by Jack Treby
None of what the fellow had told me seemed to make any sense. If his brother had been beaten to death, as he had claimed, there would have been an outcry, at least among the other negroes. At the very least, Mr Catesby would have been quietly found another job, family or no family. It did no-one any good to press a lid down on that sort of powder keg. And why had Joseph Green wanted to speak to me in particular? What on earth did he think I could do about any of it?
Arthur Montana, the United Fruit executive, was lighting up a fat cigar on the far side of the window. ‘Well, it looks like he’s finally got his act together,’ he was telling Mr Weiman. The two men were some yards away from the rest of the tour. ‘Not before time. I’ve kept things stewing for far too long already.’
‘You have been very tolerant,’ the German agreed. ‘It has not been an easy time for any of us.’
Montana took a puff of his cigar. ‘Well, it’ll all be settled this weekend. Just a few papers to sign and then he’ll be out of your hair.’ I wasn’t sure who exactly they were talking about. Mr Catesby, perhaps? Or George Talbot? ‘And then, after that...’
The conversation was cut short as the rest of the house guests shuffled towards them across the yard. Steven Catesby was acting as tour guide. ‘This is where the coffee is laid out in the sun to dry.’ His voice echoed across the courtyard. ‘Once the pulp has been removed. It’s then stored in that building over there.’
‘Can we see inside?’ Miss Bunting enquired.
Lord, I thought. Time to make a swift exit.
‘There’s not much in there now,’ Catesby replied. ‘You’re welcome to take a look, but I was going to show you the warehouse. We have a rather basic filtering machine...’ His voice trailed off as the group moved away. Arthur Montana took another puff of his cigar and made to follow them.
I waited a minute and then peered out of the window. The courtyard was deserted. I could nip out now and head back to the house; but if I did someone might still catch sight of me. Better to hang on here for a few minutes, until they had finished in the warehouse. Damnation. Why did I allow myself to get involved in this sort of thing?
I moved across to the far door, tripped down a couple of steps and pulled out a thin cigarette from my case; my first of the day. I lit it quickly and took a slow drag, then coughed irritably. It was some dreadful American brand, which was all I could get in Guatemala City.
I had almost finished the cigarette when I heard a scraping noise coming from the front of the barn. Someone was opening the main door. Luckily I was out of sight and I stifled a laugh when I realised who it was. Freddie Reeves had nipped away from the tour with Emily Bunting and they had slipped inside the dry store together. The two of them were laughing like naughty school children and probably with good reason. His arms were around her waist and he moved in to kiss her. ‘Freddie, you mustn’t!’ she protested, laughingly. ‘Someone might see!’
‘Rubbish. They’re all heading off home!’ He winked at her. ‘Come on, girl. You know I’m irresistible.’
‘A big head more like!’ she teased. ‘I shouldn’t encourage you. Not after the way you were staring at Mrs Montana over breakfast!’
‘I could hardly miss her, now could I? She was sat right in front of me.’ He grinned. ‘But she’s got nothing on you.’ And with that, he leaned in to kiss her again.
‘Frederick Reeves!’ I bellowed, in mock horror, from the top of the steps. ‘What on earth do you think you are doing with my secretary?’ I couldn’t resist interrupting the two of them. ‘Unhand her at once!’ I said. Miss Bunting had already caught me in a compromising position and it was high time I returned the favour.
Freddie leapt away from the girl at the first sound of a raised voice but, as soon as he realised who it was, he relaxed. I stepped forward into the barn.
‘Christ, you frightened the life out of me, Henry! You shouldn’t creep up on people like that!’ He was smiling now but he did at least have the decency to look a little sheepish.
‘I saw the door open and heard a noise. If you are going to seduce Miss Bunting, you could at least have the good grace to find somewhere a little more private.’
He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘All right, you’ve got me. Seriously, though, what are you doing up and about? I thought you’d still be in bed.’
