Death of an Airman

by Christopher St. John Sprigg

  Time passed, but the doctor did not appear. At last he sent a message saying that he was still waiting for a future citizen of Baston. Sally tacitly acknowledged that the claims of life were more important than those of death.

  The Bishop, after an hour of this, thought Sally looked dreadfully tired and drawn. But she resolutely kept her vigil, and it was not until the afternoon that the Bishop could persuade her to give up her place and get something to eat.

  Then the Bishop passed into the darkened room where lay the mortal remains of George Furnace. Sally rose as he came in, and a moment after the Bishop was left alone. He lifted the sheet which hid the face of the dead man and looked at it silently. In his twenty years of priesthood he had seen too many of the spent cases of human souls to be much perturbed by the sight of sudden death. But he felt that to gaze on what had once been the mirror of that soul, and still retained its impress, might bring him more closely in touch with the personality that was gone.

  Death had been gentle with George Furnace. There was indeed a ghastly wound on the temple, but the scar whose contrast of colour had disfigured the living features now mingled with the livid hues of death. The Bishop bent closer. Was it a trick of the light? No. Death had frozen on the face of the dead man an expression not of horror, or fear, but of melancholy, despairful reproach.

  “Strange,” said the Bishop. He meditated for a while, not replacing the sheet. Uncontrollably his thoughts went straying from the inspiring phraseology that should have occupied his mind to more questionable matters. The Bishop was by calling a clergyman, but because of the variety of duties that had fallen to his lot as a clergyman in lonely parishes in Australia, he was by way of being also a physician. And something in the tension of the features, as well as their expression, instantly aroused his curiosity.

  At last he leaned over, raised the dead man’s hand vertically, and let it fall. It curled limply on to his chest and slid to his side again.

  The Bishop felt a thin shadow of horror, as if for a moment the forces of evil had invaded the room. Reverently he replaced the sheet, covering the dead man’s face. The deepening shadows of the room found a more than answering depth in the sombre reflection of the Bishop’s countenance.

  More hours passed. Evening fell. Outside the Bishop heard Bastable’s hearty tones, modified by professional concern. “Dreadful, Miss Sackbut! George, of all people! Such a fine pilot. I am so sorry I could not get here before. But he was killed instantaneously I understand, poor fellow!”

  Dr. Bastable glanced at the Bishop without speaking, and gave a perfunctory peer at the forehead of the dead man. “Tut-tut! Most certainly instantaneous! Well, well!”

  The Bishop walked quietly out.

  Chapter III

  Inquest on an Airman

  The Ground Engineer’s Evidence.

  “I am a ground engineer. My name is Andy Ness. I have been employed by the Baston Aero Club ever since it began ten years ago. I hold Ground Engineer’s Licences A, B, C, and D. I passed out the aeroplane XT after its annual overhaul for a Certificate of Airworthiness five days before the accident. Of course I examined the control cables. They had been renewed during the overhaul, and were in perfect condition. The aeroplane had been flown for ten hours after the overhaul by various people without complaint.

  “I knew Major Furnace well. No, I know nothing of his home life. I mean I saw a lot of him at the club. I hadn’t noticed anything unusual in his manner lately. He seemed quite cheerful before he took XT up. He only took her up to amuse himself for a few minutes, I thought. He often did that first thing in the day. He said it cleared his head. He never allowed his pupils to do acrobatics low down, and I never saw him stunt low myself. I did not actually see him crash. I was working on the tender and had the engine running when Mr. Vane (who was due for a lesson, after the Bishop) rushed in and said Major Furnace had crashed the other side of the aerodrome. We both jumped in and tore straight across. I cannot say what happened. Major Furnace was a first-rate pilot, one of the best. I can’t understand it. I don’t know any pilot I’d rather fly with. I am sure the cables or the rudder-bar did not jam. I’ve never heard of such a thing with this type of machine. It’s in use in about a hundred clubs and schools, and is considered the best of its kind for all-round safety.”

  Captain Randall’s Evidence.

