'Is there somewhere more private we could talk?' 'In my study. Are you hungry? I'm sure you are. The lady is, I suspect.' Another welcoming smile. 'You're just in time for a late supper.'
A door to the right of the hall swung open. A short, heavily built woman with a hard expression appeared. She was almost fat but Paula detected strength in the bare arms exposed beneath her apron. She glared.
'I'm preparing supper,' she growled. 'Is that three more I should provide meals for?'
'Yes, it is, Mrs Brogan,' Larry said cheerfully. 'Timing must be perfect for you.'
'Some might call it that,' she growled again.
Her expression was hostile. Probably always would be, Paula was thinking. Her hair was grey, long and thick, tied back with a black ribbon. Her eyes were small and penetrating above a pugnacious nose. The mouth was thin-lipped and revealed small sharp teeth. Her hands were large and below the apron she wore a black skirt over large strong legs clad in black stockings. She left, closing the door with a bang.
'This way,' Larry invited, opening a door on the left into a comfortable study with a roaring log fire.
'We should have introduced ourselves,' said Tweed. He showed Larry his folder. 'I'm Tweed. This is Paula Grey, my highly trusted assistant.'
'I would have guessed that. She radiates competence. Now, what are you going to have to drink? It must have been beastly on the moor. I'm joining you.'
'Thank you Mr Voles . . .' Paula began.
'Larry, please. Now what is your tipple?'
'A gin and tonic for me.'
'Think I could do with a neat brandy,' Tweed decided.
Larry had perched Paula in a comfortable armchair next to the fire with Tweed facing her. Paula studied Larry as he fixed drinks from a cocktail cabinet placed against a wall. He must be in his thirties, she decided. Well built but slim, about six feet tall. His movements were nimble, his face of a good colour. He had a high forehead, startling blue eyes and a prominent well-shaped nose. His mouth and jaw were strong without suggesting aggression. He handed round the drinks, giving himself a strong neat Scotch, hauled a chair and sat between them.
'I'd better tell you about Michael,' Tweed began.
He described how a police officer had found him seated on a Whitehall step. No mention of what he had said at the Yard. Larry lit a cigarette, listened without interruption as Tweed continued explaining why Michael had been transferred to the care of a top-flight psychiatrist. He provided Mrs Ashton's diagnosis, said after two weeks she'd moved him to a clinic nearby after deciding she couldn't help any more. He passed quickly over Michael's sudden departure, how he'd, of his own volition, sat in Tweed's car, guided him to Post Lacey, then led the way to Abbey Grange. He also left out the discovery of the skeleton masked by .a covering of snow.
'That's about it,' Tweed concluded, sipping more brandy.
'This amnesia, total amnesia he's suffering from. Explain it to me again, please,' Larry requested quietly.
'It means that for the present he's forgotten everything. His name, who he is, which, I presume, is why he never speaks.'
'You said the police at the Yard nicknamed him Michael, his real name. I find that very odd.'
'The world is full of odd coincidences. They must have thought he looked like a Michael,' Tweed suggested offhandedly.
'Something else I don't understand. If he's totally lost his memory, how was he able to guide you all the way here from London? It's a complex route.'
'It is. Has he travelled that same route before?'
'Countless times. To get to the Gantia plant outside Basingstoke, or to the admin. His office is in the City.'
'That's probably the explanation,' Tweed replied amiably. 'The one thing that's familiar to him, which he recalled, was a route he'd used so often. Including his walking up the track from Post Lacey to here. How did he make his way to work?'
'He liked to walk down that track to get some exercise before he started his day's work, which was high-pressure. He left his car with the old boy who owns the Little Tor, the pub.'
'Sounds plausible, explaining his actions despite the amnesia.'
'I'm still stunned. Maybe after supper we could come back here so I can ask more questions.'
'Certainly. You said Michael had a high-pressure job. May I ask what it is?'
