CHAPTER XII
REVEALS AN ASTOUNDING FACT
Weeks passed, but alas! the problem remained unsolved. I became plunged in the darkest depths of despair.
The hue-and-cry had been raised all over the kingdom. Sir Herbert Lethmere had offered a reward for any information concerning his daughter, but nobody came forward with any really tangible declaration.
The hard indisputable fact was that she had gone down those front-door steps in Cadogan Gardens and disappeared as completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed her.
For me, those weeks were weeks of keen, hourly anxiety, weeks of grief and breathless forebodings.
The woman I loved so dearly had been snatched from me, and now I felt that I had no further object in life. Indeed, I had no heart to make any further experiments to perfect my Zeppelin-destroyer, and though Teddy, in his old cheery way, tried to console me and endeavoured to get me down to Gunnersbury, I always firmly refused to go. The place was now hateful to me. My keenness had vanished. Now and then I went out to Hendon and looked at Roseye's machine still there. Her mechanic, whom Sir Herbert still kept on—he being unfit for military service—hung about the aerodrome and smoked 'yellow perils' awaiting his mistress's return.
Once or twice, on bright days, I made a short flight just to keep fit. Otherwise I generally remained at home in my rooms pondering, or else out trying to follow some imaginary clue to which my theory led me.
Lionel Eastwell always expressed himself full of sympathy. Many times we met at the club and elsewhere, and he always expressed his belief that Roseye was somewhere with friends. Indeed, he seemed full of optimism.
'My firm opinion is that Miss Lethmere has met with an accident, and is in some hospital or other—some cottage hospital perhaps. Maybe she has lost her memory as result of her unfortunate mishap,' he suggested one day. 'There are lots of such cases recorded in the papers.'
Truth to tell, my suspicion of Lionel Eastwell had daily increased. First, he had always appeared far too inquisitive regarding our experimental work. Secondly, he had been ever polite and affable towards Roseye with a view, it seemed, of preserving an extremely close friendship. Why, I wondered? I knew that she had liked him for his courtesy and pleasant demeanour ever since they had first met. And the point that they had first met in Germany I had never forgotten. It had increased my suspicion—and pointedly so.
The most puzzling fact concerning him, however, was that I had discovered during my eager and constant investigations, from one of the boys at Hendon—Dick Ferguson, who was flying a new R. E. P. 'Parasol,' that on the very evening of the day that I had called at Albemarle Street to find him ill in bed, he had met him in Hatchett's in Piccadilly, and had actually dined with him there in the grill-room.
When I had sat at Eastwell's bedside, three hours before, he had then declared himself unable to move without pain, and had told me that the doctor had strictly forbidden him to get up. Yet, on that very same night, he had dined down below in the cheerful grill-room and, according to Dick, was as merry as ever.
These were facts which certainly required explanation.
Why had he not gone along to the Piccadilly Hotel, or to the Club, as was his habit? Was it because, fearing to be seen, he had chosen the smaller and quieter resort?
Most probably he feared to meet either Teddy or myself at the Piccadilly, for we both frequently went there as a change from the Automobile Club. We flying men are a small circle, and we have our own particular haunts—just as every other profession has.
Three times I had questioned Dick Ferguson regarding Lionel's presence at that small, but popular restaurant on that particular night. At first I believed that he had probably mistaken the date—which was so easy. But he had fixed it absolutely by telling me that it was the night when the Admiralty had admitted that Zeppelins had again been over Essex and Norfolk and been driven back by our anti-aircraft guns.
Certainly I had no reason to doubt Dick's story. He was a pal of Teddy's, and I had been up with him twice on his new 'Parasol'—that machine which Hendon men will remember as having caused such a sensation.
How flying has changed since the war! In the pre-war days those Sunday meetings out at Hendon, with their passenger-flights, were quite smart frivolous gatherings. In the enclosure stood rows of fine cars with many young 'bloods'—who afterwards gallantly put on khaki—with many of their best girls, some of them of the bluest blood of the land, while others were revue actresses, with a few women aged, apeing and adipose, with of course a good sprinkling of girls on the keen look out for husbands.
There are some men who went regularly to 'exhibitions of flying' before the war who could tell strange tales—of pretty women held in the clutches of blackguards, and of good, innocent boys who fell, were blackmailed, and were 'squeezed' to their death.
But it is ever so in sport. The racecourse and the tapis vert have both been the cause of the downfall of a good many excellent fellows, therefore the organizers of the aerodromes are not to be blamed for the exploits of those pestilent undesirables who as at Epsom, Newmarket or Sandown, having paid the admission fee, passed through its gates.
