There's Trouble Brewing

by Nicholas Blake

  The task of salvage, it appeared, had been unusually easy because of the sandy bottom of the cove. Divers had gone down and fastened grapnels to the wreck, which had then been dragged in by powerful winches set up on the shore. The Gannet was a melancholy sight now, lying wearily over on one side, her hull charred, her upper-works black and blistered, the engine a tortured corpse of metal.

  ‘Gives you a shock, doesn’t it?’ Flaxenham said rather unexpectedly to Nigel. ‘Like human beings, boats are. All alive and kicking when they’re on the water, and now she looks like a dead body. A cruel shame it is.’

  ‘Mr Bunnett was real fond of her,’ said Faulkes, staring at The Gannet with those long-distance eyes of his.

  The foreman of the gang came up to them, and said:

  ‘There’s a stiff in the cabin, sir.’

  The sound of the mouth organ floated down to them, like the fluting of an irresponsible cherub—

  ‘I went to sea to see the sea——’

  Nigel felt an almost irresistible impulse to burst into tears.

  The smell of charred wood and burned metal lay heavy on the summer air. Well, there was no use getting worked up about it. The Gannet had been burned alive and there was a stiff in the cabin. Let Tyler see to it.

  Already the inspector was clambering up the boat’s sloping side. A timeless silence, a hush only emphasised by the hushed and rhythmic plashing of the waves. The mouth-organ player was silent. The knot of men stood about silently, as if waiting for a funeral. After what seemed a very long time the inspector reappeared and beckoned to Elias Faulkes: the two of them went into the cabin. Another long pause. The small boys began to get restive and started clambering over the rocks on the western side of the cove.

  Inspector Tyler was standing on the deck, bending down to Flaxenham. He looked oddly like an actor on the stage conferring with the producer during a rehearsal, Nigel thought. He could hear him say quietly:

  ‘Bloxam is there. Burnt to death. Not much left of him. Faulkes recognises his ear-rings, and he’s got one of those bracelets with his name on it. Looks as if the fire started in there—paraffin lamp all buckled up. We’ll have to get an expert in on this, sir.’

  ‘I’ve sent for one. Expecting him along any time. Shall we get the body out now?’

  Nigel wandered away. He felt dazed. So many questions to find an answer to. It all seemed trivial, compared with the fact of Miss Mellors dead and Bloxam dead—two people who had done no one any great harm, killed because they didn’t fit in somehow with a murderer’s plans. Or was that true of Bloxam? No reason why the fire on The Gannet should not have been accidental. A murderer would not want to set fire to his alibi, after all. After two murders one was apt to get morbidly suspicious.

  ‘Hoy, mister, there’s a boot in yurr!’

  Nigel looked up, startled. The voice appeared to proceed, like an oracle, out of solid rock. Then, staring in its direction, he saw a boy’s head growing—it seemed—from a heap of seaweed. Approaching nearer, he perceived that the piled-up drift half concealed the entrance of a cave at the foot of the cliff.

  ‘A boot?’ he said, somewhat bemused. ‘A football-boot, sea-boot, elastic-sided boot, surgical boot, or what?’

  ‘Naw, mister, a boot.’

  This conversation was evidently not going to get Nigel much further, so he bent his head, entered the narrow opening and found himself in a cave whose floor sloped upwards and whose roof was invisible. Inside the cave was another small boy jumping excitedly up and down on the seat of the ‘boot.’ It was The Gannet’s dinghy. Another piece of the puzzle fitted into its place.

  ‘Give over, Buffy!’ yelled the first small boy, ‘yurr’s one of the gents come aafter they smugglers.’

  The dancing one gave over, and Nigel fixed him with an unrelenting stare.

  ‘What smugglers?’ asked Nigel.

  ‘The smugglers as came in that thurr boot.’

  ‘But they—it wasn’t a smuggler.’

  ‘Gourrn!’ Course they was. What’d they be doing in the Smugglers’ Cave else? What’d they pile the drift against the mouth of the cave for, like Gran says her father toold her the smugglers used to do, if they wurrn’t?’

  Nigel had an inspiration. He addressed the boy gravely.

  ‘Well, it mightn’t have been a smuggler. In fact—can you keep a secret?’

