The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe

by David Dennington

  Jonathan payed no attention, rushing straight up to Elsie's room. The door was ajar and a maid was cleaning and stripping the beds.

  “Where's Miss Mackay?” he yelled.

  “She be long gone, sir,” the maid said, in her Lincolnshire accent.

  Jonathan dashed next door into Hinchliffe's room. It was as Hinchliffe had left it. The bed had been straightened out. But all the decks were clear. Beside the bed was a suitcase. He lifted it and found it was packed and ready to go. He looked in the closet. Nothing. He went to the dresser. In the ashtray, he saw Hinchliffe's lucky black cat charm. He stood over it mesmerized, bewildered, full of dread.

  Sinclair was wiping the plane over with paraffin again. It'd serve as a deicer, but who knew for how long. Elsie and her servants brought the food and drink supplies and laid them on the cockpit floor: four thermoses of coffee, eight bottles of water, many different types of sandwiches, hard boiled eggs and chocolate, as Hinchliffe had instructed. Soon, an RAF man approached them from a nearby building. Sinclair came over to Hinchliffe as the man handed over a weather report from Cardington. Hinchliffe scanned it carefully. Elsie joined them.

  “How's it looking, Ray?” Sinclair asked.

  “Easterly winds to continue. Stiff breezes over the Atlantic. Not bad, right now,” Hinchliffe replied.

  “Is it a go?” Elsie asked.

  “Yes, it is. What about you?”

  “I'm coming with you.”

  “Are you absolutely sure about that?”

  “Definitely!” she nodded her head vehemently.

  Hinchliffe thanked the RAF man and put a finger to his lips. The young man gave him an understanding wink and a nod. Hinchliffe was a legendary figure on this aerodrome.

  Elsie went to her servants and chauffeurs and they looked at her in alarm. She hugged them one by one. The two girls began to cry, the men looked downcast. Hinchliffe studied the scene for a second. Elsie could be a brat at times, but her servants were devoted to her. He and Sinclair exchanged glances. Sinclair looked away, barely able to conceal his disappointment.

  Jonathan came down the stairs into the lobby two at time. He bounded up to the front desk.

  “What's happened to Miss Mackay?”

  “She left about an hour ago,” Claude replied.

  “She's gone to Cranwell, right?” Jonathan asked.

  “I suspect that's where they all went, sir, servants an' all.”

  “How far is it? How do we get there?”

  “Out of here take the road to Ancaster and Sleaford. It's about fifteen miles. Look out for the RAF Cranwell sign. You can't miss it. It'll take you about 30 minutes.”

  “Where can we buy petrol, we're almost empty?”

  “About a mile up the road on your way there, sir. Good luck!” Claude suddenly remembered the letter Elsie had given him to post. He read the name and address. “Oh sir, what was your name again?”

  “Jonathan Mackay.”

  Claude squinted at the envelope. “Ah yes, the young lady left this letter for us to post, but you might as well take it now.”

  Jonathan took it, nodded his thanks and rushed out to the car, clutching the letter. He jumped in and they sped off. He ripped the letter open and gasped on reading the first line. They found the petrol station on the way, which was closed. They had to wait another agonizing ten minutes for it to open.

  Elsie climbed aboard Endeavour. The smell of petrol in the cockpit was overpowering. Hunter grinned—she was definitely going!

  “Okay, crank her up!” Hinchliffe shouted. Elsie pulled the starter. The engine now didn't want to start. It started on the third try. Smoke belched from the exhaust across the field. Hunter, who'd been keeping out of everyone's way, closed in on Hinchliffe for a quote.

  “It's America, right Captain?” he shouted above the din.

  “Yes, it's America!”

  “Are you confident?”

  “My confidence in this venture is one hundred percent!” Hinchliffe told him. He sounded wooden.

  Hunter shook his hand. “The very best of luck to you both, Captain Hinchliffe,” he said with sincerity.

  “Go and see my wife. She’ll give you photographs for your story,” Hinchliffe said. He turned his back to the wind, pulled out his diary and scribbled inside. My confidence in the venture is 100%.

  He then tore out a page and wrote a message.

