The Cauldron (18 page)

'Spot on, as you said.'

He spoke the last three words to her slowly, indicating he had probably found his target. Then he repeated the performance to the rest of his team and drove on. The sun glared in his eyes when he left the lane. Lowering the visor was no help - the sun was in high orbit and it persisted in glowing at him as he sat and roasted.

In the middle of nowhere The Grange suddenly came into view. He had met no traffic on the side road and now he stopped, then stared. An aerial mast projecting above one of the chimneys was slowly telescoping downwards out of sight.

'So, he has a secret and probably sophisticated communications system,' Newman said to himself. 'Interesting - especially for a man who sounds short of money.'

Newman drove on until he reached the entrance to a drive. Wrought-iron gates closed. A speakphone in one of the stone pillars complemented the high stone wall surrounding the property. Reminded him of Mullion Towers.

He got out of the car, pressed the button on the speakphone.

'Who is it?' a voice demanded. Abrupt,

'Robert Newman. To see Colonel Arbuthnot Grenville.'

He imagined the owner liked the use of 'colonel'. There was a pause.

'What is your occupation.'

'Foreign correspondent,' he replied laconically.

'How many articles have you written recently?'

'Not many. Not since I wrote
Kruger: The Computer Which Failed
.'

'Made you a packet, didn't it?'

'I get by.'

"The gates will open. Drive up to the main entrance.'

The conversation ended. Newman smiled to himself as he went back to his car. He had seen a flash of sunlight off something in a first-floor window. Grenville had been studying him through field glasses while he spoke. But he felt sure it was because he was known as being a rich man since he wrote the book which interested Grenville. Money spoke volumes.

He drove slowly down the drive after the electronically operated gates had opened. In his rear-view mirror he saw them closing behind him. A careful man, Grenville. Newman observed everything during his progress up to the house.

No guard dogs. No sign of guards patrolling the grounds. Grenville, he suspected, was a man of very limited means.

Probably just able to keep this place going, he was thinking. Flower beds neglected. The lawn Californian brown, due to the scorching summer, plus the lack of gardeners to water it. Yet Cornwall had the highest unemployment rate in the country. Should be easy to get help.

The white paint on the window frames and ledges was peeling off. The pillars supporting the large entrance porch were cracked. No sign of maintenance anywhere. And yet he could afford a very expensive telescopic aerial and, presumably, the accompanying costly communications system. Unless someone else had paid for that?

Parking his car, he climbed four stone steps to the double entrance doors made of heavy wood and iron-studded. The right side opened and a tall, slim man stood framed in the doorway.

'Enter, Newman.'

Newman entered, walked into a large hall with a woodblock floor which hadn't seen polish for a long time.

The door was locked behind him while he waited. His host, back stiff as a ramrod, showed him into a large sitting room furnished with couches and coffee tables.

'Sit
there
,' he ordered.

Newman glanced at his host and sat there.

'Time for a sundowner,' the colonel declared. 'Whisky your tipple?'

'The sun hasn't gone down,' Newman pointed out.

'Bloody thing should have done. Whisky your tipple?' he repeated.

"That will do fine.'

Newman studied Grenville while his host went to a cocktail cabinet, the best piece of furniture in the room. Grenville would be about sixty, he estimated. He had grey hair brushed neatly back over his head, a trim grey moustache, quick movements. Under bushy brows his ice-blue eyes missed very little, and his hawklike nose gave him an air of command. Despite a touch of arrogance in his manner there was a wry twist to his mouth which suggested to Newman he had a cynical sense of humour.

'Cheers!' he said after handing a glass to his guest.

'Cheers!' said Newman. 'I haven't seen anyone else since I arrived. Surely you don't live here alone?'

'Why shouldn't I?' asked Grenville a trifle aggressively as he sat on another couch facing Newman. 'A so-called housekeeper - local woman - comes in three times a week. Cooks for me, leaves meals for the intervening days and keeps the place in order. But you didn't call here to ask me about my domestic arrangements.'

'I just happened to be in the area and heard you were its most dominant resident.'

'Just as you happened to be in Oklahoma City and wrote the truth before anyone else - that it was not foreign terrorists who were responsible.'

'I'm intrigued by the unusual mixture of people down here who are exiles from other parts of Britain.'

'Exiles?'

'That was the word I used.'

'Suppose you're referring to the types who've fled to here from the great metropolis, London.'

'Yes.'

'I find it curious myself.' Grenville said evasively.

'And there has been a strange murder down here. At Forth Navas. An inhabitant called Adrian Penkastle. Stabbed to death in his home.'

'Heard about that.' He took his time trimming the end off a cigar, lighting it. 'So that's why you're on the prowl?'

'Interesting that the
Venetia
was - still is - standing offshore at the time of the murder. I heard in a pub today that one of the locals in Forth Navas heard a powerboat taking off at speed down the Helford River soon after Penkastle was murdered. He was sailing back along the river at the time - the local I'm referring to.'

Grenville watched Newman, listening but saying nothing as he puffed on his cigar. Newman went on, making up the next bit.

'Another local in his boat near the mouth of the Helford watched the powerboat speed back to the
Venetia
. I've reported this to the police.'

