Cargo of Eagles Read online

  ‘Exackly. I see my architects today and nice la-di-da shower they are, I might add. Trying to flog me the open plan lark. Asking me to live in a ruddy shop window so that ’alf Saltey can see if I’ve changed me dickey before I partake of me deep frozen ah lah cart. I give ’em my views on the subject and they looked at me like something that ought to be sent to an ’ome.’

  ‘Was that at Nine Ash? Did you see anyone else there?’

  Mr Lugg’s foot brushed sharply against his shin and the big man continued, his tone becoming loud with warning. ‘Neo Georgian might be the ticket—in a bijou style, of course. Now what about a touch of pig’s ear? Think you could keep down a pint?’

  Dixie Wishart, hostess of The Demon, who had appeared behind the bar was smiling and matronly, her rather old fashioned good looks sitting oddly beneath hair that had suffered from a blue rinse giving it alarming heliotrope lights in the massed curls above her forehead. A plastic apron decorated with continental bottle labels added another luminous touch and she rustled as she moved.

  ‘Sorry, I missed you when you came in, Mr Kelsey dear. What’s it going to be?’

  Mr Lugg gave the order. ‘My friend will take ’is restorative in your other pewter mug if it ’asn’t bin knocked off by the visiting narks. And you’d better give the old ’un his usual.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you.’ She raised her voice and addressed the immobile figure in the corner. ‘Very kind of Mr Lugg, isn’t it? Here’s a drink for you, Mossy love. Don’t forget your manners. Wipe your nose first and say thank you.’

  A thin grey hand slipped towards the bar with accustomed if surprising agility. The red rimmed eyes flickered and the glass was raised in salutation.

  ‘Properly kind, I’m sure. I see the Demon once when I was nobbut a boy. I say I seed the Demon. . . .’

  Dixie returned to her other guests. ‘Don’t let him go into the lecture—he still thinks you’re tourists and that’s what’s expected of him. He’s my mascot really, poor old gentleman. Over eighty, he is. Very good for trade in the summer. Helps to sell my cakes and H.O.’s little book. I made a new batch today, if either of you fancy one for your dinner?’

  ‘What’s in them this time?’ enquired Morty. ‘I smelt them when I came in.’

  ‘Same as ever, of course, dear.’ Dixie was on her dignity. ‘Ginger and cinnamon and eggs and cream, all baked like shortbread. It’s the original recipe handed down from H.O.’s grandmother. She was there, you know: she saw the Demon too.’

  ‘So you say,’ said Morty. ‘And very good for trade. I wish I could find something more tangible than your husband’s beautiful little essay in whimsy to use in my own researches. A good cook and a poet may create a legend but I’m supposed to be a historian, so where do I go for honey? Don’t give me old Mossy in the corner as a reliable witness.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with his memory of the past,’ retorted Dixie with spirit. ‘It’s only today he’s a bit shaky about. And if you’re not more civil about my Demon I’ll make him go through it again and again. Every session takes twenty minutes and costs a round of doubles, including me.’

  She raised her voice again. ‘You’ll tell ’em, won’t you, Mossy? You did see him, didn’t you.’

  The old man lifted his rheumy eyes.

  ‘That I did,’ he said, ‘I seed that acomin’ down the road as clear as yesterday. I see a lot of things in my time and that’s the truth, so it is now. I seed the old Prince of Wales when he was a boy. I seed a Zeppelin burn up like a firework show. I seed Jonah Woodrose drink a gallon o’ beer come Jubilee night when he wasn’t a grown man and never draw a breath.’

  He scanned the company cautiously and nodded his head.

  ‘And I seed Matt Parsley alying in his own coffin what he made for my sister, the morning they found him stiff as dried seaweed. If that weren’t Demon’s work I never seed nothing. And I’ll thank you to give me half o’ mild, Mrs Wishart.’

  He had undoubtedly made an effect. Their hostess cleared her throat noisily and turned on him with a swish of her apron.

  ‘That’ll do now, Mossy. Don’t you go telling tales out of school or you’ll get the place a bad name. One Demon’s enough in these parts and we don’t want any more fancy work. Don’t you listen to him, Mr Kelsey dear. He’ll fill your head with rubbish.’