‘I would be, if it wasn’t for you. You’re the one who asked me to poke around out here. Speaking of which, hadn’t you better run along? You don’t want to miss the end of the tour.’
Freddie nodded, conceding defeat. He knew I wasn’t going to leave the two of them alone. He gave Miss Bunting a quick peck on the cheek and then disappeared out the door.
The girl lingered for a moment. ‘Crumbs, what must you think of me?’ she wondered, patting down her skirt with a mischievous smile.
‘You’re an adult,’ I said. ‘Your private life is your own affair.’ I was not about to cast any stones. ‘So long as you're discreet. And Freddie is quite a dashing young fellow.’
‘Isn’t he?’ She grinned, looking after him through the window. ‘Crikey, do you fancy him as well?’
‘Good lord, no!’ I spluttered. The very idea. ‘I’m a bit too long in the tooth for that sort of thing. And, in any case,’ I added, ‘it wouldn’t exactly be practical, now would it? Not with the life I lead.’
Miss Bunting grinned again and took me by the arm. ‘I suppose not.’ We moved through the door and out into the square. ‘But you are attracted to men?’ she asked. It was something the girl had clearly wondered about, though it was not an easy subject to broach. It was not something I particularly wanted to discuss either, but given all she knew about me, I supposed I would have to forgive the impertinence.
‘Yes, of course,’ I agreed briskly. ‘But unlike some people, Miss Bunting, I am capable of controlling my libido.’
She laughed. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ We stopped halfway across the drying floor and she regarded me seriously. ‘You should take a holiday. Go down to the coast where no-one knows you.’
‘Put on a frock and find a nice young man?’ I pulled a face. ‘Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me.’ Back in England, as a young woman, I had done exactly that, on more than one occasion. I would nip away for the odd few days, set myself up in some seaside town and find myself a likely local fellow. But those days were long gone.
‘You could nip over the border to El Salvador,’ Miss Bunting suggested.
‘I could do,’ I agreed, playing along with the idea. ‘I do have a couple of spare passports, if I ever feel the urge.’ Actually, those were for work, but there was nothing to stop me hopping across the border and finding myself some handsome young man in a neighbouring country, if I ever felt the need. ‘But, to be honest, it’s all too much bother.’
‘Everyone deserves a bit of fun,’ Miss Bunting said.
‘Within reason,’ I agreed. ‘Be careful with Freddie, though. He’s a decent enough fellow but he does have a bit of a roving eye.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed,’ the girl admitted glumly. She lifted a hand to brush away a stray hair from her face. She was wearing a bit of make up this morning, I noticed, and a rather fetching pair of flower-shaped earrings. That was for Freddie’s benefit, no doubt. Such things were not permitted back in the office. ‘But he is such a fun person to be around. And I don’t think he’d ever try to take advantage.’ She changed the subject. ‘So what are you doing out here this morning, anyway? I thought you didn’t want to see the estate?’
‘Never you mind. A bit of private business.’ We had reached the pathway leading back to the hacienda. ‘And I’m not quite finished yet. Trot along, there’s a good girl. I shall see you at lunch.’
‘All right.’ She squeezed my hand shyly. ‘Hilary.’
‘Mr Buxton to you.’
She laughed and moved off.
I waited for a moment until she was out of sight and then glanced along the track leading up into the fields. Where had that man Green got to
? I wondered. There were still a few questions I wanted to ask him. Perhaps he had followed the path up into the trees. It might be worth having a quick look, I thought.
The track trundled idly for about sixty yards before becoming intolerably steep. The coffee plants here were interspersed with a set of much taller trees, which formed a loose canopy above them, protecting them from the harsh glare of the sun. Not that there was much sun just now. The sky was beginning to cloud over. Clumps of green “cherries” were budding on some of the branches either side of me, but they were still several weeks away from their first picking. The fruits – if indeed they were fruits – would have to turn red first; and then Green and his colleagues would be out in force, alongside the Indians from the village.
