Death Devil's Bridge (31 page)

“ 'Tis about work, sir.” Lawrence was not accustomed to speaking humbly, but he did his best. “It seems that Lord Bradford will not be needin' my services, now that the motorcar is no more. I've been hopin' ... that is, Amelia an' I, we—” He stopped, cleared his throat, and blurted it out. “Truth be told, Sir Charles, I 'ud rather work fer ye. An' Amelia an' I ‘ud far rather stay at Bishop's Keep than go to London. I know I kin be useful wi' the gas plant an' the 'lectric an' the photographin' and such,” he added hurriedly, feeling that he was placing too much stress on what he and Amelia wanted, rather than on what they had to offer. “An' o' course, Amelia is ‘elpful to 'er ladyship. If ye kin see yer way clear to allowin' us to stay, sir, we'd be most grateful, an' work
very
'ard.”

Sir Charles put down the slides and regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. “I have been thinking of purchasing a motorcar for Lady Kathryn.”

“I cud take care o' it fer ‘er, sir!” Lawrence burst out eagerly. “Ye'd niver 'ave to worry about ‘er safety, with me takin' care of it. An' I cud keep the gas plant an' the 'lectric an'—”

“Yes, I daresay you could do all those things, and quite handily, too. And in fact, Lord Bradford has already asked my help in finding you another place. If you prefer to work here, I think we have discovered a happy solution.”

Lawrence felt himself beaming from ear to ear, and so full of ecstasy that he could scarcely contain himself. “Oh, sir, thank ye, sir! Amelia will be overjoyed. An' I—”

“I daresay the arrangement will be to all our advantages,” Sir Charles said. “Now, back to work. Let's finish up with the slides, and then we shall set up tonight's entertainment. Oh, and by the by, ask Mudd to step in here, will you? I have written notes that must go immediately to the coroner and to the doctor.”

 

 

Mrs. Pratt's light refreshments (which were set out on the dining table and eaten standing, in the latest London fashion) were received with surly cheer but consumed, Kate observed, with a more ready relish. The conversation, however, rather lagged—Ponsonby, Bateman, and Dickson occasionally speaking to one another but never to Dunstable, Dunstable (resplendent in an embroidered purple vest) speaking to none but Charles, and Rolls failing miserably in his few attempts at wit. Charles himself seemed engrossed in his thoughts, and ate and drank hurriedly and then disappeared. The only guests who seemed to enjoy an amiable conversation were Vicar Talbot, Coroner Hodson, Dr. Bassett, and Squire Thornton—and of course, Patsy and Kate, the two ladies. Thornton, who had been watching Patsy with an avid eye, made several attempts to speak to her, but each time she avoided him.

Promptly at eight, after a murmured message from Mudd, Kate clapped her hands. “Sir Charles promised an evening of photographic entertainment,” she said. “It is ready, if you would care to adjourn to the drawing room.”

“Lantern slides?” Bateman muttered to Ponsonby. “They had better not be photographs of somebody's trip to the Holy Land, or I tell you, I shall leave.”

“It will take more than an evening's amusement to wash out the taste of the weekend's woes,” Ponsonby agreed. He cast a nervous eye in the direction of Harry Hodson. “But I fail to see why that fellow is here—the coroner, isn't he?”

Kate spoke lightly, as if she had caught just the last question. “Harry Hodson? He is a dear old friend, and a great admirer of Sir Charles's photographic work.”

“Indeed,” Hodson said, coming up. “I am most eager to see what our wizard has been up to with his camera lately, Lady Kathryn. I have always enjoyed his revelations of photographic mysteries.”

“A documentation of the weekend's events, I am told,” the vicar said. “The balloon ride and the chase.”

“And including,” the doctor added, joining them, “some lantern slides of the Daimler's wreckage. Most appalling, I am told. Not for the faint of heart.” He frowned a little at Kate. “Perhaps not for the ladies, either.”

Kate gave a smiling shrug. “Ah, well,” Bateman said, with more interest, and even Ponsonby looked curious.

