by Jack Treby
‘Mr Catesby was telling me he and Mr Talbot had a bit of a barney this afternoon.’
‘An argument, Monsieur?’
‘Yes. I’ve no idea what it was about. Some business thing, I imagine.’ I dropped my arms and Maurice picked up a brush to give the jacket a quick once over. ‘He is the estate manager, after all. Funnily enough, that American fellow was discussing something similar before lunch, with Mr Weiman. I only heard a brief snatch of it. I wonder if it could be the same thing.’
The valet stepped back to examine his handiwork. ‘It is not impossible, Monsieur.’
‘And, now I come to think of it, Mr Talbot told me he had a bit of paperwork to complete when I spoke to him at breakfast. Isn’t that odd? All these heated discussions and then the poor fellow falls down the stairs.’ I rubbed an eyebrow. ‘It’s the devil of a coincidence.’
‘Yes, Monsieur.’
I frowned. ‘And you know how much I abhor coincidences.’
‘Yes, Monsieur. You have said so many times.’ Maurice moved across to the bedside table and set down his brush.
I pursed my lips, ignoring the implied criticism. ‘I just wish I knew what sort of business it was. Talbot was the family banker. Perhaps he was calling in a loan or something like that?’
‘It is possible, Monsieur. Forgive me. You do not believe Monsieur Talbot’s death was an accident?’
‘I don’t know. I mean, it must have been, mustn’t it?’
The valet refused to be drawn. ‘I could not say, Monsieur. Did you see anyone moving about, at the top of the stairs?’
‘What? No, no-one at all. But then he’d already tripped up by the time I got there. It surely can’t have been deliberate, though?’
Maurice was keeping an open mind. ‘It does not take much to push a man down the stairs,’ he pointed out.
‘No. No, it doesn’t. Oh, lord.’ I closed my eyes. ‘Please don’t let it have been deliberate.’ Even the possibility was bringing me out in a cold sweat. ‘The last thing I need is to be involved in anything like that again. Not with the minister breathing down my neck back at the legation.’
‘Yes, Monsieur. It would be rather inconvenient.’
‘It would be a disaster.’ I clutched the side of my face and shuddered. Try as I might, however, I could not entirely dismiss the possibility. What if somebody had deliberately pushed George Talbot down the stairs? ‘If it wasn’t an accident, then Mr Catesby must be involved somehow. He’s the one who’s meant to be looking after the books.’ Perhaps he had been creaming money off the farm accounts, like Giles Markham with the visa money. ‘And he did kill that coloured fellow, according to Alberto. Even if it was an accident. I just wish I knew the man a little better. He seems amiable enough to me. He was quite cheerful last night, when we were playing cards.’
‘He is not well liked in the house,’ Maurice volunteered.
‘Not popular below stairs?’
‘No, Monsieur. Unlike the master, Monsieur Catesby does not treat the servants well.’
‘They said as much?’ That was interesting.
‘Not in so many words, Monsieur. But the atmosphere is unmistakable. However, Monsieur Catesby is not the only person who may have had reason to do harm to Monsieur Talbot.’
‘Oh?’
Maurice took a moment to consider his words. ‘I believe the American gentlemen also had words with Monsieur Talbot this afternoon.’
‘Mr Montana? The United Fruit man?’
‘Yes, Monsieur. I was taking in some washing from the kitchen garden earlier this afternoon, just before the rain came. The garden is adjacent to the lawn at the rear of the hacienda.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it. Get to the point, Morris.’
‘I heard raised voices coming from the back lawn. Monsieur Talbot and Monsieur Montana were having an argument. Quite a serious one, I believe.’
‘Lord.’ I scratched my head. ‘Do you know what they were arguing about?’
‘I did not stop to listen, Monsieur.’
I growled. ‘Fat lot of use you are, Morris.’
‘But I do not believe Monsieur Talbot and Monsieur Montana were friends.’
