'No idea.'
'It's quite beautiful. You've seen the symbol the pendant has been designed as in imitation jewellery?'
'No. I told you I only had time to glance at the contents before we started out from Park Crescent.'
'It's the Greek key.'
Through a hole in the lowering clouds a shaft of sunlight like a searchlight moved across the great sweeping brown ridges in the distance. Tweed nodded towards them as they travelled along a hedge-lined road, approaching a small town.
'Up beyond there is Exmoor. A lonely place for the trio who long ago raided that island of Siros. And why should they all settle in the same area?'
'Let's ask them…'
'I intend to. We're close to Dunster now.'
They passed a signpost on their right pointing down a narrow road. Watchet. Tweed grunted and Paula looked at him.
'You had a thought.'
'Watchet. I checked it in guide books before we left. My memory was right. It's the only port between here and Land's End. A real port, I mean. In a small way of business. It exports scrap metal and wastepaper to Scandinavia. And, guess where.'
'We turn left soon according to the map. Can't guess.'
'I know where we turn. I remember the road. From Watchet there is the occasional ship plying between the Bristol Channel and Portugal. Turn here…'
At The Luttrell Arms Tweed waited until they were settled in their separate rooms before strolling down the staircase to tackle the manager. Each room had its name on the door. Tweed had Avill, a large and comfortable room with a door leading to a garden at the back. The manager, a tall, pleasant man clad in black, looked up from behind the reception counter as Tweed placed a photograph on the woodwork.
'Can you do me a favour, please,' Tweed began. 'Has this man stayed here recently?'
The manager stared at the print of Harry Masterson without a change of expression. He looked up at Tweed.
'It is, I am sure you will understand, company policy not to give out information about other guests. If someone came and asked the same question about yourself…'
'Special Branch.'
Tweed laid the card forged in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent alongside the photo. The manager stared at it with curiosity. He had a quiet deliberate voice, the kind of voice used to pacifying impossible guests.
'I have heard about your organization. This is the first time I have met one of you.'
'So I would appreciate it if you would answer my questions in confidence. A question of national security.'
'Oh dear.' The manager paused. Tweed replaced the card in his pocket in case anyone came past them. The place seemed deserted. 'I do recognize him,' the manager said eventually. 'He stayed here about three weeks ago…'
'For how long?'
Keep them talking – once you've opened their mouths.
'Five days, Mr Tweed.'
'In what name?'
'Harry Masterson. A jolly man. Well-dressed. A joker – made me laugh.'
'And this person?'
Tweed removed Masterson's photograph, replaced it with the blow-up of the picture of Christina Gavalas which had arrived in the cigar box. He watched the manager intently.
'No question of scandal involved, I hope?' ventured the manager.
'I did say in confidence.'
'Of course. Yes, she came with him. They had separate rooms,' he added quickly. 'As a matter of fact, Mr Master-son had the Garden Room, Avill, the one you have, the best in the house.'
'And the girl?'
'The same room as your Miss Grey. Gallox.'
'Registered in what name?'
'Christina Bland. She wore a wedding ring. You see why I was concerned about a little scandal. Foreign, I thought.'
'Don't be concerned. What did they do while they were here? I realize that's a difficult question – but everyone has to pass this reception area when they come downstairs. Did they spend a lot of time out?'
'A striking couple.' The manager eyed Tweed as though to confirm he was the genuine article. 'Yes, they did go out most of the time. They would have breakfast – I help with that when staff is off duty – and ask for a packed lunch each day. Then we wouldn't see them until long after dinner. We close that front door at eleven and late- nighters have to ring the bell for admittance. Twice I let them in at midnight. I thought maybe they had friends round Exmoor they visited. That's a pure guess. You will keep this between us?'
'You have my word.'Tweed paused, smiled. 'You will keep entirely to yourself the nature of my job?'
'Good Lord, yes, Mr Tweed. The privacy of the guests must be sacred.' He looked embarrassed. 'Yours is, of course, a special case.'
Tweed picked up the second photograph. He put it inside his pocket, turned away, then turned back as though a thought had suddenly struck him.
'In connection with the same investigation, would you happen to know any of these three men? A Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore, a Captain Robson, a man called Kearns? I do have their addresses. Barrymore, for one, lives at Quarme Manor, Oare.'
The manager took his time fastening up the middle button of his black jacket. Giving himself time to think, Tweed guessed. So I've given him something to think about.
'Again in complete confidence, I assure you.'
'This is a strange business you're investigating, if I may say so.'
'Very strange, very serious, very urgent.'
'Well… The three of them are friends. Every Saturday night they dine here. Always the same quiet table at the far end of the dining room. A kind of ritual, I gather.'
'They were here last Saturday? Two nights ago?' Tweed asked quickly.
'Well, no. The colonel is very formal. Always phones himself to book the table in advance. They've missed for three weeks. Probably on holiday. Only my guess, I emphasize.'
'Thank you.' Tweed paused. He looked the manager straight in the eye. 'When you wake tomorrow morning you'll possibly worry about what you've told me. Don't. Worry, I mean. It is Monday. If I am still here next Saturday I shall make a point of dining elsewhere. Then if they come back you won't have me in the room. We do consider people's feelings.'
'So it seems. I thought, if you won't resent it, that your outfit were more aggressive.'
'On the contrary, we find we get the best results by being exceptionally discreet. And the local police shouldn't know I am here. Then we can't have any gossip about my being in the area.' Tweed leaned forward. 'We keep it just between the two of us. So, sleep well.'
'Thank you, sir. And if it's not out of place, I hope you enjoy your stay here. I'm not worrying.'
Tweed went back upstairs and knocked on the door of the room named Gallox. 'Who is it?' Paula called out.
'It's me,' said Tweed. She called out again for him to come in.
'Just look at this,' she began as he entered. 'Isn't it marvellous?'
She was sitting on the edge of a huge four-poster bed with a large canopy. It gave the large room a medieval atmosphere. Five feet six tall, the mattress was so high her feet dangled above the floor.
'You should have plenty of room in that,' Tweed observed and sat in an armchair. 'I have just talked with the manager. A tricky conversation. I had to show him my Special Branch card before he'd tell me a thing.'
'I like him. There's something Dickensian about his appearance.'
