Cargo of Eagles by Margery Allingham

ergo, is of her vintage.’
    â€˜O.K. So you had a letter from some anonymous old harridan. What did she say?’
    â€˜You will not care for the contents. I may be an indifferent Boniface but I am equipped to be your mentor in some respects. It said that I should not accept a Jezebel as a guest, a “Whore of Babylon” was the phrase. It stated that the delectable Dr Jones had been conducting a liaison with the late Hector Askew, in order to inherit Miss Kytie’s property. This suggestion was colourfully supplemented and in some detail. The writer added that since Askew had been struck, rightly, by the vengeance which Jehovah wreaks upon the sinners of thisworld, the doctor was now casting libidinous eyes upon the body of Mortimer Kelsey and that he too stood in danger of receiving a retributive thunderbolt from the servants of Nemesis now resident here on earth. Not a particularly Christian document but it struck a religious note.’
    Morty snorted. ‘There’s nothing new in it. Dr Jones tells me she’s given hers to the police. You ought to have done the same.’
    â€˜A little beyond our local Dogberry, I fear. As for the amiable Throstle, his hands are full elsewhere. The two happenings—the death of Askew and these letters—have only the remotest of basic connections in my arrogant opinion. You don’t understand us in Saltey, Mr Kelsey, and there are long odds that you never will.’
    â€˜I can see that a group of evil minded jealous and greedy old witches are trying to frighten Dido out of her wits—trying to scare her off by a pack of lies and slanders.’
    â€˜Just so. The question is, will they succeed?’
    Morty considered. The picture of Dido, angry, cool and determined, came vividly to him.
    â€˜I’d say no. She’s a hell of a girl. Spooks and mumbo jumbo, wisecracks from old Rip Van Winkle in your bar and all the broken glass in creation wouldn’t keep her out if she gave her mind to it. If you want my bet I’d say that the bigger the opposition the more determined she’d be to fight it.’
    â€˜I thought you might form that impression.’ Wishart pulled a pipe from his pocket and filled it. When it was satisfactorily alight he spoke again.
    â€˜You call yourself a historian, Mr Kelsey. Have you come to any conclusion about our Demon? My impression was that you came here originally because you were attracted by that significant piece of mythology.’
    â€˜It’s largely true—that and my thesis. I’ve read your book of course. Why do you ask?’
    â€˜Because it has a bearing on your problem. If you can read that riddle you can touch the fringe of knowledge. Understandthe Demon and you have the clue to our psychology. My pamphlet is a bait for the tripper trade, written at the insistence of my dear wife. Those who can read between the lines will find some amusement at what are called “in-jokes” today. It is an experiment in the forgery of folk lore. Yet the story has an origin, a basis in fact. Have you no idea what it could be?’
    â€˜According to your fairy tale,’ said Morty, giving his mind to the subject with an effort, ‘on June 7th 1895 the village of Saltey, or rather the Mob’s Bowl end of it, was visited by a Demon who rushed down the road, smashed gates and windows, broke moorings, took tiles off roofs, destroyed crops and generally had himself such a ball that the place took years to recover. The story has been handed down from those who saw him to their children’s children as if they were the warriors of Bunkers Hill or Agincourt. A lot of embroidery has been added on the way, of course—the baby found in the middle of a haystack, the two headed calf, the plague of bats, the cloven hoof marks in the churchyard and the remarkable cakes cooking in the bakehouse oven. I rather go for the bats myself and I should say they were your contribution. But