The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe

by David Dennington

  Please come back home as soon as you can.

  All my love, for always and forever, your Millie.

  Millie read it through. She was satisfied. She stuffed it in an envelope.

  Saturday and Sunday were perfect sunny days spent carrying out the final testing of Endeavour, which performed admirably. Hinchliffe kept his eye on Elsie. She appeared to be upbeat and cheerful. He wasn't too worried about recent developments, it might have worked in their favor, what with the Germans ready to set off. As long as the weather held, they'd be all right. His biggest negative would be not getting down to see Millie and the kids before setting off. It felt almost like a betrayal. But on the bright side, it’d all be over in a matter of days. Done and dusted! Money in the bank—their future assured. Ten thousand in prize money. A ten-thousand-pound fee. You couldn't beat that for less than forty hours’ work! That would be enough for him and Sinclair to start their own airline—or to retire and do absolutely nothing. He pictured himself and Millie lying in the hammock in their beloved secret garden with not a care in the world. It was all going to be worth it.

  Life would be good.

  On Monday morning, Millie and Kate wrapped up warm and went to the village post office. Hinchliffe would receive Millie's letter at the hotel the next morning, without fail. A great burden was lifted from Millie's shoulders. She believed, after careful consideration, Hinchliffe would give in to her wishes. He'd understand that it was out of love that she was asking it of him. Millie returned to her studio and continued painting The Grantham Hunt.

  That afternoon, Elsie called her bank manager again to make sure everything had gone off without a hitch. He told her that the documentation, together with her signed check, had been taken by courier that morning and it was in the insurance company's hands. He'd personally called the manager of the insurance company who had confirmed this. Hinchliffe was relieved when she told him.

  14

  CONFESSION

  Monday, March 12, 1928.

  On Monday evening, Elsie's father was infuriated. Jonathan had been summoned and was once again standing in front of the big desk looking forlorn. Lord Inchcape flung down the Edinburgh Evening News. The headline came like a hammer blow.

  MISS MACKAY READY TO MAKE

  ATLANTIC BID

  “I knew she was lying to you!” he snarled.

  “This can't be true. She assured me,” Jonathan stammered. “I met the pilot and his copilot, Gordon Sinclair.”

  “He's just a shill, you silly fool! Get down there and stop her. Take one of the cars and get on the road, right now!”

  Jonathan rushed off. The butler organized the chauffeur. They drove off in the limousine as darkness was falling. They'd have to drive all night to reach Grantham to stop Elsie, if indeed, it was her intention to fly off the next morning.

  Elsie had previously decided she'd go to church Tuesday morning at four-thirty, before they set off. After mass on Sunday, she'd arranged with the priest for a special confession and for him to give her holy Communion and a blessing. She'd promised a huge donation to the church. The priest was happy. The church needed a new roof. She left the dinner table early to check with the kitchen on the 'picnic basket' and get ready for the busy morning ahead. She needed to get to bed and get what sleep she could.

  Hinchliffe and Sinclair also left to prepare for their early start. They climbed the stairs together. As they were entering their adjacent rooms, Hinchliffe said, “Gordon, be ready to fly tomorrow. There's a good chance she'll back out at the last minute.” Hinchliffe came close to Sinclair and whispered. “If she bails, I doubt I'll get my fee, but you and I'll split the prize money.”

  “You bet, Hinch. I'll be ready, don't you worry,” Sinclair replied, convinced Elsie would buckle.

  “Oh, and Gordon, please change those plugs out again in the morning. I think we'll stick with the new ones. They might perform better,” Hinchliffe said.

  “Right you are, Ray. Consider it done.”

  Jonathan and his chauffeur were hampered by freezing fog when they reached Galloway Forest on the way to Dumfries. They crept along at twenty miles an hour to avoid ending up in a ditch. The fog got thicker the deeper they got into the woods and they had to reduce speed even more. At one point, a deer crossed in front of them. They hit the animal and skidded to a stop on the icy road. The injured creature got up and bounded off. One headlight was broken, spoiling their visibility even more. At this rate, Jonathan wasn't sure they'd make it in time.

