second dense copse of trees – this one outside the wall and beyond the path. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. He looked up at the sabre-like cut of the ridge crest. Nothing. He could have sworn something moved.
Reaching the point where the wall turned again, running parallel to the front wall alongside the lane, he explored further until he found an opening. The gap was closed off with a single wide grille gate which was padlocked. He bent down.
By the gate the ground was cleared and in the moist earth were clear traces of hoof-marks. A back entrance to Quarme Manor which would take the owner straight on to the moor. And recently someone had ridden a horse here. He peered between the grille bars.
A gravel path led round a spacious lawn with ornamental shrubs arranged here and there. The lawn was cut, the topiary well-trimmed. Such attention cost money. He returned the way he had come. The left-hand grille gate leading off from the lane opened at a push. His feet crunched as he walked up the drive. Inside the large porch he found an old-fashioned chain-pull bell. He tugged at it, heard it ring inside. A light was switched on, illuminating a diamond-shaped window behind an iron grille in the solid studded door. The lantern suspended over the porch came on. The small window opened. Tweed had a glimpse of a woman's bony face before the window slammed shut. The door was opened half a foot, a chain in place. 'What be it?' the old woman demanded.
'I wish to see Colonel Barrymore…'
'He b'aint be available.'
'You mean he is away somewhere?'
'He b'aint be available.'
She repeated the words as though she had been taught to say them by rote. She was tall, late sixties, her grey hair brushed close to the skull, her expression hostile. She was closing the door when Tweed spoke more firmly.
'The colonel will want to see me. When do you expect him to be back?'
'Name?'
'I shall have to tell him you were uncooperative. And he won't like that…'
'Phone for appointment…'
She was closing the door when they both heard the sound of a car approaching. It stopped outside. A shadowy figure opened both gates after jumping lightly out of the car. Before the headlights blinded him Tweed saw it was a crimson Daimler. Swinging round the short curve, it pulled up for a moment. A face behind the wheel stared out, then the car continued on round the side of the house. To the garage, he assumed.
This is Colonel Barrymore?' Tweed asked the woman who still stood by the door.
'Better ask him, 'adn't you? Doesn't welcome strangers, you know.'
'It's becoming somewhat apparent,' Tweed remarked drily.
He turned as he heard the crunch of boots on gravel approaching from the side of the mansion. A tall, slim, elegant man in his mid-sixties appeared and stood, studying Tweed with an expression of disdain. Thick black hair was brushed over his high forehead and beneath his aquiline nose he sported a thin dark moustache.
He wore a sheepskin against the night chill and cavalry twill trousers shoved inside riding boots gleaming like glass. How the devil does he drive in those? Tweed wondered. The voice was crisp, offhand, as though addressing a junior subaltern.
'Who are you? If you are selling something you can take your immediate departure. And is that your Mercedes parked in the way down the lane?'
'Which question first?' Tweed asked mildly. 'And my car is in a lay-by. Plenty of room for you to get past even in your Daimler. That's what lay-bys are for…'
'I asked that stupid girl to move it and she refused…'
'She's not stupid and she's quite right to ignore intimidation.' Tweed produced his card. 'Before you say another word you'd better know who I am. And while we're talking identification, who are you?'
'Colonel Barrymore.'
He moved under the lantern to examine the card, then looked up. 'It's all right, Mrs Atyeo, I'll sort this out myself.' He waited until she had disappeared, then stared at Tweed, handing back the card. 'Special Branch? A bit off the beaten track, aren't you?'
'So is Siros.'
Barrymore stiffened, stood even more erect. He jerked his head. 'Better come inside, I suppose. Just wait in my study until I'm ready to see you.'
By the light of the lantern Tweed saw Barrymore's skin was a tanned mahogany. He stood pulling slowly at one of the kid gloves he was wearing, taking hold of each finger and sliding it slowly half-way off. Even the slightest of the colonel's movements was slow and calculated.
'I'll go and fetch my assistant first,' Tweed said. 'She'll be taking notes…'
He was walking away before Barrymore could react. He felt he had left Paula alone in the car quite long enough. She greeted him with relief, told him quickly about the horseman on the ridge.
'That was very bright of you,' he said gratefully. To think of shining the torch. Oddly enough. Colonel Barrymore wears riding boots.'
'The man who stopped his Daimler alongside me and rudely told me to push off?'
'The very same gentleman. Surely there was plenty of room for him to pass?'
'Oodles. What do you think of His Lordship?'
'You said it. Let's get back to the manor. We have a right tartar to deal with. Something odd about him. Coldblooded is the word, I suspect…'
10
'Go in there. No notes will be taken. I will join you when I can.'
Barrymore turned his back on them and disappeared through a doorway. They were standing in a stone- flagged hall. At the back a huge staircase mounted to the first floor, turning on a landing. Grim-faced, Mrs Atyeo stood holding open a heavy panelled door.
'In 'ere is where 'e wants you.'
'Always wears his riding boots, does he?' Tweed enquired as he walked towards the doorway.
'Part of 'is uniform, 'ain't it? 'E is The Colonel.'
'In capital letters, it appears.'
Tweed entered followed by Paula holding her notebook, the bracelet she had taken out of Masterson's last envelope still dangling from her wrist. Mrs Atyeo's expression changed, became ashen. She was staring at the bracelet and shrank back against the wall to let Paula pass, closing the door behind them.
Tartar is the word,' Paula commented. 'And for some reason Mrs Atyeo nearly had a fit when she saw this bracelet.'
'I wonder why. Keep wearing it. Sit over there, notebook poised. It puts you offside from the chair behind that desk, may put the colonel off balance.'
The study was also a library. Three of the walls were lined with books. The door into the room was cut out of a bookcase wall and lined with green baize on the inside. The fourth wall was occupied by tall mullion-paned windows which overlooked the garden and the distant moor.
'Not very comfortable,' Paula remarked, staring at the tall hard-backed chair behind the desk, the spartan woodblocks forming the floor, the lack of any soft furnishings and the desk which was a large block of oak. She shifted in her chair, trying to find a less awkward position. Tweed was looking at the books.
'What a man reads can tell you a lot about him. Military history of the Second World War, the campaigns of Wellington, a lot of travel books. None on Greece…'
'Prying, are we?'
The soft voice came from the direction of the well-oiled door which had opened silently. Tweed turned slowly and faced the colonel. He wore a dark silk shirt, a regimental tie, his cavalry twill trousers and the riding boots.
