The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe

by David Dennington

  “Oh, Lou, I don’t believe it! So, what is a lieutenant commander?”

  “It’s the same rank as a major in the army.”

  “That’s amazing!”

  “But that’s not all. The captain talked to me afterwards.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I’d done a great job not only with the furniture and how the Old Man was pleased, which of course I already knew because I’d heard him with my own ears—but he said I’d done a good job at Howden and with the liaison work between them and Cardington.”

  “Well, it’s true. You’ve done a bloody marvelous job!”

  “Anyway, he’s nominating me for promotion to third officer.”

  “Two promotions in one day! Lou, I’m so, so proud of you.”

  Remington finished his wine and put the glass down on the table.

  “You said you wanted to talk about us and ‘things’,” Lou said.

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. It was nothing important.”

  Remington gave her a puzzled stare. She wrapped her arms around him and put her luscious, wet lips over his mouth, kissing him gently, at first. Then things rapidly got out of hand.

  “I think we’d better turn the oven down low—we’ll eat later,” Remington said, and then taking her hand, he led her up to the bedroom. As they climbed stairs, Charlotte looked back over her shoulder, sensing Hinchliffe's presence. Hinchliffe felt very drawn to her—something about her—she was very special. It appeared that this lady wouldn't be expressing her reservations about the Airship Program tonight. Reservations or not, he could see these were two people very much in love, though their relationship might be complicated.

  He thought it was about time to leave.

  28

  LAMBETH TOWN HALL

  Friday, June 21, 1929.

  The next day, newspapers full of the great kerfuffle at Cardington caught everyone's attention, including Lord Inchcape's at Glenapp Castle.

  Daily Express

  MRS HINCHLIFFE DELIVERS WARNING

  FROM THE GRAVE

  Daily Mirror

  MRS HINCHLIFFE BROKE

  MISS MACKAY'S FAMILY UNYIELDING

  Daily Sketch

  PILOT'S WIDOW DELIVERS WARNING

  TO LORD THOMSON FROM DEAD HUSBAND

  Daily Chronicle

  R101 NOT SAFE MRS HINCHLIFFE

  TELLS AIR MINISTER

  LORD THOMSON SAYS WIDOW IS UNHINGED

  “I think it's time for a little more practice, Millie,” Doyle said.

  Millie looked up from her easel at Doyle. He'd been watching patiently from a chair by the fireplace as she painted her vision of the tomb in St. Mary's churchyard. She dabbed at the painting gently until she was satisfied. She wiped her brushes and began cleaning up.

  “Looks pretty good. Sad though,” Doyle said.

  “It looks well enough, I think,” Millie said, leaving it to dry.

  Doyle had come to help her get ready for the speech she'd be giving tonight at Lambeth Town Hall. He'd made her practice a number of times. He took a chair and stood it at the end of the room. “Here's your lectern.”

  Millie took off her smock. “Okay. But it's so nerve-racking.”

  “You'll get used to it.” Sinclair looked in the door. “Come in Gordon, we need an audience. Bring Kate,” Doyle said. Sinclair brought his wife in and they sat down to watch Millie standing behind the chair.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming. I want to tell you about things that have been happening to me this past year or so—”

  “Introduce yourself first, Millie. And keep your head up,” Doyle told her.

  “You'll be all right, Millie love. Don't worry,” said Kate.

  “I feel sick. I've never done anything like this before in my life,” Millie said.

  “You've been speaking to women’s groups all year. Just be yourself, Millie, you'll be fine,” said Sinclair.

  Millie began again. “Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Emilie Hinchliffe. Oh, I don't know if I can do this!” Under stress, Millie was suddenly jarred by another vision.

  She saw a boy running across a field in semi-darkness. Overhead, was a groaning, massive black cloud. No, it was a big, black airship. It was trying to dock at its tower. The boy was reaching for one of the ropes dropped to the ground from the ship. All around him was commotion, yelling and screaming for him to stop. But he didn't heed their warnings. He grabbed the cable. Blue sparks flew from his body. His back arched and he fell—electrocuted. Water cascaded down upon him from the ship, around him an atmosphere of chaos, mayhem and death. Millie instinctively knew this boy was Freddie Marsh. She'd seen his grave. She was overwrought and had to sit down to catch her breath.

