Cargo of Eagles (11 page)

‘Now there was a second absentee and he was a predecessor of mine, the landlord of what was then The Foliage, a henpecked and unhappy individual called Waters. I picture an
idyllic scene, the sunshine, the deserted village, only the call of the gulls to underline this unique peace. I am improvising a trifle here, but the deduction is inescapable. Mr Waters called on his friend Mr Kytie to comment on the beauty of a world without women and to give an additional quality to the occasion he brought with him a couple of bottles of brandy, probably from a private reserve. We sometimes have such trifles in these parts.

‘One thing led to another, most agreeably, and by mid-afternoon they were both fast asleep. The oven and the precious cakes were forgotten. Then the terrible moment arrived when the smell of burning aroused them. They were faced with disaster and inevitable exposure. Fifty potential Furies were about to descend on them and they had perhaps half an hour to save their skins. It was a situation which could well ruin both men for life.

‘But one of them, and I suspect that this was Septimus Kytie, had an idea. There was a wretched child hanging about the place, a miscreant who had been denied the treat. The old men seized on him, bribed him and gave him very precise instructions. He was to go and hide in a ditch between here and Forty Angels, get himself covered with mud and reappear when the wagons returned. On his way he was to do as much damage as any small fiend could lay his hands to. His story was to be that he had been knocked off his feet by a Demon. Kytie had spent some time at sea and had probably seen a whirlwind in action. His briefing was colourful and he had a willing pupil.

‘At this point a genuine minor miracle came to their aid. The weather broke and there was a sudden sharp storm, the sort of summer drencher which ends a great heat, accompanied by a good deal of thunder. Kytie and Waters added to the confusion by every piece of wanton destruction they could imagine. Mares in season were let out of stables, dogs unchained from yards, cattle loosed, hens driven into the street, doors were flung open, windows broken and boats turned adrift by the quay. There is no doubt of their success and they
probably had the time of their lives. The wagonettes returned to a scene of utter chaos.

‘In the face of this major disaster and the convincing evidence of a demoniac visit the blackened ashes of the cakes were a minor detail, though a very useful one from my point of view.'

Wishart paused to tap out his pipe.

‘Now mark the frailty of human nature. Within an hour of the return of the populace it appeared that a Mrs Woodrose who was bed-ridden and lived at the back of her cottage had also seen the Demon, and this made her both interesting and important. Next day ten witnesses came forward from Forty Angels who had observed him as he sped over the saltings. The legend was established within a matter of weeks. By midsummer you weren't worth talking to unless you had your own Demon story—something you'd seen, or something strange that had happened to your house. Before the year was out every single man, woman and child firmly believed in their own reminiscences. Except, of course, for the original conspirators. And two of them are dead long since.'

‘And the third?'

‘The third is old Mossy. He was the delinquent boy. You should have guessed that.'

Morty was delighted. ‘It has the ring of truth. As an historian I'd lay odds that half the unexplained phenomena of the ages started in pretty much the same way—the devils of Loudun, for example. Thanks a lot for your confidence. I promise I'll respect it. Your legend is safe with me.'

He straightened himself up, prepared to move. Wishart took hold of his arm and gripped it tightly.

‘The story has a moral for you. You should be wise to consider it. If you do not, I have wasted your time and mine and I become an idle gossip who has betrayed a secret to no purpose.'

‘The only moral I can see,' said Morty, shifting his elbow uneasily, ‘is the one any historian learns very early in his career, if he is going to make the grade. Never take anything
on trust. There's a logical explanation for every accepted mystery and it's up to the new man to discover whatever has been suppressed for the sake of a good story. Is that what you're driving at? I learned that one in Constance, New Jersey before my old grandma taught me how to make two holes in an egg.'

Wishart renewed his grip. ‘You mistake my meaning, but I intend to persist. You have referred to the strange happenings at Loudun, so vividly described by Huxley, and there is of course a common factor. What do you suppose it to be?'

‘Mass hysteria? Undernourishment breeding superstition in an ignorant, priest-ridden community?'

