The headland, which was not more than a hundred yards across at the base, jutted sharply out into the sea. Immediately beyond it, on the Staveley side, the road ran along the edge of the cliffs for several hundred yards, with a light rail fence on the outside as some protection for traffic from the danger of going over the side to the rocks below. Where the grassy margin of the headland narrowed to this dangerous pass, an ancient and faded notice board on a post which had departed from its perpendicular position warned drivers that the next portion of the road was DANGEROUS, and a similar board was affixed to the other end of the protecting fence.
Marsland stopped opposite the point where the first notice-board confronted them from the narrowing margin of headland.
“It was somewhere about here that my horse took fright last night, I think,” he said, examining the green bank on the side of the road farthest from the cliff. “Yes, here is where he slipped.”
Crewe examined the deep indentation of hoofmarks with interest.
“It’s lucky for you your horse shied in that direction,” he said. “If he had sprung the other way you might have gone over the cliffs, in spite of the fence. Look here!”
Marsland followed him to the edge of the cliff and glanced over. The tide was out, and the cliffside fell almost perpendicularly to the jagged rocks nearly 300 feet below.
“They’d be covered at high tide,” said Crewe, pointing downward to the rocks. “But even if one fell over at high tide there would not be much chance of escape. The breakers must come in with terrific force on this rocky coast.”
“It’s a horribly dangerous piece of road, especially at night-time,” said Marsland. “I suppose there was some bad accident here at one time or another, which compelled the local authorities to put up that fence and the warning notices. Even now, it’s far from safe. Somebody’s had a narrow escape from going over: look at that notice-board leaning down on one side. Some passing motor-car has gone too close to the edge of the road—probably in the dark—and bumped it half over.”
“I noticed it,” said Crewe. “I agree with you: this piece of road is highly dangerous. There will be a shocking accident here some day unless the local authorities close this portion of the road and make a detour to that point lower down where those sheep are grazing. But local authorities never act wisely until they have had an accident. Still, I suppose the people of the country-side are so well used to this cliff road that they never think of the danger. Apparently it’s the only road between Ashlingsea and Staveley.”
Crewe slowly filled his large pipe, and lit it. He smoked thoughtfully, gazing round at the scene. The high headland on which they stood commanded an uninterrupted view of downs, sea, and coast. It was a clear day, and the distant city of Staveley, with its towering spires, was silhouetted against the sky like an etching in grey. To the left the fishing village of Ashlingsea nestled on the sands, its stone-grey houses gleaming in a silver setting, the sails of its fishing fleet flecked white on the sunlit blue of the sea.