  “My name is Arthur Randall. I am a pilot. Yes, I knew Furnace well. He was one of our best civil pilots; a better pilot than I am, although he is less known. He ought to have had a much better job, but competition for the good test pilots’ jobs was keen after the war. He often said to me, ‘Randall, I suppose my trouble is I can’t shoot a good enough line about myself.’ And that certainly was his trouble—modesty. No, his lack of success didn’t seem to worry him much, but it was difficult for anyone else to guess what he was thinking at any time. He might have been a little depressed these last few weeks, but it may have been just a passing mood.

  “I should describe him as a most careful pilot. I simply can’t imagine why the machine did not recover from the spin. It was too far away to see if he was trying to correct it with the rudder, but a pilot of his calibre would do this instinctively at the slightest danger. The type he was flying has never shown any vice in the spin to my knowledge. I was sitting in the office of Gauntlett’s Air Taxis when it occurred. Directly I saw him crash I ran out and got into a car. But I had to go back for the ignition key, and by the time I got there Ness and Vane had done all that could be done and had got him out. It was good work, because one of the longerons had to be sawn to free him, and Vane hurt himself doing it. Furnace must have been dead before they released him, however. His safety-belt had parted and he must have slumped forward against the dashboard. It had penetrated his forehead and killed him. The throttle was closed, but the engine was not switched off. Yes, that is what one would expect if a pilot span into the ground without realizing it. I can’t understand Furnace making such an error. The visibility was quite good—about two miles I should say. His death is a great loss to aviation. Furnace isn’t replaceable.”

  Miss Sackbut’s Evidence.

  “I am Sarah Sackbut, manager and secretary of the Baston Aero Club. I have managed it ever since it began, and Furnace has always been our instructor. It would be quite normal for him to go up for a short flight by himself. I had a pupil waiting for him on the ground. We have never had any trouble with XT before. The machine belongs to a type used everywhere for instructional and beginners’ flights. Our ground engineer has the highest possible qualifications. It is all nonsense to say Furnace was depressed. That was only his manner. He was always perfectly contented and happy. He was a very popular instructor and a most cautious pilot. He would never allow any pupil to spin to within a thousand feet of the ground, and he would never do it himself except at a flying display. I can’t understand how the accident happened. He span into the ground, that was plain enough. XT would come out of a spin after opposite rudder and forward stick in a couple of turns. Could he have lost consciousness? I can’t understand it at all.”

  Mr. Vane’s Evidence.

  “I am a pupil at the Baston Aero Club. My name is Thomas Vane. I have had only two hours’ instruction. Furnace quite rightly considered me a slow pupil. He seemed to me to be rather irritable these last few days, but perhaps I should make any instructor irritable. Oddly enough, he span me in my last lesson. It frightened me. I don’t think it’s usual to do it to a beginner. Of course one has to learn it sooner or later before one goes solo. He made no attempt to correct the spin, and I honestly thought for a moment, when nothing happened, that he had lost consciousness. I got frightened and shoved the stick forward and pushed the rudder-bar over the opposite way, which I understood was the correct thing. Furnace didn’t say anything except that what I’d done was correct. Of course he may have been just testing my reaction in an emergency. He was a fine instructor and I’m told he always studie
d a pupil’s psychology. I haven’t the remotest idea why the machine crashed. I helped to free him from the fuselage. He was quite dead then, just as Captain Randall said. He must have died instantly, I think.”

  The Bishop’s Evidence.

  “I am the Bishop of Cootamundra. I am in England on leave. I have just joined the Baston Aero Club and have never flown. As I only saw Major Furnace once I cannot say whether he was his normal self or not. The machine fell behind a bank of trees, apparently out of control—but I know so little of these matters. I arrived a little time after the crash tender. Then he was quite dead.”

  Lady Laura Vanguard’s Evidence.

  “I saw the spin as I was looking up from a map in the lounge. I did not fully realize the machine had crashed until it did not come up again from behind the trees. Then I ran out and found Miss Sackbut and the Bishop about to drive over there and I joined them. As they said, Major Furnace, who was my instructor, was a wonderful pilot, and I can’t imagine such a thing happening unless there was something wrong with the machine.”

