’
‘Nothing beats a good, honest cuppa,’ I declared. ‘Well, maybe a shot of whisky, but it’s a bit early for that.’ It was a bit early, too, for the radiogram. The music was not doing my head any favours.
Talbot folded up his newspaper. He was smartly dressed, even at the breakfast table, and his grey hair and rounded spectacles conveyed an image of calm authority. ‘You will have to forgive the music. It was on when I came in.’ He discarded the newspaper and glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Ordinarily, I would have switched it off, but there’s a news broadcast due in a few minutes which I would like to hear. If you have no objections, Mr Buxton?’’
‘Be my guest.’ I grabbed a slice of toast. Talbot was just finishing up his own breakfast. His glass had the dregs of some fruit juice in it but his plate was empty. ‘Although I would hardly describe anything broadcast in this country as news.’ The radio, like the printed press, was barely more than a mouth-piece for the government. “El Imparcial” indeed!
‘No, you’re quite right,’ Talbot admitted. ‘It is government propaganda. But I do find it useful to know what the authorities want us to think. God forbid, however, that it should be our only source of information.’
I buttered my toast and glanced at the crackling radiogram. ‘I’m surprised we can receive anything, this far from the capital.’ The radio service was a relatively new innovation in Guatemala.
‘It isn’t that far, in point of fact. Not as the crow flies.’ Talbot removed his spectacles and started wiping the lenses with a handkerchief. His face looked rather bland and puffy without them. ‘I take it you didn’t want to join the tour this morning?’
‘Lord, no. Too energetic for me. Didn’t fancy clambering halfway up the damned mountainside.’ I grabbed the marmalade. ‘You weren’t keen either?’
‘No. I have seen the estate many times before and I have a few papers to look through this morning.’
I chuckled. ‘The work of a banker is never done.’ I set down my knife and crunched at the toast. The marmalade was tart but not altogether disagreeable.
Talbot put away his handkerchief and slipped his glasses back on. ‘My wife has gone with them, though. She likes to stretch her legs.’ He smiled quietly at the thought. Perhaps he was grateful for the respite.
The music finished on the radiogram and was replaced by a jabbering native voice. The news broadcast, presumably, though the announcer was talking far too quickly for me to understand anything he said. The bulletin lasted a couple of minutes and Talbot listened in keen silence.
‘Anything of interest?’ I asked, when it came to an end.
‘A new anti-corruption initiative,’ the banker declared, with some gravity. ‘The president is keen to cut down on bribery and patronage.’
I nodded. The usual hog-wash. ‘Do you think he’s sincere? The president?’
‘I believe he may be.’ Talbot rose up from his chair. ‘He has brought in some stringent new rules. It’s just a question of whether they are properly enforced. Ubico is putting his own house in order first, which is only right and proper, but there are always difficulties, particularly with regards the army and the police force. He can’t govern without their support, but he still needs to take a firm line.’
‘Show them who’s boss,’ I agreed, pouring myself a glass of orange juice from a jug next to the now empty toast rack.
Another announcer came on, to introduce some more music, but Talbot had already moved across to the radiogram. He switched the device off with a grim smile.
‘All the modern conveniences here,’ I observed, taking a sip of juice. ‘I didn’t think they’d even have electricity.’
‘Many don’t. But Gunther lives in the twentieth century.’ The banker returned to his seat. ‘He had the generator installed some years ago. He is always on the lookout for new technology.’
‘That’s the Krauts for you,’ I suggested. ‘Ahead of the game with that sort of thing. You know he’s got a pile of technology magazines in the living room?’ I had flicked through a couple of them shortly after I had arrived.
George Talbot nodded. ‘Yes, he has a definite interest in such things. He was telling me recently about the new televisor sets being developed in America.’
‘Good lord.’
‘They are next “big thing”, apparently.’ Talbot did not sound enthused. ‘Gunther believes every home will have one by 1950.’
‘Good god, I hope not.’ I rolled my eyes and gestured across to the wireless. ‘It’s bad enough people burbling away on the radio all day long without having to look at the bloody fools as well.’
‘Yes, it can be rather distracting.’ Talbot pushed away his plate. ‘But I suppose one cannot stand in the
way of progress. Gunther hopes to automate the entire plantation one day; to use machinery to pick and clean the produce.’
‘Sounds sensible.’
‘It would certainly cut down on the labour costs.’ There was the bean counter talking, I thought. ‘But I don’t think it will be happen anytime soon.’
‘Trade not good at the moment?’
‘Sadly not. The effects of the depression are still being felt quite keenly.’