'One of three international sales directors for Gantia. He's far and away the most brilliant and successful. He travels abroad a lot for quite lengthy periods. We don't hear anything from him until he arrives back with a load of fresh orders. He likes to surprise us, to keep things to himself. Even from me. I'm Gantia's managing director.'
There was a loud hammering on the door. They clearly heard Mrs Brogan's voice growling. 'Supper's ready. I'm calling Michael down.'
'Be interesting to see whether he comes,' Paula said, speaking for the first time.
Larry drank the rest of his Scotch at one gulp. 'I needed that. Uncle is going to be shocked when he gets back.'
'Uncle?' Tweed queried.
'Drago Volkanian. I changed my name by deed poll to Voles. Doing business in Britain it doesn't help to have a name like Volkanian. In any case, although Drago's brother was Armenian, my mother was English.' He smiled. 'I think I take after her. Michael is my younger brother. Doesn't look like it at the moment. That awful white face.'
'I believe Mrs Ashton, his first psychiatrist, had him checked by a doctor,' Tweed said glibly, making it up. He felt sure she would have taken this precaution.
'Not Bella Ashton, the psychiatrist?'
'Yes. You know her, then?'
'Vaguely. I meet so many people.' He stood up. 'If you don't mind, I think we should go to the dining room before Mrs Brogan breaks that door down.'
They entered a long, large, panelled dining room. Again, light came from ancient lanterns suspended from the walls, casting a warm glow. Against the rear wall inside a huge arched cave was a roaring log fire. Mrs Brogan stood with arms akimbo checking them in. Larry escorted his guests to their places, then skipped over to the housekeeper. Paula was close enough to hear their conversation.
'Brogan, Michael has lost his memory. He won't say a word to anyone.'
'I know,' Mrs Brogan sneered. 'Left it behind at the office.'
'Listen to me.' Larry's voice hardened, he gripped an arm with one hand. 'I mean it. You don't speak to him now, you understand me?'
'If you say so,' she rasped. She used her other hand to grasp his, prised it loose. 'You knows I 'ates being touched so you keeps your 'ands to yourself.' She looked at Paula and winked. 'Michael's sulking. Silly boy.' She pushed open the kitchen door and disappeared.
Paula was startled. The woman's expression when she had closed one eye was venomous, verging on evil. The thought flashed across her mind that the housekeeper didn't like men.
They had all sat down when Mrs Brogan appeared again. She darted at surprising speed to the one empty place. Michael's, Paula assumed. She switched cutlery from left to right, from right to left. Again she winked at Paula, who lowered her eyes. Would Michael notice everything was on the wrong side? He walked in at that moment, wearing his smart suit. She almost held her breath as Mrs Brogan reappeared, carrying an enormous tray with soup plates.
Michael stared at his placing. Without a pause he changed the cutlery back to the correct sides of his place mat.
'Mushroom soup,' Mrs Brogan announced as she served a plate to everyone. 'Anyone who doesn't like it can do without. Wait for the main course. Don't stand on ceremony 'ere.'
Michael waited until everyone had been served, and Paula lifted her spoon, then he got to work, scooping up spoonfuls of soup in rapid succession. In between he took two chunks of home-made bread from a basket, broke pieces and quickly ate them, reaching for two more chunks. He finished his soup before anyone else. That pig, Dr Saxon, can't have fed him very well, Paula mused.
Mrs Brogan appeared with a larger container of more soup. She stood behind Michael and waited. Her patience was s
hort-lived. 'Want a second 'elping?' Michael remained still and silent. 'Oh, well,' Mrs Brogan began. 'No manners . . .'
'Yes!' Larry snapped. 'He would like more. Have you forgotten what I told you already?' There was steel in his voice.
The housekeeper refilled Michael's bowl. She looked across at Paula, her mouth twisted in a sneer. Some people have no manners, her look conveyed. Paula looked away. Larry was going to have to give her a good talking to. Again, Michael devoured the soup between helpings of more bread.
