Precipice

'I expect you'll track him down.'

'I will.' Buchanan replied grimly. 'But not in the middle of the night. Now for the direct question – to which I expect a direct answer.'

'You said that before. You must be tired.' commented Tweed, baiting him. If he could get Buchanan to lose his temper he might let something slip.

'How many men have you got down here already? And why?'

'That's two questions.' Tweed responded mildly.

'Damnit…! Excuse me, I'll start again. I've been checking on hotel registers. At the Priory Hotel I find not only is Philip Cardon registered in a suite – in addition Bob Newman is staying at the same hotel in Room Four. I want to know why.'

'Philip,' Tweed replied smoothly, 'was sent on holiday by me. The first he's had since his wife, Jean, died – in case you've forgotten what happened.'

'You know I haven't.' Buchanan's tone had softened. I liked Jean, a remarkable woman. May I ask why Newman is also at the Priory?'

'Philip was very reluctant to go on his own, but I persuaded him to do just that. After he'd gone I thought it might be a bit traumatic for him, so Newman is there to keep him company.'

Tweed, you should have been a barrister…'

'No, thank you. Lawyers make their money out of other people's misery. Court cases involving bitter domestic disputes, just to name one example.'

'I must warn you that nevertheless I shall have to question both of them during tomorrow. No, today.'

'That's your prerogative. Why don't you snatch a few hours' sleep? It's almost two in the morning.'

'And yet you are still at your desk. I'll be in touch again soon. Good night. Or rather, good morning…'

Tweed put down the phone and sat bolt upright in his chair. He was frowning, staring into space.

'From what I could gather you fended him off brilliantly.' Paula commented.

'When you're talking to a shrewd man from the Yard you stay within the truth as far as you can. I know he didn't believe me, but he couldn't fault me. He must be feeling frustrated, poor chap.'

'Do you – or do you not – wish me to read the profile I've taken days compiling on Leopold Brazil?' asked Monica.

'I'd like to be fresh when I absorb that. Unless there is something in it you think very significant concerning what has happened during the past few hours.'

'One thing is,' Monica replied with satisfaction. 'Brazil owns a large old house in Dorset, at a place called Lyman's Tout, whatever that means. It's called Grenville Grange and looks out from the clifftop over the sea. He's tried to conceal the fact he owns the place.'

'How on earth did you find that out?'

Tweed was suddenly exceptionally alert. He stared at Monica as she replied.

'Well, I've got contacts all over the place, as you know. Some of them are clerks in the offices of your beloved lawyers. They shouldn't gossip, but of course they do. He bought it in the name of Carson Craig. Eventually I contacted your friend, the money tracer, Keith Kent – he was on a short visit to Paris. He told me Brazil has a Carson Craig as a deputy on his staff, that Brazil often uses him as a front.'

'You've done well.'

'I wasn't satisfied with that. I have a friend, Maureen, who lives in a remote village called Kingston up in the Purbecks. We've had lunch several times at a nice old inn called the Scott Arms. She described the location of Grenville Grange. Says the place gives her the willies. She had no idea who owned it.'

Tweed jumped up, walked over to look at the Ordnance Survey map of Dorset Paula had earlier attached to the wall. He traced with his finger the route from Wareham to Kingston, then the narrow road which led to the Sterndale mansion and another track to Lyman's Tout. He walked quickly back to his desk, sat down, drummed his fingers on his desk.

'That does it.' he decided 'At the moment all roads seem to lead to Dorset. Philip and Bob are down there on their own and I sense the situation is pretty explosive. Monica, I'm sending them reinforcements. Call Marler now, then Butler and Nield. They're to start driving -separate cars – down to Wareham before dawn. They must not stay at the Priory…'

'The Black Bear,' Monica said promptly. 'I know Ware-ham and it's in South Street, a five-minute walk from the Priory. Do they know each other when they arrive?'

'Marler keeps away from Butler and Nield – unless they're facing an emergency. All three can stay at the Black Bear Inn. Marler is a sales representative for something plausible. Butler and Nield are taking a holiday – their hobby is bird-watching. That will explain the high-power binoculars they'll be taking…'

Monica was reaching for the phone.

'Wait a minute,' Tweed rapped out. 'All three are to be armed – as is the case with Philip and Newman. And your first call is to Newman at the Priory. You'll probably wake everybody up, but they're used to it. Phrase the message to Newman like this. "The Buchanan Brothers are in town. Suggest an early breakfast for Philip and yourself, then push off somewhere. If the brothers contact you then you're in for a boring day." '

'Got it,' Monica replied, picked up the phone and dialled the Priory from memory.

While she was making her urgent phone calls Paula left her desk, sat in a chair close to Tweed.

'These are very heavy reinforcements you are sending. What triggered off your decision?'

'Monica's news that Brazil owns Grenville Grange, which is in the same area as Sterndale Manor. And I want a dragnet out to find the missing Marchat before Buchanan gets to him. He could be the key to what really happened.'

'You've got something else on your mind too. I can sense it.'

'Something I've only told Philip so far. I phoned Maggie, the General's niece, earlier. I met her at a seminar – very boring. But when she found out I knew General Sterndale she opened up with something that was worrying her. Sterndale kept the bulk of the bank's capital in a safe at the manor. Ran his own show. The capital was in the form of bearer bonds.'

'Which can be turned into cash anywhere in the West- they have no one's name on them. What sort of money are we talking about?'

'Three hundred million, Maggie said.' 'Oh, my God! Sterndale Bank's capital has gone up in flames.'

'If the bonds were still in the safe…'

At Devastoke Cottage on the edge of Stoborough, a hamlet not far south of the River Frome and Wareham, Marchat locked his packed case and looked at his new tenant, who hurried in with three cases. Partridge, a bachelor from nearby Poole, dumped the cases and smiled.

'Phew! That's the lot. Funny time to move in. Three in the morning. But when I got your phone call I just wanted to get here. Love this place.'

'You're satisfied with the agreement we've drawn up ourselves?' Marchat asked anxiously. He looked at the document on the table.

'Well, it didn't take long to make an inventory. Not a lot here, if you don't mind my saying so. Which suits me. How do I get in touch with you?'

'I'll write to you when my aunt confirms I can take over her flat in London. Do keep the place locked up.'

Marchat sounded anxious. It occurred to him Partridge looked very like himself. Strange he had not noticed the close similarity when Partridge had visited the property a few days earlier. Marchat had put an advertisement in a Poole newspaper, saying his cottage was available for renting.

'You said over the phone your aunt was unwell when you called me this evening, that is, yesterday.' Partridge remarked. 'Nothing serious, I hope?'

'No. She fusses. She probably rushed about too much getting ready to leave her flat. I know she'll move out when I have given her a hand with packing. You seem to have a lot of stuff to move.' remarked Marchat.

Partridge had already brought in five suitcases from his car earlier. He smiled, made a dismissive gesture.

'As I told you, I work from home. I've got a PC -personal computer, fax machine, you name it. I'm a financial consultant. I'll start getting everything fixed up in a few days. I want to explore round here. Lovely remote spot.'