By Stealth

5

The following morning Tweed held a 'council of war'.

They were all assembled in his large bedroom, which was practically a suite, on the first floor at the front. Room 2 overlooked a green lawn with a car park to the right and open green fields beyond. Tweed stood staring out of the window as Paula settled herself in a comfortable armchair and Newman perched himself on one of the arms.

`I like this place,' Tweed mused. 'Excellent service. That was a marvellous English breakfast. The staff is helpful, the surroundings luxurious. It's so peaceful and yet we're only a two-mile drive from Lymington.'

`I certainly appreciate it after yesterday,' Paula said with feeling.

`So when are we going to discuss the events of last evening?' Newman asked impatiently.

`Now.' Tweed snapped himself out of his reverie. He sat in another armchair, facing them. 'So tell us what happened to you, Bob. You've heard about what we experienced.'

`I followed Andover and he drove straight to the Chief Constable's house outside Brockenhurst. A patrol car was in the drive. Andover stayed exactly an hour.'

`During which he undoubtedly heard all about the death of Harvey Boyd,' Tweed ruminated. 'Since he carries clout he probably fended them off from visiting him.'

`He then drove straight back to his house. Which was when I confirmed something I'd suspected on the way out to Brockenhurst. He was also followed there and back by some character in a Land-Rover. Before you ask, no, I couldn't get the vehicle's registration number. It was obscured by mud.'

`I find that intriguing,' Tweed reflected. 'It suggests Andover is under total surveillance by someone. Did the Land-Rover driver spot you?'

`You think you're dealing with an amateur?' Newman snapped. 'The answer is no. I didn't follow Andover's Rover as soon as it appeared. I tracked it at a distance since he was on the road which could take him to Brockenhurst. The Land-Rover tagged him soon after he'd left Prevent. Drove out of an entrance to a field.'

`And yet the whole house is bugged,' Paula remarked.

`Which is why I used the phrase total surveillance,' Tweed told her. 'Now let's list what has happened. Oh, Bob, why did you drive down here to join me? Welcome and all that, but why?'

Newman looked uncomfortable. He carefully didn't look at Paula as he replied.

`I found out Harvey Boyd was taking Paula with him on some whim to investigate the disappearance of his pal, George Stapleton, on the Solent. I thought there might be danger so I came down to Lymington. Simple as that.'

Not so simple, Tweed thought, keeping his expression neutral. He was amused: Newman was obviously jealous when Paula found herself a boy friend.

`Now that list of unconnected factors,' Tweed continued. 'One, Boyd also has what Walford called an accident in the fog. A fatal one, unfortunately.'

`No accident,' Paula protested. 'I did see something big moving in the fog just before the collision. And I do have exceptional eyesight.'

`Calm down,' Tweed soothed her. 'I said what Watford called an accident. That covers factor one. Two, we find Andover has aged ten years, is a broken man. Before we meet him wandering about outside we discover something macabre in his freezer – the severed arm, presumably of Irene.'

`Presumably?' Paula broke in again. 'We both saw the ring on the finger. And later Andover mentions he gave her an emerald ring on her eighteenth birthday.'

`We only have Andover's word for that,' Tweed pointed out. 'He'd guessed we'd found the severed arm and was desperately upset. You're assuming he was upset about the severed limb – which of course he would be. But I think he was upset with us because we had discovered it. A quite different thing.'

`Surely you can't imagine Andover is mixed up in some conspiracy?' Paula protested.

`At this stage, I don't imagine anything. I just list facts. Three, his daughter appears to have been kidnapped. We're relying on his strange last-minute remark to me. No ransom at all has been demanded. That I find most sinister, if true.'

`Is Andover wealthy?' Newman enquired.

`At a guess he could raise up to half a million, which he inherited from his father.'

`And he lives in that ghastly house with no comfort,' Paula recalled.

`He's an old public schoolboy,' Tweed explained. 'I've noticed many of them are quite indifferent to their surroundings. It starts with their boyhood in stark public schools. Poorly furnished dormitories and schoolrooms. No chance ever to develop any sort of taste.'

`Factor four?' Newman prodded.

`Andover's sudden resignation from public life, closeting himself away like a hermit. Out of character. He was the top man at INCOMSIN.'

`I'd never heard of the organization before,' Paula remarked.

`Because you weren't supposed to. It operates in great secrecy. A very select – and one of the few which work – think-tank. Based in London, its members try to predict coming global developments. I've attended a few of their secret sessions. So have Burgoyne and Fanshawe.'

`And the significance of Andover becoming a recluse is?' Newman pressed.

