The Savage Gorge

by Forbes, Colin

  '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, cleanshaven, 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 expression 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 without 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 consuming 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,' continued Lance in his uphill conversational struggle with Tweed, smiling all the time.

  'My father wasn't drunk,' Lance pressed on. 'He can consume a large quantity without it affecting him. Reminds me of what I read in a Winston Churchill biography. Winston once said he'd taken more out of alcohol than alcohol had taken out of him.'

  'Do your sisters Sable and Margot like each other?' Tweed asked suddenly.

  'I'm afraid they hate each other . . .'

  'Why?' Tweed demanded.

  'Sable is my father's favourite. She'd like to be Lady Bullerton when he passes away one day.'

  'Peculiar,' Tweed said, having finished his cake. 'Normally the title descends to a male relative. In this case yourself.'

  'I don't want the damned title. Excuse me,' he said to Paula. 'All that responsibility. I prefer to enjoy myself. As to tradition, when King John, or whoever it was, conferred the title on an ancestor centuries ago, a special clause was added that if a male candidate refused to accept it then the title passed to the nearest female available.'

  'And in this case Sable?' Tweed suggested.

  'It would actually be Margot, who was born a year before Sable.'

  'And yet Sable is your father's favourite. Why?'

  'He thinks her personality is superior to Margot's, gives her fantastically expensive presents on her birthday.'

  'Like the diamond brooch she flaunted,' Tweed said grimly.

  'Flaunted?'

  For the first time the smile vanished off Lance's face, was replaced by a sneering curl of his lips.

  'Never mind,' said Tweed.

  'I expect you have a lot of girl friends,' Paula inter-

  vened, appalled by Tweed's aggressive treatment of everything Lance had said.

  'Oh, lots and lots,' Lance said, the smile returning when he turned to her. Tm afraid I'm rather wicked. I've got a small pad in Gunners Gorge Father doesn't know about. When a girl attracts my attention I settle her there. Until she starts talking about marriage. Then I wait until she's out. I pack all her things neatly in her suitcase, place it in the hall, get the locks changed at once.'

  'Isn't that a bit tough on her?' Paula suggested.

  'Until she gets home,' Lance said with a grin. 'When she unpacks she finds an envelope stuffed with money.'

  'That probably eases her sorrow,' Paula said with a smile.

  'Don't much care whether it does or not. Self-interest is what drives the world.' He turned to Tweed, tried again. 'Would it be possible for the two of you to dine with my father at Hobart House this evening?'

  'Don't see why not. What time?'

  'Would 8 p.m. suit you, sir?'

  'Yes, it would.' Tweed stood up, abruptly the soul of good humour. 'Please thank your father and say we're looking forward to seeing him again. Also, I would like to thank you for the truly excellent tea. To get this in London you'd have to go to the Ritz or the Savoy. I have enjoyed every minute of it. Thank you. Please excuse us - we must leave now . . .'

  'I think you were pretty tough on Lance,' Paula commented a
s they walked through the entrance hall, keeping her voice low.

  'You've certainly been with me long enough to know I adapt my tactics to obtain information. They worked.'

  'It's been raining while we were having tea,' Paula remarked, gazing through the front entrance before Tweed turned into the garage.

  'Buckets of it,' called out landlord Bowling. 'All the time you were having tea. Drenched down - a cloudburst. The river has risen. It will be coming over the falls like an express train.'

  'What did you think of Lance?' Tweed asked as they entered the garage and headed for his Audi.

  'Very smooth. Too smooth for my liking. I would never trust him despite his good looks - which he obviously exploits to the full.'

  'I think, like the others round here, with the exception of old Mrs Grout, he was lying. Now I want to drive all the way along the High Street and up to Aaron's Rock at the top of the gorge. Should be quite a sight after all the rain . . .'

  As he was cruising along the High Street, Paula used her binoculars to study the road on the far side of the river. On each bank a wide area of grass separated road from river.

