Death Devil's Bridge (12 page)

“I doubt that it will be a problem,” Kate said. “Once the balloon has gone, the lines will be reconnected and you can use the range without difficulty.” She gave the vicar a distracted look. “Oh, Vicar, good morning. How kind of you to come early. Would you mind telling the porter that it is time to open the Park gates?”

The vicar could see that Kate, too, was preoccupied, so he went off to do as he was asked.

There was already a crowd outside the gates, and the minute they were opened, men and women and children dressed in holiday finery streamed in. On Fete Day, no laundry flapped on the village clothes lines, no floors were swept or windows washed, and every family laid its best tablecloth on the table and coverlets on the beds and opened homes and hearts to all the aunts and uncles and cousins who lived within walking distance. It was a day for family reunions and general joy, and the vicar had expected that the balloon launch and motorcar chase could only add to the general excitement.

But this year, the death of Old Jessup seemed to have cast a pall over the celebration. There were many who believed that, one way or another, the old man had been killed by the motorcar, and that the driver—the same man who planned to pilot the balloon—had been egregiously at fault. “Murder,” some still whispered, in spite of Dr. Bassett's insistence that Old Jessup had died of natural causes, and regardless of Coroner Hodson's refusal to hold an inquest. And while Young Jessup had been surprisingly quiet for the last week, his friends had plenty to say.

“It's worth yer life to go where them motorcars is,” avowed Mr. Grabbner, the miller's helper. “I've tol' me wife that this year we're stayin' 'ome, where we won't be run down an' kilt. We won't step foot near them infernal machines.”

“Go to the fete? Not bloody likely,” said Godfrey the underbaker. “Wot wi' all those motorcars on the roads, somebody else is bound to be 'urt, an' it ain't goin' to be me er mine.”

Such censure notwithstanding, the crowd streaming down the lane was a large one, including many well-dressed gentlemen in snappy vests whom the vicar did not recognize—gentlemen from Colchester, no doubt, and perhaps from Ipswich. For the moment, the balloon was the center of attention. Already it was surrounded by a marveling throng, gazing in wonderment at the silken bubble, so tenuously tethered to the earth. The vicar joined the crowd for a few moments, sharing its excitement and craning his own neck to gaze heavenward at the balloon's immense height, wondering what it would be like to soar up and up, above the clouds.

The repeated
clackety-wheeze
of a motorcar being cranked recalled his attention to the earth, and he left the launch area to stroll in the direction of the motorcars. Like the balloon, they were ringed with wondering spectators, and for a few moments he paused to watch the drivers preparing for the race. Frank Ponsonby and another man were taking turns pulling on the rim of the flywheel to coax the reluctant Benz to life. Wilhelm Albrecht, wearing a blue Motor Car Club jacket and cap, was kneeling beside the Daimler, lighting the flame jets that heated its hot tube igniters. Arthur Dickson was lying under the rear axle of his steam car, trying to light the burner beneath the boiler. And while all this activity was going on, Arnold Bateman leaned against a tree, conspicuously lighting a cigarette and watching the others work with a slight smile. His electric automobile did not require any preliminary warming-up, a fact that he obviously enjoyed.

The vicar stood, taking in these marvels of modern technology and wondering how they would change his quiet parish. What would the village be like when as many as three or four motorcars a day ran up and down the High Street, rattling the glass in the panes and frightening the village dogs? How much would the country road tax have to be raised to rebuild the bridge at the foot of Devil's Hill so that a Daimler or a Benz could cross safely? And as for himself, he wondered indecisively, was he too old to learn how to—

“Good morning, Vicar,” said a quiet voice at his elbow.

The vicar turned. “Ah, good morning, Constable Laken,” he said, and beamed at the village constable, who was wearing his usual uniform of navy serge. “It is a good morning, isn't it? I was just thinking that perhaps I am not too old to learn how to manage one of these extraordinary inventions. What do you think?”

“One is never too old to learn something new,” Constable Laken said. He was a short, slender man, with a ruddy face, sandy hair, and penetrating gray eyes that missed almost nothing.

