'I might know someone who can track it,' Tweed remarked, staring round the lake.
Near the edge of the lake stood a dwelling reminding Paula of a concrete blockhouse. Cubes of massive concrete were piled on top of each other with circular windows carved out of the concrete. Tweed pointed.
'Who lives in that horror?'
'Drew Franklin, the most highly paid gossip columnist in Britain. An awkward so-and-so. Told me the police always got it wrong, that he'd only answer questions with his lawyer present.'
'And who has the pseudo-Cotswold cottage beyond?'
'Mrs Agatha Gobble. Believe it or not, that's a shop selling antiques. She'll talk if you approach her in the right way. Gets going and you can't stop her.'
'Gobble?' said Paula. 'You must be joking.'
'No. That's her name. Trouble is she's a bit muddled in the upper storey.'
'And,' Tweed persisted, 'what about that two-storey round wooden barn on the far side of the lake? First time I've seen a round barn.'
'It is a house,' Buchanan assured him. 'Occupied by Peregrine Palfry…'
'That's the name of Warner's assistant,' Paula interjected.
'The very same. Haven't been able to find him at home. In London he's always away from the Ministry – or so I'm told.'
'It's creepy,' Paula burst out. 'No one anywhere. A ghost village.'
'Not quite,' Tweed told her. 'A few minutes ago, over at the edge of Black Wood in the distance, a tall thin man wearing a long black overcoat was watching us through field-glasses. He chose his vantage point well – his coat hardly showed up against the wood. He's gone now. Vanished suddenly.'
'Let's go and talk to Mrs Gobble,' Paula said firmly. 'She might tell us something.'
'I'll wait here with the cars,' Buchanan decided. 'The lady doesn't like me.'
'What do you think of Carpford?' Tweed asked Paula as he strode off briskly.
'It's not of this world. The atmosphere is frightening.'
The Cotswold-style house was more welcoming when they reached it. The windows were bubble glass so, peering in, Paula had trouble recognizing the array of small pieces of so-called antiques displayed behind the glass. She saw nothing she'd want to buy. When Tweed opened the door an ancient bell, hung above it on the inside, rattled away. A small plump woman in her sixties, a string of large blue beads round her neck, appeared behind the counter. Her mouth was clamped tightly before she spoke.
'I'm just closing.'
'Mrs Gobble?' Tweed said politely. 'A lady friend of mine recommended your shop to me. She said the way you presented your stock was a model of perfection.'
'Very good of her, I'm sure.'
'My name is Tweed. This is my assistant, Paula Grey. Here are my credentials.'
Mrs Gobble examined the folder, stared at them in surprise. She looked taken aback, handed Tweed his folder.
'Secret Service. Praise the Lord, someone is taking seriously what happened to poor Mrs Warner. I told the police she had been murdered. They pooh-poohed me.'
'Tell us why you are convinced she was murdered. You saw something?'
'I know up here.' Mrs Gobble tapped her wide forehead. 'The rays of vision from above are always right.'
'You knew Mrs Warner then?'
'A lovely lady. Gave the village class. More than I can say about the rest of them. They're all batty. Mrs Warner bought a small landscape. Best in the shop. No attempt to 'aggie over price.'
Paula realized Mrs Gobble had been, up to this point, careful to 'talk proper', as she would probably put it. It was Tweed's manner of speech which had influenced her. She was wearing an apron decorated with strange symbols. Paula's reaction was to think of witchcraft.
'Well,' Paula remarked, 'it's very peaceful and quiet round here.'
'Until the motor-bikes arrive.' Mrs Gobble's mouth turned sour.
'Motor-bikes?' Tweed's tone sharpened. 'When do they come?'
'Every second day – or rather night – one zooms up 'ere at ten o'clock after dark. Makes me jump every time when it roars past and round the lake.'
'Any idea where it's going to?'
'Mr Margesson's place. Don't like 'im. 'E's strange. Big man with a beard, very unpleasant. Came in 'ere once, walked round, was going out without saying a word. I asked 'im why 'e'd come. Know what 'e said? 'Just came to see what you're like.' Then walked out.'
'He lives where?' Tweed persisted.
'Go over to the door. I'm switching out the light. Wait and I'll come over…'
She walked to the wall and pressed an old-fashioned switch. Standing by the door, they were plunged into darkness. Mrs Gobble joined them. She locked the door and pointed. A crescent-shaped moon gave enough illumination to see across the lake. A heavy cloud bank had settled over the village.
'See that funny round wooden 'ouse? Belongs to another unpleasant man, a Mr Palfry. To the left of 'is big tub, see the Georgian style 'ouse with a glare light?'
'Yes. Quite clearly,' Tweed told her.
'That's where the motor-cyclist delivers a big white envelope. He chats to Margesson for a moment, then 'e's off on 'is wretched bike back this way and off towards the main road.'
'Sounds like a courier,' Tweed remarked.
'Call 'im what you like, there's something funny about 'im. Told you 'e delivers a large white envelope to Margesson. At ten at night. I took some rubbish to the village bin one morning just after dawn it was. There in the bin was a large white envelope. 'Adn't been opened.'
'You mean it was still sealed?' Paula asked.
'That's it. No one 'bout so I kept it inside the bin and opened it. Nothing inside. I asks you. Why deliver an empty envelope?'
'Someone probably forgot to put the contents inside,' Tweed said dismissively.
'How would Margesson know that if 'e never opened it?' Mrs Gobble snapped. 'Stay where you are while I switch on the light.'
She shuffled back to the wall, her carpet slippers making no sound. There was a whirring sound and electrically operated blinds closed over the windows. The light came on.
'I 'ad Jem come up from Foxfold to fit the blinds. Don't like the idea I could be watched after dark. By the man in the long black coat, whoever 'e may be.'
'What does he look like?' Tweed wondered.
'No idea. Appears after dark. Saw 'im when the moon was getting big.'
'Mrs Gobble,' Tweed began carefully, 'you saw a lot of detail right across the lake at ten o'clock in the night. You must have better eyesight than me.'
'That's my little secret.' Mrs Gobble chuckled. 'Come behind this screen and see what I've got 'idden.'
Close to the far window a three-sided tall screen stood, all its flaps opened. Looking behind it, they gazed at Mrs Gobble's 'treasure'. A high-powered telescope mounted on a tripod. Tweed bent down, peered through the lens. The glare light and Margesson's front door could be seen clearly. There was more to Mrs Gobble than he had realized.
He straightened up and she lowered the blind she had briefly raised.
'You have been very kind and helpful, Mrs Gobble. I think we will now go and pay Mr Margesson a visit. There are a number of lights on in his house.'
''Ave a care. That man has strange powers. And don't fall into Carp Lake. Keep to the footpath all the way.'
'Has it carp in it?'
'Never seen any. It's very deep, that lake. I'll switch off the light when you've both got to the door…'