  Doyle realized this wasn't just stage fright. Her psychic powers were highly developed. He comforted her.

  “What did you see this time, Millie?”

  “It was awful.”

  “The airship?”

  “I saw how that boy died.”

  The doorbell jangled. It was Hunter. “I'm covering the story tonight. I thought I'd come over in case Millie needed moral support,” Hunter said.

  When she heard his voice, a sense of relief washed over her and her unsettling vision subsided. Hunter seemed to have that calming effect. Sinclair showed him into Millie's studio. They spent another hour with Millie, going over her speech with everyone giving helpful advice.

  Later, in her bedroom, Millie couldn't get the vision out of her head. Her visions were becoming more powerful and frightening. She wasn't sure she wanted it. She listened to Hunter playing the piano downstairs while she applied make up in the mirror. He was playing “Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye”. She smiled. He'd become such a good friend. A comfort to have around.

  As she stared at her reflection, Hinchliffe's image appeared behind her. He was showing his support with a smile. But there was a hint of sadness in his face. While Hunter continued playing, she combed her hair, not paying him much attention—she had a lot on her mind. They were interrupted by Kate entering the bedroom. Millie didn't own too many dresses. Kate had ironed one of her own to loan Millie for the evening. She slipped it over her head and pulled it down over her shapely waist and hips.

  “Oh, yes! Lovely. You look so elegant,” Kate said.

  Later that evening, Millie stepped onto the stage before a small audience to cheers and light applause. Doyle and Hunter weren't the only ones she noticed. At the back, she saw Hinchliffe sitting in an end seat on the aisle. He lifted his hand and smiled. She smiled back. Her gaze then refocused on Doyle and Hunter. She smiled at them, too.

  Then, she noticed two men sitting off to one side in black bowler hats. They seemed out of place, their faces grim. She had them pegged as Thomson's people, but she was determined that they weren't going to intimidate her—not now, not ever—she'd draw strength from her husband, her friends and the audience. When she spoke, she was confident. It was as if her voice was coming from someone or somewhere else—an experience she'd never had before, but one she'd have many times in the future.

  “Good evening ladies and gentlemen. My name is Emilie Hinchliffe.” There was a burst of applause. “Thank you so much for your love and support. I can really feel it. You're very kind. I have come here tonight to give you the answer to questions I believe you really want to know about life after death. What happens to us when we die? I also want to tell you about warnings my husband has sent.”

  One of the bowler-hatted men cleared his throat noisily. It was the Raven. Millie glared at him, undeterred.

  29

  DOYLE SUMMONED

  Monday, June 24, 1929.

  When Millie got back from her speaking engagement at Lambeth Town Hall, she went straight into the studio and donned her smock. She began sketching the vision she'd had of Cardington R101 docking at the tower on the fateful night Freddie Marsh would be killed.

  She worked on it for hours into the night, long after the Sinclairs had retired. She fi
nished it the next morning. It was dramatic and jarring to the eye. It depicted young Freddie grabbing the cable and getting shocked with his fellow workers screaming their warnings. The scene was lit by searchlights on the tower and from the multi-colored fairground nearby. The Sinclairs were speechless when they saw it—seeing into the future. Not only were Millie's psychic gifts developing, but the speed at which she painted her visions was astonishing, and her visual artistry amazing.

  “You must show this when you speak next time, Millie,” Kate said.

  “Do you think anyone will listen?” Millie asked them.

  The following Monday morning, Doyle presented himself to the receptionist at Gwydyr House, the home of the Air Ministry on Whitehall. He'd been invited for 'a chat' with Thomson at his 'very earliest convenience'. As far as Doyle was concerned, it couldn't be soon enough. He was anxious to assist Millie in any way he could to put the wind up these people. He'd traveled up to town with her and left her at Eileen Garrett's tea house at Charing Cross, drinking tea and eating a cream scone. He told her he'd meet her back there when Thomson was 'done with him'.