Wishart wagged his head. ‘You are missing the point. The common factor, my friend, is mischief. The basic human delight in doing evil if the opportunity to do so undetected occurs. That is why I have taken all this trouble with you this evening, for I am far too vain to be an ancient mariner by accident. If you take my advice, you will persuade your young doctor to keep away from Saltey. Neither you nor she belong here. I mean it, Mr Kelsey, even if I enjoy hearing educated voices.
Mischief, mischief, mischief.
Get away, the pair of you.'

The older man was speaking intensely, his voice down to a whisper and his head close. Morty's reaction was violent. So far as Saltey was concerned, Dido was his property, his to protect, his to advise. He shook himself free of the restraining arm.

‘Don't shoot me that sort of line, mister. I may be a sucker for tales of Demons but I can spot a simple piece of phonus bolonus when I see it. Plenty of people here think they're entitled to The Hollies—hence all these letters to frighten Dido off. They'd like to see her pack it all in, to sell the place cheaply and vanish. Well, my guess is, they're going the wrong way about it. If you know or suspect who's at the back of it you'd better tell them so. Spread the word around. Otherwise you are wasting your time.'

Wishart shrugged his shoulders. Against the stars his head had a massive dignity which was undeniable. When he spoke
again his voice had returned to its normal depth. He had taken no offence at the young man's outburst but he was measuring his words with care.

‘As you wish, Mr Kelsey. I am only an onlooker, too old for active adventures, even if I was attracted by the thought. But I draw your attention to a matter which you appear to have overlooked in your fine dramatic outburst.'

‘You do?'

‘The matter of Hector Askew. He was killed and killed by intent. This is not a question of superstition or mass hysteria or old wives' tales, but of what I will call mischief. Evil, if you prefer the term. Envy, hatred, malice and all uncharitableness as the prayer book says. It would be a thousand pities if your delectable Dido—or you yourself come to that—were to get yourselves hurt. Good night, Mr Kelsey. Perhaps you would be kind enough to lock and bolt the door as you come in.'

He took a couple of steps and had almost faded from sight when he turned his head.,

‘By the way, if you should hear a pebble strike the weathercock on the sail loft, don't go down to investigate. Just lock your own door as well.'

MORTY AWOKE UNEASILY
on the following morning. His mind struggled to consciousness through mists of sound and scent compounded of the mew of gulls, the grumble of men's voices in the room beneath him, car engines growing louder and suddenly ceasing, a burst of laughter which was not intended kindly and the reassuring hospitable smell of scrambled eggs and bacon.

Dixie Wishart, her blue hair escaping rakishly from the scarf which partially enclosed it, was bustling about the room, pulling curtains, stacking books on the one table the room contained and rattling china on a tray. As he opened his eyes she crossed to the foot of the bed and surveyed him, her hands on her hips. He had the impression that she was not entirely at ease.

‘Time to rise and shine, Mr Kelsey dear,' she said. ‘My word, but you were late last night. No wonder you overslept. Anyone would think you were courting.'

Morty heaved himself on to an elbow and scratched his tousled head. He was, she thought, a proper man, too clever perhaps but if she were twenty years younger . . .

The murmur from the room below rose and stopped abruptly as someone banged a hand on a table.

‘What on earth's happening? The place sounds as if it were full of people.'

‘Plenty,' said Dixie and clicked her tongue. ‘We've been taken over by the police. That's why I've brought your breakfast up here. I've been up since I don't know when and it's nearly ten o'clock now. The boiler is sulking, so there's no hot water for you. And Sergeant Throstle said to give you his compliments
and he'd care to see you downstairs in the dining-room in half an hour.'

Morty blinked. ‘Throstle? What in heck does he want?'

