The Savage Gorge (9 page)

On either side were hedges in leaf, their twigs festooned with bright yellow honeysuckle. Through the
gaps they saw endless slopes of green grass, copses of
trees perched on isolated hillocks.

Above them the sun blazed down out of a clear
duck-egg-blue sky. A large passenger plane had flown
to a great height, was still climbing. Tweed pointed
towards it as it changed direction, heading west.

'Look at what they're leaving behind, an earthly
paradise.'

'Could be heading for the Bahamas,' Paula sug
gested. 'Those yacht basins crammed with private
boats, the narrow streets choked with shoppers. No, thank you . . .'

As they kept heading roughly north-eastward Paula
occasionally used a motorway. Overtaking, overtaking,
overtaking. Back into the slow lane, then up a slip
road, leaving the torrent of huge trucks and fast cars
behind. Back into countryside.

'Where is Hobartshire?' Tweed enquired.

'Middle of nowhere. Least populated county. Not
one city - inhabited by people with large estates who hunt for exercise.'

'Sounds like large parts of Britain used to be.'
'I gathered from a girl friend once it's just that.'
The scenery changed as they crossed from one
county to the next. They passed an area of massive
white rocks;
 
here
 
and there men with machines
worked quarries. Then the road took them into a
forest so dense and dark it blotted out the sun.
Emerging from the forest, fertile and gently rolling
grass-covered hills lay on either side. Tweed checked
the time.

'We should be nearly there, shouldn't we?' 'The man's a genius,' said Paula and laughed. 'Look
at that road sign,' she suggested as she slowed to a
crawl.

The larger than usual metal sign carried a message,
a very clear message.

HOBARTSHIRE

BEHAVE YOURSELVES HERE

POLICE

'Something tells me we might not be welcome in this
neck of the woods,' Tweed remarked. 'We have just
entered the bailiwick of Lord Bullerton.'

SIX

They drove on, with glimpses of rolling green slopes when gaps in the tall hedges gave them a view. They
came to a point where the road descended into a vil
lage. Paula drove slowly now, staring.

'Funny sort of place/ she commented. 'No sign of a
gorge.'

The village was strange. On either side of the nar
rowed road was a continuous line of old terraced
cottages with white stone walls. Each cottage had a
bright blue front door and tiny dormer windows in its
low cramped roof. There was no one about and the
place seemed eerie.

They arrived at a cottage on their left which had a bright red front door. On her hands and knees an old
woman in a black coat was scrubbing fiercely at a
stone step which, as far as Tweed could see, was as already white as snow. Paula stopped the car.

'Might get some information from her if she's the
chatty type,' Tweed said.

The old lady stood straight up with surprising speed, dropped her scrubbing brush. She stared
straight at them with alert eyes under a lined brow.

Tm Mrs Grout,' she snapped. 'Who be 'ee?'

Tweed decided to try impressing her from the start.
He produced his identity folder, held it up, then put it
away. She was quick and there was nothing wrong
with her eyesight.

'Deputy Chief, but not with the police is my guess.'

'Maybe a little more powerful,' Tweed said smiling.

'Come up a bit late to check on the murder of Lady
Bullerton. Going to put the wind up Pit Bull?'

Tit Bull? Sounds like a savage animal.'

'Which is what he is. You don't call 'im that to 'is
face. He would find some way of running you out of
'Obartshire. He's got 'imself made Chief Constable by
suckin' up to powerful folk in Lunnon.'

'So how would he run someone he didn't like here out of the county?'

'Well,' she began, 'a few years ago Pit Bull bought up the Village. That's what it's called. Cottages were
on short leases, which 'e renews when they ends. Contracts were drawn up so that he could throw ten
ants out at a moment's notice. But before he bought
the Village I'd 'ad a legacy from an aunt. Used it to
buy my cottage. Means 'e can't tell me what to do. He was mad as an 'atter when Fingle, his local lawyer,
missed it.'

'Why are all the doors painted bright blue?' Tweed
wondered.

