Death Devil's Bridge (9 page)

“The estate is Lady Kathryn's, Mr. Dunstable,” Charles said quietly, “and the loan of it was to Lord Bradford, who asked it as a favor to a friend.”

Dunstable beamed, undismayed. “Very good, sir, very good! My compliments to Lady Kathryn. And of course, the affair is entirely Lord Bradford's from beginning to end, and wholly in his capable hands. And he will get all the glory when Mr. Holt writes of the event in Autocar, all the glory. Isn't that so, Mr. Holt?”

Holt's head snapped up. “Just so, Mr. Dunstable,” he said, and whipped out his notebook. “Lord Bradford, all the glory,” he muttered, scribbling busily.

Dunstable replaced his cap, straightened his jacket, and turned to Henry Royce. “And you, my dear sir,” he said smoothly, “you are a prospective motorcar owner, I take it? You have come to the right place at the right time! Oh, yes, indeed! Indeed, I must say, sir! Tomorrow, you shall be privileged to see a most amazing performance. I believe I can add, without fear of serious contradiction, that the Daimler will exceed every expectation for speed and road performance. Should you wish to purchase this exceptional machine—”

“I think, Sir Charles,” Henry Royce said, turning his back on Harry Dunstable, “that I should very much like to see Lady Kathryn's roses. And then perhaps you will show me your electric generator and your new gas plant.”

“I am sure Mr. Dunstable will forgive me,” Charles said thankfully. “Lady Kathryn will be delighted to walk with us through the rose garden.”

“Ah, yes,” Royce said, with a sidelong glance at Dunstable. “That would be most... refreshing.”

 

It was nearly ten that night before Kate could speak privately with Charles in their bedroom. She had spent the afternoon outside, watching the lively panorama with a great deal of interest, taking notes for Beryl's story. By dusk, a half-dozen other vehicles had driven up the lane, with a great clatter of pistons and odor of burning petrol. Workers were preparing for tomorrow's fete, as well, raising the Flower Show tent, hanging bunting and banners, and erecting amusements and a bandstand. And all the while, the tethered balloon was rising gently, a rainbowhued mushroom, out of the center of the green croquet lawn.

“Your luncheon was quite successful, I thought,” Charles said, wrenching off his tie.

Kate smiled as she brushed her long russet hair. Sarah Pratt had assembled a tasty soup, a cold joint, a jellied fowl, a cucumber and tomato salad, two pâtés, and a substantial pudding—all on an hour's notice. It had been nothing short of a miracle.

“Mrs. Pratt certainly distinguished herself,” Kate remarked, “but the luncheon itself was terribly uncomfortable. The tension around the table was enough to ignite a flambé.” She glanced at Charles in the mirror. “It wasn't just the four drivers, either,” she added, “although they behaved badly enough, taunting one another like school-boys.”

“There's a great deal of competition among them,” Charles replied. “They're convinced that the entire future of the British motorcar industry rests on the outcome of tomorrow's chase. It would be a wonder if they didn't bait one another.”

“I suppose,” Kate said thoughtfully. “And then there was that
awful
Harry Dunstable.”

Awful, indeed. An amply upholstered man with elaborate side-whiskers, dressed like a coach driver. “He tried to sell me a package of shares in his Daimler company. Or, failing that, a Daimler itself. The man is a peddler, pure and simple.”

Charles unbuttoned his shirt, looking grave. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The distasteful, disgraceful Harry Dunstable. If we get through the weekend without murder being done, I shall be very surprised.” He glanced up with a crooked grin. “Only joking, my dear.”

Kate put down the hairbrush. “Who is he?”

Charles sat down on the bed to pull off his shoes. “A promoter with a reputation for questionable dealings. He snaps up promising patents and licenses, then uses them to lure investors to buy stock. He has floated the British Motor Car Syndicate for a million pounds—a million pounds, Kate! Mark my words, the man will end in jail—if someone doesn't kill him first. He's a dangerous man.”

“Dangerous because—?”

“Because he now has control of virtually every major automotive patent,” Charles said grimly. “He has cornered the market, so to speak, but his companies are simply bubbles. When they burst, and they will, there will be nothing left to do but import motorcars from France and Germany.” Charles's voice had become angry. “Dunstable is hated far and wide, and for good cause. He will kill the British automotive industry before it is born.”

