That was a generation ago, and Tyrell Pierce, Anthony’s father, had become a man to reckon with in the community. Anthony himself had come home from the war with one leg, but that hadn’t prevented him from taking his place in the firm, continuing his rise through the ranks from the driver of the dray to assistant to the brewmaster. His father was a strong believer in an owner’s intimate knowledge of each position in the yard and in the brew house.

On this night—the third since Jimmy Roper’s death—Anthony Pierce had gone back to the brew house to look at one of the temperature gauges on the new kettle. It had been playing up and must either be repaired or replaced on the morrow. The foreman had tinkered with it earlier, with no success, and after dinner Anthony had strolled down to have a go at it, certain that it could be salvaged. His father had spoken to a supplier in London who had informed him that it would require three days to find and ship the new gauge, and that would mean that the current batch of mash would have to be dumped, at a loss.

He had always liked the smell of the brew house, almost a sour odor, rich and thick on a warm night. The door was never locked, and lighting his lantern, he walked in, climbed to the first floor, and went to the bench where the foreman had left his tools. Setting the lamp there, he walked over to study the offending piece of equipment.

After working with it for some minutes, he stepped back. There was no hope of repairing it. The foreman had been right. If it went now, they would just have to absorb the loss of this one kettle, clean it out, and wait for the new gauge to arrive before starting it up again. Twelve more hours, that’s all they needed. And if luck was with them . . .

He shook his head, and then put his tools back on the bench.

Anthony Pierce had served as an officer in the war and was accustomed to leading men. He was popular enough with the brewery workers, and when he heard the outer door on the ground floor open with its familiar scraping sound, he called out, “I’m up here. Is that you, Fred? It’s hopeless. I’ll drive to London tomorrow myself, and see if I can expedite replacing the damned thing.”

But the man who appeared on the stairs, his footfalls steady on the treads, was a stranger, not the brewmaster. Pierce frowned, said, “This building is closed to outsiders. Is there something you wanted?”

The man said, “Not really. I thought you might remember me.”

Thinking the man was looking for work, Pierce said, “Is it help you need?”

“No. I’m here for old time’s sake.”

“Well, I’m just closing up. Walk down with me.” He limped toward the man, wondering for a moment if he’d served with him. But the face wasn’t familiar at all. And although he was dressed plainly, his clothes were of good quality. Not money then—he wasn’t looking for work.