Cidered in Sidmouth Read online

  So she took the plunge.”You can tell us all about it. We know you didn’t mean it.”

  “Too darn right. It’s been driving me billid for months now. It’s wrong and if I were found out, I’d lose my licence and this pub. Fifteen years of my life I’ve put into this place. I don’t want to lose it now. And all over some cut‌-‌price cider.”

  “So you admit you had an arrangement with Billy?”

  “Yes, he managed to get me a small and steady supply of the drink. He brought some out of the yard most days. I don’t understand how he never got found out. Stored it in that gert big cider barrel of his in the courtyard. Drip feed, he said.”

  Gabriel almost looked grateful to be able to put into words the secret deception he had been hiding away for so long.

  “I knew it were wrong but I still sold it. I called it Special ‘oniton Select. I charged customers twenty five percent higher than my other brands. Even my regulars loved it. Because it were more expensive, they thought it were best quality. It were easy profit.”

  “Have you been able to get any more of this cider?”

  “Naw, not a chance. Billy were my sole supplier. I weren’t going to touch the rest of that cider in the barrel next door. Dead man’s blood and cider don’t mang too well with customers.”

  Frank smiled and changed the subject. “What was Billy like?”

  Gabriel looked off towards the small cider barrels on the bar and almost smiled. “Like a Sweet Coppin. He liked ‘is bibble. He always reminds, er, reminded me of that character in that Dad’s Army program they keep showing on the TV.”

  “Private Walker?”

  “Yes, a Devonian version of Private Walker. Always looking out for a chance to make easy money. Nothing too risky but nothing too legal.”

  “Did he make any enemies?”

  “No, that were the most crazed thing. He had that cheeky, cheery smile on his face. People loved him, even when they knew he were cheating them. How he got away with it for so long, I don’t know. He never hurt anyone physically but, boy, he could try your patience. He were the living embodiment of Devon Time. He did things in his own way in his own time. People called him infuriating!”

  “Well, he must have pushed someone too far? Someone ran out of patience.”

  Ella added, “How patient are you, Mr Metcombe?”

  “How patient? I have my days, I s’pose!”

  “Did you have an argument? Did he up his price? Did he perhaps want to sell his ill‌-‌gotten drink to some other pub?”

  “Here, wait a minute. Are you suggesting I ‘ad something to do with his death? ‘Ow dare ‘ee. You may be my only customers this afternoon, but I won’t be serving ‘ee. Get out. If ‘ee breathe one word of this conversation to anybody then I’ll be denying every word. If ‘ee go to the police or the licensing people then watch out. We won’t be wanting another murder in Sidmouth, will we?”

  “So you think Billy was murdered?”

  “Get out this instant or this time it’ll be a double murder. I’m closing and neither you nor ‘er be welcome here any longer.”

  Gabriel raised himself up from his window seat and moved towards them in a menacing manner. Both Frank and Ella rapidly left the Mariners feeling the interview needed to be terminated on Health and Safety grounds. Their Health and their Safety!

  ***

  Outside in the Autumn sunlight, both Frank and Ella walked quickly to Blackmore Gardens checking they hadn’t been followed. They sat on a bench near the bandstand before reaching into their pockets for their phones. They both pressed the stop button on their voice recording apps.

  “Well, that was illuminating!” uttered Frank.

  Chapter Nine

  Praper Deb’n way

  The probability of someone watching you is proportional to the stupidity of your actions.

  “He lied to us right at the start of our conversation.”

  Ella nodded in agreement “So how many other times did he lie? I’m thinking seriously now about changing my number one suspect. I felt threatened by him. I’m certain that he could have killed us if he got angry enough!”

  “I’m not sure about that but we need to make copies of our recordings and then transcribe them. He was a real Devonian, wasn’t he? I’ll need to do some research to find out what some of his words mean!”

