The Savage Gorge (13 page)

'I'm not being fanciful. You know that's not my
style. Now I really do wonder.'

'Wonder what?' she persisted.

'We may by chance have walked in on something which is bigger, much bigger than I ever foresaw.'

NINE

They were driving slowly along the hedge-lined lane

leading to the Village when Paula glanced at the slim

leather executive case Tweed had taken into Hobart

House but had never opened.

'That wouldn't contain those photos Hector gave

you - the pics of the two murdered women looking

normal?'
'It does.'
'I'm
 
surprised you
 
didn't show them to
 
Lord

Bullerton.'

'Not when Sable and Margot were about.'
'What did you think of Margot? Bit of a wild cat.'
'Sisters often dislike, even hate each other. I thought

that Sable was being provocative, the way she fingered

her diamond brooch when she came into the drawing

room.'

'I rather liked Sable.'

'Maybe,' he replied, 'but you know your own
gender.'

'I also thought it odd when Falkirk turned up.
Looking for a job? Could it be his host covered him by
giving that as a reason? I'm wondering who
has
hired
Falkirk.'

'A number of candidates. Lord Duller ton. Chief
Inspector Reedbeck or Archie MacBlade, to name just
some prospects . . . Look in front. I don't believe it.'

A battered grey Fiat had shot out from a gap in the
hedge in front of them. Harry Butler, at the wheel,
waved to them as he drove at their pace into the
Village High Street, turning right towards Gunners
Gorge.

'Now where has Harry been the past few hours?'
Paula mused.

'I expect he'll tell us.' They had entered Gunners
Gorge and Harry drove under the arch leading to the
car park of the Nag's Head. 'He may have information
from London . . .'

Parked in one corner was a new Maserati. Harry
pointed to it as they stood next to their vehicles.

'That means Lance Mandeville is floating around
somewhere - Bullerton's twenty-year-old athletic son.
Polite, I gather he is popular in town. I've got some
thing for you, Tweed. It came by courier. I persuaded
him to give it to me by showing him my identity folder.'

Tweed broke the seal on the envelope Harry handed
him. A brief note from Howard, then a large document

on hand-made paper. He scanned it quickly, then
passed it to Paula.

'Professor Saafeld's preliminary autopsy report.
Now we know how those two women were slaugh
tered.'

'Do we?' Paula asked after reading the document
Tweed had handed to her. 'Chloroform?'

'Saafeld found traces of it in the nostrils and mouth
of the woman murdered in the house next to Lisa Clancy's - but none on the other woman, who was
murdered in the house round the corner. The killer
had reconnoitred the area earlier. He'd seen the
second victim took a lot of time making that lock on
her door work. He attacks the other one first by pres
sing a pad soaked with chloroform over her nose and
mouth. He then cuts her throat, ruins her face.
Darting round the corner, he finds his second target trying to get her key to work, comes up behind her,
swiftly hauls back her long hair, uses his knife.'

'I must be thick. You're right. ..' Paula still had half
her mind on the tunnel she'd discovered on Black
Gorse Moor, something she still hadn't mentioned to
Tweed.

'More news,' Harry reported tersely. 'I know who
fired the bullet at you on your way to Hobart House.
Lepard.'

'So a lot of money is changing hands among the
killer thugs,' Tweed commented. 'Which means we're
looking for someone with wealth . . .'

'And you are the target,' Harry warned. 'Lepard

fired from behind a hedge. I was close behind in my
car. I drove straight through a gap to get him. He was
too quick - sped off aboard a Harley-Davidson.'

'How can you be sure it was Lepard?' Tweed demanded.

'He's half-French, half-British, as I explained. Bob
Newman was an ace international reporter and he's
still very good at description. Lepard is slim, clean
shaven, with a sallow complexion. I know it was him because he turned to look at me before vanishing over
a slope. News gets worse.'

'That's right, Harry,' Paula joked, 'cheer us up . . .'

'Newman has been back to check with his East End
informant. All the killer thugs have been put on
instant standby. My guess is they'll be up here any
day - after Lepard failed to get you.'

'Then call Bob and tell him I want the whole team
ready to come up here pretty damn fast.'

'Consider it done.'

Harry dived back into his car, drove slowly out under the arch.

'I was right,' said Tweed as they walked back into the
hotel. 'And someone up here is reporting our every
move. We have stumbled into something
very
big.'

The landlord, Bowling, was not behind his reception
counter, which was unusual. Paula spotted a guest perched on a sofa, studying some kind of chart. He
folded it quickly and stood up. Archie MacBlade.

'We're starting to bump into each other,' he said
with a warm smile. 'For me that is a pleasure.'

'Do you often visit Gunners Gorge?' she asked
casually.

'Occasionally. It is quiet and gets me away from the
world.' He turned to Tweed with an unusual expres
sion in his eyes. 'You have an enigmatic visitor waiting
to see you in the lounge. A Lance Mandeville, son of
Lord Bullerton.'

'Mandeville?'

'That's the family name.' He glanced round the
reception area, checking that they were alone, then
produced a business card, scribbled a name on the
back, tucked it inside Tweed's top pocket. 'That's a tip
you might like to follow up. Mr Hartland Trent. Has
a sense of humour - lives at Twinkle Cottage,
Primrose Steps. Turn right when you leave the hotel.
The flights of steps instead of roads climb the hill.
He's halfway up the third flight. Must go now.'

'One second,' Tweed said quickly. 'What does Trent do?'

'Landowner and astute businessman. The only
trustworthy man in the Gorge. Really must fly . . .'

'I don't think he likes Lance,' Paula whispered. 'Did
you see his expression when he stared directly at you?'

'Not a question of liking would be my interpretation
of the odd expression.'

'Well, come on,' she urged, squeezing his arm. 'So
what would be your interpretation?'

'More like a warning.'

TEN

They descended the steps into the hotel lounge.
Tables were laid for tea. In a corner, Lance stood up
from a table to greet them, his slim hand extended.
He pulled out a chair for Paula, who took off her
leather jacket.

'May I?' suggested Lance, taking the jacket to hang
from the back of her chair. 'I am so glad you could
join me,' he said to Tweed. 'They have excellent
muffins here. I hope you are both hungry.'

'Ravenous,' replied Tweed as Lance sat opposite
Paula. 'I could tackle all those.'

A smartly dressed waitress had placed a large metal
container on the table, carefully removed the top with
out the flourish used in London restaurants. They
began eating, Tweed scooping up large quantities of
strawberry jam, ignoring the small talk between Lance
and Paula.

Paula was studying Lance. He was clad in a smart
blue blazer with gold buttons, a Liberty cravat at his
neck, his black hair neatly brushed. She was
impressed by his good manners, his handsome face;
fascinated by his almond-shaped eyes.

'I really come here as an emissary from my father,'
Lance began.

'Oh, really,' Tweed responded in a bored tone as he
drank tea the waitress had served from Wedgwood
china.

'He wishes me to pass his unreserved apologies to
both of you for his behaviour when you were leaving...'

'Does he?' commented Tweed, now busy consum
ing the first of two large apple tarts garnished with
cream, his eye on the massive Dundee cake in the middle of the table.

'When his other visitor had left
—'

'Archie MacBlade in his Bugatti,' Tweed remarked.

'Oh, you know him?' Lance enquired sharply.

'Saw his picture in the paper,' Tweed said as he cut a huge slice of Dundee cake.

'My father would regard it as an honour if you
dined with him at Hobart House this evening,' con
tinued Lance in his uphill conversational struggle with
Tweed, smiling all the time.