by Tessa Arlen
“The Walrus is heavy and slow, so say twenty minutes in the air.”
“She crashed at about ten minutes after ten o’clock. So, calculate that back in hours and minutes.”
He laughed. “Math is a problem for you, is it?”
I sighed.
“Okay. That would be eight thirty. Why?”
“If she was poisoned . . . if her breakfast was poisoned, it would have to be slow-acting. But she might have had to wait at Supermarine, and perhaps she was poisoned there, before she took off in the Walrus.”
I saw the mess trestle table laden with empty plates, and Zofia pushing her full plate away. Had Zofia pushed her plate toward Letty, or just straight out in front of her? I closed my eyes and tried to recapture that moment, but all I saw was Letty picking up a fork and starting in on a second plate of food.
“Oh, good grief.” I stopped him mid-stride. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Griff. Letty ate Zofia’s breakfast.”
He stood on the side of the road, his face serious as he considered.
“But the timing is off,” he said. “I hate to say it but it’s doubtful that it was rat poison, Poppy. It was hours before either of them crashed their planes after they had eaten something.”
“But we don’t know if they had a flask of coffee or tea with them. Sometimes they carry their own thermos.” I racked my memory. Was Letty carrying a thermos when she boarded the Anson? She had certainly forgotten her compass. Had she forgotten her thermos too? And Edwina? Had she been drinking coffee before she sauntered over to her plane?
I wasn’t prepared to give up on poison just yet.
“We can look at the film!” I shouted. “It will be on film. Edwina walking to her plane with her parachute over her shoulder yesterday. And this morning Letty stood and posed for us in the door to the Anson. Keith has all of it on film. If they were carrying a thermos of coffee, we would see it on the film.” But my triumph was doomed. It slid, with the autumn sun, behind a heavy cloud, and a sharp, cold wind blew in from the river. “Blast and damn,” I said as I remembered Mrs. Evans standing at the bottom of her stairs looking regretful about the missing film. “Damn and blast and damn.”
Griff and Bess stood in front of me waiting to be of use. “There’s a phone box just along here. How much change do you have? I must try and get hold of Keith.”
He pulled some coins out of his trouser pocket. “Why is it that beautiful women only want to know how much money I have?” he asked as he offered me a pile of silver on the flat of his palm.
“Two, two shilling pieces; four sixpences; and a couple of half crowns,” I counted. “Eleven bob. That’s plenty—thank you!”
“Aha, I see your arithmetic is pretty sharp when it comes to money!” He tipped the coins into my palm. “No, no, you’re most welcome! And here is our phone booth.”
This time Keith was easy to find. “Did you check? It’s a small can, ten inches in diameter, if that. It had a five written on the lid,” were the first words out of his mouth.
“I checked everywhere: your room, the parlor, the lounge. It’s not at the inn.”
He used a word that well-brought-up boys don’t use in front of nice girls. Then he groaned and asked me if I was quite sure.
“Yes, I am quite sure.” I crossed my fingers. “What was on it?”
Another whimper of despair. “Oh Gawd, I’m really in the soup with Huntley now. It was the stuff I shot of the Attas, you know, when we were having lunch and relaxing? Well, it’s gone, and don’t ask me if it’s in the van. I’ve searched it from one end to the other. It’s gone.”
“You mean the film you made of us all eating lunch?” I crossed my fingers, praying I had misheard.
“I was using up leftover film from an earlier shoot,” he said. “I went out, earlier that morning, to set up the camera and shot the planes on the airstrip, just to get my eye in. When we broke for lunch I popped the last feet back into the camera and shot the girls relaxing and eating lunch. It was really good—they all looked so natural and at ease.” His wretched tone told me that Huntley had already given him an earful.
If anyone had tinkered with Edwina’s sandwiches or her coffee, it might have been captured on that piece of film. I swallowed down annoyance and frustration. Keith had already been given a going-over by Huntley; he didn’t need me to add my irritation.
