The Greek Key (14 page)

'You have my word.'Tweed paused, smiled. 'You will keep entirely to yourself the nature of my job?'

'Good Lord, yes, Mr Tweed. The privacy of the guests must be sacred.' He looked embarrassed. 'Yours is, of course, a special case.'

Tweed picked up the second photograph. He put it inside his pocket, turned away, then turned back as though a thought had suddenly struck him.

'In connection with the same investigation, would you happen to know any of these three men? A Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore, a Captain Robson, a man called Kearns? I do have their addresses. Barrymore, for one, lives at Quarme Manor, Oare.'

The manager took his time fastening up the middle button of his black jacket. Giving himself time to think, Tweed guessed. So I've given him something to think about.

'Again in complete confidence, I assure you.'

'This is a strange business you're investigating, if I may say so.'

'Very strange, very serious, very urgent.'

'Well. . . The three of them are friends. Every Saturday night they dine here. Always the same quiet table at the far end of the dining room. A kind of ritual, I gather.'

'They were here last Saturday? Two nights ago?' Tweed asked quickly.

'Well, no. The colonel is very formal. Always phones himself to book the table in advance. They've missed for three weeks. Probably on holiday. Only my guess, I emphasize.'

'Thank you.' Tweed paused. He looked the manager straight in the eye. 'When you wake tomorrow morning you'll possibly worry about what you've told me. Don't. Worry, I mean. It is Monday. If I am still here next Saturday I shall make a point of dining elsewhere. Then if they come back you won't have me in the room. We do consider people's feelings.'

'So it seems. I thought, if you won't resent it, that your outfit were more aggressive.'

'On the contrary, we find we get the best results by being exceptionally discreet. And the local police shouldn't know I am here. Then we can't have any gossip about my being in the area.' Tweed leaned forward. 'We keep it just between the two of us. So, sleep well.'

'Thank you, sir. And if it's not out of place, I hope you enjoy your stay here. I'm not worrying.'

Tweed went back upstairs and knocked on the door of the room named Gallox. 'Who is it?' Paula called out.

'It's me,' said Tweed. She called out again for him to come in.

'Just look at this,' she began as he entered. 'Isn't it marvellous?'

She was sitting on the edge of a huge four-poster bed with a large canopy. It gave the large room a medieval atmosphere. Five feet six tall, the mattress was so high her feet dangled above the floor.

'You should have plenty of room in that,' Tweed observed and sat in an armchair. 'I have just talked with the manager. A tricky conversation. I had to show him my Special Branch card before he'd tell me a thing.'

'I like him. There's something Dickensian about his appearance.'

'And he's a man of great integrity . . .' Tweed told her about their conversation. She listened, watching him, and he knew every word was being imprinted on her memory.

'That's queer,' she commented. 'We thought it peculiar that those three men should end up living in the same part of the country. After all these years they obviously keep in close touch. Why?'

They could have stayed friends,' Tweed pointed out. 'They were together during the Second World
War. Occasionally it does happen. But I think there's more than that to it - the trouble is I can't imagine what.'

'So where do we start?'

'We drive over by the coast road to Quarme Manor. I checked it on the map. Oare is down some side turning. That is after we've had a cream tea at the best place in this village.'

'Why? The manager said they were all away somewhere.'

'I want to see whether Barrymore - for starters - really is away. And if so, where he's gone - if possible . . .'

This is one hell of a road,' Paula said with feeling.

'Porlock Hill. One of the most diabolical in Britain.'

Tweed was driving up a gradient like the side of a mountain. Added to the incredibly steep angle, the road twisted and turned round blind bends. Added to that, a grey mist was coming in off the moor, coils of sinister grey vapour creeping down the road.

Tweed drove with undipped headlights to warn any oncoming traffic, ready to dip them at the first sign of lights from the opposite direction. Like Tweed, Paula was tilted back in her seat as though inside an aircraft taking off. They passed a road turning off to their right and Tweed nodded towards it.

That's the toll road, as they call it. That's fun too - it goes down like a water chute slide with a sheer drop on one side towards the sea.'

They had bypassed Minehead before they started the ascent and Paula patted her stomach. 'At least I'm full. That cream tea was fantastic. I'll get fat as a pig. And we're going to miss that turn-off to Oare,' she warned.

They had reached the top of the hill and drove along the level. No other traffic in either direction. The mist was thickening, making it as dark as night. The headlights picked up an inn sign. Culbone Inn.

'I'll check here for that turn-off,' said Tweed, swinging off the main road on to a wide drive.

He returned after a few minutes, climbed back behind the wheel. 'They say it's the next turn-off. A mile or so ahead. Easy to miss. And the road to Oare is very narrow.'

'Sounds great. Just what we need - for a car this size. How big is Oare?'

'Hardly a hamlet. Very spread out, as I remember. Two manor houses. Oare Manor and Quarme Manor, the stately home of Colonel Barrymore.'

'What exactly are we trying to do?' Paula was sat forward, braced against the seat belt, trying to spot the turn-off. At this height the mist was thinning. A chilly sea breeze blew in through her window. She pressed the button to close it.

'It's damn cold. Can I put on the heater?'

'As high as you like.'

Paula glanced at Tweed as she switched on the heater. He seemed impervious to extremes of both cold and heat. He wore a new hacking jacket, a pair of grey flannels, and a deerstalker hat which should have looked slightly ridiculous. But it suited him, gave him a commanding air. He read her thoughts.

'Dressed to merge into the landscape. Wear a London business suit out here and I'd stick out like a sore thumb . . .'

