The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe Page 11

  “Where will they be now?”

  “I just heard that they passed over Mizen Head Lighthouse about one-thirty. The weather there was pretty good.” Brancker had thought about telling her to say a prayer for them, but thought better of it. When he hung up he felt dreadful. Millie trudged home. She'd not really learned much, but it was something.

  Sinclair arrived home at about 2:30 p.m. in the Bentley. Kate rushed to the door on hearing his wheels. She went to him at the car. Millie stood at the door with Joan. She was glad for Kate.

  Kate kissed Sinclair on the cheek. “I'm so glad you didn't go, darling,” she whispered.

  He looked wistful and grim at the same time. He nodded. “He's gonna have his work cut out,” he said. It was clear to Millie that Kate knew her husband well enough. He'd be moody for a day or two. Millie shook her head. None of this had turned out the way she'd hoped. Sinclair handed Millie the bouquet of roses from Hinchliffe he'd bought in London, the diary with the money, and Hinchliffe's letter.

  “Did he get my letter?” Millie asked.

  “I don't know. He didn't say he'd heard from you,” Sinclair replied.

  Millie was forlorn. She felt powerless. She rushed upstairs to read Hinchliffe's letter.

  Later that afternoon, more reporters showed up at the door. Sinclair went to the upstairs bedroom out of the way. Even though Hunter's exclusive wouldn't hit the newsstands until next morning, Fleet Street was abuzz. A wild rumor had sent reporters rushing around, getting nowhere. They couldn't raise Elsie, they couldn't find Sinclair. Cranwell couldn’t or wouldn’t provide a straight answer. They'd gleaned that Hinchliffe had flown off somewhere, but that was all. Stories had been circulating for months, but no one was sure if the intended destination was in the east or the west.

  A plaintive man in a shabby raincoat stood on the front step. “Mrs. Hinchliffe?”

  “Yes.”

  A flashbulb from a Speed Graphic camera popped in her face.

  “I'm with the Daily Mail.”

  “And I'm from the Daily Telegraph,” another one said. “We understand your husband took off from Cranwell this morning for America—”

  “I just heard that,” Millie said.

  “Was Miss Elsie Mackay his copilot?”

  “Captain Gordon Sinclair is his copilot,” Millie answered. She didn't like lying, but knew Elsie would rather she kept the myth alive. They asked more questions, most of which she couldn't answer. She was civil. They had their job to do, but it was all dragging her down. One had asked to use the telephone, but she told him she didn't own one. She respectfully bade them goodbye and closed the door gloomily. But there was another ring almost immediately. It was Reverend Grey. He'd heard about it on the BBC and came to offer a blessing. As he was administering this and laying his hands upon Millie's head, Barney the blacksmith, appeared. He respectfully took off his cap and offered his best wishes with bowed head. Both men had been at Pam's christening, and both looked surprised. Millie was appreciative of everyone's concern. She didn't feel quite so alone.

  That afternoon, Hinchliffe's telegram addressed to Major Scott was delivered to Cardington House. The secretary at the reception desk took it to the conference room, where a design meeting was underway. She handed it to Scott, who ripped it open. He smiled as he read it aloud.

  “It's from Ray Hinchliffe. ‘I promised you would be the first to know. WGRH.’ That's all it says. Well bless his heart! I guess he's on his way.”

  Captain Irwin chimed in. “Good luck to him. He's going to need it!”

  “Hear! Hear! Good luck, Hinch!” everyone said.

  Johnston glared at Richmond, remembering their spat. Richmond showed no emotion.

  Millie took her husband's roses into the studio and placed them on her work table beside a glass vase. She cut their stems and lovingly placed them in the vase, spacing them carefully. She took it into the living room and put it on Hinchliffe’s desk under the window. They'd be there for her to look at this evening, where they'd sit after dinner, listening for news on the radio. Waiting would not be easy. Nor would sleeping—not until she knew he was safe. Her annoyance had subsided, but not her fear. She was sure he'd not received her letter—he'd not mentioned it in his letter.

