The Savage Gorge (37 page)

She threw open the rear door, jumped out. Rain
drenched her. Gripping her Browning in both hands,

she fired twice. Distorted red flower shapes appeared
on the tunic covering his chest. He fell forward onto
the grenade.

She froze, waiting for the detonation. Nothing happened. Later, when explosives expert Harry carefully
lifted the body, he found the pin had not been withdrawn from the grenade.

Paula was about to jump back into the Audi when
she glanced across at the river bank. Lord Bullerton, stomping through sheets of rain, stopped by his stone
asking for Lizbeth's return. To destroy it now she was
safely home?

No one had thought of telling him to remain at
Hobart House. He stepped forward a few more paces.
The rain had churned the river bank into a muddy
swamp. He slipped, fell into the river, hands grabbing
at sturdy shrubs.

Appalled, she ran across the marshy ground. He
was struggling to get out, up to his broad chest in
water, getting nowhere. She leant down, inserted a
hand under each of his armpits. He was too heavy for
her to haul him out.

Movement caught her attention nearer the Falls.
She stared. Neville Guile's long legs were carrying him
towards the bank on her side. Stripping off his white jacket and slip-on shoes, he dived into the river. She
understood. He had felt compelled to see with his
own eyes the killing of Tweed.

There was a brief near-comic element when she saw
he was heading for the opposite bank. A Rolls-Royce

waited for him. By the side of the road opposite a uni
formed chauffeur stood to attention.

Guile was a surprisingly strong swimmer, cleverly swimming at an angle into the main force of the cur
rent.

'Oh, my God!' she said aloud.

A massive tree trunk, caught up by a fresh storm
which had burst recently well north of the bridge, cre
ating a tidal surge of water, dropped the hundred and
fifty feet into the pool below. It was swept out and car
ried downriver.

'Oh, no!' Paula called out in her terror.

The 'tree' was a full-grown crocodile, far from its
normal hunting ground. The prehistoric monster
headed towards Guile. Only the head was visible now, exposing its evil little eyes.

Guile only saw it coming when he was more than halfway across the river. He panicked, began to dog-
paddle. The beast's enormous jaws were now fully
open. It reached the swimming man. His whole body
was sucked inside. It had stopped raining and was
ominously quiet. She clearly heard the crunch of
Guile's skull as the creature closed its jaws. She looked
away.

Now she was confronted with a new terror. Blood
from Bullerton's damaged knee was flowing into the
current. Crocodiles have a deadly scent for the pres
ence of blood. The creature, having had its main
course, was now ready for dessert as it headed inshore
for Bullerton. Paula was in despair. She knew that

bullets would simply bounce off its thick wrinkled
hide, but she knew she couldn't heave out Bullerton's
heavy body.

She heard swift feet running and slithering in the
mud. Harry was tearing across towards her at aston
ishing speed. At school he had excelled as a cricketer,
a brilliant bowler. In his right hand he held the largest
grenade Paula had ever seen.

The beast was no more than fifty feet from the help
less Bullerton. Standing close to her, Harry watched as
the awful jaws opened. He took a firm stand, removed
the pin, lobbed the grenade. It landed deep inside
the open jaws, was caught in the crocodile's throat.

The detonation was muffled. Paula stared as the
monster was fragmented, small pieces flying across
the river into the main current. They looked like
pieces of bark from a big tree.

'
I’ll take over,' Harry told her.

Bending down carefully, he exchanged hands with
Paula, inserting them under Bullerton's armpits. One
mighty heave and Bullerton was lying on firm ground.
He stood up, seeming to be none the worse for his
ordeal.

A gentle hand descended on Paula's shoulder. An
equally gentle voice spoke. Tweed's.

'A snack lunch I think, Paula, then plenty of sleep.
We have to go out this evening to confront the murderer of four people.'

'Four!' she exclaimed.

'Yes.
Four."

THIRTY

It was an overcast, moonless night when Tweed, with
Paula, drove his Audi down the slope to Hobart
House beyond the hedge-lined lane. It was incredibly
silent, which unsettled Paula.