`Appears to coincide with the time Irene disappeared.' `Could be one of those odd coincidences,' Newman commented.

`Don't believe in them. Five, we find three old China hands, as they're called, all living within yards of each other in the depths of the New Forest. I don't swallow that as a coincidence.'

`Burgoyne and Fanshawe did give some sort of explanation as to how that came about,' Paula reminded him.

`Which I didn't believe for one moment. Six – who did we disturb so much that they arranged for that concrete mixer driver to kill us both?'

`Willie did leave us to make a phone call, allegedly to Andover,' Paula suggested. 'But I liked him.'

`And,' Tweed reminded her, 'we were at Willie's place long enough for Brigadier Burgoyne to organize the attack.'

`So it has to be one of them. Horrible thought. Now, if it had been one of their women friends I could believe that,' Paula said.

`Which,' Tweed began, looking wrily at Newman, `means Paula didn't take to either of them.'

`There was something odd in the relationship of both the women living with those men,' Paula persisted. 'Only another woman would notice. A lack of true affection.'

`You've left out one suspect,' Tweed went on. `Andover himself. He urged us to visit his neighbours, which would keep us in the area long enough to set something murderous up.'

`You can't possibly suspect him,' she protested again.

`I keep an open mind at the moment. Andover was appalled when he knew we'd been inside his house. He really went berserk. Especially when I suggested calling in the police. It's just possible he felt we had to be stopped at all costs.'

`If you say so. Have you looked at Andover's file?'

`I read through it quickly in bed last night.' Tweed paused. 'I don't know whether it tells me much. It's quite thin. A curious document. I think I'm too short of data to appreciate its significance, if any.'

`I was thinking about Brigadier Burgoyne and Willie Fanshawe,' Paula said with a frown. 'Such different personalities. The Brig. – as Willie kept referring to him – is my idea of a brilliant commander. Decisive, I'd say, sharp as a tack. But something almost sinister in that saturnine smile of his. Willie is such a contrast. Very like a generous uncle I once had and liked. Bumbling – I imagine Helen Claybourne has to look after running the whole place efficiently – and good-humoured.'

`A fair description of both men,' Tweed said, cleaning his glasses on his handkerchief as he watched her.

`And a big contrast in wealth, I'd guess,' she went on. `The Brig. struck me as rolling in it – whereas Willie has to count the pennies.'

`Anything else?' Tweed coaxed.

`Yes. Burgoyne is living in the past. Look at how he's furnished Leopard's Leap – a funny name – with mementoes from his years in the Far East. But Willie hasn't a thing from his past, as though he's put it all behind him.'

`All contrasts so far,' Tweed observed.

`Oh, they do have one thing in common. I got it wrong when I said Willie has left it all behind him. Didn't you notice how both men seemed frozen in a time-warp? I mean the language they used. Burgoyne referred to Irene's French boy friend as a bounder. No one uses that term any more. Except maybe the British expats still living in Hong Kong. The same thing with Willie. He used the phrase stout fellow, talking about Burgoyne. So archaic. They're both mentally tied to China, to their old life in the Far East.'

`If you say so,' Tweed remarked absent-mindedly.

Paula jumped up, annoyed. Without realizing it Tweed had repeated a phrase she'd used earlier. Edgy from her experiences the previous day, she thought he was mimicking her.

`All right,' she snapped, 'I talk too much. But remembering we were nearly murdered last night, don't forget the bricks and the small concrete mixer on Burgoyne's verge. He's in touch with a builder – and that could be where that orange monster came from. I need some fresh air. I'm going for a walk..

She closed the door quietly as she left, fuming. Tweed perched his glasses back on his nose.

`Actually Paula said something very significant. And it could just link up with Andover's report in the file he gave me.'

`And you're not going to tell me what it was?' Newman hazarded.

`Too early. I need to be sure. As I said earlier, I need more data.'

`I remember.' Newman stirred restlessly. `So when do we start getting that data?'

`Oh, I've already started. I was up earlier than either of you this morning. I collected a load of change from the office here, then drove into Lymington to locate a public phone box.'

`Go on.'

`I called Colonel Stanstead, the Chief Constable. Poor Boyd's remains are now in an ambulance on the way to London. I called Sir Rufus Rabin, the eminent pathologist we sometimes use. Rabin will examine the body and report to me. I called Monica at Park Crescent,' he went on, referring to the HO of the SIS. 'Harry Butler and Pete Nield are already on their way down to take turns in watching Andover's house, Prevent. And you can help, if you will. Go and see that Acting Harbour Master, Watford. Play up to his sense of self-importance. Find out if either – or both – Burgoyne and Fanshawe own a boat berthed round here. If so, what type of craft they have…'

`I might have known it.' Newman sighed. 'While we were in the land of Nod you've been purring like a dynamo…'

`I have also asked Monica to check with the right contacts to get me all that is known about the history of Fanshawe and Burgoyne all those years they spent in the Far East. Plus a profile on Andover. She'll be up all night, our Monica.'

