Death Devil's Bridge (16 page)

“And wasn't it the point of the chase that each driver should choose his own course?” Kate asked. “The one that would get him to the balloon the fastest?”

“But
you
chose the fastest course,” Rolls replied reasonably. “Where the devil are the others?”

The first mystery was solved a little later, on the outskirts of Mistley, where they encountered a disgruntled Arnold Bateman. His Bateman Electric was being towed by a nervous horse while he plodded wearily alongside, his head bowed, his clothing thick with dust. The horse reared and snorted, and Bateman and the animal's owner had to hold it while Rolls eased the Peugeot past. He stopped on the verge, and they all walked back, Patsy carrying her camera.

Bateman did not smile when they greeted him. “Who won?” he grunted.

“The ladies,” Rolls said with a rueful laugh, and gestured at Kate. “They commandeered my Peugeot.”

Bateman stared uncomprehendingly at Kate.
“You?”

Kate nodded.

“It must be ruled an unofficial victory, however,” Rolls said quickly. “They were not registered as contestants.”

“Oh,
come
now,” Patsy said in a reproving tone, stepping back to take a photograph.

Bateman's expression had lost some of its grimness and he almost smiled. “Well, at least Dunstable and that deuced German didn't get there first.” He looked at Charles. “Speaking of Dunstable, has anyone discovered what happened to the man?”

“I don't know,” Charles said, “but I expect we shall hear about it when he turns up.”

“If
he turns up,” Bateman said. Kate wondered at his chuckle, which held no mirth.

Rolls cleared his throat. “Oh, I'm sure he will join us for dinner,” he said uneasily.

Kate glanced from Bateman to Rolls, wondering whether they knew something of the promoter's disappearance, but she could tell nothing from their faces. “You will be there, I hope, Mr. Bateman,” she said.

“I hope so, too,” Bateman said. He and the tow horse exchanged malignant glances, and the horse flicked its tail contemptuously. “But I cannot promise.”

 

It was three o‘clock by Charles's pocket watch when the Peugeot arrived at Bishop's Keep, where the Harvest Fete was still joyfully underway. The roundabout was turning merrily, the tea-tent was overflowing with thirsty fairgoers, and the motorcars on exhibit were still surrounded by well-dressed gentlemen with their hands in their pockets, putting their heads to one side and the other, pretending to decide on a purchase. The leg-o'-mutton climb was over, and in the temporary pavilion, the band was striking up for the dance, which was always held early so that families with small children could make their way home before dark.

Rolls and Patsy deposited their passengers and drove on to Marsden Manor, Rolls promising to return shortly, Patsy agreeing to come, with Aunt Penelope, for dinner. Charles would have followed Kate upstairs to change out of his muddy clothing, but he was accosted by Sam Holt as he crossed the terrace.

“Sir Charles!” Holt cried excitedly. “Glad to see you back, sir, safe an' sound. Wot car won the chase?” He pulled out a notebook and pencil. “Urgent business o' the press calls me back to London,” he added importantly, “but I can't leave without knowin' 'ow it turned out.”

“The Peugeot won,” Charles said, looking around. “Have you seen Lord Bradford?”

“The Peugeot!” Holt exclaimed. “You mean, the ladies—”

“Yes,” Charles said. “The ladies, indeed. Ah, Bradford!” he said, as he saw his friend hurrying up the broad terrace steps.

“You're safe!” Bradford exclaimed with unmistakable relief. “And Rolls?”

“Safe, too. And the balloon is not too much damaged. It was a near thing, though.”

Bradford clapped him on the back. “Well, man, who won the chase? Was it Albrecht?”

“Kate and your sister,” Charles said, and laughed at his friend's surprise and evident chagrin. He had spoken proudly, for he was impressed with Kate's mechanical ability, and with her courage, as well. Not many men would have made the attempt to motor such a distance in an unfamiliar machine.

But the news did not please Bradford. “What of the other cars?”

“Bateman's Electric lost power the other side of Mistley and is being towed back. The others—” Charles shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Three
motor cars are missing?” Holt asked. He pulled out his watch and scowled at it. “Confound it all. If I don't leave right now, I'll miss the last up-train.”

