Death Devil's Bridge (15 page)

“Lady Kathryn!” he cried. “Where are you going?”

“After my husband,” she said, adjusting the throttle.

“You shan't have all the fun for yourself, Kate!” Patsy cried. “I'm coming with you.”

“But this car
cannot
be operated by a female!” cried the shirt-sleeved man, attempting to lay hold of the tiller. “You will be killed!”

Sam Holt was dancing up and down. “What a story!” he cried. “Beautiful Ladies Commandeer Automobile for Death-Defying Chase!”

“You're sure, Patsy?” Kate asked. “They're right, you know. It is dangerous. I have driven only twice before.”

“Dangerous, pooh!” Patsy scoffed. “I'm sure you can do it.”

“Very well, then,” Kate said, “but you will have to push, if we come to a hill we cannot run up.”

Patsy's mouth was determined. “Of course I shall, if I must.”

“Then we must be off without delay.” Kate engaged the low gear, raising her voice over the earsplitting noise of the motor. “Hold onto your hat, Patsy! Here we go!”

And with that, they rattled at a great speed down the lane, the astonished spectators jumping out of their way, cheering and waving farewell.

 

Had that motorcar journey been featured in one of Beryl Bardwell's novels, the skeptical reader might have accused the author of painting it in a more desperate light than was really the case. But it was, quite simply, the most harrowing journey of Kate's life. Although she was almost sick with fear for Charles, aloft in a balloon, whipped heaven knew where by the scudding winds, the motorcar so fully occupied her brain and her hands that she hardly had time to think about his desperate plight. Later, when she recalled all that happened, she felt that it was impossible that she and Patsy should have survived.

It was all that she could do to steer the Peugeot and manage the knobs that controlled the car's speed. The brakes—large wooden blocks that rubbed on the tires—were operated with both hand and foot levers, which had to be applied judiciously during the downhill runs. But even with the brakes full on, Kate did not feel as if she had the necessary control over the machine, which accelerated fearsomely as it ran downslope. To make matters worse, the lane was so narrow that had she come upon another vehicle she must necessarily have driven into the ditch, and so full of corkscrew twists that she became dizzy and disoriented, scarcely knowing which way to push the tiller.

The worst moment came near the village of Wix, where they saw a horse-drawn cart approaching. The road was wide enough to pass, but the horse, panicked by the loud, foul-smelling motorcar, bolted across the Peugeot's path, tipping the cart and spilling out two portly passengers—one of whom, Kate saw out of the corner of her eye, was a uniformed constable. Patsy screamed.

With an adroitness born of terror, Kate pushed the tiller hard over and steered across a ditch, dodging between a tree and a stone fence and back onto the road again, bouncing from one side to the other so violently that she feared the Peugeot would roll over. As they careened back into the road, Kate glanced behind her to see the stout constable jumping up and down, waving his hat and shouting, “Halt, in the name of the Crown! Halt!”

“What did he say?” Patsy cried, over the noise of the engine.

“He said, ‘Hurry, you'll be late,' ” Kate replied, and urged the car forward.

The journey was finally over. As Kate chugged into Great Oakley, where she knew Lawrence Quibbley and her footman Pocket were to have been stationed, she encountered a wizened old man who gaped at the motorcar and its driver in toothless wonderment, then replied, in answer to her query, that Mr. Quibbley and his helper had been and gone.

“It cum down, y‘see,” he said, in a flat, nasal twang. “They went t'git it.”

“The balloon came down?” Patsy cried. The wind had plucked the silk flowers from her hat and she had finally put it on the floor, holding it firmly with one foot and abandoning her coiffure to the elements.

“Aye, the balloon,” the old man said. “They went to fetch it. Wot's left o'it,” he added knowingly.

Kate's heart seemed almost to stop. Had the balloon crashed?

“Where is it?” Patsy asked. “Tell us where!”

The old man blinked. “Not shure I kin recall jes' wheer,” he said.

Patsy reached into her reticule and drew out a coin. “Where?” she demanded.

