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.
'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.