Paul Temple and the Curzon Case. Francis Durbridge

a boys’ school.’ He stared smugly at Steve’s trim figure.

      ‘One of the masters is an old friend of my uncle’s,’ she explained. ‘I haven’t seen him since I was fourteen. He was the Latin master in those days, which is probably why I still find amo-amas-amat slightly romantic. I’ve invited him to dinner this evening.’

      ‘Sounds as though it should be fun,’ said the inspector. ‘Have you planned many other trips down memory lane?’

      ‘Westerby Hall?’ Paul suggested.

      ‘Westerby Hall,’ the inspector repeated with impeccable good manners. ‘Ah yes, that’s where Lord Westerby lives.’

      ‘Quite.’

      ‘I don’t,’ he said cannily, ‘know whether Miss Maxwell is staying with him at the moment.’

      ‘Never mind,’ said Paul. ‘If she isn’t there I’m sure the walk will have done us good. Our journey won’t be wasted. There’s nothing like the Yorkshire moors—’

      ‘I did hear a rumour that Miss Maxwell is dead.’

      ‘False, Inspector Morgan, as you well know!’

      Paul Temple had tried to find Miss Maxwell in London, but she had proved elusive. The flat which she shared with a girl called Bobbie Jameson had been empty when he called. Miss Jameson was dead and Miss Maxwell had left for Yorkshire. Paul had let himself in the front door with a sliver of perspex against the lock, and he had spent nearly half an hour searching for something to indicate what the girls were mixed up with. But he found nothing.

      It was obvious that Diana Maxwell used the flat merely as a pied-a-terre when she was in London. There were few possessions or papers belonging to her, and most of the photographs were of Bobbie Jameson. She had been the girl in the pub.

      The instinct for self-preservation which had prompted Diana Maxwell to send a substitute had also led her straight back to Yorkshire when death had struck. But three hundred miles, Paul reflected sourly, was not very far if someone was determined to kill you.

      Despite his boast to Inspector Morgan Paul drove out to Westerby Hall. He saw no reason to overdo the healthy life. The Yorkshire countryside was spectacular, but better appreciated from behind the wheel of a car. By foot it could reduce a man to exhaustion and madness. It made a man feel small. Westerby Hall was a mile inland from Dulworth Bay, nestling in a valley as if in hiding.

      ‘Let’s walk up to the house, darling,’ Steve suggested as a compromise to physical fitness. ‘We can look at these incredible wrought iron gates. I do believe they’re by Tijou.’

      They parked by the monumental gates. Steve examined them ecstatically, talking of Tijou’s work at Hampton Court and speculating on the likelihood of the master travelling so far north.

      There was a stream running along the high brown stone wall of the estate, and Paul’s eyes followed the glittering band of water through the valley. He could hear a noise like angry wasps approaching, and then in the distance he noticed a tiny green sports car driving much too fast down the hill from the moors. Its wheels visibly left the road as it leaped across a hump backed bridge and the noise of the engine became a roar.

      ‘Woman driver,’ said Paul.

      Steve had decided the gates were superb imitations. She turned away reluctantly to watch the sports car. ‘She looks like a woman after your own heart,’ said Steve ironically. ‘Do you think someone’s chasing her?’

      ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised,’ Paul said with a laugh.

      She was doing at least seventy miles an hour along the narrow lane towards them. A girl’s blonde hair streamed out behind her, reminding Paul of advertisements for motor oil. The aggressive thrust of the engine seemed to pause and the noise rose an octave as the girl changed gear.

      ‘She’s trying to stop,’ Paul muttered.

      ‘Brakes?’ suggested Steve.

      The car slithered suddenly, shuddered on to the grass verge, and without reducing speed travelled straight at Paul and Steve. It was almost entirely out of control, yet somehow the girl at the wheel managed to avoid them and smash into the wrought iron gates. The car came to rest several yards into the grounds with a tangle of irreplaceable metal twisted round the bonnet.

      ‘Damn!’ said the blonde.

      She leapt miraculously from the wreckage and waved to Paul. ‘Sorry if I startled you,’ she called. ‘The bloody brakes failed.’ Her head disappeared beneath the front wheels while she tried to trace the mechanical fault.

      ‘Those beautiful gates,’ Steve said softly. ‘Look at the mess. And she hit them on purpose, to avoid the wall.’

      ‘And to avoid us,’ said Paul as he ambled across to the car. ‘I’m rather glad she doesn’t know much about art.’ He stared down at the girl’s lime-green slacks.

      She wriggled out from under the wheels as he watched. ‘There you are,’ she said irritably, ‘the track rods have snapped in two.’

      Paul gestured sadly at the buckled bonnet. ‘I’m afraid that’s a minor detail now, Miss Maxwell. You need a new engine, and the chassis looks none too healthy.’ But he glanced under the wheels to see the offending brakes. ‘Dangerous,’ he murmured.

      ‘I’ll get my uncle to send the chauffeur down. He can at least have it towed away.’ She stood up and turned to look at Paul with her full attention. An impressive girl with pale blue eyes, much more commanding and poised than the girl in the cafe. ‘How do you know my name?’ she asked.

      ‘We’ve spoken to each other on the telephone,’ said Paul. ‘I recognise your voice. You rang me in London. My name’s Temple, and the lady trying to mend the gates is my wife Steve.’

      ‘Hello,’ Steve called.

      The girl was surprised. ‘I’ve no idea what you mean,’ she began. ‘I don’t know—’

      ‘You asked me to meet you in the Three Boars,’ said Paul. ‘But it was very wise of you not to come. You might have been killed.’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘By the way, I’m terribly sorry about your friend Bobbie Jameson. She was a nice girl. Her death must have been a great shock to you.’

      Her pale blue eyes were coldly deliberate. ‘I didn’t ask you to meet me, Mr Temple. I’ve never spoken to you on the telephone and I wish you hadn’t told the police I had. It caused me some embarrassment.’

      Paul shrugged and held open the door of his car. ‘I’m sure my friend Inspector Vosper was the soul of tact. Can I give you a lift to the Hall? It’s a long walk up this drive.’

      She climbed into Paul’s car without a word. Wilful, Paul decided, temperamental, like a well-bred race horse. He waited until Steve was safely in the car beside him and then drove off.

      ‘It’s my belief,’ Paul resumed a few moments later, ‘that you did speak to me on the telephone, Miss Maxwell, that you made the appointment and then changed your mind at the last minute. I suspect you gave poor Miss Jameson a pretty accurate briefing, and that her story about three attempts having been made to kill you was true.’

      She tossed her head so that the long blonde hair bounced angrily on her shoulders. ‘If I’d taken the trouble to make an appointment I should have kept it.’

      The house was seventeenth century with early Victorian embellishments. It was much larger than it had appeared in the perspective of the valley. Paul drew up by the huge oak doors of the entrance. Almost immediately a young man came round the side of the house.

      ‘Hello,’ said the young man. ‘Something wrong?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Diana Maxwell. ‘I’ve smashed up the Aston Martin. Ran into those bloody gates. And to make matters worse this is Paul Temple and his wife.’

      ‘Oh dear, the