‘No. Chalk and cheese, those two.’ An English banker and a fast-talking American, it was hardly surprising. ‘So it looks like Mr Talbot upset pretty much everybody before he died.’ I growled. That was all I needed to hear. I moved across to the bedside table and poured myself a stiff drink. I never travel anywhere without a decent supply of whisky. ‘I don’t know, Morris. Perhaps we’re reading too much into all this. That rain on the terrace, it was pretty lethal. I almost lost my footing myself. He probably did just slip. And why would anyone want to kill a bank manager anyway? It’s not as if a bank’s going to write off a debt just because the manager pops his clogs. It doesn’t make any sense.’
‘No, Monsieur,’ Maurice agreed.
The guests had scattered across the house. Supper was still some time away and nobody felt much like socializing. The body of George Talbot had been moved into the back hall. Catesby, Freddie and Mr Montana had lifted him onto a table, which had been placed between the back stairs and the kitchen, and then covered him over with a white sheet. It was the quietest decent place they could find, I suppose. In the ordinary course of events, the body should have been left where it was, but if a doctor couldn’t get here until morning we could hardly leave the fellow lying prone out on the terrace all night long.
Anita Montana, the attractive Italian woman, was talking to Miss Bunting as I arrived in the living room. Freddie was standing in the far corner, helping himself to a drink from a table by the front windows. I strode over to join him. He gave me a quiet nod and poured me out a brandy. ‘Where’s Mrs Talbot?’ I asked.
‘Sitting out on the front terrace with Susan.’ He gestured through the windows. ‘Oh, Emily said she wanted to have a word with you. I told her what happened this afternoon,’ he confided. ‘About Giles Markham and that negro bloke. And about you.’
I took a sip of the brandy. ‘You mean, that you brought me here under false pretences?’
He chuckled. ‘Well, she knew that already.’
‘Did she now?’ I grunted in disapproval. Freddie was rather too free with that tongue of his. There are some things one should not discuss, even with a sweetheart.
‘Well, we could hardly not talk about it, could we,’ he protested, ‘after that break in at your flat.’
Miss Bunting had by now caught my eye. She waved a hand at me and skilfully disentangled herself from the Italian woman.
Freddie gamely took up the slack. ‘Mrs Montana, can I get you another drink?’ he asked, marching across. The woman demurred but greeted the blond man with a fair degree of warmth. Freddie, for his part, was all smiles.
Miss Bunting rolled her eyes at the sight of them, but her expression fell as she drew close to me. ‘Crumbs, what a dreadful day,’ she said. ‘That poor man.’
‘It’s a terrible business,’ I agreed, finishing off my brandy in one quick gulp.
‘And his poor wife. I was just coming out of my room when he tripped. I heard the thump.’ She frowned. ‘At the time, I thought somebody must have dropped something.’
‘You didn’t see it happen?’
‘No. At least, not exactly. That was what I wanted to talk to you about.’ She kept her voice low and we shuffled carefully away from the windows.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I heard the thump and then moved along the balcony, heading for the back stairs. You can see out onto the terrace from there, through the arch. And I thought I saw...well, a flash of something.’
‘A flash?’
‘A person,’ she corrected, ‘moving away. Someone at the top of the stairs. Just an impression of them. But after what Freddie told me happened to that other man...’
‘You think Mr Catesby might have been involved?’ It seemed I was not the only one to have come to that conclusion.
‘Well, that’s the thing. His bed
room is on the other side of the back stairs, at the rear of the house.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it.’
‘But a moment or two after the thump I saw him coming out of his bedroom and onto the landing. That was when we both heard the scream. And then Señor Gonzales came out of his bedroom.’ Which was above the kitchen on the near side of the stairs. ‘And he rushed down ahead of us.’
‘So if there was a figure out there on the terrace, it couldn’t have been Mr Catesby?’
‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Or at least, I don’t think so. Have you been on the upper terrace?’
‘Er...just the bit outside my room, at the front. If the shutters are back, you can step out through the windows.’
‘That’s just it,’ she agreed. ‘It’s the same all round. I had a bit of a wander after lunch, looking at all the flowers in the baskets. They’re very pretty, you know.’
‘Er...yes, they are,’ I said, not quite sure what she was getting at.
