Cross of Fire (39 page)

Even more intriguing - possibly more ominous - Lamy secretly visiting Aldeburgh. That
was
another positive link between Suffolk and France. One Tweed didn't like at all.

He decided he must find Paula at once. Throwing on his Burberry, picking up his walking stick, he left the room,
avoided the elevator, ran down the staircase, went to
Reception.

'I'm looking for my friend, Paula Grey.' he told the girl
behind the desk.

'Oh, she drove off a little while ago. She is visiting
someone in Aldeburgh.'

'Go by herself?'

'Yes

'Do you know where she went? I have to get in touch with her urgently because of that phone message.' he
improvised.

'I'm sorry, I have no idea...'

'Are Newman and Marler in the hotel?'

'No.' The girl was surprised by the bombardment, by the
sense of urgency Tweed generated. 'Mr Marler left to go back to London. Mr Newman is out for a walk.'

'Thank you.'

Tweed decided he'd do the job he'd come to do - to take
his mind off his anxiety. He
walked out of the back entrance,
passed Newman's Merc, hurried across the car park on to the gravel road. He carried the stick in his right hand, a
flashlight in his left hand. It was so dark he needed the
beam to find his way.

Tweed had total recall of important conversations. He was able to remember exactly the route Paula, Newman,
and Rosewater had followed when the latter had unearthed the signet ring. Major Lamy's? Apparently.

Passing an old shed set back from the gravel road he
noted the sign.
Boat Storage.
He was close to where the path
led down off the road on to the marshes. The powerful
beam focused on a narrow footpath leading away from the
road, down on to the marshes. This was it. He slithered agilely down it on to level, soggy ground. The wind blew
his hair all over the place but he didn't notice: he was totally concentrating on following the same route.

The beam showed him the footpath running parallel
to the gravel road above. He walked rapidly, holding the
stick as a soldier might hold a rifle midway along its
length. He switched off the flashlight and stood still, waiting
for his night vision to return. Ahead he saw the dark
silhouette of a high bank. The dyke which ran alongside the
harbour.

Switching on the flashlight again he came to the point
where the footpath forked - one fork leading back up to the road, the other up to the dyke. He paused. Easy to go wrong
here. He climbed the path to the ridge of the dyke, saw
where the footpath followed the crest of the dyke east. The
harbour below it on his left, the marshes below him on his
right. This was correct.

He moved rapidly along the tricky path. Stopping for a
moment, he swivelled his beam across the harbour, saw boats swathed in blue plastic covers like huge blue eggs.
Their masts rocked wildly, then moved more slowly. The
wind had dropped suddenly. He heard a strange noise. He
changed his grip on the stick so he held it by the handle.

The walking stick was a weapon. The tip was weighted. One blow could crack a man's skull. But there was more to
it. Under the handle was a button. Press the button and a
two-inch steel spike projected. It was
not
a sword stick, but
one jab and an attacker would be injured. It was not Tweed's
habit to carry weapons but Aldeburgh was becoming a
dangerous place - the marshes possibly even more danger
ous. To retract the spike he only had to press the button a second time. Now he recognized the weird sound. The twanging of metal wires against the metal masts of boats.
He walked on.

He was aiming his flashlight down the slope to his left
now. He must be near the place where the trio had dis
covered the relic of the craft where Karin Rosewater had
died. The beam swept over a creek of stagnant water, swept
back a fraction.

The craft, staves showing like ribs of some animal, was lying upside down at the edge of the creek. This was where
the signet ring had been discovered. Tweed made his way down the awkward slope, keeping his balance easily. He stood on a firm tuft of grass encircled with ooze, slowly
played his torch over the area inch by inch. For a minute he crouched down, examining carefully the messy terrain. His gloved hand poked at the grass, felt its sogginess give way
under his pressure.

He sighed, stood up, scrambled back to the summit of
the dyke. It had all been as he expected to find it - down to the last detail.

Stooping against the wind which blew up suddenly with
greater force he hurried back along the dyke, followed the
same route back to the Brudenell. Inside, he made himself speak casually to the receptionist.

'Has Miss Grey returned yet?'

'Not yet.'

Tweed returned to his room, full of foreboding.

Jean Burgoyne was a lively hostess. Dressed in a form-fitting
green dress, she also wore a wide belt round her slim waist.
Her dress stopped just above her knees, revealing her
shapely legs clad in dark green tights. Her long thick mane
of golden hair glistened under the lights of the chandeliers
in the living room. Quite a girl, Paula thought.

She was seated in a comfortable armchair close to a
blazing log fire. Jean sat in a hard-backed chair next to her,
legs crossed, one high heel dangling. Both women were
holding glasses of champagne.