  ‘Oh, but that was great!’ Morty was delighted. ‘Like old home week in the Catskill Mountains. Let him have his say.’

  Dixie bristled. Two spots of angry colour in her cheeks emphasised her wrath.

  ‘Not in my bar, he won’t. He’s a silly old fool and I won’t have my nice little tale mixed up with a lot of dirty village scandal that’s got nothing to do with it.’

  Mr Lugg nudged his companion and whispered breathily, ‘Tell you later, cock. ’Omely little news item it is, now I come to think of it. Go well with a nice plate of liver and bacon.’

  The long low room was beginning to fill with its regular evening customers and from the kitchen behind the bar came the appetising crackle of cooking. Dixie Wishart rustled efficiently from barrel to counter and it was some time before Morty could make his peace with her.

  ‘Where’s H.O. tonight?’ he asked, as she paused beside him to accept a light for a cigarette. She was only partially mollified.

  ‘Doing the chef, poor darling. He’s been what he calls overhung all day, which means he had a drop too much last night. I should know. He didn’t get to bed until two and snored like a pig until dawn. You’d better skip along and get the good table, the pair of you, if you want any service. The policeman from London will be coming in later and who’ll want to talk in front of him?’

  The dining room at the inn led out of the saloon bar and also looked directly on to the Bowl. It was furnished in sound Victorian taste, with rounded mahogany chairs upholstered in leather that had once been red and a surprising collection of Rowlandson prints. Rainbow bright tablecloths did their best to reduce the atmosphere to that of a tea shop. Two schools of contrasting taste were also evident in the mixture of pewter and plastic which made up the salt cellars and pepper pots.

  Mr Lugg devoted himself to his food with concentration and energy, only pausing for light conversation when Dixie made her appearance to produce the cheese.

  ‘Two loos, ladies and gents, on the ground floor, that’s what I’m going after,’ he remarked for her benefit. ‘Nosh in the kitch-bath. Main lounge with fitted bar. Boodwah corner for telly. Wot more could you ask?’

  ‘Got a name for it yet?’ enquired Morty.

  “S’matter of fact, I ’ave. Considering wot the rest of the place is called, I thought of calling mine “The Villa Lug ’ole”.’ He sucked a tooth reflectively.

  ‘Right. Now that she’s scarpered for a bit, I’ll give you the lowdown on Matt Parsley. Undertaker, carpenter and rowboats built, that’s what he was and lived very convenient to the church where that big black shed is right now. Now one morning, twenty years ago—and that’s a date ’is Lordship ’as been arskin’ about though he won’t condescend to say why—one morning they found ’im dead as ’orsemeat and twice as ugly by all accounts, lying in one of ’is own coffins.’

  ‘Laid out like a corpse?’ Morty was incredulous.

  ‘Well, not exackly. Shame to muck up a beautiful lump of wot you might term imagery, but the poor old worm fancier ’ad ’ad a ’eart attack, or so the doc said. Natural death, classy funeral, wreaths from the Sons of Lebanon, the British Legion, the Ladies’ Guild and sorrowing family. All very ah lar. But ’e was found ’alf in and ’alf out of a nice box of ’and finished pine, bung in the middle of the floor.’

  He consumed a final morsel of cheese.

  ‘I bin into the facts. Not with old Mossy, who’s so far round the bend ’e can see ’imself coming, but with one or two that do remember. Seems like ’e goes trundling up the road to Forty Angels wiv ’is box on a barrer, late at night like wot is customary in the trade, old Mossy’s sister being dead and lying there in �
��er bed waiting for him. ’E never got there. Hours later ’e comes trundlin’ back with ’is box still empty, runs the ’ole issue into the shop and corpses ’isself right across it. Barrer tips up, coffin slips down and there’s Matt Parsley lyin’ among the shavins wiv ’is ’ead in the coffin where Mossy’s sis’s feet ’ad orter bin. Simple, reely. ’Cept for one thing.’

  ‘Why did he turn back?’

  ‘Exackly. Might ’ave bin took ill on the way, o’ course, but them as ’eard ’im go into the yard where there’s paving and cobbles by the stabling, say ’e come ’ome on the trot. And there’s another little item.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘’Appened on a Monday night. Coffin wasn’t due till the Tuesday. His regular mate was off duty and wasn’t there to ’elp ’im with the corp, like wot ’e orter ’ave bin.’

