Newman took out his wallet. He extracted a twenty-pound note, saw her expression, added another one to it. He held the banknotes folded between his fingers.
'First, answer my sister's question, please.'
'You guessed right,' Celia said after a brief hesitation. 'It were a signal. I was paid a hundred pounds just for doin' that after the guests arrived for lunch. Then another…
She stopped in mid-sentence. Celia was dressed for going somewhere. Above her shabby raincoat she wore a bright yellow woollen scarf. Her frizzy hair did nothing to improve her appearance.
'Who paid you to do that?' Paula asked quietly.
'I 'ad nothing to do with those awful murders at the manor!' she burst out. 'So don't you go thinkin' I did.'
'I'm sure you didn't. Who paid you, Celia?' Paula asked again.
'A man…' She hesitated. 'Never seen 'im before,' she went on quickly. 'And I've left a pot on cooker for Mrs Pethick. Talkin' about payment, before I says any more I want me money.'
Newman handed over the forty pounds to her. She grasped the notes eagerly, shoved them deep into a pocket of her raincoat. Glancing back inside the house, she retreated, opening the heavy door wider.
'Before I tells you more I must attend to pot. It will boil over and then Mrs Pethick will throw me out. I need these lodgings…'
The door closed in their faces with a heavy thud. Paula looked at Newman.
Tweed was right. The massacre was diabolically well organized. And I think she does know who paid her.'
'So do I…'
They waited. There were no sounds from inside the small primitive dwelling. Five minutes later – Newman had timed her disappearance by his watch – he voiced the same worry that had entered Paula's head.
'I think she's run off. There's probably a back way – let's check.'
At the rear of the cottage the 'garden' was a miserable vegetable patch. There was also a back door. Closed. Paula took off her glasses, looked towards High Tor, pointed.
There she is. That flash of yellow. She's headed out across the moor.'
'And,' Newman replied grimly, 'she was on the verge of saying her paymaster was going to pay her another hundred pounds today. God knows what she's walking into. We have to catch her up. Before it's too late
…'
Newman began running along a track which led towards the base of High Tor. He could still see the flash of yellow scarf in the sunlight. He was surprised at the speed Celia Yeo could keep up as she ran. Behind him Paula followed. When they were out of sight of the cottage Newman grabbed his. 38 Smith amp; Wesson out of the hip holster.
Paula lost sight of Newman as he kept up a marathon pace, descended into a deep gulley. She came to a fork in the path. Which way? She chose the left-hand path, kept on running, her eyes watching the ground which was uneven, making it easy to stumble.
She was nearing High Tor when she realized she had chosen the wrong fork. Newman was racing up the east side of the tor. No sign of Celia. 'Might as well go on, see where this leads to,' she said to herself.
She paused for breath and the ominous silence of the moor descended. A silence she could hear. Not even a hint of birdsong. The undulating moor stretched away on all sides, in a series of gorse-covered hillocks, cutting her off from any distant view. Paula shivered and then looked up. The view upwards was even less reassuring.
She was close to the west side of High Tor. Unlike the shallow slopes she had associated with it, at this point from the peak it fell sheer into an abyss. At the base she saw a tumble of huge boulders. She was about to resume running when she caught sight of movement at the summit.
'Oh, God, no!'
She spoke the words aloud. Even at that height Celia was easily identified by the yellow of her scarf. She stood perched on the edge of the fearsome drop. Why? Seeing her – and what happened next – took a matter of seconds.
Celia seemed to push out her stomach and Paula realized there was someone – out of sight – immediately behind her. One moment she was poised there. The next moment she plunged into space, her body cartwheeling in mid-air as she fell and fell and fell. Her scream of terror echoed over the moor as Paula watched in horror. The scream was cut off suddenly. It might have been her imagination, but Paula thought she heard the dreadful thud as her body hit the boulders. The silence of the moor returned like a threat.
Paula ran like mad, heading for the point where Celia had landed. Once, she glanced up briefly, but saw no one.
Whoever had shoved Celia into eternity had kept well hidden. Paula slowed down as she saw what remained of the servant girl.
She was sprawled, face up, over a boulder of massive size. Paula shuddered as she thought of the impact. She kept running until she stood by the boulder. Celia's spine was arched over the rock, her neck twisted at an angle. Blood and brains which had oozed from her skull were already drying in the sun. Without hope, Paula bent down, checked the carotid artery. Nothing.
She was about to close the eyes, staring sightless up at the summit where Celia had started her death plunge, when Paula decided not to touch anything. She wasn't sure at that moment why she took this decision.
She was breathing heavily when she glanced up again at the summit. Newman stood on the edge, staring down. She beckoned to him. Cupping her hands round her mouth, she called up to him.
'Comedown, Bob.'
Her words echoed round the moor, recalling that terrible scream.
Newman's legs had never stopped moving since he started to climb High Tor. Boulders and smaller rocks were scattered across the surface above him. He couldn't see the summit and he had long since lost sight of Celia as he followed the twisting path.
As so often happens with climbing heights, he reached the summit suddenly. Flat-topped, it had more rocks – some perilously close to the edge, he saw in time. With the gun still in his hand, he walked slowly to the brink, gazed down. He sucked in his breath at what lay below.
He could see the bright yellow scarf now. A small flash of colour on the tiny crumpled form lying across a huge boulder. He was startled to see Paula looking up, her right hand raised as she beckoned, then cupped both hands against her mouth.
'Come down, Bob.'
Her cry was faint but he heard the words clearly. He waved to acknowledge he had heard her. Had Celia thrown herself over? Seemed most unlikely. Newman stood where he was for a moment, looked round. Just behind him was a patch of grey sand. Clearly imprinted in it was the outline of a large fresh footprint. Much larger than Celia's small feet. And, he recalled, she had worn flat-heeled walking shoes. The imprint showed small indentations inside the outline. Studded climbing boots. Celia had been brutally murdered – shoved over the precipice.
The view from the summit of High Tor was panoramic and he could see over the moor for miles in every direction. Newman took a small pair of field-glasses out of his coat pocket, removed his dark glasses, began to scan the moor. He must have missed the murderer by minutes.
Through the lenses he saw how rough the country below was. Deep gullies where a horseman could ride unseen. Stretches of dense gorse which could mask sunken paths. Avoiding the footprint, he walked to the four points of the compass to look down the slopes. No sign of anyone, but there were boulders the size of houses. He decided he must hurry back to join Paula.
9
'I really hated leaving her like that,' Paula said. 'And I wish I'd closed her eyes.'
'Don't worry about it,' Newman said. 'You did the right thing.'
They had hurried back to the car from High Tor and were now driving back towards Padstow along the A30.
