The Savage Gorge tac-24

by Colin Forbes

  'Plenty of deep fissures on the moor,' he explained. 'It will be safe down there. I never knew Margot went in for knives.'

  I’ll give her hell later,' Bullerton growled.

  'May I suggest you don't?' requested Lance. I’ll arrange for Mrs Shipton to prepare a nice tea for her. Muffins, which Margot loves, plenty of butter, Dundee cake and a large pot of tea. I'll take it up to her myself.'

  'All right. If you think that's best. You'd make a good candidate to carry on the title when I'm gone.'

  'He really doesn't want that,' Sable's cultured tones broke in. 'He's told you that enough times.'

  'No, he doesn't,' Bullerton agreed after Lance had left. 'I think now you'd make a better job of it. You're competent, controlled, don't mind responsibility – which Lance does. And you're popular with the people who count.'

  'Let me make one thing clear,' Sable said firmly. Tm not asking for it or assuming anything. You do change your mind quite often.'

  'True enough,' he agreed. 'But I've been thinking about the whole business.'

  'Time we left,' Tweed suggested. 'It has been inter esting. I think you've got the gem of a house. A real Georgian.'

  I’ll come out on the terrace with you. Sable, join us, please.' As he walked out with Tweed, Mrs Shipton appeared with another double Scotch on a tray. Bullerton, standing on the terrace, drank half, licked his thick lips and swallowed the rest, dumping the glass back on the tray, which Mrs Shipton took back into the house.

  'His third,' Sable whispered to Paula. 'Watch out. And could I come to see you at the Nag's Head?'

  'You'd be most welcome. Best to phone me first. Here's my number. ..'

  She gave the number to Sable, expecting her to record it in a notebook. Instead, Sable merely glanced at it.

  'Got it,' she said and disappeared into the hall.

  Paula walked towards the wall of the terrace Bullerton and Tweed were heading for. She studied the large man's walk. Perfectly steady. She joined them as Tweed posed the question.

  'Why is it called Gunners Gorge?'

  'Ah, sir. There's some history. In the sixteen hun dreds the son of the great Cromwell was fighting with the Parliamentarians. At least, one of his generals was. Royalists were waiting near Worcester for their cavalry to come from here to smash the Parliamentarians. With me?'

  'I know a little about the final battle at Worcester.'

  'Well' – Bullerton's huge face was becoming red – 'spies had reported to the general that the Royalist cavalry had set a trap in the town here to destroy his cavalry. Arriving early, the ambushers took up posi tion in the entrances to the caves near the top of the gorge. Cromwell's cavalry outwitted them.'

  Bullerton was talking more rapidly, as though enjoying relating the outcome.

  'That means,' Tweed speculated, 'they were looking down on the road which passes the Nag's Head.'

  'Which was the road the Royalist cavalry would ride along,' said Bullerton, gleefully. 'And they did, sir!'

  'What happened?'

  'The Cromwellian cavalry rode straight up the stepped alleys. This gave them a commanding posi tion overlooking the caves. Their muskets laid down a murderous barrage of fire, firing point blank into the caves.'

  He rubbed his large hands together as though seeing it all with sadistic enjoyment.

  'The Royalist ambushers – and their horses – were massacred on that famous day. Dead Royalists – and their horses – fell into the falls and the gorge which was running – streaming – with blood. What a sight it must have been!'

  His face was now a mottled red, his eyes gleaming with delight. Paula was appalled.

  She saw a green Bugatti driving slowly down the road towards Hobart House. Bullerton glared as the gleaming car parked behind Tweed's Audi.

  'He's early, damn him.' Paula immediately recog nized the driver.

  It was Archie MacBlade, the oil prospector whose picture had been in the newspaper. But a very differ ent MacBlade. He'd had his hair cut, his previously bushy moustache was neatly trimmed. He wore leather driving kit. He looked handsome and she was rather taken by him as he leapt up the steps. Bullerton had turned his back on him, was slowly stomping towards the house.

  MacBlade was smiling as he approached Tweed and Paula, holding out his hand. Bullerton looked round, saw the gesture and shouted at the top of his voice.