“Where are you now?” I asked.
“Editing room.”
“Would you look at some other film for me? The bit with Edwina walking to her plane? Can you tell me what she is carrying, other than her chute?”
“I’m sitting here with the film editor now, Poppy, looking at footage of Edwina’s crash. It’s like watching a war movie. Hold on a mo’.” And to the editor: “Rewind back to the beginning.” A pause as I fed the coin box. “No, Edwina only had her chute; she was bareheaded, no helmet. No thermos, no bag, nuffink.”
The afternoon darkened and a light rain pattered on the glass of the phone booth.
“Okay, thanks. Would you look at the film you shot this morning of the Attagirls leaving in their air taxis and tell me what Letty is carrying?”
“Have to find it. Why don’t you ring me back in ten minutes?”
We waited outside the phone box, taking it in turn to throw sticks for Bess, and then I returned to the call box.
“’Ello there, Poppy. Nah, nothing. Letty is standing at the top of the ladder with her chute, her map case, and that’s all.” I could tell he was smiling. “Ha-ha.” He was evidently watching the film. “That’s good, she’s pretending to be a movie star.” I realized that he had no idea that sweet-natured, kindhearted Letty had died. I swallowed down my anger at her death and told him about the crash. “She didn’t make it,” I ended, my throat aching with the effort of keeping the tears that had filled my eyes out of my voice.
“Struth, what are you saying? She’s dead? Letty’s dead?” Keith turned his head from the mouthpiece, and I heard him relaying the news to Huntley.
“Poppy!” Huntley came on the line. “Another accident? What the hell is going on there? Was it at the airfield?”
I gave him the few details I had. There was a stunned silence. “Oh God, poor woman. What a tragedy.” I heard him give directions to Keith and the film editor. “Look, we have to come back. There’s not enough footage of the Spit, just Edwina walking to the plane, a bit of taxiing, takeoff, she waggles her wings and does a victory roll.” He lowered his voice. “And we can’t even use that, Fanny’s been told we have to turn it over to the ATA Accident Committee. He’s going to get in touch with Commander Abercrombie and tell her that we have to completely reshoot the Spitfire sequence.”
Vera wasn’t going to like that much. “I hope Didcote cooperates,” I said.
“Oh, they have to.” Huntley was as crisp as lettuce. “Ministry of Information carries a lot of clout.”
“Do you know when you’ll be back?”
“I’ll give you a ring at the inn when there’s been a decision.”
“When did Keith last see the missing can of film?” I asked.
The pips sounded. “It must have fallen out of the van.” He muttered something rude about youthful neglect. “I saw him put it in the van when we set off to film the Attagirls going to work this morning. You might want to look around the drive, just in case.”
“When you left the van in the drive, was it locked?” I asked, knowing the answer. Keith was an exemplary cameraman but slack about things like punctuality and other little acts of self-discipline.
“You would think so, wouldn’t you, considering all our hard work was in there?” An expression of disgust. “I hope this damn film isn’t doomed . . . Look, I’ve got to go. Ring you later.” And he was gone.
I went outside to Griff and Bess. They were taking a break from stick work and admiring the view together, Griff with a cigarette i
n his hand and Bess with half a shredded branch in her mouth.
“Neither of them was carrying anything other than their parachutes. Letty had a map case. She paused at the top of the Anson’s steps in a lighthearted movie-star moment.” My eyes swam with tears again.
He nodded and ground out the half-finished cigarette under his heel.
“Let’s go and talk to this mechanic fella,” he said.
“But something really strange has happened.” I told him about Keith’s missing can of film. “You remember he shot film of us eating lunch? Everyone was having fun, relaxing. It was like a little holiday: a break from work, from war. Keith says that the can with that bit is missing. Huntley last saw it in the van this morning, when they came over to Didcote to get some footage of the Attagirls leaving for work in the Anson.”
Griff shook his head. “Not at the inn?”