  ‘Slit my throat!’

  ‘Maybe he will if you don’t,’ Nigel said, with bloodcurdling emphasis on the ‘he’. The boy received this with keen relish. Nigel went on, ‘Now here’s this smuggler. He comes ashore with the stuff. It’s not hidden in here, is it? No Very well. He must have taken it inland. Now, how did he do that? Had he a car or a motor-bike waiting for him? We’re pretty sure he had no accomplice on land—which means there must have been a motor-bike hidden somewhere up on the cliff ready for him to ride off on. Do you know anywhere a motor-bike could be hidden, near here?’

  ‘Ah, that’s right,’ said the boy. ‘He’d have a motor-bike hidden. No, he wouldn’t, though, he’d have a faast airyplane with a hollow propellor for to hide the jewels inside—or was it drugs, mister? Seen that on the flicks, I have.’

  ‘He might have had a fast aeroplane,’ rejoined Nigel with admirable patience: ‘or he might have had the Graf Zeppelin. But, as it happens, he didn’t. It was a motor-bike. The question is, where was it hidden?’

  ‘Hey, mister!’ Buffy suddenly uncorked himself and yelled into Nigel’s face. ‘Hey, mister! What about that motor-bike Fred seen laast week in th’ shed up along?’

  ‘Now you’re talking. That might be it. Tell me all about it. What day was it, first?’

  ‘Sunday before laast. Fred and Curly here and me comes up yurr, and me and Curly dares ’ee to go into that shed thurr the airyplanes be going to bomb. Fred, ’ee can’t read, see, ’ee’s daaft, see, so ’ee don’t rightlee know this shed’s a taarget for the airyplanes. So Fred ’ere creeps along on belly towards shed, and thurr was me and Curly fair splitting laarfing, see, ’cos we’m waiting for they airyplanes to come along and blow old Fred to bloody bits, see. Reckon ’ee had the laarf on us though, mister, ’cos they airyplanes never come aafter all,’ Buffy added with some chagrin.

  ‘Too bad,’ said Nigel sympathetically. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘Well, Fred, ’ee goes into shed and ’ee finds a motor-bike hidden beneath a crop of nettles and that. ’Ee beckons to we and aafter a bit us runs into shed and sees un, too. A Rudge motor-bike it wurr.’

  ‘A new one?’

  ‘No. Reg’lar battered old thing.’

  ‘You didn’t tell anyone about it?’

  ‘No fear, mister. Dad ’ee’d take the skin off Curly and me if ’ee’d knowd we’d been in thurr, and Fred ’ee’s daaft, see, ’ee caan’t speak properlee, only bumble like.’

  ‘Notice the number plate on the bike?’

  ‘No, mister.’

  By dint of distributing largesse and sinister threats in equal proportion, Nigel induced the boys to repeat their tale to Tyler. The shed was visited—it was a bare two hundred yards from the top of the cliff, lying in a fold of the down. Oil spots were discovered amongst the nettles and rubble where the motor-bicycle had lain. When the place had been thoroughly searched, without further result, they descended to the cove again. Nigel commented that it was a risky business for Bunnett to leave a bike in that shed for several days; if anyone had noticed it there, it would have been reported to the police in the course of their investigations, and the purchase of the bike might easily have been traced back to Joe. Anyhow, how could he know that the shed wouldn’t be bombed in the interval. The local constable then volunteered that none of the people in the district would go near this shed because a labourer had hung himself in it a few years back; and visitors would be kept off by the Air Ministry notices. Flaxenham said that, as far as the bombing went, anyone could find out by a few tactful inquiries when bombing operations were due to commence. Tyler said there was very little dange
r of the bike being traced to Bunnett: he would presumably purchase it by some roundabout method, and remove all marks of identification from it; when he had finished with it, he had intended no doubt to take it aboard and pitch it off the boat into deep water.