Few lights glowed. A dim light illuminated the win
dows of the library. As Tweed parked, Paula thought
she saw two vague shadows crossing the bowl. She
looked again and there was nothing. Imagination.

Her uncertain observation vanished as the glare lights flooded the terrace and steps. She wondered
who would open the door. It was a grim-looking Mrs Shipton, still fully dressed.

'At this hour?' she hissed venomously.

'Kindly let us in,' Tweed said calmly.

'If you've come to see me it's a waste of time. I've
just taken a sedative. After all those horrors in
Gunners Gorge . . .'

'So you were there, you witnessed what happened?'

'I've got to get to bed. I have to climb those stairs
before the sedative starts working.'

She stood aside, closed the door after them, pointed
a finger at the library and began to haul herself up the
stairs. They waited to make sure she made it, unless she had lied.

Halfway up the stairs she turned, her arm extended
as her long index finger pointed again at the library.

Paula took a firmer grip on the long evidence envelope with the ancient green mop handle inside. Tweed
had asked her to be sure to bring it.

Opening the door of the dim-lit library, Tweed
walked down the steps, followed by Paula. Seated in
an imposing antique chair behind a heavy wooden
table was Lance, wearing a smart dark suit. On the
table was spread out the chessboard with a game in
progress. His face was very white in the poor lighting.

'Good evening, both of you,' he said with a pleasant
smile. 'Please join me.'

He gestured towards a large couch pushed close to the side of the table facing him. Paula had difficulty
squeezing in the narrow space between table and couch. Tweed experienced the same problem. He
looked at Lance as Paula placed the old mop handle
at the edge beyond the chessboard. Lance didn't
even glance at it. Tweed's voice was grim when he
spoke.

'Lance Mandeville, I have come to arrest you for quadruple murder. Anything you say
—'

'Oh, I know the old rigmarole,' Lance said amiably.
'But quadruple is four.'

'You started on your career of murder early. You
pushed Lady Bullerton into the Falls. Concealed
behind Aaron's Rock, you shoved the working end of
that mop into her back.'

'Fascinating. I didn't think this was a social call.' He
slipped his hand inside his jacket, produced a silver
cigarette case. 'Smoke?'

When they both shook their heads he returned the case to his jacket. Tweed continued to speak in his grim tone.

'Your next excursion into murder was locating your
missing sisters. You checked their night-time move
ments, waited, cut their throats and mutilated their
faces so no newspaper pictures would appear appeal
ing for identification. Your method was horrible.'
Tweed picked up the chess Queen, used both hands to
unscrew it round the waist, revealing a long
corkscrew. 'Undoubtedly it was made by that brilliant
woodworker in the High Street. You probably told
him some story about wanting to surprise a party - by
unscrewing the Queen and using the corkscrew to
open a bottle of wine.'

'Sounds an interesting chap.' Lance smirked.
'Where is his shop?'

'You know. You visited him. He keeps a register of
clients. In the High Court the judge can compel him
to open the register. That alone will be damning evidence.'

'You clever old thing.' Lance smirked again.

'You killed the two oldest sisters in London because
your father teased you about a daughter inheriting the title. You took him seriously so the sisters had to go.'

'Really? They'd have been lousy at the job.'

Paula sat appalled, speechless at the incredible callousness he was displaying.

'You knew about the huge oil field. You are the
informant who kept Neville Guile in touch with my
activities.'

'He paid well for my information, you know.'
Lance's manner towards Tweed became condescend
ing.

'Then your final murder victim was Hartland
Trent. No point in letting him get a slice of such a
gigantic pie. What put me on to you were two things.
In this house you struck an attitude that you'd no
interest at all in eventually becoming the next Lord
Bullerton. Yet in the town, among your host of girl
friends, you assured them you
would
inherit the title.
You made a bad mistake a few minutes ago. You
referred to the woodworker's
shop.
I never mentioned
that he had one. We have enough evidence to send
you down for three life sentences with no option ever
for parole.'