Precipice

'Yes.'

'Then you'll probably find him at his cottage outside Stoborough. Know where that is?'

'We drove through it this morning.'

'Difficult place to find. I'll draw a map…'

Newman had just pocketed the map when a very large man clumped into the bar. His hair was thick and black, he had wide shoulders and large hands. His aggressive jaw was smeared with a dark stubble. He wore a shabby windcheater and denims. Philip was reminded of the large man riding a bicycle along the towpath the previous night.

'A pint of mild and bitter. Make it quick. I can't 'ang around here all day. Give me space at the bar,' he snapped at Newman.

'There is plenty of space.'

'Sassy, are we?' The newcomer glared. 'You look familiar. You look just like that newspaper peeper, Robert Newman.'

'Maybe because I am.'

'I'm Craig. People keep out of my way.' He rested his elbow on the bar close to Newman. 'I said people who know me keep out of my way. 'Eard me, did you? Or are you bleedin' deaf?'

The barman had placed the drink Craig had ordered on the counter in a tankard. Craig shifted his elbow, knocked it over. Philip heard the vroom-vroom of motorcyclists arriving. Three of them entered the bar and he thought of the experience Newman had told him about when he'd gone out to find a phone the previous evening. He turned to face them as Craig faced Newman.

'You just knocked me pint over. Order me another.'

'Knocked it over yourself,' Newman replied mildly.

'You asked for it…'

Craig clenched a huge fist to slam into Newman. The foreign correspondent's hands moved in a blur. Then he was gripping both Craig's arms at a certain point where nerve endings were located. Craig froze, gulped with pain as Newman pirouetted him round, forced him back against the wall, released one hand, grasped the head of his opponent, slammed it against the wall.

'Now grow up. Otherwise you might get hurt. In fact I think it might be wiser if you cleared out. Like now!'

During the confrontation Philip had stood between the two men and the three motorcyclists who showed signs of taking Newman from the rear.

'Have you come in for a drink or a barrel-load of trouble?'

'Let's make mincemeat of the boy,' one of them suggested.

'I wouldn't cause any trouble if I were you,' a voice drawled behind the three youths.

As they swung round Marler stood in the doorway.

He was holding a Beretta, a small automatic just over four-and-a-half inches long in his right hand. He kept tossing it a foot or so in the air and then catching it. Each time he caught it he held it for a moment so it was aimed at a different man point-blank.

'It's really a toy, in my opinion, but it's loaded with real bullets. And I have a certificate to carry this neat little weapon. Why don't you all shove off back to your silly machines and take off?'

It was the silky tone in which he spoke as much as the gun which scared them. Marler stood aside as they walked out, leaving Craig to cope by himself.

'Sue you for GBH,' Craig mumbled.

When Newman had thrown him back his skull had hammered against the wall. He was dazed, but his look was venomous.

'I won't forget this,' he mumbled again.

'I agree,' Newman responded. 'Take you a few days before your head stops hurting. Forget your pint.'

'Screw… you.'

Craig walked unsteadily out of the bar and into the street. The barman waited until he had left the hotel before he commented.

'I don't want any more visits from him and he didn't pay for his beer.'

'He's been in here before?' Newman asked.

'A couple of times over the last week. And he asked me the same question you did. Had I heard of a man called Marchat, and if so where did he live.'

'What did you tell him?' Philip enquired.

'Nothing. Said I'd never heard the name, so how could I know where the chap lived. I never said a word about Marchat's place, Devastoke Cottage.'

Marler had disappeared as swiftly as he had appeared by the time they finished their drinks, thanked the barman, and went over to where Newman had parked his Mercedes. Philip looked up and down South Street, which was almost deserted except for the odd woman carrying a shopping bag. No sign of the motorcyclists he had heard leaving near the end of the fracas.

'Where to now?' Philip asked as he glanced round the small square close to the bridge and the river.

'Don't say anything or stare when you look in the back of the car,' warned Newman, who had automatically checked the rear as he stepped into the vehicle. 'And we're going to find this Devastoke Cottage where Marchat lives. Time we had a word with him, to find out what he knows about the fire at Sterndale Manor.'

Philip glanced back quickly as he climbed into the front passenger seat. Coiled up in the back on the floor was Marler. He was holding a canvas sheath and Philip guessed that resting inside it was Marler's favourite long- distance weapon, an Armalite rifle.

Stoborough was little more than a hamlet with a few houses and a tavern. Glancing down at the map the barman had drawn Newman turned along a country lane, hedge-lined and with open fields under water on either side.

'You know who Bully Boy was?' Marler called out from behind them.

'Chap called Craig.'

'They call him 'Crowbar' Craig. His real Christian name is Carson.'

'Why Crowbar, then?' Philip enquired.

'You're going to like what Bob did to him when I tell you. When friend Craig wants information from someone and they don't cough up he uses a crowbar to smash their kneecaps. A real charmer.'

'How do you know this?'

'Archie, an informant I met over lunch at an out-of-the-way bar, told me. He said if he ever saw Craig coming he'd run like hell. The intriguing thing is he's deputy to a rich man called Leopold Brazil.'

'A thug like that?' Philip's tone expressed disbelief. 'Brazil is a man who mixes in top society.'

'I thought his Cockney way of speaking was phoney,' Newman commented. 'What makes you so sure he was this Crowbar Craig?'

'Archie gave me a good description of him to put me on my guard. He's good at descriptions, is Archie. What he gave me fitted Bully Boy perfectly.'

'Slow down!' Philip called out. 'You just passed the place. There's a signboard stuck in the hedge.'

Newman glanced in his rear-view mirror, backed the car, saw why he hadn't noticed Devastoke Cottage. It was set well back from the road behind a thorny hedge. The cottage was small with a thatched roof and a single dormer on the first floor peering out between the thatch, which was a greenish colour.

Marler came with them as Newman opened a small wooden gate, which creaked. Not much sign of maintenance, Newman thought as he led the way up the path dense with weeds, noted the colour of the thatch. He was bothered – all the curtains were closed.

'I wonder what we shall find here,' he said, half to himself.

He had to press the bell four times before the ancient heavy wooden door was opened. A man stood framed in the entrance, small with a plump face, clean-shaven with a smooth skin. His brown hair was all over the place and he wore a dressing gown over pyjamas.

'Sorry to get you up,' Newman opened. 'I believe you are Mr Marchat.'

'No. I'm Partridge. Mr Marchat has rented Devastoke Cottage to me. I arrived early this morning and I was short of sleep.'