  Once inside his room, Hinchliffe took out his gear for the flight. He emptied the pockets of his flying coat onto the bed, removing unnecessary stuff—old receipts, coins, etc. He picked up his lucky black cat charm and placed it in the ashtray on the dresser, beside his passport, diary, wallet and heavy-duty pocket knife. He then contacted room service and ordered a bottle of whiskey. When asked what brand, he said it didn't matter. A bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label arrived ten minutes later. After tipping the boy, he placed it on the dresser.

  Hinchliffe's beard now had a two-day growth. Before going on long trips he usually didn't shave. It was one of his idiosyncrasies. He shaved once his journey was completed—a good luck ritual. Next, he went down the corridor and jumped in the bath. He wouldn't get a bath for a couple of days. He looked forward to soaking in a big tub in New York in some swanky hotel, and then getting a luxurious shave in the hotel barbershop.

  Jonathan and his driver had finally got clear of the fog in Galloway Forest, only to meet more of it when they reached Gretna Green. They’d limped on slowly to Penrith. And now, whilst Elsie was on her knees in St. John the Divine Catholic Church, Jonathan and the chauffeur were crossing the Yorkshire Dales, stopping occasionally for the odd sheep, cow or deer on the glistening road.

  Hunter eased the church door open and stepped inside noiselessly. From there, he heard the sound of whispering—first the voice of a woman, then of a man. He stealthily moved down the church. In the sea of darkness, flickering light spilled from a tiny open chapel between stone arches.

  From behind a column, Hunter saw Elsie on her knees before a wizened priest, who sat in a stately chair in front of a small altar. They were surrounded by a mass of candles, Elsie’s face wracked with guilt and sadness. She began her confession in a whisper. Hunter moved closer. He heard every word.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  “How have you sinned, my child?”

  “I have deceived my brother, I am going on a journey forbidden by my father. I have lied to them both. I am going, Father, I have to go.”

  Hunter smiled to himself, shaking his head as if to say, there you have it, Georgie Boy.

  “Why do you have to go?”

  “It is my destiny, Father.”

  “Only you and God can know that, child.”

  “I feel such guilt, I cannot shake it. And there is something else, Father.”

  “What is it?”

  “I am in love with someone.”

  “Love is a good thing—if it is wholesome.”

  “He is married, he has a lovely family and a wonderful wife.”

  “Then it is not wholesome. You must break with him!” the priest snapped.

  “He does not know, Father. It is my secret.”

  “Nonetheless, you must break away from this man.”

  Elsie knew the old man was right. This might be the perfect opportunity to get away from Hinchliffe. Sever ties. She would consider this. She'd take this blessing and absorb strength from the holy Communion and see what transpired.

  God help me, please!

  Hunter had seen and heard enough. Feeling sorry for Elsie, he guiltily left the church without a sound. He returned to the Hotel George. Even for a reporter, he knew too much. He vowed he'd never disclose any of this to anyone.

  Millie had gone to bed Monday night secure in the knowledge that Hinchliffe would have her letter in the morning. She slept soundly, that is until she had her recurring dream. Suddenly, she was a
ware of the amorphous, black entity entering her room. She could feel its love toward her. She was not afraid. She was much comforted by it, and welcomed its presence, as she usually did. But this time, as the entity got closer, it began to take shape. Detail and form became clearer. She could now make out a face and its apparel. It was a man in a great coat. She could hear the coat creaking and smell its leather.

  As he leaned over her, his face came into focus. She saw the leather flying cap and the black eye patch. She realized with horror it was an apparition of her husband. She felt trapped, and couldn't move. She awoke in stark terror. She screamed, waking the baby in her crib. With shaking hands, Millie fumbled to take out a match from the box on her side table. She struck one. The hissing flame cast light over Hinchliffe's framed photo. She stared at it, before lighting the lamp. She struggled out of bed and went to the crib and took Pam in her arms. “There, there, little one. Mummy's here,” she said, her voice trembling.