‘Did you know it goes right the way around the house? The terrace, I mean. Well, apart from the bit above the kitchen.’ She grinned. ‘You’ll think me silly, but I was so annoyed when I discovered that. I had wanted to walk the whole way around the building. But anyway...’ And here at last she came to the point. ‘Mr Catesby’s room is the same as ours. It has a set of windows leading out onto the terrace.’
I nodded gravely. ‘So in theory he could have pushed Mr Talbot down the stairs, rushed into his bedroom and then come out the other side a moment later, looking all sweet and innocent.’
‘I suppose so,’ Miss Bunting conceded. ‘If you really think there may have been foul play.’
‘It’s a serious possibility, I’m afraid. But if all of the bedrooms have access to that terrace then pretty much anyone could have pushed him down the stairs and rushed around to one of the other bedrooms.’ The Weimans’ room was the next one along, on the north east corner; then there was Mrs and Mrs Talbot in the middle room on the east side and the Montanas at the front.
‘But why would anyone want to kill Mr Talbot?’ Miss Bunting wondered, quietly. ‘Crumbs, he was hardly the most exciting of men.’
‘A bit of a bore,’ I agreed. ‘Poor fellow.’ And, come to think of it, none of the people coming downstairs afterwards had looked in the least bit damp. Not that I had bothered to check, of course; and the roof would have protected them from most of the rainfall in any case. ‘Perhaps we are reading too much into this,’ I said. ‘Maybe it was just an accident. These things do happen.’ I wasn’t convincing anybody, least of all myself. ‘It might be worth finding out where everybody was at the time, though. Who did you see upstairs?’
‘Well, there was Señor Gonzales. And Mr Catesby. And me, of course. But as soon as we heard that scream, we all headed straight down the stairs.’
‘Gonzales looked rather startled,’ I recalled, ‘when I bumped into him.’ I wondered what he had been doing up there; and where his wife had been. I had not seen Consuela Gonzales since lunch time. ‘I might just go and have a word with Mrs Gonzales, if I can find her.’
Miss Bunting nodded. ‘She’s out on the terrace, I think.’ She gestured to the side windows. ‘And I shall pour myself another drink.’
I left my secretary to her brandy and moved across to the shutters, stepping out onto the east terrace. The engineer’s wife was outside, keeping her own company. It was dark now and the only thing visible across the balustrade was the outline of an administrative block a few yards away. ‘Not much of a view,’ I said, coming to a rest beside her. At this hour, the pasture land on the far side was all but invisible.
Consuela Gonzales dipped her head gently to acknowledge my presence, but did not say anything in reply. She was not a great talker. Probably a bit out of her depth in this environment. I would do my best to put her at her ease.
‘Can I get you a drink? This must all be rather distressing for you.’
‘No, thank you. You are very kind.’ Her accent was milder than her husband’s and rather more pleasing to the ear. ‘I did not know Mr Talbot. He seemed a nice man. It is terrible that he should die like that.’
‘Yes, it is’ I agreed. ‘These things happen, unfortunately. Your husband looked rather shocked when he tromped down the stairs.’
Mrs Gonzales nodded. ‘He has met Mr Talbot before. They are not friends,’ she added matter-of-factly, in case I should get that impression. ‘We have an account with the bank. My husband pays in his wages every week. Sometimes he would see Mr Talbot. We are doing our best to save a little, but it is not easy.’ Her hand dropped unconsciously to her belly. There was no discernible bump that I could see, but it was difficult to tell in the half light coming from the living room.
‘When are you expecting?’ I asked. It was not a question I would usually ask of a woman but I had the feeling Mrs Gonzales would not mind.
She smiled up at me then. She was rather a short creature – perhaps four feet eleven – but her eyes were dark and full of life. ‘Not until January.’
‘What are you hoping for? A boy or a girl?’
‘Ricardo is hoping for a boy. I do not mind, so long as it is healthy.’ She looked out again across the railing. ‘I hope he gets back soon. I do not like him being out on his motorbike after dark.’
‘Yes, on these roads, always a bit tricky.’ It was bad enough on horse back; but at least the motor-bicycle had a decent head lamp. ‘I’m sure he’ll be back soon. It was very kind of him to volunteer.’ Actually, Mr Weiman hadn’t given him much choice.
