The Savage Gorge

by Forbes, Colin

  They arrived at a cottage on their left which had a bright red front door. On her hands and knees an old woman in a black coat was scrubbing fiercely at a stone step which, as far as Tweed could see, was as already white as snow. Paula stopped the car.

  'Might get some information from her if she's the chatty type,' Tweed said.

  The old lady stood straight up with surprising speed, dropped her scrubbing brush. She stared straight at them with alert eyes under a lined brow.

  Tm Mrs Grout,' she snapped. 'Who be 'ee?'

  Tweed decided to try impressing her from the start. He produced his identity folder, held it up, then put it away. She was quick and there was nothing wrong with her eyesight.

  'Deputy Chief, but not with the police is my guess.'

  'Maybe a little more powerful,' Tweed said smiling.

  'Come up a bit late to check on the murder of Lady Bullerton. Going to put the wind up Pit Bull?'

  Tit Bull? Sounds like a savage animal.'

  'Which is what he is. You don't call 'im that to 'is face. He would find some way of running you out of 'Obartshire. He's got 'imself made Chief Constable by suckin' up to powerful folk in Lunnon.'

  'So how would he run someone he didn't like here out of the county?'

  'Well,' she began, 'a few years ago Pit Bull bought up the Village. That's what it's called. Cottages were on short leases, which 'e renews when they ends. Contracts were drawn up so that he could throw tenants out at a moment's notice. But before he bought the Village I'd 'ad a legacy from an aunt. Used it to buy my cottage. Means 'e can't tell me what to do. He was mad as an 'atter when Fingle, his local lawyer, missed it.'

  'Why are all the doors painted bright blue?' Tweed wondered.

  'It's in the leases for all other cottagers. Doors must be painted blue.' She chuckled. 'To show I'm independent I painted mine red. He's in a rage but can't do anything about it. So there!'

  'You did mention,' Tweed said casually, 'that Lady Bullerton had been murdered. By whom and how do you know?'

  'Saw it 'appen with my own two eyes and me binocs. Standing outside the Nag's Head I was. Sees movement up by Aaron's Rock at top of gorge. It were Lady Bullerton wearing her wings. We all 'as our funny ideas. She thought she could fly.'

  Paula discreetly checked her watch. This was getting a bit much. To her surprise Tweed continued the conversation.

  'What sort of a lady was she?'

  'Very posh. Very clever. She could add up so many figures and do wonderful 'broidery. Made the wings herself. I sees 'er pushed over the edge. Down she drops through a hundred-and-fifty-foot waterfall into the river. Floatin' she was when I dashed into the Nag's Head, told Bert Bowling, landlord. Bert's quick - rushes out, tears off shoes and waistcoat, dives in. He gets 'er back onto the bank. Dr Margoyle appears, tries to 'elp 'er. Too late. She's drowned, poor thing.'

  'You said you saw her pushed over,' Tweed persisted gently. 'You actually saw who did that to her?'

  'Well . . . no,' she admitted reluctantly. 'Aaron's Rock hid who did her in. She was standing well back from a rock platform. Took me up there once in 'er car. "Don't ever go near the edge, Elsie. I don't," she says to me. I climbed up there a day later, crept under police tape. Platform was covered with blood. They cleaned that up.'

  'Was there a strong wind that day?' asked Paula.

  'Not even a bit of breeze.'

  'The police would check it out,' Tweed suggested. 'How long ago was this tragedy?'

  'Something over six years ago. Inspector Reedbeck said it was an accident.'

  'Gave me a bit of a jolt when she mentioned Reedbeck,' Tweed remarked as they drove on past the Village and down a steep hill. Mrs Grout had pointed the direction to Gunners Gorge. 'Then I remembered Buchanan had told me he had been in charge of some local police station up here.'

  'I think the old dear is round the bend,' Paula commented.

  'She certainly provided some information - or misinformation - 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 granite 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 stiffened 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 binoculars. 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 chuckled. '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 s
oon 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 register 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 landlord 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 swimmer.' 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 commented, 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.