Death Devil's Bridge (4 page)

Sarah turned, mop in hand. “Done wot?” she growled. “An' I'll thank ye to stay away from the hearth, Mr. Mudd. We've 'ad a bit of an accident.”

“There 'as been an accident abovestairs too,” Mudd said. “The black currant ice was tart as may be.”

“Tart?” Sarah cried, disbelieving. “Not my best ice!”

“It ‘pears that ye left out the sugar, Mrs. Pratt.” Mudd shook his head sadly. “ 'Er ladyship was mort'ly embarrassed.”

And Sarah Pratt, now completely overwhelmed by tragedies, burst into tears.

He showed me his bill of fare to tempt me to dine with him; poh, said I, I value not your bill of fare, give me your bill of company.

—JONATHAN SWIFT
Journal to Stella,
1711

 

 

 

H
aving retired to the library with his friends, Charles Sheridan sat back in his comfortable leather chair, an after-dinner brandy at his elbow, and began to tamp his pipe. In his bachelor days he had abhorred dinner parties, but now that he and Kate were married and settled (at least for the time being) at Bishop's Keep, he found that he enjoyed playing the host. He also found that he much preferred the comfortable library with its shelves of well-thumbed books to the coldly opulent magnificence of the library at Somersworth, where his ancestors' gilt-edged volumes gathered dust. He had never taken any particular pride in his baronial heritage, had only been grateful that his elder brother, Robert, had taken the family duties off his hands. But now Robert was dying, and the entire burden—Somersworth. his brother's seat in the House of Lords, the care of his mother—was about to fall on his reluctant shoulders. He pushed the thought away and glanced tenderly in the direction of Kate's alcove, where a green velvet drape concealed her desk and typewriter. Perhaps it was her lingering presence which imbued the room with such a comforting warmth, or the memory of their many lively conversations and spirited debates. The company of his wife was a fine thing, her intellect keen, her interests vast and diverse, her insights penetrating, if sometimes illogical.

But tonight's company of men was excellent, as well. Charles was fond of the elderly vicar, who dined regularly at Bishop's Keep, and his friend Bradford Marsden. And tonight, he had particularly enjoyed Charlie Rolls, a handsome, fine-featured lad with flashing dark eyes under thin dark brows, amazingly mature and self-possessed for nineteen, if a trifle conceited. While Rolls was at Eton (as Charles himself had been), he had specialized in practical electricity, and was presently working toward a degree in mechanical engineering at Trinity College.

The young man's greatest passion was not for his studies, however, but for motorcars, and his exuberant, school-boyish report of “larks” with his French-made Peugeot—at three and three-quarters horsepower, the most powerful automobile yet manufactured—had held the rapt attention of the entire dinner company. His listeners had been enthralled by the story of Rolls's breakneck journey from Victoria Station to Cambridge, which he completed in eleven hours and forty-five minutes, at an average speed well above the legal limit.

In fact, Charles thought, listening to the quick, impulsive Rolls, the boy was a daredevil, a rebel bent on challenging human limits by every possible means. He raced his father's yacht, he rowed in competition, he had just won his half-blue for cycling, and he was an avid balloonist. “If there's a record of any kind, on land, sea, or in the air,” he had boasted at dinner, “I intend to break it.”

But for the moment, Rolls's activities were land-based. He and Bradford were organizing a grand motorcar exhibition involving the leading proponents of motoring from all over England, the planning of which had occasioned his stay at Marsden Manor. Charles had remarked to himself that while Rolls was not gifted with a notable fortune, he obviously had a keen eye for profit and an even keener relish for competition. In combination, these two motives might in the end propel him to great wealth—although that was not likely to happen soon enough to satisfy Lady Marsden's requirements of a suitor for her daughter. Charles suspected that Patsy's infatuation with young Rolls would lead nowhere, except, most like, to their mutual unhappiness.

The vicar relaxed on the sofa, stretching his feet to the fire. “Well, Charles,” he said comfortably, “you seem to be progressing quite well with your modernizing—although not necessarily in the kitchen.”