‘The señora wanted to go with him to the village.’
‘Mrs Talbot?’
‘She has a daughter. It is so sad. She will need to tell her what has happened. But Señor Weiman has persuaded her to wait until tomorrow. He will take her down to the village so that she can make a telephone call.’
‘Probably sensible,’ I agreed. ‘Not a good idea for her to be out and about just now. Mind you, it won’t be ideal, passing on that kind of news over the telephone. You forget how isolated we are out here, on the farm.’
As if to emphasize the point, a loud clunk sounded off to my left, followed by a vicious juddering noise; and all at once the hacienda was plunged into darkness.
Chapter Seven
The hum of the generator had been a constant presence throughout the evening. The machinery was housed in a small building to the rear of the main house and when it cut out it left behind a deathly silence. ‘That sounded nasty,’ I muttered. The death throws had been loud but mercifully brief. Behind me, in the living room, some enterprising soul was already grabbing a candle and starting to light it. I was more interested in what had happened to the generator.
I left Mrs Gonzales to rejoin the others and made my way along the side terrace, using the handrail as a guide. The generator house was situated at the far end, a few feet across the lawn on the east side, though all I could see of it at the moment was a black outline in the gloom. As I reached the far corner, I spotted a dark figure moving furtively across the grass, away from the outhouse. The garden was surrounded by trees and all I could make out of the fellow was a deep blur as he moved towards the gate on the opposite side of the lawn. A short uphill path led from there to a longer track running parallel to the back of the hacienda. Another access route to the fields, apparently; a path the West Indians labourers would use to go to work, come picking season. The man – if it was a man – moved swiftly through the gate and disappeared from view.
I stood for a moment with my hand on the balustrade, wondering if I had imagined seeing him. The garden really was as black as pitch. Then, all at once, a light appeared off to my left. Gunther Weiman had emerged onto the terrace, holding a lantern aloft. Steven Catesby was with him. The two men moved down onto the lawn and quickly crossed to the outhouse. The back garden, unlike the front, was more or less on a level. Catesby stopped at the door of the outhouse and grabbed hold of a metal chain hanging down from its front. I wasn’t sure if he had noticed me o
n the terrace. Probably not. The porch was rather dark, with the upper balcony looming over me, and his attention was focused elsewhere. He muttered something I couldn’t quite hear, then pulled the door open and disappeared inside. Mr Weiman followed behind, lantern in hand.
I stood watching for some minutes as the light flickered inside the small building. Behind me, the house was gradually lighting up, as the maid rushed to set out lamps in the dining room and light the regular evening candles. A similar process was taking place in the living room. The low hum of conversation resumed. No-one seemed particularly concerned by the abrupt loss of power. Cuts were part of everyday life here and I doubted it was the first time there had been problems with the generator. This time, however, the machine had been deliberately sabotaged. Why else would that man have run away like that?
Raised voices were already floating through the door of the outhouse. Mr Catesby and Mr Weiman had discovered the truth. I strained my ears, trying to make out what they were saying, but without success. An argument was in progress, that much was obvious, and as the minutes passed it showed no signs of letting up. Angry voices spat across the gloom, sometimes dying away but then quickly re-emerging. Finally, Catesby stormed out of the hut. The blind fury on his face was plain to see even in the dim light now emanating from the main house. He barrelled across the lawn and back up into the hacienda. What was that about? I wondered.
A couple of minutes passed and then Gunther Weiman emerged. He turned and calmly locked up the outhouse behind him. Even with the lantern illuminating his face, however, his expression was unreadable.
There was no sign of Catesby at supper that evening and it was a sadly depleted group who gathered in the dining hall. The flickering candles cast a dim glow across our faces as we settled ourselves down. Mrs Talbot had retired to bed, understandably distressed, and both of our hosts were late. Mrs Weiman had taken up some water for the grieving widow and given her something to help her sleep. I don’t know what Mr Weiman was doing. Ricardo Gonzales was down in the village, of course, and even the house boy, Moses, was notable by his absence, though he did turn up eventually.
