Colin Forbes - The Savage Gorge

'I must be thick. You're right…' Paula still had half her mind on the tunnel she'd discovered on Black Gorse Moor, something she still hadn't mentioned to Tweed.

'More news,' Harry reported tersely. 'I know who fired the bullet at you on your way to Hobart House. Lepard.'

'So a lot of money is changing hands among the killer thugs,' Tweed commented. 'Which means we're looking for someone with wealth. ..'

'And you are the target,' Harry warned. 'Lepard fired from behind a hedge. I was close behind in my car. I drove straight through a gap to get him. He was too quick – sped off aboard a Harley-Davidson.'

'How can you be sure it was Lepard?' Tweed demanded.

'He's half-French, half-British, as I explained. Bob Newman was an ace international reporter and he's still very good at description. Lepard is slim, clean shaven, with a sallow complexion. I know it was him because he turned to look at me before vanishing over a slope. News gets worse.'

'That's right, Harry,' Paula joked, 'cheer us up…'

'Newman has been back to check with his East End informant. All the killer thugs have been put on instant standby. My guess is they'll be up here any day – after Lepard failed to get you.'

'Then call Bob and tell him I want the whole team ready to come up here pretty damn fast.'

'Consider it done.'

Harry dived back into his car, drove slowly out under the arch.

'I was right,' said Tweed as they walked back into the hotel. 'And someone up here is reporting our every move. We have stumbled into something very big.'

The landlord, Bowling, was not behind his reception counter, which was unusual. Paula spotted a guest perched on a sofa, studying some kind of chart. He folded it quickly and stood up. Archie MacBlade.

'We're starting to bump into each other,' he said with a warm smile. 'For me that is a pleasure.'

'Do you often visit Gunners Gorge?' she asked casually.

'Occasionally. It is quiet and gets me away from the world.' He turned to Tweed with an unusual expression in his eyes. 'You have an enigmatic visitor waiting to see you in the lounge. A Lance Mandeville, son of Lord Bullerton.'

'Mandeville?'

'That's the family name.' He glanced round the reception area, checking that they were alone, then produced a business card, scribbled a name on the back, tucked it inside Tweed's top pocket. 'That's a tip you might like to follow up. Mr Hartland Trent. Has a sense of humour – lives at Twinkle Cottage, Primrose Steps. Turn right when you leave the hotel. The flights of steps instead of roads climb the hill. He's halfway up the third flight. Must go now.'

'One second,' Tweed said quickly. 'What does Trent do?'

'Landowner and astute businessman. The only trustworthy man in the Gorge. Really must fly…'

'I don't think he likes Lance,' Paula whispered. 'Did you see his expression when he stared directly at you?'

'Not a question of liking would be my interpretation of the odd expression.'

'Well, come on,' she urged, squeezing his arm. 'So what would be your interpretation?'

'More like a warning.'

They descended the steps into the hotel lounge. Tables were laid for tea. In a corner, Lance stood up from a table to greet them, his slim hand extended. He pulled out a chair for Paula, who took off her leather jacket.

'May I?' suggested Lance, taking the jacket to hang from the back of her chair. 'I am so glad you could join me,' he said to Tweed. 'They have excellent muffins here. I hope you are both hungry.'

'Ravenous,' replied Tweed as Lance sat opposite Paula. 'I could tackle all those.'

A smartly dressed waitress had placed a large metal container on the table, carefully removed the top without the flourish used in London restaurants. They began eating, Tweed scooping up large quantities of strawberry jam, ignoring the small talk between Lance and Paula.

Paula was studying Lance. He was clad in a smart blue blazer with gold buttons, a Liberty cravat at his neck, his black hair neatly brushed. She was impressed by his good manners, his handsome face; fascinated by his almond-shaped eyes.

'I really come here as an emissary from my father,' Lance began.

'Oh, really,' Tweed responded in a bored tone as he drank tea the waitress had served from Wedgwood china.

'He wishes me to pass his unreserved apologies to both of you for his behaviour when you were leaving…'

'Does he?' commented Tweed, now busy consum ing the first of two large apple tarts garnished with cream, his eye on the massive Dundee cake in the middle of the table.

'When his other visitor had left -'

'Archie MacBlade in his Bugatti,' Tweed remarked.

'Oh, you know him?' Lance enquired sharply.

'Saw his picture in the paper,' Tweed said as he cut a huge slice of Dundee cake.

'My father would regard it as an honour if you dined with him at Hobart House this evening,' con tinued Lance in his uphill conversational struggle with Tweed, smiling all the time.

'My father wasn't drunk,' Lance pressed on. 'He can consume a large quantity without it affecting him. Reminds me of what I read in a Winston Churchill biography. Winston once said he'd taken more out of alcohol than alcohol had taken out of him.'

'Do your sisters Sable and Margot like each other?' Tweed asked suddenly.

'I'm afraid they hate each other…'

'Why?' Tweed demanded.

'Sable is my father's favourite. She'd like to be Lady Bullerton when he passes away one day.'

'Peculiar,' Tweed said, having finished his cake. 'Normally the title descends to a male relative. In this case yourself.'

'I don't want the damned title. Excuse me,' he said to Paula. 'All that responsibility. I prefer to enjoy myself. As to tradition, when King John, or whoever it was, conferred the title on an ancestor centuries ago, a special clause was added that if a male candidate refused to accept it then the title passed to the nearest female available.'

'And in this case Sable?' Tweed suggested.

'It would actually be Margot, who was born a year before Sable.'

'And yet Sable is your father's favourite. Why?'

'He thinks her personality is superior to Margot's, gives her fantastically expensive presents on her birthday.'

'Like the diamond brooch she flaunted,' Tweed said grimly.

'Flaunted?'

For the first time the smile vanished off Lance's face, was replaced by a sneering curl of his lips.

'Never mind,' said Tweed.

'I expect you have a lot of girl friends,' Paula inter vened, appalled by Tweed's aggressive treatment of everything Lance had said.

'Oh, lots and lots,' Lance said, the smile returning when he turned to her. Tm afraid I'm rather wicked. I've got a small pad in Gunners Gorge Father doesn't know about. When a girl attracts my attention I settle her there. Until she starts talking about marriage. Then I wait until she's out. I pack all her things neatly in her suitcase, place it in the hall, get the locks changed at once.'

'Isn't that a bit tough on her?' Paula suggested.

'Until she gets home,' Lance said with a grin. 'When she unpacks she finds an envelope stuffed with money.'

'That probably eases her sorrow,' Paula said with a smile.

'Don't much care whether it does or not. Self-inter est is what drives the world.' He turned to Tweed, tried again. 'Would it be possible for the two of you to dine with my father at Hobart House this evening?'

'Don't see why not. What time?'

'Would 8 p.m. suit you, sir?'

'Yes, it would.' Tweed stood up, abruptly the soul of good humour. 'Please thank your father and say we're looking forward to seeing him again. Also, I would like to thank you for the truly excellent tea. To get this in London you'd have to go to the Ritz or the Savoy. I have enjoyed every minute of it. Thank you. Please excuse us – we must leave now…'