Cargo of Eagles (17 page)

‘Forgive me,' Mr Campion was diffident, ‘but the man appears to be quite a lively character. Is there anything remarkable in his having a night on the tiles?'

‘Oh, bless you, no,' said Mrs Weatherby. ‘He's a one for his roll in the hay. But always back by two in the morning, regular as clockwork. Whatever else you can say about him, he's a worker. I wouldn't give a thought to it if it weren't for what I happened to notice whilst I was walking round to the back door. The front is kept permanently locked, except for funerals of course, and it took me a minute or two to rout out Nellie Carp. She certainly expected him back on Saturday night or early Sunday morning and was very cagey about telling me anything. You know how suspicious these country people are—they won't let you in the house if they can help it. It was just as well I took a peek inside before the light went. Jonah uses one of the front rooms with big french windows as his office. I wouldn't call him a tidy man at the best of times, but the place was a shambles—cupboards wide open and papers all over the floor. In my opinion Jonah did a moonlight flit on Saturday afternoon and did his packing in about four seconds flat. He drives a terrible old Ford that I'm sure isn't road worthy. He's still not back because I rang up half an hour ago. What do you make of that? I only ask because I want to know.'

Mr Campion considered. ‘I think you can take it that
something
has happened,' he said at last. ‘The housekeeper isn't thinking of going to the police?'

The suggestion drew a snort from Mrs Weatherby.

‘You can bet your boots that she won't. Jonah hates any sort of official and he'll take a shotgun to a man in uniform at the drop of a hat. He's done it before and landed himself in hot water. Nellie Carp is scared stiff if I'm any judge and she won't make any move in case she does wrong. He's a hard man and inclined to blow his top if he's put out.'

Mr Campion stood up. ‘I think,' he said judicially, ‘that we might pay Cheffin's Farm a visit. I'd like to have a look at the room which Mr Woodrose has left so untidy before anyone else does. Do you think you could arrange suitable introductions?'

It was some moments before Mrs Weatherby answered. Finally she shook her head.

‘Difficult,' she said. ‘Damn difficult. That woman will behave like a frightened oyster if I know her. We could have a bash at it, of course, but I doubt if you'll get over the doorstep.'

‘Not even if Morty who is handsome and persuasive found some pressing reason to ask permission to investigate, say, the hammer beams in the old barn? With your help he might be able to spin out the conversation for quite a time. Ten minutes ought to be sufficient.'

Mrs Weatherby's expression became conspiratorial.

‘Synchronise watches, what? We create a diversion at the rear whilst the main attack goes in from the front?'

‘Something of the sort,' admitted Mr Campion. ‘Perhaps you could show us the way?'

Cheffin's Farm was at the mouth of the road leading into Saltey and the land opposite the ill fated corner on the seaward side. The approach lane, long twisting and narrow, was ill kept and pock-marked with dangerous holes which Mrs Weatherby skirted on her motor scooter with impressive flair. Her skill was constantly demonstrated for at each bend she turned in the saddle and waved to them over her shoulder as they followed in Mr Campion's comfortable Hawk. The solid Georgian house of grey brick and slate had a cold
unwelcoming air even in sunlight, emphasised by untrimmed laurels and a large weeping willow which sprawled like a yellow octopus beside the pillared portico. Several of the upper windows were shuttered and the whole establishment proclaimed that it served a bachelor whose interests were not domestic. Only the outbuildings behind the house showed signs of prosperity and Mrs Weatherby led Morty towards them with the slogging tread of a route marcher. Mr Campion could hear her authoritative tones long after the pair were out of sight.

‘Old? My dear man, old as the hills. Why, in my grandfather's time we thought there was a prehistoric barrow in the long field. It turned out to be a mound built for a windmill, of course, but that didn't prove . . . Ah, there you are, Mrs Carp. . . .'

Mr Campion gave them plenty of time before he moved. Then he slipped quietly out of his car and disappeared like a shadow into the enveloping branches of the willow. No professional burglar could have asked for better cover.

He was back in the driver's seat long before his fellow conspirators returned. Morty, putting his head in at the opposite door, found him apparently asleep at the wheel.