'Paula, this is my uncle, Brigadier Burgoyne.' she introduced as a man entered the room.

The Brigadier was small, well-padded under his velvet
smoking-jacket. His head was egg-shaped, bald on top with
strands of white hair brushed carefully on either side. He
had a ruddy complexion and looked more like a man in his mid sixties than eighty.

'Pleased to meet you, Miss Grey,' he said formally, bend
ing to shake her hand. 'Jean has told me quite a lot about
you. But I can see with my own eyes you're a woman of
resource. Like that...'

He had walked briskly to a sideboard, pouring himself a glass of port from a decanter, when Paula asked the question. For a fraction of a second he stopped pouring - so briefly only Paula's sharp eyes caught it.

'I understand, Brigadier, you were with Military
Intelligence.'

'Oh, all that's long behind me...' He glanced swiftly at
Jean, switched his gaze to Paula, raised his glass. 'Your good
health.' He sipped the port, remained standing by the
sideboard.

'You must miss that work.' Paula continued, determined
to stay with the subject. 'Especially as there is so much scope
for it now. France is a good example. We need to know exactly what is going on over there - at the Third Corps particularly.'

The Brigadier stood quite still. His eyes blinked once.
Like an owl. He looked rather like an owl, Paula was
thinking.

'I'm rather out of touch these days.' Burgoyne was looking vague, which he hadn't before. 'I wonder if you'd think me very rude if I went to my study upstairs? I've work on some legal papers which need my attention. Just came down to say how do you do. Hope you'll come back to see us again. Don't mind my absence. Jean stays up all hours...'

He shuffled out of the room. A very different movement from the quick tread when he'd entered. You're acting, you sly old thing, Paula thought.

'He tires quickly,' Jean explained. 'He liked you - I could tell.'

'But
you
know Third Corps, don't you?'

Jean drank the rest of her champagne quickly, offered
more to Paula, who refused, then filled her own glass again.
She pushed a wave of blonde hair back over her shoulder,
watched Paula over the rim of her glass as she spoke.

'You seem to be very well informed.'

'Don't mind me, I'm a journalist. It's my job. And I
promised - no interview.'

'I do know General de Forge.' Jean said slowly after
drinking more champagne. Her sleeve touched the ice
bucket standing by her side. She jerked it away. 'It is cold.' She chuckled, a pleasant lilting sound. 'I regard him as a friend. Very dynamic, very stimulating. One of the most
important men in Western Europe. Holds strong views,
which is refreshing.'

'On deporting all foreigners from France? Especially Algerians and Negroes?'

'He has a lot of support for his views. Support which is
growing by the hour.' Jean drank more champagne, refilled her glass. She was certainly knocking it back, Paula noted. 'Some people think de Forge is a second General de Gaulle.' Jean went on. Her tone was neutral.

'Do you?' Paula asked.

'De Gaulle was a great statesman. De Forge is only a
soldier. How could he ever become a statesman?'

'Maybe the first stage would be to create chaos.'

Jean had long fair lashes. She studied Paula through
them, her eyes half-closed. Reaching for a silver box, she
raised the lid, took out a cigarette, lit it with a gold lighter she also took from the box. Paula hadn't seen her smoke
before during their short acquaintance. Jean blew a smoke ring, spoke as she watched it float to the ceiling.

'You really are a professional newshound to your finger
tips.' she commented dreamily.

There was no criticism, no irritation in her manner. It
was a statement of fact. She stroked her cheekbone with the
index finger of her left hand. Her bone structure was perfect.
She really was a beautiful woman, Paula was thinking. The
kind of woman who would drive a lot of men mad with
desire.

'I'm just interested in what is going on in the world.' Paula fenced.

'You're right, of course. A lot is going on in France.' Jean
seemed to be speaking in a
trance. 'And no one can predict
where it will all end.'

'Where do you think it will end?'

'At the gates of hell...'

She chuckled again, but this time there was a bitter note. She switched the conversation to Aldeburgh.

'Aldeburgh is rather unreal. Haven't you noticed? It's
inhabited mostly by retired people - diplomats, soldiers like
my uncle. They were brought here as children for their
holidays by their parents. When they came home from
abroad for good this was the only place they knew. There's nothing much in the way of jobs for youngsters. Except as
shop assistants. Most of the work is in Ipswich, which is quite
a distance. The other residents are second-homers. They've bought some of the houses on the front for summer visits ...'

They chatted for quite a while longer. At one stage Jean
left Paula alone for a few minutes to go to the bathroom.
Paula lifted the lid of the cigarette box, took out the gold
lighter. Engraved on it was the same symbol which was
engraved on the signet ring Victor Rosewater had recovered
on the marshes. The Cross of Lorraine
...