In the drawing room, Kate saw that Lawrence had set up the lantern screen with several rows of chairs facing it. Charles stood at the rear of the chairs, his projecting lantern on a small table, a box of slides beside it. The lantern was of the double-lens type, consisting of two optical tubes arranged one above the other. It enabled the projectionist to dissolve one photographic image into another, superimpose two images, or cast two images upon the screen simultaneously, one above the other.

“What is he going to do?” Patsy whispered curiously, as she and Kate took seats in the back row.

“I really can't say,” Kate said. “He was too busy this evening to confide all the details to me. But if things go as he wishes, I suspect that the entertainment may well tend more to high drama than to light amusement.”

When the guests were settled in their chairs, Kate relaxed, curious to see how Charles would handle the presentation. She had no doubts about his skill, of course, but he would be dealing with men of volatile tempers. She was glad that the coroner and the doctor were there, and the constable not far away.

Charles signaled to Mudd to turn out all but one of the lights, and spoke. “The weekend has been a memorable one, gentlemen. I thought you might enjoy seeing pictures of its more interesting moments. The first few shots I will show you were taken in the Park yesterday morning by Miss Patsy Marsden, an excellent photographer.” He threw a slide onto the screen. “Mr. Bateman, I believe.”

“That's me, all right,” Bateman said, grinning at the picture of him standing beside a tree, smoking a cigarette and watching as the other drivers labored to start their cars. “See how easy it is to start an electric? Push of the button is all it takes. No crawling, no cranking.”

“But don't forget where it ended,” Ponsonby said, with a snicker. “At the end of a tow rope.” A ripple of laughter went through the group.

Charles inserted several slides, one after the other, of the waiting motorcars, the fete activities as they got underway, and the balloon, surrounded by curious spectators, ready to go up.

“Ah,” Rolls exclaimed with satisfaction, “isn't she beautiful! A work of art.”

“And here is one of our departure,” Charles said with a little laugh, “under duress, as it were. We are being pursued by natives armed with pitchforks.” He put up a slide of himself and Rolls scrambling into the balloon, while the ground crew held the mooring ropes. “And another. Thornton, I believe this is a picture of you.”

The slide was met by a momentary silence. Then, as the stunned audience took in the significance of the scene, gasps and murmurs were heard.

“Why ... why, it is you, Roger,” the coroner exclaimed in gruff amazement, “pulling the grapnel free! Why in heaven's name would you do a thing like that?”

“Bless me, Harry, you're right,” the doctor said, loudly incredulous. He nudged Thornton, who was sitting between them. “You sly dog, Roger. So
that's
why you stood poor Whipple's bail. You didn't want to see the poor man suffer for something you did.”

The coroner leaned forward to speak to the doctor across Thornton. “Well, I don't suppose I'm surprised, Bassett. I'm told that Mrs. Jessup has finally revealed that it was our squire here, and not Mr. Rolls, who paid the Jessups that mysterious thirty pounds.”

The doctor became suffused with astonishment. “Roger? I am utterly astounded. Why in the world—”

Thornton jumped to his feet. “I had nothing to do with it!” he shouted. “Not any of it!” He pointed at the screen. “That picture is a fake!”

“It is not,” Patsy replied with dignity. “I took the photograph with my Frena and developed it myself. And that is you, Squire Thornton. The camera caught you red-handed.” Her eyes narrowed and her voice became steely. “Telegrams may lie, sir, but not photographs.”

The squire turned and looked at Kate and Patsy. He was about to speak, but their words seemed to have robbed him of the power. He started to stumble over the doctor's feet as if making to leave, but the coroner took one arm and the doctor the other and pushed him back into his chair.

“I think, Roger,” the coroner said sternly, “that you had better stay.”

“Indeed,” said the doctor. “I'm sure there is more to be revealed.”

“On a happier note,” Charles said, putting up the next slide, “here are the winners of the chase. The informal winners, of course.”

This slide, of Kate and Patsy posed in Rolls's Peugeot, laughing and waving at the camera, was greeted by the three drivers with grunts and discontented shufflings.

“Congratulations, ladies,” said the vicar. “I must confess to a great admiration for anyone who could manhandle one of those machines through our terrible lanes.”

“Sheer luck that they got that far,” Dickson muttered.

“Oh, I don't know,” said Charles mildly, putting up another slide of the two ladies, this one posed with Rolls and Farmer Styles in front of the deflated balloon. “There was quite a bit of skill involved, not to mention strength and good judgment.”

