The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe Page 5

  “Well, if the Director of Civil Aviation can't solve that problem, then no one can, what! Ha, ha!” Brancker said, winking at Miss Honeysuckle. “I'll find you another airstrip, don't worry about that.”

  Everyone gathered around the plane and Elsie yanked off the sheets with a flourish. “Voila!” she cried. The brand-new, high-wing, single-engine plane gleamed under the lights. In the hangar, it had the look of pure engineering genius, a mixture of steel, fabric and varnished hardwood. Brancker admired her name expertly written on each side. He rubbed his hands along the gleaming, black engine cowling, lustfully, as though she were a luscious woman. But Millie looked like someone had just walked over her grave—or possibly her husband's.

  “Oh, she's magnificent! Endeavour! How marvelous!” Brancker gushed.

  “It's darling!” echoed Miss Honeysuckle, clasping her hands together.

  Elsie poured the champagne into cut glass flutes, and she and Sinclair handed them round on a tray.

  “To Endeavour!” Elsie shouted enthusiastically.

  “Endeavour!” the others repeated. Millie put on her bravest face, and though misty eyed, she took photographs from which she'd later make sketches and paintings back in her studio.

  Hunter had been watching this little ceremony through a window at the end of the hangar and, though he couldn't hear everything, he understood every word. He chuckled as he made his way back to the woods, where he'd parked his car on the trail. He had the beginnings of a story. A pretty damned big story

  Surveillance of Elsie Mackay was paying off. He'd been keeping tabs on her for months.

  8

  A VISIT TO CARDINGTON

  Tuesday, September 13, 1927.

  On September 13th, Millie and Hinchliffe headed north in their Bentley Continental. They roared through London via Westminster Bridge, past Big Ben. Millie wore a headscarf and sunglasses. It felt good in the sunshine, the top down, wind in their faces. They drove down Whitehall, past Brancker's office and around Trafalgar Square. Pigeons were out in force, swarming around Nelson and his lions. Ten minutes later, they were on the road to Cardington. They had to shout to be heard above the wind and the mighty growl of the 4½ litre engine. Millie was still pondering the whole business. She had her ups and downs, especially since the loss of Minchin, Hamilton and Lady Anne Savile. Hinchliffe had told her he didn't think they'd make it, and he'd been right. That business had unsettled her, but she took comfort in the fact that there would be only two in Endeavour.

  Hinchliffe was looking forward to seeing his old buddies. Like Hinchliffe, Captain Irwin was an ex-Royal Navy Air Serviceman, while Johnston was an ex-Royal Air Force man. They'd met at a machine gun course at Grantham during the war, when Hinchliffe had volunteered for the RNAS, having served as an artilleryman at the Front in 1916. After watching a few dog fights over the front lines, he'd decided he wanted to be a fighter pilot. He met Johnston again during the war, when they were both on a navigation course in London. Irwin had flown blimps during the war, coordinating with surface ships in surveillance of German submarines around the English coast. He was now being groomed to take over Cardington R101 and busy assisting in construction, filing as-built engineering drawings, and putting together operational user manuals.

  For many, airships were the wave of the future. They would become the ocean liners of the sky. But for others, they were considered to be nothing but deathtraps, and judging by their record, that was a fair assessment. However, there were those in England who were determined that this mode of travel would be made safe, or at least as safe as ocean-going vessels. In 1920, the U.S. Navy had decided to purchase Airship R38, under construction at Cardington. Hundreds of young men were sent to England to monitor construction and get trained as airshipmen and support personnel. But then tragedy struck, when during its final test that airship broke in two over Hull. It crashed into the River Humber, killing all but four of both the British and American crews. The industry languished for a time, until a certain Lord Thomson came along and revived the industry in 1924, putting thousands back to work. Under Thomson's new Airship Program, two airships would be constructed—one, the Howden R100 by Vickers Aircraft at Howden, the other, the Cardington R101 by the Royal Airship Works at Cardington. Construction of both ships would be under the purview of the Royal Airship Works.

  After three years of experimentation and design, they were finally taking shape. It'd been slow, but those in charge at Cardington were determined to make sure these airships were as safe as humanly possible. Hinchliffe, being the practical engineer that he was, and although no fan of 'lighter than air' contraptions, was looking forward to seeing what his friends had accomplished. He didn’t expect to be impressed.