“Keith called Mrs. Evans earlier, and we both searched Huntley and Keith’s room and downstairs. I am wondering if someone took it.”
I had his complete attention. “Took it when the van was at the airfield this morning?”
I tried to remember the sequence of events that morning when Keith and Huntley had arrived and parked their van in the drive.
“There was a bit of to-ing and fro-ing.” I closed my eyes. “Vera had already handed out the delivery assignments for the day. Keith and Huntley arrived and started to set up their equipment by the airstrip. They came in and asked about coffee, but Vera wanted to get everyone going. So, they went back to their setup to wait for us. The van was parked outside the mess on the edge of the airstrip. Keith admitted to Huntley that it wasn’t locked.”
Griff did his well-what-d’ya-know whistle.
I concentrated hard on this morning’s scene, as if I were looking down the lens of a camera. “I think June and Annie were all suited up and ready to go. But Letty took ages to find her stuff. I can’t remember where Zofia was. Oh yes, she and Grable went to the Met Office to check on the weather in the southeast.” I frowned with the effort of remembering each separate event in the right order. “Vera was getting annoyed that Letty was taking so long because the Ansons had just landed.”
“In what way taking so long?”
“I think she was just tired. Anyway, Vera chivvied us out of the mess.”
Griff folded his arms and stared at his shoes. “Did anyone go near the van, other than Keith or Huntley? Can you remember?” he asked, his eyes still down as he slowly tapped the toe of his shoe.
“No, I can’t!” I screwed up my eyes tight, but I couldn’t see the van at all.
“Don’t try and make yourself recollect. If one of those women went near the van, it might come back to you. Memory is strange that way.”
“But it’s suspicious, isn’t it? That the can with the piece of film of us eating lunch completely disappeared?” I was practically rubbing my hands.
“Yes.” He smiled at my enthusiasm. “I would say it’s what you mystery writers call a significant clue!”
ELEVEN
IS IT WICKED, I WONDERED TO MYSELF, TO BE SO DAMNED PLEASED if what we first thought was an unfortunate accident might now have become a premeditated murder?
No, dear, said Ilona, you are merely discovering the truth. And a horrid truth it is too.
Someone had wanted Keith’s piece of film badly enough, they had risked taking it from a truck parked in plain view. And the only reason that could be was that he had recorded something incriminating. My mind went back to poison; I simply couldn’t help it.
“An autopsy would show poison in Edwina’s system. I am quite sure about that,” I said, determined to finish what I thought was a clever method to murder by aircraft.
Griff stared at me, rather like the way the ironmonger had gawped at him earlier. “An autopsy of a civilian volunteer pilot in wartime who had a bit of a drinking problem? I would love to hear how you’d word that request to Commander Abercrombie, who has just been given a big kick up the keister by her senior officer at White Waltham.”
My face must have expressed the annoyance I felt, because he held up his hand. “No, no, I know you are onto something that points to murder, but I think a request for an autopsy should wait until we have discovered more—and you are in a perfect position to do so.”
It was the old invitation for me to scout around for clues!
I hate to say this, ducky, but I think the blighter’s right. It’s still early days for things like autopsies: the ATA Accident Committee hasn’t done their investigation yet. Ilona rarely gives poor advice on investigative procedure.
“Let’s go and talk to Mac Wilson, and you can ask all the questions about Spitfires and their orifices to your heart’s content. I’m not saying a word.”
* * *
* * *
GRIFF COCKED HIS head in the direction we were walking: toward the airplane hangar where Mac Wilson, the ground engineer, and his crew worked on the planes used for training and taxi service at Didcote.
“Looks like we aren’t the only ones interested in talking to Mac.” We stopped in a gap in the hedge and watched Vera Abercrombie come out of the hangar with Mac and stand with him, their heads together in deep consultation. “Not sure this is the time we should barge in. What shall we do?”
I crouched down and pulled Bess into the constraint of my arms; it was not the time for corgis to barge in either.
