The van rolled to a stop. The driver peered at Higgins through the open door. “You wantin’ more milk? I just delivered it to the kitchen, along with the daily cream.”
“No. I need you to drive me over to where that aeroplane is.” Higgins jumped into the van, causing the driver’s eyes to widen.
“Aeroplane?”
Higgins pointed over the fellow’s shoulder to where the plane sat in the distance.
“Would you look at that?” the driver said in wonder. “I never seen a flying machine.”
“If you want to see one up close, step on the gas. Now!”
The driver gave Higgins a shrewd look, clearly sizing up his status and importance. He must have passed muster because a moment later, Higgins was headed in the van towards Philippe and his aeroplane.
“Don’t stay on the drive,” Higgins instructed. “Cut across the grass, like the police did.”
“The police?” The driver’s expression turned suspicious. “Does Lord Ashmore know about the police and flyin’ machines on his front lawn?”
“His lordship is well aware of the situation.” Higgins sat forward as he watched Brakefield and his constables draw closer to the aeroplane. Philippe had started the motor and was climbing into the cockpit. Any second, he’d taxi across the lawn and achieve altitude. Higgins gauged the distance they still had to cross and feared Philippe would make his escape. As the delivery van got closer to the aeroplane, Higgins heard the horn honks from the police vehicle, as if trying to get his attention. The noise of the aeroplane motor was louder. Philippe might be unaware the police were chasing him.
“Can’t you go any faster, man?” Higgins asked.
“Not without tipping the blooming truck over and busting my milk bottles.” To prove his point, the delivery van hit a depression in the lawn, rattling the glass bottles in back. “You’re lucky this wasn’t a year ago. Lisle Dairy had us make deliveries by horse in a ‘milk pram’. Course there weren’t no bottles to bust then, just tin cans. Everything changed when Mr. Lisle bought motor vans. I miss my horse somethin’ awful.”
The sound of the aeroplane motor grew louder. The delivery van had gotten close enough, glass bottles rattling. Now Higgins had a good look at Philippe in the cockpit. He wore his flying goggles and a leather helmet.
“If you don’t mind me askin’, sir, why are we driving around out here with the police?”
“We need to stop that aeroplane from taking off.”
The plane began to move. “Look at that!” the driver yelled. “They’re trying to outrace that monster flyin’ machine!”
Actually, the police were putting themselves in the plane’s path. Higgins cursed under his breath. If Philippe didn’t see them in time, that crazy idea might get them killed. And if the Frenchman had murdered Pentwater, it could be exactly what he had in mind.
“Follow the plane,” Higgins ordered.
“As long as you’re not wanting me to win any race. This here’s a milk wagon, not a bleedin’ horse at Ascot.”
They had no hope of doing more than trailing the plane at a respectable distance. Not so the police, who drove a much faster vehicle. Now they had caught up with it, like two runners almost at the finish line. Suddenly, Brakefield’s motorcar sped up and overtook the plane. Their car’s horn had been blaring nonstop. One of the constables hung out the window and waved at Philippe, who appeared not to notice.
Higgins tensed up as the police motorcar turned left. By Jupiter, they meant to cut directly across the path of the plane! He didn’t know whether to admire Brakefield’s courage or pity his foolishness.
“God Almighty!” Higgins cried out. The plane headed straight for the car. He shut his eyes, dreading the sight of the impending accident.
He heard the delivery driver say, “Never seen such damned foolishness in my life! If I were that gent in the aeroplane, I’d be giving those coppers a ticket.”
Higgins opened his eyes in time to see Philippe swerve to the right, narrowly missing the motorcar. After a fishtail spin, the plane mercifully came to a stop. By the time Philippe cut the motor and its propeller slowed, Higgins was running towards the plane. Brakefield and his men jumped out of their own car and took up positions around the machine.
“Mr. Corbet, I order you to surrender,” Brakefield shouted.
The Frenchman shook his head at the constable, but obeyed. By the time Philippe climbed out of the plane, Higgins had joined the others.