  Hinchliffe and Elsie had reached Waterford at 12:25 p.m. By 1:35 p.m. they were passing over Mizen Head Lighthouse, as Brancker had said. The lighthouse keeper had heard them, and opened his window to peer out. He'd shook his head in disgust when he saw the plane heading for the open water. The weather was still comparatively smooth. If it remained like this all the way, they'd do fine, as long as the engine remained reliable. It sounded sweet at the moment. Elsie was in still good spirits, despite looking out at a landscape of gray seas all the way to the horizon. She took out a packet of sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper and looked inside.

  “Hmm, this one's ham and cheese. D'you fancy that?” she shouted above the din.

  “Sure, and coffee please,” Hinchliffe answered.

  “After that, I'll need to pee,” Elsie told him.

  “Okay, let's eat first, shall we?” he said with a half-smile.

  They ate and drank their fill, and then Elsie sat on her little bowl while Hinchliffe kept his eyes on the horizon. She noticed whitecaps on the water below as she emptied it out the window. Endeavour began to quiver and shake. Elsie took the controls. Hinchliffe thought it best to keep her occupied. He expected it to get worse—how much worse, he wasn't sure.

  Suddenly, it dawned on him! He stared at the instrument panel in stunned disbelief. He loosened his seat belt and ran his hands around in his pockets, trying to think. He'd forgotten his lucky charm. Where the hell was it? Elsie was quick to pick up on his desperation. She knew exactly what was going on. He took his watch from his top pocket and hung it on the instrument panel by its broken strap. It was 6:35 p.m. The light was fading fast now. He turned to her as she put her fingers to the gold crucifix around her neck. He looked away and down into the sea. “We'll have to rely on your lucky charm, today,” he said. Elsie remained silent, uncomfortable he’d forgotten his black cat. Any good luck was welcome, as far as she was concerned. She put her hand back on the wheel.

  Around 8 o'clock, Hinchliffe took the controls. The winds were now severe, bringing a mixture of rain and sleet. Conditions had steadily deteriorated since leaving the Irish Coast. Elsie had become extremely uncomfortable. “How far have we come, do you think?” she asked.

  “About twelve hundred miles, I reckon,” Hinchliffe said, raising his voice to be heard.

  “How much longer to go?”

  “It depends how much stiffer these winds get.”

  “Do you think it'll get much worse than this?”

  “It could.”

  Kate and Millie cooked a chicken for dinner that evening, followed by apple pie with custard. After cleaning up, they sat in the living room around the fire, listening to a play on the radio. Millie was having difficulty concentrating, but when she heard the BBC pips, the radio had her full attention.

  Beep, beep, beep, beep, beeeeep.

  This is the BBC nine o'clock news. It has been learned tonight that another transatlantic flight attempt is being made by the distinguished war veteran and Imperial Airways pilot, Captain Raymond Hinchliffe. The flight is shrouded in mystery, as the identity of his copilot has not been revealed. There are reports that the Honorable Elsie Mackay, the daughter of shipping magnate, Lord Inchcape, may be the one at the controls with Captain Hinchliffe. Conditions over the Atlantic have deteriorated since take off this morning, with gale force winds, accompanied by snow, sleet and freezing rain. In other news …

  Millie excused herself and went up to check on the children and then sat on the bed and reread Hinchliffe's letter. She wasn't one to pray, but tonight she prayed fervently, wringing her hands.

  Oh, dear God, please, please, please ...

  The winds over the Atlantic had intensified to gale force. The noise alone was frightening—the buffeti
ng and bouncing, terrifying. Elsie leaned against the cockpit wall and kept closing her eyes. Hinchliffe had flown in similar condition many times and wasn't unduly worried, not yet, at least.

  “I'm going to fly a more northerly course and try to work our way around this storm,” he shouted.

  “Won't that slow us down and take longer?”

  “We have no choice.”

  “Let me take her.”

  “No, not now—later,” Hinchliffe said.

  Elsie looked away sullenly. Suddenly, as the plane dropped, there was a loud crack and Elsie gave a bloodcurdling scream.

  “What was that?” she yelled.

  “Sounded like one of the struts,” Hinchliffe shouted.

  He reached into his bag and pulled out the bottle of whiskey and thrust it in her hands. She took it and put it in her lap. She then pulled out her rosary from her pocket and twisted it around her wrist, holding its gold cross tightly with her other hand. She closed her eyes. Deafening thunderclaps rolled around them and lightning flashed, lighting up a non-stop spray of rain and sleet on the windscreen.

