The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe

by David Dennington

  “Quickly, Gordon, put the radio on, please.”

  They listened to someone talking about getting your garden ready for spring planting. They were all becoming impatient. At last, Big Ben struck the hour.

  This is the seven o'clock news. There has been no news of Captain Hinchliffe and his copilot who took off from RAF Cranwell yesterday morning bound for the United States. There has been some mystery as to the identity of his copilot since neither Miss Elsie Mackay nor Captain Sinclair could be reached last night, although one Fleet Street reporter has claimed to have witnessed Miss Mackay being in the plane when it took off yesterday. In other news …

  Millie spent the rest of the day dragging herself around the house in a dream. At times, she snapped out of it, convincing herself that Hinchliffe would be all right. She consoled herself with Brancker's words, 'If anyone can make it, Captain Hinchliffe can.' He'd always come through, no matter what. He will again, she kept telling herself.

  There was no news for the rest of the day and she spent another sleepless night. Everyone moped around in a listless state the next day until the Reverend Grey showed up again to give them some solace. Millie was thankful in some ways that he'd come by, but it seemed to make things worse. More dire. She started to think more about death and dying. She didn't want to think about those things. Hinchliffe had to make it. She looked for symbolism in all things—for signs. She glanced at Hinchliffe's roses and found they were dying. Two withered red petals were lying beside the vase.

  One for Ray, one for Elsie?

  She shuddered.

  That evening Sinclair went to the village and purchased the Evening News. The headlines read:

  NEW YORK WAITS WITH EXCITEMENT

  NO NEWS OF MISS MACKAY

  CAPTAIN HINCHLIFFE MYSTERY

  DID THEY HAVE A SECRET DESTINATION?

  By Friday, most people had given up hope. There was a rumor that they'd crashed in Newfoundland and were alive. But that couldn't be confirmed. Millie stood motionless staring out the kitchen window at the falling snow, praying.

  Please God, if you exist ...

  She was brought back to reality by Joan, happily munching her corn flakes, unaware of the anxiety permeating the house.

  “When is daddy coming back, Mummy?” she asked.

  Later, Millie was cooking bacon and eggs for Sinclair, but her mind was elsewhere. Soon the kitchen was filled with smoke and Millie was in a temper, throwing the pan into the sink with a crash. Kate took Millie up to her room while Sinclair cleaned up and cooked his own breakfast. Later that day, reporters were at the door again. Kate tried to prevent Millie from talking to them, but she insisted. There were six. Barney was standing silently off to one side, cap in hand, tears streaming down his face.

  “Mrs. Hinchliffe, have you given up hope?” one asked.

  Millie answered forcefully. “Not at all. There's a good chance they've been picked up by a ship or landed in some remote place in Canada. We may not know for weeks.”

  The reporters looked at her with pity, impressed with her bravery. They asked a few more questions and she gave upbeat answers. They were kind and understanding and didn't stay around long. When they left, Barney trudged after them, back to his shop across the lane. As far as the reporters were concerned, Hinchliffe and whoever he was with were probably in a watery grave. But they'd keep the story going for as long as they could. The public was captivated.

  That Saturday, there were stories about Elsie's father. Reporters had been to Glenapp to interview Lord Inchcape.

  A Daily Sketch headline read

  I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THESE FLIGHTS

  SAY'S ELSIE MACKAY'S FATHER

  I wasn't a party to any of it

  Stories carried in other newspapers were similar. Some even hinted that Hinchliffe and Elsie were having an affair and that maybe they'd flown off somewhere together.

  That night, Millie found herself searching in the gloom. Searching, searching, searching. The ground under her feet was black and silty, puffing up clouds around her ankles as she trudged. At last, ahead, she saw a glimmer of light in the darkness. Now, she could make out the black shape of a plane. As she moved closer, it became clear and bright. Yes, it was definitely her husband's plane—Endeavour, grubby and dirty with silt and brightly colored encrustations. Ah, and there was the Union Jack.

