'Mrs Shipton!' thundered Bullerton.
'Sir?' she called out, reopening the door.
'Point one,' Bullerton continued thundering, 'I can do without your commentaries. Point two, when you leave this room I like the door closed quietly.'
Mrs Shipton, her expression venomous, left again, closing the door without a whisper.
'Your housekeeper?' Paula enquired.
'Shsh!' Bullerton laid a hand on hers. 'House manager.'
'You seem to have a lot of spies,' Tweed remarked. 'When we arrived you knew a lot about us.'
'Ah! Mr Tweed. You are in the country now. Anyone new and the gossip starts . . .'
'Indeed it does,' intervened Paula. 'You have five daughters and one son.'
'Yes.' Bullerton sighed. 'The two eldest, Nancy and
Petra, walked out on me. Wished to travel, I gather. Nancy went to Canada. Had just one postcard from her. Toronto. Petra pushed off to Australia. Again only one postcard - Sydney. But I still have Margot and Sable—'
As though on cue the door burst open and a wild girl burst into the room. Fair-haired, she wore baggy jeans, a short jumper which exposed a generous display of bare stomach, and Reeboks on her feet. She dropped a briefcase by a couch and hurtled over to Tweed. He held out a hand and she slapped it in a friendly gesture with her own.
'This is Margot,' Bullerton said in a resigned tone.
'I like you,' Margot said to Tweed, dragging a chair close. 'I'm so fed up with the young idiots. Just dumped a boy friend. Only one part of my anatomy he was interested in. Tried to drag me behind a bush up on Black Gorse Moor. I gave him my knee. Left him crouched over and moaning. I prefer more mature men.'
The door opened and Mrs Shipton appeared again. She seemed in a better mood now as she addressed her employer.
'Sir, that important call you expected has come through. You could take it in the library. The line is bad. I think he's using a mobile.'
Bullerton stood up, excusing himself to his guests. He wore jodhpurs tucked into gleaming boots and riding kit. The garb seemed quite normal in this part of the world. As he was leaving, a very attractive slim
girl appeared. She was fashionably dressed in an expensive two-piece blue suit. Her fair hair was neatly coiffured and Paula estimated her to be in her early twenties.
'This is Sable,' Bullerton called over his shoulder before he left the drawing room.
'Oh, God!' Margot said in a loud voice.
She began running two fingers up the sleeve of Tweed's arm. Her smile was inviting when Sable spoke. She had a cultured voice and a very pleasant manner as she spoke to Margot.
'I'm not sure Mr Tweed likes you doing that during his first visit.'
'Drop dead,' Margot snapped. 'Just because you manipulated Pater into sending you to Heathfield you think you're the cat's whiskers,' she went on nastily. 'I went to a good school but it wasn't Heathfield . . .'
'Calm down, Margot,' Sable said quietly, still standing.
'You shove off,' screamed Margot. 'You weren't invited to this party!'
She jumped up, advanced on Sable, her right fist clenched ready to punch her sister in the stomach. Sable, taller, stood very still, shot out her long arms, her hands on Margot's shoulders. She gave Margot a violent shove. Margot staggered backwards, ended up sprawled in an armchair.
Sable fingered a diamond brooch attached to the top of her jacket. Margot leaned forward, screaming
as she felt under the left leg of her jeans. She pulled out a knife from a holster attached to her lower leg.
'See that!' she screamed. 'Pater's birthday present to his pet, Sable.'
Margot leapt to her feet. She rushed at Sable, knife raised to slash her. Sable remained quite still. Then as Margot reached her one long arm shot out, the hand grasped Margot's knife hand by the wrist, twisted. Margot yelled in pain and dropped the knife. At that moment during the struggle Lord Bullerton returned.
'Couldn't hear a word . . . bloody hell. Margot, are you mad?'
'We had a disagreement,' Margot replied sullenly, sitting on the armchair, nursing her twisted wrist.
Tweed leaned forward, studied the knife. One side had a keen blade, the other a regular serrated edge. Not the weapon which had been used to carve up the faces of the two women in London.
A good-looking young man in his early twenties entered the room. Wearing a neat grey suit, his features were striking and his eyes almond-shaped, which gave him an air of authority.
'This is Lance, my son ... and this is Margot again,' he said in a voice rumbling with fury.
