“but there are a few facts about our business that the general public doesn’t understand. Did you know that breweries loan money to people who want to go into the pub business?”
Witherspoon didn’t know that, but he was loath to admit it. “Er—”
“No, of course you don’t. But that’s what we do, you see. We loan money to people so they can go into the pub business, and in return, they have to sell our goods exclusively. We’re quite particular about who we lend our money to, as well. One couldn’t just hand out capital toany person who came along and wanted to open a public house, could one?”
“No, I suppose one couldn’t,” Witherspoon replied politely.
“Bestal’s insists upon the very highest standards of integrity and character. Do you understand?”
“I think so.” The inspector was dreadfully confused. What did all this have to do with anything? But he schooled himself to be patient.
“It’s quite competitive, the beer business,” Luther Pump interjected. “Beer consumption has fallen dreadfully in the last ten years. Those awful temperance lobbies have seen to that. Thank God the Conservatives are back in power. It’s a wonder the Liberals didn’t drive us all to the poorhouse.”
“I’m sure the inspector isn’t interested in the political aspects of the brewery business, Luther,” Magil said irritably.
As Witherspoon didn’t have a clue what the Liberals or the Conservatives had to do with pubs and beer, he said nothing.
“But as I was saying,” Magil continued, “we loan money to people to finance their pubs and we have very, very strict rules about that.”
“And these rules are?”
Magil waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, most of them don’t really matter, at least they had nothing to do with our visit to Haydon Dapeers. What is important is that Dapeers had contacted us telling us that he had information of grave concern to us.”
Witherspoon sighed silently. His inner voice was silent, his head hurt and the smell of this place was making him ill. “And what would that be, sir?”
Magil leaned forward, his expression as somber as avicar conducting a funeral. “I trust you keep what I’m going to tell you completely confidential.”
“Er, I’m not sure I can give you that assurance, sir. This is a murder investigation, you know. Whatever you say to me can be used in evidence at a trial.”
Magil glanced at his colleague.
Pump nodded almost imperceptibly. “We’ve got to tell them,” he said. “It’s far better for the inspector to know the truth now than to risk us having to testify to it in open court.”
“But—” The inspector tried to tell them that even if they told him now, they might still have to testify in court.
But Magil wasn’t listening to him. “You’re right, of course,” he said to his colleague.
He turned to the two policemen and leaned closer. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he said, “Haydon Dapeers implied the most awful thing. He said he had evidence that one of our pubs was watering down the beer.”
Wiggins’s feet hurt, his shirt collar was too tight and his stomach still felt queasy. He wished he were home sitting in the cool of the kitchen rather than hanging about on Bonham Road trying to find someone who knew something about the murder.
“You look peaked, boy,” a woman’s voice said from behind him.
Wiggins whirled around and saw a woman with blue eyes and dark brown hair smiling at him. She was dressed in a pale lavender dress and had a rather tatty white feather in her hair. At first glance he thought she must be in her thirties, but upon closer inspection he realized she was young, probably not more than a few years older than himself. “It’s the sun,” he murmured, feeling his cheeks starting to flame as he realized exactly what this woman was.“I expect I ought to get inside and sit down.”
Her smile turned coy. “I’ve got a room across the way.” She jerked her chin toward a small,
Witherspoon didn’t know that, but he was loath to admit it. “Er—”
“No, of course you don’t. But that’s what we do, you see. We loan money to people so they can go into the pub business, and in return, they have to sell our goods exclusively. We’re quite particular about who we lend our money to, as well. One couldn’t just hand out capital toany person who came along and wanted to open a public house, could one?”
“No, I suppose one couldn’t,” Witherspoon replied politely.
“Bestal’s insists upon the very highest standards of integrity and character. Do you understand?”
“I think so.” The inspector was dreadfully confused. What did all this have to do with anything? But he schooled himself to be patient.
“It’s quite competitive, the beer business,” Luther Pump interjected. “Beer consumption has fallen dreadfully in the last ten years. Those awful temperance lobbies have seen to that. Thank God the Conservatives are back in power. It’s a wonder the Liberals didn’t drive us all to the poorhouse.”
“I’m sure the inspector isn’t interested in the political aspects of the brewery business, Luther,” Magil said irritably.
As Witherspoon didn’t have a clue what the Liberals or the Conservatives had to do with pubs and beer, he said nothing.
“But as I was saying,” Magil continued, “we loan money to people to finance their pubs and we have very, very strict rules about that.”
“And these rules are?”
Magil waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, most of them don’t really matter, at least they had nothing to do with our visit to Haydon Dapeers. What is important is that Dapeers had contacted us telling us that he had information of grave concern to us.”
Witherspoon sighed silently. His inner voice was silent, his head hurt and the smell of this place was making him ill. “And what would that be, sir?”
Magil leaned forward, his expression as somber as avicar conducting a funeral. “I trust you keep what I’m going to tell you completely confidential.”
“Er, I’m not sure I can give you that assurance, sir. This is a murder investigation, you know. Whatever you say to me can be used in evidence at a trial.”
Magil glanced at his colleague.
Pump nodded almost imperceptibly. “We’ve got to tell them,” he said. “It’s far better for the inspector to know the truth now than to risk us having to testify to it in open court.”
“But—” The inspector tried to tell them that even if they told him now, they might still have to testify in court.
But Magil wasn’t listening to him. “You’re right, of course,” he said to his colleague.
He turned to the two policemen and leaned closer. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he said, “Haydon Dapeers implied the most awful thing. He said he had evidence that one of our pubs was watering down the beer.”
Wiggins’s feet hurt, his shirt collar was too tight and his stomach still felt queasy. He wished he were home sitting in the cool of the kitchen rather than hanging about on Bonham Road trying to find someone who knew something about the murder.
“You look peaked, boy,” a woman’s voice said from behind him.
Wiggins whirled around and saw a woman with blue eyes and dark brown hair smiling at him. She was dressed in a pale lavender dress and had a rather tatty white feather in her hair. At first glance he thought she must be in her thirties, but upon closer inspection he realized she was young, probably not more than a few years older than himself. “It’s the sun,” he murmured, feeling his cheeks starting to flame as he realized exactly what this woman was.“I expect I ought to get inside and sit down.”
Her smile turned coy. “I’ve got a room across the way.” She jerked her chin toward a small,
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