“Avez-vous perdu votre esprit?” Philippe yelled at Brakefield. He appeared in a rage. “Vous aurais pu être tué!”
“He wants to know if you’ve lost your mind,” Higgins translated for Brakefield, who looked confounded by Corbet’s French. “And that you could have been killed.”
“You’ve lost your mind, trying to escape in your aeroplane!” Brakefield seemed as enraged as Philippe. “Did you think to make a quick getaway because you killed Pentwater?”
Philippe turned to Higgins. “This man cannot be serious!”
Higgins frowned. “The police came to Banfield Manor this morning with information about Pentwater. It appears he committed fraud in America and was a fugitive from justice.”
“Until we learn if there is any connection between Mr. Pentwater and the members of the Ashmore house party,” Brakefield said, “no one is allowed to leave. I thought I made that clear last night.”
“In all fairness, yesterday you only asked the guests to remain at Banfield Manor until the death had been officially ruled a hunting accident,” Higgins reminded the chief constable. “It seemed a polite request, not an order.”
“I changed that to an official order this morning.”
“True. But Mr. Corbet was not in the room at the time.” Higgins felt Brakefield was being unreasonable.
“He wasn’t in the room at the time because he was planning his escape,” one of the other policeman chimed in.
“Exactly,” Brakefield said. “Don’t you find it suspicious that this man decided to leave without letting anyone know?”
“I may leave whenever I want.” Philippe pulled off his flying goggles. His dark eyes regarded the three policemen with hostility. “I am a French citizen, Chief Constable. You and your gendarmes have no power to stop me.”
Higgins feared that statement would not be well received.
Brakefield nodded to his two men. “Oh, we don’t? Take Mr. Corbet into custody. I’m arresting him on suspicion of murder.”
The two constables took hold of Philippe’s arms, effectively restraining him.
“Mon Dieu! I have done nothing,” Philippe protested. “Je suis un homme innocent. You have no right to arrest me! None! And I must return to France. I must!”
“What’s so urgent in France that you didn’t bother to tell your hosts you were leaving?”
“The chief constable has a point, Philippe,” Higgins said. “To fly off without telling any of us does look odd.”
“It looks damned suspicious,” Brakefield added.
“It is a private matter.” Philippe spoke to Higgins, ignoring the police. “During the hunt, I speak to you about a certain young lady for whom I have much affection.”
Higgins remembered the conversation. “The woman who lives in Trieste.”
“Oui. Mademoiselle Ardant. We are secretly affianced since the spring.”
“Then you were flying back to France to get married?” Higgins asked.
“Likely story,” one of the police constables muttered.
“No. I fly back to prevent her from getting married.”
“You just said the two of you are engaged,” Brakefield said.
“We are, but her father does not wish it. That is why we keep it secret. He is a deputy cabinet minister, with ambitions to rise as high as Raymond Poincaré. Monsieur Ardant insists his daughter marry a man who is rich or has influence. I am only an aviator.”
“A famous one,” Higgins remarked.
Philippe shook his head. “Fame is not as impo
rtant as riches and power, not to Bernard Ardant. And a widowed government minister wishes to marry Nathalie. The telegram this morning is from my Nathalie. She is most upset.”
“I assume her parents demanded she no longer see you,” Higgins said. This whole escapade further convinced him that romantic love only led to trouble.
“Bien dit! Her parents insist she marry the deputy minister in three days!” He swore in French. “Everything is arranged: the church, the priest, the menu for the wedding breakfast. Her belle-mere – stepmother – has ordered the flowers and white gown. They wait until I leave France to put this into action. Now Nathalie, my only amoureux, will be forced to marry unless I return and take her away!”
Brakefield shrugged. His men seemed unconvinced as well. Higgins didn’t share their skepticism. Yesterday, Philippe spoke at length to Higgins about his love for a mademoiselle called Nathalie. He even recalled she was twenty, the same age as Eliza. According to Philippe, the young woman possessed the profile of Nefertiti, the allure of Helen of Troy, and the figure of the Venus de Milo. In other words, he was behaving like every other passionate Frenchman in the throes of love.
