Sweet Danger by Margery Allingham Read Free Book Online

birds, you’ve no idea how ancient it is. It’s probably the sign that the Children of Israel chalked up on their doors in times of persecution. The Ancient Britons used it when the Norse pirates swept down upon them. At the time of the Black Death you could find it on practically every door and housewall. The last time I saw it, it was scribbled upon a piece of corrugated iron in a devastated area in France after the war. You can never tell where it’s going to turn up. It isn’t an appeal to a Christian god, even. The symbol of the cross is much older than Christianity, of course. Usually this thing is found in terrorized districts, rather than in places where the danger has already struck. It’s a sort of – well, it’s a fear sign. It’s very remarkable to find it here.’
    â€˜If we could find a “public”,’ said Mr Lugg, on whom the phenomenon had made little or no impression, ‘we could ask our way. Then we should feel we were getting somewhere, and we wouldn’t be wasting our time any’ow.’
    There was no gainsaying the wisdom of this remark, and they trooped back to the car thoughtfully. The green countryside looked very peaceful and lovely in the late afternoon sun, but there was no telling what cloud might hang over this gentle unspoiled area, what secret might be hidden in its lush meadows or behind the branches of its leafy overhanging trees.
    It was eight o’clock in the evening when Lugg, who seemed to have developed a beer-divining gift, steered the ancient Bentley slowly down the hill into the wide valley in which the village of Pontisbright lay. The main bulk of the place was built round two sides of a square heath comprising some twenty acres of gorse and heather, interspersed with short wiry grass. The principal road, down which they came, skirted one side of the heath and dipped suddenly, to swerve at right angles at the base of the valley and struggle off northward, leaving upon its left a small winding river by the side of which was an old white mill with a largish house attached.
    The occupants of the car made a note of the mill. This, then, was the home of the Fittons, the children of a pretender to the Pontisbright title.
    On the opposite side of the road from the mill was a considerablestrip of woodland, and they guessed that the site of the original Pontisbright Hall must have been somewhere here.
    They caught a glimpse of another house set squarely in the far corner of the wood, a structure whose white walls and slate roof looked curiously out of place in comparison with the antiquity around.
    Lugg turned at right angles to the main road and brought the Bentley up with great pride before the entrance of one of the most delightful inns in a county famous for its hostelries.
    The ‘Gauntlett’ was shaped like an E without the centre stroke, and in the recess screened by its yellow walls was a cobbled yard, very fresh and clean. A row of benches bordered the yard and a large sign hung from a post planted in the cobbles. The ruddy painted board was much faded, but the outline of a great mailed fist was just discernible on a blue ground.
    The building was thatched, and its latticed windows were set crazily in the walls among the clematis which covered them.
    The bar door was open, and two old men sat drinking beer in the last rays of the sun. They looked up with interest in their little watery eyes as the big car appeared. It was evident that the arrival of visitors was doomed to cause a certain amount of commotion. Startled faces appeared at the lower windows and the chatter from within died down.
    Mr Lugg sniffed as he clambered out and held the door open for his passengers to alight.
    â€˜Pretty as a picture, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Look lovely covered with snow. Let us ’ope,’ he added solemnly, ‘that the quality of the beer don’t make it all a mockery.’
    Mr Campion ignored this pious