`The energy of the man,' Newman commented. 'Oh, while I remember it,' he said casually, 'was Paula badly cut up about Boyd's death?'

Tweed kept a straight face. 'Naturally she was shocked. But they weren't very close. They just seemed to get on reasonably well together. Nothing serious.'

`I'm glad it wasn't an earth-shattering blow. But why are you taking all this trouble?'

`Because I've read Andover's file and certain elements came back to me when Paula was talking. My earlier action in rushing into Lymington was prompted by Paula insisting she saw something in the fog last night down at the marina. She does have exceptional eyesight. I also don't like one of my men – even a new recruit – killed under suspicious circumstances.'

`You mean Harvey Boyd, ex-SAS, was…'

`About to join the SIS after passing our training course with flying colours…'

`I didn't know that,' Newman rapped out.

`I'd hardly had time to tell you, had I? Bob, I really am worried. There are several apparently unconnected mysteries here. I'm beginning to feel we've stumbled on to something very sinister indeed.'

`Then I'd better get down to have a little chat with charming Mr Watford. You're going back to London?'

'Not just yet. There may be important clues I can hit on down here. I'm driving round Lymington. Maybe call in at one or two pubs. That's where you find out about the locals…'

Tweed was climbing into his Escort in the car park outside Passford House when Paula appeared, back from her walk. She peered in at the window as he fastened his seat belt.

`I'm sorry I was so rude, flouncing out like that. I suppose I couldn't come with you?'

`Hop in…'

He drove them out of the hotel entrance and along the winding country road leading to Lymington. A hard frost sparkled on the bare trees and the air was cold and fresh. He was turning on to the main road when Paula made her remark.

`This is Bob Newman's ideal weather. Says he works and thinks better in crisp air.'

`Let's hope he's doing both at the moment.'

`During my walk I was wondering what I could do – the rest of you are so active. I'd like to investigate the backgrounds of those two women – Lee Holmes and Helen Claybourne. I feel there could be more to them than just being so-called housekeepers to those men.'

`Check them out. I don't imagine it will be too easy. And I'd be careful.'

`So you think there's something odd about one of them?'

`I just warned you to be careful…'

A few minutes later he drove into the public car park behind a Waitrose supermarket. He stopped the car in the Long Stay area where there was nothing to pay. The receptionist at Passford House had told him how to find it.

Walking back to the main street, it was after eleven when they wandered past old Georgian frontages and a mix of shops. Tweed stopped at Pier 68, a bar-restaurant, ushered Paula inside.

`Barmen usually know the locals pretty well,' he whispered. 'I'm after certain information. Those ships that disappeared…'

Inside Pier 68 was a long cosy room with a bar counter and stools along one wall. Beyond, through an open doorway, Tweed saw tables laid neatly for lunch. He perched on a bar stool next to a man with a stiff blue cap, a prominent peak, who was smoking a cheroot. He ordered a glass of French dry white wine for himself and Paula. The barman was a jolly type with a fringe beard.

`I hear stories about boats vanishing into thin air after they've sailed from Lymington,' Tweed remarked.

`Sailors' stories.' The barman shook his head. 'I've heard vague rumours.'

`Five boats are supposed to have disappeared for ever this year,' Paula observed.

`All rumours.' The barman shook his head. 'Livens up the place, I suppose..

He moved further away, polishing the counter. The man with the peaked cap put down his glass of beer, leaned close to Tweed.

`You a reporter?'

`No, just intrigued.' Tweed swivelled in his chair to give the man his attention. 'And it might make material for a book I'm writing.'

`Then your best bet is down on the waterfront. Try Ned, barman at the Ship Inn. He's closer to what's going on down there.'

`Thank you. We were strolling in that direction anyway.'

He left his glass half drunk, nodded to the barman as they left. Crossing the High Street, they were soon walking down a steep hill, perched on a high railed pavement. Paula glanced in the shops, at the locals.

`Seems a peaceful enough place.'

`Which could be deceptive.'

At the bottom they crossed a road and continued down a very short and steep cobbled street closed to traffic. Quay Hill. A brief distance later it turned sharply right into another cobbled lane. Quay Street. Mostly tourist shops of high quality but Tweed noticed doors which appeared to lead to private residences. They turned a corner and saw a forest of masts and the Ship Inn.

