by Joan Lock
Smith’s open mouth and saucer eyes caused Henry Coxwell to venture a smile. He began pointing out one or two landmarks: lying alongside Lordship Lane which snaked beneath them were Graingers and Broadwater Farms, just like scattered sets of toddlers’ building blocks, and the red brick turret of Bruce Castle was set in its own little park like a garnet jewel in an emerald brooch.
‘Tottenham, where I live,’ explained Coxwell when figures in gardens below began waving to them. ‘They’re my neighbours.’
Seeing all this was amazing enough to Smith but also to be in the company of such a famous man was overwhelming. A man who had flown higher than any other in the world – ever – probably thirty thousand feet!
An unpleasant smell wafted down into the car. ‘Gas blowing off as the sun expands the balloon,’ Coxwell explained. ‘I’m afraid coal gas is not the most aromatic of propellants,’ he conceded as Smith held his nose. ‘Can’t afford hydrogen!’
A little smell was a small price to pay, thought Smith, for such an amazing experience.
They drifted noiselessly on above the marshes which bordered on the River Lea: a lush green carpet on which clusters of flies seemed to have gathered. Tiny white puffs of smoke came from these clusters followed by resonant cracking sounds.
‘Newington Butts,’ said Coxwell. ‘The Hornsey riflemen getting in some useful practice.’ He leaned over the side and released some more ballast. ‘We’ve been keeping low,’ he explained to Smith, who felt he could touch the heavens, ‘for the sake of our artist. He wanted a closer look over the palace. But now we will rise a little.’
Oh, did he? thought Smith and dragged his eyes back to the huddled artist. He could after all be Quicksilver spying out the land. He didn’t look so dapper now. The smart blazer was rumpled and the natty boater had been knocked sideways.
Seeing his interest, Coxwell explained, ‘Mr Goodson and I are of the same opinion on the inaccuracy of the sketches from balloons which appear in books and periodicals. We wonder just where the artist was at the time.’ He laughed. ‘Perched on a mountain top? Or was he a winged messenger in space? We want the viewer to feel he is in the car with us. But, as you can see, with this ever-changing view, he has to be quick.’
Smith did begin to see that the young man’s manner was not so much secretive as distracted and even hunted, but he felt bound to continue his quest.
‘Can I have a look?’ he said, picking up the pile of sketches.
Mr Goodson looked up, frowned, then nodded distractedly.
The sketch of the palace grounds seemed very vague and scribbly to the young sergeant.
‘He’s been up several times,’ Coxwell pointed out, ‘and does a little more each time – accumulating information for the final picture.’
Smith’s eyes were caught by several crosses near the Alexandra Palace. One in particular, beside the circus tent, was extra large and accompanied by an exclamation mark.
‘What does this —’ he began.
Mr Coxwell steered him away, whispering, ‘He needs to concentrate.’
The air grew cooler as they rose. Golden rays of a dipping sun slanted out from beneath a stratus cloud and touched the mistiness which hung over the bow of green.
‘Epping Forest,’ said Coxwell.
Smith had once picnicked in the famous forest with his parents when his father was still alive. It looked so different from here.
They sat side by side now at the writing desk with the Dictionary of Quotations before them, opened at the index. Best, unsure where to begin, had allowed Helen to take the lead, tracing key words, starting with ‘night’.
Her slim index finger ran down the page, then stopped. She looked up at him, her face bright with triumph, then lowered her eyes to the spot.
There it was, between ‘city of night’ and ‘clothes of night and light’: ‘Closed his eyes in endless night.’ Gray, 157:17. Best opened his mouth to show his pleasure but she put a finger to her lips and glanced around warningly. No wedding ring, he noticed.
When they located the relevant page, she pointed to the name heading the left-hand column: ‘Thomas Gray 1716–1771’ before running a finger down to the verse which read:
Nor second he, that rode sublime
Upon the seraph-wings of ecstasy,
The secrets of th’ abyss to spy.