  To all at Cardington. I promised you'd be the first to know! WGRH

  “Please send this telegram to Cardington,” he said, giving it to Sinclair. He then handed his diary to Sinclair with ten ten-pound notes tucked inside. It was cash he'd brought to Grantham and would no longer need. “Hold on to this please, Gordon. And would you mind buying Millie two dozen red roses. Oh, and yes, give her this,” he pulled out his letter to Millie. Sinclair put everything in his pocket.

  Sinclair was almost in tears. “Sure, Ray.” The two men embraced. “I wish I was coming with you,” Sinclair whispered hoarsely.

  “Take care of my family please, Gordon.”

  Hinchliffe climbed into the copilot's seat on the right side with a casual salute to Hunter. The group on the ground, including six more RAF men who'd come out from their building, watched as the plane made its way unsteadily in the snow, toward the end of the runway. The windsock stood out flapping from its mast pointing west. They heard the engine revs increase as Hinchliffe tested the magnetos. Then a roar, as it moved in their direction, bouncing and rolling for what seemed an eternity. The plane's right wooden strut cracked as it hit a drift of frozen snow. But for now, that didn't matter.

  Endeavour pushed on against the wind, seeming not to want to leave the earth. Finally, the heavily laden plane lifted off with creaks and groans, alarming Elsie. This was the heaviest they'd ever been. There were sharp snaps as the undercarriage brushed low trees at the end of the runway. Hinchliffe weaved between the rest, gradually gaining height. The small band of mesmerized spectators, bundled in heavy coats and scarves, stood watching the sky in a daze as Hinchliffe wheeled the plane around. Jonathan's limousine came tearing along the aerodrome road at that moment. He got out and rushed to the edge of the airstrip as the black monoplane bearing his sister flew directly over his head.

  “Oh, Elsie!” he cried. He put his head down on a fence post and wept.

  Elsie spotted the limousine first and then her brother, his head down, watched by her father's chauffeur. When the plane had reached 500 feet, and was well on her way, Sinclair stalked off to Hinchliffe's Bentley in a fury. He pounded his fist on the trunk. Hunter started off toward Sinclair to get his story, but then thought better of it. He went towards Jonathan, but the chauffeur aggressively waved him away. He rushed to this own car and set off to find a phone. This was indeed the 'big story'! All kinds of drama!

  Elsie didn't look at Hinchliffe, not sure he'd seen Jonathan. She took out her handkerchief, wiped away her tears, and blew her nose. He remained silent, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  Millie was still shaken by her dream the night before. What did it mean? It seemed like a terrible omen. She'd felt the love and compassion surrounding the entity, but this was entirely different—this was her husband. She still couldn't shake the feeling of being trapped; that had unnerved her even more. She was relieved that the letter would be in his hands this morning.

  Thank God I sent that letter!

  It'd all turn out for the best, she was sure of that. Ray would be a bit cranky at first, but he'd come around, he'd come home and that would be the end of it. She went into the studio and after settling Joan down with some crayons and paper and laying Pam in her bassinet, she resumed work on Elsie's portrait. The Grantham Hunt was coming along well, too. She'd let it sit for a while. The thought of having lots of work ahead made her content. Hinchliffe's portrait still remained half-finished on another easel beside the piano. She's get around to that when he came home.

  Jonathan was driven to nearby Sleaford in great haste. They found a phone booth and he put a ca
ll through to his father at the castle. Lord Inchcape's private secretary stood beside him while Jonathan gave him the bad news. His father was crushed. “Get back here now. And don't talk to any reporters,” he said wearily. Jonathan replaced the phone in its cradle, beaten. Lord Inchcape turned to his private secretary. “All my daughter's bank accounts are to be frozen immediately.”

  Sinclair returned to the Hotel George for their suitcases. He packed them in the trunk of the Bentley and went back to the front desk to tell Claude the rooms had been vacated. Millie's letter remained at the front desk with the rest of the unsorted mail. On his way out of Grantham, Sinclair stopped at the post office and sent Hinchliffe's telegram to Cardington.

  While Sinclair sped south in the Bentley, and Jonathan and his driver traveled north in the Rolls, Hinchliffe and Elsie proceeded across the English countryside in smooth air, between layers of light cloud. After half an hour, they'd covered about 48 miles, reaching Burton-on-Trent. From there, they struck a westerly course for Cannock. This took another hour in similar weather. Next, they headed for Church Stretton in the Shropshire Hills, near the Welsh border, seventy miles off.