Charles grimaced wryly. “I fear I have overestimated the staff. One would think that one's cook, of all people, would be anxious to relieve the kitchen maids of the coal-carrying. But she, and the maids too, are afraid that the new cooker will explode—and I'm not at all sure that Kate doesn't share their apprehension. Tell you what, Vicar—why don't you go down to the kitchen and reassure them as to its safety? They'll trust you.”

Bradford Marsden glanced up at the gas chandelier, which spilled a warm glow over the room. “You've gotten that coal gas plant of yours operating successfully, then?”

Marsden was a fair-haired, handsome man in his mid-thirties, with a blond mustache and haughty, angular features, as impeccably groomed and dressed as any gentleman of high breeding and good birth. But his mouth wore a cynical half-smile, and his restless glance seemed to see into a future that held greater excitement than the tedious present. He suffered from a consuming and expensive passion for motorcars, much to the chagrin of his elderly father, whose only passion was his horses. Indeed, it was well that Lord Christopher Marsden was absent on holiday, Charles reflected, for the old man would certainly object to the motorcar exhibition that Bradford planned to hold on the Marsden estate a fortnight hence. Not only would the motorized vehicles frighten the stud, but the exhibition itself would suggest to his lordship's horse-loving friends that the Marsdens had gone over to the enemy camp.

“There's a bit of fine tuning to be done,” Charles said, pulling on his pipe. That was another of the benefits of life at Bishop's Keep. There was leisure for scientific and technical experimentation. “So far, we have been operating only one of the three retorts, but I daresay—”

“Excellent,” Bradford said hastily. He looked at Rolls, who was smoking a Turkish cigarette and sipping a cordial. “In that case, Charlie and I have a small favor to beg of you.”

“Actually, it's a rather large favor,” Rolls said. He grinned easily at Charles, his eyes sparkling, and spoke with an almost schoolboy eagerness.

Charles raised his eyebrows. “You need coal gas to power a combustion engine at your motorcar exhibition?” The thought that coal gas might serve as engine fuel had already occurred to him. Perhaps he might use it to power the single-cylinder stationary engine that now drove an experimental dynamo, which he hoped would soon electrify Bishop's Keep. If, that is, he could overcome the servants' concerns about what Kate termed “his explosive activities.”

Rolls laughed. “We'll need a great deal more gas than that. We'll be lifting about a thousand pounds.”

“Lifting?” Charles asked, surprised. “You want me to fill a balloon, then.”

“I told you he's quick,” Bradford said to Rolls, with satisfaction. “Never misses a clue.”

“I fear
I
have missed something, though,” the vicar said. “I thought we were to have a motorcar exhibition. And now we're to have a balloon?”

“The idea is to attract the public's attention,” Rolls explained. “We thought it would be jolly to have a balloon chase—hare and hounds, d'you see? The balloon sails off across country and the motorcars pursue it. The first to reach the balloon's landing spot wins.”

“Are you sure any will reach it?” Charles asked. “The lanes in this part of the country are atrocious. And the vehicles themselves are not dependable enough to—”

“But that doesn't matter, don't you see?” Rolls exclaimed. “It will be a glorious race, however it goes. And it will attract an enormous amount of attention,” he added happily.

“Already has,” Bradford muttered.

Charles went to the shelf and took down a thick chemical reference work. He opened it to a table of gas properties, then pulled out his ivory slide rule. After a moment's calculating, he said, “It appears that you'll need between twenty to thirty thousand cubic feet of gas.”

Rolls frowned. “That's vastly more than we'd anticipated. Can you do it?”

“We don't normally produce anything like that amount here,” Charles replied, “and my storage reservoir is quite small. But if we put the other two retorts into service, I daresay we can produce it in a day or so. And if the weather remains reasonably calm, the gas can be discharged directly into the balloon.” He looked from Bradford to Rolls. “I assume you have already procured one.”

At Bradford's nod, the vicar leaned forward eagerly. “Ballooning has long been a dream of mine. I knew a man who lived in Paris during the Prussian siege of ‘70. He was one of the aeronauts—oh, fortunate men!—who carried mail and emissaries out of the city.” His pale blue eyes shone. “ ‘I'll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down?' as Faust says. What a glorious excitement!
I
should like to have escaped Paris by balloon.”

