'He's just crossed the B3212. Isn't Abbey Grange somewhere close to that? It's perched on the side of it. The rear wall at the back of the mansion is just beyond it I'd have thought.'
'You're right,' he whispered back. 'Say nothing.'
He was sitting upright, staring fixedly through the windscreen beyond Warden. In the full-beam headlights he stared at black pools on the lane, frowned, called out to Warden asking him to pull up.
'We could do with stretching our legs, he said.
Paula followed Tweed as he walked up the lane in the blaze of the headlights. He felt in his pocket, tore out a sheet of paper, bent down over the largest black pool, wiped the sheet forcefully over the mark, sniffed it. Paula couldn't grasp what had caught his attention. He straightened up.
'Diesel oil. Now look over here.'
Beyond the pools of black he bent down again, Paula switched on her pocket torch. By its light, beyond the car's headlight beams, she could see the impression of a very wide tyre. She took out her camera, pressed the button several times. Tweed then walked to the far side of the lane, near the ditch which bordered it. Another impression of a wide tyre. Paula photographed that as Tweed looked up.
'Got a tape measure?'
'You're lucky. I carry a sewing kit in my bag.'
'I want to measure the width between the tyre marks.'
They completed the measurement between them, Paula holding one end, Tweed the other. He stood up and made a note in his small book.
'A very large vehicle has driven up this lane to nowhere,' he explained. 'Some wheelbase. I'm curious. Let's see where this route takes us to.'
Returning to the car, he asked Warden to continue along this route at a medium speed. Characteristically Warden didn't ask any questions. They drove on through countryside with no habitations anywhere. Tweed was now sitting very erect, leaning forward as he gazed at the road ahead.
At intervals he spotted more wheel tracks, more patches of oil. At a junction where the lane divided he asked Warden to pause, to swing a few feet towards the left-hand lane. In the headlights he saw another set of wheel tracks.
'Turn left here, please.'
Paula was puzzled as they drove mile after mile through open country. A signpost pointed to Bideford to the right. As they passed it she whispered to Tweed.
'We're one hell of a long way from Abbey Grange. Soon we'll hit the Bristol Channel.'
'I know. And still we see the wheel tracks now and again. A huge truck of some sort travelled this way,' he said, keeping his voice down.
'I'm sorry,' Warden said eventually as they descended a steep lane with a view of the sea, a rough sea glowing in the moonlight. 'I missed a turning somewhere. We're miles off course.'
'Don't worry,' Tweed assured him cheerfully. 'After our experience on Dartmoor this is a relief, it's waking me up.'
He continued to guide Warden, following the trail of oil stains and wheel tracks. Then they were driving east along the coast, the road so close to the sea that they could see huge waves crashing against the wall, threatening to flood the highway. They had left the world of lanes and moved along a made-up road. Soon the view above them to their right was dramatic.
'I know this area from walking years ago,' Tweed remarked.
The massive cliff climbed sheer from the road, then sloped back. Paula pressed her face against the window, gazed up. Perched on the slope was a huge boulder, which appeared to move slightly. It had to be her imagination. Tweed pointed to it.
'Toppling Rock, they call it.'
'Well let's hope it doesn't topple now,' she said as Tweed asked Warden to stop the car. He did so and put on his hazard lights.
'It won't,' Tweed assured her. 'It's been like that for over a hundred years. Above it you can see Harmer's Head. It is thought that time has made that mountain unstable. Again, I imagine they've been saying that for a hundred years. Inside that monster at the top is a cave. I've sat inside it.'
'Rather you than me,' she commented.
'Drive on slowly,' Tweed ordered.
Warden crawled. The road had dropped and sea water was receding from sections of it. They were passing a deep gully vanishing into the mountain when Tweed called out to stop. He was sounding more cheerful all the time. Paula wondered why. She followed him out and he walked back and entered the dark gully, waving his torch about. He stopped suddenly.
'What on earth have we here?'
The beam of his torch was illuminating a strange contraption. Paula had her .32 Browning in her right hand. She found the atmosphere claustrophobic, had a vision of their being buried for ever inside the gully. Tweed was examining what he'd found.
It was like a long gangway, the floor built of sturdy planks. Wooden railings lined either side and it was mounted on thick rubber wheels. Several pairs were attached at different sections of the gangway, if that was what it was. Tweed bent over it, shining his torch closely. He grunted.
'And of recent construction. I didn't see a jetty. Did you?'
'No.' She thrust her automatic back into the special pocket in her shoulder bag. Then she took out her camera and took photos of the contraption from different angles quickly. 'Now, if it's all the same to you, I think we ought to get back to the car.'
'Let's do that. Nothing more here I can see.'
'No point in looking, then.'
They got back into the car and Warden drove off again. He speeded up, but not recklessly. They drove through a sector where the sea had recently covered the road. Warden made one of his rare remarks.
