by George Sims
‘Yes, yes, come in.’ Turning to lead the way, she parted an invisible curtain with her hands and appeared to shiver. As they entered a large living-room she looked round into Buchanan’s face, saying, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not well.’ Her breath smelt of brandy masked by toothpaste. She had made a sketchy attempt at make-up but the bright orange lipstick and two streaks of green eye-shadow only emphasized her unhealthy pallor.
Buchanan was no judge of furniture but even to his eye the pieces that filled the room were quite impressive. A cowboy film was being shown on the television screen. Nora Chard turned down the sound but left the picture on.
‘So Harry hasn’t seen Sid at all?’
‘Not in the last month. You’ve no idea where he might be?’
‘I was hoping…There was a chance I thought…You see Sid knows Harry’s brother who lives in Amsterdam. Oh God, what am I going to do?’
‘What did your husband say? When he went away.’
‘On the Tuesday, that was the 14th of August—that afternoon he said he would be setting off early in the morning, taking his car. Wanted to have breakfast about seven and leave at half seven. Said he didn’t know exactly when he would be back. Took an overnight bag with just a few things. He often did that. I was used to it. He seemed to be rather cagey—strange with me—but I thought, let it go. When he didn’t come back—two days afterwards—I went to the garage where he keeps his car, just round the corner in Gower Street. They said yes, he’d had the oil and tyres checked and the tank filled early on the Wednesday morning and had driven off.’
‘The tank filled. What kind of car is it?’
‘A Rover 3500. The sort that some of the police have.’
‘Oh yes, I know. The tank holds fifteen gallons. Do you think he was going on a long journey?’
‘He might have been, at least he was keyed up like he often was before a long-distance trip. His leg bothers him sometimes driving.’
‘And you haven’t heard anything since then?’
‘Nothing that makes any sense. Harry Freedson keeps on talking about some deal having fallen through, wanting me to go out there and see him. As if he was frightened to say what he really meant. Of course that’s just scared me all the more.’
‘And you haven’t been to the police?’
‘No. I know I should have—I’ve been frightened…’
‘Yes, I understand. But you’ll have to see them. I know somebody who’d come round here and have a talk with you. A nice chap.’ Saying this, Buchanan could not help feeling irritated that Machin had dismissed the tip about Chard with ‘Some pieces belong t’noother jigsaw altogether’.
‘Sid got mixed up in something dodgy, didn’t he? I knew it. There were some phone-calls…’
‘Yes, he did—with Leo and Harry. But whatever the police may do about that is quite unimportant compared to tracing your husband, Mrs Chard. You mustn’t leave it any longer.’
Nora Chard groaned and put her face in her hands. Her heavy body shook as if she was sobbing but there were no tears. She seemed to want to cry but was incapable of obtaining this relief. She made another groaning noise.
‘What’s wrong, mummy?’ The door had been opened quietly by a small boy, about ten or eleven years old, thin and pale, with dark hair. He looked accusingly at Buchanan from behind thick glasses.
Buchanan said, ‘Your mum’s upset. She’s had some bad news. Would you like a drink, Mrs Chard? Shall I make you some coffee?’
‘No, thank you. Perhaps—a glass of water.’
Buchanan went into the hall and found that a door opposite was open, leading into a bathroom fitted out in a dated luxurious style. The walls were covered with pale green tiles with an art nouveau design, and the hand-basin had marble surrounds. A marble-topped table was covered with jars and bottles. The basin had old-fashioned heavy brass taps. As he was filling a tumbler he heard someone behind him and turned to find the small boy staring up with a look of strain as though he had to correct a distorted vision.
‘Mummy says she would like some tea, not water. She didn’t have any lunch. I can make the tea.’
Buchanan nodded, saying, ‘That’s good. What’s your name? Mine’s Ed. I’m a friend of Mrs Selver—I expect you know her.’
‘Clive. Do you know what’s happened to my dad?’
‘No, I don’t, but I hope we can find out something soon. Your mum’s going to ask the police to help now.’