“Or flown over the Alps,” Rolls returned warmly, “like that Frenchman, Francisque Arban, in '46. He ascended on the French side, during a storm that lifted him to a height of fifteen thousand feet and carried him over the mountains, and set down near Turin.” His face was eager. “A great adventure. But myself, I should like to fly heavier-than-air aircraft.”

“Like that German chap, Lilienthal, who was just killed in some sort of glider?” Bradford asked.

“Or like the American, Langley,” Charles said, “who is testing mechanically propelled flying machines.”

“
I
should prefer balloons,” the vicar said. “Just think of achieving Glaisher and Coxwell's altitude record.” He was transfixed. “Twenty-nine thousand feet! What an achievement! To soar like the Archangel, to see the world as God sees it ...” He began to hum the refrain of “Nearer My God to Thee,” then broke off. “But I don't suppose I shall ever have that opportunity,” he said in a more practical tone.

Rolls grinned. “You certainly shall, if you wish, sir.”

The vicar's eyes widened. “Oh, my goodness,” he breathed incredulously, and lapsed into contemplation of his good fortune.

“So the gondola is large enough to carry a passenger,” Charles remarked.

“Indeed, and the balloon itself is large enough to support several, depending on the degree of inflation,” Rolls replied. He gave Charles a speculative look. “Marsden tells me that you're a photographer.”

Charles smiled. “I suppose you would like me to ascend in your balloon—with my camera?”

“Exactly so!” Rolls said. “Yours will be the very first photographs of motorcars taken from the air. And you will photograph the winner as well. Can you imagine the newspaper reportage?” His hands sketched a banner headline. “MOTOR CARS RACE BALLOON ACROSS ESSEX! The idea was Harry Dunstable's. He is quite excited about it.”

“Harry Dunstable!” Charles exclaimed.

“That's right,” Rolls said. “And it's a stroke of genius, in my opinion. People will come from miles around. Why, we may even be favored by a visit from one of the Royals!”

“And what do you think, Bradford?” Charles asked.

But Bradford, nervously, changed the subject. An hour later, as the company was about to make its departure, Charles discovered why. His friend pulled him aside and said, in a low voice, “I say, old chap. I am afraid I must ask another favor. This exhibition, you see—” He smoothed his mustache nervously.

Charles waited, hoping that Bradford was not about to ask him for another loan. The last was being partially repaid in the services of Bradford's manservant, who was married to Kate's housekeeper and had a natural talent for tinkering with machinery. It was not a bad method of repayment, as it turned out, but Bradford's airy attitude toward his obligations disturbed Charles, and made him wish that his friend had a stronger sense of fiscal responsibility.

“It's Father!” Bradford burst out at last. “I received a telegram from him today, from France. Roger Thornton—blast the bloody beggar!—wrote him that I planned to make Marsden Manor the site of a motorcar exhibition, and he is in a raving paddywhack. He instructs me to cancel...” Bradford frowned petulantly, like a schoolboy reprimanded for being out of bounds. “He has forbidden me to hold the exhibition at Marsden,” he said, in a low voice. “I haven't yet told Rolls, hoping that I might be able to make another accommodation and thus spare him and the other organizers any anxiety.”

“So you are looking for a new site.”

“I fear so,” Bradford said. “It's not that I am afraid of the pater, but—” He looked uneasy, as well he might, Charles thought, for Lord Christopher had more than once threatened to reduce Bradford's allowance. “I don't suppose ... that is, I shouldn't like to ask ... Oh, dash it all, Sheridan! Would you consent to holding the damn thing here at Bishop's Keep?”

Charles frowned. This request was scarcely easier to answer than a request for another loan.

Bradford spoke hastily, as though he feared Charles was about to refuse. “This exhibition will not be as large as that at Tunbridge Wells last spring—only four motorcars are entered in the chase, and a half-dozen others in the exhibit—and I can't think that there'll be any real unpleasantness.” His smile was thin. “This one favor, please, Charles. I shall not forget it.”