Death Devil's Bridge (10 page)

Ponsonby was drunkenly contemptuous. “It won't be the ditch for that rusty teakettle of yours, Arthur. It's more like to blow up like a bomb.”

“At least my Serpollet will finish the race,” Dickson said, “which is more than can be said for that unreliable Benz you're driving. And it is far less dangerous than a Daimler piloted by a German.” His eyes went to Dunstable, whose portly stomach was shaking as he laughed at something Rolls had said, and back again to Ponsonby. “Or a man with a passion for a certain kind of loose woman,” he added with ungentlemanly malice.

Ponsonby's face darkened and he rose, knocking his glass over. Beside him, Arnold Bateman put a hand on his arm. “Leave off, Ponsonby,” he growled. “The woman is dead.”

Damn, Bradford thought.
Now we're in for it.

Ponsonby whirled on Bateman. “Who are you to defend Dickson, Arnold? Wasn't it he who reversed into your electric car at the Crystal Palace Exhibit and disabled it? How much were the damages? How much did Dickson pay?”

Bateman frowned doubtfully. “It was not intentional.”

“Nonsense,” Ponsonby snapped. “Arthur Dickson does nothing except by intention. If he can't prove the superiority of steam by any other means, he will do it by disabling his competitors.”

Dickson stood, gray-faced and snarling. “If you care to step outside, Ponsonby—”

The German's mocking laugh rang out. Dickson swallowed and sat down.

Harry Dunstable rose to his feet. “What's this? A quarrel?” he asked affably. He shook his head in exaggerated rebuke. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, harness your competitive energies until tomorrow, when you will use them to prove the worth of yourselves and your machines! We must not allow inconsequential animosities to get the better of us when we stand poised on the brink of infinite opportunity and unrivaled fortune.” His voice rang. “Opportunity and fortune, gentlemen! Riches and glory! Ours for the taking in the motorcar industry!”

“Ours, Dunstable?” Bateman asked fiercely. “Don't you mean
yours?
” Like Bradford, Bateman had sunk more than he could afford in one of Dunstable's earlier speculative enterprises and had been left with nothing but a parcel of worthless stock. The disgrace was too much for Mrs. Bateman, whose death left her husband with two young daughters. Bateman hated Dunstable even more passionately than Ponsonby did, if that were possible.

Cheerily, Dunstable lifted his glass. “Gentlemen, I propose a toast. Let us drink to the success of the exhibition, and to its underwriter and our host, Lord Bradford Marsden, who has brought us all together tonight under such grand circumstances. And to the winner of tomorrow's competition, whoever he may be.” And he glanced pointedly at Albrecht.

The room resounded in silence.

“Drink to your damnation, Dunstable!” Ponsonby shouted, and threw his empty glass. It sailed past Dunstable's nose and smashed against the plaster wall.

“I say, old man,” Dunstable said amiably, “your aim is a bit off.”

Ponsonby stood for a moment, weaving back and forth. As Bradford watched, his eyes closed and he fell heavily forward across the table, face down in what was left of Mrs. Crawley's custard tart.

 

A half-hour later, having settled the bill and bid good night to those of the supper-party who were sleeping at the inn, Bradford went out in the street to wait for the stableboy to bring his horse. He had intended to drive the Daimler, but the group had decided to leave all of the vehicles at the exhibit site, ready for tomorrow's race. And to tell the truth, he welcomed the horseback ride home through the cooling dark, along lanes he knew and loved. In the Daimler, reflection was an utter impossibility. One had all one could do to manage the damned controls and stay in the road, and the rattling and bouncing and noise jarred thought right out of the brain.

Bradford had collected his horse and was waiting for his companion, Charlie Rolls, when he heard loud voices from the direction of The Sun, a nearby inn.

“I say, Marsden!” It was Roger Thornton calling, in an angry, injured tone. “Hold on there. I'll have a word with you!”

Bradford swung up on his horse and turned it in Thornton's direction. Some sort of meeting had apparently been taking place at The Sun, for a dozen or more men had spilled out of the lamp-lit interior and were hurrying away through the dark of High Street, their voices loud in the quiet night. Bradford recognized a few of them, villagers and farmers from the neighboring area, dressed in rough jerkins and corduroy breeches. The meeting must have been a citizens' assembly, gotten up to discuss the maintenance of the local bridges or some such. But what the devil was Thornton doing there?

