Cell (5 page)

'Time we all went,' Marler warned.

'I'm gone,' said Eddie and he was out of Belles.

3

Tweed and Paula started out on their walk to Margesson's
villa by keeping to the path. Since it was paved with
pebbles their footsteps made a lot of noise. Hoping to catch their objective by surprise, Tweed moved to his
•right, on to the grass, followed by Paula. It was not much of an improvement. The heavy frost was so hard their feet crunched the crystals.

'It's like Siberia up here,' Paula complained. 'Who would
want to live here?'

'The people who do. What did you think of Mrs Gob
ble?'

'Far more going on inside her head than Buchanan
realized. My guess is she didn't like him so she acted the
simpleton. Cunning too - with her concealed telescope. Probably she knows even more than she told us.'

'Stop talking.'

They were over halfway round the large lake, approach
ing Palfry's 'tub', as Mrs Gobble had nicknamed it. An apt
word, Paula thought. She looked to her left. The surface of the lake was very still and black, as if filled with tar. The
silence was getting on her nerves, broken only by the crunch
of their footsteps.

They came to a road and walked slowly past Palfry's
house. No lights anywhere. Small windows on
both floors
and no sign of an entrance. The front door must be round the back. She looked at Margesson's dwelling and gasped
as she saw it more clearly. All the brickwork and even the
pillars flanking the front door were painted a light green.

'That's ridiculous,' she protested. 'A Georgian house painted green.'

'We'll find he's eccentric.' Tweed predicted, reaching for the bell-pull. 'And this thing is more suitable for an
old cottage.'

There was a whirring sound and the heavy wooden door
swung inward. Electrically operated. A massive figure stood
in the doorway. At least six feet tall, he had broad shoulders
and large hands. His chin was concealed behind a long black
beard, matching the colour of the thick thatch on his big
head. His forehead was wide and narrow, his brown eyes
half hidden under heavy lids above a Roman nose and thick
sensuous lips.

The strangest aspect was the long white robe he wore,
which almost reached his ankles. The white collar stretched
round his bull-like neck. His voice was soft, persuasive.
Paula took an instant dislike to it.

'How may I serve you?' the huge figure enquired.

'I am Tweed, Deputy Director of the SIS.' He held open
his identity folder. 'This is my personal assistant, Paula
Grey. We are here to investigate the disappearance of Mrs
Warner. She has been gone three weeks.'

'Please enter my humble home. I suggest we confer at
the round table.'

They walked into a vast sitting-room as the door auto
matically closed behind them. Paula was not expecting
this. The room was two storeys high with an arched ceil
ing. It reminded her of houses in the States which had
similar living quarters called a cathedral room. The walls
were painted white and decorated with framed English
landscapes.

'Some wine?' Margesson suggested. 'A libation?'

They both refused as they sat on hard cushionless chairs with high backs. Paula tried to wriggle herself into a better
position as their host arranged his robe and sat facing her. His peculiar eyes gazed straight at her as he spoke.

'There is no comfort in this dwelling. That is deliberate.
We live in a world here where there is only softness, so we
have a society which has collapsed. Into chaos.'

'Chaos?' Tweed queried sharply.

'There is no discipline, no morality, only the indulgence
of pleasures, many of a dubious nature. Parents make
no effort to control their offspring, so we breed
a
fresh
generation which, if not controlled, will plunge us deeper
into the pit of degradation.'

'Assuming that what you say is correct,' Tweed said
agreeably, 'then what - if anything - could be done to
reverse the trend?'

Paula, taken aback, glanced at him. Then she realized Tweed was subtly leading on their host. She assumed a
solemn expression to match Tweed's.

'The present society must be wrenched free from its
moorings, shaken to the core by the introduction of the most
severe measures. For example, adultery is now regarded
almost as a normal behaviour. If a woman is taken in adultery she has to be subjected to the most draconian
punishment.'

'I should have asked earlier,' Tweed interjected. 'You are
Mr Margesson?'

'Olaf Margesson at your service, sir.'

'Olaf ? That isn't very English.'

'My ancestors long ago came from Finland.'

'Really?' Tweed paused. 'Yet your skin, if I may remark
on it, has a brownish tinge. Not a colour anyone would
inherit from Finland.'

Watching their host closely, Paula saw the eyes narrow
even more, so they almost disappeared beneath the lids. She felt sure she had caught a flash -of fury in those
disturbing eyes.

'You mentioned a draconian punishment for women,'
she challenged him. 'What about men caught in adultery?'