'It's in the leases for all other cottagers. Doors must
be painted blue.' She chuckled. 'To show I'm inde
pendent I painted mine red. He's in a rage but can't
do anything about it. So there!'

'You did mention,' Tweed said casually, 'that Lady
Bullerton had been murdered. By whom and how do
you know?'

'Saw it 'appen with my own two eyes and me
binocs. Standing outside the Nag's Head I was. Sees
movement up by Aaron's Rock at top of gorge. It were
Lady Bullerton wearing her wings. We all 'as our
funny ideas. She thought she could fly.'

Paula discreetly checked her watch. This was get
ting a bit much. To her surprise Tweed continued the
conversation.

'What sort of a lady was she?'

'Very posh. Very clever. She could add up so many
figures
and
do wonderful 'broidery. Made the wings
herself. I sees 'er pushed over the edge. Down she
drops through a hundred-and-fifty-foot waterfall into
the river. Floatin' she was when I dashed into the
Nag's Head, told Bert Bowling, landlord. Bert's
quick - rushes out, tears off shoes and waistcoat, dives
in. He gets 'er back onto the bank. Dr Margoyle appears, tries to 'elp 'er. Too late. She's drowned,
poor thing.'

'You said you saw her pushed over,' Tweed persisted
gently. 'You actually saw who did that to her?'

'Well . . . no,' she admitted reluctantly. 'Aaron's
Rock hid who did her in. She was standing well back
from a rock platform. Took me up there once in 'er
car. "Don't ever go near the edge, Elsie. I don't," she
says to me. I climbed up there a day later, crept under
police tape. Platform was covered with blood. They
cleaned that up.'

'Was there a strong wind that day?' asked Paula.

'Not even a bit of breeze.'

'The police would check it out,' Tweed suggested.
'How long ago was this tragedy?'

'Something over six years ago. Inspector Reedbeck
said it was an accident.'

'Gave me a bit of a jolt when she mentioned
Reedbeck,' Tweed remarked as they drove on past the
Village and down a steep hill. Mrs Grout had pointed
the direction to Gunners Gorge. 'Then I remembered
Buchanan had told me he had been in charge of some
local police station up here.'

'I think the old dear is round the bend,' Paula com
mented.

'She certainly provided some information - or mis
information - but we'll know when we talk to Harry.'

He turned a bend on the level now and an awesome
sight spread out before them. Paula sucked in a deep
breath. Gunners Gorge was a small town on both
sides of the river. In the near distance a massive gran
ite gorge sheered up on both sides of a churning

waterfall at least twenty yards wide. A turmoil of river
water surged over the summit between granite boul
ders, plunging in a menacing volume far down into a
raging pool between two roads on either bank. As they
drove slowly towards the Nag's Head, which had a
sign projecting with a horse's head, Paula suddenly
said:

'Could you stop a minute? I've never seen anything
like this.'

Tweed stopped. They both got out to stretch stif
fened legs as Paula pointed at the steep hillsides rising
up from both banks of the River Lyne. Old but
expensive-looking houses perched above each other occupied the slopes. All were built of granite, which gave the small town a grim atmosphere.

'See,' Paula went on, 'no roads link them up the
slopes. Just endless flights of stone paved steps. You'd
have to be fit to live here - climbing all those steps.'

Tweed took out his powerful pair of compact bino
culars. He studied low buildings with thatched roofs
dotted at intervals at the top of the ridges. Each had a
large single door.

'I think they've got garages on the crest-line, large ones with power-operated doors. Must be a road we
can't see running along the top.'

'Then Heaven help people living in the houses just
above this road.'

'That will be reflected in the price,' Tweed said with
a smile. 'Let's get moving. Time for lunch. I could eat
a horse.'

'Then we're staying at the right place.' Paula chuck
led. 'The Nag's Head . . .'

What added to the disturbing atmosphere was that
there were no other people about. Tweed drove in
under an arch to the car park. Almost concealed in a
corner they saw Harry's Fiat. A jovial, strong-looking
man wearing a green apron met them as they
entered.

'Would you be the two visitors someone booked two
suites for?'