  Millie moved toward it cautiously. She saw the door on Hinchliffe's side ajar. She pulled it open and peered inside. In the pilot's seat sat Elsie, her head resting against the window, sleeping, her skin like porcelain. Blood trickled from her open lips and down her chin. Her rosary dangled from her wrist. A sea snake slipped out from Elsie's flying coat and swam past Millie's head. The only sign of Millie's husband was his watch hanging from the instrument panel. It read ten minutes past three. She stared at it.

  Suddenly, Elsie's eyes opened and she glared at Millie, furious at being woken from her slumber. Her voice was muffled, her teeth covered in blood. Tiny bubbles flared around her head and from her mouth, as she hissed venomously, “He's not here! Go away!”

  Millie woke up with a start and sat up on her bed. She lay back down, trying to breathe, her heart thumping. She remembered her predicament, returning from her sub-aquatic nightmare to her real one. She spent another hour lying in the gloom, praying for God to bring news of her husband. Finally, she went back to sleep.

  Later that night, someone stood motionless in the snow, staring at the unlit cottage. It looked cozy. A plume of smoke rose out of the old clay chimney pot from dying embers in the grate. After gaining entry, the man moved past the ticking grandfather clock toward the stairs. He stopped when he saw Whiskey glaring at him from under the hall table. The cat hissed and gave a growling moo before slinking off into the living room. The man turned back to the stairs, pausing to glance at pictures on the walls, lit by moonlight.

  He stealthily climbed the stairs and moved along the hallway to Millie's room. Once inside, he went to the bed where Millie lay, fully clothed, collapsed with exhaustion. The solidly built man, dressed in a full-length leather flying coat stood over her, gazing at her face, as though aching to caress her. The loudly ticking alarm clock on the side table was the only sound apart from Millie's breathing. Butch, who'd been sleeping in his own chair on the other side of the room, slowly eased himself down, half-heartedly wagging his tail, unsure of their visitor. He was confused.

  The man turned his gaze back to the framed photos on Millie's side table. He studied each one carefully. Beside his diary, he saw Millie's letter, which had been sent back marked 'Return to Sender'. She'd torn it open and left it there. He read her words in stunned disbelief. His own letter to Millie was there also. He read it through, remembering that dreadful morning.

  Hotel George, Grantham.

  Tuesday, March 13, 1928.

  My Dearest Millie,

  We leave this morning. I hope this turns out well. Thank you for putting up with all this and for what I now realize is selfishness on my part. There's much I want to say, but there's no more time now.

  Love always, Ray.

  P.S. I promise I will never put you through this again.

  The man turned in the moonlight. He wore a leather flying cap and a black leather eye patch over his left eye. He had a look of total sadness and bitter regret. In an act of devotion and comforting, he leaned over Millie and kissed her lips slowly and deliberately, making no sound. Millie sighed loudly, as he pulled away. She continued sleeping soundly.

  Hinchliffe turned to the baby in her crib. He kissed his fingers and put them to her tiny head to wish her a good life—a life he would not be around to share. His regret was unbearable.

  Hinchliffe moved to Joan's room and stood over her, looking wistfully and with great love at her sleeping face. He kissed her cheek gently, savoring the moment. On the chest of drawers, he noticed the silver music box he'd given her before leaving for Grantham.

  He went to the door and stopped. He returned to the music box and twiste
d the plane, so that it would be facing the girl when she awoke in the morning. It played a few notes and stopped.

  Hinchliffe left Joan's room and descended the stairs. As he did so, the sound of his leathers and heavy boots on the treads could plainly be heard. He made no effort to be quiet. In her room, Millie stirred in her sleep and let out a sad sigh.

  Gordon Sinclair heard the footsteps and was afraid. Hinchliffe moved from the foot of the stairs and passed through the front door. The ghost of Captain Hinchliffe trudged wearily away from the house in the moonlight over the snowy ground, his gait no longer confident, his back no longer ram-rod straight, leaving footprints at first, until they, and he, gradually faded away into the night. An owl hooted far off in the distance.

  At that moment, Millie sat bold upright on her bed.

  “Ray!”

  The baby began to cry.

  18

  ENTER MRS. EAST

  Saturday, March 31, 1928.