I turned back and made my way past the dry store, the pasture and the stables, emerging unobtrusively into the front yard of the hacienda. A further line of trees on the opposite side masked another set of small buildings. This – if I remembered correctly from the map – was the negro accommodation, carefully shielded and out of sight of the rest of the plantation. Another pathway ran down to the makeshift road leading up from the village.
Something rather unpleasant was happening on the near side of the trees. A grim looking man in a straw hat was assaulting Joseph Green; punching him viciously in the stomach. Another fellow was pinning his arms behind his back. The labourer struggled to avoid two or three heavy blows, one of which struck him awkwardly across the face. I could hear snarls and abusive language coming from the man in the hat. Blood started to pour from Green’s nose. I brought my hand up to my mouth in horror.
Steven Catesby was striding past the fountain down the lawn towards the three men. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’ he demanded.
I was wondering that, too. The rest of the guests had already made their way back inside the house but Catesby must have heard Green crying out. I hesitated before stepping forward from the pathway, but Catesby had already seen me, as he strode towards the tree line, though he was too intent on the brutal tableaux ahead of him to shoot me even a cursory glance.
The tough looking fellow grabbed the top of Green’s head and pulled it up. The man in the hat – who I realised now was the overseer – then turned to address the new arrival. ‘I found him skulking in the trees, Mr Catesby.’ The man had a puffy face and an over-sized belly. His accent was difficult to place. ‘He was meant to be breaking rocks on the road, but he sneaked away just before eleven.’
Catesby regarded the prisoner severely. ‘Well, Joseph? Did you sneak away?’
‘I was not feeling well, mister,’ Green protested. ‘I needed to lie down.’
‘Did you ask permission to leave the work party?’
‘No, mister.’
Catesby bit his lip angrily. ‘You do not leave without asking permission!’
‘He would not let me!’ Green protested again, nodding his head at the overseer.
‘Did you ask him?’
The man’s face dropped. ‘No, mister.’
Catesby shook his head and then addressed the fellow in the hat. ‘Three lashes.’
The overseer grinned. ‘Reckon ten would be more like it,’ he suggested.
‘I said three, Peter. And then get him back to work.’
The overseer grunted in disappointment. ‘You’re too soft, Mr Catesby.’
‘You’d beat him half to death if I let you.’
‘It’s the only language they understand.’
Catesby sighed. ‘Do remember, we have guests this weekend. Please keep the workers away from the house. I don’t want any more disturbances.’
‘Yes, Mr Catesby.’ The overseer tipped his hat and then pulled Green away, shoving the poor fellow back along the path towards the road, where the punishment would doubtless be carried out in front of the other labourers. ‘Don’t you worry, Mr Catesby,’ he called back. ‘You won’t hear a peep out of them.’
The farm manager watched them go. Belatedly, he acknowledged my presence. ‘I’m sorry you had to see that, Mr Buxton.’
‘Bit impertinent, that fellow of yours,’ I observed, coming forward. ‘Ten lashes indeed!’
‘Oh, that’s just his way. He gets results, which is the main thing.’ It was not a glowing recommendation and it was clear Catesby had not intended it to be.
‘Even three seems a bit harsh,’ I added cautiously, ‘if you don’t mind me saying.’ I did feel somewhat responsible for the man’s predicament. ‘After all, if he wasn’t feeling well...’
Catesby shook his head in sudden anger. ‘Not feeling well, my foot. Mr Langbroek is right.’ Langbroek, I took it, was the name of the overseer. ‘He was skiving. These people need a firm hand, Mr Buxton. Mr Montana is right about that. Especially that one.’ He gestured down the lane, where Joseph Green was just disappearing from view between a couple of bushes. ‘Bad blood in his veins, I’m afraid.’ He turned back to the house and we moved off together. ‘Bad blood. Just like his brother.’