'Shepherd's pie comin' up,' Mrs Brogan called from the open kitchen door. 'With greens. Anyone who don't like it can wait for the sweet.'
'You said you were both brothers,' Tweed remarked to Larry. 'But you referred to Uncle. Are your parents living in the vicinity?'
'Unfortunately not. They're no longer on this planet. They had the idea of travelling to Armenia to see where the earlier Volkanians had come from. My uncle did everything possible to stop them going, ended up by roaring at them that it was too dangerous. They'd have to pass through Turkey. They wouldn't listen and outside Istanbul they were attacked by Turks and slaughtered. About five years ago.' He smiled grimly. 'Which is why we're not all that fond of Turks.'
Paula looked at Michael to see if that had penetrated. She decided it hadn't. He was staring at her with the same glazed blank look in his eyes. She had the uncomfortable feeling he was staring through her at the wall behind her.
At the end of the meal Paula stood up and started to clear the plates to take them into the kitchen. Maybe Mrs Brogan would respond to a little help.
'Not a good idea,' Larry warned. 'Kitchen is the holy of holies.'
'We'll see . . .'
She had collected a tray from a sideboard and piled it with the dishes. She used her shoulder to push open the swing door into the kitchen. Once she was inside, it closed behind her and she was alone with the housekeeper. Placing the tray on a metal drainer, she stood with her back to it, arms folded, feeling more secure with her back to something.
'My, oh my.' Mrs Brogan stared in amazement at her. 'You is the first visitor who's ever given me an 'and.'
'I'm surprised.'
'This be a good time to warn you.' The large woman moved closer. 'About the cult.'
'Cult?' Paula's flesh began to crawl.
'Goes back 'undreds of years, they say. A secret lot, they is. They 'old rituals in middle of night. Horrible, they is. Make sacrifices to some god they calls Wrangel. Use the church, they do, sacrifice someone, then eat them.'
'Cannibalism, you mean?' Paula asked in a low voice.
A vision flashed into her mind. The skeleton with frozen remnants of flesh below the shoulder. Immediately she got a grip on herself, imagination running wild. Mrs Brogan nodded in reply to her question. She moved closer, whispering in her throaty voice.
'Reverend Stenhouse Darkfield, vicar, turns nasty if you mention cult to 'im. Mixed up in it, is my suspicion.'
'How long has he been vicar?'
'Ages. He was 'ere when I came - two years back. Folk in this part of the world gets told about the cult at their mothers' knees. That's 'ow it's passed down the centuries, is my belief. Other folk lives round 'ere and 'as no idea what's goin' on. Thought you should know.'
Her lips were moist now, her piercing eyes half closed. She struck Paula as a deceptive curmurdgeon, that in her eyes really was a streak of evil. Mrs Brogan turned away and swept a glance over the large pile of dirty dishes. She grunted.
'Plenty more in the dining room. No, you've done enough. Time for Tarvin to come.' As she spoke a closed door on the far side of the kitchen began to swing inward very slowly. A man appeared.
'Here he is,' Mrs Brogan said. 'Tarvin, time to clear up the dishes. Fetch them from the dining room. Not the dishwasher for this mess. Clean by hand.'
Paula stared. She couldn't help it. Tarvin was of medium height; plump beneath the white coat he wore. He had a large head, heavy eyelids half closed over froglike eyes, a pug nose, a round deep jaw. He moved slowly, almost like a robot. Paula found him disturbing, had an instinct to get out of the kitchen quickly, which was unlike her.
'I'll go now . . .'
She felt relieved to get out of the atmosphere. What was it about Tarvin that bothered her? The only person left in the dining room was Larry, who stood up with a warm smile.
'The others have gone into my study. I thought I'd wait for you. I get the impression something has bothered you. Mrs Brogan?'
'No. Tarvin,' she said impulsively, immediately regretting what she'd said.
