The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe

by David Dennington

  “Now gentlemen, let’s see what’s what, shall we?” he said, delving into his red ministerial box. After reading his memoranda for a few moments, he looked up suddenly, shooting a glance at Brancker, who was busy studying the form of a young woman pegging out her washing in her back yard.

  “What happened to those trial flights to Egypt? We were going to use R33 and R36 for that purpose. What happened to them?”

  Brancker turned back to Thomson. “Er, er, the trials got scrapped—budget cuts. Well er, …not budget cuts exactly …those ships needed a lot of money spending on them—especially after R33 got wrecked.”

  “Got wrecked! What do you mean ‘got wrecked’?”

  “Collided with her shed—”

  “Collided with her shed! Who was in command?”

  “Scott, of course.”

  Thomson looked away in exasperation. “Whatever is the matter with that man?”

  Brancker raised his eyebrows and made no comment.

  “Well, they should have rebuilt those ships,” Thomson muttered.

  “The funding just wasn’t there CB,” Brancker replied.

  “Budget cuts? Damn the Tories! Wish I’d been around. What else did they cut?”

  “Nothing I can think of, but the emphasis is on heavier-than-air aircraft nowadays. Many in government just don’t like airships,” Brancker replied.

  “We’ll see about that! I hope we don’t live to regret cutting those test flights with those older ships. We could’ve learned a thing or two from a few trial runs. My main concern is the schedule. The Germans are getting way out in front of us. Our ships should’ve been in the air by now.”

  “Quite so, Minister, quite so,” Knoxwood agreed.

  The train rushed into another tunnel and they sat in the gloom. Thomson continued. “So, let’s recap. Both ships are running three years late. We’ve taken twice as long to reach this stage. But on the brighter side, we’ve only spent half as much again. So, I suppose we can say, we’ve given employment to more people, for a longer period of time. Fair assessment, Sefton?”

  “I suppose you could put it like that, CB, yes.”

  Even in the semi-darkness, Thomson sensed Brancker was amused by his nutty logic. The train rushed out of the tunnel into sunshine, revealing lush green fields and blue skies. A happy omen.

  “India by Christmas then!” Thomson exclaimed. Brancker and Knoxwood exchanged knowing glances.

  The train slowed as it came into Bedford Station. Millie, Doyle and Hunter watched Thomson scoot past and out of the station, followed by the two bowler-hatted gents. When they got to the station entrance, they were just in time to see them climbing into the Cardington Works Humber. The security men went behind in a black Morris. Millie's party jumped into a cab and followed. When they got to the Cardington gate, Thomson's car stopped momentarily and was then hastily waved through. At the gate, Millie spoke to the gatekeeper, telling him that Squadron Leader Johnston was expecting them, which was true; she'd called him and told him they were coming. They then followed Thomson up the hill to Cardington House, where they saw him leap out of his limousine and rush up the stone steps to where Colmore, Scott, and Richmond were waiting, along with a whole gaggle of reporters and photographers.

  Hunter got out. “I'd better join that lot. I'll see you both again later. And good luck!” he said with a wink to Millie.

  After waiting a few minutes for the fuss to die down, Millie and Doyle mounted the steps and entered the main door. The reception hall was now empty of dignitaries. They went to the desk.

  “We're here to see Squadron Leader Johnston and Captain Irwin,” Millie said.

  “Your names please?”

  “Mrs. Emilie Hinchliffe and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—they're expecting us.”

  The girl gave a start at the mention of Doyle's name. A few minutes later, Johnston appeared and took them to his office on the second floor. Johnston hadn't seen Millie since Pam's baptism on Boxing Day of 1927. He'd taken Hinchliffe's disappearance very hard, as had all his friends at Cardington. Presently, a doleful Captain Irwin came in and they all sat down to tea and biscuits.

  Millie wanted to get down to the subject of the Airship Program and to deliver her husband's message, but first she asked where Hinchliffe's body and other wreckage might have ended up. They discussed Brancker's revelation about the wheel, which had washed up on an Irish beach last June. Johnston pointed to the map of the Atlantic on his wall (he had many such maps of the world) and indicated the motion of the North Atlantic Drift. He pointed to the mid-Atlantic.

