by Robin Paige
“Ah, Kate!” he exclaimed. “I should like you to meet the drivers for tomorrow’s chase. Gentlemen,” he said to the accompanying men, who were pulling off their motoring caps and goggles, “your hostess, Lady Kathryn Sheridan.”
Hostess? thought Kate in surprise. When she had agreed to holding the motorcar exhibition at Bishop’s Keep on the same weekend as the Harvest Fete, she had not considered that she might have additional duties as a hostess. Charles had already invited one guest—a Mr. Henry Royce, who was expected to offer some ideas on the electrical system—and they were planning a Saturday night dinner to which the drivers were invited. Now, it seemed that today’s luncheon must be provided, as well. Oh, dear, she thought to herself, wondering how Mrs. Pratt would take the news.
But it was of no use to worry about Mrs. Pratt. Kate put on a gracious smile and was led down the line of waiting motorcars, polished and gleaming and ready for the grand day.
First was Bradford’s familiar gasoline-powered Daimler, to be driven by a tall blond German named Wilhelm Albrecht, who wore a handsome Kaiser mustache and a monocle. The German clicked his heels and bowed over Kate’s hand with a smile of supreme self-confidence. Kate wondered why, if the competition were so important, Bradford wasn’t driving his own car. The arrangement seemed rather peculiar to her, and so did the mocking glance that Albrecht bestowed on the rest of the drivers. The man obviously felt himself much superior to the others.
Second in line was an elegant-looking Benz, with a Union Jack fluttering from a staff fixed to the side. It was to be driven by its owner, Mr. Frank Ponsonby, an excitable-looking man in motoring garb—khaki dust coat, goggles, and knee-high boots—with a cigar, a high, white forehead, and almost no hair. Bradford and Mr. Ponsonby did not appear on friendly terms, and Kate remembered the talk she had heard about the fierce competition between proponents of different automobiles. Perhaps there was more at stake in this event than she had realized.
The third automobile looked to Kate rather like a high-wheeled gig. In the back, barely visible above the rear axle, was a boiler, topped by a short smokestack. The vehicle was a French steam car called a Serpollet. The driver was Mr. Arthur Dickson, a very tall, painfully thin man with a delicate air, from Sheffield. “I am here to prove that steam is the best propellant,” he said, with a disdainful glance at the other cars. “And I shall do it, I promise you, or die in the attempt.”
Frank Ponsonby gave an unpleasant laugh. “Just see to it that nobody else gets killed when that flash boiler of yours explodes, Dickson, old chap.”
A vein began to throb in Dickson’s temple but when he spoke, it was with only mild scorn. “The tubes are over three-eighths of an inch thick, engineered to withstand several times the operating pressure. They cannot possibly rupture. And as you well know, Ponsonby, where there is no accumulation of steam, there is no possibility of an explosion.”
But Ponsonby was not to be put off. He bestowed an ingratiating smile on Kate. “You are wearying our hostess, Dickson. Ladies hardly care to hear technical details. It wearies their intellects.”
“My intellect,” Kate replied loftily, “is not at all wearied.” She smiled at Dickson. “You believe the steam car to be superior to the petrol-powered vehicle, then, Mr. Dickson?”
Dickson spoke fervently. “Oh, absolutely superior, Lady Kathryn! The engine generates far more torque at low speeds, and hence there is no need for a transmission system. What’s more, speed control is accomplished by this single lever.” He pointed. “In a gas-explosion car, one must simultaneously regulate the throttle, fuel mixture, spark advance, and gearing—a task for a four-armed genius.” He glanced at a glowering Ponsonby. “That surface carburetor of yours, Ponsonby—has it caught fire yet?”
Bradford took Kate’s arm and steered her to the fourth motor car. “May I present Mr. Arnold Bateman, and his Bateman Electric?”
Mr. Bateman, a short, athletic-looking man with dark hair and a thin scar across his nose, made an elegant bow. The vehicle which he had designed and built was an electrified dog cart with yellow-spoked wheels. “The virtue of the electric car,” he explaimed briskly, opening a hatch to demonstrate the large battery, “is its simplicity and quiet operation.”
“Ah, but vot happens ven it runs out of electricity?” Herr Albrecht inquired, adjusting his monocle with a superior look.
