In the instant that Mason swung the shotgun round towards her, there was a blast of fire from the far side of the smoke screen — four shots in quick succession from Jacko's revolver and two coughing reports from the direction of the house that sounded ominously like an express rifle.
Had she in fact been where she had led them to believe, April would have stood little chance of escape. The chauffeur was hurled a yard backwards by the impact of several bullets, dropped the shotgun, spun round with upraised arms and then crashed to the ground. He twitched once and then lay still.
"One," whispered April as she wormed her way back be hind the bush to the boy. "Grab that 12-bore and follow me..."
They circled the illuminated lawn, crunching their way through an herbaceous border loud with dead leaves. There had been no sound from beyond the screen since the shots... And then suddenly the woman's voice: "You imbeciles! You've been tricked into shooting Mason... and now they have his gun.
"Good!" the girl breathed. "That means she's out in the garden too. Now, we're going to go indoors and see what surprises we can work there!"
She flattened herself against a wall laced with peach trees as the huge bulk of Jacko pounded across the gap at the far end of a short avenue of yew bushes. From the far side of the terrace, high heels tapped in the other direction.
April and the boy stole down the avenue, skirted a summer house, and found themselves outside the French windows. The house was in complete darkness. In the blaze of light which centred on the lily pond, the last vestiges of smoke wreathed about the inert figure of the dead chauffeur. Jacko and the woman were somewhere near the garage: they could hear their voices over the roof.
With infinite care, the girl pressed the latch on the nearest door. It sank down silently and the French window swung open. Inside, there was warm air and a hint of tobacco smoke, the lingering fragrance of a cigar — a domestic scent distorted by the harsh tang of charred papers in the grate. Through the drawing room, wide doors gave on to a darkened hallway. a chequerboard of moonlight was admitted through a leaded window near the front door, and against the subdued luminance of stained glass they could make out the silhouette of banisters slanting up towards the first floor. Somewhere a clock ticked slowly.
Catching the boy by the hand, April edged towards the stairs. Abruptly the hall was blazed with light and, from behind and above them, Wright's supercilious voice drawled:
"Stay exactly where you are. This is a Mannlicher — I don't need to remind you of its muzzle velocity. It reloads very fast: I could drill the two of you before you'd moved two steps. Jacko! Come here... indoors... I've got a job for you
There was an answering cry from the terrace. There followed the thunder of heavy feet in the drawing room — and suddenly the whole place, it seemed to April, was full of people. Dark figures materialised from the foyer, the kitchen quarters, the cloakroom, even the upstairs passages, and in an instant the house resounded to the noise of hand to hand combat!
The intruders, she saw with stupefaction, were all policemen, led by the redoubtable Superintendent Curnow.
Jacko's giant figure was immersed in a flood of uniforms and, on the landing above, Wright struggled with two men who were trying to take the rifle from him. With six hands on the stock, the barrel sawed this way and that until finally there was a sharp explosion and a shower of plaster plummeted down from the ceiling on to the policemen battling in the hall below. At the same time, Wright and his adversaries, taken by surprise by the shot, lurched against the elegant eighteenth-century balustrading guarding the gallery and crashed through it. There was a splintering crunch, and a thump which shook the timbers of the old house as the three men landed. One of the policemen was knocked cold by the impact. As the other staggered groggily to his feet, Wright leaped for the wall and grabbed for one of a pair of crossed sabres displayed over the stone fireplace.
The THRUSH man whirled, murder in his glaring eyes — and that was when Ernie Bosustow acted. Darting in under the gleaming blade, he dropped the shotgun, hacked viciously at Wright's shin, planted a useful left in the pit of the baronet's stomach as he jerked up a leg in involuntary agony, and then locked his fingers together and brought down his doubled hands on the man's neck as he doubled up, retching for breath. The next moment, Curnow and a tall constable were snapping the handcuffs on his wrists.
Jacko rose from the mêlée by the drawing room door like a balloon dragging at its moorings. With a roar of rage, he fought free of all his attackers. He picked up a beefy sergeant, lifted the heavy policeman above his head and pitched him bodily at the others. As they fell in a tangled heap to the ground, he shook his great head — and found himself face to face with April.
The girl didn't hesitate. Drawing back her right arm as far as it would go, she hit him — a long, looping, roundhouse blow that came up from the floor and buried itself with all her weight behind it in his solar plexus.
The giant stared at her unbelievingly, the breath whooping from his savaged diaphragm. Slowly he folded up — and then the police were on him again. And this time they had his hands behind his back and the handcuffs locked before he could draw one agonised breath.
"All right then," Curnow panted, straightening his tie and glaring at Wright. "Let's get the formalities over with, for a start. I must—"
"No, no." It was April who interrupted. "Mark — he's got Mark tied up in some cave with a booby trap bomb designed to blow up the station on the Tor. We must get him out first.. .
"Go ahead and get him out," Wright said venomously. "The door's not locked. Be my guest."
"Since we've got you anyway," Curnow began, "I'm in a position to say that, if you assist the forces of law and —"
"Law and poppycock! I'm saying nothing. You have..." he consulted his wrist watch "... exactly thirty-one minutes, Miss Dancer. And the best of luck to you."
The superintendent sighed heavily. "I think he means it, too," he said grimly. "Looks as though it may be up to you, young Bosustow, after all."
"I'll do what I can — but how did you get here anyway? What in the name of... How did you all get here? And why?" There was blank astonishment in the boy's voice.
"Have you forgotten already? You were carryin' on about it enough! You were being tailed, boy. We've had men on you for days. You know that."
"You mean... out in those seas... you followed in another boat? You sailed into the Keg-'ole? You found your way down those passages?" There was stark disbelief in Ernie's voice.
Curnow nodded. "When we follow someone, we follow. And there's others but you can handle a boat, others but you were in school at Porthallow and messed about down here as kids. Some of 'em maybe in the Force."
"So I did hear voices," April said. "But we're wasting time. Come on!"
As she seized the boy's arm and led him to the door, she heard the policeman say: "There's a boat out, down in the cove. Ready to launch. A nice freshly painted boat in a strange reddish-orange colour. Would it be yours?"
"Of course it's mine," Wright sneered. "I have a licence for it, too. I demand an explanation for this unwarrantable intrusion, this insufferable—"
"That's all I wanted to know... Gerald Everard Wright, I am a police officer engaged in enquiries into the deaths of Sheila Duncan and Harry Bosustow. I have reason to believe that you may be able to help the police in their enquiries and I must ask you…