  “If they came down here somewhere, the Drift would push the wreckage to anywhere here along the Irish coast—the same as the wheel.”

  “Millie pressed a dainty finger against the Azores. “What if they'd come down here?”

  “That's most unlikely, Millie,” Irwin said softly, “they'd be miles off course.”

  Johnston nodded in agreement.

  Millie gave them a blow-by-blow account of what she'd learned from Hinchliffe during the séances. Johnston and Irwin looked at one another as if Millie had lost her mind. They gently played along with her—humoring her was the least they could do. It was well known that Millie was into all this spiritualism stuff and that she was very much against the airship program. They liked and respected Doyle. He was a kindly gentleman, but regarded him as a bit 'potty'. They'd read his column in the Sunday papers and about his belief in fairies and suchlike, as well as his run-in with Houdini, which the newspapers had thoroughly enjoyed.

  Millie explained that Hinchliffe had told her he'd flown on a north-westerly course, and then later, a more northerly course after getting into a violent gale. She told them that they'd lost a wheel early on in the battle, but kept going until they couldn't tolerate the storm any longer. At 12 o'clock, they'd turned south and flown at great speed with the wind behind them for three more hours, until they crashed in the water in sight of the island of Corvo, in the Azores—also known as 'the island of the crow'.

  “Based on that, where would his body have ended up?” Millie asked.

  Johnston pointed to the map, and indicated that the body, and the other wheel if it had broken off, could've been pushed by the currents down as far as the Caribbean.

  “As far as Jamaica?” Millie asked.

  Johnston stared at that location and nodded, noncommittally. “Yes, I suppose so.” He pointed to the Drift currents. “The Drift splits here. This is the North Atlantic Drift, and this is the Canary Current, sweeping south. So, wreckage could go either way—across this way to Ireland or south to the Caribbean.”

  “So, if they came down near the Azores, the currents could've pushed wreckage down and then toward the Caribbean,” Doyle confirmed.

  “Yes, if indeed they came down that far south,” Johnston answered.

  Millie seemed to have the answers she wanted. They’d confirmed what Hinchliffe had said. She wondered what was left of her poor husband. She remembered his words.

  Nothing but skin and bone scattered between the rocks.

  She shivered.

  They sat down around Johnston's table and finished their tea.

  “How are you coping, Millie?” Johnston asked, trying to brighten things up.

  “Quite well. Friends like Sir Arthur have been a great comfort,” Millie said, looking fondly at the aging writer.

  Irwin glanced at Doyle. “Hinch was here in September, before they left,” he said.

  “You chaps were close?” Doyle asked.

  Johnston let out deep sigh. “He and I were great friends, we flew together to India in early '27. Hell, I do miss him!”

  “We warned him not to go. But he was more concerned about our safety than his own,” Irwin said.

  They sat in silence for a moment, “He's still worried about you, Johnnie,” Millie said softly. The silence dragged on again until Johnston spoke.

  “Millie, I do understand. But, I’m sorry, I don't believe in communication with the dead.”
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  Irwin's face was expressionless—as if he was more on the fence about such things.

  “Captain Hinchliffe has asked—nay, I should say, implored—Millie to deliver a warning to you,” Doyle declared. It all sounded too melodramatic. The two airshipmen looked at each other uncomfortably, shuffling in their chairs.

  “Ray has described things to me in your airship which he says are unsafe,” Millie said.

  They were immediately curious. “Such as?” Irwin asked.

  “It's going to come out too heavy,” Millie said.

  “That's been in the papers. We can always add another bay and give her more lift. That shouldn't be a problem,” Johnston answered dismissively.

  “Ray knows that's a possibility. But he says that'd take away her resilience,” Millie countered.

  Irwin coughed and Johnston rubbed his chin, frowning. This was inside information. “Millie, where are you getting all this stuff?”

