Colin Forbes - The Greek Key

'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. 'What be it?' the old woman demanded.

'I wish to see Colonel Barrymore…'

'He b'aint be available.'

'You mean he is away somewhere?'

'He b'aint be available.'

She repeated the words as though she had been taught to say them by rote. She was tall, late sixties, her grey hair brushed close to the skull, her expression hostile. She was closing the door when Tweed spoke more firmly.

'The colonel will want to see me. When do you expect him to be back?'

'Name?'

'I shall have to tell him you were uncooperative. And he won't like that…'

'Phone for appointment…'

She was closing the door when they both heard the sound of a car approaching. It stopped outside. A shadowy figure opened both gates after jumping lightly out of the car. Before the headlights blinded him Tweed saw it was a crimson Daimler. Swinging round the short curve, it pulled up for a moment. A face behind the wheel stared out, then the car continued on round the side of the house. To the garage, he assumed.

This is Colonel Barrymore?' Tweed asked the woman who still stood by the door.

'Better ask him, 'adn't you? Doesn't welcome strangers, you know.'

'It's becoming somewhat apparent,' Tweed remarked drily.

He turned as he heard the crunch of boots on gravel approaching from the side of the mansion. A tall, slim, elegant man in his mid-sixties appeared and stood, studying Tweed with an expression of disdain. Thick black hair was brushed over his high forehead and beneath his aquiline nose he sported a thin dark moustache.

He wore a sheepskin against the night chill and cavalry twill trousers shoved inside riding boots gleaming like glass. How the devil does he drive in those? Tweed wondered. The voice was crisp, offhand, as though addressing a junior subaltern.

'Who are you? If you are selling something you can take your immediate departure. And is that your Mercedes parked in the way down the lane?'

'Which question first?' Tweed asked mildly. 'And my car is in a lay-by. Plenty of room for you to get past even in your Daimler. That's what lay-bys are for…'

'I asked that stupid girl to move it and she refused…'

'She's not stupid and she's quite right to ignore intimidation.' Tweed produced his card. 'Before you say another word you'd better know who I am. And while we're talking identification, who are you?'