`It's so picturesque,' Paula said.
`It doesn't look real to me,' Tweed said in a neutral tone, registering his first impression. He'd found in the past initial impressions were correct.
They stood close to an old stone well in the middle of a straight cobbled street. On either side were detached cottages with thatched roofs and small walled gardens in front. Tweed counted fourteen cottages, seven on each side. Then the village ended as abruptly as it had started where they stood.
`No sign of shops, not even a general store,' Nield remarked. 'Just an estate agent half-way down on the right. Strange sort of village. And not a soul anywhere.'
He had caught something of the atmosphere which had attracted Tweed's attention. All the windows of the cottages facing each other were curtained. They appeared inhabited except there were no inhabitants.
`Not too keen on this place,' Newman commented. 'It is like a facade carefully presented but hiding something.'
He was right about the presentation, Paula thought. All the cottages had their white walls freshly whitewashed. The thatch was in perfect condition. Each door was painted a different bright colour. And beside each door was a coach-lamp, gleaming even under the grey overcast which made everything seem more unreal.
`I don't believe this place,' Paula said. 'What do we do next?'
`The barman at the Ship Inn did tell us a developer had bought up the place and renovated it,' Tweed reminded her. 'Our next move is to call on the estate agent, pretend we're house-hunting.'
`So you and I are now Mr and Mrs Gulliver,' Paula decided.
She switched the two rings she wore on to the third finger of her left hand. Newman loosened his trench coat to hide the bulge of his Smith amp; Wesson.
`I'm coming with you. Just in case. I'm your adviser.'
`And I'll keep my eyes open here,' Nield suggested. 'I want to make sure Mordaunt doesn't take off and leave us stranded…'
There was still no sign of life as they strolled down to the fourth cottage on the right. Even the cobbles seemed freshly laid to Tweed. They paused outside the cottage. A board attached to the wall, its paint peeling, carried the legend 'A. Barton. Estate Agent'.
Tweed opened the wrought-iron gate, let Paula walk up the path first. She was about to press the bell when the door was opened and a six-foot-tall, heavily built man with remote eyes and no warmth in his manner spoke to her.
`Yes? What is it? What do you want?'
`Are you Mr Barton?' she enquired.
`That's me.'
`You are an estate agent?'
`Says so on the board up there.'
`Mr and Mrs Gulliver. We are looking for somewhere to live. This village seems ideal. This is our adviser. May we come in?'
`Yes, if you want to, but you're wasting your time.'
She entered a front room sparsely furnished with a trestle table, a fold-up chair behind it on bare floorboards, and several photos, curling up at the edges, displayed in a frame on the wall. Pictures of various properties, some of them clearly cottages at Moor's Landing, all with a red SOLD sticker on them – except for one. She wandered over to the framed board as Tweed and Newman followed her inside.
A burly man, Barton wore an expensive smart grey suit and a striped shirt with a silk tie, and handmade shoes, which contrasted oddly with his stark surroundings. He stood silently as Paula turned round.
`It's really one of the cottages here we'd like to see. I suppose someone is thinking of moving if the price is right? And may we sit down?'
Barton, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, shook his large head. Without any show of enthusiasm he fetched two fold-up canvas chairs leaning against a wall, opened them on the clients' side of the trestle table. As Tweed sat down with Paula, Barton lowered himself carefully into his own canvas seat. Tweed had the impression he hadn't sat in it much and didn't trust it with his bulk. Newman walked over to study the photos.
`You won't get a cottage here for love or money,' Barton informed Paula in his abrasive manner.
`Why not?' Tweed asked quietly.
`Because none are for sale.' Barton glared at Tweed. `That clear enough for you?'
`No, it isn't. My wife has decided she wants to live here. Money is no object. Your job is to sell houses to earn your commission. You seem to have a funny way of going about it.'
I told you,' Barton snapped. 'I know all the owners. Not one will sell. Not for any price.'
`They're all millionaires?' Tweed enquired politely. `They're just settled. Settled! Get it?'
`Then how do you stay in business?' Newman asked as he swung round to stare at the man behind the trestle.
`I do have other properties in other areas. But if it's Moor's Landing you're set on, forget it.'
Paula intervened quickly. She sensed Newman's temper was on a short fuse.
`In that case what about the Brockenhurst property you've got on your board? It looks like a nice house. Belongs to a Mrs Goshawk, I see. Perhaps you could phone her?'
`Not at this time of day. She's always out.'
`Then the best thing is for us to go over there and take a look at it,' Paula persisted. 'I've memorized her address. How do we find Cray's Road?'
`I'll draw you a map. But she'll be out. Is most of the time. Doesn't help to sell a property…'
Two minutes later Paula had folded the sheet of paper Barton had used to draw a map on, stood up, smiled, thanked him for his help, and left. Newman was close behind her as she strolled back down the path and looked at the far end of the village.
An old woman dressed in black was scrubbing her doorstep. It was the only cottage with a badly weathered door and no bright colour on it. She whispered to Newman.
`Bob, detain that awful boor for me. I want to go and have a chat with that woman cleaning her doorstep – with Tweed…'
Newman reacted instantly. He turned back, let Tweed pass him, and buttonholed Barton, standing in his way so he couldn't reach the street.
`Barton, just how long has Mrs Goshawk's house out at Brockenhurst been on the market? We're going to look at it but from the state of your photo that property has been sticking for months…'
Tweed agreed it was a good idea to talk to the old lady since she was the one person who might know something about Moor's Landing. She looked up suspiciously as they walked up her path and used her hand-brush to scrub the stone even more vigorously. Her first words revealed the reason for her suspicion.
`If you've come 'ere to try and get me to sell you can turn round and walk straight back where youse come from. This is my 'ome and they'll carry me out when my time comes.'
`We're nothing to do with that uncouth brute,' Paula reassured her. 'We're trying to find out what's going on here.'
`Dark doin's, no mistake about that. Who are you, then?'
`I'm a Chief Investigator for phoney insurance claims,' Tweed said quickly. 'And this lady is my assistant. I don't quite understand, What dark doin's?'
`I'm Mrs Garnett,' the old lady went on. Her grey hair was tied back in a bun and she continued scrubbing as she talked. 'Know how they got the folk who once owned these cottages out?'
`No, I don't,' said Tweed. 'But I'm interested.'
`That developer offers them all double the price they'd get from an ordinary buyer. Greed took all my friends away.'
`What happened next?' Paula asked.
`Funny business. Every cottage – except mine – done up posh. Spent a fortune they did. Then sold the lot in three days.' She paused in her work to look up with alert eyes. 'I ask you – houses going in three days – all of them. Except mine. I wouldn't sell.'
`What sort of people bought them?' Tweed enquired.
`That's a funny business, too. Professional folk, so I heard. Supposed to work in Southampton. Nearly all