'They would also receive a punishment to mark them out
for the foul things they are. That is why I speak of discipline,
of control. When a woman takes a man in marriage she must
respect him in every way. As he must her. Can you argue
against that?'

'Theoretically, no,' Tweed replied. 'I agree with the
general idea, but not everyone is strong enough to
resist
temptation when it offers itself. You must . . .'

'
Temptation!'
Margesson's voice became a roar of fury, he
raised both arms high, hands open like huge
claws. His loose
sleeves slipped down, exposing massive muscular arms.
'That is what it is all about,' he thundered. 'The refusal
to give in to the lusts of the flesh, discipline. Self-discipline is the foundation of a strong society which will endure. The
present one will not. It will drown in its own sea of naked
self-indulgence. Not all America's atom bombs and aircraft
carriers will protect it - or the West.'

'You express yourself with vigour,' remarked Tweed as he stood up to leave. 'I agree with a small amount of your view — but disagree with most of it. Now we must go.'

'Think deeply of all I have said in the darkness of the
night, I beg of you.'

Margesson, standing, towered over Paula, who had also
stood up. His whole personality had undergone a remarkable change. As he spoke these words to them both hands were stretched out, pleading.

Tweed made no reply as he walked towards the door with
Paula by his side. With giant strides Margesson preceded
them, pressed a button in the wall and the door swung
open. Icy air flooded in. Once outside on the step Tweed turned, his manner polite.

'Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Margesson. Every
one has a right to his own views, providing they don't force
others to adopt them.'

Margesson bowed low, one hand plucking at his dark
beard. It was a mannerism Paula had observed frequently while he was talking, as though he were plucking his thoughts from it.

'We'll go back the short way, along this side of the lake.
The road's reasonable.'

'More than Margesson is.'

They met no one and Tweed was relieved when he saw
Buchanan, arms banging round his overcoat, waiting for
them. A mist had crept out of the forest and was advancing towards Carp Lake. It was almost a fog, and coils of it slid
out over Carpford. When they looked back all the strange dwellings had vanished.

'Sorry to keep you so long, Roy,' Tweed apologized. 'We
had two long interviews.'

'Goes with the territory. You left just in time. Caught up in that fog you could find yourself in the lake, which
is deep.'

'How deep is it?'

'Thirty feet at least. Who did you see?'

'While you're both talking I must call Newman on my
mobile,' Paula told them. 'He'll be worried by now.'

Tweed climbed into the back of the car while Buchanan
got behind the wheel. The engine had been left ticking over
so the interior was pleasantly warm. Beyond the windscreen
the fog was drifting down towards them.

'Two interviews,' Tweed told Buchanan. 'Both weird,
odd in different ways. One with Mrs Gobble, the other
with Olaf Margesson . . .'

Abbreviating, he related the gist of the conversations
and their impressions. Buchanan listened without speaking
until Tweed had completed his resume. Then he turned round.

'I couldn't even get into Margesson's house. I suspect he
was inside and just didn't open the door. I don't like the sound of him at all . . .'

Paula heard his comment as she clambered in beside
Tweed. She sighed ecstatically, taking off her gloves as she soaked up the heat.

'Bless you, Roy, for keeping the car warm. I could kiss
you. Now, Park Crescent. Newman wants us back by
eleven-thirty to meet someone. Didn't say who but, like
me, he doesn't trust the security of both our
mobiles.' She peered ahead as Buchanan began driving down the road.
'The Porsche has gone. Where is it?'

'Taken away on a transporter. And there's plenty of time
for us to get back to town ages before eleven-thirty.'

'My tummy's rumbling,' Paula told him. 'I had no lunch
and I'm desperate for food.'

'Then we'll turn off to Foxfold, a village down in the val
ley. There's a good hotel there, the Peacock. You can have a
full meal and we'll still be back for Newman in good time.'

'I do not like Margesson,' Paula said vehemently. 'He's
like some kind of priest, a mad one. I'm going to call him
the Priest in future. Most poisonous.'

'Dangerous might be nearer the mark,' Tweed commented.

They had dropped to a much lower level after Buchanan
had swung along a narrow lane to his left. As they entered
Foxfold Paula realized it was a normal village, nestling in a deep gulch. There were street lights, and old brick-built
houses and cottages stood well back from the road. High up
on the gulch, overlooking the village, was a large house with
a blaze of lights. Buchanan turned off the lane and climbed
a steep drive leading to the perched house.