Cargo of Eagles (25 page)

‘The Bible is in the Code Room which is locked at this hour. Do I need to look it up?'

‘Don't bother,' said Mr Campion. ‘Let him do his own research.'

THERE IS AN
especial quality about the first working day of a new week in any village which suffers from urban visitors, a communal sigh which whispers ‘Now we are ourselves again'. On Tuesday morning in Mob's Bowl this spirit of relief from siege was abroad. Greetings at chance encounters were warm, the baker did excellent business in cakes and gossip and the Salt Street Stores which sold everything from lobster pots to synthetic cheese and backache pills was comfortably crowded.

Even the sprinkling of early holidaymakers taking the sun outside their bright tents and caravans seemed to relish the sensation of superiority over the ephemeral London starlings whose paper and carton refuse still scampered aimlessly up and down the gutters.

Morty alone found no satisfaction in the occasion. Dido had agreed to dine with him in Nine Ash but had made it clear that she intended putting The Hollies in order by purchasing new household equipment and that this task was not to be shared. The idea that she intended to keep the house filled him with misgivings. He was in no mood for his own work and by eleven he wandered unconsoled and purposeless towards the blackened ruins of the burnt out shed.

The arrival of two grey green 15 cwt. vans, whose anonymity suggested officialdom in some workaday form, in front of The Demon offered an excuse and he watched with rising curiosity. Three young men emerged, large cheerful youths in denims, in charge of a tow-haired leader whose jacket was so patched and trimmed with leather that it could well have been home made. Having conferred casually with his staff
he left them to unload a variety of equipment and made his way towards the single stump which marked where a lych gate had stood at the entrance to the churchyard. He was carrying a small board to which papers were clipped and he referred to them from time to time, taking measured paces, halting and retracing his steps.

Finally he called to his assistants.

‘O.K. Wonderboy. Starting from here. Bring us the poles and the number four quad.'

Morty knew very little of the mysteries of surveying but the opportunity to waste time by watching men at work was not to be resisted. He strolled across, accompanied now by various idlers equally intent on enjoying the prospect. The young men drove black and white metal poles into the ground, measured distances and calculated angles with a theodolite. They were in high spirits, shouting incomprehensible slang phrases as they worked but their purpose remained obscure. After a conference they concentrated their attention on the furthest corner of the enclosure where coarse grass and cowparsley concealed everything but the tallest headstones. A mine detector looking remarkably like a vacuum cleaner was carried from one of the vans and an area marked out by pegs and tape was covered inch by inch. It provided a mystery in which none but the initiated could share.

The deep familiar voice of the landlord of The Demon made Morty turn sharply to find the old man leaning on an oblong stone tomb immediately behind him.

‘That is the Wishart section of God's acre which is being marked and explored. My grandfather rested his bones there in 1870 at his own request next to Victoria Ann, his first wife who was childless. He was the last of us to find peace in this ground before it was closed. My grandmother, a Woodrose, who bore him two sons and three daughters lies solitary in the earth of St Michael's at Forty Angels. I often wondered if she resented it. What do you suppose those young men are up to?'

Morty shrugged his shoulders. ‘You could always ask them, of course.'

‘I took that step. They are making an official survey which, it was pointed out, was none of my business. They appear to be using a quantity of expensive government equipment so they must have some
locus standi
. What is your opinion?'

‘I'd guess they were looking for the same thing as your visitor of Saturday night. Your buddy Jonah had callers not long ago, or so I'm told. You should get together on the quiz programme.'

The poet was discomforted. He had aged in the past week, and the sudden years had exposed the weakness of his face without bringing dignity.

‘The days of collaboration are over,' he said. ‘You have never been blackmailed, I suppose, Mr Kelsey? If you had, you might be more compassionate, even if you have been affronted at second hand. But when the shadow lifts it is like the sun coming up on a soft day. One believes in everlasting mercy.'

He turned abruptly and strode off towards the inn. Morty, watching him as he picked his way between tents and caravans, found the retreating back infinitely depressing. As he disappeared into the yard of The Demon he became aware of a newcomer to the collection of idlers by the broken gate. It was Mr Campion.