  Thomson’s spacious office was located on the ground floor, overlooking the Thames. He sat behind his walnut desk, facing the wall. He was staring at a huge painting of the Taj Mahal which his valet, Buck, had hung earlier in the day. He was contemplating the question of Mrs. Hinchliffe. He grimaced. This whole business was distasteful and annoying, not to mention embarrassing. When Knoxwood knocked and showed Doyle in, his demeanor changed to one of sweetness and charm. He spun round in his chair.

  “Ah, there you are, Doyle, my dear fellow.”

  Thomson saw Doyle glance at the painting. “Nice, isn't it?”

  Doyle frowned. “What's its significance, may I ask?”

  “It's there to remind me every day of our goal. Cardington R101 will fly to India in the very near future.”

  Doyle showed no enthusiasm for that notion and didn’t bite. “You asked to see me, Lord Thomson.”

  “Yes, indeed I did. Come, let us sit over here.” Thomson said, leading Doyle to the comfortable armchairs set around a grand marble fireplace. “I wanted to speak to you about the pilot's widow.” Now his expression was one of pain and sorrow. “We can ill afford to lose men like him—”

  “Quite.”

  “I'm sure his lady is overwrought and at her wits’ end, poor thing.”

  “All this has been extremely tough on her, to be sure, sir.”

  “She has little ones—one only a babe in arms, I hear?”

  “Yes, that's right.”

  “Everyone's in an uproar about her not getting the insurance money. I'd like to help her somehow, if I can.”

  “Wonderful!”

  “Now, about her performance at Cardington last week. All that's got to stop. I want no more naysayings and rambling on about airships and messages from the dead and all that tripe! She needs to keep her mouth shut from now on. You understand?”

  “Er, I don't know. I'll have to—”

  “I'm trying to help the woman—if she's got sense enough to realize it!”

  “But, Lord Thomson, we have reason to believe disaster awaits you.”

  “Based on what?”

  “Messages we've received from Captain Hinchliffe.”

  “Good God, man! That's poppycock! I have no time for all your dabbling with the dead, sir!”

  The interview had not gone well. It ground to a halt with everything said within the first few minutes. They shook hands without the least sincerity. Doyle dejectedly trooped back to Charing Cross, trailed by one of Thomson's security people. Doyle reached the teashop and went inside followed by the Raven, who made no attempt to stay out of sight. He sat in the corner glaring at them.

  When Doyle reached Millie, his face was flushed and he was out of breath. “That man is not going to be stopped. He's hell-bent!” he wheezed.

  “Goodness!” Millie exclaimed, but she was more concerned with the state Doyle was in. She was picking up his condition and could feel his pain in her own chest.

  “He's offering to help put pressure on Inchcape, if you'll keep just quiet.”

  “What!”

  Doyle sat opposite her huffing and puffing, holding his chest. He didn't look good at all. Millie was getting panicky.

  “We must get to Brancker,” Doyle whispered.

  “Right now, we need to get you to a doctor!” Millie said.

  “I am a doctor!” Doyle snapped. He took out a jar of pills from his coat pocket and slipped two in his mouth. “I'll be fine in a few minutes. It's nothing,” he assured her.

  After a rest and a drink of water, Doyle was back to his old self and they made for the station. They went back to Pickwick Cottage, where she showed Doyle her latest creation, The Death of Freddie Marsh.

  He was dumbfounded.

  30

  OFFER REJECTED

  Wednesday, June 26, 1929.

  Millie's next vision came two days later. She was in her secret garden, relaxing after baking bread. As she sat with her eyes closed, she found herself in the darkness of a storm, close to a little Frenchman who was bundled up in his overcoat and cloth cap. A great shape was coming towards them, very low to the ground. It was Cardington R101. She just knew it. The Frenchman sneered and swore at the dirigible in disgust. As it came, it faltered once and then returned to straight and level. Then it dived again, and crashed within a hundred feet of them. There were two great explosions. The Frenchman, who'd just retrieved a rabbit from one his traps, sank to the ground in shock, clutching the animal. Both their eyes bulged in terror at the horrific sight of the burning airship. Millie could see men inside, screaming in agony. She could smell them burning.