  They made for home and spent the evening copying and transcribing their recordings. Frank found a couple of useful internet sites that helped him translate the Devonian dialect into the Queen’s English.

  After an hour or so, Frank sat back from his computer and appeared smugly pleased with his research. “There are only four words I didn’t understand but this website translates billid as meaning mad, Mang means to mix, bibble is to drink too much and Sweet Coppin is a variety of Cider Apple.”

  “That makes a little more sense of the conversation. I’ll have to look out for Sweet Coppin. I wonder if they’re eating or cooking apples as well.”

  “Could you get drunk eating cider apples?” Frank was strictly a special occasions drinker and then only enough to be sociable.

  “Talking of apples, why don’t we go tomorrow and visit the Sowden Valley Cider Farm. Clyst St Lawrence is not too far from here.” Ella was all fired up now. Life was becoming more and more interesting as each day unfolded.

  ***

  The next day the rain poured down in bucket‌-‌loads from a grey cloudy sky.

  “We’re not going to let a bit of rain stop us?” taunted Ella.

  “Actually, I agree. There’s more chance that the manager will be warm and dry in his office rather than getting soaked going around and about the farm!”

  They reached Sowden Valley and found a bedraggled worker squelching through the puddles towards a muddy and battered old quad bike. It had a trailer filled to the brim with aromatic bags of manure. As the worker climbed on, Frank wound down his window and asked politely, “Where can I find the owner?”

  Bedraggled stuck his thumb out in the direction of a small building adjacent to a barn. “All cosy and varm in there!”

  He then loudly roared off in the direction of the orchard.

  “Do you know you can take one of those things on the roads these days?” Frank said when the quad bike had disappeared into the orchard.

  “Well, you won’t ever find me riding on one of them, ever. Too noisy.”

  Frank and Ella parked their car as close to the building as possible and made for the wooden door. Frank knocked loudly and without waiting for an answer pushed open the door and walked in.

  “I told you just now which of them Sweet Coppins need checking. I let you use my quad to go into Cullompton and…‌”

  “Good morning,” Ella butted in.

  “Oh, sorry, ma’am,” I thought you were that idiot Metcombe coming in to avoid a little mizzle.”

  “Mizzle? It’s pouring down!”

  “Yes, maybe in London, but this is definitely mizzle.”

  Ella looked out of the office window at the puddles in the yard widening by the minute.

  “Do you sell your cider here? We couldn’t see a shop on our way in.”

  “No, not yet. It’s one of the many things on my to‌-‌do list. If you want our best cider there are a few select pubs in Cullompton, Tiverton and Honiton.”

  “Oh, we live near Sidmouth. Any in Sidmouth?”

  “No, not yet. I’m waiting for my so‌-‌called foreman cum sales director to arrive. He should have been getting Sowden Valley Cider into a couple of pubs in Sidmouth but he’s a lazy meech. He’s not been here for a few weeks now. I think he’s gone walkabout.”

  “Is that Billy Bowd?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  “Well, he won’t be in today or any other day for that matter.”

  “What’s he been up to now? I’m getting fed up with his shenanigans and his wheeling and dealing. The minute he shows his pretty face back in here, I’ll turn him right round and whop him off my farm.”
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  “You won’t be able to whop him off your farm or any other place for that matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s dead!” Frank watched for the shock to appear on the manager’s face. It took a few seconds for him to register what Frank had told him.

  “Dead? How? When?”

  Ella gave him an extremely brief potted version of the day when they discovered his body.

  “We were delivering a package that had been misdirected to our house. Posted from Cullompton way, actually. We knocked and no‌-‌one answered. We found the key under the flowerpot and went in so as to leave the package on the kitchen table. We found him in the back courtyard. In the cider barrel head first with his legs sticking out.”

  “In the courtyard? With his feet sticking out of that huge Cider Vat? What a tragic accident!”

  “That’s exactly what the police said.”