For a reason which he could not analyse an intense irritation seized the younger man and for some minutes he made no move to join the slim spectacled figure behind the main group. Finally curiosity overcame him and he strolled across.

‘What the hell goes on here?'

The thin man continued to survey the workers in the churchyard. They were standing with their heads together, poring over calculations on the tow headed youth's board. There was obviously some technical disagreement between them which could only be settled by a slight change in the area they were quartering.

‘Ducdame. Ducdame,' said Mr Campion at last.

‘I don't get it.'

‘A Greek invocation to call fools into a circle, according to the melancholy Jacques. I hope the old English pastime is not understood in these parts. Tell me how many acquaintances of yours there are in the audience. For your information, Mr Jonah Woodrose who was with us briefly has just departed, leaving his foreman behind as an observer. Who else?'

Morty looked about him. ‘Wishart was here for a bit. There's an odd little bird in a shiny blue suit called Hamilton Dashwood standing on your left, beyond the green tent. He's only here at weekends as a rule. Constable Simmonds has just arrived on his bicycle. The two men in sweaters row fresh vegetables out to the ships at anchor and do a bit of fishing. The fat dame in the apron is supposed to have been a girl friend of Teague's in the days gone by, but a lot of the ladies have that reputation. The semi-dwarf is called Alan Sullivan. The tall guy in the dark glasses is one of the tearaway lot. They call him Moo Moo, the Dog-Faced Boy and God knows why. I thought he'd gone off with the rest of them and he's certainly no friend of mine. He's the guy I put on his back in The Demon. That's the lot and you still haven't answered my question.'

Mr Campion took him by the arm. ‘Time for a quiet stroll before lunch,' he murmured. ‘These technical birds are here at my request and if you want a share in the fun and games you must play along with me. I am hoping to exorcise the Demon of Mob's Bowl once and for all. Mossy Ling said he saw a ghost, but my private bet is that the ghost was very substantial and when the old man looked like saying too much he was literally shaken to death. I think, in fact, that he recognised somebody. It wouldn't take much to kill anyone in his condition and no doctor would be any wiser. It's not my business to say who killed Hector Askew, but I'd prefer it if there weren't any more silver bullets flying around. Even stones flung at the weathercock are disturbing to the peace.'

‘You're still being goddam mysterious. Do you get a kick out of it?'

They were beyond the cottages now and the narrow strip of road to Forty Angels twisted ahead of them. Mr Campion turned aside so that he could lean over a gate and survey the inland hamlet.

‘My dear chap,' he said. ‘I am only vague because I should hate to be wrong. If you want a share in the proceedings you'll be more than welcome but it's fair to say that they may be rather protracted and unpleasant, nine parts boredom to one part terror—a very usual formula. You might catch nothing more than a common cold.'

‘Include me in. What about Dido?'

Mr Campion sighed. ‘I have failed in my efforts to persuade my hostess to get back to London,' he admitted. ‘But at least she has agreed to keep out of danger. I hope she intends to keep her word. If you care to risk your own skin, there is a place for you in the ranks of the brave.'

‘Just what are you up to?'

‘You could say I am tethering a goat in the hope of enticing a dangerous animal. Tomorrow afternoon the hunt will shift to the copse beside The Hollies. The boys with their paraphernalia will do some preliminary research there. Then they'll call it a day and pack up, leaving a clear field. After that, because you know the whole terrain you could be very useful.'

He gave precise instructions.

Sergeant Throstle was not the happiest of men. He had worked until he was exhausted, missed a long promised day at Lords watching his favourite County play Middlesex and had achieved very little beyond a mass of detail about the private lives of a dozen women with peccadilloes to conceal who had not hesitated to show resentment at the intrusion. He sat in Inspector Branch's office and envied the local man his new uncluttered desk and his impending retirement.

‘A powerful lot of trouble adding up to a gale of wind that wouldn't blow a paper boat across a bath.' The old man's summing up was cheerfully delivered but it did not make pleasant hearing. ‘Ain't you got nothing else, boy?'