'Good job the road climbs again. The sea swamped that area of road while you were away.'
During the journey to the coast Paula had felt all round her side of the car for her map without success. Dropping her torch, she reached down and her hand located the map. She began studying it with the aid of her torch.
'Harmer's Head is marked,' she said. 'To get back we take the first right pointing to Bideford, then keep all the way on the A386, which eventually gets us almost home.'
'Spoke just in time, miss,' Warden replied. 'There's the signpost. So sorry I made such a pig of it. Buchanan will give me stick. I'll be lucky to stay sergeant.'
'Then,' Tweed said amiably, 'you tell him you followed a route into the wilds on my specific instructions. Don't mention any details of our getting out of the car.'
'Thank you, sir. I do appreciate that.'
They parked alongside the high wall at the back of Abbey Grange. Paula showed Warden on her map how to circumnavigate Dartmoor until he arrived back in Post Lacey. He smiled - the first time she'd ever known he could do that. Tweed guided Paula to the entrance in the wall, saw the gate was open and took her by the arm so they both walked along the side of the mansion on the grass verge. He pointed at the slab path he was avoiding.
'Knowing the place is well protected, they've probably laid pressure pads under those slabs. We'll enter by climbing up the steps on to the terrace. Officially we've just returned up the track over the moor.'
When they reached the foot of the steps they saw that the whole ground floor was a blaze of lights. Paula checked her watch: 6 a.m. As they approached the heavy door it opened and Larry stood in a thick colourful dressing gown, smiling.
'Dirty stop-outs,' he greeted them with a grin. 'There's some hot coffee in the pot. In my study.'
'I could do with a cup.' Paula agreed.
They stood up to drink it, despite Larry's urging them to sit and be comfortable. When he spoke his expression was serious.
'They've dealt with the skeleton?' he enquired.
'With the first one,' replied Tweed.
'The first!' Larry jumped up from his chair. 'What does that mean?'
'They found another one. Tell you about it later.'
'I'm off to the works early.'
'When we next meet, then.'
'You can stay here as long as you wish. Eat here. Up to you.'
'We'll see.' Tweed waved a hand. 'Maybe the whole of Dartmoor'has beco
me one vast burial ground.'
'Don't!' said Paula. 'I'm off to bed now before I fall over.'
9
Ken
Lee
Christine
John
Seated at the breakfast table in Abbey Grange, Paula studied the list of names Tweed had given her. She scooped up the rest of the boiled egg Mrs Brogan had prepared. It had been 11 a.m. when she had descended the staircase from her room. Warily, she had slipped into the kitchen, apologizing for being so late, Mrs Brogan had immediately suggested an egg when she'd asked only for toast. Returning with her breakfast to the dining room, she'd found Tweed, fully dressed, seated at the table. He had handed her the sheet containing the names.
'What do you make of that? Buchanan gave it to me. The only item found on Michael when they thoroughly searched him at the Yard.'
'It's typed badly. The typewriter is an old portable, maybe an Olivetti Lettera. The "e" jumps out of line every time. So if we ever found it — doubtful, I know — it would be evidence. Of what, I'm not sure. It's typed on good paper.'
'Good paper you can buy at any decent stationer's. No way of tracing where it came from. Not even a watermark. It's going to be the devil of a job identifying those names but we'll have to try.'
'Not even any surnames to help us.'
'Which should make the search more interesting.' he said ironically. 'Let's hope it's not a list of victims.'
'Four. I think that's unlikely. Where is Michael?'
'He came down from his room earlier, walked straight out on to the terrace, wearing a blue business suit. Then he marched down the track to Post Lacey, gazing ahead all the way. I watched him from my room through the monocular. He reached Post Lacey., paused, turned round, came back. His posture was the same - stiff-backed as a martinet - the face bloodless as ever, gaunt.'
'The Ghost Man,' Paula said quietly. 'Did he look at those tapes the police must have left round the area of the graves?'
'No. Didn't even seem to notice them. When he arrived back he came upstairs to his room, went inside, locked the door.'
'What on earth was he doing?' she wondered aloud.
'My guess is his old habit of going to the plant at Gantia reasserted itself. Hence the suit. He arrives in Post Lacey and his car isn't there. He forgets what he was going to do, comes back.'
'Everything about this part of the world is strange.'
'I've had a walk while you were in the land of Nod,' Tweed told her. 'I walked along the A382 beyond the wall towards Moretonhampstead. Now I'd like to go the other way. Want to come?'
'Fresh air is what I need. I'll grab my overcoat from the hall.'
'I would. Since Michael came back mist has blotted out just about everything. Dartmoor weather!'