  “Bird, Johnny, please listen. Ray wants you to give up on this Airship Program. Your lives are in great peril!” Millie implored them.

  There was a knock on the door and a young RAF man stuck his head in. “Gentlemen, the briefing of the Air Minister is about to begin.”

  Reprieved, Irwin and Johnston stood up. Doyle got to his feet and explained that he and Millie would attend Lord Thomson's speech in the afternoon, after they'd had lunch at the local pub. Johnny told them he'd arranged to have front row seats reserved for them.

  A full agenda had been laid out for the Air Minister's visit. After morning tea, he and forty members of the Royal Airship Works would be briefed by Colonel Richmond in the conference room; then they'd adjourn for a lunch of rack of lamb; on to the great shed for an inspection of the ship; a visit to the singing ladies in the gasbag factory; then afternoon tea, with the promotion of a young American Lieutenant; all followed by the Ministerial Address in the garden to be attended by all, including members of the press and public. It was there that Millie planned to make a speech of her own—unbeknownst to poor Irwin and Johnston.

  26

  LORD THOMSON'S GARDEN ADDRESS

  Wednesday, June19, 1929.

  Millie and Doyle had a pleasant walk to Cardington village, where they visited St. Mary's Church. Although not deeply religious, they enjoyed the peace found within its walls. Millie knelt down in one of the pews and said a prayer for strength for what she had to do. They came out from the church and seeing the graveyard, they crossed the lane and entered its gate. They ambled from one tombstone to another reading names. When they reached the area at the back, looking across the field toward the airship shed, Millie saw a new grave with mounded earth, wreaths and fresh flowers. But it wasn't real. It was a vision. She read the name chiseled in the headstone.

  Freddie Marsh

  Born 16th October 1913

  Died 16th October 1929

  in the shadow of the great shed

  Millie became upset. “I'm seeing a young boy's death foretold,” she stammered.

  Doyle put his hand on her arm. He was secretly thrilled her psychic development was progressing so rapidly. “It's all right, my dear. You're going to see such things long before they happen. You have the gift. Truly, you do. You'd better get used to it.”

  “The poor boy will die on his birthday,” Millie sobbed.

  “That's his fate, my dear.”

  As they turned away from Freddie Marsh's future grave, Millie looked toward the cemetery wall and the church across the street. She was mesmerized when she saw a great multitude gathered around a vast open grave and heard their whispered conversation. She heard the tolling of bells from many churches surrounding the area. In the grave were forty-eight coffins draped with Union Flags. She didn't need to count them. She knew. Standing in the grave amongst the coffins was one man she recognized—the Prime Minister, in black, his shock of hair and mustache like a lion. In one hand he held his hat, in the other, two roses. He looked forlorn, not knowing on which coffin to place them, although Millie knew full well which one contained his best friend. When he came up the ramp out of the grave, she heard the drone of aeroplanes overhead. At the same time, a covey of crows swarmed over the graveyard like a school of fish in the ocean. They made no sound except for the beat of their wings.

  Millie faltered and Doyle caught her arm and led her to the gate, where she stopped and turned around. The mass open grave had disappeared. So had the mourners. In their place, stood a pristine tomb of white stone with names of the dead airshipmen etched on all sides. Wreaths of flowers were heaped around its base. Moving unsteadily down the lane towards the village green, they passed a blue Rolls Royce at the curb. But a few moments later, when Millie looked back toward the cemetery gate, the Rolls was nowhere in sight. It too, had been part of her vision.

  At the Kings Arms Pub, Doyle found a table and brought them both a brandy. After a few sips, she emotionally recounted what she'd seen in the churchyard. When she was recovered, they had lunch of steak and kidney pudding, mashed potatoes and gravy, washed down with a bottle of claret. Her face flushed, Millie was now, more than ever, determined to press forward with her mission.

  While Doyle and Millie spent time in the village. Hinchliffe had been following Thomson's movements. After his visit to the gasbag factory, they'd returned for afternoon tea at Cardington House where Thomson made an announcement. He gently tapped a silver spoon against his cup and the room fell silent.