“Then Bateman must go looking for a lightning bolt,” Mr. Ponsonby said, and laughed raucously. Even the autocratic Mr. Dickson condescended to a glacial smile.
“Of course, with the ponderous weight of that battery,” Ponsonby added, sotto voce, “our friend will probably stick in the mud long before his power is gone.”
Bateman lifted his chin. “You may have your fun, gentlemen. But when a primary battery is developed, as you may shortly expect, we shall have only to mix the appropriate chemicals to gain a reliable, continuous, and inexpensive source of electricity. And then—” He raised his voice. “And then, sirs, this lightweight, quiet, odorless Bateman Electric will leave your noisy, odoriferous, cantankerous gasoline machines in the dust. Mark my words, gentlemen. Mark my words.” And he gave them a supercilious smile.
The other three glared at him and then at one another, and Kate, amused, almost expected to see the four of them, like two pairs of Tweedledees and Tweedledums, come to blows. But Charles walked up at that moment and greeted the drivers, and the tension dissolved. Kate took her leave, pleading the necessity of consulting her cook about luncheon.
“You will join us for lunch, won’t you?” she asked the men, with more enthusiasm than she felt. They were so openly antagonistic to one another that she wondered whether they could be trusted to dine together in a civil manner.
But Charles seconded her invitation, Bradford accepted for all of them, and Kate went off to break the news to Mrs. Pratt.
8
We live in an age of balloonacy.
—The Daily Telegraph, 1864
He must needs go that the devil drives.
—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
All’s Well That Ends Well
“Well, what do you think?” Bradford asked, as he and Charles left the group of drivers and walked toward the balloon.
“Who invited the contestants?” Charles asked. “You?”
Bradford shook his head. “Dunstable. He thought a bit of rivalry would stimulate them to their best performance.”
“A bit of rivalry?” Charles raised his eyebrows. “Bateman and Ponsonby have been at each other’s throats since the exhibition at Tunbridge Wells. Dickson despises both of them for reasons that have little to do with racing. And all three are amateurs. They’re no match for Albrecht, who has been winning races in Europe for the last two years. What is he doing here, Bradford? And why is he driving your Daimler?”
“Dunstable is looking for publicity for his Daimler patents. He thought Albrecht would attract the attention of the newspapers and motoring magazines. He plans to ride with Albrecht, and share in the glory when he wins. And Albrecht is driving my Daimler because it is fast and well-maintained, thanks to Lawrence.”
“Well,” Charles said mildly, “with Albrecht in the race, there is no contest. But with regard to the exhibit, there’s something else I need to mention to you, Bradford. The villagers are still quite upset about Old Jessup’s death. According to the vicar—”
“I wish the vicar would stop his infernal gossiping,” Bradford burst out angrily.
“The vicar is only reporting the villagers’ concern. They cannot understand why there was no inquest into the old man’s death, and many resent the fact that their annual Harvest Fete has been turned into an automotive exhibit. In retrospect, I wish we had not combined the two events. Some are likely to stay away—and some of those who come will bear a grudge, and may cause trouble.”
“But we have already combined them,” Bradford said with a dark frown. “And should any please to stay away, they are certainly welcome. The many gentlemen who will come from Colcheste
r and Ipswich to see the motorcars will more than make up for the few villagers who might have come to toss a coconut or dance a country jig.” His voice became half mocking. “We are here to introduce the men of the future to the machine of the future, Charles, and to invite them to seek a share in the coming wealth of an industry yet unborn.”
“You mean,” Charles observed, unsmiling, “that Dunstable intends to sell them shares in his enterprises. I hope that you have not become his agent.”
Bradford’s frown became a scowl. “And is there something wrong with that arrangement? I cannot believe that you, of all people, agree with my father’s antique notion that a peer’s son should hold himself above business and industry. Or that a man, simply because he will inherit a title, should refuse to participate in the industrial growth of the country. Whatever you think of Dunstable, you must admit that security no longer lies in lands and rents, but in a portfolio of commercial shares.”
