were striking and his eyes almond-shaped, which gave him an air of authority.
'This is Lance, my son… and this is Margot again,' he said in a voice rumbling with fury.
'Again. Always Margot again,' Margot yelled in fury.
Bullerton raised one huge hand, slapped her so hard across the face Paula thought he would take her head off. Then he administered the same harsh blow to the other side of her face. She burst into tears and ran from the room.
I’ll get rid of this,' said Lance.
He picked up the knife by the handle, walked across to a door a distance beyond the bar, opened it and Paula saw it led to a marble-tiled toilet. He came out with a large towel wrapped round the knife.
'Plenty of deep fissures on the moor,' he explained. 'It will be safe down there. I never knew Margot went in for knives.'
I’ll give her hell later,' Bullerton growled.
'May I suggest you don't?' requested Lance. I’ll arrange for Mrs Shipton to prepare a nice tea for her. Muffins, which Margot loves, plenty of butter, Dundee cake and a large pot of tea. I'll take it up to her myself.'
'All right. If you think that's best. You'd make a good candidate to carry on the title when I'm gone.'
'He really doesn't want that,' Sable's cultured tones broke in. 'He's told you that enough times.'
'No, he doesn't,' Bullerton agreed after Lance had left. 'I think now you'd make a better job of it. You're competent, controlled, don't mind responsibility – which Lance does. And you're popular with the people who count.'
'Let me make one thing clear,' Sable said firmly. Tm not asking for it or assuming anything. You do change your mind quite often.'
'True enough,' he agreed. 'But I've been thinking about the whole business.'
'Time we left,' Tweed suggested. 'It has been inter esting. I think you've got the gem of a house. A real Georgian.'
I’ll come out on the terrace with you. Sable, join us, please.' As he walked out with Tweed, Mrs Shipton appeared with another double Scotch on a tray. Bullerton, standing on the terrace, drank half, licked his thick lips and swallowed the rest, dumping the glass back on the tray, which Mrs Shipton took back into the house.
'His third,' Sable whispered to Paula. 'Watch out. And could I come to see you at the Nag's Head?'
'You'd be most welcome. Best to phone me first. Here's my number. ..'
She gave the number to Sable, expecting her to record it in a notebook. Instead, Sable merely glanced at it.
'Got it,' she said and disappeared into the hall.
Paula walked towards the wall of the terrace Bullerton and Tweed were heading for. She studied the large man's walk. Perfectly steady. She joined them as Tweed posed the question.
'Why is it called Gunners Gorge?'
'Ah, sir. There's some history. In the sixteen hun dreds the son of the great Cromwell was fighting with the Parliamentarians. At least, one of his generals was. Royalists were waiting near Worcester for their cavalry to come from here to smash the Parliamentarians. With me?'
'I know a little about the final battle at Worcester.'
'Well' – Bullerton's huge face was becoming red – 'spies had reported to the general that the Royalist cavalry had set a trap in the town here to destroy his cavalry. Arriving early, the ambushers took up posi tion in the entrances to the caves near the top of the gorge. Cromwell's cavalry outwitted them.'
Bullerton was talking more rapidly, as though enjoying relating the outcome.
'That means,' Tweed speculated, 'they were looking down on the road which passes the Nag's Head.'
'Which was the road the Royalist cavalry would ride along,' said Bullerton, gleefully. 'And they did, sir!'
'What happened?'
'The Cromwellian cavalry rode straight up the stepped alleys. This gave them a commanding posi tion overlooking the caves. Their muskets laid down a murderous barrage of fire, firing point blank into the caves.'
He rubbed his large hands together as though seeing it all with sadistic enjoyment.
'The Royalist ambushers – and their horses – were massacred on that famous day. Dead Royalists – and their horses – fell into the falls and the gorge which was running – streaming – with blood. What a sight it must have been!'
His face was now a mottled red, his eyes gleaming with delight. Paula was appalled.
She saw a green Bugatti driving slowly down the road towards Hobart House. Bullerton glared as the gleaming car parked behind Tweed's Audi.
'He's early, damn him.' Paula immediately recog nized the driver.
It was Archie MacBlade, the oil prospector whose picture had been in the newspaper. But a very differ ent MacBlade. He'd had his hair cut, his previously bushy moustache was neatly trimmed. He wore leather driving kit. He looked handsome and she was rather taken by him as he leapt up the steps. Bullerton had turned his back on him, was slowly stomping towards the house.
MacBlade was smiling as he approached Tweed and Paula, holding out his hand. Bullerton looked round, saw the gesture and shouted at the top of his voice.
'Don't start jabbering to them. They're only guests. Come in now! '
'I'm coming,' MacBlade called back. A pause. 'When I am ready.
'I am so pleased to meet you,' he went on, 'Mr Tweed and Miss Paula Grey. Such a distinguished couple, if I may say so.'
'You may say so,' Paula replied with a warm smile. 'And both of us appreciate your generous compliment.'
'In that case,' MacBlade suggested, 'may I invite you both to be my guests for dinner in the Silver Room one evening?'
'That would suit us perfectly. We look forward to enjoying the company of the most professional oil prospector in the world.'
'Once.' MacBlade smiled again. 'I am now retired.'
'Really?'
Paula thought she detected a note of scepticism in Tweed's tone. At that moment there was a frustrated roar from Bullerton, waiting by the door.
'Don't make the mistake of thinking he is drunk,' MacBlade warned just before he left them. 'His capacity for absorbing liquor is limitless. He is just play-acting…'
Paula pursed her lips as she watched MacBlade walk casually to the house.
'We have just seen the real Pit Bull,' she said grimly.
EIGHT
'I'd like to go for a walk on the moor,' Paula decided, 'to get that horror story Bullerton revelled in out of my mind. There are more steps at the end of the terrace.'
' I’ll come with you,' said Tweed. 'There's stony ground higher up. I'll get our motoring gloves out of the car. Then if we trip up we won't rip our hands…'
They walked a long way across recently trimmed grass, then the slope began. So did the rough ground, littered with stones of different colours. Paula, wearing her gloves, reached the edge of the moor first. Behind her, Tweed, who had a very sensitive nose for odours, pulled a face.
Paula eased her way along a narrow path between tall gorse bushes with blackened stems. There were few yellow blooms and even they were drooping. There was something unpleasant about the atmosphere.
'Not like the Yorkshire moors,' Tweed commented.
He used his gloved hand to grasp a handful of gorse, raised it to his nose. The gorse had a greasy feel. They pushed on through the winding path until they reached the top. Along a flat stretch ran a narrow-gauge railway.
'What's this?' Paula asked.