‘Precious little. There are two items of interest but I don't see where they lead. Old Miss Kytie knew Teague quite well. He was some sort of pet of hers.'

Branch shook his head: he was not impressed. ‘I don't doubt it. A wonderful lot of women fancied Jim Teague one way or another. None of them, that old girl included, could resist a rogue with a smooth tongue and a bit of real devil in him. Maybe she mended his socks and maybe she did it to spite the vicar or put her friends' noses out of joint. Maybe he brought her a bottle or two when he pulled off a smart trick. You could say the same of forty women up and down the coast.'

Throstle frowned. ‘Back to Askew then. He seems to have been disliked by a lot of people, respectable and otherwise. But not deeply hated. As I see him he was a very minor sort of blackguard living under his father's thumb, which explains why he wasn't married. His girl friends seem to have left him of their own accord and without regrets as far as I can discover. The other item of interest is that he too knew Teague, and Burrows as well, come to that.'

‘Couldn't have been more than a baby, could he? Do you reckon anything to it?'

‘Hector Askew was thirty-eight this year. Looked a lot younger, so I'm told. He had an adventure of sorts with them in the summer before the war, when he was about nine years old. He went for a trip with them in an old sea going lugger they owned. The engine broke down when they were half way to Dieppe and they went missing for a couple of days. I don't know if it means anything.'

Branch chuckled reminiscently. ‘That old hulk. A thirty-five foot gaff rigged cutter doing six or seven knots. The
Saltey Siren
she used to be called. Got around to a lot of highly remarkable places, if I remember aright. But I doubt those two
would be up to anything special with a bit of a boy on board. Still, it might be a pointer.'

‘Teague killed a man once because he was recognised. It could have happened again. If Askew spotted either of those two hanging round The Hollies he'd very likely have known who they were. That's how my mind's running.'

‘Back to the pirates, eh? Well now, it so happens I can show you a properly strange little masterpiece.'

Inspector Branch slid open a drawer and produced a booklet which he pushed across the table. ‘You recall mentioning an old friend, name of Dashwood? I took the trouble to look him over again since you brought him to mind. He works for Belcher's Novelties of Ipswich and gets around quite a bit to dance halls, piers, pleasure arcades and the like. The boys are giving him a little attention but I thought perhaps I'd keep a tab on him myself. This is his firm's catalogue. Just you run your eye over it, mister, there's a mint of good reading there.'

Throstle complied. Belcher's Novelties covered a very wide range of aids to public and private amusement from streamers, crackers, whistles, false noses and conjuring tricks to seaside souvenirs and dribble glasses. Small illustrations made the pages as crowded as an Edwardian draper's shop.

A cross in red pencil caught his eye and he began to read aloud:

‘Hiroshima Demon Masks. The very latest, directly imported from Japan. Surprise your friends with this unique and humorous spine-chiller. Trimmed with genuine goat's hair. A real wham for any party.'

‘Recognise it?'

Throstle snorted. ‘So that's where they came from. A very tasteful item as you say. It may help the Narcotics boys in some way but I don't see that it does us much good. Dashwood could be a pedlar—he'd have plenty of opportunity and a very good cover story—but it doesn't quite relate him to Hector Askew. Or have I missed something?'

‘You have, you know. Here, give me the book.'

The old man retrieved the list, flicked through the pages and pressed one open with a heavy thumb. Again a scarlet cross pointed the way.

‘The Gresham Super-Improved Catapult. In heavy all-aluminium frame with leather pocket and new (patent applied for) sighting adjuster. Powerful square-cut heavy duty rubber cord gives great range and accuracy. Not a toy but a true sportsman's instrument. Kills birds, vermin, etc. at long range.'

‘A true sportsman's instrument, Mr Throstle. That's what it says. Now I wouldn't know about that, but it does so happen that I've got one of these little old play things right here in this office and it might just give you an idea. An offensive weapon we called it when we took it off a boy who was doing a wonderfully mischievous bit of damage to windows in the Nine Ash Primary. Seeing it in that list and remembering the trouble we had gave me a sort of an idea.'