Buchanan followed the boy into the hall and then into the kitchen, saying, ‘As your mum’s upset it would be a good idea if you could get one of her friends to pop round for a while. Do you know someone?’
‘My Auntie Joyce. That’s mummy’s sister. She lives in Earl’s Court.’
‘You suggest that, Clive. I’m going to make some inquiries about your dad myself. What colour is the car?’
‘It’s dark green. A Rover V8 automatic. MUX 121K.’
‘Good boy. I’ll write the number down. Try and help your mum all you can. And be careful with that kettle. So long, Clive. I expect I’ll see you again soon.’
Buchanan looked into the living-room to find that Nora Chard had switched off the television and pulled the curtain behind it, which had made the room dark. She was standing looking out of the window. ‘I’m all right now—feel a bit better.’
‘I was just saying to young Clive that you ought to get a friend round. Someone you can talk to. You’ve been bottling everything up too long. I’ve got to go now but I’ll phone tomorrow in case there’s any news. And I’ll tell Inspector Machin to call. Okay?’
‘Yes—and thanks.’ Nora Chard put out a large capable-looking hand. She was a woman who had been used to making decisions, working hard to help her husband build up a business while running her home. Suddenly she had been faced by a situation that must have swept away all the satisfactions of a successful career, one that had made her groan. Even so she had her chin up and was preparing herself to face whatever the future had in store. She had none of Beatrice Selver’s charm, nor her feminine appeal to male protectiveness, but Buchanan left the flat with a strong desire to help her if he could.
Chapter XXI
Ed Buchanan drove from West London to the edge of Bodmin Moor in just over four hours, with a break for eggs and bacon and tea at a café on the A30. He had caught a bus for Paddington on an impulse after leaving the Chards’ flat, walked to Bathwick Mews and asked Ken Hughes if he could borrow a car till the following morning. Hughes had offered him the choice of four and Buchanan picked a 1970 De Tomaso Mangusta, which was in good nick with only 20,000 miles on the clock and brand-new Pirelli tyres.
The idea that Sidney Chard might have set off for Trewartha Place on that morning in August, when he had made an early start in his Rover with a full tank of petrol, was one that Buchanan felt he had to test. There would be no satisfaction if he were to discover Chard’s corpse in the much-written-about cellar of the moorland house, but the quest had a strong fascination. From Hughes he had also borrowed a large torch cased in black rubber, a coil of stout rope, a tyre-lever, a plastic mac, and sheet 186 of the Ordnance Survey maps, which covered the Bodmin Moor area.
Waiting for his eggs and bacon to be cooked, he had flicked through Trewartha’s notebook again. One of the slips bore a note in Leo Selver’s hand: ‘Playfair cipher. This passage relates to treason and quotes “an ancient statute of Edward III of 1351: Or if a man do levy war against our Lord the King in his realm, or be adherent to the enemies of our Lord the King in the realm, bringing to them aid and comfort in his realm, or elsewhere…”’
After glancing at some other passages which did not seem to be of great significance, he turned to a closer study of the Ordnance Survey map. A minor road ran past Twelve Men’s Moor and Trewartha Tor, then a track continued to a place named as King Arthur’s Bed, where two streams met in an area shown to be marshy. After a mark
ed building which he took to be Trewartha Place there was no sign of the track continuing. The house appeared to be isolated in the very heart of the moor, surrounded only by hills and marshland.
Driving along the A30 after the Exeter bypass, Buchanan was struck by the disconcerting idea that he was being followed by someone in a cherry-red Volkswagen. The Mangusta had plenty of acceleration and several times he passed a bunch of slow-moving cars, only to spot the Volkswagen again in his driving mirror.
He realized that the driver of the Volkswagen might just be pitting himself against the exotic-looking Mangusta, but did not like the other possibility that he was being followed, and was happier when the red car turned left off the A30 just past Okehampton. Once the Volkswagen had gone, Buchanan was able to enjoy putting the Swiss car through its paces: it was years since he had driven a car responsive to sensitive handling.