'Again. Always Margot again,' Margot yelled in fury.
Bullerton raised one huge hand, slapped her so hard across the face Paula thought he would take her head off. Then he administered the same harsh blow to the other side of her face. She burst into tears and ran from the room.
I’ll get rid of this,' said Lance.
He picked up the knife by the handle, walked across to a door a distance beyond the bar, opened it and Paula saw it led to a marble-tiled toilet. He came out with a large towel wrapped round the knife.
'Plenty of deep fissures on the moor,' he explained. 'It will be safe down there. I never knew Margot went in for knives.'
I’ll give her hell later,' Bullerton growled.
'May I suggest you don't?' requested Lance. I’ll arrange for Mrs Shipton to prepare a nice tea for her. Muffins, which Margot loves, plenty of butter, Dundee cake and a large pot of tea. I'll take it up to her myself.'
'All right. If you think that's best. You'd make a good candidate to carry on the title when I'm gone.'
'He really doesn't want that,' Sable's cultured tones broke in. 'He's told you that enough times.'
'No, he doesn't,' Bullerton agreed after Lance had left. 'I think now you'd make a better job of it. You're competent, controlled, don't mind responsibility -which Lance does. And you're popular with the people who count.'
'Let me make one thing clear,' Sable said firmly. Tm not asking for it or assuming anything. You do change your mind quite often.'
'True enough,' he agreed. 'But I've been thinking about the whole business.'
'Time we left,' Tweed suggested. 'It has been interesting. I think you've got the gem of a house. A real Georgian.'
I’ll come out on the terrace with you. Sable, join us, please.' As he walked out with Tweed, Mrs Shipton appeared with another double Scotch on a tray. Bullerton, standing on the terrace, drank half, licked his thick lips and swallowed the rest, dumping the glass back on the tray, which Mrs Shipton took back into the house.
'His third,' Sable whispered to Paula. 'Watch out. And could I come to see you at the Nag's Head?'
'You'd be most welcome. Best to phone me first. Here's my number . . .'
She gave the number to Sable, expecting her to record it in a notebook. Instead, Sable merely glanced at it.
'Got it,' she said and disappeared into the hall.
Paula walked towards the wall of the terrace Bullerton and Tweed were heading for. She studied the large man's walk. Perfectly steady. She joined them as Tweed posed the question.
'Why is it called Gunners Gorge?'
'Ah, sir. There's some history. In the sixteen hundreds the son of the great Cromwell was fighting with the Parliamentarians. At least, one of his generals was. Royalists were waiting near Worcester for their cavalry to come from here to smash the Parliamentarians. With me?'
'I know a little about the final battle at Worcester.'
'Well' - Bullerton's huge face was becoming red -'spies had reported to the general that the Royalist cavalry had set a trap in the town here to destroy his
cavalry. Arriving early, the ambushers took up position in the entrances to the caves near the top of the gorge. Cromwell's cavalry outwitted them.'
Bullerton was talking more rapidly, as though enjoying relating the outcome.
'That means,' Tweed speculated, 'they were looking down on the road which passes the Nag's Head.'
&nb
sp; 'Which was the road the Royalist cavalry would ride along,' said Bullerton, gleefully. 'And they did, sir!'
'What happened?'
'The Cromwellian cavalry rode straight up the stepped alleys. This gave them a commanding position overlooking the caves. Their muskets laid down a murderous barrage of fire, firing point blank into the caves.'
He rubbed his large hands together as though seeing it all with sadistic enjoyment.
'The Royalist ambushers - and their horses - were massacred on that famous day. Dead Royalists - and their horses - fell into the falls and the gorge which was running - streaming - with blood. What a sight it must have been!'
His face was now a mottled red, his eyes gleaming with delight. Paula was appalled.
She saw a green Bugatti driving slowly down the road towards Hobart House. Bullerton glared as the gleaming car parked behind Tweed's Audi.
'He's early, damn him.' Paula immediately recognized the driver.
It was Archie MacBlade, the oil prospector whose
picture had been in the newspaper. But a very different MacBlade. He'd had his hair cut, his previously bushy moustache was neatly trimmed. He wore leather driving kit. He looked handsome and she was rather taken by him as he leapt up the steps. Bullerton had turned his back on him, was slowly stomping towards the house.
