The Greek Key

9

A sea of grey unbroken cloud pressed down like a smothering blanket: not a hint of blue anywhere. A fine drizzle like a sea mist covered the desolate landscape, settled on the windscreen of the Mercedes 280E Tweed had borrowed from Newman. He drove slowly along the narrow country road elevated above the grim marshland on either side. Not a soul in sight. At two in the afternoon they had the dreary world to themselves.

'Are we going the right way?' Paula asked as she studied the ordnance survey map. 'I'm lost.' She glanced out of the window, settled in the front passenger seat beside Tweed.

'We're right in the middle of the Somerset Levels, the area Masterson noted down on a scrap of paper in the cigar box he sent from Athens,' Tweed remarked. 'This is where the sea used to flood in centuries ago. Now they cut peat. I want to get the atmosphere of this place.'

He stopped the car, but kept the engine running as he stared around at the bleakness. Paula, dressed in a windcheater and a blouse and pleated skirt, shivered.

'I find this place creepy. Look, there's some kind of a building over there under those willows.'

'One of the farms – the peat-cutting farms.'

Below the road there stretched a ditch full of stagnant water. Paula lowered her window and wrinkled her nose as an odour of decay drifted inside the car. She opened the door, stepped out to take a closer look.

The ditch was coated with an acidic green slime across its surface. Patches of black water showed here and there. In the distance stood the ramshackle building Tweed had called a farm. Its roof slanted at a crooked angle. Smoke curled up from a squat chimney. Another smell assailed her nostrils and again she crinkled them in disgust.

'That's the smell of peat. You can see this side of that farm where they're cutting it. And someone is coming…'

Tweed's grip on the wheel tightened as he stopped speaking. Paula turned again to look towards the collection of hovels he had called a farm. Two men were advancing towards them, one walking behind the other along a grassy path leading to where she stood.

Both wore stained old pea-jackets, grubby caps and muddy corduroy trousers stuffed into the tops of rubber boots. Each carried over his shoulder a long-handled implement. One was some kind of vicious-shaped hoe, the other a long spade more like an iron scoop. Both walked with steady intent, wide shoulders hunched, primitive faces staring at the intruders.

'Get in the car quick!' Tweed snapped. He had the car moving as she slammed the heavy door and then increased speed. Pauia let out her breath, a sigh of relief. Tweed started the windscreen wipers going.

'I didn't like the look of them at all,' Paula said. 'A couple of ugly customers,' Tweed agreed. 'The peat diggers are an enclosed community shut off from the outside world. I know this area well. Went to school at Blundell's near Tiverton. Hated every minute of it – like being in prison. During my spare time I used to cycle for miles – including round here. Pedalled like mad down this miserable road. Even then it frightened me.'

'Why cycle here then?' 'Kid stuff. Got a thrill out of scaring myself. You know something…' He glanced across the dank marshlands. 'This would be a good place to hide a body.' 'I'm glad you kept the engine running. There seem to be a lot of willows growing in this wilderness.'

'The other industry here. See those clumps growing by that ditch running away from the road? They're called withies. Shoots from pollarded willows. The osier-workers cut them and make wicker baskets to sell. Chairs, too. They can keep busy all the year round. When they've used up the withies and are waiting for next year's crop they dig up the peat. Goes way back over a couple of centuries. The Victorians were very keen on wickerwork.'

'And where are we?' She was studying the map again. 'I do hate to be lost.'

'Sign of a good navigator. Westonzoyland is probably the nearest point of civilization. We left the A372 and drove north. We're heading for the A39. We turn left on to that, head for Bridgwater and then west to Dunster via Watchet.' 'Got it. What was in that large package which arrived from Harry this morning with the Athens postmark?' 'Look in the glove compartment. Another mess of clues. And after glancing at them I haven't one. A clue. See what you make of it.'

She sifted the contents of the reinforced envelope with the address again written in Harry Masterson's distinctive hand. Pulling out something as Tweed switched on the headlights to warn any oncoming vehicle, she examined it and then unfastened a clip, wrapped it round her wrist, closed the clip.

'It's a girl's bracelet. Why would he send that?' she wondered.

'No idea.'

'It's quite beautiful. You've seen the symbol the pendant has been designed as in imitation jewellery?'

'No. I told you I only had time to glance at the contents before we started out from Park Crescent.'

'It's the Greek key.'

Through a hole in the lowering clouds a shaft of sunlight like a searchlight moved across the great sweeping brown ridges in the distance. Tweed nodded towards them as they travelled along a hedge-lined road, approaching a small town.