From Launceston his route was via South Petherwin and the oddly named Congdon’s Shop. He made good time to the very edge of the moor and then promptly got lost in a maze of small lanes where there were no signposts, or houses where he could inquire about directions. Though it was only 8 p.m. the sky was quite dark with storm-clouds, and he found it necessary to drive on dipped headlights. After wasting ten minutes during which he crossed the River Lynher twice he heard the sound of a tractor. He got out of the car, picked up his map, and ran along a muddy lane. The driver of the tractor, who was manoeuvring a loaded truck out of a field, stared down at him suspiciously.
‘Sorry to bother you, but I’m lost. I’m trying to get to Trewartha Place. Sounds stupid, but I can’t work out where I am on the map.’
The tractor-driver nodded slowly, switching off his engine and looking Buchanan up and down. ‘’Tis a brave walk.’
‘No, I’m not walking. I’ve got a car parked just round the corner.’
The driver got down from the tractor, saying nothing but pulling on his nose with a doubtful expression. He stared hard for a few moments and then pointed a grimy finger at Buchanan as if making an accusation. ‘Well, you won’t get there apart from one track and don’t you go off that for no reason! Not two years since the Army thought they knew better’n us about such things, and blowed if they didn’t lose a tank along there. More luck than judgement they didn’t lose the lads in the tank too. You mind what I say ’cos there’s quaking bog near Rushyford Gate and by Withy Brook.’
‘You show me the way on the map and I’ll stick to the track all right.’
‘I don’t know that I shouldn’t advise you ’gainst it. ’Tis nothing to see but an old house burnt down. Still I ’spect you know your own business best.’
The man in the green denim overalls took the map and scratched its surface with a horny-looking nail. ‘You’re just here at Nodmans Bowda. Why I said afore about getting there but by the one track as there’s another marked there, see! But you’d find it peters out afore you get to Twelve Men’s Moor. No, your only road is go right back and turn left just afore Berriowbridge. Then bear left all the way. Take it slowly now and that track ’twill be all right. It was safe enough for those fire-engines and removal vans. But go off it and that’s that.’ He dismissed the hope of survival in that event with a wave of his hand. ‘You mind now!’
Walking back to the white Mangusta, Buchanan became aware of how strong the wind was, whipping the tops of trees this way and that, and driving the rain horizontally into his face. The car’s cobalt headlights gave a curious dead look to the dripping trees and bushes. He could not remember driving anywhere else in England where there were no signs of human life. Sticking to his directions and travelling at a slower pace than the Mangusta liked, he soon reached a hilly area and for the first time saw the bleak face of the moor itself, where wind and rain had eroded the soil, littering the higher slopes with granite boulders.
After driving for ten minutes he came to the end of the tarred road where there was a white gate and a notice: STRICTLY PRIVATE—TREWARTHA PLACE ONLY—TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED. As he undid the gate he could see that the tractor-driver had not exaggerated the possible danger in driving along the track, for there was a stream running alongside on the left and to the right a marshy area with waterlogged hollows and moss-covered hummocks stretching as far as he could see. There was no doubt that he had made a mistake in choosing the Mangusta for this trip; it was like a spirited racehorse, great for covering ground on a motorway, but at its worst being driven slowly along a peaty track with a thin covering of heather.
It would have been prudent to leave the car at the white gate but Buchanan had not reached the age of prudence. In the distance he could see the large stone house that was his goal, and it had an urgent allure for him. After another few minutes he had reached the heavy iron gates before the house and had parked the Mangusta there.
Trewartha Place stood on rising ground and behind it there were hills that looked black and mysterious in the fading light. A few trees silhouetted on the slopes were all forced over in one direction by the prevailing south-west winds. Buchanan ran his hand over a much eroded coat of arms on the gate’s stone pillar, like a blind man reading braille. He could just trace the outline of a rampant lion.
