Cargo of Eagles by Margery Allingham Page B

denied the treat. The old men seized on him, bribed him and gave him very precise instructions. He was to go and hide in a ditch between here and Forty Angels, get himself covered with mud and reappear when the wagons returned. On his way he was to do as much damage as any small fiend could lay his hands to. His story was to be that he had been knocked off his feet by a Demon. Kytie had spent some time at sea and had probably seen a whirlwind in action. His briefing was colourful and he had a willing pupil.
    â€˜At this point a genuine minor miracle came to their aid. The weather broke and there was a sudden sharp storm, the sort of summer drencher which ends a great heat, accompanied by a good deal of thunder. Kytie and Waters added to the confusion by every piece of wanton destruction they could imagine. Mares in season were let out of stables, dogs unchained from yards, cattle loosed, hens driven into the street, doors were flung open, windows broken and boats turned adrift by the quay. There is no doubt of their success and theyprobably had the time of their lives. The wagonettes returned to a scene of utter chaos.
    â€˜In the face of this major disaster and the convincing evidence of a demoniac visit the blackened ashes of the cakes were a minor detail, though a very useful one from my point of view.’
    Wishart paused to tap out his pipe.
    â€˜Now mark the frailty of human nature. Within an hour of the return of the populace it appeared that a Mrs Woodrose who was bed-ridden and lived at the back of her cottage had also seen the Demon, and this made her both interesting and important. Next day ten witnesses came forward from Forty Angels who had observed him as he sped over the saltings. The legend was established within a matter of weeks. By midsummer you weren’t worth talking to unless you had your own Demon story—something you’d seen, or something strange that had happened to your house. Before the year was out every single man, woman and child firmly believed in their own reminiscences. Except, of course, for the original conspirators. And two of them are dead long since.’
    â€˜And the third?’
    â€˜The third is old Mossy. He was the delinquent boy. You should have guessed that.’
    Morty was delighted. ‘It has the ring of truth. As an historian I’d lay odds that half the unexplained phenomena of the ages started in pretty much the same way—the devils of Loudun, for example. Thanks a lot for your confidence. I promise I’ll respect it. Your legend is safe with me.’
    He straightened himself up, prepared to move. Wishart took hold of his arm and gripped it tightly.
    â€˜The story has a moral for you. You should be wise to consider it. If you do not, I have wasted your time and mine and I become an idle gossip who has betrayed a secret to no purpose.’
    â€˜The only moral I can see,’ said Morty, shifting his elbow uneasily, ‘is the one any historian learns very early in his career, if he is going to make the grade. Never take anythingon trust. There’s a logical explanation for every accepted mystery and it’s up to the new man to discover whatever has been suppressed for the sake of a good story. Is that what you’re driving at? I learned that one in Constance, New Jersey before my old grandma taught me how to make two holes in an egg.’
    Wishart renewed his grip. ‘You mistake my meaning, but I intend to persist. You have referred to the strange happenings at Loudun, so vividly described by Huxley, and there is of course a common factor. What do you suppose it to be?’
    â€˜Mass hysteria? Undernourishment breeding superstition in an ignorant, priest-ridden community?’
    Wishart wagged his head. ‘You are missing the point. The common factor, my friend, is mischief. The basic human delight in doing evil if the opportunity to do so undetected occurs. That is why I have taken all this trouble with you this