Cargo of Eagles (7 page)

‘I love a good fight,' said Morty. ‘I'm right by your side, lady. When you stick out your chin like that you could have my entire kingdom just for the pleasure of holding your coat. I could start, of course, by holding your hand.'

‘You'll keep your hands on the wheel,' said Dr Jones tartly.

Morty, sliding a glance at her, realised not without surprise that she was a grown woman, competent, finely tempered and not quite the beleaguered sylph he had been picturing in his daydreams. The thought depressed him and he drove in silence for a twisting mile.

‘I suppose you do know where you're going?' she enquired at last. The road they were following had become little more than an open track through coarse grassland. An occasional broken fence marked a boundary and an empty bungalow standing isolated in an expanse of uneven ground, distemper peeling from its blind stucco face, emphasised the desolation. A narrow board nailed to a post displayed the words ‘Victoria Crescent' in fading gothic print.

‘This is my Ghost Town,' explained Morty with a certain pride. ‘Not unlike the shanty towns of the Gold Rush days—very like them in spirit, now I come to think of it. It's a derelict area and I'd say it always will be. A swamp which used to be called The Trough. In fact it is the site of an old land swindle, the sort of thing which was popular at the turn of the century.
The operator bought a parcel of quite useless country, fairly near to one of the newish rail tracks, marked out a grandiose development scheme on a map—the Royal Esplanade, the shopping centre, Empress Avenue and so on—and divided the whole area into plots of half an acre or so apiece.

‘Then he brought down a load of suckers by special train, which you could get in those days, gave them a champagne lunch in a marquee erected for the occasion and held a sale. By then everyone was as high as a kite and the promoter sold off his land at a fantastic profit. One or two of the poor boobs actually built their dream homes here, but the roads and the drains and the Town Hall never appeared. Probably the neatest real estate trick in the calendar and darned nearly legal, too.'

Dido wrinkled her nose. ‘And all on the back road to Saltey,' she said. ‘It's been a great experience but I think I'll let Hector get me back tomorrow by some orthodox method, like taking me to a railway station.'

‘Damn Hector.'

They drove in silence for some time through an area of new open planned villas, writhing television masts, mini cars and mass produced respectability. The uncompromising predictability of street after street was as depressing as the straggling wasteland they had passed through and they intuitively shared the relief of reaching open countryside again. It was flat and uninspiring but now there was a tang of salt in the air and the rain-black road snaked between carefully tended fields, occasional weather-boarded farms with stridently new outbuildings and elm trees which were gnarled and bent by the coastal wind.

‘The last of the old forest is just ahead,' said Morty. ‘That bit of a rise on our left is probably the highest point for miles. They'd have felled that timber years ago if the land was worth cultivating, but from now on it's sour ground, mostly. That's what protects Saltey from civilisation—it's on the road to nowhere and you have to make a great U-shaped detour to
get there anyway. It's virtually an island cut off by the saltings.'

The scrawny woodland had retreated from the verge and the road curved gently to the left approaching a sharp T-shaped corner where the signpost read ‘
Saltey only. No through road
.' An ugly red brick farmhouse with a slated roof stood at the corner with its barns and pigsties hard against the tarmac. Tattered posters proclaimed that there had been an auction of livestock and furniture some time since and a notice board announced that the entire freehold property was for sale.

‘What the hell!' Morty pulled the car up with a squeal.

Ahead of them two cars were drawn up half blocking the road and immediately beyond, barring the way completely, was a laundryman's van, skewed directly across the turning. A push bicycle leant against the wall.

‘Looks like an accident,' said Dido, becoming professional. ‘I'll go and see.'

They got out together and as they approached the van they saw that a group of people were confering beyond it. A young policeman, his trousers still in bicycle clips, eased himself gingerly round the obstruction and came towards them smiling sheepishly.

‘Been a bit o' trouble,' he said. ‘I can't be in two places at once, can I?' He turned and raised his voice to include the three men who stood together in the lane behind him. ‘I wonder if one of you gentlemen would mind doing a little traffic duty at the corner or we'll have both roads blocked? Now sir, if you're going to Saltey you'll have to wait, and if you're not will you please move on?'

