by Clara Benson
Having demonstrated how fast the Nuthatch could go, Captain Dauncey then slowed and began a rolling circuit of the aerodrome, turning from side to side, then finally performing a full roll before righting the plane and climbing steeply, almost vertically, many hundreds of feet into the air. The aeroplane slowed as it climbed, then at the very pinnacle seemed to stop and hang motionless in the air, tail downwards, for several seconds. Then slowly the nose of the plane turned towards the earth and the Nuthatch went into a dive, descending at a rate that was almost a free-fall. For several seconds it looked as though the plane and Captain Dauncey would plummet into the ground, but at the last moment he pulled the nose up again and swooped low over the airfield. The crowd roared its appreciation, and the Nuthatch once again began to climb, presumably to repeat the manoeuvre. This time, however, it got no farther than a few hundred feet from the ground when it gave a great lurch and a cough, and began to twist oddly. Something had clearly gone wrong. Dauncey abandoned the manoeuvre and somehow managed to right the plane, to cheers from the crowd, who evidently thought it had all been intentional. The Nuthatch flew level, circling the aerodrome for some minutes, then began to climb again. Once again, however, the plane stalled and jerked, and began to behave even more erratically than before.
‘What the devil is wrong with that plane?’ muttered Freddy to himself. He looked around, wondering whether he was the only one to have noticed, and saw that some people had begun to look worried. Corky Beckwith was standing nearby, watching eagerly and taking notes. He glanced at Freddy’s folding camera with envy.
‘I wish I’d thought to bring one,’ he said. ‘Just imagine if I captured the moment it hit the ground!’
Under normal circumstances Freddy would have replied with some caustic remark, but his eyes were drawn irresistibly to the scene in the sky above him. Dauncey was fighting to regain control of his aircraft, but it was refusing to obey his command.
‘Good heavens, he really is going to crash!’ said Corky, with barely-concealed delight. Indeed, the Nuthatch appeared to have declared independence from its pilot, and looked as though it wanted nothing more than to point itself towards the earth and embark upon a catastrophic nose-dive. With a superhuman effort Dauncey managed to keep the nose up, but the plane was still descending dangerously fast. The crowd had at last realized that something was very wrong, and there were screams and shouts as the plane picked up speed, heading directly for the pavilion section of the field. Down, down, down it came, and the crowds around the pavilions began to scatter and run in all directions. Calamity seemed inevitable, and Freddy was just about to close his eyes, when at the very last second Dauncey somehow regained control of the machine, and it roared low over the aerodrome, just missing the roofs of the pavilions. Dauncey made sure the plane was straight, then finally brought it down into a bumpy landing and drew it to a stop. The crowd erupted in cheers and cries of relief, although Corky was looking disappointed.
‘So much for the Nuthatch,’ he said. ‘Perhaps the famous Captain Dauncey isn’t quite such a whiz at flying as we all supposed. Or perhaps it’s the plane that’s a dud. I shall go and take a closer look.’
He went off, but Freddy did not follow him, for it was obvious that the public would not be allowed near the thing—and indeed, the Nuthatch had already been wheeled to the side of the airfield, and was surrounded by engineers. After a few minutes another aeroplane took to the sky, and Freddy scribbled down one or two notes, but in reality he was looking about for Lord Browncliffe or Captain Dauncey. It looked rather as though Browncliffe’s hopes of selling the Nuthatch at a pretty price were doomed to failure—at least until it could be ascertained what had gone wrong with it—and the events of today would make a good story, especially if Freddy could speak to any of the men involved to find out what had happened.
At length Lord Browncliffe strode back to the Nugent Corporation pavilion, in company with Captain Dauncey. They were met by a group of their own people, and there was much conferring in murmurs. Lord Browncliffe had invited a number of official guests from England and abroad to watch the display, and after a minute or two Freddy heard him raise his voice.
‘No, no, just a little trouble with the engine,’ he said jovially to one of his visitors. ‘Nothing at all of importance. It seems one of the fuel lines was badly fitted, but I shall find out who did it and have some sharp words with him. Yes, it is rather vexing, of course. Makes a bad show, especially on its first day. Just a little stumbling-block—or let’s call it a dress-rehearsal. Yes, a dress-rehearsal, that’s what it was. Went a little badly, but these things often do. But we’re taking her down to Shoreham-by-Sea for the South of England air show in a couple of weeks, then you’ll see what she’s capable of!’
Hands were shaken all round, and two of the foreign guests departed, glancing at one another and grimacing. A few minutes later Freddy noticed them looking around the pavilion of a rival company, Rawson Welbeck, where a smiling man greeted them. Lord Browncliffe had nothing to do now but swallow his irritation at what had happened and appear with all his usual bonhomie—a feat he managed with some success until he saw Sir Stanley Westray approaching, with Lois following a little way behind, looking slightly apprehensive. Sir Stanley, it seemed, had come to satisfy his curiosity as to what had gone wrong with the Nugent Nuthatch, but had not the finesse of manner required to do so diplomatically.