The old man snatched the coin and bit it “In Farmer Styles's pasture,” he said. “But there ain't no need to drive like the devil's at yer back. They two be deed, along o' Farmer Styles's old brown cow, Bessie. That's wot comes o' flyin'.”

“Dead?” Kate gasped.

“Dead?” Patsy echoed weakly.

“Aye, deed.” The old man's smile was cheerful, his nod vigorous. “Deed'r'n doornails.”

 

But Charles was not dead, and neither was Farmer Styles's cow, although it had been a very near thing.

He and Rolls had struggled for several minutes with the ripcord, finally freeing the vent valve with a frantic jerk. But this only magnified their peril, for the valve opened partially and refused to be closed, allowing gas to escape with a loud, long
whoosh,
like the roar of a blast furnace. The balloon was suddenly propelled into a pitching descent, the gondola whipping wildly, the balloonists braced and holding on for their lives.

When they reached an altitude that Charles guessed to be about eight hundred feet, they dropped the heavy hempen trailing rope over the side. As the rope's weight was supported by the ground, it acted as discarded ballast, slowing their precipitous fall and bringing their descent at least partially under control. Then Charles, having tied the rope-ends to the gondola, dropped his fettered sandbags. He hoped that they would serve the same function as the missing grappling iron and snag something sturdy enough to anchor the balloon.

What the sandbags first snagged, as Charles discovered later, was Farmer Styles's wood-railed fence, smashing it to splinters. Then they caught in the crotch of an apple tree, serving their purpose with such a stunning efficiency that the gondola was suddenly and fiercely jerked half round and flung to the ground, striking with a violent thump that rattled every tooth in Charles's head. The balloon pitched onto its side, the half-filled bag rolling and heaving like a gigantic whale stranded in a shallow bay.

The envelope fetched violently up against a thorny hedgerow and ruptured. The gondola upended, tumbling Charles and Rolls onto the ground under the nose of a startled brown cow. She, as bewildered as the dazed and unnerved aeronauts, broke into a bawling gallop, full-tilt in the direction of Farmer Styles's barn.

Some moments later, Farmer Styles himself appeared, as astonished as his brown cow at the sight of the bright silk bag draped over his hedge—but not so amazed that he could not immediately demand recompense for his ruined fence and his lame cow. With the farmer was his boy, whom Charles (having somewhat regained his composure) dispatched to Great Oakley with a message for Lawrence Quibbley and his helper, Pocket. Then Charles and Rolls and Farmer Styles, muttering that his fence had been erected just three short years before and did not deserve to be ruined by furriners, began to remove the mesh and coil the lines.

Shortly, Lawrence and Pocket appeared with the wagon, Lawrence looking vastly relieved to see Charles on his feet. “We ‘eard you was dead, Sir Charles!” he cried. “The village 'as it that you was killed!”

“Almost dead, Lawrence,” Charles said, feeling quite cheerful, now that they were safely on the ground. “As you can see, however, we have escaped.”

“And a good thing 'tis, sir!” Lawrence replied emphatically. They set about examining the damage that had been done to the balloon, discussing its repair, and folding it. The work went swiftly, and within an hour from the time it had descended so unceremoniously, the balloon and its gondola were loaded on the wagon, ready for return to Bishop's Keep. By prior agreement, however, they were to wait for the arrival of the motorcars—an event which Charles, at least, now believed would never happen.

He was, however, in the wrong. Charles had just paid Farmer Styles what he demanded and was bidding him goodbye when he heard the chugging snort of a motorcar rattling down the lane toward them at a high rate of speed.

“Sounds like a motorcar,” Pocket cried. “ 'Ear that, Lawrence? Don't it sound like a motorcar?”

“Caw!” Farmer Styles exclaimed, his mouth dropping open. “More furriners!” And he ran toward the road, waving and shouting, “Mind the fence! Mind the fence, now!”

“By Jove, it's the winner of the chase, arrived at last!” Rolls shouted. “Quick, Sir Charles, get your camera. We must have a photograph!” He ran after Farmer Styles.

Lawrence Quibbley glanced toward the road. “Wonder which 'un 'tis.”

“Is there any doubt?” Charles remarked dryly, taking his camera out of the canvas bag. “I should have thought that Albrecht was the only possible contender. Dunstable will be quite pleased at the success of his improbable scheme.”

