After a long and tortuous dinner in which Lord Sibfield-Murray tried too hard to entertain them, and his wife too little, Veronica and Claire returned to the Bentley and made for Clerkenwell.
“That was excruciating,” Claire remarked as they drove through the twilight streets with the Bentley’s roof down. “I think for the sake of my parents’ sanity alone, we must try to solve this.”
“I agree. Did you discover where the secret place is?”
“Yes, but from Mummy whilst you went to powder your nose. Daddy’s still very much down in the dumps. You saw how non-talkative he was. That visit from Milton this afternoon was a straw too many for his poor old back.”
“I can understand that. Will the brewery be operating tonight?”
“No, the company runs a twelve-hour day. The watchmen will be there, though. Some of the brewing processes need watching around the clock. Things got a bit ticklish when the workers went on strike earlier this year. Daddy and Eddie both had to take turns watching the brew. Thankfully, the strike was settled.”
“In the workers’ favour, I hope. How many watchmen are there?”
“Four. We should only have to talk with the chap on the main gate and possibly the one guarding the bonded warehouse.” She pointed ahead to where the brewhouse tower rose above the surrounding houses, the upper levels of its five stories lit by the last of the setting sunlight. “I’ll avoid Brewhouse Court. It’s where the brew-master and other important workers live.”
Claire drove up to the wrought-iron gates. Above them was a curved glossy black painted wrought-iron arch bearing the legend Old Treadmill Brewing Co. in gold letters. An electric lantern hung beneath the apex, illuminating the gates.
A watchman emerged from some hidden corner to greet them. He peered at Claire and Veronica, then touched the brim of his bowler hat. “Good evening, Miss Claire, madam. What brings you here tonight? Everyone’s gone home.”
“We have some business here, Walter. It’ll only take an hour, at most. Is there anyone in the bonded warehouse who can let us in?”
“Frank’s there. Knock, and he’ll come to the door.” He looked dubious. “If you’re sure about being here after hours, miss?”
“Quite sure.”
Walter opened the gates, and Claire drove through into a large lamplit courtyard with various vehicles parked on either side. A number of them were long flat horse-drawn drays used to carry barrels to pubs throughout the city. To one side stood a couple of motor vans and a motor dray, all bearing the company livery of dark green with gold letters.
Veronica fished in the glove compartment and took out the torch kept there. She and Claire got out of the car and looked around. The air reeked of the sickly smell of hops, malt, yeast, coal smoke, and horse dung from the draft horse stables. Oil and petrol from the nearby motor vehicles added a synthetic note to the stench.
“Whoo!” Veronica fanned her nose. “There’s a bit of a pong around here.”
Claire chuckled. “I grew up with it, so pity me.”
“Poor you. Where shall we look?” Veronica peered up at the unlit windows of the Queen Anne Revival-style buildings surrounding the courtyard. They had the unnerving appearance of dark eyes staring back at her.
“The bonded warehouse, for starters.” Claire pointed to a long, broad building to the right. “According to Mummy, the secret hidey-hole is in the rear.”
“I can see why your father chose it. It’s close to the transport, and therefore it’d be easy to move goods in and out while appearing to be part of the brewery’s everyday traffic.”
“Exactly, clever clogs. Come along.”
They made their way over to the large main doors situated in the centre of the warehouse wall. An electric light over the doors illuminated a smaller picket gate with an iron knocker set into the door on the right.
Claire lifted the knocker and banged it three times. Veronica heard the echoes fade inside before the sound of footsteps approached the door. It opened to reveal a pimply moon-faced youth wearing a cheap pair of trousers, waistcoat over a white shirt, and a bowler hat that looked a size too large. He carried a lighted Tilly lamp, which he raised above the level of his head.
“Yes?” he asked, looking nervous.
“Frank? I’m Miss Sibfield-Murray, daughter of His Lordship. This is my friend, Mrs. Nash. Let us in, please.”
He ran his gaze over them. “I’m not sure if I ought, miss.”
“If you’re not sure of my identity, here’s my card.” Claire produced a calling card and handed it to the youth.
He read it with evident difficulty, and his eyes went wide. Veronica noticed beads of sweat break out under his hat brim.