I took another crunch of toast. ‘This marmalade’s rather good,’ I declared. ‘Have you known Mr Weiman long?’
‘Oh, indeed. For some years now. We are close friends. And of course I have the privilege of handling his account at the bank.’
‘A perfect relationship,’ I responded dryly. ‘Although I gather Mr Catesby runs the day to day business of the farm?’
‘Yes, for the last couple of years. We’ve also developed a good working relationship.’ This comment sounded rather less effusive. ‘Indeed, we have a small bit of business to conclude this weekend. And then, next week, I am happy to say, I am off to British Honduras.’
‘The Port of Belize? That will be nice for you.’
‘Indeed. It is a beautiful spot. My wife enjoys the sea air and the bank has a couple of branches there. Sadly, it will only be for a few days.’ He had perked up considerably at the thought, however. ‘Now there’s a well run society, Mr Buxton.’
‘Yes. No need to worry about bribery and corruption there. Not in a British colony. Although I suppose every community has its bad apples.’
‘But at least in British Honduras they have the infrastructure and the rule of law to deal with it.’ This, I could tell, was an important point for him. He pushed back his chair. ‘You must excuse me. I have a few things to do. I hope you don’t mind me deserting you.’
‘No, of course not. Oh, I was going to ask, though,’ I said, as he rose to his feet. ‘Did you ever meet my predecessor, Giles Markham?’
Talbot circled his chair and pushed the seat back under the table. ‘Yes, several times. He was a regular house guest here. A most amusing man, if a little over-exuberant. I was sorry to hear that he took his own life. A terrible thing for a man to do.’
‘He had his reasons,’ I said.
‘Gambling debts, I understood.’
‘So we believe. He liked a bit of a flutter, apparently. But he got caught with his hand in the till. That was what did for him.’
Talbot frowned. ‘In the till? You mean he stole money from your office?’
‘Quite a large sum, yes. So you see, it’s not just the Guatemalans who abuse the system.’
‘How much did he steal?’ Talbot asked.
‘Markham? Almost two thousand pounds.’
‘Good gracious!’ The banker shook his head. ‘I would never have believed it. Not that I knew him that well.’
‘I went through the books when I first arrived here. He must have known he wasn’t going to be able to hide it much longer. That’s why he killed himself, we believe.’
‘I had no idea,’ Talbot said, just as the far door opened.
Isabel the maid entered, carrying a fresh tray of toast.
‘And here I am, filling in his shoes.’ I said, grabbing another slice. ‘I wonder what he thought of the marmalade.’
The stone fountain on the front lawn was now completely dry. Someone somewhere had switched off the tap. I stepped out onto the front terrace, intent on making my way down to the dry store to answer my peculiar hand-written summons. A framed illustration of the estate was hanging on a wall in the entrance hall to the west side of the hacienda – Maurice had drawn my attention to it – and I had done my best to memorise the route across the farm. Down past the stables, take a left along a mud track and stop at a courtyard which had been marked on the picture – in English – as the “drying floor”. Despite a German owner and many Spanish-speaking workers, English appeared to be the lingua franca of the estate.
Heading towards the lawn, I tipped my hat to a figure resting languidly in a hammock on the front terrace. ‘Good morning,’ the woman called out. It was Anita Montana, the American executive’s wife. She was a tall, rather buxom woman with long auburn hair and striking blue eyes. Italian by all accounts, though she didn’t have much of an accent. She was dressed in a rather tight white blouse and an elegant pleated skirt. ‘It’s a beautiful day,’ she proclaimed, stretching herself out and surveying the scene with apparent delight. Not beautiful enough, however, for her to want to join the rest of the company on a tour of the estate. In that at least, we were of the same mind. She had a book in her left hand, which she was reading instead. A lurid romantic novel, judging by the dust jacket. ‘The Good Lord has blessed us with fine weather.’
‘Er...quite,’ I said. ‘Thought I’d go for a quick stroll.’
She smiled up at me from the hammock, a wide beguiling smile. ‘A wonderful idea. You have yourself a good time.’
‘I...yes, I will, thank you.’ I tipped my hat again and moved down the steps.
The stables were barely more than forty yards from the front of the house. There were two short paths here with a small set of trees either side of them. The first one led to the stables. The second was a longer track, which meandered past the yard towards the coffee fields. I glanced around cautiously, making sure no-one was watching me, and then nipped down this second track.