Opening the gate in the wall, Tweed turned left. He warned Paula to keep on the grass verge. The mist was dense and a car coming might not see them in time. At that moment a loud church bell started clanging, its chimes pealing through the mist, which crawled over Paula's face. Combined with the pealing bell, it made the atmosphere unsettling.
'We can visit the church on the way back,' Tweed suggested as they passed the ancient granite-walled edifice. The bell tower reared up apart from the church like a sentinel. Further along the deserted road they passed a long row of thatched cottages, their walls of new stone. Shutters were drawn over every window and each cottage joined its neighbour. Paula pointed.
'It's a solid block of cottages. Is that a Devon tradition?'
'If it is I've never come across it before. That bell is deafening.'
Again the atmosphere was peculiar. Despite the mist muffling the clanging to some extent, it was still a blasting sound. Paula was staring at the cottages, which showed no sign of life, when Tweed began shifting his feet among the gritting which covered this part of the road. He cleared a small area and below was another oil mark.
'We'll start back,' he decided. 'Might as well explore the bell tower first. Pity we haven't brought cottonwool to save our eardrums.'
They opened an old door at the base of the tower, went inside. Paula stiffened. Another 'character'. The man hauling on the rope which activated the large bell high above them wore a thick pullover rolled up to his elbows. Muscular, he was about six feet tall and wore corduroy trousers covering his legs.
His white hair was thick and untidy. His long lean face was bony and Paula guessed his age as sixty. The nose was hooked, the eyes pouched. His mouth was a rat trap, the jaw heavy and aggressive. She took an instant dislike to him. He glanced at them, continued his arduous hauling of the rope.
'The Reverend Stenhouse Darkfield?' Tweed shouted.
'That's me. Need the exercise. Reminds the flock that the church is here for them,' he shouted back.
They stood while he continued his labours. Paula noticed that at intervals he checked his watch. Timing himself? Tweed gazed up at the swinging bell, which seemed enormous.
'They must have heard it now,' he shouted.
'The Lord expects,' Darkfield bellowed back.
'Thought we'd just say good morning.'
'Goodbye!' Darkfield shouted.
They left the tower, made their way to the ancient church. It was a relief to get inside. The walls seemed to muffle the clanging effectively. They strolled down the central aisle towards the altar. Paula started shouting, then lowered her voice.
'Didn't like the look of the vicar a bit. Something sinister about him.'
They had almost reached the altar when she stood stock-still. Her face lost its normal colour and she grasped Tweed by the arm. He also halted, following her gaze. They were looking at the altar.
On the top of it was a horrific sight. A calf's severed head was perched on the altar. A recent execution. The head faced them; blood was spilling down on to the altar, dripping over its edge.
'The cult,' Paula whispered.
'Let's get out of here, collect our things and walk down the track to the car,' Tweed said decisively.
Paula had never packed her things more quickly, cramming her small case without care in a way she'd never packed before. Descending the staircase, she found Tweed, carrying his own case in the hall.
'Should we say goodbye to Mrs Brogan?' Paula suggested.
'No. You've had enough. We'll head down the track now. Get out of this weird place fast.'
'The bell's stopped clanging,' she remarked as they moved quickly through the mist down the track, guided by Tweed's powerful torch. 'That must have been an obscene sacrifice.'
'That cult business is nothing but simple people occupying their time,' he replied.
'I was wondering whether the Reverend Darkfield had been inside the church. Could it be he was the one who beheaded the calf? He looks capable of it.'
'We must concentrate on a double murder case,' Tweed told her abruptly, anxious to get her mind on something else.
'It is possible,' she insisted, 'that someone who could do that to a calf could murder people and strip off flesh from their bodies.'
Tweed paused. 'Stop it, Paula. I've had enough of the subject. So have you. How did you sleep? Any more nightmares?'
'I slept like a babe.' The mist had dispersed and they had paused where the police had ringed the fatal areas with their tape. 'I can't see how Michael passed by this without seeing it.'
'I can,' he snapped. 'I saw his eyes when he was coming back. The same blank stare, the same gaze straight ahead. Now we'll get back to the car and head for London. If that's all right by you.'
They resumed their walk. Paula realized she had irritated Tweed, a rare event in their lives. She focused her mind to try to think of a less controversial subject. Their car was parked where they had left it outside the pub. She kept quiet until they were well past Exeter, then glanced at Tweed, whose expression was placid.
'I gather you were quite impressed with the glamorous Lucinda. She's very intelligent.'
'It's not her glamour I'm interested in. But she could be the key to my learning
a lot more about the Voles family and their servants.' Lord, she thought, I've messed up again. But then he went on, 'I'm at the stage of nosing out every bit of information I can, hoping I hit on something significant.'
'As an opening gambit,' she suggested, 'you could call in at the Gantia plant where she works. We pass it on our way back to town. And make your dinner date with her at the same time,' she added tactfully.
No Mercy Page 6