‘What went wrong, Browncliffe?’ he said bluntly. ‘Wasn’t the plane ready yet? I thought you said you’d ironed out all the remaining problems. It looks as though you missed a few.’
Lord Browncliffe drew himself up.
‘The plane was in perfect condition this morning. It was examined by three of my best mechanics. There was nothing wrong with the thing then. I wonder, though—perhaps you can explain who cut through the fuel line to the left engine, because Dauncey tells me that someone certainly did.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Sir Stanley, taken aback. ‘Do you mean to say it was cut deliberately? Why, that’s sabotage!’
‘Indeed it is, and I shall be reporting it to the police! Somebody attempted to ensure that the Nugent Nuthatch would make a miserable showing at today’s air display—presumably in order to ruin its chances of success, given that it’s far and away the best fighter aeroplane in existence today—and I mean to find out who it was!’
‘But why are you asking if I can explain it? Are you suggesting that I had something to do with it?’
‘Well, did you?’
Sir Stanley spluttered.
‘Certainly not! This is outrageous, and tantamount to slander, and in front of witnesses too!’
‘Nonsense! I never said you did it, merely asked if you did.’
‘Naturally I should never dream of such a thing! How could you possibly insinuate that I should stoop to sabotage? If anybody is engaged in underhand methods I should say rather that it was Nugent Corporation. You may boast that you won the Woodville Prize on merit, but there are some who know the truth. What do you say to that, eh?’
The two men were puffed up like pigeons, glaring at one another. Fortunately for decorum, however, their respective wives were signalling to one another and preparing to intervene.
‘Walter, dear, here’s Mr. Dupont wanting to speak to you,’ said Lady Browncliffe. ‘Don’t keep him waiting.’
‘Now, Stanley, you know you said you would speak to the man from the Ministry shortly,’ said Lois. ‘He’s in the pavilion, probably wondering where you are.’
So Lady Westray and Lady Browncliffe coaxed their husbands away from each other, and the onlookers breathed sighs of relief—or, in the case of the ever-present Corky Beckwith, pouted with disappointment that the two men had not come to blows. A brass marching-band now came on to provide entertainment, while the crowd ate ices and drank lemonade and enjoyed the music. The near-miss in the air was forgotten, and Captain Dauncey was seen out and about signing autographs. The official story was that it had all been part of the per
formance, aimed at demonstrating how the aeroplane responded in emergencies, and Dauncey was laughing easily and shrugging off all suggestions that his life had been in peril at any time.
The afternoon was wearing on, and Freddy began to think about leaving before everybody else had the same idea. He saw Tatty standing alone by the Nugent pavilion and felt sorry for her. He still had no idea whether Douglas’s death had been suicide or murder, but he resolved to have one last try for Tatty’s sake. Perhaps somebody could explain the matter of Douglas’s shoes, if only to remove one niggling point in the investigation. To that end, he sought out everyone he knew to have been at the dance and asked them the question, but all reacted with surprise, even incredulity, and nobody seemed to know what he was talking about. Lord Browncliffe in particular looked at Freddy as though he thought he were imagining things, but after a moment suggested that since the boy had evidently been in a state of mind in which his sanity was disturbed, there was no saying whether he might not have taken it into his head to go out into the street and exchange shoes with some stranger. This was patently nonsense, but Lord Browncliffe had no other suggestion to make. Captain Dauncey looked equally blank, as did Leslie Penbrigg and Tom Chetwynd, so Freddy gave it up. He spent some time taking photographs, and was preparing to take his departure when he spotted Corky Beckwith talking to Gertie, who was regarding him with some aversion.
‘Is this a friend of yours?’ she said as Freddy approached. ‘He says he is.’
‘Nothing could be further from the truth,’ said Freddy. ‘Hop it, Corky, there’s a good chap.’
‘This is a public event, and I’m entitled to stand wherever I please,’ pointed out Corky. ‘If Lady Gertrude finds my company unpalatable, then she has only to move away and find a more pleasant vantage point.’
‘I’ve already tried that, but you followed me,’ she said.
‘Only because you wouldn’t answer my question. If you’d give me a quote, or something I could use, then I’d leave you alone.’
‘But I don’t have anything to tell you. I’m here with my mother, watching the air show.’
‘Come, now! The fabled Lady Gertrude McAloon with nothing to tell? The same Lady Gertrude who not so long ago was fined twenty pounds for assaulting a police officer with a dangerous weapon and bound over to keep the peace for six months?’
‘Oh, yes, I did do that, didn’t I?’ said Gertie, struck. ‘I’d completely forgotten about it. That was a fun night. Anyway it wasn’t a dangerous weapon, it was a sausage. Still, it’s not the sort of thing I make a habit of, so I’m afraid you’re wasting your time today.’
‘What, not even an engagement to announce? You and young Pilkington-Soames here seem to be getting along rather well.’
He was eyeing them as he spoke, for Gertie was indeed at that moment clinging to Freddy’s arm in a most familiar manner.