  ‘That surely is strange, brother. Something must have happened between here and Forty Angels. Don’t tell me he saw the Demon, had a long chat with him about what he’d been doing since 1898 and frightened himself into a fit.’

  ‘Might ’ave, of course. Then again ’e might ’ave taken a drop too much, gorn off too soon, fell in a ditch, remembered what day of the week it was and come ’ome in such an ’urry that ’is poor old ’eart give out. That’s the Official Voo, according to the doctor’s ’andout. I don’t go for it meself.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘’E didn’t drink, not to speak of. Particular kind of bloke by all accounts. Everything shipshape and on the dot. You know wot I reckon, mate?’

  ‘I’d certainly like to.’

  Mr Lugg swilled the last of his beer around the tankard, lifted it to his mouth and appeared to pour the contents directly from lips to stomach.

  ‘I reckon,’ he said at last, ‘that if we knew the answer to that one we’d know wot this ’ole perishing shooting match is about.’

  Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Sergeant Throstle whose broad shoulders were emphasised by the Houndstooth jacket he considered appropriate for country enquiries. With him was a thin sad faced individual whose grey suit, creased and a trifle greasy, was so deliberately non-committal that it could only have belonged to a minor government official. The C.I.D. man waved to Morty and favoured him with a wink but settled himself and his companion in the farthest corner. They were talking in undertones and Mr Lugg, having made an overt effort to catch the murmur, finally turned back to Morty. The sound of a transistor beating out a history of frustrated love drifted from the bar.

  ‘Unless old Dickybird and that other rozzer ’ave got the place bugged, which ain’t likely,’ he remarked, ‘we’re as private ’ere as a flea circus wot’s gorn out of business. I’ve bin making researches today, looking up me contacts as you might say, and I’ve ’appened on a little something wot the official narks ’aven’t cottoned to yet.’

  ‘You’ve been in Nine Ash all day?’

  ‘Exackly.’ Mr Lugg was very pleased with himself and was savouring the moment for which he had clearly been waiting. ‘I come across an old pal in the Black Bull there. Not a nice class of person, reely. Name of Good, which is wot you might call sick ’umour. ’Orrible face, ’orrible nature and ’orrible record.’

  He shook his head reflectively. ‘’Orace Good is not the article, an’ that’s a fact.’

  ‘What does he do for a living?’

  ‘’E’s done most things in ’is time from ’ouse breaking to bookies runnin’ and informing but ’e’s an old man now and ’e’s a sweeper. Works at the ’ospital there and does all the truly filthy jobs wot you, personally, wouldn’t demean yerself with. ’E also cleans up the morgue and keeps ’is ear’oles open. ’E was there when they took a dekko at the late ’Ector Askew deceased.’

  Morty leaned closer, for Mr Lugg’s voice had sunk to a whisper.

  ‘What was his big news?’

  ‘’E saw the medicos fetch out the slug wot put paid to the gent on the cold table. Three eight, they said, standard type. Cupra-nickel.’

  He paused for dramatic effect.

  ‘What’s so special about cupra-nickel?’ said Morty. ‘I thought they were all made of the stuff. I don’t get it.’

  ‘Thought you wouldn’t,’ said Mr Lugg with satisfaction. ‘And the corpse fanciers and busies ’aven’t got the message either, from wot I can ’ear. It was made by Seligman’s, an old fashioned lot that went out of business before the war. Their stuff was very classy. ’Orace spotted it quick as a flash, on account of its ’aving a point as sharp as ’is own nose and ’im ’aving seen one or two before. They ’ad a special name.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as Silver Prince.’

  Mr Lugg nodded his head. ‘Silver Prince, cock. A silver bullet, in fac’. And if that means anythink except James Teague, Esquire, then I’m the ’ead mistress of a Sunday school.’

  6

  The Poet of the Saltings

  MR LUGG CONCLUDED his evening meal in the style which he considered becoming to a man of his station in life. He took coffee, smoked a small but virulent black cigar and accepted a brandy from Morty, which he diluted with a great deal of soda. Honour being satisfied he withdrew to the saloon leaving the young man alone, for Throstle and his friend had not lingered.