Higgins turned to Brakefield. “I believe him.”
“Well, if you believe him, I guess that’s good enough for the police.” Brakefield’s voice dripped with sarcasm. He gestured to his men, who tightened their grip on Philippe’s arms. “Get him into the car. We’re taking him back to the house.”
“But I must return to France!” Philippe struggled against their hold. “I cannot allow my Nathalie to marry another man!”
With a heavy heart, Higgins watched the constables shove the Frenchman into their black Daimler. Once they learned about the death of Philippe’s friend Henri, they would be even more convinced of Philippe’s guilt. Despite that, Higgins’s instincts told him otherwise. As the police drove off, Higgins became aware of the delivery van driver. He stood a few feet away, tapping one foot on the wet grass.
“Are we done here, sir? I’ll drop you off, but I must get back to work. Don’t have time for all this stuff about murder and French ladies. Not with deliveries to make.”
“Thank you. You’ve been most accommodating.” Higgins reached for his wallet and pulled out a pound note. “For your trouble.”
He tipped his cap. “I appreciate it, sir, although I should be thanking you. After all, I ain’t never had such a morning. I got to see a flying machine up close and a murderer.”
Higgins hoped only half of that statement was true.
“The police stopped the aeroplane from taking off,” Eliza informed the others in the drawing room. She pressed her forehead to the windowpane. “Now it looks like Philippe is arguing with them.”
Madame Evangeline joined her at the window. “This is terrible.”
“Let’s hope they clap that murderous frog in irons,” Sir Anthony declared.
“One should never trust the French,” the count agreed. “Remember Napoleon.”
“I believe Mr. Bonaparte was a Corsican,” Lady Annabel said in a haughty tone.
“Corsican. French. What does it matter?” Sir Anthony replied. “Corbet is guilty.”
Madame Evangeline spun around. “How can you say such a thing? Monsieur Corbet is one of the finest men I have ever met. None of us know why he has decided to leave. But I am sure his reasons are sound.”
“I’m not sure your reasoning is, madam,” Sir Anthony said with a chuckle. “The man up and leaves without a word to any of us. And just happens to do so when the police are here. Looks like an escape to me. And only the guilty try to escape.”
“Mais non,” she protested. “Sometimes the innocent must flee to protect themselves.”“That sounds like the silly plot of one of Miss Marlowe’s films,” the countess remarked.
Clara stamped her foot. “You are not to be rude to my guests.”
“Your guests?” the countess shot back. “My husband and I are the ones who invited most of them. And we are the only people trying to prevent this house party from descending into complete chaos.”
“Doing a pretty poor job of it, too,” Eliza muttered.
When Sir Anthony once again blew his nose, Lady Annabel almost bit her husband’s head off. Those left behind in the drawing room were anxious and on edge. Lily even asked for brandy. But the count had to ring for a footman; the actual master of the house sat with his head in his hands. Richard seemed overwhelmed by the situation. Meanwhile, Clara had resumed blaming her sister-in-law for this latest escapade. The new baroness had finally lost her fear of the countess, but Eliza found her timing ill-advised. What was the point of bemoaning the guest list when a man’s freedom lay at stake?
“How can you all argue when the police may arrest Monsieur Corbet?” Madame Evangeline reminded them. “This is not the time for silly arguments. I fear a miscarriage of justice is about to unfold.”
Eliza noticed that the spiritualist trembled slightly. Had Madame Evangeline been moved by the Frenchman’s dashing looks and adventurous feats?
“I like our Frenchman, too,” Lady Annabel said with a weary air. “He is an accomplished and cultured young man. However, he must be guilty of something.”
“He killed Herr Pentwater,” the count announced. “That is clear.”
Madame Evangeline stiffened. “That is not true. I spoke with him last night at dinner. He carries much sadness with him and is guilty only of caring too much. If he had committed a crime, my spirit guides would have told me.”