‘Don’t be—’ began Freddy, but Gertie had suddenly perked up.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she said, then fluttered her eyelashes at Freddy and kissed him on the cheek with a giggle. ‘Let’s just say I have nothing to announce at present. Come along, Freddy.’
She dragged Freddy away from Corky, who was looking as though he had just been told he was to receive his promotion after all.
‘What was that for?’ hissed Freddy.
‘I was just trying to get rid of him,’ said Gertie. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’
‘But he’ll never let me alone now. The man has been put on this earth purely to plague me, and now he’ll be even worse.’
‘Oh, bother, you’re no fun,’ said Gertie. ‘One day I shall find a man who can take a joke and I’ll marry him so fast he won’t know what’s hit him.’
Freddy had no time to reply, because just then Lady Strathmerrick approached and informed Gertie that it was time to go home, and the next few minutes were necessarily taken up with polite nothings. The two ladies went off, and Freddy decided to follow suit. He took an underground train into London, and stopped at the offices of the Clarion in order to write up his notes quickly. It was half past six by the time he had finished, and he came out onto Fleet Street, musing pleasantly over how to spend the evening. As luck would have it, he was perambulating idly towards home when he bumped into an old friend of his, whom he had not seen for many years, and who, as it turned out, had embraced the law as a profession and had just been called to the Bar. There was much shaking of hands and clapping on the back, and after a very few minutes it was decided that the street was not the most suitable place in which to exchange all the news, rumour and gossip that each man harboured within him, and so they repaired to a local hostelry for their greater comfort.
There was much to hear and relate, and evening had lengthened into night and light faded into darkness by the time Freddy emerged from the drinking establishment and set off the few hundred yards for home, not entirely steady on his feet, but by no means incapable. He strolled through the narrow streets of Chancery Lane, enjoying the clement night air and the unaccustomed quiet of the city, which was broken only by the low hum of a nearby motor-car travelling at a slow speed somewhere behind him, then emerged on to Fleet Street and stepped out into the road in order to cross. What occurred next Freddy was never quite sure; all he knew was that it happened very quickly. He was aware of the sudden revving of an engine, and turned to see a long, dark shape hurtling out of the street from which he himself had just emerged and approaching him at speed. It had been driving without head-lamps on, but as it turned towards Freddy these were suddenly illuminated, almost blinding him. The motor-car was not ten yards away from him, and it was accelerating rapidly. Freddy had no time to think before it bore down upon him. There was an instant of panic, then he dived to the left—not quite quickly enough, for the car caught him a glancing blow as it passed, propelling him into the path of a taxi which was travelling in the other direction. Fortunately, the taxi-driver screeched to a stop just in time. He alighted from his cab in great indignation.
‘’Ere, what’s all this, then?’ he said. ‘What do you think you’re doing, throwing yourself in front of a man’s car when he’s going about his lawful business?’
Freddy was lying sprawled and dazed in the street. He raised his head and stared blearily at his accuser.
‘That car,’ he said weakly.
The taxi-driver turned, but the car which had done the damage had roared off into the night, and there was no possibility of getting another glimpse of it.
‘It’s gone,’ said the driver. ‘Did he hit you?’
‘I—I—’ Freddy was trying to sit up, and at length managed it. He felt his limbs and his head gingerly. There seemed to be nothing broken, but there was a nasty rent in his jacket, and another in his trouser leg. The speeding motor-car had hit him only in passing, but he had grazed himself badly when he fell. He examined his hands, wincing. They were scraped and sore.
‘You’re bleeding,’ observed the taxi-driver. He had evidently decided that Freddy had not thrown himself in front of his cab merely to cause him inconvenience, and his manner softened somewhat. ‘You all right?’
‘I think so,’ said Freddy, although he was by no means sure that this was the truth.
‘Here.’ The driver stepped forward and helped him up. ‘People want to be more careful. Some of these drivers nowadays are a menace.’
‘Did you see the car?’ said Freddy.
‘No. It all happened too fast, didn’t it? If he’d had his head-lamps on in the first place, like what he oughter, he’d have seen you sooner and been able to stop. You want to get off home and get yourself bandaged up. Can I take you anywhere?’
‘No—no, thanks. I’m just round the corner.’
‘Well then, don’t stay out here and wait for someone else to run you down,’ said the taxi-driver, then got back into his car and drove off, comfortable in the knowledge that he had done his bit.
Freddy was feeling dazed, a state which had nothing to do with ho
w much he had drunk that evening. Somehow he made it back to his flat and examined himself in the glass. He was a sorry sight indeed: the fall had taken a patch of skin off his cheekbone just below his left eye, and he had grazes on his hands and knees. In addition to that his right leg was feeling very painful from where the car had glanced against it, and he could feel bruises beginning to form on several other parts of his body. He cleaned himself up as best he could and bandaged the worst of the grazes, then collapsed into bed. But he did not fall asleep immediately; instead, he lay awake for some time, staring into the darkness and wondering just who it was who had tried to kill him, and why.