  The dining room at The Demon was an acknowledgment to the world that the inn was also an hotel since it served as a lounge for guests between meals. Morty made a prolonged attempt to read but he was not happy. For the first time since his student days he was in love and he recognised the symptoms ruefully, rather in the mood of a parent who has to face the fact that his offspring is starting chicken pox.

  Dido coloured his every thought. Her face came between him and the page and his reactions were slowed because he could no longer concentrate.

  When he reviewed the situation in an intense effort to behave disapassionately, he found no comfort. She was elegant and he suspected gloomily that she was probably extremely clever in her profession and undoubtedly surrounded by admirers who spoke her own language. He stood no chance at all. Even if she was not already committed, the competition must be continuous and ardent. She could take her pick from a score of brilliant rivals each with common interests and a start of five years’ acquaintance. Except for a brief moment during the alarming adventure they had shared she had remained cool, efficient and aloof. Now that he came to assess the situation he doubted if he had made any real progress with her. Any man would have behaved protectively and many would have made a better job of it. Dido accepted favours but only because they were strewn perpetually in her path and she was too nicely nurtured to refuse. Damn her, damn her for her style, her elegance, damn her for sweeping him casually into her net, for reducing him to a jelly, for threatening to hurt him irrevocably.

  He closed his book with a slam and as the cruets on the table ceased to vibrate he realised that the inn was silent for the first time that evening. The last car, the last motor cycle, the last transistor and the last late drinker had vanished. The lights in the bar were out and through the open window he could hear the lap of the rising tide against the wooden bulwark of the quay. It was a clear, moonless night but not totally dark, for the stars carpeted the whole sky and an occasional window still glowed to emphasise the black silhouette of the hamlet.

  Mob’s Bowl had closed its doors and had become a secret place, shrouded but still slyly awake.

  Morty tiptoed through the stale silence of the bar and strolled out towards the estuary where the air was still warm and tangy. The path over the saltings was irregular but this was familiar ground. Ten minutes’ cautious walking brought him to the higher area where the old fort was still marked by stones whose original purpose was so erased that they could have been an outcrop of rock. This was his place, his personal domain, the lookout post from which he could consider the world and the ache in his heart.

  From somewhere beyond human sight he could hear the scrape of oars in rowlocks and presently there came the grating of a keel on pebb
les and retreating footsteps. A light died in a cottage and a gull mewed forlornly. Now, he thought, now I am utterly alone with my melancholy and I can be as theatrically miserable as I please.

  Dido, my sweet, unique, unattainable Dido, where are you now? Do you even give me a second thought?

  ‘To the world’s end have I come. To the world’s end.’

  The voice behind him was deep and had an edge of sardonic amusement in the overtones. Morty jerked violently, realising too late that this was the reaction the speaker had intended.

  ‘Wishart!

  ‘The same. I wonder if anyone reads Macleod today?’

  The landlord of The Demon who had been standing directly behind him moved to his side and offered a cigarette. His voice was so low that in a crowd he was difficult to hear but in this silent place each separate granulation of sound lingered like a sustained chord. The young man could just discern the leonine sweep of grey hair above the broad forehead and he sensed rather than saw the twinkle of mockery in the hooded eyes.

  ‘William Sharp—Fiona Macleod, if you prefer his romantic side. You won’t have read him. Out of date, out of fashion. Yet he was a poet, you know.’

  Morty was still edgy with shock. He retorted brusquely, putting himself at a disadvantage.

  ‘Wrong. You are quoting The Immortal Hour. And if you must know I’ve read him on Shelley and Sainte Beuve.’

  Wishart laughed. ‘What a benison a little learning is. Do you know what I miss most of all in this ancient isolation? The mind of man, the single glimmer which goes beyond personal greed. It is a brutal hunger, Mr Kelsey. You are fortunate to be free of it. But perhaps you came out here to escape from company? This should be the quintessence of solitude. You have the time and the place—’ he hesitated and blew smoke into the still air, ‘—but not the loved one?’

  ‘Suppose you mind your own goddam business?’ Morty was irritated and off balance. His mood had been broken and the shock of Wishart’s appearance still tingled in his bones. His host took a step towards the remaining corner of stone and leaned on it, hunching his shoulders and turning his head away.