“Be on your way, then,” Bradford said crossly. “I'll telegraph you the results as soon as we have them.”

Holt shrugged. “It's been a fool's herrand,” he said gloomily. “If I go back, at least I'll get a decent meal.”

As the man scurried off, Bradford sighed. “This whole thing
has
been a fool's errand,” he said. His face darkened. “I suppose Kate told you about Whipple and his mischief?”

“Yes. I am not sure what can be done about it, though,” Charles replied. “No one actually saw the man pull the grapnel down?”

“No one has yet come forward. There was quite a melee, and a great deal of confusion. The constable took Whipple into custody, however. His action calmed them down, and after a while, the crowd dispersed.” He looked out over the fete grounds with a worried expression. “I am not sure it was wise, however. I have seen small groups of men with their heads together, muttering. They resent one of their number being held, I am sure.”

“I am sure they do,” Charles agreed soberly. “And even with a witness, I doubt it could be proved that the man acted with malicious intent. The sabotage might have been an impulse of the moment, and instantly regretted—or it might even have come about by accident. I doubt if Rolls could swear that he properly fastened the line. Since no lasting harm was done, perhaps it would be best to release Whipple.”

“I suppose you're right,” Bradford muttered, “although you might have a talk with him, to see if he was put up to it. Or ask the constable to—”

Charles raised his head and caught sight of Edward Laken, walking across the gravel apron toward them. “Speak of the devil—Hullo, Ned.”

“Ah, you've returned!” the constable exclaimed warmly. “And no worse for the experience, from the look of you.”

“It was a near thing, though,” Charles said. “Without the grapnel, and in the absence of an experienced pilot—” He glanced at Bradford.

Bradford colored. “Sorry, old man,” he muttered. “Dunstable said ... I mean, I certainly did not intend that any harm should come ...” He faltered.

“You must tell me about it,” Charles said, “later.” Turning back to the constable, he asked, “Whipple is in your custody?”

“He was.” Laken gave him an apologetic look. “I'm sorry I wasn't here to quell this morning's riot, Charles. One of the children fell from the roundabout, and her father and I had to carry her to Dr. Bassett's surgery. The trouble happened while I was gone. I fear that I did not do my duty.”

“Nothing of the sort, Ned,” Charles said. “I hope the child was not badly hurt.”

“No, not badly. As to the Whipple matter, after interviewing the man, I concluded that since there was no witness to his action, he could not be charged with anything more serious than disorderly conduct. Squire Thornton arrived about that time to stand his bail. I explained as much to the squire, and we agreed that we are not likely to get to the bottom of the grapnel business. But that is not the news I came to bring you.” He turned to Bradford with the formality he always used in his address to the man, even though they, too, had known one another as boys. “I am sorry to say, Lord Bradford, that one of your motorcar drivers has landed himself in jail.”

“Ah,” Charles said, raising an eyebrow. “So the second mystery is solved. That leaves only two others.”

“I don't know about that,” Laken replied. “But I received a telegram from P.C. Bradley of Manningtree some few moments ago.” A smile glimmered across his mouth. “He is holding a Mr. Frank Ponsonby, who was apprehended driving his Benz with reckless abandon. His speed was above the new limit of twelve miles an hour—which unfortunately puts it much above the limit in effect until November.”

“Ponsonby!” Bradford exclaimed. “He was warned to drive slowly through the villages.” He paused. “But why is the man in jail? Why didn't he simply pay his fine and get on with the chase?”

Edward's smile was ironic. “I doubt it was Ponsonby's speed that led to his incarceration. More likely, it was his language—unbefitting a gentleman, according to Bradley, and showing extreme disrespect for Her Majesty's constabulary. This, after Ponsonby failed to stop for a flock of geese at the foot of the High Street. It seems there were a few feathers ruffled,” he added with dry humor. “And some damage to the motorcar.”

Charles chuckled, imagining Frank Ponsonby frustrated by a snowstorm of goosedown. “What's to be done?”

“An apology would go a long way toward smoothing things.” Edward looked at Bradford. “Perhaps you should drive to Manningtree, Lord Bradford. I would be glad to go with you.”

“Not in my Daimler, unfortunately,” Bradford said sourly. “Albrecht hasn't turned up with it yet. We'll have to take the gig.”