  As the horrific vision faded, Millie sat still without opening her eyes for ten minutes. She was brought back by Kate bringing tea on a tray. Kate could see she was once again in distress.

  “What's the matter, Millie dear? What have you seen now?” she asked.

  Millie didn't answer her question directly.

  “I have to go to London to see Thomson myself,” Millie said.

  “Is that wise?”

  “What do I have to lose? They've decided not to give me the money. I must do what Ray wants me to do. I have to keep trying, Kate. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try, at least.”

  The next day, Millie went to Charing Cross and tramped down Whitehall in the rain under her matching black umbrella. She didn't call to make an appointment. She wanted to surprise him. If he wasn't there, she'd try again another day. She got to Gwydyr House and marched in. She'd learned from Doyle exactly where his office was—at the end, on the ground floor. No one bothered her at first, as she sauntered through the entrance hall and along the corridor. She made for the first door on the right, a heavy, white paneled door, where a man sat outside, a bowler hat resting on his lap. Millie ignored him and barged right in. The man jumped up and tried to stop her. He was too late. Thomson was seated at his desk examining some papers through his pince-nez glasses low on his nose. As she stormed in, he peered over them, frowning.

  “Miss, you can't go in there. Come out immediately,” the security man shouted.

  But Thomson had recognized Millie. And waved him away. “It's okay, Smethers,” he said. “Let her be.”

  The door closed behind Millie, leaving her alone with Thomson. “Lord Thomson, I must speak to you,” she snapped, stepping forward, water dripping from her black raincoat onto the carpet. She was stopped in her tracks momentarily when her eyes fell on the Taj Mahal. It sent shivers down her spine.

  “Mrs. Hinchliffe ...” Thomson began, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He was pleased at her reaction to his treasured painting. His recovery from her invasion was commendable. “I see you've noticed my painting. Funny that you should call by. I heard you're quite the artist—this must be Fate indeed. I'm looking for someone to paint Cardington R101 over the Taj for me. I was going to ask Mr. Churchill, but maybe you'd like to do
it for me instead?”

  Millie looked at him with incredulity. She studied his aura. It hadn't been easy to see at Cardington in the garden sunlight. It was of many shades—sparkling reds, blues, greens and yes, blacks and browns. But the predominant color was purple. Unlucky in love.

  “Certainly not, sir! It'd be sacrilege to spoil that picture. I won't encourage you with your impossible dreams—dreams that will end in disaster!” she said finally.

  “That's a jolly pity, madam. Then I'll ask Winston.”

  “I want you to know that your financial offer is rejected!”

  “Please yourself,” he replied disinterestedly. He'd recovered well again.

  “All that matters to my husband and I is the safety of those men at Cardington.”

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Hinchliffe, your husband is dead!”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, his spirit is very much alive. He's warned us that your airship will not survive.”

  “My dear Mrs. Hinchliffe, the Germans have flown airships for millions of miles without mishap.”

  “Oh, they will have their 'mishap', believe me, sir,—they will have their mishap!”

  “You're causing a great deal of embarrassment to the Air Ministry and to me personally, Mrs. Hinchliffe—”

  “Your embarrassment really is the least of my concerns, Lord Thomson.”

  “What you are doing is tantamount to sedition… And if you do not cease and desist, I will have—”

  “Your bowler-hatted dogs harass me some more! Is that it?”

  “I don't know what you're talking about, madam.” He sat back in his chair peering at her. “You know, I was going to ask you to paint my portrait. I was going to sit for you. And I would've paid you well for it—”

  “I would not paint your portrait sir, not for a thousand pounds. And if I needed to, I could paint it from memory. A sitting wouldn't be necessary. Your image has been indelibly burned into my brain!”