  'Don't start jabbering to them. They're only guests. Come in now! '

  'I'm coming,' MacBlade called back. A pause. 'When I am ready.

  'I am so pleased to meet you,' he went on, 'Mr Tweed and Miss Paula Grey. Such a distinguished couple, if I may say so.'

  'You may say so,' Paula replied with a warm smile. 'And both of us appreciate your generous compliment.'

  'In that case,' MacBlade suggested, 'may I invite you both to be my guests for dinner in the Silver Room one evening?'

  'That would suit us perfectly. We look forward to enjoying the company of the most professional oil prospector in the world.'

  'Once.' MacBlade smiled again. 'I am now retired.'

  'Really?'

  Paula thought she detected a note of scepticism in Tweed's tone. At that moment there was a frustrated roar from Bullerton, waiting by the door.

  'Don't make the mistake of thinking he is drunk,' MacBlade warned just before he left them. 'His capacity for absorbing liquor is limitless. He is just play-acting…'

  Paula pursed her lips as she watched MacBlade walk casually to the house.

  'We have just seen the real Pit Bull,' she said grimly.

  EIGHT

  'I'd like to go for a walk on the moor,' Paula decided, 'to get that horror story Bullerton revelled in out of my mind. There are more steps at the end of the terrace.'

  ' I’ll come with you,' said Tweed. 'There's stony ground higher up. I'll get our motoring gloves out of the car. Then if we trip up we won't rip our hands…'

  They walked a long way across recently trimmed grass, then the slope began. So did the rough ground, littered with stones of different colours. Paula, wearing her gloves, reached the edge of the moor first. Behind her, Tweed, who had a very sensitive nose for odours, pulled a face.

  Paula eased her way along a narrow path between tall gorse bushes with blackened stems. There were few yellow blooms and even they were drooping. There was something unpleasant about the atmosphere.

  'Not like the Yorkshire moors,' Tweed commented.

  He used his gloved hand to grasp a handful of gorse, raised it to his nose. The gorse had a greasy feel. They pushed on through the winding path until they reached the top. Along a flat stretch ran a narrow-gauge railway.

  'What's this?' Paula asked.

  She had bent down to where the last gorse bushes enclosed the path on both sides. She hauled out a long thick steel rod with a wide flat steel top. Tweed peered over her shoulder.

  'That,' he told her, 'is like the pillars they once used in coal mines to support the roofs in deep tunnels. And beyond that little railway there are deep runnels in the ground – as though made by heavy trucks.'

  'That nauseous smell. What is it?' she wondered.

  'Probably from an industrial plant beyond the ridge over there. Belching out pollution, which it shouldn't.'

  'I don't like this place. It's creepy.'

  Tweed didn't hear her. He was returning downhill along the path at an incredible rate. She followed slowly, watching her footing. Near the bottom of the path she noticed dead gorse piled up in a large heap. Bending down, she carefully removed the branches and foliage. Reaching the ground level she stared.

  She had exposed the entrance to a large tunnel. It comprised a new steel pipe at least three feet in dia meter. Taking out a torch, she shone it into the tunnel, which gradually went lower and lower. The metal was perfectly clean.

  She rearranged the concealing gorse over the entrance. As she stood up she noticed a large boulder near the end of the path. A marker?

  Tweed was far below, heading for Hobart House. The moment s
he reached the grass her legs flew to catch him up. Out of breath, she arrived to find him standing at the Audi. She was on the verge of men tioning the tunnel when she saw his absorbed expression.

  They were driving back up the curving road when she looked back to catch a glimpse of the beauty of the Georgian house. It had the outward appearance of a dream house.

  'I sensed deceit and evil inside that house,' she mused.

  'They do say that the family can be the bloodiest battlefield,' he replied as though his mind was on something else.

  'I noticed that Sable decided not to come out onto the terrace. I suspect she sensed her father's change of mood.'

  'Possibly. The strange thing is this case started out with the bestial murder of two women in London. Which is why we came up here. Now I wonder.'

  'You wonder what?'

  'I'm not being fanciful. You know that's not my style. Now I really do wonder.'

  'Wonder what?' she persisted.

