by Colin Forbes
'First you checked the corpses?'
'I did not. Lizbeth sounded scared out of her wits. We had an arrangement – at her suggestion. I wore a red tie and had a folded newspaper under my left arm. Lizbeth is smart. Re. corpses, I did see the one on the steps of the next-door house. Horrible. Her face was destroyed. Must be a sadist…'
'Or there could be another motive,' Tweed said. 'Go on. What happened next?'
'Rolls-Royce turns up, hardly moving when it passes the corpse. Checked the plate number later. Private car owned by Neville Guile, the billionaire. Bit weird. He had the tinted window down, was peering out towards the corpse. Then he cruises off round the corner where later I found the other sister mangled.'
'Then what?'
'Two police cars turn up. One with the technicians, the other with Speedy Reedbeck – only two hours after Lizbeth's call.'
'After that?'
'You know. I was falsely arrested by Reedbeck.'
'What I don't yet know,' Tweed continued in the same aggressive manner, 'is how you knew about Hobartshire.'
'Lizbeth told me all about where she had been brought up. She refused point blank to go up here with me. The prospect made her tremble. She thinks the murderer lives there.'
'All your story -' Tweed stood up – 'can be checked out with Lizbeth, who is now travelling north to Hobartshire under armed guard.'
'Is that wise?' queried Falkirk prior to leaving.
Til decide what is wise. I may have to see you later.'
'Can't decide what I need first,' their visitor remarked as Paula opened the door. 'A good hot bath or a really strong Scotch.'
'The bath first,' Paula told him firmly. 'His story appeared to fit the facts precisely,' she remarked after relocking the door.
'I've decided we'll have our planned supper with Archie MacBlade in the dining room. It's claustro phobic up here.'
Paula phoned the dining room for a quiet table. Then she got through to Archie, who accepted with enthusiasm. As she put down the phone she noticed Tweed was staring into the distance.
'What is it?' she asked.
'Your remark about Falkirk. To my mind, his story fitted just a little too precisely. Almost as though he'd rehearsed it in advance.'
TWENTY FOUR
The dining room was quiet. Few tables were occu pied. Archie was at a table inside a secluded alcove. He waved. As they sat on either side of him he took a package nicely wrapped out of a pocket of his tropical drill jacket, handed it to Paula.
'I have never thanked you for saving my life up on the moor. Otherwise I wouldn't be here tonight. Just a small gift.'
She opened it below the table, peeled off gold paper, removed green paper below, exposing an expensive leather case. Taking a deep breath, she unfastened the case and gasped.
Inside was a watch, its band and the watch itself studded with diamonds. Keeping it below the table she showed it to Tweed, turning to Archie.
'This is so beautiful – but it's far too much…'
'No more than you deserve,' Tweed commented with a smile.
'Thank you so much,' she said to Archie, 'but I can't accept it.'
'Yes, you can,' Archie responded. "The diamonds are fake. But don't consult it in the streets of London.'
He waved to a waiter he had told to come over only when he summoned him. By this time Tweed had helped Paula fasten the present to her slim wrist and she had pushed it up her sleeve out of sight. Menus were studied, orders placed.
'I'm still stunned,' Paula said as she studied the menu.
She looked at Archie. He really was a big man with a wide chest, a large head, a neat moustache and long thick hair. In some ways he reminded her of pictures she'd seen of prophets of the Old Testament. This impression was countered by the frequent warm smile of his thick lips. He looked back.
'You'll know me next time, won't you?' He chuck led.
The three-course dinner was so good they ate almost in silence. Talk would have ruined their savour ing the chef's excellent food. Then Archie signalled the waiter, who brought over a bottle he carried with extra care. Tweed stared at the label.
'Archie, that's the king of clarets. Costs a fortune!'
'Sip it first,' he advised. 'Now I'll tell you why we are here. About Black Gorse Moor…'
From a canvas satchel perched on the seat beyond
Paula, Archie lifted out a tightly capped plastic canis ter. Paula had seen him clutching it when she'd hauled him out of the hellhole. He first used large serviettes to create a concealing cloth tent. The table had already been cleared except for their glasses.