“I...I really don’t know if I ought, miss. It’s dangerous? Yes. Dangerous. All sorts of barrels are perched on top of each other in here, miss.” He waved at a puddle between two of the nearby racks. “There’s spills and things on the floor.”
Claire frowned. “You’ve not much to do. You could mop up the spills.”
He shifted from foot to foot. “I can’t, miss. Union rules.”
Veronica stepped up to him and put her finger right in the centre of his narrow chest. “Frank, you’re waffling. Anyone would think you’re trying to keep us out for some other reason than health and safety.”
“Er...”
Claire looked cross. “For goodness sakes, boy! I grew up running around this place. Let us in, or by God, I’ll see you get the sack.”
Veronica put her hand flat on his chest and pushed him back. He retreated backwards into the warehouse, stumbling a little and making the Tilly lamp swing. As they stepped over the threshold into the dark cavernous space, Frank turned and trotted away in a receding globe of white lamplight. He splashed through the puddle of spilt beer, cursing as the liquid soaked his trouser hems. Within seconds, he turned a corner of the racks, and the lamplight faded.
“I have the oddest feeling about young Frank,” Veronica said, keeping her voice low.
“Blast that boy.” Claire fumbled around beside the picket door. “I didn’t want to threaten him in that way, but he wasn’t going to budge an inch otherwise. He must’ve been told by Eddie or Jacob to keep watch for intruders. Drat! Shine that torch this way, will you, darling?”
Veronica switched on the heavy torch and directed the beam at Claire where she stood groping along the wall beside the doors. The light exposed a panel of switches.
Claire tripped three of them. “Ah.”
Lights came on high overhead.
Veronica switched off the torch and looked around at the huge racks of beer barrels marching away into the shadowy depths of the warehouse. A neat row of sack barrows and specialised trolleys stood parked ready for the morning shift. The air here held the malty and yeasty smell of fully brewed beer.
Claire came to stand beside her. “There’s a tall but narrow concealed room right at the other end of this place,” she said, pointing. “It runs the width of the building. Mummy mentioned it was a spirits store. She said it dated from the time my grandfather experimented with making distilled liquors. I don’t recall any such room being there, so if it was walled off, it was long before my time.”
“Do you think Edward’s there now?” Veronica asked as they walked down the nearest aisle toward the end of the warehouse.
“Him and Jacob, possibly. If they’re there, young Frank will have warned them of our arrival.”
“You’re not worried they might harm us?”
“Of course I am, but I think they won’t.”
“That’s scant comfort, dearest.”
Claire grimaced. “It’s all we have. At least my parents and Walter at the gate will know we’re here. Walter’s the salt of the Earth. I’ve known him for years. He won’t be party to any shenanigans.”
“Good-oh.”
They came to the end of the aisle. The racks of barrels stopped some ten feet short of the dressed brick wall to make a workspace running the width of the building. More sack barrows and trolleys stood against the wall. In the corner to Veronica’s left, a section of wooden planking was fixed to the brickwork, its base standing on a low wooden platform. She pointed at it. “What’s that?”
Claire looked. “I think it’s what’s left of a shed that once stood there. It was used as a workers’ restroom or something.” She put her hands on her hips and scanned the surface of the wall. “I can see where the original doors to the room were. See the arch in the brickwork up there? Mummy couldn’t recall where the hidden entrance to the secret storeroom is, and I can’t see anything else that might be it along here.”
“Perhaps this could be the place.” Veronica walked over to the platform. “Yes, we’re getting warmer. Look here.”
Claire came over to look at the set of damp bootprints that tracked up and onto the platform. “Young Frank’s trail, but he didn’t stop for long.” She pointed. “See, the tracks lead off up that aisle.”
Veronica put on her spectacles and examined the planking. It presented a surface of smooth planed planks and crossbeams studded at intervals with nails and bolt heads. “There has to be some method of opening the secret door. Hmm, what’s this?” She reached up to grasp a large bolt head. “See how shiny it is, unlike the others? It’s all down to a bit of wear-and-tear, I think.”
“Twist it and see what happens,” Claire suggested, stepping back.
