The Savage Gorge (20 page)

Intrigued by the warmth of her approach, Tweed

followed her into the library. The lights were dim so he chose a couch as the nearest place to sit. She must

have used the dimmer because the lights came on
more strongly.

'Wine?' she enquired. 'Red or white. Or maybe
Scotch?'

'White wine, please.'

Standing by the wine cabinet her face was in profile.
Tweed wondered where he had seen that Roman nose
before. With the drinks on a silver tray she returned,
placed the tray on a coffee table, sat on the couch
close to him. She crossed her legs and raised her glass.

'To success.'

'I’ll drink to that,' Tweed agreed. He sipped his
wine and placed his glass on the table. 'I'm curious as
to what part of the world you come from.'

'That's something I never discuss. I was glad to get
away.'

'You have a good position here?'

'I see to it that it is. Lord Bullerton may not be the
easiest man to work for but I make sure that the rela
tionship works. After his wife, Myra, fell from the falls
he had no one to look after this place. A friend of
mine in Gunners Gorge, who has gone abroad, tipped
me off. So I came to see him.'

'Was it an easy encounter?'

'Not for him.' She chuckled. 'Said he'd pay me the
earth when I expressed doubt. I asked him how much
the earth cost.'

'And his reaction?'

'He bellowed with laughter, then offered me the
generous sum which I wanted.'

Tweed stood up, walked over to a wall where a gilt-
framed picture was turned to the wall. He reversed it.
The painting was of a woman with her back turned
while her face peered over her shoulder where two
large substantial wings were attached.

'Would this be his late wife, Myra?' he enquired.

'Yes.'

'I noticed last time I was here the painting was
turned to face the wall. Why?'

'It gets dusty on the glass,' she said quickly.

He smeared a finger over the whole of the glass,
showed it to her as she shuffled her feet. He smiled.

'Not a trace of dust,' he commented. He studied the
profile, turned to face her. 'Seems a bit odd.'

'Well,' she said, approaching, her voice harder, 'do
you think it would be a good thing for him to brood
over memories of the past?'

'I suppose not. He doesn't mind it facing the wall?'

'He leaves me to run the house in my own way. That was one of the conditions I imposed when
accepting the post. Your drink is waiting for you.'

Tweed walked back to the coffee table, picked up
his drink and avoided the couch. Instead he sat in an
armchair in front of an antique refectory table. Mrs
Shipton came back, stood up. He gathered she was
not pleased.

The door opened and Lance strolled in, a striking
figure in a dinner jacket. Tweed glanced over his
shoulder. The painting of Myra had been turned
round again, her face to the wall.

'Mrs Shipton,' Lance said in his most lofty tone,
'Cook is in trouble with the souffle. She's worried it's going to collapse.'

'Oh, hell, everything in this place goes to pieces if
I'm not on hand . . .'

Without a word to Tweed, Mrs Shipton hurried
from the library. Lance walked forward, sat in a hard-
backed chair opposite Tweed. He touched the lapel of
his dinner jacket.

'If you don't object I'd like to join the dinner. I'm hoping my father won't mind.'

'Up to you. I'm only a guest, and Miss Grey was
unable to come,' Tweed replied.

As he said this he reached down for the slim execu
tive case he always carried with him. For the first time
he extracted the photographs Hector Humble had
produced after building up the faces of the two
women murdered in London. Face down he pushed
them over the table.

'Can you tell me who these two people are?'

Lance turned them over, stared at the photos. His
face turned ashen. For a moment he slumped in
his chair, then made an effort and straightened up
again. He gazed at Tweed, his almond eyes glazed. He
tapped one photo, then the other.

'This is Nancy, this is Petra, two of my missing sis
ters. When were these pictures taken?'

'After they had been brutally murdered in London,
both faces horribly gouged with some unknown
instrument.'

'I don't understand,' Lance said aggressively.
'There's no sign of mutilation on these photos.'

'Taken,' Tweed said mildly, 'after a brilliant man
had built them up again.'

'Sounds macabre to
—'

He never completed his sentence. The door was
flung open and Lord Bullerton, dressed in a business
suit, burst into the room. He stared at Lance and his
voice boomed.

'You can take off the penguin suit, Lance. This
dinner will be between me and Air Tweed. So may I
suggest you shove off.'

'You see how it is,' Lance muttered, stood up and left. At the door he had to wait as Mrs Shipton reap
peared. Staring at Lance's dinner jacket, she frowned.
He heard what she said as he pushed rudely past her.

'On Lord Bullerton's instructions I have prepared
dinner for two persons.'

'Is it ready?' demanded Bullerton.

'Yes. That is, it will be in ten minutes' time.'

While all this was going on Tweed retrieved the two
photos. He slipped them carefully inside, closed the
zip. Only then, case under his arm, did he stand up to
greet his host.

'Excuse me, Tweed,' Bullerton said, 'my obsession is chess. I am trying to crack this game. Would you like another drink?'

Til wait for dinner, thank you.'

He watched as Bullerton hurried over to a table
where a chess game was half-played. Seating himself,

he picked up the Queen, turning to Tweed as he fondled the piece. He shook his head.

'She's the one I'm after. I play against myself.
Unless you care to oppose me. Dinner will take longer
than Mrs Shipton implied. She won't bring in the
food until all the guests have taken their places.
Shipton rules.'

'I prefer to start a fresh game, if you don't mind,'
said Tweed, standing up. He extracted the two photos
and again placed them upside down on the edge of the
chess table.

'I thought, Lord Bullerton, these might be familiar
to you.'

The effect on his host was even more electrifying
than it had been on Lance. Bullerton casually turned them over, bent his large head forward, then jumped up, staggering as though he might fall down. Tweed
grabbed him by one arm, had his grip brusquely
removed. Bullerton toppled backwards into the arm
chair behind him and slumped. His voice was hoarse
when he spoke.

'Large Scotch, for God's sake!'

Tweed darted over to the drinks cupboard, grabbed
a glass and a bottle of the most expensive Scotch. He
filled the large glass, took it to Bullerton, watched
carefully as his host took the glass, swallowed half the
contents at one gulp. He waited as Bullerton sat up
stiffly, drank the rest.

'One is Petra,' he mumbled, 'the other is Nancy.
Where are they now?'

'In London.' Tweed paused. 'The news is very bad, I should warn you . . .'

'You bastard!' Bullerton roared. 'How long have
you had those?'

'Only a day,' Tweed admitted, 'I was waiting for the
right opportunity to tell you - when we were alone. The news is bad,' he repeated.

'Well, spit it out, man,' Bullerton demanded, some of his normal fire returning.

'They are both dead,' Tweed said quietly, 'mur
dered outside the homes they rented in central
London. Worse still, their faces had been badly mutilated by the killer.'

'Mutilated?' Bullerton pointed to the photos
Tweed was collecting to put back inside his case. 'No
sign of mutilation there.'

'The photos have been retouched,' said Tweed, who
saw no point in explaining the genius of Hector
Humble.

'Sounds like a serial killer.'

As he spoke Bullerton bent down to pick up the
chess Queen he had knocked off the board when he jumped up. He stroked the piece as he muttered half
to himself.

'She knows I'm after seducing her. Just like I do
when I visit certain high-class ladies in Mayfair. They
charge the earth. Still much cheaper than the expense
of getting married. This Queen seems to get heavier.
Ready for my assault. And you're a fake, Tweed. You
come up here on a murder investigation but you take