In his right hand he held a grenade. Paula tensed. If he got closer he only had to remove the pin and roll it under the Audi's petrol tank. One flash, one explosion and they'd be roasted, liquidated.
She threw open the rear door, jumped out. Rain drenched her. Gripping her Browning in both hands, she fired twice. Distorted red flower shapes appeared on the tunic covering his chest. He fell forward onto the grenade.
She froze, waiting for the detonation. Nothing happened. Later, when explosives expert Harry carefully lifted the body, he found the pin had not been withdrawn from the grenade.
Paula was about to jump back into the Audi when she glanced across at the river bank. Lord Bullerton, stomping through sheets of rain, stopped by his stone asking for Lizbeth's return. To destroy it now she was safely home?
No one had thought of telling him to remain at Hobart House. He stepped forward a few more paces. The rain had churned the river bank into a muddy swamp. He slipped, fell into the river, hands grabbing at sturdy shrubs.
Appalled, she ran across the marshy ground. He was struggling to get out, up to his broad chest in water, getting nowhere. She leant down, inserted a hand under each of his armpits. He was too heavy for her to haul him out.
Movement caught her attention nearer the Falls. She stared. Neville Guile's long legs were carrying him towards the bank on her side. Stripping off his white jacket and slip-on shoes, he dived into the river. She understood. He had felt compelled to see with his own eyes the killing of Tweed.
There was a brief near-comic element when she saw he was heading for the opposite bank. A Rolls-Royce waited for him. By the side of the road opposite a uniformed chauffeur stood to attention.
Guile was a surprisingly strong swimmer, cleverly swimming at an angle into the main force of the cur rent.
'Oh, my God!' she said aloud.
A massive tree trunk, caught up by a fresh storm which had burst recently well north of the bridge, cre ating a tidal surge of water, dropped the hundred and fifty feet into the pool below. It was swept out and car ried downriver.
'Oh, no!' Paula called out in her terror.
The 'tree' was a full-grown crocodile, far from its normal hunting ground. The prehistoric monster headed towards Guile. Only the head was visible now, exposing its evil little eyes.
Guile only saw it coming when he was more than halfway across the river. He panicked, began to dog- paddle. The beast's enormous jaws were now fully open. It reached the swimming man. His whole body was sucked inside. It had stopped raining and was ominously quiet. She clearly heard the crunch of Guile's skull as the creature closed its jaws. She looked away.
Now she was confronted with a new terror. Blood from Bullerton's damaged knee was flowing into the current. Crocodiles have a deadly scent for the pres ence of blood. The creature, having had its main course, was now ready for dessert as it headed inshore for Bullerton. Paula was in despair. She knew that bullets would simply bounce off its thick wrinkled hide, but she knew she couldn't heave out Bullerton's heavy body.
She heard swift feet running and slithering in the mud. Harry was tearing across towards her at aston ishing speed. At school he had excelled as a cricketer, a brilliant bowler. In his right hand he held the largest grenade Paula had ever seen.
The beast was no more than fifty feet from the helpless Bullerton. Standing close to her, Harry watched as the awful jaws opened. He took a firm stand, removed the pin, lobbed the grenade. It landed deep inside the open jaws, was caught in the crocodile's throat.
The detonation was muffled. Paula stared as the monster was fragmented, small pieces flying across the river into the main current. They looked like pieces of bark from a big tree.
' I’ll take over,' Harry told her.
Bending down carefully, he exchanged hands with Paula, inserting them under Bullerton's armpits. One mighty heave and Bullerton was lying on firm ground. He stood up, seeming to be none the worse for his ordeal.
A gentle hand descended on Paula's shoulder. An equally gentle voice spoke. Tweed's.
'A snack lunch I think, Paula, then plenty of sleep. We have to go out this evening to confront the murderer of four people.'
'Four!' she exclaimed.
'Yes. Four."
THIRTY
It was an overcast, moonless night when Tweed, with Paula, drove his Audi down the slope to Hobart House beyond the hedge-lined lane. It was incredibly silent, which unsettled Paula.
Few lights glowed. A dim light illuminated the windows of the library. As Tweed parked, Paula thought she saw two vague shadows crossing the bowl. She looked again and there was nothing. Imagination.
Her uncertain observation vanished as the glare lights flooded the terrace and steps. She wondered who would open the door. It was a grim-looking Mrs Shipton, still fully dressed.
'At this hour?' she hissed venomously.
'Kindly let us in,' Tweed said calmly.
'If you've come to see me it's a waste of time. I've just taken a sedative. After all those horrors in Gunners Gorge…'
'So you were there, you witnessed what happened?'
'I've got to get to bed. I have to climb those stairs before the sedative starts working.'
She stood aside, closed the door after them, pointed a finger at the library and began to haul herself up the stairs. They waited to make sure she made it, unless she had lied.
Halfway up the stairs she turned, her arm extended as her long index finger pointed again at the library.
Paula took a firmer grip on the long evidence envelope with the ancient green mop handle inside. Tweed had asked her to be sure to bring it.
Opening the door of the dim-lit library, Tweed walked down the steps, followed by Paula. Seated in an imposing antique chair behind a heavy wooden table was Lance, wearing a smart dark suit. On the table was spread out the chessboard with a game in progress. His face was very white in the poor lighting.
'Good evening, both of you,' he said with a pleasant smile. 'Please join me.'
He gestured towards a large couch pushed close to the side of the table facing him. Paula had difficulty squeezing in the narrow space between table and couch. Tweed experienced the same problem. He looked at Lance as Paula placed the old mop handle at the edge beyond the chessboard. Lance didn't even glance at it. Tweed's voice was grim when he spoke.
'Lance Mandeville, I have come to arrest you for quadruple murder. Anything you say -'
'Oh, I know the old rigmarole,' Lance said amiably. 'But quadruple is four.'
'You started on your career of murder early. You pushed Lady Bullerton into the Falls. Concealed behind Aaron's Rock, you shoved the working end of that mop into her back.'
'Fascinating. I didn't think this was a social call.' He slipped his hand inside his jacket, produced a silver cigarette case. 'Smoke?'
When they both shook their heads he returned the case to his jacket. Tweed continued to speak in his grim tone.
'Your next excursion into murder was locating your missing sisters. You checked their night-time move ments, waited, cut their throats and mutilated their faces so no newspaper pictures would appear appeal ing for identification. Your method was horrible.' Tweed picked up the chess Queen, used both hands to unscrew it round the waist, revealing a long corkscrew. 'Undoubtedly it was made by that brilliant woodworker in the High Street. You probably told him some story about wanting to surprise a party – by unscrewing the Queen and using the corkscrew to open a bottle of wine.'
'Sounds an interesting chap.' Lance smirked. 'Where is his shop?'
'You know. You visited him. He keeps a register of clients. In the High Court the judge can compel him to open the register. That alone will be damning evidence.'