The stone façade of the house was intact but there were no windows and the sky was visible through one of the broken frames, showing that part of the back wall must have gone. Buchanan picked up the torch, tyre-lever and rope. He knew that he must watch himself in getting down into the cellar: if he had an accident no one would be around to help him, but the spice of danger was something he needed from time to time. As he made his way through a tangle of brambles and giant weeds to the ruined house he felt a surge of excitement and a heightened sense of life. The cold wind blowing over the bleak moorland was like a disintegrating force, a chilly breath from the void. He enjoyed tackling a tricky task when circumstances seemed to conspire against him.
The front wall of the house acted like a mask to conceal the havoc immediately behind it—there were piles of charred beams and stone rubble, splintered floorboards and window-frames. He picked his way with some care: after coming so far he did not want to tread on a nail and then be out of the game. Looking round he could see that an attempt had been made to bring some kind of order to the ruined property, presumably by the firemen in their search for Trewartha’s body. A stone staircase, suitable for a pantomime finale, was intact but nearly all of the second floor of the house had collapsed. A lavatory cistern still clung to one upstairs wall though the basin had fallen and smashed. A bath stood upright, full of water.
The wind whined through the window spaces and holes in the walls, making a dismal sobbing sound. Buchanan clambered over a pile of smashed and blackened furniture to the rear of the house where he could see an old-fashioned stove in one corner. He dropped the rope and tyre-lever on the stove and manhandled chunks of stone and wood from the kitchen floor. Half-way through this task he spotted a wooden cover in a space already cleared; a broken padlock lay close by it. He tugged at an iron handle set into the cover and it opened easily with a whiff of an old crypt-like atmosphere. With his torch he looked down a flight of slime-covered stone steps. He laid the cover right back and went down the slippery steps cautiously.
The cellar was on two levels, and on the first one there were some steel filing-cabinets sealed with rust. An orgy of destruction had taken place there at some time as the floor was covered with torn-up papers, files ripped in half, and boxes smashed to match-wood. A hammer had been used to dent great holes in the cabinets. Buchanan picked up what appeared to be part of a German book and studied one page. The printed text consisted of a list of numbers and addresses:
53. Weizmann, Chaim, 1873 oder 1874 in Motyli bei Pinks, Professor der Chemie, Führer der gesamten Judenvereine Englands, London S.W.1, 104 Pall Mall, Reform-Club, R S H A II B 2, VI G 1.
54. Welker, Helene, 13.12.04 Berlin RS HA IV A 2.
55. Wells, Herbert George, 1866 geb.
Schriftsteller, London, N.W.1, Regents Park 13, Hanover Terrace, RS HA VI G 1, III A 5 II B 4.
55a. Welsh, brit. N.-Agent, zuletzi: Kopenhagen, vermut 1. England, RS HA IV E4.
Buchanan pocketed this odd relic of Lord Trewartha’s secret life as a traitor and shone his powerful torch on the second level of the cellar. There were four more steps down to the glistening black water. Fragments of broken wine-racks and scraps of paper floated on its surface. The smell of stagnant slime was strong and repugnant, but Buchanan shone his torch and scrutinized every inch. Someone had discovered the cellar door and removed the padlock. Had it been a curious fireman, or perhaps Sidney Chard in search of other evidence of Trewartha’s treacherous activities?
‘Ah, Mr Buchanan!’ The commonplace greeting boomed and echoed in Buchanan’s ears with a more sinister significance than any threat. He swung his torch round to show Richard Madoc standing on the first flight of the steps, holding a torch in one hand and a large automatic in the other.
Madoc flicked on his own torch and said, ‘I’ll take the notebook.’
‘And then bury me here like you did Chard?’ Buchanan indicated the stagnant water.
‘Don’t be a fool. That water’s not a foot deep. No one’s buried there. Some broken bottles perhaps.’
Buchanan stared at Madoc’s expressionless face that was like a handsome mask and the glittering dark eyes that hinted at a psychotic drive. He was puzzled that Madoc had not already used the gun to take the notebook. He said, ‘Oh yes, you buried Chard here somewhere. And you had a hand in Leo Selver’s death too. I don’t know how but I’m sure of it. You’ve got a Chinese girl working for you. I remember that now. She was seen with Judy Latimer.’