'Stop! You turn off here . . .'

He'd just checked the rear-view mirror, something he did every ten seconds. He swung the wheel and they began to drop downhill. The country lane was so narrow the Mercedes just slid past the grass verges on either side. Beyond them a bank rose, topped with dense hedges. It didn't help visibility as the lane spiralled down steeply, a series of sharp bends. But the mist had evaporated and now they moved through a weird half-light as they dropped and dropped. At the bottom they drove across a gushing ford, reached an intersection. Paula desperately searched the map as Tweed swung right.

'Close to Oare,' he said. 'I remember that ford. From what the publican back at Culbone told me we should soon reach Quarme Manor. On the right somewhere.' The Mercedes was crawling as they navigated the winding lane. Above them in the distance Paula saw great sweeps of the moor, like tidal waves frozen in mid-flight.

'You asked me a few minutes ago what we are trying to do,' Tweed continued. 'We are trying to discover why Harry Masterson came here, what he discovered which led him to fly to Athens. In other words, what is the link between Exmoor and Greece? And who murdered Harry . . .'

He peered through the windscreen, still keeping the Mercedes at crawling pace. 'We have arrived. There is Quarme Manor.'

Paula was alone inside the car. Tweed had driven it into one of the lay-bys carved out of the side
of the lane at intervals to allow one vehicle to pass another. He had instructed her to keep all the doors locked while he was away.

'Where are you going?' she had asked.

To explore round Quarme Manor first, then call to see if anyone is at home . . .'

She sat with the heavy long torch in her lap he always carried when driving. It was still daylight and she could see up on to the moor. She had turned off the heater, opened one window a few inches. Suddenly she stiffened, leaned forward.

She was looking at a ridge behind and overlooking Quarme Manor. It was uncannily silent. The wind had dropped. And despite the fact there was a dense copse of trees huddled round the manor house she hadn't heard the cheep of a single bird.

The horseman was perched on the ridge, silhouetted against the pale grey sky. Even motionless in the saddle, she saw he was a tall man. He held something with a long barrel in front of him, held it across the horse and parallel to the ground. A rifle.

Where the devil was Tweed? She watched the horseman, standing so still he might have been a bronze statue. Could it be Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore waiting and watching over his property? Then the horseman moved, although his steed remained still.

He raised the rifle to his shoulder. He settled the stock in position and tilted the rifle angle downwards. He was aiming at something - someone - moving inside or just outside the grounds. Oh, my God . . .! Tweed was the target.

She raised the Sever which unlocked the door, jumped out into the lane, still grasping the torch. Raising it with both hands like a revolver, she aimed the torch straight at the horseman, pressed on the light. The beam cut through the grey light. She knew it would never reach the horseman but she flashed it on and off time and again.

The horseman shifted in his saddle. The rifle swung in an arc, was now aimed at the car. She ducked down behind the Mercedes, waited for the crack of the shot. Nothing . . . She raised her head, ready to duck again quickly. There was nothing to see. The ridge outline was bare. The horseman had vanished. She had distracted him.

Shaking, she climbed back into the car behind the wheel, closed the door quietly, pressed down the lock.

Leaving the car, Tweed had walked quickly down the deserted lane. Coming closer, he saw Quarme Manor was a large Elizabethan pile built of grey stone with a wing extending forward from either end. The distinctive chimneys festooned the tiled roof. A high stone wall surrounding the place soon hid the house. He came to the entrance. Tall iron grille gates. A name plate. Quarme Manor.

No sign of lights. There should be lights if anyone was inside. The two-storeyed mansion was shrouded in gloom - made darker by the copse of trees sheering up inside the wall. Tweed peered through the closed grille gates up the curving drive beyond. A particularly fine example of the Elizabethan period, the mansion stood four square and seemed to grow out of the moor. All the mullion-paned windows with their pointed arches were in darkness.

He walked on along the curving lane, following the line of the wall. The silence was so intense he could almost hear it. His rubber-soled handmade shoes made no sound. He came to where the wall turned at a right angle away from the lane, climbing the steep slope towards a ridge behind the manor. A narrow footpath followed the line of the wall. He began climbing.

He had to keep his head down. The path was treacherous with slippery stones concealed beneath brown swathes of last year's dead bracken. He felt damp on his face, squelchy mush underfoot. He paused to stare at a second dense copse of trees - this one outside the wall and beyond the path. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. He looked up at the sabre-like cut of the ridge crest. Nothing. He could have sworn something moved.

Reaching the point where the wall turned again, running parallel to the front wall alongside the lane, he explored further until he found an opening. The gap was closed off with a single wide grille gate which was padlocked. He bent down.

By the gate the ground was cleared and in the moist earth were clear traces of hoof-marks. A back entrance to Quarme Manor which would take the owner straight on to the moor. And recently someone had ridden a horse here. He peered between the grille bars.

A gravel path led round a spacious lawn with ornamental shrubs arranged here and there. The lawn was cut, the topiary well-trimmed. Such attention cost money. He returned the way he had come.

The left-hand grille gate leading off from the lane opened at a push. His feet crunched as he walked up the drive. Inside the large porch he found an old-fashioned chain-pull bell. He tugged at it, heard it ring inside. A light was switched on, illuminating a diamond-shaped window behind
an iron grille in the solid studded door. The lantern suspended over the porch came on. The small
window opened. Tweed had a glimpse of a woman's bony face before the window slammed shut. The door was opened half a foot, a chain in place.