Chapter 9
BEER AND ALE
James acknowledged that the few times he’d been in the Mortlake Brewery, he had not looked at its workings.
After his conversation with Lord Mortlake, he was curious to learn more about its operation—and more about Haydon Vernon, the brewmaster, and his housekeeper’s nephew.
Mr. Vernon had been one of the people who had been in Miss Inglewood’s orbit.
He’d see whether he could learn more about their relationship.
Built of Kentish stone alongside the River Merton, a tributary of the River Medway, the three-story rectangular building commanded its location at the far end of the village.
Tall, arched windows dominated the east end of the building, while on the west end, a wide stone chimney billowed smoke from fireplaces lit at various levels.
Even if one did not know the building housed a brewery, the overwhelming smell of beer and barley in the air would reveal the building’s purpose.
When Sir James entered the building, he looked up.
The building was open to the roof in the center, with the U-shaped floors above looking down to the ground floor.
Open vats of liquid on the upper floors appeared in various stages of beer production, some with steam drifting up.
Sluices and leather hoses connected the vats on the different levels to each other.
James stopped a man carrying a ladle attached to a long stick. “Is Mr. Vernon here today?”
The man jerked his head upward. “Top floor, checkin’ the grind, sar.” He used his ladle stick to point to a broad oak staircase. “You can go up that way if’n ya wants to see him.”
James thanked the man and climbed the stairs, stopping occasionally to look at the work of the men in the areas he passed. From behind him came the heavy tread of a broad-shouldered man carrying a large grain sack on his shoulder. James stepped to the side to let him pass by.
The stairs ended near one of the hearths in the massive chimney. A soot-streaked man shoveled hot coals from the hearth to under a vat to heat the water another man pumped in. He paused a moment to look over Sir James as he dragged the back of his arm across his sweating forehead.
“Mr. Vernon?” James asked.
“That way,” the man said, indicating a walkway on the left.
Sir James nodded and continued down that way.
The top floor was hotter than the other floors, and made only bearable by the open roof windows.
The man who’d passed him carrying the sack of grain came back the other way, touching his forelock as he passed him.
James was struck with admiration that everywhere he looked, the men worked.
No casual conversations or pausing to rest and lean against railings occurred.
He mentioned that observation to Mr. Vernon when he came up to him by the barley grinder.
“Yes, sir. I wish I could say it were really a good work ethic, but in honesty, it’s a might more complicated than that,” Mr. Vernon said ruefully.
He brushed a lock of his burnished dark-red hair off his forehead.
“It’s getting too hot to make beer. Today’s the last day of beer brewing till autumn. ”
“I thought beer making was a year-round industry,” James said.
Mr. Vernon shook his head. “Nay. Not in our part of England. From tomorrow until October, we’ll only be making ale.
Making ale is not as complex as making beer, and I’ll not need as many workers.
No one wants to be let go for four months, but that’s a sad fact of the brewery business…
Lord Mortlake said I might see you,” Mr. Vernon said, canting his head to the side quizzically.
“He told me he’s planning a major brewery expansion,” James said by way of explanation.
Mr. Vernon’s mouth quirked to the side. “Yes. A moment, please. Silas, take that grist to Tommy to mash. He should have that water at temperature by now.” He pulled James to the wall to give Silas room to maneuver his large woven basket of ground grain to the vat of heated water at the end of the walkway by the staircase.
“By your expression, I gather you are not enamored with Mortlake’s plans,” James observed drily.
“We should expand,” Mr. Vernon said, walking with James toward the stairs, “just not as he plans with the expansion across the river and expecting me to run both. Beer and ale need managin’. I can’t go runnin’ hither and yon.”
“You’ll have to promote someone.”
Mr. Vernon laughed. “Aye. But who? But that’s a problem for another day; he don’t even have plans yet from that fancy architect he hired.”
“I told him I’m planning to build an oast house at Summerworth Park,” James said.
“Good! Some days, the Mortlake oast house can’t keep up with demand. If he wanted to expand, that is what he should have expanded first, that’s what I say. His oast house also needs to dry grain for other purposes, and sometimes that causes delays for us.”
“So you would buy from me?”
“Definitely, if your product’s to the right dryness,” Mr. Vernon said as they started down the stairs.