  The Blessed Virgin stared down at Elsie with unseeing eyes. The priest placed his hands upon Elsie's head. “Your sins of deceit and foolish pride are forgiven. The sin you have not acted upon is also forgiven—you must make your break with this man. I'm sure you love your father and your brother very much—”

  “I do, Father, I do.”

  “For this deceit you must recite the Hail Mary fifty times every day for one month.”

  “I will, Father, I will.”

  The old man made the sign of the cross and recited the prayer of absolution on behalf of the Holy Trinity.

  “ …Ego te absolvo a pecatis tuis in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

  After saying prayers of the Eucharist, he held up the consecrated host and gave it to Elsie saying,

  “Accepite, et manducate ex hoc omnes: hoc est enim corpus meum, quod pro vobis tradetur.”

  Hinchliffe was up at four thirty, after lying awake most of the night. He packed his suitcase ready for Sinclair to deal with later (or Elsie, if she decided she wasn't going). He put his leather flight bag on the bed. He pushed some items into the bag he'd need in New York; not much stuff, he'd buy clothing over there. He took the bottle of scotch and pushed it down the side of the bag. He picked up his passport and pocket knife from the chest of drawers and placed them in the side pocket of the bag. Millie had reminded him not to forget his passport. He would put the knife in his pocket later, when they got to Cranwell. He took his heavy flying coat and laid it over the wingback chair beside the bed, together with his heavy trousers, woolen shirt and two sweaters. He took his padded flying boots from the closet and placed them beside the chair. He picked up his wallet and diary and stuffed them in his flying coat pocket. He stuffed his calabash pipe in the suitcase—he wouldn't be needing that.

  The priest took a gleaming chalice and held it high in the air above Elsie.

  “Accepite, et bibite ex eo omnes:”

  He held it to her lips.

  “Hic est enim calix sanguinis mei novi et aeterni testamenti, qui pro vobis et pro multis effundetur in remissionem peccatorum. Hoc facite in meam commemorationem.”

  Elsie swallowed the wine and the priest said, “May the blessing of Almighty God be with you now and forever … in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

  Before Elsie's blessing was completed, Sinclair, dressed in his warm flying suit, had arrived at the aerodrome in the van. He went over the wings and fuselage removing snow that had fallen during the night. He lifted the cowling and changed the plugs as Hinchliffe had asked. They'd been debating about the plugs all week and Hinchliffe had finally decided on these. Next, he went round the petrol tanks and bled off the sediment and any water accumulation. He then topped up all the petrol tanks from the storage tanks in the van. While he was there, one of the RAF men came over to check that everything was okay. Sinclair started the engine to make sure the plugs were functioning properly. They were.

  Hinchliffe checked his bag and finished packing. He then went to the writing table and laid out a sheet of hotel stationery beside the lamp and sat down. He felt deeply troubled. This was going to be hard. He stared at the blank page trying to think what to say. He wished they had a phone in the cottage, but service wasn't available out in the country. A letter would have to do.

  When Elsie left the church just after 5:30 a.m., she appeared to be at peace. Fortified. And she had made her decision. She climbed into the Rolls and headed back to the hotel. Once in her room, she sat down and composed a letter to Jonathan. Her tears fell on the paper as she wrote.

  Hotel George, Grantham.

  Tuesday, March 13, 1928.

  My Dearest Brother,

  Forgive me for what I am about to do, and for lying to you. There just was no way out. I am sorry. I promise you though, soon, very soon, you will be very proud of your big sister. And I hope Father will be too. I pray for that.

  My fondest love to you, and to Mother and Father.

  Your ever-loving Sister,

  E.

  Jonathan and his driver had picked up speed. They'd reached Doncaster and were making good time, heading south on the still dark A1.