But it was not Albrecht who drove onto the muddy field. To Charles's astonishment, it was a disheveled and windblown Kate at the wheel of Charlie Rolls's Peugeot, her yellow dress covered with dust and dirt, her nose and cheeks as red as berries. She was accompanied by an equally windblown and dirty Patsy Marsden, waving the ruin of what had once been a fashionable hat.

The machine skidded to a stop. “Charles!” Kate cried, jumping out and running toward him, her russet hair loose, her petticoats flying. “You're alive! Oh, my love, you're alive!”

“Kate?” Charles whispered, incredulous, as she flung herself into his arms.

“The winner!” shouted Lawrence gleefully, and threw his hat in the air.

“And did none of the four return, not one?”
“Not as expected, certainly. The whole affair was a monstrous great mystery and caused everyone a deal of grief, for it was feared that they were all four lost or dead.”
“And were any ... dead?”

—BERYL BARDWELL
Missing Pearl

 

 

 

H
ad Lady Henrietta Marsden been a spectator when the winning motorcar arrived triumphantly in Farmer Styles's field, she would no doubt have been appalled at the sight of her youngest daughter clasped in the fervent embrace of the third (and unpropertied) son of Lord Llangattock. But Lady Henrietta and Lord Christopher were still safely in France (or at least it was supposed that they were), and Miss Marsden and the Honorable Charles Rolls were almost as unrestrainedly enthusiastic in their greetings as were Lady Kathryn and her husband. And why not? Miss Marsden loved Mr. Rolls, or so she told herself, and Mr. Rolls loved Miss Marsden, or so he told her. And in any event, each was very glad to see the other alive, for they had entertained their private doubts over the past several hours whether that might not be the case.

The party remained in Farmer Styles's field for another hour, exchanging tales of their twin journeys, passing the time while they waited—in vain, as it transpired—for the first contestant to arrive. During the interval, Patsy photographed the collapsed balloon and the intrepid balloonists, while Kate related the story of Tom Whipple's sabotage of the balloon.

“So
that's
how it happened!” Charles exclaimed.

“I'm glad I was not to blame,” Rolls muttered. “I feared I had been careless when I tied the thing to the side of the gondola.” His face grew grim. “The question is, what's to be done with the wretched man? He could have killed us!”

“The constable has Whipple in custody at the moment,” Patsy said.

“But is there any evidence against him?” Charles asked. “An eyewitness to the act? If not, he cannot be held for long.”

Kate frowned. “No one stepped forward. And Whipple, of course, denied the accusation.”

Charles shrugged. “Well, we shall see,” he said. “I shall speak to Ned when we return.”

When there was still no sign of the contestants and their motorcars by one o'clock, Kate, thinking of her dinner guests and mindful of the situation in the kitchen at home, suggested that she and Patsy go back to Bishop's Keep.

“I'm not anxious to drive Mr. Rolls's motorcar, though,” she confessed, thinking that it was just as miraculous that she and Patsy had reached the balloon in one piece as it was that Charles and Mr. Rolls had gotten to the ground safely.

“I suppose we should return, too,” Rolls said nervously. “I am concerned about Dunstable.” He glanced at Kate. “He did not put in an appearance?”

“I did not see him,” Kate said.

So Lawrence and Pocket were instructed to remain until teatime and to telegraph if the other drivers put in an appearance. With Rolls at the wheel and Charles beside him, Kate and Patsy in the rear-facing seat behind, the Peugeot started back to Bishop's Keep, through Wix and Bradfield, to Mistley and thence to Manningtree, Dedham, and home. To Kate, the return, although dirty, noisy, and wearisome, was a considerable degree safer than her own outward-bound journey, and much more agreeable, because Charles was safe and within arm's reach. There remained still a mystery to be solved, though—four mysteries, as it were.

“I still cannot understand,” Rolls fretted, “how
all
four
of the motorcars should have failed to arrive. Even if they had met trouble or had a breakdown, I should think we would have encountered at least one of them by now.”

“They must have taken different ways,” Patsy said.