  Tyler’s theory of the crime was now fairly clear to Nigel. However, they had no leisure to discuss it yet. There was the dinghy to be examined: a number of fingerprints were discovered on it and on the oars; the prints of the two boys were taken, much to their delight. The expert, Mr Crankshaw, had by now arrived and was making his examination of The Gannet. He promised to telephone his report to Tyler as soon as the job was finished. He would not commit himself yet as to the origin of the fire. It was possible that it had started in the cabin, the result—say—of some carelessness by Bloxam in filling the paraffin lamp. Asked by Tyler whether it was possible for the lamp to have been upset by Bloxam getting out of his bunk in a sleepy, half-drugged state, Mr Crankshaw replied that it was most unlikely: the lamp was swung from the cabin roof and designed to stand rough treatment. On the other hand, there was certain evidence to suggest that the fire, or another fire, had originated in or near the engine. This again could only be the result of carelessness or deliberate incendiarism: more minute examination might enable him to judge whether it was the former or the latter. Generally speaking, he would vote for deliberate incendiarism; but petrol-engines were notoriously tricky things in careless or inexperienced hands.

  The inspector was in a hurry to get back to Maiden Astbury. Superintendent Flaxenham agreed to undertake the routine inquiries on the spot; to trace Joe Bunnett’s movements on his previous visit to supervise the installing of the engine, to find out whether he had been seen at any time in the vicinity of Basket Cove, to enquire locally into the sales of second-hand Rudges, and so on. Tyler and Flaxenham put their heads together over the map and worked out the quickest route between the cove and Maiden Astbury; enquiries would be made all along this route to discover if anyone had heard a motor-bike passing north on the night of the murder or returning south before dawn. Allowing for the meanderings of the lane near the coast, they calculated that the route could be little over twenty miles. Tyler would check it by his speedometer on his return journey.

  The police car started off. Tyler settled his huge bulk comfortably, turned to Nigel, and said:

  ‘Now, sir. This is my case against Joe Bunnett’—

  XIII

  July 20, 7.30–9.17 p.m.

  And when I think upon a pot of beer.

  BYRON, Don Juan

  NIGEL WAS NO subscriber to the theory that strong drink fuddles the intellect. Rather did he hold that, by taking off the censor and releasing the many subconscious influences which cloud, distort and inhibit the reason, strong drink gives the intellect free play and fair play. Thus it was not until seven-thirty that evening—the Cammisons had dined early and Nigel excused himself immediately after dinner—that he sat down alone to examine, aided by three bottles of beer, Inspector Tyler’s theory of the crime. He poured out the first bottle into his tankard, balanced the tankard on his lap, lay back and shut his eyes.

  Tyler’s theory, he said to himself: let me first restate it. The criminal is Joe Bunnett. His motive for murdering Eustace was his life-long oppression at Eustace’s hands, in particular his brother’s forbidding of the banns with Ariadne Mellors; all this brought to a head by Eustace’s intention to sell the brewery and thus throw his employees out of work. There may have been some other recent quarrel of which we have not heard, as well. That is reasonable enough motive. One may add, too, that Joe—humiliated by the way he had caved in to Eustace over Ariadne—was more or less consciously reasserting his manhood to her by killing Eustace; showing her in the most primitive, and therefore the most forceful way possible, that he was not the worm she and Eustace imagined him. Admittedly, it is on the face of it odd that he should have waited so many years to assert himself. But, as Herbert and Sophie have impressed upon me, Joe is a decent, ordinary fellow at heart—the sort that will contemplate violence only when it is justified by an altruistic motive, however deep the egoistic motives may be that in fact are drawing them towards this crisis of the will and explosion of violence.

  Nigel took a deep draught, sighed and lit a cigarette. The motive, then, is more than adequate. Now for Tyler’s reconstruction of the crime. According to him, Joe Bunnett prepared an almost perfect alibi, and an almost perfect crime, both of which failed through the interposition of Nemesis—or, as Tyler less classically puts it—damned bad luck. Joe had done a great deal of sailing off the Dorset coast. He knew the Basket Cove was a secluded spot, made doubly secluded recently by the purchase of the down behind it by the Air Ministry. Moreover, Joe was hail-fellow-well-met with all sorts of people; it would not be difficult for him to find out the periods when bombing practice would take place and the periods when he could leave the motor-bike in that shed with impunity. It is worth remarking that Basket Cove is almost the nearest point on the coast to Maiden Astbury. Up to this point—as far as he is concerned—every prospect pleases and only Eustace is vile.