'Up beyond there is Exmoor. A lonely place for the trio who long ago raided that island of Siros. And why should they all settle in the same area?'

'Let's ask them…'

'I intend to. We're close to Dunster now.'

They passed a signpost on their right pointing down a narrow road. Watchet. Tweed grunted and Paula looked at him.

'You had a thought.'

'Watchet. I checked it in guide books before we left. My memory was right. It's the only port between here and Land's End. A real port, I mean. In a small way of business. It exports scrap metal and wastepaper to Scandinavia. And, guess where.'

'We turn left soon according to the map. Can't guess.'

'I know where we turn. I remember the road. From Watchet there is the occasional ship plying between the Bristol Channel and Portugal. Turn here…'

At The Luttrell Arms Tweed waited until they were settled in their separate rooms before strolling down the staircase to tackle the manager. Each room had its name on the door. Tweed had Avill, a large and comfortable room with a door leading to a garden at the back. The manager, a tall, pleasant man clad in black, looked up from behind the reception counter as Tweed placed a photograph on the woodwork.

'Can you do me a favour, please,' Tweed began. 'Has this man stayed here recently?'

The manager stared at the print of Harry Masterson without a change of expression. He looked up at Tweed.

'It is, I am sure you will understand, company policy not to give out information about other guests. If someone came and asked the same question about yourself…'

'Special Branch.'

Tweed laid the card forged in the Engine Room basement at Park Crescent alongside the photo. The manager stared at it with curiosity. He had a quiet deliberate voice, the kind of voice used to pacifying impossible guests.

'I have heard about your organization. This is the first time I have met one of you.'

'So I would appreciate it if you would answer my questions in confidence. A question of national security.'

'Oh dear.' The manager paused. Tweed replaced the card in his pocket in case anyone came past them. The place seemed deserted. 'I do recognize him,' the manager said eventually. 'He stayed here about three weeks ago…'

'For how long?'

Keep them talking – once you've opened their mouths.

'Five days, Mr Tweed.'

'In what name?'

'Harry Masterson. A jolly man. Well-dressed. A joker – made me laugh.'

'And this person?'

Tweed removed Masterson's photograph, replaced it with the blow-up of the picture of Christina Gavalas which had arrived in the cigar box. He watched the manager intently.

'No question of scandal involved, I hope?' ventured the manager.

'I did say in confidence.'

'Of course. Yes, she came with him. They had separate rooms,' he added quickly. 'As a matter of fact, Mr Master-son had the Garden Room, Avill, the one you have, the best in the house.'

'And the girl?'

'The same room as your Miss Grey. Gallox.'

'Registered in what name?'

'Christina Bland. She wore a wedding ring. You see why I was concerned about a little scandal. Foreign, I thought.'

'Don't be concerned. What did they do while they were here? I realize that's a difficult question – but everyone has to pass this reception area when they come downstairs. Did they spend a lot of time out?'

'A striking couple.' The manager eyed Tweed as though to confirm he was the genuine article. 'Yes, they did go out most of the time. They would have breakfast – I help with that when staff is off duty – and ask for a packed lunch each day. Then we wouldn't see them until long after dinner. We close that front door at eleven and late-nighters have to ring the bell for admittance. Twice I let them in at midnight. I thought maybe they had friends round Exmoor they visited. That's a pure guess. You will keep this between us?'

'You have my word.'Tweed paused, smiled. 'You will keep entirely to yourself the nature of my job?'

'Good Lord, yes, Mr Tweed. The privacy of the guests must be sacred.' He looked embarrassed. 'Yours is, of course, a special case.'

Tweed picked up the second photograph. He put it inside his pocket, turned away, then turned back as though a thought had suddenly struck him.

'In connection with the same investigation, would you happen to know any of these three men? A Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore, a Captain Robson, a man called Kearns? I do have their addresses. Barrymore, for one, lives at Quarme Manor, Oare.'

The manager took his time fastening up the middle button of his black jacket. Giving himself time to think, Tweed guessed. So I've given him something to think about.

'Again in complete confidence, I assure you.'

'This is a strange business you're investigating, if I may say so.'

'Very strange, very serious, very urgent.'

'Well… The three of them are friends. Every Saturday night they dine here. Always the same quiet table at the far end of the dining room. A kind of ritual, I gather.'

'They were here last Saturday? Two nights ago?' Tweed asked quickly.