  “Does it really have to be the Atlantic, Hinch?” Millie asked suddenly, holding on to her scarf.

  “The Atlantic's the prize. They're talking about a ticker tape parade. It'll be big.”

  This was the first Millie had heard of that. The thought was daunting. She pictured Hinchliffe and Elsie in New York riding in a procession in a convertible Cadillac with thousands of adoring fans waving and screaming as confetti showered down upon them. “Oh, my Goodness!” she exclaimed.

  “But remember, we've got to keep it quiet,” Hinchliffe warned.

  The car sped north and within thirty minutes the great Cardington sheds loomed in the distance. They raced up to the guardhouse and, after announcing themselves, the gate opened. Hinchliffe drove up the cherry tree-lined drive to Cardington House, the administration building. It resembled a stately home, having been built by a philanthropist. It was set in magnificent gardens, bursting with color most of the year, and inhabited by thousands of happy birds of all species. The wealthy former owner had donated the great house to the airship industry to encourage its goals. Near the foot of the entry steps, Hinchliffe got out and went around and helped Millie out of the car. He slung her camera over his shoulder.

  “Is all this secrecy really necessary?” Millie asked.

  “You know what Brancker said—the Germans are almost ready. We mustn’t alert them.”

  Millie took Hinchliffe's arm and they made their way carefully up the steps to the entrance doors. At seven months, Millie was getting big and moved around carefully. They entered the grand marble reception hall. The place was like a museum, with ornate columns at the foot of a sweeping stone staircase. Hinchliffe went to the reception desk. “We're here to see Captain Irwin and Squadron Leader Johnston. The name's Hinchliffe.”

  A few minutes later, Johnston, the navigator, appeared, a big grin on his face—enough to light up the grand entrance hall.

  “Oh, my God. I don't believe it. I thought you were dead! Crashed and burned in some jungle,” he cried.

  Millie was shocked at first, but that's how these fellows talked. The two men gave one another a bear hug and Johnston kissed Millie's cheek. Then Captain Irwin entered. Johnston turned to him. “Look who's here!” he said.

  “The Blackbird! How are you doing for Goodness sake?” Hinchliffe exclaimed, shaking the captain's hand warmly.

  “Not bad for a dirigible pilot, I suppose,” he answered.

  “In your line of work, you have every reason to be dour, even for a fine-looking Irishman,” Hinchliffe teased.

  Millie assessed Irwin. He was indeed a handsome fellow—his black hair slicked back with a fine parting. He had a kind face. She'd do some sketches of him and Johnston. Johnston was more hard-edged, but interesting. Irwin, in contrast, was thoughtful—perhaps fatalistic. His warmth and Irish wit, nevertheless, shone through.

  “Wanna come up and see the ship?” Irwin asked.

  This excited Millie. “Oh yes, could we?” she said, eyeing her husband. “That would be wonderful.”

  “As long as you don't have the damned thing filled up with hydrogen,” Hinchliffe said. “I don't fancy getting blown to kingdom come—not today.”

  “Oh no, we don't have any gas bags in her yet, you old scaredy-cat,” said Johnston, a
frown of scorn on his chiseled features.

  “All right then, perhaps Millie can take some pictures?” Hinchliffe suggested. The others had no problem with that, as long as they weren't for publication. They took a five-minute ride in Johnston's little black Austin over to the enormous sheds.

  “Now, what's this rumor we've all been hearing, Hinch?” Johnston asked over his shoulder, a glint in his blue eyes, an eyebrow raised.

  “What rumor?” Hinchliffe said, startled.

  “The Atlantic,” Irwin answered. “We've heard all about it, you know.” His manner was one of disapproval—as though it were a foolish stunt.

  Hinchliffe knew he'd have to tell them anyway. “Okay, you know why we're here. I need accurate weather reports. Can you help me?”

  “We'll get you anything you want. But you're not serious about this, are you?” Irwin said, giving Hinchliffe his most dour Irish look.

  Millie glanced dubiously at Hinchliffe and then back to Irwin and Johnston from the backseat. “He is. But maybe you can talk some sense into him. I've tried.”