On their side of the 'tent' he placed the canister. He looked at Paula.
'Tell me what you see.'
'Four different levels of dissimilar liquids, separated by thick glass dividers.'
'An excellent start. Go on.'
'Bottom level is black as pitch, very murky. The level above is less dark with bits floating in it. Still pretty murky. How am I doing?'
'Fine so far. Now go on!' he urged.
'The liquid in the third level is lighter, but still very murky. The top level,' she concluded, 'is the purest brown-black. Almost has an oily texture -'
'Not almost,' Archie broke in. 'It is oil – of the finest quality, once treated in a refinery. Black Gorse Moor is sitting on top of endless deposits of oil. Forget Texas. I calculate there's at least enough oil there to last all Great Britain's needs for the next hundred years at least. We can forget Saudia Arabia and the rest of the OPEC blackmailers. How is the claret?'
TWENTY FIVE
After more valuable conversation with Archie, Tweed left the table and headed with Paula for the garage. Once inside he sat behind the wheel and stared ahead without moving.
'Billions and billions, Archie said the moor is worth, and Neville Guile offers Bullerton one million. He must have been furious when Archie sent him a phoney report by courier – and returned the huge fee Guile had paid him.'
'Which is why he tried to kill Archie on the moor. He spotted the fake. We'll now drive over to Hobart House. I want a word with Lord Bullerton.'
'He'll be asleep at this hour,' she protested.
'No, he won't. He told me he catnaps, then comes downstairs again and plays a game of chess against himself.'
She kept quiet until they reached the turn-off at the beginning of the Village. She leaned forward and chuckled.
'First time I've seen Mrs Grout not scrubbing her steps.'
As they approached the hole in the hedge Harry appeared, his arms waving.
'No trouble so far. Earlier there were couriers from London.'
'We know about them. Stay put. Very much on guard.'
'How else would I do that job!'
Most of the lights were still on in Hobart House. Mrs Shipton, dressed in a coat to go out, opened the door. Her hat was tilted slightly to the right. A woman in a hurry.
'What on earth do you want?' she demanded. 'At this hour!'
'To see Lord Bullerton,' Tweed replied. 'I under stand he has a catnap, then comes down to play chess against himself.'
'Library.'
'Just a moment. Where on earth are you going at this hour?'
'None of your damned business.' She paused. 'This is the only time I can drive round and enjoy the fresh air. All the skivvies are out of the place long ago. Everything is ready for the morning. Anything else for your case book?'
On which note she turned to leave. But Tweed wasn't finished with her yet. He called down the steps.
'I see there's an unmarked police car parked behind yours…'
'Observant, aren't we?' She clutched her Gucci handbag under one arm. 'Sergeant Marden has arrived with Lizbeth. Since his Lordship was asleep, they went straight up to her suite. Marden has excel lent manners – better than some police officers I could name.'
She slipped behind the wheel of a brand-new Renault, slammed the door shut. She drove too fast up the winding road to the lane. Tweed turned to find Lan
ce standing in the doorway. He made an off-hand gesture, looking out at the night rather than his visi tors.
'The library,' he said in a superior tone.
'We know,' Tweed snapped, brushing past him.
This is getting to be familiar territory, Paula thought as Tweed knocked politely, turned the handle and descended the steps. In his smoking jacket Bullerton sat crouched over a table occupied by a chess game in progress. He frowned.
'My dear chap, welcome. And also to you, Paula. The frown was my being puzzled by the state of the game. Join me for a few moves, Tweed?'
He waited patiently while Tweed toured the board, checking it from all angles. Sitting opposite Bullerton, he moved one of his pawns. Bullerton looked perplexed.
While waiting, Tweed picked up the imposing Queen. He used a clean handkerchief to wipe off her waist a tiny mark. Then he placed her back on the board.
'She's a heavy lady,' he remarked, 'but so she should be. She dominates the entire board.'
Bullerton moved one of his pawns. Tweed immedi ately moved one of his. Bullerton stared.
'Checkmate!' said Tweed quietly.