Chapter Five
The question floated awkwardly the length of the dinner table and I winced as soon as I heard it. Ricardo Gonzales, the engineer, had mentioned the fact that his wife would be expecting their first child towards the end of the year and the inevitable congratulations had led on to talk of children and such like. Miss Bunting’s question might have seemed a reasonable follow on but an older, more socially astute woman would have realised the perils of such personal enquiries.
Lunch had been served promptly at half past twelve and the house guests had gathered once again in the dining hall. The housekeeper had put on a passable spread – even she could not go wrong with cold meats and a few light vegetables – and I found myself tucking in greedily. It was not that long since breakfast, but I had already managed to work up quite an appetite.
My brain had undergone something of a workout too, courtesy of Joseph Green. I couldn’t help but feel responsible for what had happened to him, though in truth the fellow had rather brought it upon himself. He could, after all, have suggested some other time for us to meet up, when he wasn’t supposed to be digging out the road. The punishment Catesby had handed down to him, although severe, was not unreasonable. Whatever his private feelings towards Green – and why Catesby would have any feelings about the man at all I had no idea – he had not allowed it to affect his judgement. Despite what the labourer had claimed, I could not picture Steven Catesby losing his rag and beating someone to death. That overseer fellow, certainly – he looked like a nasty piece of work – but the estate manager? He did not strike me as the aggressive type at all.
I still couldn’t fathom why Joseph Green had wanted to talk to me in the first place. He didn’t know me from Adam and had no reason to think I would have any interest in Giles Markham’s death, let alone the death of his brother. So far as I could tell, Green had barely known my predecessor and, at least according to Mr Weiman, Markham had been in good spirits the last time he had been here. Our conversation had been cut short, however, so perhaps Green had not had time to pass on the really important details.
How any of this related to the break-in at my flat, I had no idea. That surely had more to do with Markham’s secret service work. And what about the theft of the visa money? Was that really to pay off gambling debts, as everyone at the legation had concluded, or was something else going on? Perhaps Freddie was right, and there was more to it than that. Whatever the truth, something odd was definitely going on here at the farm.
A more pressing concern for me, however, was my secretary’s excruciating faux pas. ‘Do you have any children, Mrs Weiman?’ Miss Bunting had asked, to the consternation of the entire room.
Gunther Weiman, who was sat at my end of the table, immediately cut in to save his wife any embarrassment. ‘I’m afraid we have not been blessed in that way.’
Miss Bunting’s face fell, as she realised her mistake. I suppose it had seemed natural, given our hosts’ age, to assume that any children they had would have flown the nest
. It had not occurred to her that there would be no children. ‘I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t...’
‘Don’t concern yourself, my dear,’ Mrs Weiman reassured the girl smoothly. She was a kindly, dark-haired woman with large brown eyes and a pleasantly youthful face. ‘We have been blessed in so many other ways, haven’t we darling?’ Susan Weiman smiled across the table at her husband.
‘Indeed,’ he agreed, gazing back contentedly at his wife.
‘Have you been married long?’ I asked, anxious to move the conversation along.
The German smiled. ‘It will be eighteen years this September.’
‘Good lord,’ I exclaimed, setting down my fork. ‘That’s a good run. You were married before the war, then?’
‘Yes, in the autumn of 1913,’ Weiman told me. His eyes were still locked on his wife, at the opposite end of the table.
‘It must have been a bit tricky, during the war.’ A German man married to an Englishwoman.
‘We were far enough away not to be affected. And the German community in Guatemala is very supportive.’
‘There’s quite a sizeable enclave here,’ George Talbot put in, by way of explanation. The dull banker was seated opposite me once again, with Mrs Montana to his right. ‘They’ve cornered the market in coffee production.’
‘And Germany is our biggest market,’ Weiman said. ‘Most of our coffee ends up passing through Hamburg.’
‘Unfortunately, the price has plummeted these last couple of years,’ Steven Catesby lamented. ‘And it’s still falling.’ The depression had hit everybody hard.