He passed the flaming bounds of place and time:
The living throne, the sapphire-blaze,
Where angels tremble, while they gaze,
He saw; but blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night.
Best crossed his eyes and made a face.
Helen tried not to giggle as she traced back up to the title, The Progress of Poesy.
Best nodded, half understanding. That was the title of the poem but … He opened his mouth again. She silenced him with a raised finger and whispered, ‘Let’s try for the other half of Quicksilver’s sentence first – “bereaved of light”.’
This time they had no luck. The long list under ‘light’ brought no success and ‘bereaved’ proved equally fruitless. Best frowned his puzzlement at her.
‘They can’t include everything,’ she whispered. Instead of hushing her, the elderly chess player suddenly let out a great ‘Hurrah!’ and clapped his hands as he checkmated his companion.
‘Oh, apparently it’s all right for them to make a noise!’ Best exclaimed in a carrying voice.
Helen was thoughtful. ‘Actually, the more I read it, the more familiar it becomes.’ She tapped her forehead, willing the source to emerge.
‘With me, too,’ Best said. And it was – ‘bereaved of light’ was very familiar – at least he imagined it was. But that might only be because he kept staring at it with such intensity.
‘Write the Thomas Gray quote down, then we’ll discuss it outside.’
As Helen spoke he saw her eyes settle on his cuffs. She had brought the ingenious Fleur de Lys studs back from the Paris Exhibition as a present. He smiled, held them up and gave Helen a rueful grin. She patted his arm and smiled back.
Best and Helen sat side by side again, this time on the garden bench which circled beneath the central fountain of the Italian Garden.
He breathed in the fresh air and looked around appreciatively at the elegant formal flower beds and statuary. ‘You know there were supposed to be gardens on both sides of the Great Hall. Another open space to help prevent any fires spreading so quickly next time.’ He sighed. Fire could well be on Quicksilver’s mind – given the palace’s history in that respect. ‘But the owners found they needed to make more money, so they enclosed it and let manufacturers exhibit there instead.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘What I find difficult to fathom,’ he confessed, dragging himself back to the matter in hand, ‘is whether the whole poem is meant to convey some clue. I mean, should we take notice of this “blasted with excess of light” which he doesn’t actually quote but sounds as if it could mean an explosion – or should we just concentrate on the words he’s given us?’
She was perplexed. ‘Explosion?’
‘You see, we’ve been working on the assumption that with all this reference to “darkness” that whatever disaster this man is threatening might be going to happen after dark.’
‘What man? What disaster!’
Best hesitated. ‘He should not have revealed so much. But he needed her help and time was short. He took a deep breath and told her everything. She looked at him aghast.
‘But you must get all of these people away from here – right now!’
‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘How?’
‘Blow a whistle. Announce it through megaphones. Get policemen to approach people and tell them – anything!’ she exclaimed passionately. ‘You’re putting their lives at risk.’ Her voice rose. ‘YOU MUST TELL THEM.’
People turned round and stared, startled by the passion in her voice, then looked aw
ay, embarrassed at having overheard what they took to be a lovers’ tiff.
‘There would be a panic. Garbled messages and rumours would spread. ‘Look what happened at Liverpool. People would begin to run, fall over, trample each other to death.’
‘You don’t know that that would happen!’
‘And you don’t know that it wouldn’t,’ he retorted. He was starting to remember why they parted. ‘Anyway, the authorities have decided that there’s more risk in telling than not. The threats may not even be genuine but, ever since Liverpool—’ He spread his hands.
‘But Liverpool was in a theatre – a confined space!’
‘And so is much of this …’ He waved his hands to encompass the garden and pointed to the narrow doorways which led into more enclosed spaces. ‘And the crowds are getting thicker by the minute.’
She sat silent for a moment, then said, ‘Do you get many such letters?’