Dido pushed forward.

‘I'm a doctor,' she said. ‘Is anyone hurt? Morty, you can keep the road clear for a minute. Is there anything I can do?'

‘It's hard to say, miss. I've only just arrived, coming from Firestone.' The constable was flustered. ‘If you can get round here you'll see what the trouble is. There's a young girl—or I think it's a girl. She may be hurt but she won't say.'

Beyond the van in the neck of the lane the cause of the confusion was immediately clear. The road was covered with broken bottles which had been systematically smashed and distributed across the surface for several yards. The van which had been approaching Saltey had driven right into the vicious, jagged trap and had skidded to a halt.

Not far from it lay a motor cycle whose owner, dressed in bedraggled black leather and a white crash helmet, stood disconsolately beside it, a muddy back turned to the rest of the company.

Dido, whose shoes were not designed for such treatment, picked her way delicately towards the solitary figure.

‘Are you all right?' she said. ‘What happened to you?'

The black back turned further away and Dido repeated her question.

‘Are you all right?'

There was still no response. Dido took a step forward and swung the leather torso deftly towards her. Its owner had clearly not been expecting such treatment, for the eyes behind the mica visor of the helmet gleamed venom.

‘I'm a doctor,' said Dido firmly. ‘So don't be silly. If you're hurt at all, you'd better tell me.'

‘Oh, get knotted!'

There was no doubt now about the sex of the motor cyclist. She was very female, very angry and twitching with suppressed emotion. A smear of mud and blood down her cheek did not hide the fact that she was white with rage and excitement. Jerking away from Dido she addressed herself to the world at large.

‘Can't one of you bastards give me a hand?'

The driver of the van who had been examining the damage to his tyres shuffled towards her, kicking the glass from his way. He and the policeman lifted the machine upright.

‘Fork's twisted,' said the van man. ‘You were plumb lucky, miss he nearly ran you down.' He considered the massively engined monster with a mechanic's eye. ‘Not much wrong with
it, I'd say. Nothing that a wrench wouldn't cure. It's a heavy old thing. Sure you're O.K.?'

A shout from over the wall interrupted the discussion and a burly golden head which could only have belonged to a countryman appeared. An elderly birch broom was waved aloft.

‘That'll do the trick now, won't it?' he said triumphantly. ‘Someone's been having a rare old game here, by the looks of it. That'll give you something for your notebook, eh, Mr Simmonds? Better than hanging round that old Demon come closing time.'

He was a large man, remarkably pleased with himself. Vaulting the wall with the agility of real strength he began to sweep with energy and precision. The two other men followed him, kicking at stray fragments.

‘A proper mystery for you, Mr Simmonds,' he continued, ‘not but what I could give you a tip where to look. Young tear-ways. That's what you want to go after if you want my advice. And when you find 'em take the buckle end of your belt to them and ask your questions afterwards. Only sort of talk those young devils understand. . . .'

Dido returned to Morty. Some of the girl's anger seemed to have infected her and she took his arm sharply as a support whilst she pulled off a shoe to remove a fragment of glass.

‘Little bitch!' she said. ‘One of your friends from the sea wall, I suppose. Damn lucky not to have hurt herself and she curses like a fishwife when I try to help. That machine's far too heavy for her anyhow. This is a foul place, Morty. If it weren't for Hector—and—'

‘That's the only good thing I've ever heard about your infernal legal eagle,' said the young man. ‘At least it means I'll see more of you. Whilst I've been on point duty I've also been having a snoop around. There's a great pile of bottles behind that wall, all neatly stacked—or they were. Previous owner was quite a connoisseur. Champagne, Haut Brion, Mouton
Rothchild, Volnay . . . all the best labels. Perhaps that's why he gave up farming.'

‘Perhaps,' agreed Dido. ‘Don't look now, but isn't one of those cars a white Ford with a badly dented boot?'