  The Technical Expert’s Evidence.

  “My name is Felix Sandwich, Flying Officer in the Reserve of Air Force Officers. I am in the Department of the Inspector of Accidents in the Air Ministry. Under powers vested in the Secretary of State for Air I inspected the crash and took notes from various witnesses. There was nothing in the machine’s condition to account for the accident. The controls showed no trace of having jammed and there had been no structural failure before the impact. The impact was not severe—it rarely is in a spin. It is possible that the pilot tried to regain control at the last moment, for the machine took the main force of impact on the starboard wing, instead of the nose. As a result the shock was not severe, and if Major Furnace had been thrown clear he would probably have escaped with a shaking. It is hardly surprising that the safety-belt parted. It is meant to take only normal flying strains. No, Mr. Foreman, I do not agree that it would be a good plan to make it stronger, as it would do the pilot serious internal injury if he were thrown violently against its restraint. It was pure bad luck that Furnace was thrown against the edge of the dashboard so that his forehead struck it. He might have been thrown clear. He was evidently trapped by the telescoping of the longerons of the fuselage. Many pilots believe in loosening their safety-belts if they see a crash is inevitable, but Furnace (if he saw the danger at all) could only have realized it when a few feet above the ground, otherwise he could have regained control. This type of machine has never shown any vice and recovers easily from a spin. I can only attribute the accident to an error of judgment on the part of the pilot in delaying recovery from the spin. It is impossible to eliminate the human element. Most accidents of this sort are due to it.”

  The Doctor’s Evidence.

  “My name is Bernard Bastable. I am a Bachelor of Medicine of the University of London. I was called to inspect the body after the crash. I arrived rather late in the day, I’m afraid. Life was then extinct. Death had been caused by (in non-technical language) the violent blow of the forehead against the metal dash, which had penetrated to the brain. Death would have been instantaneous. The deceased was an exceptionally healthy person. He was nominally my patient, and I met him often socially, but my only professional attendance upon him was for a severe burn from an exhaust pipe on which he had inadvertently leant. This was his only illness in all the years I knew him. I should say it was quite impossible for him to have fainted in the air under normal circumstances.”

  The Medical Officer’s Evidence.

  “My name is Francis Goring. I am a Doctor of Medicine and a Medical Officer in the Royal Air Force with the rank of Flight-Lieutenant. As the holder of a licence, permitting him to fly for ‘hire or reward,’ Furnace appeared before the R.A.F. Central Medical Board at least twice a year. His last appearance was a week ago. He was in perfect health, and I should at once discount the likelihood of his having fainted in the air, providing no change had occurred in his physical condition in the interval.”

  The Coroner’s Charge to the Jury.

  “Gentlemen of the Jury, you have heard the very clear evidence of the people on the flying ground at the time of the disaster, the medical evidence, and the technical evidence of Flying Officer Sandwich. You will, I am sure, agree with me that everything that could be done was done, and that Messrs. Ness and Vane deserve commendation for their prompt action in the emergency. I think there can be little doubt of your verdict. We all know of the tremendous advances that flying has made in the last few years, but it is still a perilous occupation, inasmuch as a terrible penalty is exacted for an error of judgment. Yet to err is human, and it seems, after what Flying Officer Sandwich said, that Major Furnace undoubtedly made that excusable error. You will, I am sure, ignore the evidence that has been given that Major Furnace may have been a little depressed the last few days before the event. None of us always remains bright and cheerful. Major Furnace had a fine war record, winning many decorations by his gallantry, and his reputation stood high in the world of aviation. Perhaps this is the first slip he ever made in a long and distinguished flying career, and it is lamentable that it should have been fatal, particularly as it seems he might have escaped uninjured had he been thrown clear. But accidents will happen, and so we are sitting here to-day considering our verdict on the sad end of this gallant officer and popular citizen of Baston.…”

  The Verdict of the Jury.

