man. It would be the devil of a job getting him down to Winsford. He'd have to try and fold the unconscious man over his own horse. If he was still alive…
The thought made him hurry. At the very least he could have cracked his skull – hitting that boulder. Granite. The hardest of rocks. The mist was floating over the sprawled figure when he reached it. The dampness felt cold on his face. He stood astride the figure, stooped to examine it further…
You bloody fool! Suddenly Partridge's instinct for danger flared. Reins draped… No one falling from a horse had time to do that. He was straightening up when the figure came to life. Mist swirled round Partridge's head as hands like a vice gripped his ankles, toppled him face down. He fell heavily, was winded. He ignored the shock. Started to lift himself on his elbows, to whip over and over. He was seconds too late. He felt a dull ache under his left shoulder blade as the knife was driven home. Then he plunged into a bottomless pit of darkness.
'What a lovely-looking place,' said Paula.
They were approaching The Royal Oak after driving past several thatched cottages. The ancient inn had a steep brown thatched roof. The thatch curved round arched windows close to the inn's sign, a painting of an oak tree. Several cars were parked outside.
Winsford was a sprawling village located at a point where several roads met. It nestled snugly below hilly green fields and as they entered the place Paula saw stately evergreen trees shaped like pepperpots. An oasis of civilization amid the grim unseen moor which loomed behind the mist.
'We'll go inside, get a bite to eat,' Tweed said as he parked the car. In his wing mirror he saw Nield's Cortina arrive and stop on the other side of a small green.
Outside, The Royal Oak was freshly painted, its walls a beige colour. Must have stood there for hundreds of years, Tweed thought as he locked the car and walked with Paula. She pulled up her raincoat collar: there was a chill in the air.
Inside, the large, low-ceilinged room stretched away into separate sections with wide openings leading from one to another. The bar was crowded and behind it a giant of a man in an open-necked shirt served drinks and joked with his customers. Mostly locals, Tweed guessed. A log fire crackled and there was an air of animation.
'Where do they all come from?' Paula whispered.
'I expect they ride or drive in from miles around. You've seen some of the lonely places people live in this part of the world.'
'No sign of Partridge,' she whispered again.
'He'll be along. He's a punctual chap…'
She gripped his arm..'Someone else has arrived.'
Reams strode in as though on parade. Clad in riding gear- pale grey jodhpurs thrust into boots which gleamed, a drab windcheater – he waved his riding crop at the barman. 'What is it today?'
'Hello, sir. Good to see you again. How about a nice chicken and mushroom pie? And your usual double Scotch?'
That'll do…'
'Here's your drink. I'll send over the food. We've kept your table.'
Paula grabbed Tweed's arm again. 'The clan is gathering.'
Oliver Robson, also dressed in riding gear, but scruffily dressed compared with the CSM, appeared, smiling, exchanging words with several people. The barman spotted him at once, called out again over the heads of the crowd.
'Good morning, Doctor. Don't think you got that tan on the moor. Not this year. Nice to see you back…'
He repeated the menu and Robson nodded amiably, said he'd have a glass of white wine. His manner was tentative, Paula was thinking. Like a man who was shy. He took the glass and sat down next to Kearns who sat upright, looking everywhere except in the direction of Tweed and Paula. The two men were sitting at a window table where a third chair remained empty.
'Grab that table,' Tweed advised. 'You're hungry?'
The chicken and mushroom pie smells good,' she replied as a serving woman passed them with a tray. 'And a glass of the white wine. The third member of the club is joining them…'
She sat down at a small round table for two after draping her raincoat over the other chair. Barrymore, also wearing riding gear, had stalked in, his manner stiff. The barman greeted him as 'Colonel' and Barrymore nodded when offered food. He took the chair between Kearns and Robson without saying anything and stared around. Like the chairman of the bloody board, Paula thought.
Tweed eased his way to the bar, gave his orders, waited while the wine was poured. Something made him glance over his shoulder. Barrymore had moved quickly. He was standing over Paula, a hand on her shoulder as he spoke. Paula gazed up at him, her expression cold, distant.
Turning back to the bar, Tweed paid the bill. Picking up the two glasses he edged his way out of the crowd in time to see Barrymore sitting down again at his own table. Paula's flawless complexion was slightly flushed. He sensed annoyance.
'You have an admirer,' he teased as he seated himself.
'Saucy swine. He had the nerve to invite me over to Quarme Manor. For afternoon tea, and maybe a drink, he said.'
'I'm sure you coped…'
'I told him he could phone me at The Luttrell Arms sometime. They serve tea there.' She paused, drank some wine. 'If you think I might get something out of him I'm quite happy to play along.'
'No! On no account are you to be alone with that man. On the other hand, if he does call you at Dunster, take your own decision. But only meet him in a public place. He's still staring at you.'
'I know. Staring at my legs. I was right. He reminds me of a satyr. And Pete is doing his stuff.'
Nield had perched himself on a stool close to the table where the three men sat. He was drinking a half pint of beer, gazing across the room.
'He identified them quickly,' Paula remarked.
'I gave him a verbal description of them. He has sharp hearing. Even with all this babble going on he'll be able to tell us what they were talking about.' Tweed checked his watch. 'Partridge is late. Very out of character.'
'The mist may have delayed him…'
'Not like him, not like him at all.'
They had finished their chicken and mushroom pies, eaten some of the inn's excellent French bread, when the commotion started outside. Voices raised, the sound of running feet. Someone shouting. Tweed stood up.
'Back in a minute. I'll just see what's going on…'
'You look grim.' She spoke softly. The babble inside the pub was suddenly hushed. People stared out of the windows. Tweed slipped into the street, throwing on his coat as he walked. He paused to get his bearings. Beyond the small green was parked a Land Rover. A police car. its blue light whirling, was close to it. Uniformed policemen were gently pushing back the gathering crowd. Tweed took his card from his pocket, walked across the green. The grass was soggy underfoot. A uniformed inspector held up his hand.
'Please keep back, sir.'
Tweed, his eyes on the long sheath of folded canvas in the back of the Land Rover, showed the card. The inspector, a short and burly man. took the card, stared at it, compared the photograph with its owner, handed it back.
'Special Branch? We don't see much of you in this part of the world. I'm Inspector Farthing.'
'I may be able to help. What is inside that canvas bundle?'
'Something rather shocking. Brought down from the moor by the chap over there with the corduroy cap. A local. Lock. Goes shooting rabbits on the moor. He found the body inside a rock cleft. Pure luck. Rabbit he'd just shot fell inside the cleft. Nothing in the way of identification. No wallet. No letters.'
'Can I have a look?'
'Of course. I hope you have a strong stomach, sir…'
Tweed was moving to the back of the Land Rover when Paula joined him. He warned her it might be unpleasant. She bridled.
'Goes with the territory. Don't treat me like a five-year-old.'
'It's all right,' Tweed assured Farthing who had laid a hand on Paula's arm. 'She's my assistant.'
He heard a retching sound. Lock, the driver, was stooped over a ditch. Nimbly, Tweed leapt up on to the rear