‘It is, and Mr Jonah Woodrose in person is now sweeping the road and directing the proceedings. None of them can have been here long. Miss Tearaway probably took the corner at speed and came off very lightly considering that she might have cut herself to pieces, smartly followed by the Nine Ash Hygienic Steam Laundry. P.C. Simmonds is the local sheriff and not a very bright specimen. Saltey doesn't take kindly to the law. I don't think he arrived with the speed of light, but merely happened to be cycling this way.'

‘I have a feeling,' said Dido, her arm still linked with Morty's as they kept guard over the main road, ‘that this was intended as part of the Welcome Home celebration for me.
Beware of our dog, it eats strangers on sight
. I can't see why or how anybody knew when I'd be arriving. It's just a nasty little itch in my bones.'

‘Don't forget that I'm going to hold your coat for you, lady.'

Dido's chin came forward. ‘Looks like you may have to,' she said. ‘But the more I think of it the more I scent organised opposition. You don't know me very well—in fact you don't know me at all—but I just won't be bullied. I come of a large family, all males, and I know something about getting my own way.'

Morty chuckled with delight. ‘That's the spirit, my girl. There's a saying in these parts—I picked it up in The Demon—“
I won't be knocked out of my Know
”. We'll defy the foul fiend together. And to hell with the Forty Angels and Hector Askew, too, now I come to think of it.'

‘Poor man,' said Dido. ‘He hates being kept waiting. I ought to have been there nearly an hour ago. At least I've got a good excuse.'

The roar of a motor cycle exhaust announced that its owner was departing for Saltey at speed and in a moment P.C.
Simmonds appeared round the van, notebook in hand.

‘I'd best take your name, just in case,' he said. ‘Though I think I know you, sir. You're the American gentleman, aren't you, from The Demon, And you're a doctor, miss? You wouldn't be the lady who's come into Miss Kytie's house, by any chance?'

There was a half smile on his face as he spoke which suggested that he was going to add ‘
and much good will it do you
' but he clearly suppressed the thought.

‘The van has a tyre that's been cut and he doesn't carry a spare. He will move the vehicle away to the side in a minute which will just give you room to get past.' He cocked a speculative eye at the pair. ‘You
do
want to go to Saltey, I suppose?'

‘We're both going to live there,' said Morty firmly, ‘so spread the good news around.'

The afternoon was fading as the procession finally moved off. The road swept round in a long erratic curve between low cut butchered hedges separating heavy fields where the saltings, on which nothing but sour grass will grow, had been held at bay by deep drainage. A straggling line of bungalows and villas announced the village itself which was dominated by the squat Norman tower of St Michael's mantled in elms. It was remote, disinterested and apparently deserted, a huddle of mixed dwellings ranging from Tudor to Edwardian, each sited without consideration for its neighbours. Chapel brick and corrugated iron rubbed shoulders with white weatherboard and oak beams which had escaped the restorer's art.

The heart of the hamlet was marked by a patch of grass not large enough to be dignified by the title of Green, flanked on one side by cottages and on the other by The Angel, a sad hostelry which clearly found little favour with its intended public. It stood back from the road and the space in front of it provided a parking area now occupied by a single small station wagon.

‘Hector's here,' said Dido sombrely. ‘He won't be pleased with us. That's his car. He'll be up at the Hollies, that's the
official name of the house. It's a difficult drive to get into.'

The late Miss Kytie's property lay some fifty yards ahead on their left. It was a solid double fronted late Georgian residence faced with stucco, to which two ill-proportioned bow windows had been added. Dark hollies flanked it and at the far side was a brick wall concealing a lady garden with trees beyond. A white five-barred gate stood open at a rakish angle and gave on to a circular drive in the centre of which was a group of unpruned rose trees guarded by a miniature box hedge. Weeds sprouted from the pebbled pathway and on the ground floor the blinds were drawn.

Morty negotiated the difficult approach with skill and brought the Lotus to a halt directly in front of the pillared porch. He ran up the two steps which led to the door and tried the handle. It did not respond.

‘Try ringing,' said Dido. ‘He's bound to be here.'