Ah! I recall—and many will recall with me—those summer afternoons upon the lawn where the little tea-tables were set, and where some of the worst girls in the smartest and most daring of costumes sat with some of the best girls in the neatest to sip the innocuous beverage and to nibble cakes with the best and bravest young fellows in all England.
That strange, daring little world of flying-men—knew it, but they were level-headed and, keeping themselves to themselves, gave the cold shoulder to the unknown ones who drifted in from nowhere to display their brilliant raiment, and to watch, in a bored way, such feats as looping the loop, and other exercises which have proved such splendid training for our flying-boys to-day.
I did not trust Eastwell. Both his actions and his attitude puzzled me. An intimate friend of Sir Herbert, he was often at Cadogan Gardens, telling his host and Lady Lethmere that he firmly believed that Roseye was still ill, and still unidentified.
Purposely I avoided him. Teddy and I were in full agreement over this. A man who had been ill in bed and in pain, with no prospect of getting about for some days, and yet could go and dine merrily at Hatchett's that same evening, was, I argued, not to be trusted further.
All that Captain Pollock and Inspector Barton had told me served to increase the amazing puzzle.
They said that Roseye was a spy of Germany, but I defied them. I declared that they had lied.
'My own opinion, Munro, is that my poor girl is dead,' Sir Herbert declared one afternoon when I called. 'I know,' he went on sympathetically. 'I know how deeply devoted you were to her. But alas! we must be brave and face facts in this critical situation in which we all find ourselves to-day.'
For a moment I did not reply. I had frankly told him of that mysterious message found in Roseye's card-case, and he had followed every channel of my inquiries with eager interest, paying most of the out-of-pocket expenses and having one or two confidential interviews with Inspector Barton.
Like myself, and like Teddy also, he would not hear of any allegation against his daughter. That cryptic message he regarded as the work of the Invisible Hand which, since August 1914, had been raised against our dear beloved country.
Once or twice Lionel Eastwell had called upon me in Shaftesbury Avenue and sat beside my fire, discussing the war, the Zeppelin menace and the apparent apathy in certain quarters to deal firmly with it. At that moment the popular Press were loud in their parrot-cries that we had no adequate defence. In a sense, they voiced the public demand. But those papers which were now loudest in the denunciation of the Government were the selfsame which, before the war, had jeered at any suggested progress in aviation, and had laughed to scorn any prizes offered to aviators as encouragement in designing machines, or in flying them.
The Invisible Hand was, even in those days, laid heavily upon the Press, who laughed at Zeppelins, and declared that on that night long ago, when they had been seen hovering over Sheerness, the naval witnesses of their arrival were 'pulling the long bow.'
The Invisible Hand indeed stretched far and wide in the pre-war days. From Wick to Walmer, from Cork to Cromer, and from Donegal to Dover, the British public were assured that Zeppelins could never cross the North Sea. They were only very delicate gas-bags—some called them egg-shells—which could perhaps take up passengers in fair weather and, given continued fair weather, deposit them somewhere in safety.
The Invisible Hand wrote screeds of deliberate lies and utterly bamboozled England, just as the Crowned Criminal of Germany carried on his secret and insidious policy of the Great Betrayal.
Curiously enough the very organs of the Press which in 1913, when strange airships were reported over Yorkshire and the North-East coast, received the news with incredulity and amusement, were the very organs which now cried the loudest that something must be done to destroy Zeppelins.
I was chatting with Teddy one afternoon in my room, and had pointed out that fact, whereupon he blew a cloud of cigarette smoke from his lips, and said:
'You're quite right, my dear Claude. The armchair sceptics of 1913 were the people who have since told us that Zeppelins could kill only an occasional chicken—that Zeppelins could not reach London—that Zeppelins, if they did get to London, would never return—that Zeppelins were useless in bad weather—that Zeppelins could not survive a fall of snow—and so on.'
'Do you recollect how one section of the Press violently attacked another because the latter had dared to warn the country against the danger of attacks from the air?' I asked. 'The purblind optimists waxed hilarious, and called it the "Scareship Campaign."'
Teddy laughed, as he stretched himself in his chair.
'Yes,' he said. 'I recollect quite well, though I had not yet taken my "ticket," how the "trust-our-dear-German-brother" propagandists were terribly angry because some newspaper or other had demanded a large provision for dirigibles in the coming Estimates. They accused the paper of "staging the performance" for the sake of a new journalistic scoop. One paper, a copy of which I still have,' Teddy went on, 'expressed greatest amusement at the statements of witnesses who had seen and heard Zeppelins on the North-East coast. I was only reading it the other day. One person heard "the whirr of engines"; another "a faint throbbing noise." To one, the airship appeared as "a cigar-shaped vessel," to another as "a small luminous cloud." These variations—they are not contradictions—were sufficient, in the opinion of that particular paper, to discredit the whole business. The writer of the article calmly stated that what was alleged to be a Zeppelin "turns out to have been merely a farmer working at night in a field on the hilltop, taking manure about in a creaky wheelbarrow, with a light swung on the top of a broomstick attached to it."'