“Good evening, Roger,” he said gruffly. The memory of the supper-party's sour ending was still with him, as was the recollection of his unsatisfactory encounter with Thornton that morning. He knew very well that his mother intended the squire to be his brother-in-law, and while he did not anticipate the relationship with any particular joy, or envy his sister her prospective bridegroom, he thought he ought not do anything to jeopardize the plan. He lightened his voice, gesturing to the departing villagers. “I say there, old man, you're in strange company tonight.”

“It's on your account, if you must know,” Thornton said grimly. “I'm looking out for your interests.”

“For my interests?” Bradford asked in surprise. “And how are my interests at stake in a village assembly?”

“I'll tell you,” Thornton said. “Or better yet—” He turned, speaking to a man who stood in the shadows. “Come out here, Whipple, and tell his lordship what is troubling you and your friends.”

“As ye say, Squire.” Clutching his hat in his hands, Whipple came into the light. He was a sturdy, thickset man, with a wide face the color of brick dust, fringed with red whiskers. His eyes were red-rimmed and angry. “I'll tell yer lordship wot ‘tis, since I'm bid,” he growled. “ 'Tis that balloon. An' the motorcars, too.”

“Oh, it is, is it?” Bradford snapped. This had the look of trouble and he knew he should speak softly. But the evening had been long, and he was coming to the end of his patience. “And what is it about the balloon and the motorcars that distresses you? To my certain knowledge, many of your friends are planning to come tomorrow. There will be fine entertainment.”

“Fine entertainment it may be to see a balloon go up,” Whipple said with scorn, “but comin' down is another matter. We've seen balloons come down, the drag ropes wreckin' fences an' tearin' ‘oles in 'edges.” He paused, and added, in a meaningful tone, “We've also seen motorcars racin' in the lanes, sir, an' we've seen old men kilt. I speak fer all when I say we don't like it, m'lord. Not one whit.”

Bradford drew himself up. “I trust you are not accusing me,” he said stiffly.

Whipple's face grew darker, his tone more scornful. “I don't accuse nobody, sir. All I'm sayin' is we don't like it. An' ‘ere's wot we done about it, sir. Every farmer an' 'ouse‘older wot wants one of these kin git it.” He held up a printed proclamation. “Wi' all due respect, m'lord,” he added, touching his forelock with a mocking gesture.

Bradford took the proclamation and held it to the light that came through the window of The Sun. In stern black letter were printed the words “Balloons and Motorcars Strictly Prohibited,” with the accompanying terse directive: “Aeronauts, motorcar drivers, and all such trespassing on this land will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of Her Majesty's Law.”

“That means,” Whipple interpreted, “that any leaseholder's got the right to summon the constable if yer balloon er any o' them motor cars comes on 'is land.”

Bradford handed back the proclamation without comment. He glanced gravely at Thornton. “How are you involved in this business, Squire?”

“Some of those in attendance tonight are my tenants at Thornton Grange. I happen to share their concerns. I fear for the horses, as do other owners and breeders in the area.” Thornton lowered his voice. “I shall say to you what your father would say, were he here, Bradford. The horseless carriage is a threat to the horse, and to the horse trade: stud stables, harness and carriage manufacture, even farming itself. You are bringing catastrophe on our heads.”

“Oh, come now, Roger,” Bradford said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “You cannot seriously argue that—”

“I can certainly so argue,” Thornton said fiercely, “and others agree. I tell you, Bradford, every leaseholder in the district intends to post one of those proclamations. What's more, they plan to gather at the launch site tomorrow morning. There's going to be serious trouble.”

Bradford controlled the expression on his face, but he could not keep the anger out of his voice. “You are collaborating with these men!” he exclaimed. “You are encouraging them in their lunacy!”

Thomton's stern face was dark, his frown fixed. “And just who is the lunatic here? What will your father say when he returns home and learns how you have betrayed his beliefs? What will your mother say when she discovers that you have encouraged your sister in her foolish flirtation with—” His eyes began to blaze with the flame of the Thornton squires. “I warn you, Marsden. You and your heedless friends and your motorcars and balloons are wreaking havoc. I won't stand for it.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said a quiet, firm voice. “Is there anything wrong?”