  “Well, they should know. They probably deal with lots of suicides or accidents all the time. Poor old Billy Bowd.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. They could hear the rain tapping on the corrugated roof of the office.

  “I never introduced myself, did I? I’m Harry Sowden, the manager and owner of the Sowden Valley Farm. We aim to be the finest specialist cider makers in the whole of the West Country!”

  “Yes, I’m Frank, Frank Raleigh and this is my wife, Ella.”

  “No relation to Sir Walter?” Harry’s face almost creased into the first smile of the day.

  “No, not as far as we know!” Ella noticed a lessening of the tension that had been steadily building ever since they had entered the office. However, she wasn’t giving up her detective work that easily.

  “What was Billy like here at work?” she asked. “We met a few of his friends and acquaintances and they say he was a cheeky fly by night.”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “Well, after finding him in the Cider barrel, we felt kind of sorry for him. Did he deserve to die like that?”

  Frank’s attention began to waver. He wondered how long the rain would continue. He didn’t particularly like driving in wet weather.

  “Don’t feel sorry for him. He was cheeky, as you say. And when he first came here, he was a good worker. But that didn’t last long. He became lazy, slippery and…‌ I shouldn’t tell you this. It’ll make you want to forget all about feeling sorry for him.”

  Harry’s almost‌-‌smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared. Frank paid attention once more.

  Ella was sitting over by the window out of the manager’s sight‌-‌line. She surreptitiously switched on her phone’s voice recording app. Why hadn’t she done that before they came into the office?

  “He was blackmailing me…‌ or trying to. Said he had copied down the secret recipe we use to make our top quality brand of cider‌-‌Sowden Valley Select.”

  “Blackmail?”

  “And he said he’d sell it to the highest bidder. I didn’t believe him but that didn’t stop him. I was going to pay him a little bonus and then sack him.”

  “What was to stop him still selling the recipe?”

  “Nothing, but I don’t think he had the recipe. It’s not just the ingredients, it’s how the apples are stored, how and when they are ground, how many times the pomace is pressed. The whole process.”

  “How fascinating,” blurted Ella, “I never knew so much went into making cider.”

  “Yes, we’ve been making cider the praper Deb’n way for years. First of all, as just a hobby. Then local people started telling us they praper loved our cider. So we’ve started making more. Not much money in it, but it keeps us afloat. If we lost the recipe and others replicated our manufacturing process, we’d be bankrupt in a couple of years. The Zummerset Mafia would have the facilities to replicate our manufacturing process. They’d kill for the recipe.”

  “Kill?” Ella looked shocked.

  “Well, maybe not kill. But they’d be very interested in acquiring any information about how Sowden Valley Select is made.”

  “So Billy Bowd’s death could be a blessing for you?” Frank awaited a reaction.

  “Now that’s a nasty thing to say. I take no pleasure in the manner of our blessing! It’s a tragedy that Billy’s dead. In spite of everything, no ‌-‌one deserved such a fate.”

  There was a moment of silence whilst Harry considered his next words.

  “I also think he was stealing some of the cider. Bottles went missing on a regular basis. Never too many at any one time but over the months, a great deal of high quality cider. My high quality cider!”

  “Did you ever confront him? Here on the farm?”

  “I was going to have it out with him when he returned to work.”

  “I’d have thought you would go after him rather than just waiting.”

  “Did you go to his house?” Ella interjected.

  “Never did.”

  “Do you know where Billy lived?”

  “No, somewhere near Sidmouth. I’d have to look it up in his personnel file.”

  “No, there’s no need to put yourself to any extra work.”

  “It’s no bother. But I steer clear of Sidmouth. I don’t like seaside places. I prefer the countryside.”

  “So you’ve never been to Sidmouth?”

  “Don’t be silly! Course I been there. But not for a year or more. Last summer for the Folk Festival. Tried to sell some of my cider. But I didn’t have the right sort of licence then. I didn’t bother going back this year.”