  On his way south, Hunter called his editor at the Daily Express. He dictated copy in dramatic prose, describing what he'd witnessed earlier, recapping what he'd seen during the past week. He stressed Hinchliffe's terms for the exclusive. The editor knew of the previous goings on, but it hadn't yet got the paper's full attention. He instructed Hunter to head straight to the Hinchliffes’ cottage to get a statement from Millie. Hunter looked forward to seeing Mrs. Hinchliffe again, though he knew he shouldn't. He wasn't one to pursue married women, but she captivated him.

  Soon, Lord Inchcape's wrath was being felt at the Air Ministry at Gwydyr House on Whitehall. He called Sir Samuel Hoare again and discussed the situation. There was nothing anyone could do now, of course, and Sir Samuel told him so. Perhaps this wouldn't have happened, at least not at this moment in time, if Hinchliffe hadn't been booted off the aerodrome. That wasn't put into words. It didn't need to be. An hour later, Brancker was summoned before the Air Minister, who heaped all Lord Inchcape's angst upon him.

  Brancker went back to his office on the second floor and called Cardington for the latest weather report. It looked as though things over the Atlantic were rapidly deteriorating. He sat back in his leather chair staring out into the River Thames. Depression seized him. He remembered his last words to Hinchliffe. They'd apparently fallen on deaf ears. He hoped to God they made it. This certainly wasn't any time to go flying across the Atlantic Ocean, in winter, with storms in the offing. No sir!

  16

  THE ATLANTIC

  Tuesday, March 13, 1928.

  Endeavour made reasonable time, reaching Church Stretton by 10:05 a.m., then crossing Wales to Aberystwyth by 10:45 a.m. Elsie had settled down and was smiling and making a few funny remarks. They left the Welsh coast and flew over the Irish Sea, which looked quite blue in the intermittent sunshine. Ireland lay about 130 miles off and this short crossing to Wexford, with a following wind, took just over an hour. Elsie looked confident, even joyous at times—but the air was still smooth. At 12:05 p.m., they passed Wexford.

  Earlier that day, Hunter arrived at Pickwick Cottage. He pulled on the bell and Millie answered the door. She gave him a look of recognition, not one to forget a face.

  “Mrs. Hinchliffe?” Hunter asked, feeling butterflies in his stomach. Indeed, she became more lovely each time he saw her.

  “Yes?” Millie answered with a questioning look.

  He removed his battered homburg. “The name's Hunter, George Hunter, I'm with the Daily Express. Did you know your husband left Cranwell this morning for America?”

  Millie's mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “I was at the Cranwell Aerodrome early this morning. I saw them leave.”

  “They've gone?” Millie put her hand to her mouth in distress.

  Hunter looked startled, not expecting this to be a surprise to her. And then it all became clear.

  “I remember you now! You were in the bar at the Hotel George. Oh, no. I don't believe it!” This added to her fury, as though she'd been violated.

  “Yes, I was. Sorry, Mrs. Hinchliffe, I was reporting on the story. I spoke with Captain Hinchliffe this morning. He invited me to see them take off. He said I should come and see you and you'd give some photos for the paper. It's so very important, ma'am.” Hunter's tone was consolatory and soothing.

  Millie was devastated and now put out, learning all this from a damned, snooping reporter. Why had he gone off like that after she'd written to him? Had he got her letter? She reluctantly opened the door and let Hunter in. He glanced furtively at the ticking grandfather clock in the hall. It was 12:25 p.m. Millie pushed the studio door open and he stepped into her world. His eyes darted everywhere, enormously impressed. This was all making his story so colorful.

  “What time did they leave?” Millie said wearily.

  “About eight thirty this morning.”

  “Who went with him?”

  “Miss Mackay—but I won’t be divulging that today. You knew they were going, right?” Hunter asked.

  Millie didn't want to show any rift or difference between her and her husband. “Well, er, yes. I wasn't sure exactly when, that's all.”

  “You have photos for me—”

  “Oh, yes, wait here. I'll show you what I have,” Millie went to her darkroom.