Bradford turned and squinted into the darkness. “Oh, good evening, Constable Laken,” he said. He laughed uncomfortably. “No, nothing wrong. A lively exchange of views on a controversial subject, that's all.”

“That's fine, sir,” Laken said evenly. “But perhaps, in view of the lateness of the evening and the proximity of residences, you would not object to exchanging your views in a lower tone.”

“Agreed,” Bradford said with a careless laugh, “although I think we have had our say.”

“Marsden?” called Charlie Rolls, coming around The Marlborough Head with his horse. The young man sounded a bit sozzled, not surprising, since he had done more than his share of the drinking. “I say, Marsden, old chap, are we ready to leave?”

“I'm ready,” Bradford said to Rolls. “Good night, Constable.” He turned to Thornton. “I wish you a good night, Squire—and better company.”

“You'd best mind what I said,” Thornton snapped, “or you'll be sorry.”

Bradford leaned over his horse. “I hear you, Squire,” he said. “But it is much too late to change anything, even if I wanted to.”

“Then I pity you, Bradford,” Thornton said bitterly, “for you have called up the very devil, and you shall have the devil to pay.”

“But I always want to know the things one shouldn't do.”
“So as to do them?” asked her aunt.
“So as to choose,” said Isabel.

—
The Portrait of a Lady
HENRY JAMES

 

 

 

W
hen the idea came to her, Bess knew immediately that she should not act on it. If she were caught, it would go hard with her, for there was no possible explanation she could make. But having reflected on the matter while she was milking her cow and feeding the chickens and gathering willows for her baskets, she discovered that the idea was now firmly lodged in her head, and she could not choose not to do it.

So on Friday night, after it had grown dark, she gathered what she needed, tucked the bundles into the pocket of her skirt, and wrapped her black shawl around her. Then she set off in the direction of Bishop's Keep.

It was unlikely that motorcars would be out and about at this late hour, but Bess still throbbed with angry resentment at Lord Bradford and she did not care to be knocked into any more watery ditches. So instead of following the road, she took the footpath into the Bishop's Keep Park. The land lay in darkness, but the moon was bright enough to see the cars lined up near the road under a large banner that proclaimed GRAND MOTOR CAR EXHIBITION AND RACE! She shuddered when she saw them, swift, steel-clad monsters, out to devour quiet lanes and destroy sleepy villages and run down pedestrians. If what she read in the newspaper was true, soon every county family would have its horseless carriage, steam tractors would replace wagons, and even the vicar's bicycle would be motorized. The way of life she loved would soon be gone forever.

Beyond the exhibition area, illuminated by a gaslight so bright that it turned the night to day, was the balloon's launch site, whence Bess was bound. The night was still, and so quiet that she could hear the low voices of the two men tending the balloon well before she reached it. Bending low, clutching her shawl around her, she kept to the shadows of the trees.

The balloon was a pale ghost that quivered, half-filled with gas, within its net of confining ropes. In just a few hours, it would rise from the earth and go soaring, sailing away through the bright air, to land who knew where. If she could go with it—but that was a vain hope. No, her only expectation of flying lay in the secret formula in the leather book tucked into its secret cache before the fireplace, where Gammer Gurton had hidden it after her successful flight.

The balloon, moored to the ground, its gondola attached, was secured to a canvas hose, through which gas passed with a slight hissing sound. The fragile gondola was draped with hempen lines and ballast bags, and a five-pronged metal anchor hung from its side. Bess crept forward through the darkness, one eye on the two men. After a few moments, the pair turned their backs and walked away, sharing quick nips from a brown bottle.

Sure now that she was unobserved, Bess darted to the gondola and swiftly did what she had come to do. Then she slipped into the shadows, and hurried back along the wood toward the exhibition area. Here, there was only moonlight, flickering like a candle as thin clouds moved across the face of the moon, and she was less fearful of being seen. Scanning the line of mechanical monsters, she easily singled out the one that belonged to Lord Bradford. Going to it, she knelt down in the shadows and spent several moments completing her mission. Then she stood and brushed herself off, feeling strong and powerful and vindicated. A moment later, confident of having achieved success without detection, she stepped out boldly into the lane. She had tripped along only a few paces, however, when she was suddenly brought up short by the sight of a stout figure on the road in front of her, and a familiar voice.