Newman came up behind him.
'Trouble? You're disturbed.'
Tweed was staring at the stretch of drive leading up to a large gracious mansion. Red-brick, Georgian in style, a long terrace perched above a flight of stone steps.
The sounds were being made by a tall agile man swinging a huge axe up and down, chopping large logs into smaller pieces with the flat base of a tree trunk as the chopping block.
The General, wearing a peaked army cap to protect his face against flying chips, laid down the axe, took off his gloves and turned to face Tweed. When he took off the cap he revealed a sun-tanned face with a large hooked nose, piercing blue eyes, a firm mouth, a strong jaw – all of which reminded Tweed of paintings he'd seen of the Duke of Wellington.
'Mr Tweed, I presume, with Miss Paula Grey and the formidable Robert Newman,' he called out in his commanding voice.
No suggestion of the pompous brass-hat in the voice. Rather the voice acquired over the years when addressing officers. Despite his age his skin was leathery rather than lined and he moved briskly as he walked to greet them. Upright as a telegraph pole.
'I was expecting you,' he continued, hand extended. 'Your friend Allenby at the MoD phoned to say you might be visiting me.'
You can't trust anyone these days not to babble, Tweed thought. His hand was ready for the General's crushing grip, but the hand that grasped his was strong but not aggressive. After shaking hands with Tweed he turned immediately to Paula, clasping her hand gently, bowing slightly.
'Tweed is an able fellow otherwise I would not have opened the gate,' he told her. 'But without you I suspect he'd find life very difficult indeed. Ability and charm – not something I often encounter.'
'You overestimate me, sir,' she replied. 'But you are correct in your assessment of my chief.'
'And here is the tough guy, Robert Newman. Not a man I'd trifle with.'
Newman was ready for a bone-crushing grip and that was what he experienced. He squeezed as hard as he could while smiling. The General's expression changed briefly. He'd felt the pressure.
'Of course, Newman, you are younger, so you have the advantage over ancient material. You should start writing more of those articles on the state of the world. I have read them all. You are the best journalist I've read. Of course there is Drew Franklin. Good, but lacks sharpness, which is just one of your strong points.' He spotted Harry, who was a few paces behind the others. He strode over, hand extended. 'You must be Harry Butler, another key member of Tweed's amazing team. Explosives is your speciality.' He was shaking hands as he continued talking. 'Tricky job, yours. Suppose you cut the wrong wire on a time bomb…'
'If I was not sure which wire to cut I'd leave the damned thing alone,' Harry said emphatically.
'Which is why you're still here.' He put an arm round Harry's shoulders. 'Come on now. We'll have drinks inside to celebrate your courtesy in calling on me. A sundowner, as they called it in the Far East. I know that because my favourite author is Somerset Maugham. He knew a thing or two…'
They followed the General up the steps and Tweed asked the question on the terrace before they entered the mansion.
'One thing intrigues me. How did you know we were coming? The gates opened automatically for us.'
'See that object fixed to that tree at the corner of the drive where it turns?'
Tweed stared at where the General was pointing. Attached to a lower branch was a large mirror. The General chuckled.
'That mirror shows me who is outside the gates. If it's someone interesting – like you and your team – I operate a lever behind the trunk where I was chopping the logs. At night glare-lights illuminate the entrance and the road outside. Have to get organized in these decadent days. Now, let's get those drinks.'
Double doors of oak opened into a spacious hall. The floor was covered with a huge Persian rug. On one wall Tweed was not surprised to see a portrait of the Duke of Wellington. On another a self-portrait of Van Gogh, the colours so reminiscent of the Crooked Village.
A white-painted door off the hall led into a comfortable living room with windows on three sides. A girl appeared, obviously the maid. The General checked what everyone preferred, then spoke in French.
'Celeste, our guests would appreciate drinks…'
He rattled off what was required. In an astonishingly short time she reappeared with the drinks on a silver tray, served them, left the room. Paula, who was intrigued by the French maid and understood the language, asked a question.
'General, are all your staff French?'
'Yes, indeed. These days most British people think a servant's job is below their dignity. I have four girls who look after this rather large house. And a dragon of a French housekeeper. They all live in the cottages in Crooked Village. They seem to feel at home there.' He stared at Tweed. 'The murder of the Vander-Browne lady sounds quite ghastly. We are descending into barbarism.'
'How did you hear about that?' Tweed enquired.
'I have the Daily Nation delivered every day. Like to keep up with what's going on. Drew Franklin has written a long article on the subject. Sounds gruesome.'
'I understand it was certainly that,' Tweed replied.
'And now,' the General continued, 'we have the Blackshirts, the Fascists, the so-called State Security lot taking over the western tip of this island, building strange buildings. You know, I wouldn't be surprised' – he paused, ran a finger over his lower lip – 'if one dark evening those buildings and anyone still working on them were blown sky high. What I've just said is off the record and you never heard me say it.'
'Say what?' asked Tweed with an innocent expression.
'My mind was elsewhere,' Paula remarked.
'And I've gone deaf,' Newman said.
'That's the ticket.' The General smiled as he stood up. 'Now you've finished your drinks perhaps I could show you my little Versailles.'
He led the way into the hall and down a long corridor towards the back of the house. Opening a door he stood aside to let Paula walk out on to a spacious terrace running the width of the back of the house. She stopped, gasped as the others followed her. The white stone terrace was elevated with a flight of wide steps leading down into a small paradise – although not so small: the estate spread out on both sides, with stretches of green lawn like a vast putting green. There were pergolas and stone arches, arrangements of evergreen shrubs such as she had never seen before, all trimmed neatly. In the distance, beyond a lake shaped like a swan, was a large maze of evergreen hedges. The General stood beside her.
'Walk into that maze without the map and you'd never find your way out. There's more.'
He walked across to a chrome wheel in the balustrade wall, turned it. All over the endless vista great fountains of water rose up high, each creating a different shape. He explained the jets were sunk in the lawn.
'I've never seen anything like it,' she enthused, rhapsodized.
'Better than Versailles,' Tweed commented. 'Which is too large for my taste. This is a jewel.'
'Don't need a gardener do you, sir?' joked Harry.
'I have twelve from a village to the east but I can always do with someone else,' the General chuckled, joining in the joke.
'Breathtaking,' Newman commented, placing his hands on the balustrade. 'You had people from France to create this?'
'Yes, I did. Experts from outside Paris.'
They lingered for a while, unable to tear themselves away from the spectacle. Then Tweed checked his watch.
'We thank you for your hospitality, General, but if we leave now I think we'll just catch the return ferry to the mainland.' He looked at his host. 'You look very fit. How do you do it?'
'I get up early, have a glass of orange juice, then jog over Hog's Nose Down. They say you can just see the Isle of Wight to the east but I never have. Not even on a clear day.'
He accompanied them to the end of the drive, then turned back as the gates automatically closed behind him.
Returning aboard the ferry, Paula had expected to recall the powerboat roaring close to them, the explosion