“One motorcar is probably enough for P.C. Bradley in one day, in any event,” Laken said. “The Daimler hasn't finished yet? I thought Albrecht was expected to win.”

“None of the contestants has finished,” Charles said, and told him, not without pride, of Kate's triumph.

“Ah,” Laken said, and smiled. “Now that the lady has learned to drive, you shall have to buy her a motorcar.”

“Oh, dear heaven,” Charles exclaimed. “There's no stopping her already. What would she be like if she had several horsepower at her command?”

Laken laughed, then asked, more soberly, “What of the other motorcars?”

“Bateman's Electric is on its way here behind a horse,” Charles replied, “and now that we've located Ponsonby's Benz, we are missing only the Daimler and the Serpollet Steamer.”

“And Harry Dunstable,” Bradford remarked.

Charles stared at him. “He
still
has not put in an appearance?” Where the devil
was
the man?

Bradford shook his head. “Dunstable is a man of many parts, and not all of them are savory, but he has never played a trick of this sort. I am beginning to think that something has happened to him.”

The idea had occurred to Charles, as well.

 

Kate had planned that night's dinner party for eight o'clock, with the guests expected at seven. It was to be a triumphant affair (seven courses, with three Georgian silver candelabra, flowers from the hothouse, and the best china), during which the intrepid aeronauts, the victorious motorcar drivers, and the organizers of the exhibition were to be toasted in champagne. The situation had altered dramatically, however, on all fronts.

After changing out of her mud-stained dress, Kate went down to the kitchen in search of a cup of tea and a discussion with Cook about dinner. But the kitchen was filled with sulfurous fumes, and Mrs. Pratt, with streaming eyes and a red face, looked as if she herself were ready to explode. Kate braced herself against the blast.

“It's the gas cooker, yer ladyship, mum,” Mrs. Pratt rasped hoarsely. “ 'Twon't stay lit. Sputters an' burns yellow, 'stead o' blue.” Coughing, she waved a towel in front of her face. “An' smells like the divil 'isself, beggin' yer ladyship's pardon.”

“Well, shut the thing off, for heaven's sake,” Kate exclaimed, suiting the action to the words. “And stop ladyship-ing me and open the doors and windows! The cooker can't be used until we've discovered what's wrong with it. I'll send for Sir Charles.”

What was wrong with the gas cooker, apparently, was the gas itself. Appealed to by his anxious wife and hysterical cook, Sir Charles went out to the gas plant and discovered that after the balloon had been launched, Thompson had stoked the retort from an old batch of soft coal, all that was left of the coal supply. It had proved to be unfit for gas generation.

“I fear,” Charles said, when he had explained this to Kate and Mrs. Pratt, “that you will not be able to operate the gas cooker until we have obtained better coal.”

“No gas? Then wot's to be done 'bout dinner?” Mrs. Pratt demanded angrily. “Wot's to be done, I ask ye? I kin work miracles, but even loaves an' fishes got to be baked.”

“We shall have a cup of tea and a biscuit,” Kate said firmly, “and discuss it.” Ten minutes later, the kitchen aired, the tea brewed from a kettle on the open fire, and calm more or less restored, they sat over their tea and conferred upon the menu. It was to have included hors d'oeuvres (oysters, prawns, olives, and anchovies), a Consommé de Volaille, Sole Belgravia, Filet in Puff Pastry, Quail in Aspic, Artichoke Bottoms with French Beans, and Vegetable Croquettes, with a molded Bavarian pudding for dessert, and fruit, of course.

“None o‘which,” Mrs. Pratt said bitterly, “can be made up wi'out a good range.” She cast a malevolent glance at the gas cooker. “ 'Spesh'ly the puff pastry. That's an art, ye know, yer ladyship. Pastry don't jump into the pan ready-made.”

“What about the old coal range?” Kate asked. “Could it be brought back in to replace the gas cooker? I know our coal is not what it should be, but—”

With a dramatic gesture, Mrs. Pratt clasped her hands on her bosom. “Git me old coal stove back agin?” she cried. “Oh, yer ladyship, 't'wud be the dearest wish o' me ‘eart! Mayhap 'twill smoke some, but I know 'ow to fix that.”