  They arrived outside the gigantic shed. Millie was awestruck. Hinchliffe looked up at the building with trepidation as Irwin led the foursome to a side door. They entered the eight hundred and sixty-foot building. It was like stepping into another world. Hundreds of men swarmed around on ladders and scaffolding like ants, working all over the mammoth silver framing. The structure practically filled every inch of space up to the nearly two hundred foot high roof. Millie looked amazed and filled with dread at the same time.

  Johnston raised his voice above the din. “What do you think then, Hinch?”

  “I think you're all crazy. I think you're building yourselves a bloody great hydrogen bomb that's gonna blow you all to hell, like you bloody-well deserve!”

  “Hinch!” Millie shouted. She agreed, but he didn't have to be that blunt.

  “I'm telling you, you're all crazy!” Hinch said again, shaking his head.

  Millie had the three friends pose while she took photographs. As they were doing this, some of the construction crewmen stopped to watch. Two engineers were studying the small party from an engine car slung beneath the airship, the base of the car at about eye level. They watched Hinchliffe with suspicion, while admiring Millie in her comely state. One of them, Joe Binks, a young man always with a quip or gibe, taunted his mate as he wiped his oily hands on a cloth. “'Ere, I don't want to worry you, Arthur, but that's our new captain,” he said, indicating with a nod toward Hinchliffe.

  “That's all we need, a one-eyed bloody skipper. What use could he be to anyone?” his mate, Arthur Bell, answered, switching his gaze to Millie, “Now, she might be a different story!”

  As if on cue, Millie marched up and stood below their engine car, intrigued. She called up to them. “What is this you're working on?”

  “It's an engine car, missus. It don't 'ave no engine in it yet, though.”

  Hinchliffe joined them. “So, where's your engine?” he asked, looking at Binks.

  “We're waitin' for 'em,” Joe Binks called down.

  “It's what powers the airship?” Millie asked.

  “Yes, ma'am this one’s gonna be our baby.”

  “So how do you get into it then?” Millie asked.

  “We climb down that ladder up there,” Binks answered, pointing to the ladder above their heads.

  “My God! Not when you're in the sky, surely?”

  “I reckon we'll get used to it, ma'am. At least, we ’ope so! We'll ’ave to, won't we!”

  Millie had them pose together with Hinchliffe, while she took a couple of shots. She decided she'd probably do a painting of these happy fellows at some point.

  Later, word got around that Hinchliffe was at the aerodrome and Wing Commander Colmore, the exceedingly courteous Deputy Director of Airship Development, suggested that they all meet over at the local pub, the Kings Arms, on the village green. As Hinchliffe and his companions entered, all faces turned in their direction. Colmore stood at the center of the lounge bar, surrounded by his airshipmen. He reached out to Hinchliffe and took his hand.

  “My dear Hinchliffe, I'd heard the rumor that you were coming up to see us. So glad you brought your lovely bride with you.”

  “How's it all going, sir?” Hinchliffe said.

  “It's like giving birth. Although, I can't exactly say we're expecting quite yet!” Colmore said, glancing at Millie. “When’s that baby of yours due, Millie?”

  “Early December,” Millie answered. “And you'll all be invited to the christening.”

  After drinks were served all round, Colmore turned to a jolly chap at his side, his face a little flushed. “You know Major Scott, of course.”

  Major Scott, Colmore's right hand man, was officer in charge of flying operations. Hinchliffe, Irwin and Johnston towered over him. He was the unsung hero of British aviation, having made the return journey to America as pilot in command of Airship R34. His should have been a household name—but wasn't. Millie had heard this from Hinchliffe and thought it a pity. She decided she'd paint his portrait. He'd done an incredible thing. She studied him closely, noting his striking red aura, which she'd learned over the years denoted he was a leader of men, and a risk taker. Scott greeted the Hinchliffes warmly. He eyed Millie's midriff and beamed a knowing smile.

  “Another pilot in the making, I shouldn't wonder,” he said.

  “Oh no. One in the family's quite enough,” Millie replied.

  “Given up on aeroplanes then, Hinch? Looking for a job here with us?” Scott chided.

  “Lord no!”