  Elsie's two limousines were waiting outside the hotel, their lights on, engines running. George Hunter was waiting around in the lobby, as he'd done this past few days. One of the hotel staff had kept him up-to-date with the latest developments, including the order for a 'picnic food basket for six'. Six! That'd be enough food for a long trip somewhere. Presently, Hinchliffe, dressed in flying coat and boots, came down the stairs carrying his flight bag. He waved to Claude, who wished him luck. It seemed by their knowing looks that the hotel staff had figured out what Hinchliffe was about to do. They saw Elsie was involved, but not sure of her role. Hinchliffe knew Elsie had made arrangements to settle their hotel account through her bank. Elsie, dressed in her flying suit, soon followed, accompanied by her two maids and two chauffeurs carrying their luggage. She went to Claude at the front desk and handed him her letter to Jonathan. She instructed him to post it the following morning, Wednesday. Hunter stepped forward to Hinchliffe.

  “Anything doing this morning, Captain?”

  “You want the big story?” Hinchliffe asked tersely.

  Hunter stared at him in disbelief. Something was definitely up.

  “You bet, sir.”

  “You get the exclusive—on one condition!”

  “Anything you say, Captain.”

  “You do not divulge who flies with me for twenty-four hours. Got that?”

  “Oh yes. Absolutely. Yes, sir.”

  “Follow us,” Hinchliffe replied.

  Hunter rushed off to his car and jumped in. He popped a cigarette in his mouth and snapped his lighter.

  “Today's your lucky day, Georgie me boy!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. He inserted the ignition key and started the engine, then pulled round behind the big Daimler.

  As Hinchliffe climbed into the Rolls with Elsie, the postman arrived at the hotel on his bicycle. He carried a stack of mail in his bag into the hotel and, with a nod to the desk clerk, left it at the end of the counter as usual. Millie's letter was at the bottom of the pile. The mail would be sorted out around 8:30 a.m. Elsie's servants climbed into the Daimler.

  Elsie was no longer at peace. She was nervous. She sat with her head on the backrest, staring at the ceiling. Hinchliffe could see she was in a bad state. He decided to pounce. It was now or never.

  “What is it to be then, Elsie?”

  “I'm going,” she said, looking out into the darkness.

  “This is not a game, you know!”

  “I've made up my mind,” she said dully.

  “The Atlantic's two thousand miles of unforgiving, cold, black water.”

  “Oh, do shut up, Raymond!”

  “It's your brother, isn't it? He's messed up your head.”

  “I had no choice. I had to lie. Now just do what I'm paying you to do!” she snapped.

  Hinchliffe saw the chauffeur g
lance at Elsie in his mirror as they slowly pulled away.

  He said no more.

  15

  LEAVING CRANWELL

  Tuesday, March 13, 1928.

  Hinchliffe and Elsie, and Elsie's attentive chauffeur, traveled in silence through the sleeping town and out along the dark country lanes to Cranwell Aerodrome. The second limousine carried Elsie's two servants. The sun was breaking through scudding cloud as the procession, including Hunter's car, arrived. Sinclair was in the van keeping warm out of the cutting wind, having got the plane ready to go. He got out on seeing the limousines and came toward Hinchliffe. He looked hard at Elsie. She forced a polite smile, although he could see it was a strain. He gave Hinchliffe a questioning stare, but Hinchliffe's frown, and slight shake of the head, indicated that he'd tried to talk Elsie out of it without success.

  “Did you change the plugs, Gordon,” Hinchliffe asked.

  “Yes, all done, and I ran her for a while. She's been purring like a cat.”

  “Good. I think I'll feel more comfortable with those plugs,” Hinchliffe told him.

  “I bled and topped up the tanks,” Sinclair said.

  “Thanks, Gordon. We'll need every drop.”

  Jonathan had made good time down the A1, and was nearing Grantham as dawn was breaking. He knew exactly where the Hotel George was, and they headed straight there. He jumped out, even before the wheels had stopped turning. He ran into the hotel lobby. His desperate expression alarmed Claude on the front desk. He was more concerned when Jonathan didn't stop, but sprinted up the stairs to the second floor.

  “Sir! Sir!” Claude called after him.