  'We may by chance have walked in on something which is bigger, much bigger than I ever foresaw.'

  NINE

  They were driving slowly along the hedge-lined lane leading to the Village when Paula glanced at the slim leather executive case Tweed had taken into Hobart

  House but had never opened.

  'That wouldn't contain those photos Hector gave you – the pics of the two murdered women looking normal?' 'It does.' 'I'm surprised you didn't show them to Lord

  Bullerton.'

  'Not when Sable and Margot were about.' 'What did you think of Margot? Bit of a wild cat.' 'Sisters often dislike, even hate each other. I thought that Sable was being provocative, the way she fingered her diamond brooch when she came into the drawing room.'

  'I rather liked Sable.'

  'Maybe,' he replied, 'but you know your own gender.'

  'I also thought it odd when Falkirk turned up. Looking for a job? Could it be his host covered him by giving that as a reason? I'm wondering who has hired Falkirk.'

  'A number of candidates. Lord Duller ton. Chief Inspector Reedbeck or Archie MacBlade, to name just some prospects… Look in front. I don't believe it.'

  A battered grey Fiat had shot out from a gap in the hedge in front of them. Harry Butler, at the wheel, waved to them as he drove at their pace into the Village High Street, turning right towards Gunners Gorge.

  'Now where has Harry been the past few hours?' Paula mused.

  'I expect he'll tell us.' They had entered Gunners Gorge and Harry drove under the arch leading to the car park of the Nag's Head. 'He may have information from London…'

  Parked in one corner was a new Maserati. Harry pointed to it as they stood next to their vehicles.

  'That means Lance Mandeville is floating around somewhere – Bullerton's twenty-year-old athletic son. Polite, I gather he is popular in town. I've got something for you, Tweed. It came by courier. I persuaded him to give it to me by showing him my identity folder.'

  Tweed broke the seal on the envelope Harry handed him. A brief note from Howard, then a large document on hand-made paper. He scanned it quickly, then passed it to Paula.

  'Professor Saafeld's preliminary autopsy report. Now we know how those two women were slaugh tered.'

  'Do we?' Paula asked after reading the document Tweed had handed to her. 'Chloroform?'

  'Saafeld found traces of it in the nostrils and mouth of the woman murdered in the house next to Lisa Clancy's – but none on the other woman, who was murdered in the house round the corner. The killer had reconnoitred the area earlier. He'd seen the second victim took a lot of time making that lock on her door work. He attacks the other one first by pres sing a pad soaked with chloroform over her nose and mouth. He then cuts her throat, ruins her face. Darting round the corner, he finds his second target trying to get her key to work, comes up behind her, swiftly hauls back her long hair, uses his knife.'

  'I must be thick. You're right…' Paula still had half her mind on the tunnel she'd discovered on Black Gorse Moor, something she still hadn't mentioned to Tweed.

  'More news,' Harry reported tersely. 'I know who fired the bullet at you on your way to Hobart House. Lepard.'

  'So a lot of money is changing hands among the killer thugs,' Tweed commented. 'Which means we're looking for someone with wealth. ..'

  'And you are the target,' Harry warned. 'Lepard fired from behind a hedge. I was close behind in my car. I drove straight through a gap to get him. He was too quick – sped off aboard a Harley-Davidson.'

  'How can you be sure it was Lepard?' Tweed demanded.

  'He's half-French, half-British, as I explained. Bob Newman was an ace international reporter and he's still very good at description. Lepard is slim, clean shaven, with a sallow complexion. I know it was him because he turned to look at me before vanishing over a slope. News gets worse.'

  'That's right, Harry,' Paula joked, 'cheer us up…'

  'Newman has been back to check with his East End informant. All the killer thugs have been put on instant standby. My guess is they'll be up here any day – after Lepard failed to get you.'

  'Then call Bob and tell him I want the whole team ready to come up here pretty damn fast.'

  'Consider it done.'

  Harry dived back into his car, drove slowly out under the arch.

  'I was right,' said Tweed as they walked back into the hotel. 'And someone up here is reporting our every move. We have stumbled into something very big.'