Veronica twisted the bolt first one way then the other. A distinct click announced success. She stepped back beside Claire and watched as a six-foot-high section of the planking swung towards them, revealing a black curtain.
“Ooh-er!” Claire whispered. “It looks like anything could be hiding behind there.”
“I think they hung it here to stop light showing through the gaps in the planks while they’re in the hidden room.”
Veronica switched on the torch, pushed back the thick curtain, and shined the beam through the opening. It lit another brickwork wall some twenty feet away, with a pile of four long flat wooden crates painted in a slate blue colour stacked against it. The sides were marked by black stencilled lettering and numbers.
“Oh dear...” She hesitated on the threshold of the room. “Those look all too familiar from the war.”
Claire craned her head to peer into the chamber. “Rifle crates? What on Earth are they doing here?”
Veronica frowned. I can guess. “We’d better go in. Let’s see if we can find a light switch.”
She stepped forward, feeling braver than she really wanted to be, and shined the light around this way and that. A Bakelite electrical board fixed by the opening appeared in the beam.
“There. Try that.”
Claire flicked the switch, and the long room lit up.
The room stretched some fifty feet in length. Old wooden shelves rose to either side. Most held more crates like the first they’d seen, with variations in size and markings but not colour. Shelves down the far end held bottles and packets of varying kinds. A beer barrel partially covered by a heavy canvas stood on a trolley to one side at the end of the shelving.
At the far end of the room stood a living area composed of a pair of bunk beds, an iron stove, a deal table with a small pile of books, a shelf with a set of plates and tin mugs, and a trio of mismatched wooden chairs. To one side was a curtained-off corner.
“Nobody’s home,” Claire said, sounding relieved.
“We’ll see in a moment.”
Veronica turned off the torch, and together they walked into the living area.
Veronica eyed the curtained-off corner and hefted the torch, thinking it would make a good weapon if necessary. Claire went over to the curtain and jerked it aside, her hand lifted ready to strike out if needed. The little alcove beyond contained a slop bucket, and a nail hung with scraps of newspaper fixed to the wall nearby. The smell gave away the purpose.
“You’re right, there’s nobody home.” Veronica examined the books. “The Torah, Shakespeare, Shaw, Socrates. Light reading, I see.”
Claire picked up the crimson leather-bound Shakespeare volume. “This is mine!” She flipped open the cover and pointed to the flyleaf. “Presented to me by Daddy when I toddled off to Cambridge for the first time.”
Veronica looked at her sidelong. “You weren’t much of an admirer of Shakespeare at school, dearest. I didn’t think you’d become one once we’d left Fenton Priory.”
“Oh, one can change over time, you know.” Claire hefted the heavy book. “I left this at the Percy Street house one summer when I was home for the holidays, and it just vanished.”
“Well, somebody from your family obviously pilfered it.”
“It has to be Eddie. He loves the Bard. I’ll jolly well pilfer it back when we leave.”
Veronica chuckled as she turned to survey the chamber. Her attention fixed on the barrel. “Do you think whoever lurks in here has helped themselves to the beer?”
Claire put down the book and stooped to examine the barrel. “This isn’t beer, it’s Tiger’s Eye India Pale Ale. One of our export brands.” She banged her fist on the side. Her blow made a dull booming noise. “It’s full by the sound of it.” She stepped back. “This is a fifty-gallon barrel, so whoever’s lurking in here has quite a thirst.”
Veronica tugged the canvas away from the barrel, and the wooden lid shifted slightly. “How odd. It’s not hammered down.”
“The mallet’s here on this shelf. They must’ve planned to hammer the lid in place.” Claire looked askance at Veronica. “So why have an unsealed barrel of ale in the hidey-hole?”
Veronica took hold of the big wooden lid with both hands and laid it against the barrel. She switched on the torch and directed the beam into the liquid. A pale face looked back at her from beneath the surface of the beer, eyes open but unseeing.
She gasped and stepped back. The torch beam wobbled as she lost her grip on the device. It clattered on the floor.
“There’s a body in here!”
Claire sat down heavily in the nearest chair and stared at the barrel. “What on Earth has Eddie got himself into?”