It had been a pleasant drive from Sherborne for Paula – a cold February morning with the sun shining brilliantly out of a duck-egg blue sky. Pleasant until she had turned down the side road across Bodmin Moor. The sense of isolation had descended on her immediately, the bleak deserted moor closing in on her.
She had stopped the car, switched off the engine for a moment, listened. Not a sign of human life anywhere among the barren reaches of gorse-covered heathland. In the distance she saw a dominant cone-like hill rising up – Brown Willy. It was the silence which seemed menacing.
Despite the sunlight, a sense of doom gripped her. Of impending tragedy. She shook off the dark mood as she started up the car and drove on.
'You're just being silly,' she told herself.
Tresillian Manor was hidden from the outside world because it was located in a bowl. Wrought-iron gates were wide open with a curving drive beyond.
Lousy security, Paula thought as she drove in past the stone pillar carrying the name of the house on a brass plate. Tall firs surrounded the estate, isolating it further from the outside world. Paula gasped as she turned a corner, slowed on the tarred drive.
Built of grey stone, it was a smaller manor than she had expected but a beauty. Stately gables reared up at either end. A massive stone porch guarded the entrance. Six cars, including a Rolls, were parked below the terrace which ran the full width of the house. Mullion windows completed the architectural masterpiece.
'Welcome to Tresillian Manor,' a small portly man greeted her. 'I am Julius Amberg. We met briefly in Zurich.' He peered over her shoulder. 'Where is Tweed?'
'He's coming down with his people from London. I'm sure he'll be here shortly.'
Behind Amberg stood a blank-faced heavily built man. Paula was shown a cupboard where she divested herself of her trench-coat. She kept her shoulder-bag, inside which nestled her Browning. 32 automatic.
Drinks were served in a room Amberg called the Great Hall. Spacious, lofty, with a sculpted plasterwork ceiling, it seemed as old as time. A few minutes later Paula followed the other guests across the large entrance hall into a long narrow dining-room. The table was laid for lunch. Paula counted twelve places. Plenty of room for Tweed and his contingent.
She glanced at her watch. Unusual for him to be late. Her stomach felt queasy again: she must have eaten something the previous evening which had disagreed with her. She'd be relieved when Tweed did arrive. The sensation of imminent catastrophe had returned. She studied Amberg, who sat at the head of the table.
The Swiss banker, in his fifties, wore his black hair without a parting, slicked back from his high forehead. Under thick brows his blue eyes were shrewd, his face clean-shaven and plump. He smiled at Paula, who sat on his left.
Tweed is usually so prompt.'
'He'll be here any minute,' she assured him.
She looked down the table at the other six men, none of whom had spoken a word. All were in their thirties and wearing black suits. She suspected they were hired from a private security firm in Switzerland. They didn't inspire her with confidence – there had been no one at the entrance gate, and Amberg had opened the door himself with only one guard behind him.
'It's very good of Squire Gaunt to rent the manor to me at such short notice,' Amberg continued. 'Even though I have spent longer periods here before. And the butler and kitchen staff.'
'Squire Gaunt?'
'He owns the manor. The locals call him Squire. He finds it rather amusing in this day and age.'
'Where is he?'
'Oh, probably riding across the moor. While I'm here he stays in a cottage he owns at Five Lanes.'
He looked up as someone knocked on the door. The butler who had served the drinks earlier appeared, his manner apologetic.
'Excuse me, sir, Cook says she is ready with the luncheon whenever it suits you.'
Mounce, a Cornishman, wore-a black jacket, grey-striped trousers, a white shirt and black tie. A tall, heavily built man, he had the perfect manners for a butler, Paula thought.
'I'll let you know in a minute, Mounce,' Amberg replied.
'Very good, sir.'
'Gaunt has an excellent cook,' Amberg chattered on as Mounce closed the door. 'I hope you Will like the lunch. Asparagus mousse for a starter, followed by venison with wine. She is so good I'd like to steal her off him.'
'Sounds wonderful,' Paula said automatically.
The mention of food had brought back the queasiness. She was about to speak when Amberg checked his watch.
'Perhaps we ought to start. I'm sure Tweed will understand. In any case, that will probably bring him post-haste!'
'Mr Amberg…' Paula lowered her voice. 'Will you please excuse me for a moment? You showed me where the toilet is. Do start the meal – I'll only be a moment.'
'Of course…
As she stood up she looked out of the windows overlooking the curving drive. A postman had appeared, riding slowly on a cycle. She recognized who was arriving from the blue uniform, the peaked cap pulled well down over the forehead, and for a second sunlight flashed off the red and gold badge. Perched on the front carrier was a large canvas bag.
'The postman's on his way here,' she said to Amberg.
'Mounce will attend to him.'
Amberg was slowly drumming his clenched knuckles on the table. Intuitively she guessed it was not with impatience but with nervousness at the non-arrival of Tweed and his men.
As she left the dining-room and crossed the wood-block floor the front doorbell rang. Mounce appeared, used both hands to pull down the edges of his jacket, walked erectly to the door. Paula, carrying her shoulder bag, entered the toilet, walked down two stone steps, closed and locked the door. It was heavy wood, insulating all sound from the rest of the manor.
Mounce opened the door and stared at the postman. Wrong time of the day. Also it was not the usual postman who stood with a heavy bag looped over the left shoulder. The postman held a parcel in the right hand which was extended to the butler.
As Mounce glanced down, noticed it was addressed to Julius Amberg, the postman's right hand slid swiftly inside the uniform jacket, emerged holding a long stiletto knife. It was rammed upwards into Mounce's body, carefully aimed to penetrate with great force between two ribs. Mounce grunted, an expression of amazement creased his face, then he slumped to the floor, still clutching the parcel.
The killer stepped inside, hauled the body clear of the threshold, quietly closed the front door. Stooping, the figure checked the neck pulse. Nothing. Straightening up, it whipped off the cap, shoved it into the bag, grabbed a Balaclava helmet from inside, pulled it over its head, adjusted the eye slits.
It next extracted a pistol with a wide short barrel from the bag, walked over to the closed kitchen door, opened it wide. The 'postman' was inside, door closed again, before the four occupants – Cook and three local girl helpers -had time to react. Grasping its nose with its left hand, the intruder fired the pistol, the tear-gas shell aimed at the flagstone floor. The gas filled the sealed room – all the windows were closed against the cold.
The four women were choking and reeling as Balaclava produced a leather sap like a small truncheon. Methodically Balaclava ran round the kitchen, coshing each one on the head. Up to this moment the 'postman' had worn leather gloves. For the next weapon sensitive finger control would be needed. Stripping off the leather gloves carefully, hands encased in surgical gloves were exposed.
The 'postman' checked the time. Two minutes since the butler had been dealt with. On the central table lay a silver tray with mousse in individual glass bowls. Venison and other items were cooking in a modern oven against a wall. A hand switched off the cooker – no point in risking a fire. Glancing round at the unconscious forms slumped on the floor, Balaclava extracted an Uzi machine-pistol from his bag. A firing rate of six hundred rounds a minute. Balaclava left the kitchen, closed the door.