  “Last year, I had the honor, as chairman of the Royal Aero Club, to represent Great Britain at the International Conference on Aviation in Washington, D.C. Whilst there, I had the pleasure of meeting the Secretary of the United States Navy.” Thomson’s eyes fell on Remington, at whom he smiled benignly. “We spoke of many things concerning aviation and the Secretary takes quite an interest in their man over here—Lieutenant Louis Remington—who has diligently assisted in our endeavors over these past five years.”

  All eyes turned toward Remington. Thomson continued. “The Secretary asked me to personally convey his thanks to the lieutenant, along with his warmest personal regards. Captain Irwin, I would be grateful if you will do the honors.”

  On cue, Irwin walked to the head table at the top of the room and stood with Thomson who glanced at Remington. “Lieutenant, if you would kindly step forward,” Thomson said. Surprised, Remington joined Thomson and Irwin. Thomson held something in his hand which he handed to Irwin, who spoke next.

  “Lieutenant Remington, it is my pleasure to inform you that your rank has been raised by the United States Navy to that of Lieutenant Commander.”

  Remington stood to attention while Irwin pinned the insignia to his collar. Irwin then stepped back and saluted. Remington returned the salute and everyone applauded. Remington glanced around the room at Colmore, Scott, Irwin and Atherstone—all in dress uniform.

  While he twisted the gold ring on his wedding finger, he looked at them as if to say, ‘Heck, all these guys knew in advance!’

  “Thank you, sir,” Lou said to Irwin, and then to Thomson as they shook hands, “I’m very grateful, sir.”

  Thomson smiled, obviously pleased. The chief steward appeared to be swooning and nodding enthusiastically at Lou as he pointed to an iced cake he'd put on the front table.

  “Now, if you will kindly move to the garden, I’d like to say a few words to you and the good people of Cardington and Bedford,” Thomson said.

  After their stroll around the village, Millie and Doyle made their way to the Cardington House garden, where hundreds were gathering to hear Lord Thomson. They were met by an RAF man who showed them to their seats at the front. People noticed them. Most had no idea who the portly gentleman in a posh mohair sports jacket was, until they were told he was the most popular author in the world. Others had read about the plight of the younger woman with him—Mrs. Hinchliffe, swathed in black.

  The murmur of the assembling crowd drowned out the gentle splash of an ornate fountain positioned beside the steps up to the rear of the main h
ouse. It was a romantic creation, tinged with green and peopled by stone cherubs clutching bows and arrows.

  The garden, an area some two hundred feet square, was flanked by boxwood hedges and flowering trees. This had once been the previous philanthropic owner’s outdoor theater, complete with a stage built of stone, where Shakespearean tragedies had been performed. Rough-cut flagstone paving covered much of the area. Two hundred folding chairs were occupied by a group of people similar to those present when Thomson unveiled his New Airship Program in 1924: Royal Airship Works personnel, local bankers, businessmen, and solicitors. In addition, there were contractors, and general workers from the factories and sheds connected with the airship program with their families.

  Crewmen and construction workers stood along the sides and at the rear, leaving seats for VIPs and the elderly. Journalists were seated in the front row with photographers positioned in the aisles down each side. The crowd chattered excitedly. Thomson was pleased with the size of the gathering. They were all here out of self-interest. Times were tough. Work was scarce. It was satisfying for him to know he’d created jobs in two counties. Once Millie and Doyle had sat down, Irwin and Johnston arrived to sit next to them. As they did, Thomson appeared, having marched down from the main house. He'd heard that Doyle was there and wanted to make a point of greeting him.

  They stood while Irwin made introductions. “Lord Thomson, permit me to introduce Mrs. Hinchliffe.”

  “My dear lady, your husband and I flew together to Egypt and Iraq. And of course, he's flown the Prime Minister and I to Lossiemouth on many occasions. Such a terrible, terrible loss!”

  “You're most kind, Lord Thomson.”

  “And this is Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who, of course, needs no introduction—” Irwin said.