He nodded. ‘Quite a lot. Mostly from nutters.’ He hesitated then added truthfully, ‘But this one didn’t show the usual signs at first, huge deranged writing, lots of exclamation marks, although it is beginning to become a little manic.
‘Another thing, they don’t usually show an intention to harm other people. They’re mainly just complaining that other people are trying to harm them.’
‘Could it be political?’
‘Easily, with all this trouble in Ireland at the moment. But the Fenians are usually more straightforward with their threats – if they make threats at all. They usually just do it.’
She stared at him for a long moment then said firmly, ‘Right, then we must get to work fast.’
‘Sunset is quite late at the moment, isn’t it? What time would you say, about ten?’
‘Yes. So what time are the final events?’
He took out his crumpled programme.
‘A circus performance in the Great Hall at eight, then a promenade concert and fireworks by the triple lakes at nine, to be followed by an organ concert. But people do begin to start drifting away straight after the fireworks to catch the trains home.’
‘So, a good place to catch a great many people herded together would be at the railway stations or the Wood Green or Muswell Hill exits.’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Or while watching the fireworks,’ they both said together.
‘We have thought about that, of course, and we’re swamping the area around the lakes with police.’
They went back to their poetry but there was a sense of desperation in the air now.
‘This one seems more sinister,’ he said, pointing at the Thomas Gray couplet. ‘“Blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.” Sounds as if he is straightforwardly talking about an explosion and death.’
She nodded. ‘That’s certainly what it seems he wants you to think.’ She sat back and sighed. ‘I think it’s going to be very difficult to find something more specific in these poems.’ She tapped his notebook. ‘Apart from the obvious ones we already have: darkness, blackness, death … But something might strike us later, when we stop thinking so hard about it.’
‘Which may be too late.’
‘Yes.’ She looked at her watch and stood up. ‘I must go to my meeting.’
He was startled by her sudden defection. One minute the puzzle mattered terribly, the next it was dropped.
‘Will he still be there?’ he asked confusedly.
She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Oh, yes.’ She paused. ‘But I promise I will keep wracking my brains and also see if I can track down those other two verses.’
‘So will I.’ He hesitated. ‘How will you let me know whether you have been successful?’
‘I’ll leave a note in the police office.’
‘Where will you be going – after your meeting?’ He tried not to look too eager for her reply.
She held up her pad. ‘To do more drawing.’ She held up her index finger in a familiar gesture, her little face so serious. ‘I’ll give you my route.’ She took out a slip of scrap drawing paper and scribbled on it.
‘And if you need to reach me quickly?’
‘I’ll leave a note marked urgent in the police office.’ She looked up at him and extended her hand. ‘Just in case. Goodbye, Ernest. It’s been good seeing you again.’ They might have been passing acquaintances. She smiled and was gone.
A moment later she was back again. ‘Just a thought,’ she said. ‘Well, two actually …’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t see why Quicksilver has to be a man. If anything, women are more devious than men – they have to be. And, another thing, not many men read poetry written by a woman, and his first quote was.’
She was right. It didn’t have to be a man.
‘Secondly, have you looked around that Denayrouze Diving Platform? Seems to be a place full of disaster potential to me.’
She was gone again before he could insist that she keep away from crowds, confined spaces, suspicious people – and danger.
Chapter Nine
Best could see what Helen meant about the diving pavilion being a good place for a catastrophe, what with forty tons of water contained in a tank where divers descended to demonstrate ‘submarine work’ aided by the Denayrouze submarine lamp and speaking apparatus. But he couldn’t quite see how disaster could be inflicted, apart from releasing all that water, which would be difficult given the way it seemed to be protected, or interfering with the divers’ apparatus. Maybe the water could be drained out to leave them stranded?
He was still contemplating the possibilities when he felt a tapping on his right shoulder. Turning around, he found Dr Roper standing very close behind him.
‘Young man,’ the doctor said without preamble. ‘I’ve been having second thoughts.’
Best knitted his brow in puzzlement. ‘What about?’