  The landlord, Bowling, was not behind his reception counter, which was unusual. Paula spotted a guest perched on a sofa, studying some kind of chart. He folded it quickly and stood up. Archie MacBlade.

  'We're starting to bump into each other,' he said with a warm smile. 'For me that is a pleasure.'

  'Do you often visit Gunners Gorge?' she asked casually.

  'Occasionally. It is quiet and gets me away from the world.' He turned to Tweed with an unusual expression in his eyes. 'You have an enigmatic visitor waiting to see you in the lounge. A Lance Mandeville, son of Lord Bullerton.'

  'Mandeville?'

  'That's the family name.' He glanced round the reception area, checking that they were alone, then produced a business card, scribbled a name on the back, tucked it inside Tweed's top pocket. 'That's a tip you might like to follow up. Mr Hartland Trent. Has a sense of humour – lives at Twinkle Cottage, Primrose Steps. Turn right when you leave the hotel. The flights of steps instead of roads climb the hill. He's halfway up the third flight. Must go now.'

  'One second,' Tweed said quickly. 'What does Trent do?'

  'Landowner and astute businessman. The only trustworthy man in the Gorge. Really must fly…'

  'I don't think he likes Lance,' Paula whispered. 'Did you see his expression when he stared directly at you?'

  'Not a question of liking would be my interpretation of the odd expression.'

  'Well, come on,' she urged, squeezing his arm. 'So what would be your interpretation?'

  'More like a warning.'

  TEN

  They descended the steps into the hotel lounge. Tables were laid for tea. In a corner, Lance stood up from a table to greet them, his slim hand extended. He pulled out a chair for Paula, who took off her leather jacket.

  'May I?' suggested Lance, taking the jacket to hang from the back of her chair. 'I am so glad you could join me,' he said to Tweed. 'They have excellent muffins here. I hope you are both hungry.'

  'Ravenous,' replied Tweed as Lance sat opposite Paula. 'I could tackle all those.'

  A smartly dressed waitress had placed a large metal container on the table, carefully removed the top without the flourish used in London restaurants. They began eating, Tweed scooping up large quantities of strawberry jam, ignoring the small talk between Lance and Paula.

  Paula was studying Lance. He was clad in a smart blue blazer with gold buttons, a Liberty cravat at his neck, his black hair neatly brushed. She was impressed by his good manners, his handsome face; fascinated by his almond-shaped eyes.

&n
bsp; 'I really come here as an emissary from my father,' Lance began.

  'Oh, really,' Tweed responded in a bored tone as he drank tea the waitress had served from Wedgwood china.

  'He wishes me to pass his unreserved apologies to both of you for his behaviour when you were leaving…'

  'Does he?' commented Tweed, now busy consum ing the first of two large apple tarts garnished with cream, his eye on the massive Dundee cake in the middle of the table.

  'When his other visitor had left -'

  'Archie MacBlade in his Bugatti,' Tweed remarked.

  'Oh, you know him?' Lance enquired sharply.

  'Saw his picture in the paper,' Tweed said as he cut a huge slice of Dundee cake.

  'My father would regard it as an honour if you dined with him at Hobart House this evening,' con tinued Lance in his uphill conversational struggle with Tweed, smiling all the time.

  'My father wasn't drunk,' Lance pressed on. 'He can consume a large quantity without it affecting him. Reminds me of what I read in a Winston Churchill biography. Winston once said he'd taken more out of alcohol than alcohol had taken out of him.'

  'Do your sisters Sable and Margot like each other?' Tweed asked suddenly.

  'I'm afraid they hate each other…'

  'Why?' Tweed demanded.

  'Sable is my father's favourite. She'd like to be Lady Bullerton when he passes away one day.'

  'Peculiar,' Tweed said, having finished his cake. 'Normally the title descends to a male relative. In this case yourself.'

  'I don't want the damned title. Excuse me,' he said to Paula. 'All that responsibility. I prefer to enjoy myself. As to tradition, when King John, or whoever it was, conferred the title on an ancestor centuries ago, a special clause was added that if a male candidate refused to accept it then the title passed to the nearest female available.'

  'And in this case Sable?' Tweed suggested.

  'It would actually be Margot, who was born a year before Sable.'