  Millie couldn't sit by her sleeping child in her bedroom any longer. She went down to her studio and sat at the piano. In a trance, the music and her emotions flowed as she played Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The first movement was slow, graceful and sad. By the third, the piece had erupted into a passionate frenzy, flooding the house, her distraught face etched with pain and terror. The Sinclairs listened. They were deeply sorry for her, but knew she'd rather be alone. They maintained their vigil in the living room, while Millie's hands flayed the keyboard.

  Endeavour had entered hell. The plane was being slammed around like a child's toy by the horrendous winds and turbulence hitting from all sides. In a flash of lightning, Hinchliffe saw the wing fabric beginning to tear. He began to relive that awful night he’d been shot down over France—something that terrified him until this day. He'd never spoken of it, even to Millie.

  He'd been on night patrol with Sinclair alongside him. They'd run into a German Gotha bomber that had shown up in the searchlights. They got on the German's tail and chased him over the lines. Hinchliffe unleashed a few rounds, but the enemy tail gunner fired on them immediately. A hail of machine gun bullets had blasted through the cockpit, splintering the instrument panel. Then more sliced through his leg and forehead. Blood gushed down his face, filling his goggles on the left side. The Sopwith descended and he steered toward the west, to get back over enemy lines. In pain and dread, he was sure he was finished, he couldn't see the ground, let alone find a place to land. After an agonizing ten miles, with his engine sputtering, he'd seen black shapes ahead—a forest. He was now at treetop level. It wasn't going to be pleasant. He glanced up and saw Sinclair's plane abreast of him. Next he knew, his plane was ramming its way through tree limbs, finally coming to rest high above the ground. He wasn't sure if he was alive or dead, until what seemed like ages later, his good eye opened and he saw faces at the window—soldiers with ropes and tackle. “The pilot's alive,” one had shouted.

  Getting him down from that tree had been horribly painful. He passed out again when they put him on a stretcher and loaded him into a field ambulance. He woke up two days later, less one eye and his leg stitched and heavily bandaged. His war was over. Sinclair had visited him every day in the field hospital. He'd stayed with the German plane, blasting it out of the sky, before catching up with Hinchliffe and watching him crash into the trees. He'd alerted the medics, who saved Hinchliffe's life.

  Hinchliffe felt as powerless against this storm as he had that night. His feelings of misery were reinforced when he heard the engine begin to pop and backfire. He grabbed his flashlight and map. With great difficulty, he shone it on the islands leeward of them, to the south—the Azores. In his head, he calculated the compass bearing. He'd begun to distrust the plane’s compass—but there was nothing he could do about it.

  “I'm gonna do a one-eighty and turn south. We've gotta get out of this. It's no use,” he shouted across to Elsie. But Elsie didn't respond. She'd long ago given up and was preparing herself to die. She held her rosary, fingering the beads, chanting over and over in a whisper. “Hail Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death ...”

  Hinchliffe gripped the controls and banked Endeavour around onto a southerly course, dipping and dropping violently as it turned, almost flipping the plane over on her back. Once on their new course, with a forceful tailwind, the plane became slightly more stable. But the drop in turbulence hadn't registered with Elsie. She was out of it. The engine continued to backfire. Hinchliffe cursed those plugs to himself. Why had he switched them out? Dammit! Was it them? Was it fuel starvation? Icing? He didn't know.

  Turbulence continued to diminish, mile after mile and the thunder grew fainter. It was a wonder the plane was still in once piece. Elsie remained in the same catatonic state, twisting her rosary over and over. Hinchliffe thought if they could make it to the Azores they'd be safe. Ruth Elder had made it. So could they. He kept scanning the horizon in the gray moonlight. He took out his wallet and slipped out the photo of Millie with Joan and kissed it and then carefully replaced it. He glanced at the wings. Fabric was hanging in long strands from the port wing. The rest seemed to be holding up. The engine continued spluttering. Hinchliffe thought they should see land soon. They might just make it. He took a swig of coffee from a flask. It was warm and didn't taste bad. As he gulped it down, he thought he saw a shape in the ocean ahead—about five miles to the east. Yes, there it was, no question. His hopes soared. He banked towards it.

