Colin Forbes - By Stealth

`You mean several men to a cottage?' Tweed coaxed.

`That's right. Two or three in a cottage in some. And three of them share the same woman. That's a secret they don't think I knows. Supposed to be married. I never 'eard of one woman being married to three men. They don't fool me with their trick.'

`What trick was that?' Paula asked.

`When she came back with a different so-called husband she dressed differently, wore a wig. But I could tell,' Mrs Garnett went on vehemently, 'from the way she moved. One woman doesn't fool another with fancy dressin' up.'

`You mentioned professional people working in Southampton,' Tweed recalled. 'How do they get there? I don't see any garages – or do they park.

`Garages are round back at end of street. Old barns converted to take their cars. They can drive off in either direction to Southampton.'

`I'm surprised there's no village store,' Paula remarked.

`Was one. Cottage at top end of the street, near the landing stage. When Mrs Rogers sold out they converted it into a cottage to live in, like the rest.'

`Is the landing stage used much?' Tweed asked casually.

`Not in daylight. None of them 'as boats. But I sleep light. In the middle of the night about every three months a couple of new men arrive and move in to two of the cottages. Those there moves out. Lord knows where. But they comes and goes by the river. There,' she stood up with remarkably agility. 'Step's finished so I'm goin' to make myself a nice cup of tea.'

`Thank you for your information,' Paula said. 'Now do take care of yourself.'

`Got my trusty cudgel. Anyone who tries to move me out ends up with a cracked skull. I own this cottage…'

As they walked back to where Newman was engaging Barton in conversation it appeared an argument was taking place. Barton was pushing past Newman, red in the face.

`No cars? I should have spotted that earlier. So you came down the river, used the landing stage. That is private. I may sue you for trespass.

`Don't talk such tripe,' retorted Nield, who had joined Newman. 'There's nothing to indicate it's private…'

`Bloody blind as a bat, are you? I'll show you,' Barton stormed.

They followed him down the lane. Barton's leather- soled shoes created a drumbeat as he marched down the long catwalk. Newman and Nield were close behind him as Tweed and Paula followed.

`What the devil…?'

Barton was standing on the landing, staring at where the warning notice had been. Tweed noticed Mordaunt was carefully not looking in Barton's direction as he stood up in the dinghy. Paula needled Barton.

`You should put up a notice if it's private property.' `There was a bloody notice…'

`Watch your language, old man. Especially when you're talking to a lady,' Newman suggested amiably.

`Vandals!' Barton was beside himself with fury. 'You don't expect them on the river but they come. Wreck things just for the pleasure of it…'

As he raved on Mordaunt helped Paula aboard the dinghy to the same seat at the prow. Tweed glanced downriver, joined her as Newman and Nield came aboard. Mordaunt started up the engine after releasing the rope tying the craft to the landing stage. They were moving out into midstream when Paula also glanced downriver and stiffened.

The temperature had nosedived, the sky was almost dark as night. And drifting swiftly up from the Solent was a dense freezing fog.

Paula's nerves were on edge but she made a great effort not to show it. The freezing fog – like ice mist – had caught up with them, blotted out both banks. It recalled for her the vigil at Lymington marina when she had waited for Harvey Boyd to return. Something was moving up close behind them.

The fog swirled like dense smoke. She peered back and saw it was only phantom shapes which came and went. At least so they appeared. Tweed sensed her nervousness, squeezed her arm.

`We'll soon be back at Buckler's Hard,' he said quietly.

`But how on earth will Mordaunt find his way up the main channel? We could end up marooned in one of those horrid marshy flats.'

`Seems to know what he's doing…'

The fog trailed clammy fingers over Paula's face. Just as it had done at the marina. She was living the nightmare all over again. Gritting her teeth, she continued to look over her shoulder, waiting for something huge to drive them under the water.

They had been talking in whispers. It was an unconscious reaction to the leaden hush which had fallen on the river with the arrival of the fog. Even the sound of their outboard was muffled as Mordaunt followed the familiar course of the channel. Then she heard a slapping noise of water washing against a hull. A second later a distinct shape loomed up to starboard. Paula's gloved hand clenched the plank seat tightly.

`Just a yacht moored to a buoy,' Tweed assured her.

They passed within a foot of the yacht with its mast a dim silhouette spearing up and vanishing inside the fog. Visibility dropped to zero as they rounded a sweeping bend. The freezing cold was penetrating Paula's windcheater. She turned away from Tweed to lick her lips, dry with fear. Then she leaned her head close to his.

`That water slapping against the yacht's hull – something must have disturbed the water. It's like oil. I wonder if that girl in the dinghy we saw coming down is also on her way back?'

`I expect so,' said Tweed in the same calm tone.

`I'd have thought we'd have reached Buckler's Hard by now.'

`We're nearly there. I remember coming round this steep curve. And the fog is thinning. We'll be safe on terra firma within minutes.'

`Don't tempt fate…'

Lee Holmes steered her small dinghy close to the shore by the boatyard. Brigadier Burgoyne appeared, wearing his driving helmet and goggles, scarf in one hand. As she stepped out he dragged the dinghy ashore up the slope to the hull of the large yacht.

`You took your time,' he snapped. 'I think I can hear them coming back. We've got to be away before they arrive.'

I haven't a lot to report…' she began.

`Then save it until we're well on our way.'

He ran to the shed. So they could leave quickly he had already opened the doors. She ran after him, pulling her sodden scarf off her head, shoving her misted-up glasses into her handbag. He had the engine going as she jumped in beside him. She was shutting the door of the Bentley when he drove off through the dark up the private road, his headlamps undimmed. On the outward journey Lee had remained hidden, huddled on the floor behind the front seats. Burgoyne rapped out his order.

Now, get on with your report.'

`No need to be so bossy. You're not dressing down one of your subalterns.'

`You cut it too damned fine. Get on with the report.'

`They all – except Mordaunt – got off at Moor's Landing and disappeared for ages. Tweed, Paula Grey, and two men I couldn't recognize – except one looked familiar through my glasses. It will come back to me who he is. When they returned Barton was with them, seemed to be in a rage, waving his hands about.'

`How long do you reckon they were there?'

It was dark now, which didn't stop Burgoyne racing along a straight stretch, headlamps blazing. He was anxious to reach the main road from Beaulieu to Brockenhurst before his targets appeared.

`Exactly thirty minutes. I timed them.'

`As long as that? They must have poked around a lot. I don't like it.'

`Then,' Lee continued, brushing her long mane of blonde hair, saw the fog coming upriver so decided I'd better hare back. Tweed and his friends were leaving, anyway. I nearly lost my way coming back up that bloody river.'

Did they see you?' Burgoyne snapped, indifferent to her problems.

`I don't think so. I stayed well back from them.'

`Thirty minutes at Moor's Landing,' Burgoyne repeated, jerking to a brief halt, then roaring round on to the main road. No, I don't like the sound of that at all. Tweed could ruin everything. He'll just have to be discouraged.'