  Ella thought that he gave them far more information than she was expecting him to provide.

  “Anyway ‌-‌ what day did you say he died?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh, I thought you wanted to know if he was here on that day?”

  Frank told him. Harry hastily consulted a battered diary on his desk. “Well, on that day, I was in Barnstaple. At the Pannier market. Selling Cider. And Billy was nowhere to be found. Again.”

  Ella and Frank moved towards the door of the office and prepared to venture out into the mizzle once more.

  “Wait a moment. If you’re interested, I’ve got a spare half an hour as it’s still mizzling. I could take you around the barn and show you how Sowden Valley Select is made. I’m sure I could even organise a taster session.”

  Frank and Ella stopped and smiled warmly at their host.

  “That sounds scrummy,” said Ella.

  “Scrumpy? Very good!” snickered Harry. The almost‌-‌smile re‌-‌appeared.

  ***

  They stood in the doorway of the office looking out over one of the orchards.

  “We base our whole process on the groundbreaking work of Sir John Heathcoat up at Heathcoat Amory farm in Lythecourt near Tiverton.”

  “Oh, does he make good cider.”

  “The best. Or, at least, his farm did. He died just before the First World War. Cider was made at Lythecourt’s Home Farm ‌-‌ pure unadulterated cider. We follow their method most assiduously.”

  “Fascinating!” Ella was a sucker for a good historical yarn.

  “We keep our orchards in tip‌-‌top condition. Well‌-‌pruned, no canker, grease bands around the trunks to stop moths laying eggs in the branches. We make sure that light and air gets to the fruit by pruning away most of the moss and lichen. We get rid of the rest of it the old fashioned way, with powdered lime on the branches on a wet still winter’s day.”

  “Do you use special varieties of apples?”

  “No, any apples will do. It’s how you treat them that’s important. We grow Billy Down Pippin and Fair Maid of Devon varieties but so do lots of other farms.”

  Harry gazed out at the grey sky. It was still raining. He picked up an umbrella from behind the door.

  “We pick the orchards three times. The last time we give the trees a real shaking down so that we get all the apples. We separate these windfalls from the other gatherings. Only the first gathering is used for the Select cider. The rest we use
to make ordinary cider. We sell most of that to the supermarkets. Their customers never notice the difference but we do!”

  Harry opened his umbrella and held it out over Ella and himself.

  “Follow me to the barn. It’s only next door. We won’t get too wet!”

  Ella and Harry stayed dry whilst Frank followed behind attempting to walk between the raindrops.

  They stood just inside the barn.

  “All the apples are stored off the ground under cover in our granary. They can keep that way for about a month or more without heating or rotting. We ground them before they get rotten.”

  Harry started walking into the barn pointing at the walls and roof.

  “You can see that the barn is well ventilated and light. We still whitewash the walls. The apple pomace is thrown into that shute over there which leads to the cage‌-‌press. We press them there and pump the juice into one of those large vats over there. They hold 200 gallons each. The pomace is pressed again in the next power press but the juice is not the same quality. We pump that into that massive blending vat in the corner. That holds over 1,000 gallons. We only fill them up to about a foot from the top. We call the process keeving. The vats have removable covers. We skim the head off the vats maybe three or four times. We end up with a naturally sweet, well coloured and brilliantly clear cider.”

  “Is the cider ready for drinking then?” Ella was captivated by the whole process.

  “No, it’s on to the filtration. We force the cider through the filter, but not too fast.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll diminish the flavour. That’s why you can’t just follow the recipe. It’s almost an art. Sometimes the juice will go through the filter the day it is pressed, other times we need to wait. The filtered juice goes by those pipes to the casks down there.”

  Harry pointed to what appeared to be an open cellar in the floor.

  “Those casks are steam washed before being filled. As soon as it is filled, the cask is bunged down. We insert a tube into the bung to take away any carbonic acid that is given off by the fermenting cider.”