instinctively raised his walking stick. Held by an expanding lead, it almost reached Tweed and Kearns hauled him back. 'Prowl round here and Wolf will have your guts for garters.' Kearns made the statement in a calm tone.
Tweed followed Kearns at a distance. He switched on the flashlight as though picking his way. To the side of the paved area rough uncut grass and weeds cluttered the earth up to the base of the wall. His beam reflected off something metallic. Pausing, he prodded carefully with the stick. There was a grinding clash of metal. Two sabre- like blades, saw-toothed, sliced across the lower end'of his stick. Kearns swung round.
'What the hell do you think you're playing at?'
'You tell me.'
'You just released a trap. We keep chickens and we're plagued with vermin – foxes and such like off the moor. That could have amputated your leg.'
'Let's go inside then. As you suggested…'
Inside, a bleak square hall was dimly lit with a forty-watt bulb. The woodblock floor was highly polished, doors led off the hall and a wide oak staircase climbed to a landing before turning to the next flight. From a door at the rear a blonde woman in her thirties appeared smoking a cigarette in an ivory holder.
She had a good figure, wore a powder-blue blouse with a high neck and a classic pleated cream skirt. She watched Tweed with a speculative eye, ignoring Paula. Kearns' mouth tightened.
'My wife, Jill. We have gatecrashers.'
'Would you like some refreshment?' she enquired, still eyeing Tweed. 'Coffee? Maybe something to drink…'
Her voice was soft, husky, but Kearns answered for her.
'Not necessary. They won't be staying long. Better come into the mess,' he told Tweed.
'He means the dining room,' Jill explained. She stroked her shoulder-length hair with one hand.
'In here,' Kearns went on. 'Sit down. Both of you.'
The rectangular-shaped dining room was oak-panelled, had an oak dining table and was illuminated by another forty-watt bulb inside an old-fashioned shade suspended high above the table. An atmosphere of spartan gloom pervaded the room. Tweed and Paula sat on chairs at the table while Kearns took up a standing position.
'First, I'd like to see your identification again,' he demanded.
Tweed handed him the card and studied their host while he examined the document. Kearns was over six feet tall, a lean and rangy man with a clean-shaven face and strong bone structure. He stood very erect in front of the fireplace which was laid with logs but unlit. Paula suppressed a shiver. It was chilly.
Kearns was in his sixties but he had worn well. His hair was still dark, his complexion was deeply tanned. He carried himself with an air of complete self-assurance and his eyes were like two brown marbles. Never off parade, Tweed thought drily.
He was clad in a pair of dark slacks, sharply creased, and a navy blue polo-necked cashmere sweater. There were traces of dried mud on his dark brown shoes, the only flaw in his otherwise impeccable appearance. He dropped the card on to the table so Tweed had to reach forward to retrieve it.
'Get to the point,' Kearns said.
'I'm investigating an unsolved murder which took place over forty years ago in the Middle East.'
'Oh, that macabre Ionides killing in Cairo. Can't help you. Why bring that up now?'
'Because it may be linked with the recent murder of one of our people. In Greece. At Cape Sounion. Know it?'
'No.'
Kearns stood with his feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his erect back. He glanced at Paula who was taking notes in her book on the table. She had kept her expression blank during Kearns' reply. This was the first reference to Ionides.
'There, are two of you,' Kearns decided. 'Bad tactics to be outnumbered. I also need a witness…' He walked quickly to the closed door, opened it, called out. 'Jill, come and join us. Just sit and listen with that remarkable memory of yours. Sit there.' He made brief introductions.
As he returned to his position in front of the fireplace Jill Kearns, still smoking, carrying a porcelain ash tray, sat at the head of the table. She studied Paula, who stared straight back. Hackles rising, Tweed noted.
'Don't see how a recent murder could be linked with the Ionides business,' Kearns resumed.
Tell me about Ionides. You used the word 'macabre'.'
'Not much to tell. We had just returned from a mission…'
'We?'
'Three-man commando raid on a Greek island. Antikhana – name of the building in Cairo where Ionides was slaughtered one night – was our official HQ. No one in the place knew what we were really employed for. Propaganda was supposed to be our job. Not even the CO of the building – Colonel Grogan – had a clue about us.'
'Tell me more about Ionides.'
'Some Greek who was working on propaganda – printing leaflets to send to the Resistance crowd. Two nights after we got back Ionides was apparently working late, alone in the building – a habit of his. Late one evening someone cut him to pieces. Blood all over the walls. He must have fought for his life – the room was a wreck. Ionides was slashed everywhere. Head pretty near severed from the body. Some maniac must have got in -and out. The Special Investigation Branch – equivalent of your crowd in the Army – never did solve it.'
'Did you ever meet a Harry Masterson?'
'Bluffed his way in here. Bit of a buffoon. Sent him packing.'
'You look very suntanned,' Tweed remarked, switching the topic without warning.
'I should do. Just back from windsurfing in Spain.'
'Your wife kept out of the sun from her appearance…'
'Didn't come with me. She hates the heat, loves the cold. Is this part of the interrogation? I haven't all night.'
'I have. And we're talking about murder. Maybe three murders. Where had you come back from just before the Ionides killing?'
'I told you. A three-man raid on a Greek island. Siros…'
'And the names of the other two men?' Tweed interjected quickly.
The CO, Colonel Barrymore. A Captain Robson, medical officer.'
'And after all these years the three of you all live in the same area. Exmoor. I find that very curious – even strange.'
'Nothing to it. Barrymore and I stayed on in the Army after the war. Same unit. Robson got his demob soon after hostilities ended. Set up in practice as a doctor here. We kept in touch. When Barrymore and I left the Army we weren't sure where to settle. Robson offered to find us property round here. He knew the ropes. Barrymore and I told him what we could afford. Is that all?'
'Not quite. A Greek came with you on the Siros raid.'
'Oh, Gavalas.' Kearns shifted his stance, showed signs of growing boredom, even impatience. 'He was supposed to put us in touch with the Resistance group we landed to meet. Knew them, so he said. I had my doubts. There was a moment when we thought Jerry was near us in force. We scattered. When we met up Gavalas was missing. We found him in a gulch. Obviously he'd hidden there. He was dead. Knifed in the back. Commando knife, too. The colonel sorted that out. Checked that Robson and I had our knives. Showed us his own. Stickler for detail, the colonel. Not that we thought any of us had touched the Greek. Why should we?'
'For a hundred thousand pounds of diamonds that went missing.'
'Obviously taken by the assassin. Siros was crawling with odd characters. Fortunes of war.'
'Misfortunes in this case,' Tweed pointed out. 'For Gavalas. You ride much, Mr Kearns?'
'All of us do. One reason for living on Exmoor. And now…'
'Who is 'all'?' enquired Paula.
Kearns turned his head as though he'd forgotten her presence and wasn't too pleased about her intervention. He stared at her coldly.
'The colonel and Dr Robson. As I was about to say before you interrupted, is that all?' He stared now at Tweed, looked pointedly at his watch.
