At the recollection of this memory his eyes filled with tears. He could hear how she spoke, a rather deep timbre, but her voice was soft and she had always spoken so clearly.
'Get a grip on yourself, you bloody fool,' he said to himself.
He hurried to the bathroom, turned on the cold water tap, and sluiced his eyes and face with water, drying himself vigorously with a towel. He knew what the trouble was. This was the first time since she had died he had come away on his own and stayed by himself in a hotel. Except for his vengeful excursion into Europe, hunting down the men who had killed her.
All thoughts of Eve had gone out of his head. Still feeling alert he prowled round the spacious suite – Tweed had been generous in choosing his accommodation. Entering the suite he walked straight into a large and comfortable living room with French windows looking out on the River Frome. One of the staff had closed the curtains. At the end of the room he turned into a corridor with the bathroom leading off it and the large double bedroom beyond.
He lit a cigarette, prowling from one room to another restlessly. In the living room he pulled back the curtains to look at the river which ran only a few feet beyond. In the moonlight he saw a towpath skirting the far edge.
A large man on a bicycle was riding along the towpath away from Wareham. He was staring across at the Boathouse. A very big man indeed, wearing a windcheater and a deerstalker hat pulled well down over his forehead. Impossible to see his face.
Suddenly the light on his machine was switched off. He had been cruising slowly past but now he increased speed, vanished. Philip's sixth sense came to life. He closed the curtain after checking the door locks. Then he toured the suite, checking all the window locks.
He forced himself to take a quick shower despite a wave of fatigue which unexpectedly came over him. Slipping into pyjamas, he flopped into bed, read a few pages of a paperback, then switched off the bedside light. Why was he oppressed with a sense of imminent doom?
3
Newman also was alert, restless, after he had left Philip. He wandered back through the garden where the lawn was coated with a white frost. The temperature was very low but cold stimulated him.
'I wonder if Tweed is still up.' he mused to himself. 'I'll give him a ring from that phone box Philip described, bring him up to date if I catch him
He entered through the lounge doors, thought of going up to his room, decided his windcheater would protect him enough. The night man behind the counter gave him a key to get back in.
'Feel like a walk. Not sleepy.' Newman remarked and closed the door, locking it as he stood in the cobbled courtyard.
He met them as he walked into the old square. Wareham was a town of Georgian houses, originals. They were cluttered all round the square. A group of six motorcyclists sat astride their machines near the exit from the square into the South Street.
As he appeared they began drinking beer from cans and several lit cigarettes. Why did he get the impression they were putting on an act as soon as he appeared? One, who had his gloves tucked under his arm, was blowing on his cold hands. Several wore their large crash helmets, watched him through huge goggles.
'You won't find any street ladies in this dump,' one of them called out in a sneering tone.
'You never know.' Newman replied amiably and kept walking.
He turned right into the deserted South Street and saw the phone box. Once inside he lifted the receiver, inserted coins, and dialled Park Crescent. Three of the motorcycle gang had wheeled their machines into South Street and stood watching him. After dialling Newman turned with his back to the phone so he could watch the gang. If they started anything he'd crack a few skulls with the barrel of his Smith amp; Wesson . 38. Monica took the call, put him straight on to Tweed. Newman reported tersely, hung up the phone.
He walked back slowly, hands swinging slowly by his side. His very deliberate march seemed to worry them. They backed away to their original position. Newman walked on back to the Priory. A crop of the usual macho types. Then he remembered the motorcyclist Philip had told him had followed Eve and himself back from Kingston.
Tweed put down the phone after listening to Newman. He told Paula and Monica the gist of Newman's conversation. It's going to be an all-night session, Paula had been thinking.
'Well, at least I'm glad Philip at long last appears to have found a woman friend,' she commented.
There could be something significant about Eve Warner's reference to being in security.' Tweed remarked. 'And her reference to it being "special". I just wonder.'
'Wonder what?' Paula probed.
'She could just be Special Branch.' Tweed glanced at the wall clock. 1.30 a.m. 'I think I'll call my old contact in that outfit, Merryweather. Like Philip, he's an owl. Doubt if it will work but it won't if I don't try. Could you get him, Monica? If he's there…'
'What is it, Tweed, at this hour?' Merryweather demanded when Tweed picked up his phone.
'Come off it, Sam.' Tweed chided him. 'You can't work until night has fallen. And you are there behind your desk. I need a favour.'
'You always do. What is it?'
'I'm going to give you a name. If she's employed by you I don't expect you to tell me.' Tweed paused to let that sink in. 'But if she is not on your staff it would be a great help to me to know. Her name is Eve Warner.'
Now it was Merryweather's turn to pause. Tweed waited patiently, winking at Paula. It was a very long pause before the reply came.
'Tweed, if I tried to get the name of someone on your staff – or tried to check that they were not on your staff -would you tell me? Like hell you would.'
'This is serious. I'm working on something which has involved three murders in the past few hours.'
Try Scotland Yard. I can recommend Chief Inspector Roy Buchanan,' Merryweather added wickedly.
'You're a big help.'
'I always try to be. Keep in touch. Good night. Or rather good morning…'
Tweed put the phone down, shook his head.
'He wouldn't cooperate?' Paula enquired.
'There was a very long pause before he stonewalled me. It could be significant. Or he may have been reading a document. He does that, I know, when he's talking on the phone. So we just don't know.'
'Did Bob give you any opinion of this Eve Warner?'
'No, for some reason he was terse, as though he also had something else on his mind.'
'I've completed the profile you asked me a few days ago to draw up on Leopold Brazil,' Monica said brightly. 'It's a bit limited, with big gaps, but he's really a very interesting man.'
That was when the phone rang again.
'It's Chief Inspector Buchanan.' Monica said, masking the phone's mouthpiece. 'He doesn't sound in a particularly good temper. Shall I tell him you've gone home?'
'I'll take the call
'Tweed, I need a direct answer to a direct question.'
Buchanan's normally well-modulated voice had a hard rasp. Tweed settled himself more comfortably in his chair.
'Where are you calling from, Roy? The Yard?'
'No! From police headquarters at Wareham in Dorset.'
'Really? The early bird catches the worm…'
'This isn't funny. You know from my earlier call that two people have been brutally murdered at the Sterndale mansion. Did you know he had a living-in servant – chap called Marchat?'
'Could you spell that, please?' Tweed requested.
Buchanan obliged. 'Well, did you?'
'I do now. You've just told me.'
'This Marchat character – sounds foreign to me – has gone missing. His body was not found in the relics of the Sterndale mansion.'