by Colin Forbes
'I think the old dear is round the bend,' Paula com mented.
'She certainly provided some information – or mis information – but we'll know when we talk to Harry.'
He turned a bend on the level now and an awesome sight spread out before them. Paula sucked in a deep breath. Gunners Gorge was a small town on both sides of the river. In the near distance a massive gran ite gorge sheered up on both sides of a churning waterfall at least twenty yards wide. A turmoil of river water surged over the summit between granite boulders, plunging in a menacing volume far down into a raging pool between two roads on either bank. As they drove slowly towards the Nag's Head, which had a sign projecting with a horse's head, Paula suddenly said:
'Could you stop a minute? I've never seen anything like this.'
Tweed stopped. They both got out to stretch stif fened legs as Paula pointed at the steep hillsides rising up from both banks of the River Lyne. Old but expensive-looking houses perched above each other occupied the slopes. All were built of granite, which gave the small town a grim atmosphere.
'See,' Paula went on, 'no roads link them up the slopes. Just endless flights of stone paved steps. You'd have to be fit to live here – climbing all those steps.'
Tweed took out his powerful pair of compact bino culars. He studied low buildings with thatched roofs dotted at intervals at the top of the ridges. Each had a large single door.
'I think they've got garages on the crest-line, large ones with power-operated doors. Must be a road we can't see running along the top.'
'Then Heaven help people living in the houses just above this road.'
'That will be reflected in the price,' Tweed said with a smile. 'Let's get moving. Time for lunch. I could eat a horse.'
'Then we're staying at the right place.' Paula chuck led. 'The Nag's Head…'
What added to the disturbing atmosphere was that there were no other people about. Tweed drove in under an arch to the car park. Almost concealed in a corner they saw Harry's Fiat. A jovial, strong-looking man wearing a green apron met them as they entered.
'Would you be the two visitors someone booked two suites for?'
'We would,' Tweed replied.
'I'm Bert Bowling, I own this place,' he explained as Tweed signed the register in their correct names. Tweed then asked his question.
'Could you tell me how to get to where Lord Bullerton lives?'
'Go back along the road you came in on. Just before you reach the Village there's a turn-off on your left, takes you right to his estate.'
'Thank you.'
'Poor old basket,' the landlord continued. 'He's had a lot of bad luck. Dines here quite often in the Silver Room…'
'What sort of bad luck?'
'First his wife slips over the edge of Aaron's Rock at the top of the falls. Plunges right down the gorge. Old Mrs Grout saw her go – down the hundred-and-fifty- foot drop. Mrs Grout comes rushing in here, so I charge out, dive into the river. I can see her body floating half below the surface with her wings flat on her back. I bring her ashore and a quack staying here tries to bring her round. No good. She's gone.'
'Did you say "wings"?'
'A very intelligent and balanced lady she was. But we all have our quirks. Used to say she could fly, but I know she didn't really believe it.'
'How long ago was this?'
'Over six years ago.'
'You did say,' Tweed began thoughtfully, 'Lord Bullerton had a lot of bad luck. Was there something else?'
'Well, yes. About a year ago his two – no, three – eldest daughters walked out on him. Stupid people spread nasty rumours that he used to beat them up. There are people who don't like him.'
'Did he ever hear from them?'
'Just a postcard from Nancy, who went to Canada. Another from Petra, who pushed off to Australia. Nothing from Lizbeth. You would like lunch in the Silver Room? I'll organize it…'
The Silver Room was on the first floor, as were their suites. The room could have graced a good London hotel with its oak-panelled walls and tables set well apart, covered with expensive white tablecloths. A cheerful waitress with chubby red cheeks appeared as soon as they were seated.
'Mr Bowling,' she informed them, 'said you were important and I must look after you especially well.'
'Don't know about being important,' Tweed said with a smile. He took one of the menus she offered as she handed another to Paula. 'We're the only ones having lunch,' he remarked. 'Have you anyone else staying here?'