MacBlade was smiling as he approached Tweed and Paula, holding out his hand. Bullerton looked round, saw the gesture and shouted at the top of his voice.
'Don't start jabbering to them. They're only guests. Come in now! '
'I'm coming,' MacBlade called back. A pause. 'When I am ready.
'I am so pleased to meet you,' he went on, 'Mr Tweed and Miss Paula Grey. Such a distinguished couple, if I may say so.'
'You may say so,' Paula replied with a warm smile. 'And both of us appreciate your generous compliment.'
'In that case,' MacBlade suggested, 'may I invite you both to be my guests for dinner in the Silver Room one evening?'
'That would suit us perfectly. We look forward to enjoying the company of the most professional oil prospector in the world.'
'Once.' MacBlade smiled again. 'I am now retired.'
'Really?'
Paula thought she detected a note of scepticism in Tweed's tone. At that moment there was a frustrated roar from Bullerton, waiting by the door.
'Don't make the mistake of thinking he is drunk,' MacBlade warned just before he left them. 'His capacity for absorbing liquor is limitless. He is just play-acting . . .'
Paula pursed her lips as she watched MacBlade walk casually to the house.
'We have just seen the real Pit Bull,' she said grimly.
EIGHT
'I'd like to go for a walk on the moor,' Paula decided, 'to get that horror story Bullerton revelled in out of my mind. There are more steps at the end of the terrace.'
'I’ll come with you,' said Tweed. 'There's stony ground higher up. I'll get our motoring gloves out of the car. Then if we trip up we won't rip our hands . . .'
They walked a long way across recently trimmed grass, then the slope began. So did the rough ground, littered with stones of different colours. Paula, wearing her gloves, reached the edge of the moor first. Behind her, Tweed, who had a very sensitive nose for odours, pulled a face.
Paula eased her way along a narrow path between tall gorse bushes with blackened stems. There were few yellow blooms and even they were drooping. There was something unpleasant about the atmosphere.
'Not like the Yorkshire moors,' Tweed commented.
He used his gloved hand to grasp a handful of gorse, raised it to his nose. The gorse had a greasy feel. They pushed on through the winding path until they reached the top. Along a flat stretch ran a narrow-gauge railway.
'What's this?' Paula asked.
She had bent down to where the last gorse bushes enclosed the path on both sides. She hauled out a long thick steel rod with a wide flat steel top. Tweed peered over her shoulder.
'That,' he told her, 'is like the pillars they once used in coal mines to support the roofs in deep tunnels. And beyond that little railway there are deep runnels in the ground - as though made by heavy trucks.'
'That nauseous smell. What is it?' she wondered.
'Probably from an industrial plant beyond the ridge over there. Belching out pollution, which it shouldn't.'
'I don't like this place. It's creepy.'
Tweed didn't hear her. He was returning downhill along the path at an incredible rate. She followed slowly, watching her footing. Near the bottom of the path she noticed dead gorse piled up in a large heap. Bending down, she carefully removed the branches and foliage. Reaching the ground level she stared.
She had exposed the entrance to a large tunnel. It comprised a new steel pipe at least three feet in diameter. Taking out a torch, she shone it into the tunnel, which gradually went lower and lower. The metal was perfectly clean.
She rearranged the concealing gorse over the entrance. As she stood up she noticed a large boulder near the end of the path. A marker?
Tweed was far below, heading for Hobart House. The moment she reached the grass her legs flew to catch him up. Out of breath, she arrived to find him standing at the Audi. She was on the verge of mentioning the tunnel when she saw his absorbed expression.
They were driving back up the curving road when she looked back to catch a glimpse of the beauty of the Georgian house. It had the outward appearance of a dream house.
'I sensed deceit and evil inside that house,' she mused.
'They do say that the family can be the bloodiest battlefield,' he replied as though his mind was on something else.
'I noticed that Sable decided not to come out onto the terrace. I suspect she sensed her father's change of mood.'
'Possibly. The strange thing is this case started out with the bestial murder of two women in London. Which is why we came up here. Now I wonder.'
'You wonder what?'
'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 - Bu
llerton's twenty-year-old athletic son. Polite, I gather he is popular in town. I've got something 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 slaughtered.'
'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 pressing 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.'
The Savage Gorge Page 6
