engine of the Mercedes start up, speed off down the drive. He opened the door just in time to see the car turn left – towards Beaulieu. He ran to the Volvo, jumped inside, started the engine, his gun on the seat by his side, and raced down the drive.
Fanshawe saw the lights of the car pursuing him, pressed the button which automatically slid back the sun roof.
Drifts of mist and cold air flooded in but Fanshawe turned the heaters full on. An opportunity might come to ambush his pursuer. If so, he could stand on the seat, poke his head and shoulders out of the opening, and look down on his target. The sub-machine-gun lay on the seat beside him.
As they raced along the deserted winding road through the forest Newman became aware the temperature had nosedived. Ice was forming on his windscreen. He set his wipers going, turned his headlights full on. This was dangerous weather – one unnoticed patch of ice on the road and he'd end up against the trunk of a tree.
Fanshawe was driving like a maniac, increasing speed all the time. A heavy white frost crusted the dead bracken, coated the bare branches. They had left the forest behind and with a few hundred yards between them Newman passed Hatchet Pond. The moon had come out and he saw the surface of the small lake was coated with a sheet of ice. No weather for moving at such speeds.
Fanshawe reached the approaches to Beaulieu, tore down the hill. To Newman's horror he saw two boy cyclists on the diabolical bend where the road to Buckler's Hard turned off to the right up Bunker's Hill. Without reducing speed, Fanshawe skidded round, missing the cyclists by inches as he roared off up Bunker's Hill. The cyclists, unhurt but terrified, had fallen off on to the verge.
`Stupid cretins!' Fanshawe shouted, waving one clenched fist while he held the wheel with the other hand.
Cold-blooded bastard!' Newman growled to himself.
He took the bend more slowly, accelerated as he climbed the curving hill. A minute later he was on the level stretch of lonely country road. Fanshawe's red tail-lights were disappearing as Newman rammed down his foot. He shot forward like a rocket, closely watching the road surface at the limit of his lights.
Fanshawe had turned down the private road to Buckler's Hard when Newman reached that point and also turned. He pressed his foot down harder, closing the gap. Ahead, Fanshawe was skidding round corners. Why was he heading for Buckler's Hard?
Newman controlled the wheel with one hand. With the other he held his Smith amp; Wesson, rested his arm on his open window, fired two shots over the roof of the Mercedes. As he'd hoped, Fanshawe panicked, drove even faster and Newman fired one more shot, again aimed over the roof.
Inside the Mercedes Fanshawe kept looking in his rearview mirror, checking how close his pursuer was. His concentration on this fear made him forget the speed at which he was travelling. He arrived at the anchorage and only then stared ahead in horror.
Newman was reducing speed, swinging his Volvo to a stop by the boatyard when the Mercedes reached the ramp leading down to the river. All the rivers are swollen. Newman recalled Lee Holmes' words as he saw how high the water had reached and the speed of the current flowing down from Beaulieu upstream.
Fanshawe jammed on the brakes. Too late. He was on the downward-sloping ramp which was covered with shot ice. The Mercedes aquaplaned – rocketed forward at high speed into the river. It was half-submerged when Newman jumped out after grabbing a torch. He held that in his left hand and his Smith amp; Wesson in the other hand as he stood on the edge of the bank, switched on the powerful beam.
The car seemed to suspend itself as Newman directed his torch beam on to the vehicle. Fanshawe had climbed on to his seat, thrusting his wide shoulders up through the open roof, holding the sub-machine-gun. His mass of white hair was dishevelled, his voice hoarse as he called out.
`Throw me a rope, Newman, or I'll gun you down.' `You won't – then you'd have no hope of surviving. So drop that weapon.'
Fanshawe's nerveless hands let go of the machine-gun and it fell back inside the car. Waving his empty hands, Fanshawe began pleading.
`For God's sake throw me a rope. There are lifebelts on the shore.'
`I might consider rescuing you – provided you answer truthfully one question.'
`Hurry up, man! I'm going down…'
`The truth, remember. I'll know if you're lying. Did you pass on Dr Wand's orders at any time to kill the victims?'
`I had to,' Fanshawe gabbled. 'I was his deputy. I had no choice
…'
`I see,' Newman replied in a hard voice. 'You were obeying orders. I seem to have heard that excuse before. I have now considered rescuing you – and decided not to.'
`I can't swim!' Fanshawe screeched. 'In the name of humanity…'
The Mercedes had propelled itself quite a distance. The rear was in the water, the front resting on dark muddy ooze, swamp-like. The car was tilted, its rear lower than its front. Then the front sank deeper and more rapidly into the slime. The Mercedes was now submerged almost to the rim of the roof.
Newman stood quite still, his torch beam still shining on Fanshawe who was screaming a mixture of obscenities and pleas. The anchorage was deserted on that eerie December night. Near by a power boat was tied up – Fanshawe's intended means of escape. Vertical trails of motionless ice mist hung over the anchorage.
Newman made no response to the desperate cries for help. This sadist had been instrumental in murdering innocent men and women. The entire vehicle sank lower, watery mud creeping over the roof, sliding down inside the opening. The last sight Newman had of Fanshawe was hands waving as the mud deluged inside the vehicle. The hands, the crown of white hair vanished a moment after Fanshawe let out a fearful gurgle of pure terror. Bubbles appeared where the car had gone down and swiftly disappeared, caught up in the flow of the river heading for the Solent. The silence was total.
Epilogue
`First, how did you realize Helen – and not Lee – was the murderess?' asked Paula.
Monica, Newman, Marler, Butler, Nield, and Cardon were all assembled in Tweed's office at Park Crescent several days later. They listened, drinking the coffee supplied by Monica as she turned up the central heating. It was an arctic December day outside.
`Temperament. That was the first clue,' Tweed explained as he relaxed in his swivel chair. 'To kill at least six people – three of them women – by injecting them with cyanide took someone pretty cold-blooded. I know both women had briefly been actresses, but the more I got to know Lee the more she seemed genuinely a fun person, as she called herself.'
`Whereas Helen was cool as ice,' Paula commented. `Exactly. Then there was the puzzle of the everyday instrument which was a disguised hypodermic – designed back in Hong Kong, I imagine. It could have been Lee's jewelled cigarette holder, but she was too obvious with it.
`Obvious?' Paula queried.
`Yes – always waving it about, drawing attention to her precious possession. Again it was a process of elimination. Whereas Helen Claybourne only used her fat fountain-pen now and again.'
`And what about Vulcan?' Newman asked. 'I thought it was Burgoyne.'
`So did I for a while. Two factors made me doubtful. At the MOD an officer called Fieldway rather overdid hinting that he was a suspect character. When the Burgoyne Quartet boarded the same plane as we did for Brussels how did the Brigadier know we'd be taking that flight?'
`Well, how did he?' Paula asked impatiently.
`He could only have known because someone at London Airport had been pressured by the MOD to inform them when I booked a flight. That someone had to be Jim Corcoran, the chief security officer. I noticed Corcoran