'Well, no. The colonel is very formal. Always phones himself to book the table in advance. They've missed for three weeks. Probably on holiday. Only my guess, I emphasize.'

'Thank you.' Tweed paused. He looked the manager straight in the eye. 'When you wake tomorrow morning you'll possibly worry about what you've told me. Don't. Worry, I mean. It is Monday. If I am still here next Saturday I shall make a point of dining elsewhere. Then if they come back you won't have me in the room. We do consider people's feelings.'

'So it seems. I thought, if you won't resent it, that your outfit were more aggressive.'

'On the contrary, we find we get the best results by being exceptionally discreet. And the local police shouldn't know I am here. Then we can't have any gossip about my being in the area.' Tweed leaned forward. 'We keep it just between the two of us. So, sleep well.'

'Thank you, sir. And if it's not out of place, I hope you enjoy your stay here. I'm not worrying.'

Tweed went back upstairs and knocked on the door of the room named Gallox. 'Who is it?' Paula called out.

'It's me,' said Tweed. She called out again for him to come in.

'Just look at this,' she began as he entered. 'Isn't it marvellous?'

She was sitting on the edge of a huge four-poster bed with a large canopy. It gave the large room a medieval atmosphere. Five feet six tall, the mattress was so high her feet dangled above the floor.

'You should have plenty of room in that,' Tweed observed and sat in an armchair. 'I have just talked with the manager. A tricky conversation. I had to show him my Special Branch card before he'd tell me a thing.'

'I like him. There's something Dickensian about his appearance.'

'And he's a man of great integrity…' Tweed told her about their conversation. She listened, watching him, and he knew every word was being imprinted on her memory.

'That's queer,' she commented. 'We thought it peculiar that those three men should end up living in the same part of the country. After all these years they obviously keep in close touch. Why?' They could have stayed friends,' Tweed pointed out. 'They were together during the Second World War. Occasionally it does happen. But I think there's more than that to it – the trouble is I can't imagine what.' 'So where do we start?'

'We drive over by the coast road to Quarme Manor. I checked it on the map. Oare is down some side turning. That is after we've had a cream tea at the best place in this village.'

'Why? The manager said they were all away somewhere.'

'I want to see whether Barrymore – for starters – really is away. And if so, where he's gone – if possible…'

This is one hell of a road,' Paula said with feeling.

'Porlock Hill. One of the most diabolical in Britain.'

Tweed was driving up a gradient like the side of a mountain. Added to the incredibly steep angle, the road twisted and turned round blind bends. Added to that, a grey mist was coming in off the moor, coils of sinister grey vapour creeping down the road.

Tweed drove with undipped headlights to warn any oncoming traffic, ready to dip them at the first sign of lights from the opposite direction. Like Tweed, Paula was tilted back in her seat as though inside an aircraft taking off. They passed a road turning off to their right and Tweed nodded towards it.

That's the toll road, as they call it. That's fun too – it goes down like a water chute slide with a sheer drop on one side towards the sea.'

They had bypassed Minehead before they started the ascent and Paula patted her stomach. 'At least I'm full. That cream tea was fantastic. I'll get fat as a pig. And we're going to miss that turn-off to Oare,' she warned.

They had reached the top of the hill and drove along the level. No other traffic in either direction. The mist was thickening, making it as dark as night. The headlights picked up an inn sign. Culbone Inn.

'I'll check here for that turn-off,' said Tweed, swinging off the main road on to a wide drive.

He returned after a few minutes, climbed back behind the wheel. 'They say it's the next turn-off. A mile or so ahead. Easy to miss. And the road to Oare is very narrow.'

'Sounds great. Just what we need – for a car this size. How big is Oare?'

'Hardly a hamlet. Very spread out, as I remember. Two manor houses. Oare Manor and Quarme Manor, the stately home of Colonel Barrymore.'

'What exactly are we trying to do?' Paula was sat forward, braced against the seat belt, trying to spot the turn-off. At this height the mist was thinning. A chilly sea breeze blew in through her window. She pressed the button to close it.

'It's damn cold. Can I put on the heater?'

'As high as you like.'

Paula glanced at Tweed as she switched on the heater. He seemed impervious to extremes of both cold and heat. He wore a new hacking jacket, a pair of grey flannels, and a deerstalker hat which should have looked slightly ridiculous. But it suited him, gave him a commanding air. He read her thoughts.