“Of course I don’t hold with the old view,” Charles replied. “But you must admit, Bradford, that Dunstable’s patent monopolies are clearly fraudulent. They are not the sort of—”
But Charles’s objections to Dunstable’s schemes were drowned out by the sound of an approaching carriage. It proved to be a hired gig from the railway station, driven by a red-haired, ruddy-faced young man in a Norfolk jacket and golfing cap. His companion, a square-jawed man with deep-set eyes, a high forehead, and a serious expression, was formally dressed in morning coat, wing collar, cravat, and hat and carried a leather portmanteau.
The young man jumped down from the gig. “I say there!” he cried exuberantly. “Is this where the motorcar hexhibition is bein’ ’eld tomorrow?”
“It is,” Bradford said. “I am Lord Marsden, one of the organizers of the event, and this is Sir Charles Sheridan, whose estate this is. And you are—?”
“ ’Olt, of Autocar magazine,” the younger man said loudly. He stuck out his hand. “Sam ’Olt. ’Ere to cover the hexibit an’ chase.”
“Indeed, Mr. Holt,” Bradford said, shaking the other’s hand. “I have been expecting you.” He turned to Holt’s companion. “And this gentleman is—”
“Mr. Royce,” Charles said warmly. “Had I known the time of your arrival, Henry, I should have sent someone to the station.” He turned to Bradford. “Mr. Royce is an electrical engineer with a reputation for manufacturing electric cranes of quality and reliability. When I told him of my plans to use electric power at Bishop’s Keep, he offered to stop in, have a look, and offer his suggestions.”
Royce bowed slightly. “Actually,” he said, “it was your report of Lady Kathryn’s minature roses that caught my interest, Sir Charles. I am rather keen on gardening. But I seem to have come on a busy weekend,” he added, glancing around. “There is to be a motorcar exhibit tomorrow?”
“Indeed there is,” Bradford said genially. “Do you have an interest in motorcars, Mr. Royce?”
“I inspected both the Daimler and the Benz at the Crystal Palace Exhibit,” Royce replied. “But I must say that while the concept of the petrol engine is intriguing, the machines I saw were flawed by careless workmanship.” He spoke with a quiet authority that did not invite challenge.
Bradford darkened, and Charles smiled. “Mr. Royce has an eye for engineering detail,” he said, “and a passion for mechanical perfection. If you and Harry Dunstable really want to improve the Daimler, you could do no better than to consult him.”
“Dunstable!” snorted Royce. “I hardly think so.”
Holt’s head turned toward the line of vehicles along the gravel drive. “Those’re the motorcars that’ll run in the chase? I say, dev’lish good, gentlemen! Smart, smart. Bound to get notice.”
Bradford relaxed. “We expect several other vehicles for the exhibit. Charlie Rolls’s Peugeot will be here, of course, and a Panhard newly imported from France, a De Dion steam tractor, an Offord Electrocar, and a motor bicycle—all available for inspection.” He gestured. “After the event, you will be provided with aerial photographs of the chase. The four drivers are willing to be interviewed, of course. You will especially want to talk with Herr Albrecht, who will be driving a Daimler—my Daimler, in fact.”
Holt stroked his chin. “Aerial photographs, eh? Now, that’s a novelty. Well, yes, I cert‘nly shall obtain hinterviews from the drivers, specially ’Err Albrecht, and from Mr. Rolls, too.” He grinned. “Maybe ‘e’ll take me for a flight in that balloon.”
“Where do you predict the balloon will land?” Royce asked with interest.
“If this westerly wind holds,” Charles said, “it will carry us toward the coast, fifteen miles to the east.” Unfortunately, the boggy terrain was likely to complicate their landing, and beyond was the Channel. If he and Rolls were not careful, they might find themselves on their way to France.
The landing wasn’t the only worrisome thing, actually. The chase itself now struck him as a precarious scheme. If the wind increased, the balloon would rapidly outdistance the motorcars. And even under ideal conditions, the drivers would have to pursue in a roundabout way, through lanes that were little more than cart tracks. It would be a lucky thing if any of the vehicles were to finish.
Royce seconded his unspoken doubts. “The balloon might arrive at the coast, but the flimsy, ill-engineered contraptions I see here are not likely to go so far.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Royce,” Bradford said glacially, “you could build one that might fare better.” His tone suggested that the possibility was remote.