'You're dangerous,' Bullerton said good- humouredly. 'I never saw that coming.'
'Archie MacBlade has told me the whole position,' Tweed explained. 'You're sitting on top of a world- class oil field. Guard it well.'
'I have already acted very quickly. I contacted my top lawyers in London. They worked incredibly fast composing an iron-clad oil trust, then two of them flew up here to the private airfield just the other side of Black Gorse Moor. I signed the document with the lawyers as witnesses. Next bit is very confidential. Trust is registered in the Bahamas where no British government can ever reach it with taxes. The registra tion will move tonight to another tax haven I won't name.'
'That ties it up forever.' Tweed stood up. 'I was hoping you'd moved fast. You have.'
'I gather Lizbeth has arrived under armed guard,' Paula said.
'A wonderful moment when I hugged her and she hugged me back.'
Paula could have sworn there were tears in his eyes.
He used a coloured handkerchief and smiled. 'Your Sergeant Marden is an excellent fellow. Gets on well with Mrs Shipton, who had laid a table out side Lizbeth's door and served him a slap-up supper.'
'Must have a way with women,' Tweed said with a smile.
'One more favour, please,' he said as he approached the door. 'Who will carry on the title?'
'Since Lance refuses point-blank to be the next Lord Bullerton, I have decided Margot will be the first lady to occupy the post. In many ways she will do the job better – very brainy, superb manners and so popular, but wary of the aristos. Everyone in the house knows her, but no one outside.'
'Thank you for your time and information,' Tweed said, grasping the handle without yet turning it. 'One more thing. Are there two separate beds in Lizbeth's suite?'
'Yes, tons of room. Why?'
'Do me a favour. Let Margot sleep in Lizbeth's suite tonight and tomorrow also. Lizbeth had a bad time of it and I think she'll welcome Margot's company.'
'Chap thinks of everything,' agreed Bullerton, winking at Paula.
In the lane they were stopped briefly by Harry, who indicated he had news. Tweed lowered his window.
'Bob Newman has surfaced again,' Harry reported. 'Wants to see you urgently in the hotel garage…'
'More trouble,' Paula commented cheerfully as they drove out of the lane.
Entering the garage quietly, Tweed saw Marler standing by his Maserati. No sign of Newman. A well- built figure appeared, clad in a tropical-drill outfit; his wide-brimmed straw hat was pulled down over large dark glasses. For a moment Tweed didn't recognize Newman as he alighted.
'Several items you should know about,' Newman began. 'I called my pal in the East End of London. All the dangerous scum have left, including the three killers who escaped conviction in the courts on a technicality thanks to brilliant lawyers.'
Lawyers paid a fortune by Neville Guile, Paula said to herself.
"They're travelling separately,' Newman continued. 'Some in cars, some on motorbikes. Looks like the attack on you is planned for tomorrow – that is, today…'
'No,' said Marler. 'The day after or the one after that. They need to be fresh, to become familiar with the killing ground.'
'The other thing,' Newman went on, 'is I've dis covered who Mrs Shipton really is. Don't ask me how.' He grinned. 'Some of my methods were unorthodox. Lived with her sister in an old small town way north of here called Barham-Downstream.
They ran a prosperous general store – local council had banned supermarkets. Am I going too fast?'
'No, carry on…'
'Her real name is Jennifer Montgomery Fisher- Mayne. Her sister was Myra Montgomery Fisher-Mayne before she married Lord Bullerton. Jennifer, who'd never met him, was furious – she'd heard about his playing about with the ladies of London. She refused to attend the wedding, made Myra promise never to admit her existence. They gossip in Barham-Downstream. So Myra never com municated with Jennifer by letter or phone. She must have wiped Jennifer out of her mind.'
'Well, well…' Tweed sighed. 'The one motive I overlooked was revenge?
'The weather is changing dramatically,' Marler remarked. 'Three huge storms are building up north of the bridge.'
'Thanks a lot,' said Paula.
She saw the end of the glowing sun at 70 °K, her favourite temperature. Her reaction showed.