'Dressed to merge into the landscape. Wear a London business suit out here and I'd stick out like a sore thumb…'

'Stop! You turn off here…'

He'd just checked the rear-view mirror, something he did every ten seconds. He swung the wheel and they began to drop downhill. The country lane was so narrow the Mercedes just slid past the grass verges on either side. Beyond them a bank rose, topped with dense hedges. It didn't help visibility as the lane spiralled down steeply, a series of sharp bends. But the mist had evaporated and now they moved through a weird half-light as they dropped and dropped. At the bottom they drove across a gushing ford, reached an intersection. Paula desperately searched the map as Tweed swung right.

'Close to Oare,' he said. 'I remember that ford. From what the publican back at Culbone told me we should soon reach Quarme Manor. On the right somewhere.' The Mercedes was crawling as they navigated the winding lane. Above them in the distance Paula saw great sweeps of the moor, like tidal waves frozen in mid-flight.

'You asked me a few minutes ago what we are trying to do,' Tweed continued. 'We are trying to discover why Harry Masterson came here, what he discovered which led him to fly to Athens. In other words, what is the link between Exmoor and Greece? And who murdered Harry.. .'

He peered through the windscreen, still keeping the Mercedes at crawling pace. 'We have arrived. There is Quarme Manor.'

Paula was alone inside the car. Tweed had driven it into one of the lay-bys carved out of the side of the lane at intervals to allow one vehicle to pass another. He had instructed her to keep all the doors locked while he was away. 'Where are you going?' she had asked.

To explore round Quarme Manor first, then call to see if anyone is at home…'

She sat with the heavy long torch in her lap he always carried when driving. It was still daylight and she could see up on to the moor. She had turned off the heater, opened one window a few inches. Suddenly she stiffened, leaned forward.

She was looking at a ridge behind and overlooking Quarme Manor. It was uncannily silent. The wind had dropped. And despite the fact there was a dense copse of trees huddled round the manor house she hadn't heard the cheep of a single bird.

The horseman was perched on the ridge, silhouetted against the pale grey sky. Even motionless in the saddle, she saw he was a tall man. He held something with a long barrel in front of him, held it across the horse and parallel to the ground. A rifle.

Where the devil was Tweed? She watched the horseman, standing so still he might have been a bronze statue. Could it be Lieutenant-Colonel Barrymore waiting and watching over his property? Then the horseman moved, although his steed remained still.

He raised the rifle to his shoulder. He settled the stock in position and tilted the rifle angle downwards. He was aiming at something – someone – moving inside or just outside the grounds. Oh, my God…! Tweed was the target.

She raised the Sever which unlocked the door, jumped out into the lane, still grasping the torch. Raising it with both hands like a revolver, she aimed the torch straight at the horseman, pressed on the light. The beam cut through the grey light. She knew it would never reach the horseman but she flashed it on and off time and again.

The horseman shifted in his saddle. The rifle swung in an arc, was now aimed at the car. She ducked down behind the Mercedes, waited for the crack of the shot. Nothing… She raised her head, ready to duck again quickly. There was nothing to see. The ridge outline was bare. The horseman had vanished. She had distracted him.

Shaking, she climbed back into the car behind the wheel, closed the door quietly, pressed down the lock.

Leaving the car, Tweed had walked quickly down the deserted lane. Coming closer, he saw Quarme Manor was a large Elizabethan pile built of grey stone with a wing extending forward from either end. The distinctive chimneys festooned the tiled roof. A high stone wall surrounding the place soon hid the house. He came to the entrance. Tall iron grille gates. A name plate. Quarme Manor.

No sign of lights. There should be lights if anyone was inside. The two-storeyed mansion was shrouded in gloom – made darker by the copse of trees sheering up inside the wall. Tweed peered through the closed grille gates up the curving drive beyond. A particularly fine example of the Elizabethan period, the mansion stood four square and seemed to grow out of the moor. All the mullion-paned windows with their pointed arches were in darkness.

He walked on along the curving lane, following the line of the wall. The silence was so intense he could almost hear it. His rubber-soled handmade shoes made no sound. He came to where the wall turned at a right angle away from the lane, climbing the steep slope towards a ridge behind the manor. A narrow footpath followed the line of the wall. He began climbing.

He had to keep his head down. The path was treacherous with slippery stones concealed beneath brown swathes of last year's dead bracken. He felt damp on his face, squelchy mush underfoot. He paused to stare at a second dense copse of trees – this one outside the wall and beyond the path. Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement. He looked up at the sabre-like cut of the ridge crest. Nothing. He could have sworn something moved.

