Cell

'That's ridiculous,' she protested. 'A Georgian house painted green.'

'We'll find he's eccentric.' Tweed predicted, reaching for the bell-pull. 'And this thing is more suitable for an old cottage.'

There was a whirring sound and the heavy wooden door swung inward. Electrically operated. A massive figure stood in the doorway. At least six feet tall, he had broad shoulders and large hands. His chin was concealed behind a long black beard, matching the colour of the thick thatch on his big head. His forehead was wide and narrow, his brown eyes half hidden under heavy lids above a Roman nose and thick sensuous lips.

The strangest aspect was the long white robe he wore, which almost reached his ankles. The white collar stretched round his bull-like neck. His voice was soft, persuasive. Paula took an instant dislike to it.

'How may I serve you?' the huge figure enquired.

'I am Tweed, Deputy Director of the SIS.' He held open his identity folder. 'This is my personal assistant, Paula Grey. We are here to investigate the disappearance of Mrs Warner. She has been gone three weeks.'

'Please enter my humble home. I suggest we confer at the round table.'

They walked into a vast sitting-room as the door automatically closed behind them. Paula was not expecting this. The room was two storeys high with an arched ceiling. It reminded her of houses in the States which had similar living quarters called a cathedral room. The walls were painted white and decorated with framed English landscapes.

'Some wine?' Margesson suggested. 'A libation?'

They both refused as they sat on hard cushionless chairs with high backs. Paula tried to wriggle herself into a better position as their host arranged his robe and sat facing her. His peculiar eyes gazed straight at her as he spoke.

'There is no comfort in this dwelling. That is deliberate. We live in a world here where there is only softness, so we have a society which has collapsed. Into chaos.'

'Chaos?' Tweed queried sharply.

'There is no discipline, no morality, only the indulgence of pleasures, many of a dubious nature. Parents make no effort to control their offspring, so we breed a fresh generation which, if not controlled, will plunge us deeper into the pit of degradation.'

'Assuming that what you say is correct,' Tweed said agreeably, 'then what – if anything – could be done to reverse the trend?'

Paula, taken aback, glanced at him. Then she realized Tweed was subtly leading on their host. She assumed a solemn expression to match Tweed's.

'The present society must be wrenched free from its moorings, shaken to the core by the introduction of the most severe measures. For example, adultery is now regarded almost as a normal behaviour. If a woman is taken in adultery she has to be subjected to the most draconian punishment.'

'I should have asked earlier,' Tweed interjected. 'You are Mr Margesson?'

'Olaf Margesson at your service, sir.'

'Olaf? That isn't very English.'

'My ancestors long ago came from Finland.'

'Really?' Tweed paused. 'Yet your skin, if I may remark on it, has a brownish tinge. Not a colour anyone would inherit from Finland.'

Watching their host closely, Paula saw the eyes narrow even more, so they almost disappeared beneath the lids. She felt sure she had caught a flash -of fury in those disturbing eyes.

'You mentioned a draconian punishment for women,' she challenged him. 'What about men caught in adultery?'

'They would also receive a punishment to mark them out for the foul things they are. That is why I speak of discipline, of control. When a woman takes a man in marriage she must respect him in every way. As he must her. Can you argue against that?'

'Theoretically, no,' Tweed replied. 'I agree with the general idea, but not everyone is strong enough to resist temptation when it offers itself. You must…'

' Temptation!' Margesson's voice became a roar of fury, he raised both arms high, hands open like huge claws. His loose sleeves slipped down, exposing massive muscular arms. 'That is what it is all about,' he thundered. 'The refusal to give in to the lusts of the flesh, discipline. Self-discipline is the foundation of a strong society which will endure. The present one will not. It will drown in its own sea of naked self-indulgence. Not all America's atom bombs and aircraft carriers will protect it – or the West.'

'You express yourself with vigour,' remarked Tweed as he stood up to leave. 'I agree with a small amount of your view – but disagree with most of it. Now we must go.'

'Think deeply of all I have said in the darkness of the night, I beg of you.'

Margesson, standing, towered over Paula, who had also stood up. His whole personality had undergone a remarkable change. As he spoke these words to them both hands were stretched out, pleading.

Tweed made no reply as he walked towards the door with Paula by his side. With giant strides Margesson preceded them, pressed a button in the wall and the door swung open. Icy air flooded in. Once outside on the step Tweed turned, his manner polite.

'Thank you for your hospitality, Mr Margesson. Everyone has a right to his own views, providing they don't force others to adopt them.'

Margesson bowed low, one hand plucking at his dark beard. It was a mannerism Paula had observed frequently while he was talking, as though he were plucking his thoughts from it.

'We'll go back the short way, along this side of the lake. The road's reasonable.'

'More than Margesson is.'

They met no one and Tweed was relieved when he saw Buchanan, arms banging round his overcoat, waiting for them. A mist had crept out of the forest and was advancing towards Carp Lake. It was almost a fog, and coils of it slid out over Carpford. When they looked back all the strange dwellings had vanished.

'Sorry to keep you so long, Roy,' Tweed apologized. 'We had two long interviews.'

'Goes with the territory. You left just in time. Caught up in that fog you could find yourself in the lake, which is deep.'

'How deep is it?'

'Thirty feet at least. Who did you see?'

'While you're both talking I must call Newman on my mobile,' Paula told them. 'He'll be worried by now.'

Tweed climbed into the back of the car while Buchanan got behind the wheel. The engine had been left ticking over so the interior was pleasantly warm. Beyond the windscreen the fog was drifting down towards them.

'Two interviews,' Tweed told Buchanan. 'Both weird, odd in different ways. One with Mrs Gobble, the other with Olaf Margesson.. .'

Abbreviating, he related the gist of the conversations and their impressions. Buchanan listened without speaking until Tweed had completed his resume. Then he turned round.

'I couldn't even get into Margesson's house. I suspect he was inside and just didn't open the door. I don't like the sound of him at all…'

Paula heard his comment as she clambered in beside Tweed. She sighed ecstatically, taking off her gloves as she soaked up the heat.

'Bless you, Roy, for keeping the car warm. I could kiss you. Now, Park Crescent. Newman wants us back by eleven-thirty to meet someone. Didn't say who but, like me, he doesn't trust the security of both our mobiles.' She peered ahead as Buchanan began driving down the road. 'The Porsche has gone. Where is it?'

'Taken away on a transporter. And there's plenty of time for us to get back to town ages before eleven-thirty.'

'My tummy's rumbling,' Paula told him. 'I had no lunch and I'm desperate for food.'

'Then we'll turn off to Foxfold, a village down in the valley. There's a good hotel there, the Peacock. You can have a full meal and we'll still be back for Newman in good time.'

'I do not like Margesson,' Paula said vehemently. 'He's like some kind of priest, a mad one. I'm going to call him the Priest in future. Most poisonous.'