'You clever old thing.' Lance smirked again.
'You killed the two oldest sisters in London because your father teased you about a daughter inheriting the title. You took him seriously so the sisters had to go.'
'Really? They'd have been lousy at the job.'
Paula sat appalled, speechless at the incredible callousness he was displaying.
'You knew about the huge oil field. You are the informant who kept Neville Guile in touch with my activities.'
'He paid well for my information, you know.' Lance's manner towards Tweed became condescend ing.
'Then your final murder victim was Hartland Trent. No point in letting him get a slice of such a gigantic pie. What put me on to you were two things. In this house you struck an attitude that you'd no interest at all in eventually becoming the next Lord Bullerton. Yet in the town, among your host of girl friends, you assured them you would inherit the title. You made a bad mistake a few minutes ago. You referred to the woodworker's shop. I never mentioned that he had one. We have enough evidence to send you down for three life sentences with no option ever for parole.'
'You really are a clever old thing.' He gave a ghastly smile.
Lance had been drinking when they arrived. From the odour drifting across the table Paula thought it was gin. The strange glass he had been using was more like a tankard with a very thick base. He now used it to emphasize what he was saying, hammering it on the table.
'I am a good organizer.' He slid his hand inside his jacket and they expected the silver cigarette case to appear again. Instead, his hand reappeared holding a Walther, which he aimed point-blank at Paula.
'I… am… a… good… organizer,' he began, hammering down the glass.
Paula heard the faint sound of tinkling glass. She looked at the base of the tankard. It was intact.
'Everything is prepared,' he continued, no longer punctuating his words with the glass. 'I expected you to come. I have left a long wide gardener's barrow at the end of the terrace. I'll lay your bodies alongside each other. I have the strength to push its well-oiled wheels up to Black Gorse Moor. There the bodies will be tipped into one of the deep tunnels, then covered with rocks and pebbles.
'Don't make a move, Mr Tweed,' he warned. 'Otherwise the first bullet will ruin Miss Grey's head. Then I shall have ample time to shoot you…'
The explosive bullet removed his whole jaw. Synchronized, two rifle bullets hit him in the chest. Tweed never forgot the macabre scene. In slumping down across the chessboard, Lance's right hand fell on the bisected waist of the Queen.
Paula jerked her head towards the closed red velvet curtains. Window panes smashed. Harry reached in to turn the handle, rifle tucked under his arm, entering the library followed by Marler gripping the Armalite which had fired the explosive bullet.
'I thought it best to take precautions,' Tweed remarked.
'You might have told me,' she protested.
'Then you might not have acted naturally.'
Police sirens howled in the distance. Coming closer to the town from the south.
'That's reinforcements to wipe all the blood from the caves,' Marler said. 'An advance unit arrived earlier. Buchanan is coming himself.'
'I can see him in London,' Tweed said, taking Paula by the arm. 'We'll have a quick snack dinner at the hotel. Set your alarm clock for 6 a.m. I want to be back before dusk.'
Epilogue
The following evening they were about to turn into Park Crescent. It was a brilliant sunny end to a day when the weather had been perfect all the way south. Paula was gazing at everything.
'You know,' she said to Tweed, 'it's a wonderful experience to visit the countryside. All those vast areas of greenery and forests. I would one day like to go back but I'm so glad to get home.'
'I agree,' responded Tweed. 'It's familiar surround ings so you feel at home here. Despite the rush and the bustle. All the variety of a great city.'
He turned into Park Crescent, stopped the Audi close to the kerb below the entrance to their head quarters. She was looking at him.
'What is it?' he asked.
'You are about to court-martial me for direct disobedience, for jumping into the back of this car just before all the fireworks up at Gunners Gorge. Am I right?'
'Yes, you are. I'm about to pronounce sentence.' 'Which is?' she enquired, nervously plucking at her skirt.
'A long leisurely evening, with dinner at the Ritz.'