James nodded thoughtfully. “That helps solidify my plans for sooner rather than later.”
They stopped for a moment on the next floor down, and Mr. Vernon watched his workers draw the wort off from the vat on the floor above.
“You want a bright and clear wort to use,” he told James.
He nodded as he saw the liquid. “Looks good,” he said, then motioned James that they could continue down the stairs.
“At this second level, they’ll add the hops and yeast.”
“What conditions prevent the addition of hops?” James asked, knowing that was the crucial difference between beer and ale.
“The hops brew has to come to blood temperature within a certain timeframe. If it takes too long to cool, the taste will be off.”
“Blood temperature?” James queried.
Mr. Vernon laughed. “That’s what we call it. The same temperature as our blood.”
“Ah,” James nodded.
“Speaking of blood,” Mr. Vernon said as they reached the ground floor, “I was surprised at how little blood was on Mrs. Jones.” He slid a look toward James.
“One could hardly see the blood on her for all the chalk dust,” James said. “But, in truth, her injuries were primarily internal, from what Dr. Patterson said… I expect that is why she lived as long as she did.” His voice softened as he thought of Mrs. Jones.
Mr. Vernon’s lips compressed. He took a deep breath as he shook his head. “Poor woman. Do you think someone pushed her?” he asked tentatively.
“What do you think?” James countered.
He quickly shook his head, frowning. “No. I assume the ground gave way beneath her.”
“But that raises the question, why was she so close to the edge as to be in danger of crumbling chalk?”
Mr. Vernon took another deep breath and stared off into the brewery, then he looked back at James. “Fear,” he suggested.
James nodded. “That is what Lady Branstoke and I believe, especially after having found her brooch in the grass on the other side of the meadow.”
“I remember you said that at the inquest. All that makes sense to me,” Mr. Vernon said, still watching the activities of his staff. Then he turned toward James. “Come this way and I’ll treat you to a taste of our latest brews.”
He led James to a small bar. “No one would want to hurt Mrs. Jones,” he continued as he drew off a mug of beer from the large cask over the bar.
“Some people blame Mrs. Jones for Miss Inglewood’s death.” He accepted the mug from Mr. Vernon.
“That is ridiculous,” Mr. Vernon said quickly as he drew off a mug for himself. “Everyone knows she refused to give her that tea she wanted.”
“True. But did she later relent?”
Mr. Vernon shrugged. “I wouldn’t think so. Miss Inglewood asked everyone to get her some pennyroyal.”
“You don’t agree with the inquest findings that she died from iliac passion?”
Mr. Vernon gave a disgusted look as he shook his head. “No, nor do I feel she committed suicide. She was much too full of herself to do that. No, we all got her some of that plant she wanted. That’s what I believe, and she didn’t have the right recipe.”
“You said ‘we all.’ I’ve heard that she had a coterie of followers and you were part of that group.”
Mr. Vernon drew back. “Me? Hardly, though she kept trying, always sending me notes. She were pretty and lively enough to catch a man’s interest, in God’s truth,” he said with a sideways smile.
“But she were also too free with her sweet words and promises. I learned that fast enough,” he declared harshly.
“But I did get her that rotted plant. I could hardly not.”
James thought the swift change from smile to harsh words interesting. “I take it from what you say that she tried to capture your interest?”
“And the interest of any manor boy!” He took another drink of his beer, still frowning.
Noting Mr. Vernon’s heightened emotions, James thought it time to divert the subject slightly if he wished to learn more from Mr. Vernon.
“Do you know anything about a hut in the Mortlake forest where she and others gathered?”
Vernon nodded. “The old gamekeeper’s hut.
It’s close to the southeast corner of the Inglewood property.
Le Grange complained about the Mortlake gamekeeper living so close to his property because the man raised chickens and they were always squawking and getting into the Inglewood manor garden.
To keep peace, Mortlake had a new hut built at the other end of his forest.”
James mused on how everyone seemed to placate the Inglewoods. He wondered why, but said, “And Miss Inglewood claimed the hut as her private club.”
The brewer nodded. “She invited me to meet her there on several occasions. I was not interested.”
“Do you have any idea why your name has been suggested as a possible father of her unborn child?”