  “Death by Misadventure.”

  Chapter IV

  Perception of a Prelate

  Furnace’s funeral took place in heavy rain. The Bishop had been pressed by Sally to attend it with her. Already, after his fourth flying lesson, he had been infected with the insidious disease of flight. As an enthusiastic member of the Aero Club, Sally told him he had a duty towards its dead instructor.

  Furnace had evidently been popular. There was a large contingent from the Aero Club, a dozen Baston worthies, and a selection of bronzed-faced, quiet strangers who, the Bishop discovered, were Furnace’s old comrades-in-arms.

  As a matter of fact the Bishop had not needed much pressing, for he had an interest in the dead man which he had not so far disclosed to any other party. He had not mentioned it even at the inquest. The Bishop was a law-abiding citizen, but he was also (he told himself) a clergyman, and not primarily interested in the doings of the secular arm. He did not even disapprove of the practice of merciful suppression so often followed by friends of the deceased at inquests. Consequently, while his evidence had been, of course, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, he had not mentioned certain suspicions he had entertained. After all, they were not evidence, he told himself. It was Dr. Bastable’s business to notice a point like that. But Dr. Bastable had not noticed it.

  What, then, was the Bishop to do? Furnace had certainly seemed worried that day when he had flared up at Mrs. Angevin, but then we all have our moments of worry. Could it have been merely coincidence that the accident had occurred the very next day? Admittedly the accident was inexplicable except as an accident. But wasn’t there an element of the inexplicable in all fatalities?

  The Bishop groaned in spirit and composed his mind to the solemn English of the graveside rites. Obstinately, the words flickered out of his mind as out of a fog. “Why didn’t the doctor notice it?”

  Towards the end of the service the words stopped flickering and burned steadily. For the Bishop’s eyes fell on the unexpressive face of Dr. Bastable.

  The Bishop was only human after all. He decided to speak to the doctor. It was not morbid curiosity, he told himself, but a desire to pacify his conscience for not having mentioned the suspicion at the inquest.

  The Bishop did not have to introduce himself. They had met on the evening of the accident. It was therefore natural for the Bishop to drift alongside Bastable and get into conversation with him.

  “I suppose it will never be satisfactorily explained,” sighed t
he Bishop. “A fine pilot, an aeroplane in perfect condition, and yet this accident.”

  “There is always the human element,” answered Dr. Bastable conventionally.

  “I suppose so.” The Bishop hesitated. “I take it that it was quite impossible for him to have fainted in the air?”

  “Certainly,” answered Dr. Bastable brusquely. He plainly thought the clergyman’s interest a little ghoulish. “Quite impossible. That was all cleared up at the inquest. I saw you there, I think. The man was as fit as a fiddle.”

  “There was no autopsy?” suggested the Bishop.

  “Of course not. It was obvious what had killed the poor fellow. It didn’t need a second glance. The police would only call for an autopsy if there was any doubt. In this case it was all plain sailing.”

  “I suppose it was,” agreed the Bishop, in a tone that made Dr. Bastable look at him sharply. In spite of his wooden expression, Dr. Bastable was a man of occasional intuitions. He looked round, and then seeing there was no one near, stared at the Bishop inquisitively.

  “Something struck you, eh?”

  The Bishop did not at once answer. He asked a question instead. “When did the rigor mortis pass off?”

  The doctor seemed a little startled. “It had already passed off when the body came under my supervision.”

  Dr. Marriott looked at him with an air of gentle surprise. “A little early for that to happen, surely?”

  “No,” said the doctor, with all the firmness of an expert to a layman.

  “I know so little of these matters,” murmured the Bishop. “But when I underwent one of those three-year medical courses at our local university—you know, for missionaries who may have to do a good deal of amateur healing in their lonely cures—”

  “Oh, you’ve had some medical training, have you?” interrupted the doctor, a little disconcerted, as the expert always is when he finds he has pontificated to a hearer who has more knowledge of the expert’s subject than he had realized.