‘About that woman. The dead woman!’
‘Oh.’
Dr Roper grasped Best’s right arm and guided him firmly away from the crowd gathered around the diving tank, stopping only when they had reached a dip in the ground below the east terrace.
‘Did you smell anything?’ Roper asked.
Best wished the man wouldn’t stand so close. It was disconcerting. ‘Where? On the merry-go-round?’
‘No, no. On the body. On the body.’
Best shook his head and shrugged. ‘No.’
‘Hmm.’ The doctor sucked his teeth. ‘Never mind, that’s not conclusive, is it? Some can and some can’t.’
Best could feel himself becoming irritated. A bad sign. When he became irritated he tended to act first and think later. A tendency he was still trying to control. ‘Is there some problem, sir?’ he enquired, scrunching his right hand into a ball.
‘Well, there may be and there may not. Let’s go back to the office.’ He took Best’s arm again and began pushing him along. ‘We can discuss the matter on the way.’
Only with great difficulty in these crowds, thought Best as he was buffeted by two young men hurrying in the other direction. He shook himself free from Roper but the man was too preoccupied to notice.
‘The body hasn’t been removed yet, has it?’
‘Not to my knowledge, sir. They won’t have had the time.’
‘Good. Good.’ Roper clasped his hands together and waved them up and down, emphasizing his words. ‘You see, the thing is, no matter how good a doctor you are, you can’t keep everything in here.’ He released his hands and tapped his forehead. ‘Not all of the time.’
‘No, sir.’ Ah, that was what this was all about – a professional reputation at stake. ‘But why? It was only a heart attack. Wasn’t it?’
‘It suddenly occurred to me,’ panted Roper, ‘she was quite pink, wasn’t she?’
Best thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I suppose she was.’ Indeed, her good colour had at first made him doubt that she was dead, but the total lack of breathing and other signs of life had soon changed his mind.
They m
ounted the east terrace steps.
‘Hmm. Pity is, we haven’t any witnesses to the death.’
Best refrained from saying they might have tried harder to find some had they not had his heart attack diagnosis.
‘We may have more on that soon,’ Best said as they turned left towards the manager’s office. That was a half-truth. ‘What is it that’s worrying you, sir?’
‘Not sure. Not sure. Just a feeling. Pink can be a sign of several different things – coal gas poisoning, for instance. But of course that doesn’t apply here, does it?’ he said dismissively, as though it was Best who had foolishly suggested that idea.
‘Er, no.’
He shook his head again. ‘Well, maybe it’s nothing.’ They turned into the office vestibule. ‘But you’re sure you didn’t smell anything?’
‘No … well …’
‘What?’
Best looked thoughtful. ‘Well, when I put my face to her mouth to see whether she was breathing there was a slightly sweet smell. I guessed she’d been sucking one of those cachous … The smell was familiar …’
‘Almonds?’
Best stopped with his hand on the office door and frowned, trying to recapture the odour. ‘I think you’re right – well sort of …’
‘Burnt almonds?’
‘Yes.’ It was Best’s turn to look concerned. ‘That’s a symptom of poisoning, isn’t it?’
‘Quite. Cyanide poisoning. But not everyone is able to smell it … Unfortunately, I am one of those people who can’t.’
Best opened the door into the manager’s office.
‘Felix is dead,’ announced Chief Inspector Billings.
If only Betsy could see this, thought Smith. How she’d love the air up here and the view for miles and miles. The endless blue sky now turning golden to the west with the rays of the setting sun. As for little George, his twelve-year-old stepson, he’d be beside himself when he heard about this.
The aeronaut suddenly glanced out to the east and declared, ‘I don’t like the look of that sky. Anyway, you must get back to your duties?’ He regarded the young artist, Goodson, who had never stopped sketching manically so as to capture the ever-moving scene, as he said, ‘It will soon be too dark for any more of that drawing. Time to land, I think.’