Royce did not appear to notice the sarcasm. “At the present moment, I am fully occupied with more productive engineering work. If I were to become interested in automotive design, however, I can assure you that the Royce motorcar would be vastly superior to those here. Take the steering, as an example.”
“The tiller serves perfectly well,” Bradford said.
“Rather too well, as I understand it,” Royce replied. “There is a problem with oversteering. I should think a wheel might offer better control, as on a yacht.”
Bradford gave an involuntary “Ha!” of disbelief, and Sam Holt’s eyebrows went up under his gingery hair. “Sure of yerself, are ye, Mr. Royce?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t be so quick to doubt,” Charles said. “As a matter of fact, some European racing drivers are experimenting with that very concept. I predict—”
“Damn it all, Marsden!” cried an angry voice. Charles turned to see a tall, stern-looking man in riding clothes striding toward them. “Have you any idea the ruckus those deuced motor cars have caused this morning?”
Charles was not surprised by the violence of Squire Thornton’s speech. His neighbor was a man of passionate temperament, and it appeared that he had been tried beyond the limits of his endurance.
“Ah, Thornton,” Bradford said, in a placating tone. “Mr. Holt, Mr. Royce—I should like you to meet Squire Roger Thornton, of Thornton Grange. The Thornton stables have a reputation that is known to all—”
“Damned right,” Thornton snapped, ignoring all but Bradford. “You’ve thrown my horses into a state of nervous exhaustion, you and your bloodly motorcars.” He glowered. “I should think you would have better sense, Marsden, after what happened to Old Jessup. The entire district is still in an uproar. Harry Hodson and the doctor may call it what they like—the people believe your motorcar frightened the old man to death. They call it murder. And what your father will say—”
“I think we should take a turn in the garden, where we can discuss the matter privately,” Bradford said, and taking Thornton by the arm, walked away with him.
Holt turned to Charles, his eyes gleaming with journalistic curiosity. “Murder? ’Oo got murdered?”
“No one,” Charles said firmly, raising his voice over the clatter of another arriving vehicle. “No one at all.”
“Ah, Mr. Holt!” a loud voice exclaimed. “Glad to see that you could come and review our little event!” A solid-framed, fresh-cheeked man alighted from a barouche. He wo
re the air of a Swiss admiral, sporting elegantly grizzled side-whiskers and dressed in a blue uniform coat and yachting cap with an elaborate insignia: an allegorical female in flowing garments brandishing a sheaf of lightning-flashes in one hand and steering a self-propelled chariot with the other.
“Mr. Dunstable, sir!” exclaimed Holt, running to shake hands. “Mr. Simms sends ’is greetin’s fer a most successful hexibit, sir.”
Charles knew that Mr. Simms was the editor of the new Autocar, and that the journal was as speculative as Dunstable’s ventures. In fact, it was clear from the issues he had read that the journal was strongly biased in favor of Dunstable and his promotions—a not altogether surprising fact, since the bulk of the journal’s advertising came from Dunstable’s concerns. More to the point, Simms was the director of one of Dunstable’s manufacturing promotions. It was hardly an arrangement, Charles thought, that fostered independent reporting on the emerging motorcar industry.
But the arrangement clearly suited Dunstable, who pumped Holt’s hand, then turned to Charles. “Sir Charles,” he said in a mellifluous voice, “I cannot tell you how grateful I am, sir, for your magnanimous offer of your fine estate for our humble event. You are truly a generous man, and I am in your debt. In your debt, my very dear sir!” Sweeping the yachting cap from his head to his breast, he bowed low.
“The estate is Lady Kathryn’s, Mr. Dunstable,” Charles said quietly, “and the loan of it was to Lord Bradford, who asked it as a favor to a friend.”
Dunstable beamed, undismayed. “Very good, sir, very good! My compliments to Lady Kathryn. And of course, the affair is entirely Lord Bradford’s from beginning to end, and wholly in his capable hands. And he will get all the glory when Mr. Holt writes of the event in Autocar, all the glory. Isn’t that so, Mr. Holt?”
Holt’s head snapped up. “Just so, Mr. Dunstable,” he said, and whipped out his notebook. “Lord Bradford, all the glory,” he muttered, scribbling busily.
