'No, you won't. And that is another order,' Tweed said, as he stared at her grimly.
'Time to take my pics of those caves so I can show the team.'
'You'd better be very careful of that platform,' Paula warned.
'I'll be OK. Look…'
He lifted a foot and he was wearing rubber gum- boots; the soles had rubber projections which would increase balance. He waved a hand, walked to the platform, stamped a foot on its surface and marched across as though on grass. He went to the edge, took a lot of pics of the caves at both levels, returned smiling.
'Back to the Nag's Head,' he suggested. 'I've booked a room in my name. Also I've booked rooms for the rest of the team, telling the landlord, Bowling, they are members of the Fishers' Club. I've further instructed Bob Newman to include among the more lethal equipment fishing rods and tackle. They're waiting now for your signal to hurtle up here.'
'Excellent organization. What I don't know is where the team will be located to counter Lepard's thugs.'
'Another leaf out of the Cromwellian book. They will occupy positions up a series of three flights of steps to our right as we drive back to the hotel. Most residences I found were empty. These wealthy people take early holidays.'
'Let's get back, then,' Tweed suggested, walking towards Marler's Saab, parked next to Tweed's Audi.
'One vital factor you should be warned about. Newman found out that one of Lepard's men is bring ing him a bazooka. One round from that hitting your Audi and, despite armoured plate and armoured glass, your vehicle will go up in flames.'
'This is not on,' Paula said vehemently just before they climbed into their transport.
'Our team,' Marler assured her, 'scattered along those steps, have a clear view of all the caves. It will be up to me to spot the man with the bazooka and before the team opens fire to kill him stone cold dead.'
'It's too much of a risk to Tweed,' she snapped.
'All our previous operations have involved risk,' Tweed said.
'Not as suicidal as this one,' she snapped again.
'Marler,' suggested Tweed, to change the subject, 'I think it would be wiser if we were not seen together. Maybe you could drive back to the Nag's Head now and we'll start in just a few minutes.'
'All great minds,' Marler said cheerfully. 'I was just about to suggest the same thing myself. And whenever our team is summoned urgently from Park Crescent by you I shan't say one word…'
They had waited five minutes for Marler to get clear. Paula was staring upriver. The whole of that area north of Gunners Gorge had been obscured by mist. Now a breeze had dispersed it and she could see a long way. She tugged Tweed's sleeve.
'Look at that. An old iron bridge. It must link Ascot Way with the High Street. I did see a girl riding a horse heading up Ascot Way. I wondered how she'd reach the hunting country on our side.'
'Now you know,' he said without interest as they climbed in into the Audi. Tweed began driving down the track, turning right as they entered the High Street.
'Why did you send Marler off ahead of us?' she began. 'I've the odd suspicion you had another motive.'
'Can't keep anything from you.' He sighed. 'You are right. Remember that business card Archie MacBlade tucked into my pocket in the hall of the Nag's Head?'
'I do.'
'He urged me to visit a Mr Hartland Trent. Said he was trustworthy. Trent could be just the man to tell us what is really going on in this strange town.'
ELEVEN
Tweed parked the Audi several flights below Primrose Steps. No point in advertising who he was going to visit. He ran up the flight with Paula by his side. He realized all the expensive, well-designed houses were built of grim dark grey granite.
Twinkle Cottage was high up the flight, more than halfway. He hammered twice with the large brass knocker. The heavy door swung inward. He glanced at Paula, who already had her Browning in her hand. He slipped out his own weapon, pushed open the well-oiled door.
He did not call out as so often happens in films. Anyone might be waiting inside. He walked slowly in on the wall-to-wall carpet. He listened. No sound of anyone. With Paula close behind him he continued until he reached a partly opened door on his right. He pushed it open a little more into a spacious living room.
'My God!' he said under his breath.
'What is it?' whispered Paula, who had acute hear ing.
'I think we have found Mr Hartland Trent.'
The body was full length on a table whose green baize was covered with blood. Tweed gently felt a neck artery, shook his head. He then felt the face and shoulder.
'No good,' he said to Paula. 'He's dead. But the warmth of the body suggests the murder was com mitted not so long before we arrived. At a quick count he was stabbed brutally over a dozen times.'
'Look at the right hand, at the index finger. It's pointing at something. That pile of old newspapers on the coffee table.'
'You're not suggesting,' Tweed said in disbelief, 'that this poor devil, after being stabbed so many times, was able to turn his hand and use his finger to point.'
'We've encountered stranger cases,' she reminded him. 'Were any of the stab wounds lethal?'
'Well, no,' Tweed admitted. 'It was the loss of blood which got him. And look at the state of this room.'
It had been ransacked. Drawers were pulled out, dropped on the carpet. Bound books had been hauled out of the cases lining the walls. Paula moved suddenly,
Browning in her hand. She rushed out of the room and up a staircase.
Tweed swore to himself at his own slackness. Pulling on latex gloves, he began checking the rest of the downstairs rooms. He returned to the study as Paula dashed back down the stairs and joined him.
'I thought it was just possible the killer was still in the house,' she explained. 'Nothing. Nobody. No sign of any hurried search.'
'I should have thought of that myself earlier. I've checked downstairs. The kitchen door is locked and bolted on the inside. You know what that means?'
'Mr Hartland Trent must have known his murderer, have seen no reason to be on his guard.'
'Why is he stretched out on that table?'
'My guess is he was standing by the end of it when he was attacked. His killer pushed him onto the table and Trent tried to escape by hauling himself along it. His killer ran down the side of the table, pushed his victim down and stabbed and stabbed.'
Paula was only half-listening as she carefully opened each folded newspaper to every page. Tweed thought she was wasting her time but kept quiet, checking his watch. After a while Tweed stood up, left the room. Something had occurred to him. If someone arrived at the front door as Paula fooled around with a stack of old newspapers they would need an escape route. In the kitchen he drew back the bolts on the door. He left it locked with the key in. Just in case someone tried to get in that way.
Paula was more than halfway down the stack when he returned. After checking every page of a newspaper she folded it, perched it neatly on one side. Tweed's patience snapped.
'We must get out of this place. We need to report Hartland Trent's murder anonymously from a public phone.'
'Shut up!' she told him. 'This whole room was ran sacked and the only item untouched was this pile of newspapers.' She was turning over the pages of an old copy of The Times. This newspaper seemed strangely thick. She reached the centre spread and stared down at a legal document and one brief typed letter on Hobart House stationery, dated five days earlier, addressed to Hartland Trent, signed by Lord Bullerton.
She scanned the document quickly, then handed it over to Tweed. It confirmed that Trent's seventy per cent holding in Black Gorse Moor would, for the sum of twenty thousand pounds, be handed over to Lord Bullerton. A note reminded Trent that the previous offer had been for seven thousand pounds.