'Just one gentleman by himself in Room One. Lean and restless he is. Never a smile. Never looks at me. Has something on his mind, I'd say. And I saw that Inspector Reedbeck in the hall. Used to be in charge of our police station. Saw him studying the hotel reg ister late last night when Mr Bowling was down in the cellar. Cheek, I thought. Doesn't belong in Gunners Gorge any more. Sorry, I'm chattering too much but there's something about you which makes folk want to talk to you. Back in a minute when you've had time to decide. ..'
'She's fallen for you,' Paula teased him.
'Let's get on with lunch. I want to call on Lord Bullerton.'
They were downstairs about to leave when the land lord appeared full of apologies.
'I'm afraid I misled you about His Lordship. He still has two younger daughters living with him at Hobart House. And a twenty-year-old son called Lance. He'd been trying for years to get a son to carry on the line. Now he seems to have lost his enthusiasm for the idea. And I fear I also misled you about Lizbeth.'
'In what way?' Paula enquired.
'She didn't walk out with her elder sisters. They think she was drowned swimming in the river. Water was rough that day but Lizbeth was a strong swim mer.' He pushed a lock of grey hair away from his face. 'Odd thing about that. She was untidy, just threw her clothes off her swimsuit. Yet they were found neatly piled on the grass.'
'And her body was never found?' suggested Tweed.
'Could have been swept miles downstream. Time flies. Checked my diary. I told you it was over six years ago when Lady Bullerton went down the gorge. It was nineteen years ago. A year after the birth of Lance. Sorry about that.'
'Forget it. Doesn't matter.'
'There's a path across the grass opposite this hotel. Leads to a stone His Lordship personally had erected. Chose the wording himself. Mustn't hold you up like this.'
'What do you think of all that?' Tweed asked as he drove the Audi back the way they had come in.
'My head's in a whirl. All that information surging in. And Mrs Grout said Lady Bullerton had gone down the falls six years ago. Now Bowling, having said the same thing, corrects it to nineteen years ago.'
'Mrs Grout has most of her marbles but at that age memory can play tricks…'
'Funny that Bowling also said six years ago to start with.'
They had entered the Village and Tweed turned left down a lane bordered by high impenetrable hedges. No sign of Hobart House. There was a sudden loud report and the glass of the window next to Tweed was starred – but the glass remained intact.
'That was a bullet,' Paula hissed. 'Aimed at you.'
Tweed accelerated, risking that there was nothing round the next bend. Paula already had the Browning from her shoulder holster gripped in her lap. She twisted round, stared through the rear window.
'Thank God for Harry's armoured glass. That bullet, the starred glass is in direct line with your head.'
'I was driving slowly,' Tweed remarked calmly, 'so it wouldn't take a top marksman to aim at me.'
'You look pleased,' she snapped. 'Can't imagine why.'
'That bullet is significant. Shows we came to the right area. Someone doesn't like us poking round here. Or,' he suggested amiably, 'maybe it's Lord Bullerton's way of saying welcome to Hobart House.'
SEVEN
The high hedge to their right ended suddenly and Paula sat up. A panoramic view of great beauty opened before them. The hedge had masked a vast green bowl descending down a steep slope. Towards the rear was a single
house perched on a small hill.
Tve never seen a more attractive house,' Paula commented.
'Looks to me like an original Georgian,' Tweed replied. 'Which means it's a perfect cube – the length of the front will be the same as the sides.'
'And it has a sea-blue lake in the huge space in front of it.'
'So, we have found Hobart House. I wonder what sort of a reception we'll get…'
He was driving down the steep curving hill as Paula studied the landscape. Some distance behind the house the ground rose to a grim bleak moor covered with gorse, which appeared to be black.
A small brown Ford was parked at the foot of marble steps leading up to a wide terrace. Tweed parked behind it. As they mounted the steps the front door opened, a man walked out, the door closed behind him.
'Falkirk, of all people,' Paula whispered.