  “What's all this we've been hearing about you and a certain beautiful heiress then?” Scott asked.

  “What!” Hinchliffe spluttered.

  “Heard you and the lovely Elsie Mackay are planning a little trip. It all sounds very dangerous, if you ask me,” Scott barked. He was formidable—a bulldog.

  Millie frowned and put her hand to her head. The ever gracious Colmore intervened. “I don't think you've ever met Colonel Richmond, the designer of our soon-to-be great airship, have you?” Richmond stood like a mannequin in a banker’s suit with Brylcreamed hair. He gave them a stiff nod, appearing aloof. Hinchliffe got the impression he was a theoretician—an office-wallah—not a flier like the others. An outsider.

  Colmore continued, “And here, I must introduce you to our very good friend, Lieutenant Lou Remington. He's from across the pond.”

  “Nobody's perfect” someone quipped.

  “He's working with us now,” Colmore added.

  Lou Remington smiled good-naturedly. Millie noticed his aura. It was perfectly balanced. He was a superb soul and gorgeous to look at—like an American movie star, and well mannered. Millie and Hinchliffe took a liking to him.

  “Lou was aboard the R38 when it crashed into the Humber in '21,” Colmore said.

  “Dangerous bloody things, these airships,” Hinchliffe snapped.

  “He thought he was done with airships, didn't you, lad?” Scott said, mopping his glistening dome with a handkerchief. “But we dragged him back into the game—we couldn't let him escape!”

  “Particularly since he'd married one of our English girls,” Johnston said with a chuckle. “Best looking girl in Yorkshire!”

  The American grinned, while he twisted her gold ring, as was his habit. “Fair trade,” he quipped. Millie thought she'd love to paint that face one day.

  Colmore continued, looking at Irwin, “Did you give Hinch the grand tour?”

  “Yes, sir. We didn't get to see the girls working on the goldbeater's skins, though.”

  “Goldbeaters! I've never heard of such an animal,” Hinchliffe remarked. He was teasing. He knew exactly what goldbeater skins were, and where they came from.

  Scott stepped in to explain, mainly for Millie's sake. “They're the skins from the bellies of oxen. They are used by goldbeaters to separate sheets of gold when they beat them into gold leaf. Our ladies clean 'em up and make 'em into gas bags for
the ship.”

  “You mean to say the fate of the British Empire rests in the bellies of cows!” Hinch gibed.

  “I wouldn't put it quite like that, dear boy,” said Colmore.

  “I'll stick to wings for lift, I think,” said Hinchliffe.

  Richmond smirked. “So, you think aeroplanes have much of a future, do you, Hinchliffe?”

  “Definitely! Eventually, they'll carry lots of passengers and huge payloads of freight or bombs.”

  “Is that so? How many passengers in your estimation?”

  Hinchliffe considered for a moment, while he took a sip of beer. “Five hundred, I guess.”

  “What! In your dreams, maybe,” Richmond snapped.

  As Richmond chortled, laughter broke out all round the bar. Hinchliffe bristled. “And they'll get much faster,” he said.

  Hinchliffe wasn't the only one getting rattled. Johnston was too—not one to suffer fools. He was clenching his jaw and grimacing. Millie sensed underlying tension between some of the personalities in the bar. She found differences between ranks, personalities and egos intriguing.

  Richmond grinned for the first time. “How fast?”

  “Six hundred, seven hundred miles an hour. Maybe more.”

  Richmond resumed smugly. “I shouldn't wish to land in one of those things at those kinds of speeds, old man.” He gestured grandly. “No, it'll all boil down to safety and luxury in the end. The airship is the wave of the future. They'll gently float down to their mooring towers with grace and style.”

  All eyes turned to Hinchliffe expectantly. “You mean, as long as the wind's not blowing!” he said.

  “You're not telling us planes aren't affected by weather, are you?”

  “Give me a full tank and I'll take my chances,” Hinchliffe replied.

  The atmosphere in the pub was getting uncomfortable. Scott chimed in to change the subject.

  “Tell us about your Atlantic plans, old man. We'll never tell.”

  Hinchliffe glanced at Millie and then back to Scott. “There's nothing to tell, Scottie, but I promise, you'll be the first to know, my dear chap,” he said.