A December chill gripped the New Forest. Paula noted that as darkness fell mist trails crept among the bare trees. She shivered as Tweed drove along the drive of The Last Haven. There were lights in the Scandinavian-style house.
In the rear of the car sat Butler and Nield. They had all surrendered their weapons to Tweed at the Four Seasons on arrival. He had taken them to Berliner Tor, had handed them over to Kuhlmann. He had also arranged for fresh weapons to be supplied to everyone except himself – as they drove away from London Airport. Paula, who sat beside Tweed, asked her question as they proceeded up the drive.
`Where are Newman, Marler and Cardon going to now?'
`Why, to the Brigadier's residence next door. I've issued an invitation for him to join us. With the glamorous Lee Holmes, of course.'
`Of course,' she replied acidly.
`Had to hold our little tete-a-tete at one of the houses,'
Tweed continued in buoyant mood as he pulled up. `You think you know who Vulcan is?' she asked. `Yes, I do.'
`And the murderess?'
`Again, yes.'
Paula restrained her cat-like curiosity. In any case, she was sure Tweed wouldn't tell her anything at this stage. As he reached out to press the bell the door swung inward. Willie Fanshawe stood there in a smart but rumpled navy blue blazer and grey slacks. With his figure, Paula was thinking, he'd never look immaculate. He beamed with pleasure, stepped forward and kissed Paula on the cheek. 'I say! What a bit of luck. Completed the circle, haven't we? Eh, Tweed? You met us here. Then we hopped all round Europe. Now, back again to base! Must say I'm entranced to see you. Bit of a flattener – getting back to the New Forest. Wonder why they call it that? It's an old forest! Do come in. What about your two chaps out there?'
Butler and Nield had climbed out of the car. They made no move towards the house. They'd received their instructions from Tweed – patrol the grounds behind the house.
`I think they'd sooner get a breath of fresh air,' Tweed replied. 'They've been driving for hours,' he lied.
`Then come on in you two.' Willie took Paula by the arm. Beyond the heavy front door they walked straight into the L-shaped living-room furnished in Scandinavian style. To Paula it seemed years since they had last entered this house. 'Sit yourself down on the couch,' Willie urged as he relieved her of her trench coat.
`Helen!' he called out. `You'll never guess who has just turned up. Close your eyes and I'll give you three tries.'
The door from the kitchen opened and Helen strode in, her fountain-pen and a notebook in her hand. Clad in a grey cardigan half zipped up to the neck, she wore a white blouse underneath with a mandarin collar. Her slim slacks had a razor-edge crease and were also grey. She had her eyes wide open. The Grey Lady, Paula thought.
`Don't play silly games, Willie,' Helen chided him. Her cool eyes passed over Paula, fastened on Tweed. She went towards him, holding out her slim hand. 'How very nice to see you again. What would you like to drink?'
Tweed, who had refused Willie's offer to take his trench coat, saying they wouldn't be staying long, clasped her hand. It was firm and cool. With her back to the others, she gave him a secret smile, then turned and sat down by the side of Paula on the couch. She waved her pad and pen.
`Shopping list. Someone has to see there's food in the house.'
`I hope you don't mind,' Tweed said, addressing Willie, `but I asked Bob Newman to bring Burgoyne and Lee Holmes round. A sort of reunion…'
The doorbell rang as he was speaking. Willie hurried to open the door and Tweed accompanied him.
`Capital idea,' Willie enthused. 'We've hardly seen the Brig. and his femme fatale since we got back.'
Outside Newman had swung round his Volvo so it pointed back the way he had come. In the shadows of the house he noticed a Mercedes – smeared with mud – was parked. Tweed's Ford Escort stood out of the way in front of the door which now opened.
Burgoyne, dressed in country clothes, stepped out of the back of the Volvo as Lee alighted on the other side. He looked grim and not at all pleased. Before calling for them Newman had dropped Marler and Cardon on the road – they were now concealed among the trees facing the entrance to the drive.
`Tweed, darling!'
Lee, wearing a green off-the shoulder creation, rushed forward, hugged and kissed him, her strong hands gripping his shoulders.
`How absolutely marvellous!' she told him. 'When we can, let's go off somewhere together for the weekend,' she whispered.
`It's something to think about,' Tweed replied.
She had an arm round his waist as they entered the living-room. Paula glanced at Helen seated next to her, saw her lips curl briefly. These two women are not all that fond of each other, she reflected.
`Double Scotch. Neat,' rapped out Burgoyne when asked what he'd drink.
`Why not champers for everyone?' Lee suggested, dragging a chair close to Paula. 'I could nip back for a bottle. This calls for a celebration.'
Burgoyne was sitting in a carver chair in a corner where he could see everyone. Newman perched on the arm of the couch between Paula and Lee. Tweed, still standing, thrust both hands into the pockets of his trench coat, the stance his old colleagues at Scotland Yard would have recognized.
`I am afraid this gathering is no cause for celebration, Lee,' he began. 'It is an investigation into the identity of a multiple murderess and a professional traitor.'
The atmosphere changed instantly, became tense, disturbing, menacing. Burgoyne was the first to react, his voice harsh as he gripped his glass of whisky.
`Tweed, what is all this bloody nonsense?'
`Don't you know?'
Tweed stared at the Brigadier, who glared back at him with an expression of ferocity. He drank half the contents of his glass, placed it on a side table, uncrossing his legs.
`No, I don't. I think you owe us an apology.'
`I think, instead, an explanation might be more useful.'
Tweed paused as Lee produced her jewelled holder. With trembling fingers she inserted a cigarette, then perched it at the corner of her full red-lipped mouth. She held it there with two fingers of her left hand.
`Let's take the identity of the multiple murderess first,' Tweed went on in a conversational tone. 'So far the following people have been murdered by the injection of cyanide. A girl called Hilary Vane as she disembarked at London Airport from a plane flying in from Washington. Still in England, Irene Andover was finished off with a cyanide injection – that came before the murder of Vane. Now, we move to Brussels. A cab driver was also killed by the same method – injection of cyanide with some sort of hypodermic. Vane and the cab driver were killed by a woman. The same woman then took the dead cab driver's vehicle to Liege where she drove down and killed Sir Gerald Andover. Later, I'm sure…'
`This is quite beastly,' Lee protested. There was a steely note in her voice. 'Do we have to go on?'
`We do,' Tweed continued relentlessly. 'Later, I am sure, the same woman finished off Lucie Delvaux with a cyanide injection after one hand had been amputated. Then a man called Joseph Mordaunt was murdered in the Parc d'Egmont. Again with a cyanide injection.'
Helen had been scribbling down the names with her fountain-pen on her pad. She counted.
`My God! You're talking about at least six murders,' she commented.
`Which is why I used the phrase multiple murderess. And I found it significant that two of them took place within a stone's throw of the Hilton – the cab driver in the Marolles, Mordaunt in the garden behind the hotel. Where both of you were staying.'
`Surely you are not suggesting that one of us-' Lee began.
`Not suggesting,' Tweed rapped back. 'I am accusing.' He turned his attention to Lee. 'The London Airport murder, that of the cab driver, and Mordaunt – all these suggest a very specially designed hypodermic was used.