‘That was real hard work,' said Morty, breathing heavily. ‘I had to talk my head off before the old woman would even admit that she could see me standing in front of her. She's more like a terrified codfish than a human being. But Mon was just great—gave me the biggest build up of all time. Still no dice at all as far as any news about Jonah is concerned. How about your end?'

The thin man smiled. ‘Have no fear, young sir. I will reveal all when we get back to The Hollies,' he said as Mrs Weatherby sped off down the lane. ‘This is no place for a conference. I hope Lugg has provided us with sherry.'

‘If I know the lady, she'll take what she calls a Harry pinkers,' said Morty. ‘She likes it dryer than the driest Martini in the business. I didn't know you bred them like that any
longer. What odds will you give me that she says “Bungho”?'

Mr Campion appeared to give the matter earnest consideration. ‘Evens on “Down the hatch”,' he decided and continued the journey in silence.

Mrs Weatherby disappointed both of them. Despite a remarkable assortment of drinks ranging from stout to white port laid out by Mr Lugg on the table in the conservatory, she refused refreshment.

‘Can't stay more than half a jiffy,' she explained. ‘Got to catch the dreariest Institute lunch for my local rag. But I simply must know about Jonah. Has he really skedaddled, and if so, why?'

Mr Campion eyed her thoughtfully over his glasses.

‘Off the record?'

‘Never a word, may I die. Has he bunked?'

The room was heavy with the aroma of eucalyptus from the thrusting rubbery tree which was rapidly outgrowing the glazing of the roof. Mr Campion opened the long glass doors and looked round the lush wilderness beyond before he answered.

‘Mr Jonah Woodrose,' he said at last, ‘has had visitors. I don't know the chap's personal habits, of course, but no one in his senses makes a mess like that in his own house if he has a clue where to look for what he wants. He's been broken into and entered, as we say in court. Somebody has made a pretty thorough search of the place and this includes a couple of large secret recesses built into the back of fitted cupboards. Jonah would have known how to get at them. His visitor didn't. He evidently had a rough idea where they were but he didn't know the trick of opening false backs. He just smashed them, probably with a poker. Only Jonah could tell if anything was taken but the visitor certainly wasn't looking for spirits. Both hidey-holes are full of brandy and most of it appears to have been there for quite a time. Whether the raider took anything or not is anybody's guess. But one thing is clear. All this must have happened after Jonah left.'

‘And he's not back yet,' said Morty. ‘I'd say he'd been hi-jacked—kidnapped to keep him out of the way.'

Mrs Weatherby was delighted. ‘It'd do the old ruffian a power of good. What a lark, eh? So glad I dropped in on you two this morning. Now a promise is a promise but you won't be able to keep the news quiet for long. Give me a buzz if anything breaks. Now I really must fly like a bat out of hell but you do give me your word—'

Mr Campion nodded solemnly. ‘You have my personal guarantee,' he said, ‘and none genuine without the signature on the wrapper. Unless, of course . . .'

‘Unless what?'

‘Unless he turns up. I doubt if he is a very truthful character. His explanation, if he's forced to give one, might be simple but unprintable.'

The birdlike speculation died in Mrs Weatherby's eyes. ‘That would be disappointing,' she said. ‘We must all hope for the worst, mustn't we? A disaster to Jonah would make tophole copy. Now I really must say Toodle-oo. I'll let myself out. Keep in touch, chaps.'

The pleasant green arbour seemed curiously empty after her departure. Mr Campion stretched his legs from the verandah chair to the low table in the centre of the room and sipped his drink absently. Outside late chestnut candles mingled with the profusion of may trees and the scented air was warmly lazy.

Morty broke the silence. ‘Where do we go for honey?' he enquired.

It was some time before the older man answered and when he spoke he was clearly thinking aloud.

‘Jonah Woodrose is a predictable creature,' he said. ‘Dozens of people know his routine over a weekend and probably one or two know precisely where he goes. The cause of his disappearance is more likely to lie here, rather than in London. Anyone who wanted him out of the way could set a trap for him quite easily, especially as he always takes your back road
home. The back road passes through The Trough—your old ghost town. We might be doing ourselves and him a service by restoring him to the agitated bosom of Mrs Carp before there are any official enquiries.'