“
I'd
say,” said Rolls. “Three and three-quarters horsepower, you know. Frankly, I'm amazed that a woman could manage it. Lady Kathryn, you have my greatest respect.”

Kate was about to respond to this, but Charles had gone on to the next slide. “And here is the car that came closest to finishing,” he said, and put up a picture of a dejected Bateman, his disabled electric, and the tow horse, its lips pulled back from its teeth in a malevolent horselaugh.

“Ha!” laughed Ponsonby. “Bateman, what a fool you look!”

“This picture demonstrates,” Dunstable said pompously, “precisely why electricity cannot be taken seriously as an automotive fuel. Petrol is the only viable propellant.”

“But Bateman's electric
did
go farther than the steamer or the Benz,” Kate pointed out.

“That's true,” Charles replied. “Unfortunately, we do not have pictures of the flock of geese that caused Mr. Ponsonby to come to grief, or the stump that did in the Serpollet Steamer. And I fear, Mr. Dunstable, that we have no photographs of you, either.”

“That's right, Dunstable,” Dickson said, with a little laugh. “All this while you were wrapped up, shall we say, elsewhere.” These words were greeted by a general snigger, and a louder guffaw from Ponsonby.

Charles raised his voice over the laughter. “We have, however, managed to apprehend the two men who packaged you.” He turned and signaled to Mudd, who was standing beside the door.

“Constable Laken, sir,” Mudd announced, and opened the door.

“Ah, Laken,” Charles said, as the constable came in, accompanied by a very tall man in brown corduroy pants and rough jerkin and a boy barely out of his teens. Both had their hands manacled before them. “Good of you to come. And who are these gentlemen?”

“Dick Quilp,” said the constable, pointing to the tall man, “and Fred Codlin.”

Dunstable stared. “Yes! These are the very ones! They came on me in the alley and hit me on the head.”

“Please tell the company who paid you,” the constable ordered.

“ 'Twas them!” said the boy, raising his fettered hands to point at Bateman and Ponsonby.

“That's ridiculous.” Ponsonby pulled himself up. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“They paid us two shillin's each if we'd jump 'im,” said Quilp darkly. “We didn't want t' do it, but they argued us over wi' the money.”

“It's our word against the word of these knaves,” Bateman growled. “They have no proof.”

“I've still got th' florin ye give me,” the boy said helpfully, pulling a two-shilling piece out of his pocket and holding it up.

“I drank mine,” Quilp said, “but ye kin ask the barman at The Sun. ‘E knows 'ow much I spent.”

“This is all nonsense, of course, Harry,” Bateman said nervously, to a glowering, red-faced Dunstable. “I swear on my mother's grave, I had nothing—”

Ponsonby was calmer. “Even if we did arrange a little joke,” he drawled, “you ought to be grateful. If you hadn't been otherwise occupied, Harry, you would have been in the Daimler with Albrecht. You could be as dead as he is.”

Dunstable was about to reply, but Charles interrupted, changing the subject and redirecting their attention with (Kate thought) a very great adroitness.

“Ah, yes, the unfortunate Herr Albrecht,” Charles said soberly, and threw another slide onto the screen. “This, gentlemen, is the scene of the crash that killed him. A most appalling sight, you will agree.”

Kate winced when she saw the slide, which showed Bradford's Daimler with its front end smashed against the trees, its rear end in the air, and wreckage strewn uphill behind it.

“Terrible, terrible,” Dunstable muttered.

“Poor Albrecht,” Batemen sighed. “To lose his life in such a way.”

“Oh, Lord,” whispered Dickson, white-faced.

“You see, Harry?” Ponsonby said triumphantly. “It's just as I said. If you'd been in that car when it went into the ravine, you wouldn't be sitting here right now.”

“What I want to know,” Rolls said in a wondering tone, “is why it didn't bum. With those hot-tube igniters and a full tank of petrol, the thing should have gone off like a deuced bomb.”

“Unbelievable as it seems,” Charles remarked, “Herr Albrecht failed to top off the tank. At the time of the crash, the car was virtually empty of fuel. He could not have made it past the bridge.”