Marler smiled. He waved both hands in a wide throwaway gesture.
'I don't control the weather. I hope those storms wait until we have sorted out our ambush. They break first well north of the bridge. Then the tidal wave comes.' He walked out and the others followed. He pointed across the wide stretch of grass his side of the river bank. 'Apparently once the water was less than a foot from pouring over onto the grass.'
'Wait here,' Tweed told them. 'I have a phone call to make.'
He called Hobart House. He had little hope of reaching Mrs Shipton, but felt he must try. She answered almost immediately.
'Tweed here -'
'That bulldog of yours stopped my car halfway along the lane. Quite frightening. So I drove to the end, turned round and came back to Hobart House.'
'Mrs Shipton, I really am so sorry. I would like to find a way of making it up to you…' Tweed, when he set out to do so, could charm the birds out of the trees. 'May I suggest we have dinner together, say tomorrow evening, at the Nag's Head? It would ease my conscience and I know I would enjoy your company, your exceptional intelligence.'
'Really?' There was a brief pause as though she had lost her breath. 'I accept your generous offer, of course. I shall indeed look forward to the occasion. I will drive over from here. Would eight o'clock be a suitable time? If not, please tell me the timing which would be convenient for you.'
'Eight would be perfect timing. I shall also warn the bulldog not to stop you. You drive a blue Renault, I believe. Then, until tomorrow evening. Goodnight to you, Mrs Shipton.'
He next called Harry and warned him not to stop a blue Renault on its way out the following evening.
And not to stop it whenever it returned. Paula ran up to him as he emerged from the garage.
'We're going to do the town. Marler's idea.'
'At this time of night!'
'The aristos have a different way of living from us. I rather like the sound of it.'
'You do?'
'And so will you. Lots of pretty women.'
Marler led the way out and Paula was astonished at the sight of the High Street, tastefully illuminated by 'Ancient Lights', the elegant Victorian lamp posts with their slanting glass panes, inside which a light glowed.
'Some of the shops are open,' she exclaimed.
'The locals, especially the aristos,' Marler explained, 'sleep late in the mornings, get up, have a light breakfast. Then they ride like mad over their great estates. In mid-afternoon they return home, have a shower, a quick snack and
get some much-needed sleep. In late evening they get well dressed, come out, have a good dinner and then check out the shops. The general stores are closed – housekeepers buy the essentials during the morning.'
'Sounds like the ideal life of leisure,' Paula remarked.
'They're not idle,' Marler assured her. 'Soon they'll be hard at work, ploughing the fields, sowing the wheat. Some unusual shops. Tweed has just gone into one.'
Paula slipped into the shop: it had its name inscribed on its fascia. Edwin Cocker.
Tweed was gazing at a beautiful three-foot-high wooden model of a horse, painted black. The owner came forward. A tall thin man with a crooked walk, his head was long with warm eyes, his manner pleasant.
'Welcome, madame, and you, sir. I am Edwin Cocker.' He smiled again. 'I am the wood-carver of every item you see. You've seen the notice, "no obli gation whatsoever to buy".'
'You can carve just about anything,' said Tweed, looking round at the vast array.
He wandered over to a shelf where six beautiful chess pawns stood next to each other. He picked one up, turned to Cocker.
Paula sucked in her breath as she ran her fingers over its perfect smooth surface. Tweed was paying. Cocker opened a drawer and withdrew a polished mahogany box with a snap-shut lid. Opening it she saw it was lined with pink silk. Cocker very carefully placed the pawn inside, closed the lid, presented it to Paula with a brief bow.
'I can't thank you enough,' Paula began.
'There is something else, Mr Cocker,' Tweed said. 'I hope it won't spoil this very pleasant interlude, but I need to see your register of clients.'
He began to pull out his identity folder. Cocker stopped him with a smile.
'Mr Tweed, don't look so surprised, I should think everyone in Gunners Gorge knows you by now. I am sorry but no one can see my register. Clients know that is completely confidential. I am sorry, but no one can make me break my word.'
'If you were brought before a London court the judge could – and would – insist you produced that register. I apologize for having to say that.'