'He's peculiar.'
He put his arm round her shoulders as they walked into the hall, halted her. He lit a cigarette extracted from a silver case. He offered her one. She shook her head.
'We have a problem here,' he explained. 'Staff. Difficult to impossible to find people who'll stay. That's why Mrs Brogan is so important. She's capable, runs the whole place and is a good cook.'
'She's first-rate. I should have told her so but something cropped up and I got diverted,' Paula remarked.
'She brings in a couple of local girls, often from Post Lacey. They last a few months, then rush off to Exeter. En route to London, I suspect.'
'They feel isolated,' Paula suggested.
'Exactly. That's why I let Mrs B bring in Tarvin. I find him peculiar; don't like him. Bit like something out of a horror film. But I can't risk upsetting Mrs Brogan. She likes Tarvin, gets on with him, anyway. Which is more than I do. Then there are a couple more local girls. This is their evening off. They won't last. Enough of domestic chitchat. Let's join the others.'
Paula had a shock. Tweed was perched in a secluded nook beyond the fireplace. Larry whispered to Paula that Tweed wanted to talk to him privately. Michael had gone back up to his room. The shock was a glamorous blonde, the colour not out of a bottle, who came running up to Paula after jumping out of her seat by the fire.
'I'd better introduce myself. Larry wouldn't. I'm Lucinda, his sister. I've been chatting to your boss. Now he is one of the most remarkable men I've ever met. Come and sit with me by the fire. There, now we're comfortable. I prefer older men - the young ones these days have only one idea when meeting a woman, and no intellect. May I call you Paula? Mr Tweed has been talking about you. Oh God! Here comes that awful man with the coffee.'
Tarvin was approaching them with cups and a silver pot. He moved slowly in his white coat, a spotless cloth folded over his arm. He padded towards them, eyes down, with a deliberate tread. Paula found his way of moving disturbing, more like an animal prowling.
'Black for me, please,' Paula said before he could speak.
'Me too,' chimed in Lucinda in her clear musical voice.
As he poured the coffee Tarvin's eyes suddenly gazed straight down at Paula. He gave her a cold searching look as though he were staring at a brick wall, the eyes weighing her up for some future purpose. Lucinda produced a gold cigarette case, inserted a cigarette in a long black holder, lit it with a jewelled lighter, avoiding giving Tarvin a glance.
'I find that man creepy,' she said when they were alone again. 'In fact I find the whole staff here strange. I've asked Larry to change them but he simply waves a hand, says the servant problem is not one he's involving himself in.'
As she sipped her coffee Paula was studying Lucinda. In her early thirties, she had a good figure, emphasized by the close-fitting gold evening dress, the wide belt round her slim waist. Her eyes were almost lapis-lazuli, which made her even more striking. But it was her vitality that intrigued Paula most.
'I don't like Tarvin either,' Paula commented. 'Do you live here, then?'
'Heavens no. I have a flat near Baker Street.' She sat back and her personality changed dramatically. She held her neck high, her expression became serious. 'I have a job with Gantia's plant near Basingstoke. I'm the security director. This is just a flying visit.'
Paula realized she had misjudged Lucinda. Thinking she was talking to a socialite whose main interest was probably
an endless programme of night-time parties, she was instead facing a formidable woman who wouldn't stand any nonsense.
'I'm impressed,' Paula said.
'No, you're surprised. You thought I was a playgirl. Well, I like to enjoy myself now and again, but my job conies first. Drago, Uncle that is, laughed aloud when I applied to him for the post which had become vacant. So I told him for a year I'd worked my back off training at Medford's. As I'm sure you know, Paula, Medford's is the top security outfit in London. I produced a glowing reference from their director, shoved it into Drago's hand and said, "Read that, then - and I'm not the sort of person who appreciates ridicule." To cut a long story short, he hired me on six months' probation. That was two years ago.'
No Mercy Page 4