The path ran parallel to the stables and the pasture land beyond it, where the horses were let out during the day to graze. There was a low barn to my right and, a little further on, a rough courtyard off to the north. This was the drying floor I had seen marked on the map. It was not in use at the moment – we were off season – but it was the store itself, away to the right, that I was looking for.
Another building squatted amiably on the far side of the square, with a fence lining the eastern edge of the pasture. A bored looking horse was dangling its head over the fence but otherwise there was no-one about.
I pulled out my pocket watch and checked the time. Five to eleven. I moved off the dirt path and hurried across the yard to a small door in the side of the barn, which I approached with some trepidation.
The door was not locked. Gingerly, I pulled it open and stepped inside. The dry store was a surprisingly bright space, large but not overly burdened with produce. A few storage crates and several piles of solid looking bags enlivened an otherwise dull scene. The building was barely in use at this time of year. There was a curve in the wall off to the right and from behind a pile of boxes a figure emerged, a coloured fellow, tall, muscular but tentative. In his late twenties, perhaps. He had waited a moment to see who had entered the store before presenting himself. I pulled out the note as he moved towards me. ‘This was from you, I take it?’
‘Yes, mister,’ he said, stopping in front of me, his eyes flashing with barely concealed nerves. ‘You are Mr Buxton?’ He wore a plain white shirt and breeches. On his feet were a crude pair of leather sandals.
‘That’s right. And who exactly are you?’
‘Joseph Green.’ The man held out his hand. I stared at it for a moment, then did the polite thing and gave it a firm shake.
‘You work here?’
‘For Mr Weiman,’ Green said. His voice had a light, musical quality. A Jamaican accent, if I wasn’t much mistaken.
‘And Mr Catesby?’
His face fell. ‘Yes, mister.’ He didn’t sound too keen on the latter gentleman.
It was time to get to the point. ‘What is all this about?’ I asked him. ‘If you’re making mischief...’
‘No, mister. I needed to speak to you.’
‘About Giles Markham?’
‘Yes, mister.’
‘You knew him?’
‘Yes, mister. A little. He came here a few times. He was a friend of Mr Catesby. But it was my brother who used to speak to him.’
‘Your brother?’
‘Matthew Green. Mr Markham was very kind to him. He would come out into the fie
lds sometimes and talk to people. He would ask our opinions.’
Any opportunity to gauge the mood of the locals. Very sensible, I thought. I really ought be doing the same thing.
‘My brother was learning to read,’ Green declared proudly. ‘Mr Markham promised to help him; to provide books. But Mr Catesby...’ Green’s face tensed again at the name. ‘Mr Catesby did not like my brother talking to Mr Markham. He got very angry. Then, one day, my brother was beaten.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Though I don’t...’
‘Mr Catesby beat him so hard that he died.’
‘Good lord. I...I’m sorry.’ I blinked. ‘Mr Catesby killed him?’
Green took a gulp of air. ‘It was an accident, they said. Matthew should not have been in the house. Mr Catesby was punishing him; but then he fell and banged his head.’
‘Lord.’ That was awful. ‘What was he doing in the house?’
‘I...do not know.’
‘Didn’t you complain? When he died? Did you call the police?’
The labourer shook his head. ‘They came. But the police do not interfere when a coloured man dies. Not if a white man is responsible. And Mr Catesby, he is family.’
‘I see.’ So the owners had banded together. That wasn’t too much of a surprise. ‘And you stayed here, working for them? When one of them had killed your brother? Why didn’t you just leave? You’re not a slave.’
‘I have no choice, mister. There is not much work around. And Mr and Mrs Weiman...they at least have been kind to me. The rest of the workers...’ He grimaced. ‘They did not like my brother. They did not care that he had died.’
‘That seems a little harsh.’ Normally, when someone was badly treated like that, the other labourers would band together and protest. From what I had heard, the West Indian population was not afraid to stand up for itself. ‘But look, I don’t see what any of this has to do with Giles Markham. Or me, for that matter. I am sorry about what happened to your brother, but...’
Green’s attention shifted abruptly. There were voices outside, people moving about in the yard. ‘I should not be here!’ he breathed.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I said, waving my hand at him; but it was too late. The labourer had already bolted for the far door. I looked out, in the opposite direction, and caught sight of Gunther Weiman and Arthur Montana heading towards the barn, with the rest of the tour party trailing some distance behind them. I whipped my head away from the window as the two men came to a halt outside the building. I don’t know why I was hiding – I was not doing anything wrong – but for some reason I did not feel inclined to reveal my presence. Not until Mr Green was well away, in any case. He had already slipped out of the barn on the far side.