  A nice cuppa. Yes, that's what we need, dear. A nice strong cuppa!” Mrs. East said brightly to her ever-present companion. The eccentric old lady hummed out of tune as she poured scalding water from the kettle into her chipped, brown teapot on top of her black fireplace oven. After stirring the tea leaves, she placed the lid on the pot and turned to the picture on the wall over the table.

  The wait for news about Hinchliffe dragged on endlessly, as it had done once for this sweet lady in Croydon, just seventeen miles from Pickwick Cottage. Mrs. East had lost her only son, Lawrence, in the war. Life without him was hard. He'd joined the merchant navy during the war. His freighter, Florazam, had been sunk on March 11th, 1915 by the infamous German U-boat, U20. Lusitania, was sunk two months later, off the coast of Ireland by the same skulking menace.

  The wait for news of her son had been endless and soul-destroying. It was all the more distressing to find out that he was the only crew member who'd perished. Mrs. East longed for the day when she'd be reunited with her son. She wasn't melancholy about it. In her heart, she had every reason to believe it would indeed happen since she'd become immersed in spiritualism. She looked forward to being with her husband, too, one day. He'd died of cancer five years before her son had gone off to serve his country. Her spouse, a bricklayer, had been a jolly soul, and they'd been happy. So she waited. This was her life.

  Mrs. East was a jolly soul too, considering her lonely existence. She lived in a little terraced house on a quiet street. Her home and furnishings were simple, as was her dress. She had little money. She got up each day at 6:00 a.m., as she'd done these past fifty years since her marriage, and went through her routine: building the fire in the kitchen stove, washing and dressing, eating her toast and marmalade. The kitchen table, set against one wall, was always laid with a white table cloth across one half, leaving the polished wood of the other half exposed. Above the table on the wall, was a portrait of Lawrence in his merchant navy uniform. Hung beside it, his white flat navy cap.

  “Well, I think it's time for a chat, me darlin' boy,” she said.

  She put the teapot on the table, where a cup and saucer, milk and sugar were always set. On the sideboard, a radio was on but she wasn't listening. It was barely audible, anyway.

  This is the BBC. There is still no news of Captain Hinchliffe and his companion, who it has now been confirmed as the Honorable Elsie Mackay …

  Mrs. East turned the radio off, shuddered and took her woolen shawl and draped it round her frail shoulders.

  “It's a bit chilly,” she muttered.

  She opened the dresser drawer and took out a small board and laid it on the table along with a contraption with tiny wheels, a writing pad and a thick black pencil. She put milk in the cup and poured her tea, leaving it to one side. She placed her left hand on the planchette over the Ouija board. The indicator moved immediately, as though someone had been anxiously waiting.

  “Ah, there you are!” she said, with a delighted chuckle, her eyes lighting up.

  Above her head, her son smiled down at her. Mrs. East carefully watched the indicator as it rapidly moved, writing down the letters spelled out with her right hand. But it wasn't who she was expecting. She stared at her own big, scrawled letters.

  PLEASE HELP ME

  “What is it, dear?” Mrs. East asked.

  I AM A DROWNED PILOT

  Mrs. East scowled. “Who are you?” she asked, indignantly. She was always vigilant for evil or mischievous spirits. “You’re not my Lawrie!”

  I DROWNED WITH ELSIE MACKAY

  This piqued her interest for a moment. Her indignation turned to concern. “What happened?”

  CRASHED INTO SEA

  “How?”

  STORM ICE ENGINE FAILURE

  “Where did this happen?”

  LEEWARD ISLANDS

  Mrs. East wasn't happy. It probably was a mischievous spirit. That happened sometimes. She became impatient. Leeward Islands indeed! She had no idea where they were.

  “Who is this for goodness sake?” she asked crossly.

  Later that week, Millie received two letters. One was from the bank to say their current account was overdrawn. The second contained a personal check from Alfred Lowenstein for fifty pounds with a handwritten a note.

  I am very sorry to hear about Raymond—Alfred L.

