Precipice

'I'd better go then.' Marchat said, checking his watch. He pointed to a row of keys laid out on a table. 'All the security keys are there. Do make sure windows and doors are locked at night – or if you go out.'

'Don't worry.' Partridge assured him. 'I'll keep a close eye on the place.'

He had already decided Marchat was the nervous type. Taking an envelope from his pocket he handed his landlord a fat envelope of banknotes – the deposit and three months' rental in advance.

'You ought to check that.' he suggested.

Marchat had stuffed the envelope in his breast pocket. He shook his head, said he trusted Partridge, picked up his two cases, and hurried out to his old Austin.

He would drive through the night to Heathrow, park the car in 'Long Stay', and be ready to board his flight. He had an open flight ticket in his pocket and had phoned Heathrow to make a firm booking. His destination: Europe.

The early morning flight from Paris was disembarking its passengers at Heathrow. A tall man was the first to leave the plane. He hurried to the car hire counter, produced the requisite papers for the Volvo he had hired over the phone from Paris, paid the necessary money, and within minutes was driving away. His destination: Wareham.

A few minutes later another tall passenger off the same flight approached the same counter, went through the procedure for obtaining the car he had hired by phone from Paris. Once outside the airport he drove at speed, heading south. Destination: Wareham.

4

It was still dark when Philip heard the tapping on his window which overlooked the Boathouse entrance. By nature a zombie when he woke, he had trained himself to wake quickly. Careful not to switch on a light – which would make him a perfect target – he checked the time by the illuminated hands of his wristwatch. 7 a.m.

As he slipped out of bed his right hand grasped the Walther P38 from under his pillow. He pushed the safety lever upwards. He had loaded the weapon the night before. The tapping was repeated more urgently.

He approached the window, stood to one side, his weapon ready, slid back one of the curtains. Outside, illuminated by the lamp over the outer door, Newman stood, holding up a sheet of paper with a message in block letters. The sheet was pressed against the window.

Get up now. See you at b.'fast in fifteen minutes. We must be away from here for the day. Show a leg. Order from T.

Philip switched on his bedside light, went back to the window, nodded agreement. Newman disappeared.

Taking only a few minutes to wash and get dressed, wearing his hip holster with the automatic nestled inside, Philip opened the door from the suite, closed and locked it quietly. He looked across at Eve's door, left the Boathouse, and hurried to the breakfast room which he found on the ground floor.

'Buchanan is likely to call on us,' Newman explained as the waitress disappeared with Philip's order. 'Tweed wants us to avoid meeting him as long as we can. The bad news is that Buchanan arrived in Wareham last night.'

'He won't be a fun person.' Philip remarked after the waitress had brought rolls, marmalade, butter, a pot of coffee, and a jug of cold milk. 'Anyway, what's the programme?'

'We get out of here pretty damned fast. Then we drive round in the country in my car to waste time. We get back into Wareham just after ten.'

'What's the significance of ten o'clock in the morning?'

'The pubs round here open at ten. We'll try the Black Bear in South Street first. Barmen listen to gossip and know just about everything that goes on locally. I want to find out something about this weird character Marchat…'

They drove round slowly in Newman's Mercedes 280E, a big car he was very fond of. The roads into the Purbecks were quiet in February. Philip kept a lookout for the Porsche Eve drove but saw no sign of it. Overhead dark brooding clouds threatened more rain. They returned to Wareham just after ten.

Newman avoided parking his car in front of the Priory wall where he had left it overnight. Instead, crossing the bridge over the Frome back into Wareham, he turned a sharp right. Philip looked round as they entered a small square closed in with Georgian houses. On the fourth side was the river front and the water was high, almost lapping the square.

'We're tucked away here from Buchanan.' Newman said as he put money into a meter. 'Now for the Black Bear…'

Philip saw you couldn't miss the hotel. Above a square porch was perched a large black bear, reared up, made of metal and painted a grim black. The entrance was a long narrow corridor with the opening to the bar on the right. The corridor continued under a glass roof. Marler stood leaning against a wall as he lit a king-size. He took no notice of Philip and Newman as they entered the bar which had no customers until they walked in.

'Two glasses of French dry white wine.' Philip ordered, and left it to Newman to ask the questions. The barman was a genial type who greeted them pleasantly.

'Just visiting?' he enquired.

'We're looking for a place in the country for my sister.' Newman said. 'A bit early for customers? By the way, I wonder if you could help me? A friend of mine lives in the area. Chap called Marchat. I'd better spell it…'

'No need.' The barman studied Newman before replying. 'You obviously haven't heard. Your friend often comes in here for a noggin one evening a week. He worked for General Sterndale, who lived out in the wilds below Lyman's Tout. Sterndale Mansion went up in flames last night. Horrible tragedy. The General and his son, Richard, were burnt to death. The rumour is it was deliberate. Arson.'

'Sounds awful,' Newman agreed. 'Not what you expect in peaceful Dorset.'

'No, it isn't.'

'What about Marchat?' Newman asked. 'I hope he wasn't there when that happened.'

'He wasn't. He was in here. His evening off. Drinking his usual noggin. We heard the police cars and ambulances screaming their sirens as they went past here. Later, a constable who had come off duty told us what it was all about. We were shocked, I can tell you.'

'Was Marchat here when the constable came in?'

'Yes, he was. He left very quickly without saying a word. In shock, I suppose.'

'Marchat lived in at the mansion, then?' Newman asked.

'Five days a week. He had the weekends off. A friend, you said?'

'Yes.'

'Then you'll probably find him at his cottage outside Stoborough. Know where that is?'

'We drove through it this morning.'

'Difficult place to find. I'll draw a map…'

Newman had just pocketed the map when a very large man clumped into the bar. His hair was thick and black, he had wide shoulders and large hands. His aggressive jaw was smeared with a dark stubble. He wore a shabby windcheater and denims. Philip was reminded of the large man riding a bicycle along the towpath the previous night.

'A pint of mild and bitter. Make it quick. I can't 'ang around here all day. Give me space at the bar,' he snapped at Newman.

'There is plenty of space.'

'Sassy, are we?' The newcomer glared. 'You look familiar. You look just like that newspaper peeper, Robert Newman.'

'Maybe because I am.'

'I'm Craig. People keep out of my way.' He rested his elbow on the bar close to Newman. 'I said people who know me keep out of my way. 'Eard me, did you? Or are you bleedin' deaf?'

The barman had placed the drink Craig had ordered on the counter in a tankard. Craig shifted his elbow, knocked it over. Philip heard the vroom-vroom of motorcyclists arriving. Three of them entered the bar and he thought of the experience Newman had told him about when he'd gone out to find a phone the previous evening. He turned to face them as Craig faced Newman.