“Why, yes, I see you are right. Dear me, of course I am not too old. And from that point of view, I see that I have an obligation to—that is, I certainly must try my hand at—” Having thus made up his mind, the vicar brightened. “I hope you are here for pleasure, not duty.”

“A bit of both,” Laken said. “The loud gentlemen did not wake you last night?”

“That group at The Sun?” the Vicar asked. “I heard their voices, just as I was settling in to sleep, but they did not much disturb me. Do I have you to thank for sending them on their way?”

The constable nodded. “There's something in the wind, I'm afraid, sir. You know Tom Whipple, I'm sure.”

The vicar frowned. “I know Whipple.” He thought, but did not add aloud, that he also knew the man—like his friend Young Jessup—to be a troublemaker. He also did not say, although he was tempted, that there had been something in the wind ever since Old Jessup had died.

“I would appreciate it, sir, if you would get word to me, should you see him here today.”

“I shall do it,” the vicar promised. He did not ask what Tom Whipple might be up to, for it sounded as if that were the constable's business. His job was caring for souls. He smiled at the constable, whom he both respected and liked. “Your Agnes and little Betsy will be here to enjoy the fete, I do not doubt.”

“Right, sir,” Constable Laken replied cheerfully. “They wouldn't miss it for the world. And I believe that Lady Kathryn has planned a special treat for Betsy.”

Agnes's daughter, Laken's stepchild, was a favorite of Kate's, the vicar knew, and he smiled. “Well, then,” he said, and raised his hat. “Good day!”

“Good day, sir,” said the constable. He became sober again. “And don't forget about Tom Whipple.”

As in previous years, the scene was pleasantly tumultuous. Mr. Gresham and his nephew had hauled a roundabout with a hurdy-gurdy from Great Horkesley, where it had done duty at an agricultural fair the week before. Some of the men of the parish had built a pair of swings, and others had erected a cluster of show booths, coconut shies, gingerbread and sweet stalls, and the usual booth for the church jumble sale. The butcher's sons had raised a sturdy greased pole for the leg-o'-mutton climb. For the Flower Show, a large tent and several smaller ones had been erected, and the local gardeners had been bringing their choicest blooms since yesterday. But it was not only flowers—asters and stocks and sweet-smelling crimson roses—on display, but gigantic cabbages and immense cauliflowers, scarlet runner beans and scrubbed vegetable marrows and huge bunches of purple-red grapes and golden melons, as well as glasses of sparkling jelly, pots of jam, and jars of honey. The prizes—ten shillings for a first, seven and six for a second, and five for a third—would be presented by the vicar in the afternoon, after the judges had done their work. And meanwhile, the nervous gardeners could repair to St. Mary's yellow silk marquee, which had been raised under the horse chestnut trees and filled with wooden tables and benches. There they could calm their anxiety with six-pence worth of tea and spiced dough cake served by the Ladies of the Missionary Guild in aid of the poor children of Borneo.

But while the outside observer might be deceived by the pleasant variety of the scene, the vicar was not. Constable Laken was right: there was something in the air, some tension, some apprehension, threaded like a dark lace through the bright morning's activities. As he walked, he noticed small things—two or three men with their heads together, exchanging covert whispers; surreptitious dashings here and there; anxious glances cast toward the motorcars and the balloon. Something was afoot, and Vicar Talbot knew it.

Shortly before nine, the vicar found himself on the east terrace, where the chase participants were convening for a last-minute discussion, the drivers already garbed in motoring coats and helmets, their goggles around their necks. All but one wore worried frowns, the exception being Herr Albrecht, whose supreme self-confidence was unmistakable. At the moment, however, Albrecht seemed to be looking for someone.

“Have you seen Herr Dunstable?” he asked Arnold Bateman in his abrupt, Germanic way. “He is to ride with me, and he has not yet appeared.”

“Dunstable?” asked Bateman, with an arch look. “Sorry, I haven't seen the fellow.”

“I've been lookin' fer ‘im, too,” said Sam Holt, frowning. “ 'E was supposed to meet me fer a hinterview an hour ago. Ah, there's Sir Charles.” He raised his voice. “Sir Charles, 'ave you seen Mr. Dunstable?”