'A most public-spirited action.' Grenville commented.

'You've heard of Vincent Bernard Moloch?' Newman continued.

'Vaguely. Where is all this leading? I'm confused.'

'You don't strike me as a man who is ever confused. The
Venetia
belongs to Moloch. Or VB, as he is often called.'

'I see. Why are you telling me all this?'

'Because you are the man with most influence in this part of the world. You know everything that's going on here.'

Grenville smiled in a most engaging way. His whole hawklike face lit up when he smiled. Then he chuckled as he tapped the ash from his cigar into a glass bowl.

"This is very comical, Newman. You credit me with being Master of the Universe - a title which I understand originated in America. You have elevated me to a status which I don't deserve. True I hold the occasional party at the Yacht Club in Forth Navas, but that hardly justifies your description of me. Think I'll just have another whisky on the strength of what you've just said. You'll join me?'

"Thank you, but no. I'm driving.'

'Frankly, I'm mystified why you came to me. But I will say I enjoy your company. Do enlighten me. You are intriguing me no end.'

He said this while helping himself to another drink at the cabinet. When he turned round, still smiling, Newman had the thought that he was a handsome man when he dropped his military style upper-crust manner. Someone who would be attractive to the ladies and probably treat them with a natural courtesy.

'Well, Newman, why choose to come to me?'

He had returned to his couch. He raised his glass and sipped at the contents. His observant eyes watched his guest over the rim of his glass.

'I told you,' Newman persisted. 'You are the well-known figure round here. Seemed the obvious person to come to as I'm trying to get to know this unusual community.'

'Makes me sound like a father figure.' Grenville chuckled again. 'But I do know that there are people who dislike me. "That old fool of a colonel living in the big house which is falling round his ears."'

'Others seem to like you,' Newman went on, using his imagination. 'Otherwise they wouldn't come to your parties at the Yacht Club.'

'Really?' Grenville smiled again. 'Supply free nosh and booze and you can get plenty of feet under the table.' He sipped more of his drink. 'Living alone here is - well, a lonely business. So now and again I mix with some of the locals. You ...' he pointed the cigar at Newman, 'are invited to my next party. May I ask where you're staying?'

'At Nansidwell Country Hotel, Mawnan,' Newman replied promptly.

'I know the proprietor. Nice chap. I also knew Adrian Penkastle,' he said suddenly. 'I was shocked to hear of his murder.'

'Knew him well?' Newman enquired quietly.

'Only casually. I know he drank a little too much. That he was short of money - what the Americans call a loser. Don't agree. He could be very amusing, was a clever mimic. Had us all rolling in the aisles.'

'Sounds likeable.'

'He is - was.'

'Did you ever meet Moloch?' Newman asked without warning.

'Heavens, no. I gather no one ever does. Keeps very much to himself - or so I was told in Falmouth. Got a great barn of a place somewhere out in the wilds.'

Newman checked his watch, stood up. His host immediately stood with him.

'You're not off yet? Stay a little longer. I'm enjoying our conversation.'

'So am I, but I must leave now. We can always meet again sometime.'

'Make that a promise...'

Grenville escorted him not only to the front door but out to his car. In the distance the gates were beginning to open. Grenville must have touched a concealed button.

'Safe journey,' he called out, waving him off.

* * * *

On his way back Newman's mind was in a whirl. He couldn't make out Colonel Grenville. On the one hand there had been the moment when he saw the aerial telescoping. Then his host had made several references to America. On the other hand he seemed a very British character with a personality which was attractive. And he'd made no secret of the fact that he'd known Adrian Penkastle.

Arriving in Mawnan Smith, Newman parked the car. He used the phone box to call Tweed.

'Suggest you check someone living near Constantine. Spelt as it sounds. Lives at The Grange. A Colonel Arbuthnot Grenville. Did you get the name?'

'Yes. Thank you ...'

In his office at Park Crescent Tweed looked across at Monica. He paused and she waited. She knew he was taking a decision.

'Monica, don't feel left out of this. No one else in the team knows it. I have an agent operating none of you know about. If I get struck by lightning the name and details are in my safe, to which you have a key, inside an envelope marked Personal and Quite Confidential.'

'I wish you wouldn't talk like that.'

'We're in a dangerous business. I'm taking the precaution to protect totally the person concerned. They are very important in this battle with VB.'

12

The first person Newman met on returning to Nansidwell was Vanity Richmond. He had already met the rest of his team in the side road, had told them what he had found.

'Maybe we could talk about it later.' Paula suggested.

'We are going to do that...'

Paula had driven back first to the hotel in case anyone associated her with Newman. Newman followed her fifteen minutes later, parked, saw Vanity wandering round the courtyard, wearing a black, sheathlike and form-fitting dress for dinner.

'Welcome back, Bob.' she said, greeting him with a smile. 'Had a successful trip?'

'More than I'd hoped for. Care for an aperitif in the lounge when I've had a bath and changed?'

'Let's leave that for dinner. You know I don't drink a lot.. .'

Which was true, he thought as he strolled through the empty hotel. She was very careful how much she drank. Unseen, he slipped upstairs to Paula's room. He walked in, closed the door, saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, staring out to sea.