Reaching the point where the wall turned again, running parallel to the front wall alongside the lane, he explored further until he found an opening. The gap was closed off with a single wide grille gate which was padlocked. He bent down.

By the gate the ground was cleared and in the moist earth were clear traces of hoof-marks. A back entrance to Quarme Manor which would take the owner straight on to the moor. And recently someone had ridden a horse here. He peered between the grille bars.

A gravel path led round a spacious lawn with ornamental shrubs arranged here and there. The lawn was cut, the topiary well-trimmed. Such attention cost money. He returned the way he had come. The left-hand grille gate leading off from the lane opened at a push. His feet crunched as he walked up the drive. Inside the large porch he found an old-fashioned chain-pull bell. He tugged at it, heard it ring inside. A light was switched on, illuminating a diamond-shaped window behind an iron grille in the solid studded door. The lantern suspended over the porch came on. The small window opened. Tweed had a glimpse of a woman's bony face before the window slammed shut. The door was opened half a foot, a chain in place. 'What be it?' the old woman demanded.

'I wish to see Colonel Barrymore…'

'He b'aint be available.'

'You mean he is away somewhere?'

'He b'aint be available.'

She repeated the words as though she had been taught to say them by rote. She was tall, late sixties, her grey hair brushed close to the skull, her expression hostile. She was closing the door when Tweed spoke more firmly.

'The colonel will want to see me. When do you expect him to be back?'

'Name?'

'I shall have to tell him you were uncooperative. And he won't like that…'

'Phone for appointment…'

She was closing the door when they both heard the sound of a car approaching. It stopped outside. A shadowy figure opened both gates after jumping lightly out of the car. Before the headlights blinded him Tweed saw it was a crimson Daimler. Swinging round the short curve, it pulled up for a moment. A face behind the wheel stared out, then the car continued on round the side of the house. To the garage, he assumed.

This is Colonel Barrymore?' Tweed asked the woman who still stood by the door.

'Better ask him, 'adn't you? Doesn't welcome strangers, you know.'

'It's becoming somewhat apparent,' Tweed remarked drily.

He turned as he heard the crunch of boots on gravel approaching from the side of the mansion. A tall, slim, elegant man in his mid-sixties appeared and stood, studying Tweed with an expression of disdain. Thick black hair was brushed over his high forehead and beneath his aquiline nose he sported a thin dark moustache.

He wore a sheepskin against the night chill and cavalry twill trousers shoved inside riding boots gleaming like glass. How the devil does he drive in those? Tweed wondered. The voice was crisp, offhand, as though addressing a junior subaltern.

'Who are you? If you are selling something you can take your immediate departure. And is that your Mercedes parked in the way down the lane?'

'Which question first?' Tweed asked mildly. 'And my car is in a lay-by. Plenty of room for you to get past even in your Daimler. That's what lay-bys are for…'

'I asked that stupid girl to move it and she refused…'

'She's not stupid and she's quite right to ignore intimidation.' Tweed produced his card. 'Before you say another word you'd better know who I am. And while we're talking identification, who are you?'

'Colonel Barrymore.'

He moved under the lantern to examine the card, then looked up. 'It's all right, Mrs Atyeo, I'll sort this out myself.' He waited until she had disappeared, then stared at Tweed, handing back the card. 'Special Branch? A bit off the beaten track, aren't you?'

'So is Siros.'

Barrymore stiffened, stood even more erect. He jerked his head. 'Better come inside, I suppose. Just wait in my study until I'm ready to see you.'

By the light of the lantern Tweed saw Barrymore's skin was a tanned mahogany. He stood pulling slowly at one of the kid gloves he was wearing, taking hold of each finger and sliding it slowly half-way off. Even the slightest of the colonel's movements was slow and calculated.

'I'll go and fetch my assistant first,' Tweed said. 'She'll be taking notes…'

He was walking away before Barrymore could react. He felt he had left Paula alone in the car quite long enough. She greeted him with relief, told him quickly about the horseman on the ridge.

'That was very bright of you,' he said gratefully. To think of shining the torch. Oddly enough. Colonel Barrymore wears riding boots.'

'The man who stopped his Daimler alongside me and rudely told me to push off?'

'The very same gentleman. Surely there was plenty of room for him to pass?'

'Oodles. What do you think of His Lordship?'

'You said it. Let's get back to the manor. We have a right tartar to deal with. Something odd about him. Coldblooded is the word, I suspect…'