  Hinchliffe had joked, 'good luck getting paid'. Well, here it was, albeit a bit late. Millie would have smiled at this, but she didn't feel like smiling. The check was for the original portrait she'd painted and sent to him. He wasn't such a bad sort really, especially since she'd quoted him thirty. Lowenstein hadn't mentioned the second one.

  Perhaps I should've let him have it to burn.

  She drove with Sinclair and the children straight to the bank on Croydon High Street. Looking and feeling deathly worried, she stood at the teller's window with the baby in her arms and Joan at her side. Millie handed the bank notice to the teller, asking her to check the account. There had to be some mistake.

  The teller came back a few minutes later to say that the account was indeed overdrawn by nine pounds, six shillings and ninepence-ha'penny. Millie told the clerk that a deposit should've been made in the middle of March. Elsie had been paying Hinchliffe and Sinclair by direct deposit each month and it usually arrived around the fifteenth of the following month. The bank clerk informed her that no such deposit had been received. Before leaving, Millie deposited Lowenstein's check into the account. Sinclair got the same story when he went to his bank along the street. Something had gone seriously wrong.

  Millie decided to pay a visit to the family solicitor a few streets down. She had to wait for half an hour before Mr. Drummond could see her. She explained matters to him. He'd heard about Hinchliffe's Atlantic bid, and was alarmed to hear about the bank situation. He promised to call Elsie's bank and look into the matter of the insurance. He'd get to work without delay.

  The following Monday, the postman arrived as Millie and Sinclair were entering the front door from a trip to the village. He handed Millie two letters. She tore open the first with Edridges & Drummond, Solicitors at Law in the top corner. She closed her eyes. It'd been written by Mr. Drummond on Friday.

  “It's from our solicitor. It says no money had been transferred by Elsie's bank because all her accounts were frozen the day they took off for America. He also says there is no insurance policy, as the premium wasn't paid for that very same reason. Oh dear, what am I going to do? I am ruined!” Millie sobbed.

  She opened the second letter. Things couldn't get much worse, but they did. It was from the mortgage company asking for payment on the house. Millie was distraught.

  She went back to the village and called Brancker to inform him about her predicament. He was dumbfounded, realizing Elsie's father must be behind it. He promised to do what he could. He'd call Lord Inchcape himself, and if that didn't resolve matters, he said he had friends who'd exert pressure, including Lord Beaverbrook, the owner of the Daily Express. He'd shake things up. He urged Millie to write to Inchcape
herself—Inchcape needed to be shamed into making good on Elsie's promises. Pressure must be exerted from all sides. Brancker pledged to come and see her very soon.

  After speaking with Brancker, Millie called Hunter and told him about her plight. Hunter was upset to hear this. He said if there was anything he could do, she only had to ask. When Millie got home, with the help of Gordon and Kate, she immediately composed a letter to Lord Inchcape and put it in the mail.

  Hinchliffe had spent most of his time around Millie, witnessing her mounting problems in horror. The stress and hardship she was enduring—not to mention her grief, filled him with crushing sadness and anxiety to a degree he'd never experienced during his lifetime. And it was all his fault. The burden of guilt was intolerable and he often wept for Millie and the children. He'd keep on trying to help them through Mrs. East and her son.

  The following day, Mrs. East sat down at her kitchen table with her Ouija board hoping to communicate with her son. The planchette moved immediately. She was ready with her pencil.

  MUM HINCHLIFFE IS GENUINE

  HE IS HERE

  Mrs. East was pleased.

  “Oh, thank you dear son. I didn't believe it.”

  Hinchliffe took up the dialogue.

  HINCHLIFFE

  PLEASE TELL MY WIFE I WANT TO SPEAK TO HER

  “Where did you say you went down?” Mrs. East asked.

  OFF LEEWARD ISLANDS

  MUST SPEAK TO MY WIFE

  The old lady frowned. “Where will I find her?”

  TOYS HILL

  IF LETTER DOES NOT REACH

  APPLY DRUMMONDS HIGH ST CROYDON

  Mrs. East sat and thought this through. She felt she couldn't just contact this widow out of the blue. The poor woman would be filled with grief. It might enrage her, perhaps drive her over the edge.