He stood up. ‘This is a time for long shots. I think we should explore Victoria Crescent and the Royal Esplanade.'

THE DIFFICULTIES AND
hazards of exploration are usually formidable in any part of the world and the area marked on the Ordnance Survey of 1900 as Eastonville, a title which has long since vanished, could be classed as inhospitable terrain. Mr Campion, driving cautiously down a track labelled Runnymede Road, regretted that he had not equipped himself with a Land Rover or a Bren carrier, for the landscape suggested that it could well have been a battlefield abandoned for a century after a brobdinagian barrage.

‘These mounds,' explained Morty, ‘are ancient rubbish dumps and the swamps between them are just goddam swamps.'

‘Probably malarial.' Mr Campion spoke with feeling. ‘I think we should turn off here at Albion Terrace. There are tyre marks going that way.'

For some time they followed the trail which led through a group of caravans, multiplied and split tantalisingly in three directions. The area was not entirely uninhabited and since it was unapproachable without some form of transport, each decaying villa or shack appeared to possess its own means of communication with the outside world. Passing the completed half of what should have been a semi-detached villa marked by an inscription
‘Glastonbury. No Hawkers, no Circulars. Beware of the Dog'
, Mr Campion halted the car at the intersection of four rutted roads. The afternoon had been exhausting. No one, it seemed, had remarked Jonah Woodrose or his white Ford and the search of a dozen empty ruins had revealed nothing more exciting than broken tin baths, discarded corsets and the rusting carcases of dead vehicles.

He got out. ‘If we walk to the top of the next mountain we should command a reasonable view of the landscape. It will give us a peak to stand on, even if my wild surmise turns out to be a busted flush as empty as a shark's egg.'

The ascent over the uneven slope was not easy but at the top it was possible to see that the derelict wilderness had once been planned to develop logically outwards from a circular track far behind them. It was late in the afternoon and from the chimney stack of a distant factory to the north a single plume of white smoke hung in the pale sky. Nothing moved and even a dog who had resented their approach and continued his complaint long after, was satisfied that it was safe to be silent.

As they turned to go Campion, who had been ranging the squalid countryside through binoculars, caught his companion's arm.

‘Don't look now,' he said. ‘Or rather—do. There seems to be an ancient Briton standing by the car.'

He passed the glasses to Morty. In front of the Hawk, looking up at them with one hand shading his eyes stood a wild figure, bulky, red faced and dishevelled. He was draped in a ragged army blanket which he clutched to his stomach and apart from that appeared to be completely naked. Seeing that he had their attention he waved.

‘And that, if I mistake not, Watson, is our client,' murmured Campion. ‘He seems to havs spent a discouraging weekend.'

Jonah Woodrose greeted them with a sheepish smile which did not entirely conceal a hint of truculence.

‘Had a bit o' trouble.' he said. ‘I wonder if you two gentlemen . . . why, you're the American chap from The Demon, ain't yer? Properly glad to see you, so I am. Could you give me a lift, now?'

At close quarters his appearance was startling. His fair hair which had once been carefully combed over a bald dome of forehead hung in a lank wisp behind one ear and a heavy stubble sprouted from his chin. His cheeks were grazed and scarred and there was a blue lump beneath one eye. Morty was
reminded sharply of the last time he had seen those signs.

‘What in heck have you been up to?' he demanded. ‘Kidnapped by gipsies?'

Jonah scowled at him. ‘Never you mind. Just give me a lift back to Saltey, that's all I ask. I'd be properly grateful and that's the truth, but I'll mind my business and I'll thank you to mind yours. If it's the price of a gallon of petrol you're afraid of—'

Mr Campion cut him short.

‘Didn't you come here in a car?' he enquired mildly. ‘Any idea where it is now?'

The man in the blanket jerked his head. ‘Over yonder. In a little bit of a barn with half a roof. And a powerful lot of good it is, with the leads gone and the keys lost. No, no, you get me home, mister. I'll take care of that, come the time.' He shivered involuntarily. ‘Uncommon cold it is, standing here in a rug full of fleas.'