  Now the method of the crime. Roughly, Joe intends to lure his brother into the brewery with the bait of an anonymous letter. He intends to arrive at the brewery himself well before his brother, disconnect the emergency bell of the refrigerator-room and meet Eustace by the entrance of the brewery. At this point, either he will tell Eustace that he himself is here because of an anonymous letter he has received and in due course he will get him into the refrigerator-room; or he will stun Eustace at once in such a way that the injury may later look to have been sustained in the course of Eustace’s struggles to get out of the room, and after stunning him will convey his body there. Joe’s knowledge of the night-watchman’s schedule would enable him to do all this with absolute certainty of not being discovered in the act.

  The murder was meant to look like an accident. Probably, if all had gone as Joe planned, he would have tried to get hold of the anonymous letter he had sent to his brother and destroy it; if found by the police, the letter might give rise to suspicion that the accident was not all it seemed. Accident, then, was to be Joe’s first line of defence. But, in case that failed, he prepared an alibi; not too perfect or elaborate an alibi; just a nice, reasonable one. He had an auxiliary engine installed on The Gannet. For two obvious reasons. You cannot rely on steady winds in the middle of summer; it was essential that Joe should arrive at Basket Cove on schedule—in plenty of time to be able to climb the cliff, pick up his hidden motor-bike and get to Maiden Astbury by 11.30 p.m. at the latest. It was equally essential that, on his return to The Gannet, he should not find himself becalmed; he planned, no doubt, to put in at Lyme Regis, or whatever was to be his next port of call, at such an hour that he might reasonably seem to have been sailing all night.

  How does Bloxam fit in with all this? On the whole I am inclined to agree with Tyler that Joe’s taking-on of Bloxam was a last-minute strengthening of his alibi, and not a part of the original plan. Tyler’s theory, sound enough surely, is that Joe told Bloxam he was going to stand the trick from 10 p.m., say, to 2 a.m. Before Bloxam turned in at 10 p.m., Joe prepared some coffee for them both, and put a sleeping powder into Bloxam’s. While Bloxam was in a drugged slumber, Joe would change course, make all speed towards the land, creep into Basket Cove (The Gannet was equipped with a powerful acetylene headlight, Elias Faulkes had informed them), anchor, race to Maiden Astbury, shut Eustace in the refrigerator-room, race back, get rid of the motor-bike—probably by wheeling it down the bridle-path, taking it aboard and throwing it into deep water—and get The Gannet some way along on her original course before awakening Bloxam.

  From the time The Gannet entered Basket Cove to the time she put out again there would be a minimum gap of two hours, Tyler calculated. Nigel took out the schedule of approximate times that Tyler had made up.

  10 p.m. J.B. takes over wheel.

  10.40 p.m. Anchors in Basket Cove; rows ashore; climbs cl
iff.

  10.50 p.m. Sets off on motor-bike.

  11.30 p.m. Arrives brewery; disconnects emergency bell; waits for Eustace.

  Midnight. Meets Eustace near brewery entrance; gets him to refrigerator-room; shuts him in.

  12.30 a.m. Rides out of Maiden Astbury.

  1.10 a.m. Arrives on cliff above Basket Cove, wheels bike down bridle-path, puts it in dinghy, and weighs anchor by

  1.20 a.m. Gannet puts out.

  1.33 a.m. Gannet back on original course. J. B. throws motor-bike out of dinghy, and—

  2 a.m. Awakens Bloxam.

  How is that two hours to be accounted for to Bloxam? The man might easily notice, when it grew light, that The Gannet was not nearly as far on her course as she should be. Probable answer: The Gannet is proceeding under sail only during Bloxam’s trick; Joe announces his intention of continuing under sail only; as soon as Bloxam is well asleep, Joe starts up the engine and uses the engine the whole time till just before he awakens Bloxam; this would make up most of the leeway, especially if the wind that night was light—as indeed it turned out to be. Bloxam, indirectly, would be able to confirm that the engine had not been used, for the unexpected sound and vibration of it would have awoken him out of any ordinary sleep, and he could have no reason to suppose that he had been drugged. In short, Joe had a witness who would be prepared to swear that he was sailing all night, and thus give him an excellent alibi for the crime—the more excellent for being apparently natural and not in the least elaborate.