“But isn't there a British inventor who could design a British car?”

“I have encouraged Royce to enter the field, but he is currently otherwise engaged. And he hates promoters. If he could develop a partnership with someone he liked, someone who could sell the motorcars he developed—” Charles shrugged. “But that's not going to happen for some time.”

“And this disreputable man—Dunstable, I mean—is a friend of Bradford's?”

“One of Bradford's creditors,” Charles said. “Bradford bought stock in an earlier speculation, and is still paying the piper.” He looked up and saw Kate's face, and smiled. “But my own dear, why are we bothering ourselves with such a sour subject?” He held out both hands. “I shall have to go out at eleven and see to the inflation of the balloon, which will continue all night. But come to me now, love, and let us see if we can find another, sweeter business to occupy us for the hour until then.”

A few moments later, they discovered it.

A man in the world must meet all sorts of men, and in these days it did not do for a gentleman to be a hermit.

—Framley Parsonage,
ANTHONY TROLLOPE

 

 

 

A
ten that same evening, in the Marlborough Head in High Street and Mill Lane, Lord Bradford was hosting a late supper. The Head occupied a half-timbered building that had been constructed by a wool merchant in the 1430's, Dedham Village (which lay on the King's Highway between the trading towns of Ipswich and Colchester) having once been the site of a thriving colony of weavers. The building's term as a wool market ended when the Civil War dealt the local wool trade a death blow. For a time it was taken over by the village apothecary, until, after the Battle of Blenheim in 1704 it was transformed into an inn and named for the first Duke of Marlborough.

The Head's large parlor, its plank floor covered with a red carpet and its plaster walls hung with engravings of hunting scenes, was furnished with comfortable chairs. The room was reserved for the select society of the village, while the rest were relegated to the common room, with its straight-backed wooden settles and rickety stools. The parlor was low-ceilinged and dark, but large enough to seat Bradford's party of seven at a long plank table before the fireplace. On this September evening, the blazing fire warmed the air to a considerable degree more than comfort might have required. Mr. Crawley, the publican, was red-faced and sweltering as he ran to and fro carrying dishes and replenishing wineglasses.

A Londoner used to dining at Claridge's or the Carlton might have complained that Mrs. Crawley's substantial repast (which opened con brio with a brown Windsor soup; proceeded with flourishes to poached mackerel with gooseberry sauce, pigeon pie, steak and onions accompanied by creamed potatoes and a dish of boiled carrots; and concluded upon the lighter notes of custard tart, a local cheese, and apples) was more suited to a robust rural appetite than to a refined urban taste.

Still, the food had been hot and ample and the wine adequate, and as Bradford sat back with a cigar and surveyed the company, he could congratulate himself that he had fulfilled his social obligations. Inviting this unruly crew to Marsden Manor was out of the question, and he could not impose further on Charles and Kate Sheridan. As far as Bradford was concerned, his friends could content themselves with poached mackerel and pigeon pies and be glad of it.

Except that they were not his friends, if by that word one intended to designate gentlemen with whom one was intimate. Bradford glanced down the table, reflecting somberly that there was not a man present whose company he would willingly have chosen. Taken individually, each member of this roguish fraternity suffered from certain defects of character, taken as a group, the defects of each amplified the defects of every other. Bradford knew something scandalous and unsavory about most of them, and during this momentary lull in the conversation he allowed himself the caustic amusement of reflecting on it.

The Honorable C. S. Rolls sat at the far end of the table smoking a Turkish cigarette. The most debonair of the lot, he was fast becoming notorious for his unrestrained recklessness. Charming, witty, and handsome, Rolls had a reputation among women of all sorts (including Ivy Thompson's girls of the Colonnade in Regent Street), and it was rumored that he had recently been seen at White's, where he had lost a large sum at the tables, the beautiful wife of a certain sporting gentleman at his side.