“I have not,” Sir Charles said. He and his houseguest Henry Royce had joined the group just as Rolls began handing out Ordinance Survey maps.

Royce settled himself on the parapet. “Dunstable is not here? I thought these were
his
festivities.”

Sir Charles sat down on a bench beside the vicar, folding his arms and settling back to watch the proceedings with (the vicar thought) something less than enthusiasm.

“Dunstable is missing?” Ponsonby asked, with a serious look. “Someone had better go and fetch him. He was very anxious to be here. Perhaps something has happened to him.”

Arthur Dickson chuckled. “Well, if it has, it can't have happened to a more deserving chap.”

 

Vicar Talbot was right—Charles's enthusiasm for the balloon-motorcar chase had vastly diminished. When Bradford first proposed it, he had eagerly accepted the challenge of producing sufficient gas to inflate the balloon and had looked forward to the prospect of going up with an experienced balloonist—all this without giving much thought to the purpose of the flight.

As the chase neared, though, he found himself anticipating it with a growing uneasiness. For one thing, he agreed with Henry Royce that the vehicles were not engineered for rough travel, and he doubted that they could take the pounding of the country lanes. For another, a chase across unfamiliar terrain would challenge even the most experienced driver's skills, and these drivers were not equally experienced. Albrecht had already won a half-dozen European races. No doubt he would win this one, too, a fact which must be irritatingly obvious to the three inexperienced drivers. And there was the balloon chase itself, an idea that had begun to seem to Charles as fantastical as Jules Verne's fictions. It was absurd to hope that the drivers—who would have to cope not only with the eccentricities of their flimsy vehicles but with narrow, twisting lanes frequented by horse-drawn wagons—could follow the fast-moving balloon closely enough to find its touchdown point. No. As a race, the event was not a fair contest; as a chase, it was a doomed venture.

Bradford Marsden paused beside the bench where Charles was sitting. “I need to speak with you immediately after the meeting, Charles,” he said in a low voice. “I'm afraid there's trouble afoot.” He was gone before Charles could inquire about the problem.

“So,” the vicar said, rubbing his hands with the look of a small boy anticipating the arrival of St. Nicholas. “The winds are favorable for the launch, wouldn't you say? You and Mr. Rolls should have quite a nice flight.”

Charles glanced at the Union Jack fluttering from the flagpole on the croquet lawn. The morning mists had cleared somewhat earlier than expected, and a light and variable surface wind blew out of the west. From the look of the gray, fast-moving clouds, it was much stronger aloft. That did not bode well. If the wind were ten knots or better, the balloon would quickly outstrip even the fastest automobile. None of them would be able to locate the landing site.

Beside him, Henry Royce was also glancing up at the clouds. “I am no balloonist,” he remarked in his clipped, precise way, “but I should imagine that you and your pilot—what's his name? Rolls?—will have rather a wild ride.”

“Oh, yes, a wild ride,” the vicar said happily. “I wish I could go with you. Where do you think to come down?”

Charles did not answer, because Rolls had raised his hand for attention and was speaking directly to that question. “Judging from the direction of the winds,” he said to the drivers, “Sir Charles and I can expect to descend somewhere in the neighborhood of Frinton-on-Sea, fifteen miles to the southwest as the crow flies—somewhat more than that, by road. The winds aloft are a bit chancier, though, and we can't guarantee where we'll put down.”

Albrecht seemed surprised. “You cannot tell us where the finish line is?” he demanded. “What kind of a race is this?”

Rolls looked equally surprised. “We have no means of guiding the balloon on such a short course, so we can't say where we will touch down. And strictly speaking, this is not a race but a chase, like hare and hounds. Finding the finish line is one test of your skill.”

“Herr Dunstable told me nothing of that,” Albrecht said, with a flash of sullen anger. He looked around. “Where is the man? I want to speak with him.”

Frank Ponsonby spoke, ignoring Albrecht “You can surely give us a range of possible landing sites, Rolls.”

“The balloon could come down anywhere from Brightlingsea to Harwich,” Rolls replied. “We shan't go further, of course.” He grinned. “Motorcars cannot yet swim, and Sir Charles and I have no desire to end in the North Sea.”