‘I really couldn't say.' Dixie conveyed that she disapproved, was deeply suspicious of all policemen and hoped that she was not going to be asked to believe the worst. ‘There was some trouble last night. Not here, I'm told, but out beyond Forty Angels. Now they—the police—are all over the place like blowflies and they're using my clean dining room to talk to half the lie-abouts in Christendom—all the caravan and tent lot out by the church. It's bad enough having customers in the bar when you can't tell whether they're boys or girls or raving queers. And they don't spend the money, you know, not that type. Not to say really spend. Shandy for the men and the girls on little drops of vodka and Baby Burpjoys and I don't know what next in the way of gut-rot. Half of them don't wash properly and none of them seem to do a hand's turn of work. They're getting the place a bad name. . . .'

She had run out of breath and turned to pour out a cup of tea.

‘Now you drink this up, Mr Kelsey dear. And get yourself dressed. I'll tell the Sergeant you're awake. I hope you've got an excuse for yourself last night even if it's a rude one. He's looking for trouble, that man is. I've never seen him in such a state. A London detective and not even shaved. You'll learn all about it from him, never you worry.'

With a rustle of plastic apron and a final rattle of crockery she departed. From below the voices continued, indistinguishable but punctuated by an occasional phrase spoken in anger.

Morty lathered his chin guiltily from the relics of the tea hot water jug, breakfasted while dressing and within a quarter of an hour descended to the saloon bar which led to the dining room. Beside the far door on a bench sat P.C. Simmonds, his arms folded, his helmet on the table in front of him and an open notebook beside it. The three other occupants of the room lounged in varying attitudes of nonchalance on the
window seat. They were dressed in the ritual uniform of their kind which consisted of tight blue faded jeans, decorative boots and leather coats. Each affected hair of the same length and each wore dark glasses which gave the group a calculated anonymity with an underlying note of menace. They were sitting against the light and it was some moments before Morty realised that the slighter figure in the centre who sprawled with hands in pockets and legs stretched was a girl. As she turned her head to survey him he saw that she had an ugly graze on her cheekbone but the masking sun spectacles concealed her thoughts as efficiently as a visor. The mark was identification enough: this was the motor cyclist who had run into the broken glass on the road to Saltey.

P.C. Simmonds nodded formally. ‘Morning, sir. It's Mr Kelsey, isn't it? I'll just take a few particulars and then I'll see if the Sergeant can see you.'

‘That's a bloody nerve,' said one of the youths. ‘What about us? Keep us waiting an hour but a lousy git like him can get served like a dose of salts. I'm packing it in.'

The constable ignored the interruption and began to write.

‘You're Mr Mortimer Kelsey, an alien but living here on holiday at The Demon which is your registered address. That's right, isn't it?'

‘Sure. You should know that by now. And could you put down Citizen of the United States of America? It sounds better than alien. I'm sorry if I'm jumping the queue, officer. I'll wait my turn. What's it all about, anyway?'

Simmonds eyed him without raising his head. ‘Mr Throstle will tell you.' He resumed his script, mouthing the words as he wrote. ‘Aged 26. U.S. subject. Tourist.'

The inner door opened and a youth shambled out. Apart from being taller than the waiting group there was little to distinguish him beyond a deep flush on his cheeks which did not match the nonchalance of his expression.

‘Next please,' said the newcomer, revealing a mincing
London accent and a reedy tenor voice. ‘And oh, nursie, my teeth still hurt me something chronic. Could I have a drink to take the taste away?'

Morty hesitated but a jerk from Simmonds' head propelled him into the room.

Sergeant Throstle, his hair ruffled and his chin showing the truth of Dixie's observation, was seated behind the largest of the three tables. Round the corner to his right was the sad grey man with whom he had been dining on the previous evening. He too was unshaven and his face from nose to ear bore a livid mark. One eye was half closed by a swelling that promised a sizeable bruise within the day. The grey suit was no longer respectable, for a sleeve gaped from its shoulder revealing canvas and torn stitching. He looked ill and weary.

‘Sit down, Mr Kelsey, if you please.' Throstle's tone was businesslike and his eyes had lost their amiable twinkle.

‘Now before we go any further at all, I'm going to ask you one question and I want a complete answer and no argy-bargy. Understood? Just what did you do last night between when we last met here—or say, closing time, which is ten thirty in these parts—and three thirty this morning, when I understand from Mrs. Wishart you returned?'