The Savage Gorge (15 page)

The immense rush of water, culminating in the
huge waterfall dropping a hundred and fifty feet, hyp
notized her. She began to feel dizzy as her feet took
her two more steps over the wet, slippery surface of
the platform of rock projecting over endless space. She
thought she heard Tweed shout but the thunder of the
waterfall drowned him out.

The next thing she knew he had one strong arm round her waist, the other gripping her arm tightly.
He put his mouth close to her ear.

'You idiot! You will now do exactly what I tell you.
I want you to slowly back away.
Slow
steps. This plat
form is like a skating rink. Do
not
attempt to turn round. One foot at a time. That is an order!'

She obeyed. She had the strange sensation Tweed
had lifted her off her feet. He hadn't. Her right boot
slipped as she was moving it back. She was terrified.
She was going to slide over the edge. Tweed's arm
tightened round her waist until she felt she could
hardly breathe, her face running with spray as an

exceptional surge of water arrived from higher up the river. Tweed's voice was in her ear again.

'Nearly off the platform,' he said gently. 'Just a few
more steps and we're there. Then you can cry all you
like . . .'

Tm not crying,' she shouted, furious. 'It's spray off
the waterfall!'

Her burst of indignation seemed to give her new
strength. A few more steps and she'd be clear of this
hideous platform. Her right ankle sank into the sand
at the top of the road. She gave a great sigh of relief.

'You did very well,' a familiar voice drawled. 'Sit
down on this armchair.' Marler had spread out a
waterproof sheet on a flatstone. 'And have a drink,' he
went on as he offered her an uncapped flask.

'Is that alcohol?' she asked cautiously.

'No, you little boozer,' he told her, raising his voice.
'It is water. You go first. And leave a generous portion
for Tweed and me . . .'

She thanked him, comfortably seated, began sip
ping slowly, feeling much better. Marler, who had
foreseen conditions, wore a raincoat, a small camera
with a zoom lens slung from his neck.

'You've got nerve,' Marler told Paula.

'I was scared witlesss . . .'

'So was Tweed. So will I be, on that platform.'

'What are you going to do?' Tweed asked.

'See what is on the other side of this gorge?'

Neither of them had noticed until Marler pointed.
On the far side of the Gorge three large caves had

been at some time carved out of the rock at their level,
two more at the level below. Paula noticed they were
high enough to accommodate men on horseback,
recalling Bullerton's vivid description of the battle
long ago.

'Lepard,' Marler explained, 'will, I am confident,
station his killers inside them. They overlook the road,
or the first part of it. Tweed, do you often drive your
Audi along that road?'

'I was thinking of doing so each morning . . .'

'Good. So you will be the target.'

'Oh, no!' protested Paula.

'Please keep quiet, dear, until I'm finished,' admon
ished Marler. 'It won't be Tweed driving, it will be a
member of the team clothed to look like Tweed.
Probably have to draw lots for the driver, since they'll all volunteer.'

'Not necessary,' Tweed insisted in a strong voice. 'Because I
will
be behind the wheel.'

'In that case I will be with you,' snapped Paula.

'No, you won't. And that is another order,' Tweed
said, as he stared at her grimly.

'Time to take my pics of those caves so I can show
the team.'

'You'd better be very careful of that platform,' Paula
warned.

'I'll be OK. Look . . .'

He lifted a foot and he was wearing rubber gum-
boots; the soles had rubber projections which would
increase balance. He waved a hand, walked to the

platform, stamped a foot on its surface and marched
across as though on grass. He went to the edge, took a lot of pics of the caves at both levels, returned smiling.

'Back to the Nag's Head,' he suggested. 'I've
booked a room in my name. Also I've booked rooms
for the rest of the team, telling the landlord, Bowling,
they are members of the Fishers' Club. I've further
instructed Bob Newman to include among the more
lethal equipment fishing rods and tackle. They're
waiting now for your signal to hurtle up here.'

'Excellent organization. What I don't know is where
the team will be located to counter Lepard's thugs.'

'Another leaf out of the Cromwellian book. They will occupy positions up a series of three flights of
steps to our right as we drive back to the hotel. Most
residences I found were empty. These wealthy people take early holidays.'

'Let's get back, then,' Tweed suggested, walking towards Marler's Saab, parked next to Tweed's Audi.

'One vital factor you should be warned about.
Newman found out that one of Lepard's men is bring
ing him a bazooka. One round from that hitting your
Audi and, despite armoured plate and armoured
glass, your vehicle will go up in flames.'

'This is not on,' Paula said vehemently just before
they climbed into their transport.

'Our team,' Marler assured her, 'scattered along
those steps, have a clear view of all the caves. It will be
up to me to spot the man with the bazooka and before
the team opens fire to kill him stone cold dead.'

'It's too much of a risk to Tweed,' she snapped.

'All our previous operations have involved risk,'
Tweed said.

'Not as suicidal as this one,' she snapped again.

'Marler,' suggested Tweed, to change the subject, 'I think it would be wiser if we were not seen together.
Maybe you could drive back to the Nag's Head now
and we'll start in just a few minutes.'

'All great minds,' Marler said cheerfully. 'I was just
about to suggest the same thing myself. And whenever
our team is summoned urgently from Park Crescent
by you I shan't say one word . . .'

They had waited five minutes for Marler to get clear.
Paula was staring upriver. The whole of that area
north of Gunners Gorge had been obscured by mist.
Now a breeze had dispersed it and she could see a
long way. She tugged Tweed's sleeve.

'Look at that. An old iron bridge. It must link Ascot
Way with the High Street. I did see a girl riding a
horse heading up Ascot Way. I wondered how she'd
reach the hunting country on our side.'

'Now you know,' he said without interest as they climbed in into the Audi. Tweed began driving down
the track, turning right as they entered the High
Street.

'Why did you send Marler off ahead of us?' she
began. 'I've the odd suspicion you had another
motive.'

'Can't keep anything from you.' He sighed. 'You are right. Remember that business card Archie MacBlade
tucked into my pocket in the hall of the Nag's Head?'

'I do.'

'He urged me to visit a Mr Hartland Trent. Said he
was trustworthy. Trent could be just the man to tell us
what is really going on in this strange town.'

ELEVEN

Tweed parked the Audi several flights below Primrose
Steps. No point in advertising who he was going to
visit. He ran up the flight with Paula by his side. He
realized all the expensive, well-designed houses were
built of grim dark grey granite.

Twinkle Cottage was high up the flight, more than
halfway. He hammered twice with the large brass
knocker. The heavy door swung inward. He glanced
at Paula, who already had her Browning in her hand.
He slipped out his own weapon, pushed open the
well-oiled door.

He did not call out as so often happens in films.
Anyone might be waiting inside. He walked slowly in
on the wall-to-wall carpet. He listened. No sound of
anyone. With Paula close behind him he continued
until he reached a partly opened door on his right. He

pushed it open a little more into a spacious living
room.

'My God!' he said under his breath.

'What is it?' whispered Paula, who had acute hear
ing.

'I think we have found Mr Hartland Trent.'

The body was full length on a table whose green baize
was covered with blood. Tweed gently felt a neck
artery, shook his head. He then felt the face and
shoulder.

'No good,' he said to Paula. 'He's dead. But the warmth of the body suggests the murder was com
mitted not so long before we arrived. At a quick count
he was stabbed brutally over a dozen times.'

'Look at the right hand, at the index finger. It's
pointing at something. That pile of old newspapers on
the coffee table.'

'You're not suggesting,' Tweed said in disbelief,
'that this poor devil, after being stabbed so many
times, was able to turn his hand and use his finger to
point.'