  Hunter scanned Millie's artwork: he focused on a painting of the Cardington sheds, ominous and dark, with towering black clouds above them. Then the unfinished portraits of Hinchliffe and Elsie. He noted the mass of color around Elsie's head—purple, red, yellow, pink, orange and gold. Beautiful! He thought it was a nice artistic effect. He then spotted the grand piano at the end of the room. Suddenly, the house was filled with a concerto of sound. He played “Yes, Sir, That's My Baby”. Millie came out of her darkroom. This, though his playing was marvelous, was really rather rude. Her irritation showed.

  “I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hinchliffe, I just couldn't resist,” Hunter said.

  “I see you play.”

  His face lit up. It was a nice face—compassionate. Even so, he had a manly, daring way about him that she thought women must find attractive. She also thought he was the type that got people to open up to him and talk. “When I see a piano, I just jump right on it! Can't stop myself. It’s a compulsion of mine. I'm so very sorry.”

  After a moment, Millie smiled. He was forgiven. She was surprised at how well he spoke, considering his scruffy appearance—he needed a shave, his overcoat was tatty and had a white stain on the shoulder. He smelled of stale cigarettes. He reminded her of a gumshoe—and what do gumshoe's do? They hang around a lot, digging up facts, stamping out their cigarettes with their well-worn brogues, only to light up another moments later.

  Millie cleared some of her art supplies, brushes and bits and pieces from her work table and handed him a sheaf of eight-by-ten black and white photographs. He shuffled through them eagerly, laying them out on the table: Elsie and Hinchliffe in front of the plane in the snow, Endeavour taking off, the Hotel George, views of Cranwell from the air, assembly of the plane at Brooklands, and some of their silly poses around Grantham. Hunter chuckled at these. He was thrilled.

  “Terrific stuff! This'll look great in tomorrow's paper. Thank you so much, Mrs. Hinchliffe. It’s very kind of you.”

  Kate entered the studio carrying a tray of tea and Millie introduced them. Kate still looked shocked at the news of Hinchliffe's departure, which Millie had relayed to her in the kitchen. They stood around chatting and drinking tea for a few minutes until Hunter told them he had to get back to Fleet Street.

  “You haven't heard anything about the weather over the Atlantic, have you, Mr. Hunter?” Millie asked.

  “No, but I'll make a point of finding out.”

  Hunter held up four photographs. “Can I take these?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” Millie replied.
/>
  “I'll return them to you—”

  “There's no need.”

  Slightly disappointed, Hunter made for the door. “I'm sure they'll be fine, Mrs. H,” he said.

  Millie stared after him blankly.

  The only thing Millie could think of was to speak to Brancker. She let Kate know and got dressed in warm clothes and walked down to the phone booth in the village. It was now overcast and beginning to drizzle. She used her umbrella. She put her pennies in the slot and dialed his number. She got straight through to Brancker, still at his desk. She pressed Button 'B' on hearing his rich voice. The pennies dropped, clanking noisily. She sounded as if she were in a dungeon somewhere below ground. “Sir Sefton?”

  Brancker's mood was further depressed when he heard Millie's bewildered voice. “Millie, I just heard, myself.”

  Millie's tone was accusing. She couldn't help it. Was he in on it? “Reporters have just been to my door. I'm devastated. I'd just sent a letter to Raymond asking him to abandon the whole thing. Now, I hear they've gone. Just like that! How could he do such a thing?”

  Brancker's guilty heart sank like a stone. She sounded like a woman drowning in that echo chamber down in the country. “Millie, I'm afraid that they'd been told to get off that aerodrome. It came right from the top. Hinch must've decided to go and get it over with—he couldn't have got your letter.”

  “Who would have done such a thing? That was cruel, forcing them off like that.”

  “I can guess who was behind it. But look, Millie, when the press come around, you must keep up a united front. Don't tell anyone you tried to stop him. It'd diminish their great effort,” Brancker warned.

  “I'm worried sick! What's the weather doing? What can they expect?”

  “I have to be honest. It doesn't look all that good. The winds are increasing—but if anyone can succeed, your husband can. In my book, Raymond is the greatest pilot in the world today. We must keep our hopes up.”