The Savage Gorge

'Couldn't sleep? Go back, have another shower.'

The Audi crawled out of the garage, proceeded slowly up the High Street. Paula clenched her fists inside the pockets of her tunic. Marler, sensing her tension, put an arm round her waist.

In the far distance, way north of the bridge, she saw a brief brilliant lightning flash. Everywhere the sky was a molten menacing grey.

'I do wish I was with him,' she said. 'Could it be today?'

'Definitely not. The thugs have not taken up position in those caves. I'm just hoping that triple storm holds off until we've done the job. Forecast says it will arrive in the late morning. As to Tweed, he has to keep up what they think is his daily routine.'

From the Audi, Tweed was observing housekeepers entering the general store and other shops. The air had turned heavy, sultry. A prelude to the expected rage of the gathering storm.

Behind his net curtain, Lepard watched as Tweed passed his window at twenty-five miles an hour. He squeezed his clawlike hands together, his face twisted in a sadistic smile.

'Enjoy your last day on earth, Mr Tweed,' he said aloud.

When Tweed returned to the garage he found Paula still standing by Marler's side. He frowned as he alighted.

'Paula, I told you to get back to bed.'

'I'm going now. Wanted to see you safely back.'

'Well, now you've seen me, kindly shove off.'

'You look heavy-eyed,' she told him. 'Plenty of sleep for you too. You have that dinner here with Mrs Shipton this evening. She's sharp.'

'Sharp as a knife. And she's rapidly moving up my shortlist of suspects…'

In his suite, Tweed forced himself to take a quick shower. He phoned Dowling, asked for a wake-up call at 6 p.m. Putting on his pyjamas he got into bed. The moment his head rested on the pillow he fell into a deep sleep.

He swore to himself in the evening when the phone rang, picked it up, thanked Dowling. His wristwatch showed precisely 6 p.m. He felt amazingly fresh.

Putting on his best suit, he went downstairs into the dining room, booked a table in a secluded alcove with its back to the wall. Returning to his room he found a note inside an envelope pushed under his door.

To give you the privacy you need I'm dining elsewhere with Newman and Archie. Love, Paula.

She thinks of everything, he said to himself. Taking some care, he brushed his hair, put on his jacket again. Always in earlier interviews he had worn his working suit. He knew a smart appearance impressed women.

He was in the hall when Mrs Shipton drove up in her Renault. A servant rushed forward to park it.

'Now, you listen to me,' she began in her imperious manner. 'There are several other cars in the garage. Therefore you will be most careful not to scratch the body of my car. I shall examine it scrupulously when I have had dinner!'

She remained a distance from him, extending her hand, compelling him to walk to her. In her most queenly mood, Tweed was thinking.

He showed her to the table. She looked archly at him as she slid along the banquette into the corner.

'Now you've got me penned in if you say something I don't like.'

'It's easier for me to order dinner from this seat,' he replied casually.

They had placed their orders when they both stared. A new diner had walked in by himself. Falkirk. He chose a table just far away to be unable to hear what they said, then summoned a waiter. Between them they shifted the angle of the table, and Falkirk sat down.

'You see what the swine has done?' Mrs Shipton said viciously.

'He's angled the table so he's not observing us directly. But he only has to switch his gaze a fraction to check on us. I notice you don't like him much.'

'He's a private detective…'

'I know.' Tweed sipped the Chablis he'd ordered, nodded.

'He's also a blackmailer. I should know. He blackmailed me.'

Tweed was taken aback. Nothing showed in his expres sion as he forked his souffle into his mouth. He was also watching the man who was standing well back in the entrance to the dining room, surveying every diner. In his hand he was holding a mobile phone. It was Lance. Very smartly dressed, as always, he wore an electric-blue two-piece suit and a pink shirt. One moment he was there. The next moment he van ished.

'That was Lance,' Mrs Shipton said. 'Looking for a female victim for the evening.'

'Possibly,' said Tweed.

'Nothing here to suit his exotic taste.'

'How did Falkirk try to blackmail you?' Tweed asked suddenly.

'I let that slip.'

'And now,' Tweed said firmly, 'you have to tell me the whole story. I don't have to remind you -'

'That you are investigating a triple murder,' she said, mimicking him.

'Stop pussyfooting. I need to know.'

'I hired Falkirk when he came to Hobart House looking for business

…'

'Hired him to do what?' demanded Tweed.

'To check out whether Myra had been murdered, all those years ago.'

' Why?' Tweed pressed harder, his voice tougher.

'Well, if it had been Lord Bullerton maybe I was in a dangerous position. I'm often alone with him in the house.'

'You mentioned blackmail by Falkirk. Tell me.'

'I hired him…' She hesitated. 'To look for evidence that Myra had been murdered. Pushed over the Falls.'

'You've started. Might as well tell me the lot.'

'He said his fee would be roughly five hundred pounds. Then he came back and said he couldn't find any evidence. He said his fee would be five thousand pounds. Then he whispered he didn't think Lord Bullerton would like what I had done at all.' Her voice trembled with fury. 'I paid. Lord Bullerton and I were getting on rather well,' she added coyly.

'If this factor has a vital bearing on the case -'

He stopped speaking as something extraordinary happened. Sable, clad in riding kit, had stormed into the dining room, was heading for their table fast. She stood before them, hands on hips, shouting at the top of her voice.

'So she's got you, the master detective, hooked too! Did you know she's got every man hooked between her legs? She is nothing but an evil tart…' A string of obscenities was shrieked, her face distorted in a mali cious sneer. 'Been to bed with her yet? Or is this dinner the flaming prelude?'

The whole restaurant was staring. Tweed was reluctant to get up, fearing a physical tussle with her. Two men came in, Harry and Marler. Harry was carrying a towel soaked in water.

They came swiftly up behind her. Marler grabbed her arms, Harry used his wet towel to wrap round her mouth, making sure she could breathe. They frog marched her to the exit. Marler smiled at his audience as he drawled quickly at them, 'She gets like this every six months. She's seeing a doctor…' Then the three disappeared through the exit. Diners started eating again. Some had their heads together speculating on the dramatic scene they had witnessed.

'I think we'd better leave,' whispered Mrs Shipton.

'The last move to make. And I'm enjoying this super souffle. Don't you like the look of yours?'

'I suppose you're right.'

'I often am, Ms Montgomery Fisher-Mayne. Do you ever miss the atmosphere of Barham-Downstream?'

'What!' she screeched quietly. 'What the hell did you say?'

Tweed had chosen the right psychological moment. 'Mrs Shipton' was off balance, still reeling from Sable's embarrassing attack.

'I was being polite, addressing you by your real name. I also mentioned where you had come from. Why, after such a long time, did you come here – such a long time after Myra's murder?'

'What! She was murdered, then?'

'I doubt I'll ever prove it. Too long ago.'

'You're confusing me…'

'That was one of the best souffles I've ever tasted. Ms Fisher-Mayne, did you kill her? For leaving you to struggle with the general store alone? Hatred sometimes takes years to build up.'