No one bothered to dispute this comment. With a heavy heart, Eliza continued to watch out the window. She, too, had found Philippe Corbet a charming, likable young man. It saddened her to think that he might be a murderer. Yet he did have a motive: revenge for the death of his friend. How tragic if he were tried and found guilty. A man accustomed to flying as free as a bird would instead be locked away in a damp, filthy jail cell.
“The police are driving back to the house,” Eliza reported. “They have Philippe in the car. And Professor Higgins is following them in a strange motorcar. Looks like a milk van.”
“In my country, a great estate keeps their own dairy cows,” the count said. “We have no need of milkmen from the village. The English do not know how to live like proper gentlemen.”
“If you don’t like it, go home to Austria.” Clara shot back. “Richard and I didn’t ask you to stay. In fact, I wish you were the ones flying off in Philippe’s aeroplane.”
“Common upstart.” The countess fumed. “You disgrace the Ashmore name.”
Before the argument escalated, Madame Evangeline cried out, “They are almost here!” Picking up her skirts, she rushed out of the room.
An uncomfortable silence followed as they all looked at each other.
“Did a secret romance spring up between Philippe Corbet and Madame Evangeline in the past two days?” Lady Annabel asked with a sly smile.
“If so, I suspect it’s also a secret to Philippe,” Eliza said.
“I can’t be the only one who thinks our ghost lady is looking all fresh and girlish today,” Lily said from her perch on the piano bench.
“Dressing up to attract the attention of that murderous frog,” Sir Anthony muttered.
Eliza’s heart sank when she saw the police pull up in front of the house. A second later, Philippe was hauled out of the car. Two constables kept hold of his arms as they pushed him towards the house. He was already being treated as a common criminal.
“They’re bringing him inside,” she said. “Madame Evangeline could be right. He could have a logical explanation for leaving.”
Even Clara regarded her with a pitying expression.
Loud voices erupted from the front hall, along with a woman’s scream.
Eliza raced out of the drawing room, hearing the others follow close behind. When she reached the entrance foyer, she saw two detectives wrestle Philippe to the floor. Pieces of a broken vase lay scattered on the tile.
A red-faced Brakefield gripped Madame Evange
line by the arm. She clutched part of the vase. “By heaven, get that man under control!” yelled the chief constable.
“You will hurt him! Stop,” Madame Evangeline begged. “Please stop!”
“And I’ll hurt you, Madame, if you try to interfere with an arrest again.” He gave her a shake. “Do you understand me?”
“What has she done?” Richard asked in distress.
At that moment, Higgins walked through the open front door. He looked as stunned as everyone else. “What the devil is going on here?”
“The Frenchman resisted arrest,” said one of the detectives restraining Corbet. “And that woman tried to stop us by braining us over the head with a bloody vase.”
Cor, Eliza wished she’d been here to see that.
“That is not the truth,” Madame Evangeline said. “I only wanted to draw the policemen’s attention. So they would listen to what my spirits wish to say.” She winced. “And you are hurting me, Chief Constable. Let me go!”
The door to the servants’ quarters flew open, revealing an angry Zoltan Batur.
“Take your hands off Madame! If you harm her, I will cut out your tongue!”
“I advise you not to threaten the police,” Brakefield warned.
“This is no threat. It is a promise.” Batur drew a shiny dagger from his jacket.
As Eliza gasped, he advanced towards the police constable with the raised dagger.
13
“Everyone, get back!” Higgins shouted.
“He has a knife!” Freddy stated the obvious.
“This is unacceptable behavior,” the countess announced. “Disgraceful!”
Brakefield pushed Madame Evangeline behind him in a protective gesture. “Take one more step, Mr. Batur, and my men and I will break both your arms.”
“Zoltan, please stop,” Evangeline pleaded. “You will only make this worse.”
“Why does he hurt you? I heard you scream from downstairs.” Batur pointed his dagger at the chief constable. When the two detectives who had wrestled Philippe to the floor slowly stood up, he included them in his threatening gaze. “Don’t move!”
With a Little Bit of Blood Page 14