time.
'We should be nearly there, shouldn't we?' 'The man's a genius,' said Paula and laughed. 'Look at that road sign,' she suggested as she slowed to a crawl.
The larger than usual metal sign carried a message, a very clear message.
HOBARTSHIRE
'Something tells me we might not be welcome in this neck of the woods,' Tweed remarked. 'We have just entered the bailiwick of Lord Bullerton.'
They drove on, with glimpses of rolling green slopes when gaps in the tall hedges gave them a view. They came to a point where the road descended into a vil lage. Paula drove slowly now, staring.
'Funny sort of place/ she commented. 'No sign of a gorge.'
The village was strange. On either side of the nar rowed road was a continuous line of old terraced cottages with white stone walls. Each cottage had a bright blue front door and tiny dormer windows in its low cramped roof. There was no one about and the place seemed eerie.
They arrived at a cottage on their left which had a bright red front door. On her hands and knees an old woman in a black coat was scrubbing fiercely at a stone step which, as far as Tweed could see, was as already white as snow. Paula stopped the car.
'Might get some information from her if she's the chatty type,' Tweed said.
The old lady stood straight up with surprising speed, dropped her scrubbing brush. She stared straight at them with alert eyes under a lined brow.
Tm Mrs Grout,' she snapped. 'Who be 'ee?'
Tweed decided to try impressing her from the start. He produced his identity folder, held it up, then put it away. She was quick and there was nothing wrong with her eyesight.
'Deputy Chief, but not with the police is my guess.'
'Maybe a little more powerful,' Tweed said smiling.
'Come up a bit late to check on the murder of Lady Bullerton. Going to put the wind up Pit Bull?'
Tit Bull? Sounds like a savage animal.'
'Which is what he is. You don't call 'im that to 'is face. He would find some way of running you out of 'Obartshire. He's got 'imself made Chief Constable by suckin' up to powerful folk in Lunnon.'
'So how would he run someone he didn't like here out of the county?'
'Well,' she began, 'a few years ago Pit Bull bought up the Village. That's what it's called. Cottages were on short leases, which 'e renews when they ends. Contracts were drawn up so that he could throw ten ants out at a moment's notice. But before he bought the Village I'd 'ad a legacy from an aunt. Used it to buy my cottage. Means 'e can't tell me what to do. He was mad as an 'atter when Fingle, his local lawyer, missed it.'
'Why are all the doors painted bright blue?' Tweed wondered.
'It's in the leases for all other cottagers. Doors must be painted blue.' She chuckled. 'To show I'm inde pendent I painted mine red. He's in a rage but can't do anything about it. So there!'
'You did mention,' Tweed said casually, 'that Lady Bullerton had been murdered. By whom and how do you know?'
'Saw it 'appen with my own two eyes and me binocs. Standing outside the Nag's Head I was. Sees movement up by Aaron's Rock at top of gorge. It were Lady Bullerton wearing her wings. We all 'as our funny ideas. She thought she could fly.'
Paula discreetly checked her watch. This was get ting a bit much. To her surprise Tweed continued the conversation.
'What sort of a lady was she?'
'Very posh. Very clever. She could add up so many figures and do wonderful 'broidery. Made the wings herself. I sees 'er pushed over the edge. Down she drops through a hundred-and-fifty-foot waterfall into the river. Floatin' she was when I dashed into the Nag's Head, told Bert Bowling, landlord. Bert's quick – rushes out, tears off shoes and waistcoat, dives in. He gets 'er back onto the bank. Dr Margoyle appears, tries to 'elp 'er. Too late. She's drowned, poor thing.'
'You said you saw her pushed over,' Tweed persisted gently. 'You actually saw who did that to her?'
'Well… no,' she admitted reluctantly. 'Aaron's Rock hid who did her in. She was standing well back from a rock platform. Took me up there once in 'er car. 'Don't ever go near the edge, Elsie. I don't,' she says to me. I climbed up there a day later, crept under police tape. Platform was covered with blood. They cleaned that up.'
'Was there a strong wind that day?' asked Paula.
'Not even a bit of breeze.'
'The police would check it out,' Tweed suggested. 'How long ago was this tragedy?'
'Something over six years ago. Inspector Reedbeck said it was an accident.'
'Gave me a bit of a jolt when she mentioned Reedbeck,' Tweed remarked as they drove on past the Village and down a steep hill. Mrs Grout had pointed the direction to Gunners Gorge. 'Then I remembered Buchanan had told me he had been in charge of some local police station up here.'
'I think the old dear is round the bend,' Paula com mented.
'She certainly provided some information – or mis information – but we'll know when we talk to Harry.'
He turned a bend on the level now and an awesome sight spread out before them. Paula sucked in a deep breath. Gunners Gorge was a small town on both sides of the river. In the near distance a massive gran ite gorge sheered up on both sides of a churning waterfall at least twenty yards wide. A turmoil of river water surged over the summit between granite boulders, plunging in a menacing volume far down into a raging pool between two roads on either bank. As they drove slowly towards the Nag's Head, which had a sign projecting with a horse's head, Paula suddenly said:
'Could you stop a minute? I've never seen anything like this.'
Tweed stopped. They both got out to stretch stif fened legs as Paula pointed at the steep hillsides rising up from both banks of the River Lyne. Old but expensive-looking houses perched above each other occupied the slopes. All were built of granite, which gave the small town a grim atmosphere.
'See,' Paula went on, 'no roads link them up the slopes. Just endless flights of stone paved steps. You'd have to be fit to live here – climbing all those steps.'
Tweed took out his powerful pair of compact bino culars. He studied low buildings with thatched roofs dotted at intervals at the top of the ridges. Each had a large single door.
'I think they've got garages on the crest-line, large ones with power-operated doors. Must be a road we can't see running along the top.'
'Then Heaven help people living in the houses just above this road.'
'That will be reflected in the price,' Tweed said with a smile. 'Let's get moving. Time for lunch. I could eat a horse.'
'Then we're staying at the right place.' Paula chuck led. 'The Nag's Head…'
What added to the disturbing atmosphere was that there were no other people about. Tweed drove in under an arch to the car park. Almost concealed in a corner they saw Harry's Fiat. A jovial, strong-looking man wearing a green apron met them as they entered.
'Would you be the two visitors someone booked two suites for?'
'We would,' Tweed replied.
'I'm Bert Bowling, I own this place,' he explained as Tweed signed the register in their correct names. Tweed