“We could walk over to Edwina’s Spitfire, and you can have a look at it before we talk to Mac Wilson. Can you tell if that thing you mentioned is in place?” He roared with laughter as we ducked through the hedge and walked on down the lane toward the field where Edwina’s plane had crashed.
“You won’t say it, will you?”
“I am not sure I heard you right in the first place.”
“You did, which is why you are at your most reticent. When I tell you what it is, I want you to remember that this is not my name for a very useful piece of engineering, but the term used by the cruder members of your RAF.”
We had come to the field where the Spitfire was still slumped at its ungainly angle. It looked ugly and forlorn lying there in a patch of trampled-down weeds.
“What happens to them, the wrecked planes?”
He stood with his arms folded and gazed across the tilled field. “If they can salvage the metal and other reusable parts, they turn them into other planes.” I noticed that he didn’t say, if there is anything left of them. I thought of all the planes, both theirs and ours, that came down in the English Channel and were now lying on its stony seafloor, and my arms prickled. Why did I think it would be more terrifying to plunge into the murk of those silent depths, than crash into a field?
We walked around the tilted body.
“Let me tell you all about the wonderful Miss Tilly Shilling and her clever invention that saved the Spitfire and the Hurricane from becoming death traps, even though they were invaluable in the RAF winning the Battle of Britain.” He paused as if seeking the right words to his explanation. “The early versions of the Rolls-Royce Merlin engine, the engine used in the first Spitfires and Hurricanes, would stall when these planes performed a negative g-force maneuver, such as pitching the nose down hard in a dive or a roll, for instance.” His mimicked the action with the flat of his hand, fingers pointed sharply downward. “In these earlier models, when the plane was in a steep nosedive, the fuel was forced to the top of the carburetor rather than into the engine, causing a decrease in power. If the negative g continued—that is, if the plane continued to dive—the fuel would collect at the top of the carburetor and then drop down into the engine and flood it. The engine would shut down. A serious drawback in combat, as you can imagine. With me so far?”
It seemed pretty straightforward to me. “Yes, I think I am. So, this Miss Shilling came up with something to prevent the problem.”
“She most certainly did
. She designed a simple device that could be fitted into the carburetor quite easily without taking the aircraft out of service. It was a thimble-shaped flow restrictor with precisely calculated dimensions to allow just enough fuel into the carburetor for the engine to develop maximum power without flooding or depriving it of fuel, causing it to stall.”
“How clever of her!”
“Yes, very clever, and it worked perfectly until Rolls-Royce redesigned the Merlin engine. But there are plenty of Spitfires flying today with RAE restrictors.”
Once again, I was enthralled by the sheer practical brilliance of women.
“Then why is it called Miss Shilling’s orifice? If it was such a clever invention, why did they give it such a disrespectful and vulgar name?”
Because she is a woman, hissed Ilona. If it had been invented by a man, “they” would have been bowing and scraping in their gratitude.
Griff took inspiration from the far horizon. “Probably because of the device’s shape and the fact that it was designed by a gifted engineer who happened to have the comic-opera name of Tilly Shilling: it is also referred to as Miss Tilly’s diaphragm.”
I frowned. I knew what an orifice was—I hadn’t gone to boarding school just for Latin and Greek—but a diaphragm? I had an embarrassing suspicion that it was an even more common term than orifice, but I wasn’t going to ask for clarification, just in case Griff was feeling more expansive than usual. He obviously didn’t want to go into details either: he cleared this throat and hurried on. “I often think that pilots make fun of everything, especially danger, because it minimizes a dicey job,” was all he said as we approached the Spitfire along the tire tracks made by the ambulance.
“Does that mean Edwina was given a faulty Spitfire to fly?”
“That is a possibility.”
This was a much more practical method to murder than poison. “Or do you mean to say that someone could have removed Miss Shilling’s device from this plane?” I said as we stood at what had been the propeller end of the wrecked Spitfire. “Can you check it now?”