'I know, Teddy,' I exclaimed. 'Our dear old England has been sadly misled by those who intended to send us to our ruin and dominate the world. Yet we have one consolation—you and I—namely, that we have, within our hands, a power of which the enemy knows nothing, and"
'But the enemy suspects, my dear old fellow,' said my friend seriously. 'That's why you had your unfortunate spill—and why Roseye is to-day missing. Probably I shall be the next to fall beneath the clutch of the Invisible Hand.'
'Yes. For heaven's sake! do be careful,' I exclaimed anxiously. 'You can't be too wary!'
'Well—we've the satisfaction of knowing that they haven't discovered our secret,' he declared.
'No—and, by Jove! they won't!' I declared firmly. 'Yet, the way in which we have been misled by those infected with the Teuton taint is really pathetic. I remember the wheelbarrow story quite well. Just about that same time a foreign correspondent of one of our London daily papers wrote telling us that Zeppelins were mere toys. They cost fifty thousand pounds apiece to build, and German experts had agreed that in fine weather they might reasonably expect to reach our coast, but that it was doubtful if they could get back. The return voyage, with the petrol running low and the capacity of the ship and crew approaching exhaustion, would probably end in disaster if the wind were contrary. We were also told by this wonderful correspondent that the idea that these ships could drop from one to two tons of explosives on our heads at any time was absurd.'
'Yes, yes,' Teddy sighed. 'It is all too awful! That correspondent's story only serves to show how easily we were fascinated by German friendship, and by the Emperor himself, who raced at Cowes, and who, while bowing his head piously over Queen Victoria's grave, was already secretly plotting our downfall. But are we not secretly plotting the downfall of the Zeppelins—eh?' he added, with his usual cheery good humour.
'Yes, we are. And, by Gad, we'll show the world what we can do, ere long,' I said. 'But I am full of fierce anger when I recollect how our little aviation circle has been ridiculed by red-taped officialdom, and starved by the public, who thought us airy cranks just because the Invisible Hand was all-powerful in our midst. The German experts deceived the Berlin correspondents of our newspapers; the Emperor uttered his blasphemous prayers for peace, the Teutonic money-bags jingled and their purse-strings were opened. And so our trustful public were lulled to sleep, and we were told to forget all about Zeppelins for they were mere harmless toys, and we were urged, in leading articles of our daily papers, to get on with the Plural Voting Bill, and to investigate the cause in the fall of the output of sandstone—"including ganister" as officialdom describes that commodity.'
'True, Claude,' exclaimed my friend, as we smoked together. 'The whole thing is a striking example of the blindness of those who would not see; and who, even now, when innocent women and children are being killed, are dismissing the raids as "of no military importance."'
'Since war broke out we've learnt one or two things—haven't we?' I said. 'Though the public are still in ignorance of the actual truth, we flying-men who have studied aeronautics as perfected by Germany, know that Zeppelins can now be brought to a standstill and mark time during the observations of their pilots. Aiming is still in a primitive stage, notwithstanding the use of "directed" aerial torpedoes such as we know, by the Press bureau, have been used. Smoke-bombs are effective to cover the rising of the airship to safety heights. Zeppelins can fly at a height of two and a half to three miles, while shots through the fabric can be repaired during the flight.'
'Exactly,' replied Teddy. 'But we have also proved that warnings to Britons do not foster panic. Nowadays we see quite plainly that Zeppelin raids have been adopted by the Germans as part of their regular campaign, and it is quite clear that during the coming months they may "increase and multiply"—whatever the civilized world may say or think. The enemy is out to damage our cities, and has, indeed, told the neutrals that he will do so, regardless of every law of civilized warfare.'
'I contend that Zeppelin raids are of military importance—of very great importance—and I intend to devote myself to treating them as such, whatever officialdom may say to the contrary,' I declared.
'Bravo! old man!' Teddy said. 'And I'll help you—with every ounce of energy I possess!'
Yet scarcely had he uttered those words, when Theed opened the door and held it back for a visitor to enter.
I started to my feet, pale and speechless! I could not believe my eyes.
There, before us, upon the threshold, dressed cheaply, plain, even shabbily, and utterly unlike her usual self, stood Roseye—my own beloved!