  'They call that road on the far side Ascot Way,' she observed. 'The horsey lot must live over there. Tweed, could you park for a moment? I've spotted the path

  which probably leads to the stone Pit Bull had erected when Lizbeth drowned.'

  'If she drowned,' Tweed said as he climbed out, following Paula along the curving path through lush green grass.

  'Why "if"?' Paula called back.

  'They found her clothes neatly piled by the river. Despite the fact everyone agrees she was sloppy and untidy in her habits. The discrepancy bothers me.'

  'Look at the wording on the stone,' she exclaimed.

  FOR LIZBETH

  YOU WILL RETURN ONE DAY YOUR LOVING FATHER

  'It doesn't add up,' she protested. 'The affection. When you think this is the same man who stormed off the terrace as we were leaving. How abusive he was -not only to us but also to Archie MacBlade.'

  'I agree. We still don't know what sort of a man Lord Bullerton really is. As I've told you before, human nature is a fascinating and complex mixture. Now for the Gorge. The river is indeed very high.'

  Lepard sat in a chair overlooking the High Street closer to the Gorge. He had chosen the only accommodation available for a two-week stay, a cottage with a notice in the front window. Room Available For short Let.

  He would never be recognized now even in the East End. He wore a large grey shaggy wig with a very British wide-brimmed straw hat he never took off. He had explained to his landlady, Mrs Wharton, that he had been ill, that the doctor had warned him never to expose his head to the sun and to protect his hands. He therefore always wore gloves. No fingerprints. He had even gone to the lengths of wearing contact lenses that changed the colour of his eyes. To complete the disguise he now wore large horn-rimmed spectacles with plainglass. With his disguise removed he was confident Mrs -Wharton would never pick him out of a police line up, if it-ever came to that.

  On his mobile he told his second-in-command, Ned Marsh, to bring up a bazooka with rockets when he summoned his gang to Gunners Gorge.

  He had foreseen that Tweed might summon his key team. In which case it would be a massacre, probably launched by his gang from the top of the Gorge, which he had explored very thoroughly. The window he watched through was masked by dense net curtains. He could see out but no one could see in. The only disadvantage was he was too far up the High Street to view the Gorge or its summit.

  He sat up straight with shock as Tweed's Audi cruised slowly past. If it was Tweed's habit to travel the same route he was a dead man.

  'You know,' said Paula as they neared the turn-off

  leading direct to the summit of the Gorge, 'I don't see how Cromwell's cavalry ever climbed those steps as Bullerton described. Hooves would slither all over them.'

  'You've missed something,' he told her. 'Alongside each flight there is a wide grass verge between steps and the beautiful houses. Horses could easily mount as high as they needed to by galloping up the grass.'

  'Of course. I missed that,' she admitted.

  'Another thing,' he went on. 'Last night before I got into bed I phoned Marler and asked him to come up here today, so he could arrive at any moment.'

  'Why Marler?' she wondered.

  'Because he is a master strategist. So it's important that he checks the lie of the land, especially in this area.'

  Further down the High Street, Lepard was still watching through the net curtains, seated comfortably in his chair behind a table. A few minutes after spotting Tweed's Audi he saw the next vehicle, a green Saab, driving slowly towards the Gorge. Without passengers there was a single driver behind the wheel. Lepard saw no significance in this brief event, assuming it was one of the locals ...

  Approaching the turn-off to Aaron's Rock, Paula became aware of a disturbing sound, a muted roar of great power which steadily increased as Tweed drove up a steep dusty track. On either side high granite boulders gave her a feeling of claustrophobia.

  They were in the open now. Tweed turned the Audi

  round for a swift departure. Jumping out of his car he was followed more slowly by Paula. She was staring at a huge cloud of spray and the roar had become deafening.

  Determined to keep up with Tweed she ran after and past him, stopping suddenly as she gazed at the awesome spectacle. The river was the kind of surge you see when a massive dam breaks. Her feet and her willpower carried her towards the brink and she stared down.

  The immense rush of water, culminating in the huge waterfall dropping a hundred and fifty feet, hypnotized 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 platform 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 sipping 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,' admonished 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.