Paula paused, swallowed, resumed walking.

`Would you sooner wait somewhere while I go there – in view of what happened last night?' Tweed asked her.

`No. It was where I had the last drink with Harvey but I'm not letting that affect me.'

A wave of warmth met them as they stepped in out of the raw cold. Again Tweed made straight for the bar and ordered two glasses of wine. He was paying for them when he asked the barman the same question.

`I bumped into the Harbour Master yesterday. He was telling me about some rather strange accidents round here. I gather no less than five boats which went out at different times this year never came back. Oh, are you Ned?'

`That's me.' There were no other customers and the barman leaned forward, dropping his voice as he addressed Paula and Tweed. 'They're trying to keep quiet about it. Idiotic. One boat vanishes. OK. Two. Maybe. But not five. Ought to be investigated.'

`They all disappeared just off Lymington, I gather?'

`No, sir. That's not accurate. Three of them, including a Mr Benton – the first casualty – were seen sailing up the Solent during breaks in the fog. I reckon they went down close to the mouth of the Beaulieu River.'

`Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that river run roughly parallel to the Lymington River but further east?'

`You've got it, sir. It's a wild lonely part with few people living in the area. There's another big boating anchorage upriver, Buckler's Hard. Some prefer to berth there rather than here. Funny lot, these boaty types.'

`In what way?'

`Well, I suppose you'd call it snobbery. Because we've got the Royal Lymington Yacht Club here one group thinks this is the top sailing port. A much smaller group has other ideas. Think the real elite base themselves up at Buckler's Hard. There's a Brigadier Burgoyne has his motor yacht there. Wouldn't be seen dead here. Can't see the difference, myself.'

`You said a moment ago it's very lonely on the Beaulieu River. You mean no one lives there below Buckler's Hard?'

`Well, yes and no, sir. There's a funny lot lives at Moor's Landing. The west bank of the Beaulieu belongs to Lord Montagu. But the east bank – or most of it – is owned by Lord Rothschild. Moor's Landing is land he leased out, as far as I know. There was a small village just back from the river – that's Moor's Landing.'

`You said "was". Doesn't it exist any more?'

`Didn't explain myself very well. Some developer bought up all the old cottages, renovated the insides, made them real posh. He then sold the lot in a matter of days.'

`You said they were a funny lot,' Tweed encouraged him. 'That sounds intriguing.'

`Well, they keep very much to themselves. Professional types, I gather. Snooty. Never seen any of them here. They like to keep the place to themselves. Snobbery again, I suppose.'

`Has this Moor's Landing access to the Beaulieu River?'

`It certainly does. A big landing stage which they recently had poshed up. Carefully repaired and freshly painted. Which I thought was odd – so far as I hear not one of the folk who live there has a boat. Status symbol, I suppose. All this is going back a year or more.'

`I'm writing a book on out-of-the-way places,' Tweed remarked, sticking to the same story – it would avoid Ned wondering afterwards about his questions. 'Is there any way I could sail down the Beaulieu River from Buckler's Hard?'

`Last month you could have cruised on the small catamaran which takes tourists downriver. Too late for that now – end of the season come the last day of October. But I'd have thought you might hire a powerboat with crew. Cost you a lot more than the catamaran.'

`I'll think about it.' Tweed finished his drink, looked at Paula. 'Actually now my stomach is thinking about lunch. That restaurant through there looks tempting.'

`They serve a reasonable meal, sir…'

After lunch they wandered out on to the front. They were there just in time to see a four-coach red, white, and blue train crossing a bridge on its way to the ferry terminal. At the same time a large car ferry appeared, heading for the terminal on its return journey from the Isle of Wight.

`I wonder who Harvey's friend was going to see when he set out on his last trip to the Isle of Wight,' Tweed said half to himself.

`We'll probably never know,' Paula replied. 'Why are you so interested in Buckler's Hard and this Moor's Landing?'

`I'm looking for anything out of the ordinary. We'd better get back to Passford House.'

Paula realized she wasn't going to be told any more so she said nothing more as they made their way back to the car. She never dreamt of what would be waiting for them.

Pete Nield, summoned by Tweed to watch Sir Gerald Andover's home with Harry Butler, stood by his Ford Sierra outside the hotel. Tall and slim, he was a snappy dresser and had a small dark neat moustache which he was fingering. He rushed forward before Tweed or Paula could leave the Escort.

`Harry's back at Prevent. I came to tell you. The house has been broken in to. Andover has disappeared…'