  “Elsie, look, look! The Azores!” he yelled. But she didn't stir.

  As they approached the island, now only three miles off, the backfiring grew worse and parts of the fluttering fabric tore off and flew away. The engine note changed more dramatically, as though starved of petrol. Hinchliffe slapped the tank behind him. It sounded like an empty drum. He turned and grabbed the valve and opened it. It was useless. The engine quit. He glanced at the island, now two miles away and fought for control. Endeavour descended. He hurriedly checked his watch hanging in front of him. It read 3:07 a.m. He brought the plane down to the water as if it were a normal landing. They hit the sea forcefully. The remaining wheel strut broke off with the wheel attached and floated away.

  On impact, Elsie's head slammed against the cockpit wall and she bit through her tongue. Blood spurted from her mouth and ran down her chin. She immediately came out of her trance and went into a full-fledged panic, grabbing at her seat-belt, trying to free herself. It was jammed.

  Waves of black water crashed over the nose of the plane and seeped in around the doors. Hinchliffe was unharmed. He attempted to help Elsie free herself, but couldn't shake her belt loose. He pulled down his flying goggles, pushed open his door and slipped out into the icy sea. It took his breath away. The cockpit was filling rapidly and dragging the plane down. Hinchliffe held on to the high wing and swam around to Elsie's side, where he yanked the door open. Elsie was still struggling with her seat belt. The cockpit was submerged with the empty wing tanks keeping the plane afloat for now. Hinchliffe jerked the seat belt strap. Elsie remained tethered. He pulled her shoulders, but couldn't break her loose. He remembered his knife. He'd left it in his bag. Too late now. Out of air, he let her go and returned to the surface. He gasped and filled his lungs and ducked under the water back to Elsie. The plane continued to sink under the engine's weight, pulling him down. It was hopeless. Time stood still. Elsie pulled him to her and lovingly touched his face. She held his head in both hands and kissed his lips, then pushed him away. He hung there on the surface, mesmerized by Elsie's imploring face in the windshield as the plane sank into the black depths. He remained motionless, the metallic taste of her blood in his mouth, until she and Endeavour were gone.

  Hinchliffe struggled to the surface, his lungs bursting. As his head broke the surface, he gasped again for air. He saw the moon bright between two mountain peaks. He yanke
d open his coat and blew into his life vest. He began swimming for his life.

  17

  THE DEAFENING SILENCE

  Wednesday, March 14, 1928.

  Millie had spent a miserable night. She'd played the piano until about two-thirty and then gone up to lie down. All she could think of was her husband in that plane with Elsie. She tossed and turned, until she finally slipped into a light sleep.

  She was awoken by the sound of Barney’s hammer. It must be 6:00 a.m. She could set her watch by it. She lay listening in the darkness to a horse neighing in one of the stalls. These were sounds that had always given them comfort. But not this morning. She remembered her dream. It stabbed her heart like a knife. Minutes later, she heard the paperboy’s tires on the gravel beneath the window.

  She sat on the side of the bed, trying to breathe and lit her lamp. Sinclair's chickens were beginning to stir. The cock crowed. The letterbox snapped shut and the newspaper fell to the floor. She thought of George Hunter and his story. Wearily, she roused herself and silently put on her dressing gown, careful not to wake baby. She crept downstairs to the entrance hall and picked up the Daily Express. It was eerily quiet. She held up her lamp and was shocked to see the grandfather clock stopped at twenty minutes past three. She hurriedly wound it and reset the time to six-fifteen, before going into the kitchen. Butch and Whiskey were fussing to be let out. She opened the door and they scampered off into the darkness. She laid the newspaper on the table and sat, glaring at the headlines in the lamplight.

  A DRAMATIC START FROM A SNOWY AERODROME

  SECRET PREPARATIONS BY CAPT. HINCHLIFFE &

  THE HON. ELSIE MACKAY

  THE DAILY EXPRESS STORY THEY DENIED

  As Millie was reading, Gordon and Kate entered the kitchen and read the article anxiously over her shoulder in silence. Kate put the kettle on and got the cups and saucers out. Millie turned to Sinclair,