The private detective was more smartly dressed than usual. He wore a new leather jacket, a cravat at his neck, well-cut blue trousers. He stared at Paula with a hint of amusement in his alert eyes.
'What a surprise,' he remarked. 'Makes my day to see my favourite girl friend.'
'And that will be your day,' she snapped.
'I guess you must have had me followed,' he sneered. 'Must be an expert shadow. Never saw him. Enjoy yourselves,' he went on, ignoring Tweed, 'I have to get things done.'
'We'll talk later,' Tweed said grimly.
'It will be my pleasure,' Falkirk called out as he jumped athletically behind the wheel of the Ford. He drove off at a dangerous speed up the curving road, leaving a trail of dust in his wake.
'Not now,' Tweed warned as Paula opened her mouth.
He pressed the bell, then raised the polished knocker, rattled it loudly. In less than thirty seconds the door opened and a tall woman dressed in black, with a Roman nose and an unpleasant expression, stood there.
'What is it?' she demanded.
'My name is Tweed. I have to see Lord Bullerton urgently.'
'His Lordship does not see callers without an appointment.'
'I don't make appointments.' Tweed showed her his folder. 'I have to see him now. At once.'
Til inform him you called.'
She slammed the door in his face. Tweed paced the front, then measured the left-hand side. He thought he saw a huge shadow which immediately vanished. He returned as the front door opened again. The tall woman in black eyed Paula with disfavour.
'His Lordship has decided to make an exception in your case. The girl will remain in your car.'
'She is my chief assistant, goes everywhere with me. So she will come with me now.'
'You might have mentioned that earlier. And don't trip over the shag carpet.'
She was referring to the fact that the small panelled hall's floor was covered wall-to-wall with the carpet. Tweed felt his ankles sinking into it. She led them to a door in the right-hand wall, opened it, made her announcement.
'Mr Tweed, sir. Also the female assistant he insisted must accompany him.'
A very large man jumped with surprising agility out of an armchair, walked rapidly across to his visitors, his outsize hand extended in greeting. The head on a thick neck seemed huge. Below thick fair hair his prominent forehead suggested intelligence, beneath his thick eyebrows large blue eyes stared at each of them in turn. His nose was aggressive above a strong mouth and below that jowls were developing.
Paula was taken aback by their host's sheer size, but like many big men his feet were small and neat. His voice was powerful.
'You are so welcome, Mr Tweed. A visitor of great importance who arrived in Gunners Gorge yesterday and is staying at the Nag's Head.'
He was smiling warmly as he shook Tweed's hand and then turned to Paula to shake hers.
'I am losing my manners. I should have greeted the delightful Miss Paula Grey first. Mr Tweed's brilliant aide-de-camp.'
'Lord Bullerton?' she queried, tensing her hand, expecting it to be crushed in his great paw. Instead he squeezed gently, holding on longer than is normal.
'Yes,' he answered her, 'for my sins I am Lord Bullerton. My venerable late father insisted I carry on the line. Three of us so we shall sit round this table. The chairs are very comfortable.' He glanced at the open door where the woman who had let them in stood waiting for orders. 'Mrs Shipton, drinks all round. I'll have a neat double Scotch. Tweed?'
'The same as yourself.'
'Most important of all. Miss Grey?'
'I'd like a French Chardonnay in a small glass.'
'We only serve French,' Mrs Shipton said severely as she walked to a large glass-windowed cupboard which appeared more like a bar.
'And I see you know Mr Falkirk,' Tweed com mented, settled in one of the tapestry-covered carver chairs. 'A private detective.'
Tweed doesn't waste time, Paula thought. Plunges straight in.
'Ah, Falkirk,' Bullerton sighed. 'Touts for business round the shires.'
Mrs Shipton had served the drinks, placing a large cloth mat in front of each of them before perching their drink on top of it.
'At least Mr Falkirk made an appointment,' she snapped, went into the hall, slamming the door behind her.
'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 man ager.'
'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 dis play 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 fea tures 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.