It was that dare-devilish womanizing that troubled Bradford, and he frowned when he thought of Rolls's casual familiarity with Patsy. That she was a willing partner in this romantic escapade was no justification, for in Bradford's estimation, his younger sister had scarcely a brain in her pretty head. Bradford's frown became a scowl. He should have to caution Patsy about Rolls before anything more serious than a flirtation occurred between them—except that cautioning his sister was like dropping a red flag before a bull. In that regard, she and Rolls were quite alike. If it were not for the fact that a liaison would mar her chance of marrying into the Thornton property, Bradford would say that the two deserved one another.

But Rolls's wasn't the only disreputable character in the lot. Occupying the left side of the table were three of the drivers, none of whom would take prizes for virtue. Nearest Rolls sat Wilhelm Albrecht, suave and confident as he carried on a conversation across the table with Harry Dunstable, who looked like a Liverpool haberdasher with his fat cigar and vulgar red-and-green checked vest. Albrecht caught Bradford's eye, raised his glass in a mocking salute, and smiled, his monocle glinting mockingly in the candle-light. Albrecht knew very well that Bradford had wanted to drive his own car in the chase—would have done so, in fact, had it not been for his debt to Dunstable—and the knowledge amused him.

At the thought of the money he owed, Bradford felt his stomach lurch. It was that debt, that hateful, despicable debt, that gave Dunstable the right to insist that Bradford host this affair. If it had not been for the money, Bradford thought bitterly, he would have told Dunstable to go straight to hell with his damned exhibition and balloon chase. The wretched affair was only another of Dunstable's promotion schemes. It had brought Bradford nothing but grief and expense, and yes, shame, a miserable shame that made him feel vile and dirty, knowing that he was forced to be civil, to be a suppliant, even, to a vulgar scoundrel.

Sitting next to Albrecht, stoking his pipe, Frank Ponsonby gave him an insolent glance, and Bradford winced. Ponsonby imported the Benz motor car, but his chief trade was as a bill-broker who bought and sold discounted notes—a form of money-lending that enabled men of little capital to engage in undertakings that they could not otherwise afford. Ponsonby, who also traded in gossip, no doubt knew precisely how much was owed by every man in this room, and to whom. He certainly knew of Bradford's pecuniary difficulties and would make whatever use he could of the knowledge.

Ponsonby drew on his pipe. “Ah, Marsden,” he drawled, “a worthy repast. Must have cost you a quid or two.” His unpleasant chuckle showed yellowed teeth, and Bradford saw with some surprise that he was very drunk.

Bradford marshaled what was left of his civility. “You enjoyed it, then, Frank.” It paid to be civil to a man, drunk or sober, who knew as much about one's private business as did Ponsonby.

The bill-broker lifted his glass, his high, white forehead gleaming like polished ivory. “Here's to success tomorrow.” His eyes narrowed as his glance went to Dunstable. “Success to those who deserve it,” he amended in an acid tone.

Bradford knew that Ponsonby hated Dunstable almost as much as he did, although from a different motive, and one having nothing to do with money. Dunstable had gotten into a pretty mess with Ponsonby's married cousin Aurora Vickers (with whom Ponsonby himself was said to have been in love), and Ponsonby had undertaken to scare him off. But the matter had ended badly. Dunstable had dropped Mrs. Vickers, her husband had cast her off as well, and she had meanly retaliated against both by slitting her wrists in the bath while a guest at Ponsonby's home. Nasty allegations had been raised against Ponsonby, and although they were somehow hushed up, they surfaced every now and again. An ugly story, Bradford reflected, as he motioned to the perspiring Crawley to bring another bottle of port. It was a wonder that Ponsonby and Dunstable could bring themselves to occupy the same room.

On the other side of the table sat Arthur Dickson, his lean face gaunt, his cheeks hollowed, a ghost of his former self. Dickson, who had made a great deal of money in steam locomotives, had recently been charged by a competitor with having stolen a patent and stood to lose most of his fortune. A pity, because Dickson was in Bradford's opinion a bright man with a promising automotive future—if only he would abandon the steam car. But he quite naturally (as a locomotive man) preferred steam. He detested the entire petrol industry, and had made enemies of most of the men around the table.

“Success only to the deserving?” Dickson asked dryly, taking up Ponsonby's remark. “What are you hoping for, Frank? That you will reach the balloon, and the rest of us will end in the ditch? You know that's ridiculous. Petrol cars are no match for steam.”