Storm on Venus
R. A. Bentley
COPYRIGHT
First published in Great Britain 2013
Copyright © R. A. Bentley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be circulated in writing of any publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
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Chapter 1
Freddy Carstairs could scarcely believe the speedometer. Tightening his grip on the little sports car's windscreen he almost cried out in exhilaration, as hurtling over a hill crest they seemed briefly airborne, suspended between a hazy panorama of sun-baked countryside and a perfect, cerulean sky. Then, in a blur of hedgerows, came the next furious descent, the occasional barn or cottage and a silvery thread of river rising up to meet them.
'This is the life eh, my boy?' he shouted, his voice half-drowned by the roar of the engine. 'Open road, lovely weather. All we need is a brace of pretty gels in the dickie, what? Make 'em squeal!'
Looking a little preoccupied, his youthful companion changed gear, and taking at some peril to the unkempt verge, sped past a lumbering hay wagon. Scraps of its load whirled about them. 'Not sure about the open road,' he said, frowning in his wing mirror. 'Where I come from they'd call it crowded. I was wondering, talking of girls, will there be any at the party, do you think? Unattached, I mean. Or is it just a family affair?'
'Family affair!' cried Freddy. 'Good heavens, Wilfred, I'd hardly have dragged you half across the country for that. This is set to be the bon ton bunfight of the summer; everyone'll be there. Why, even as we speak, the cream of English maidenhood is descending in droves upon stately Hathercombe, eager for love. Though if you plan to canoodle with a scion of the aristocracy I'd advise discretion, or you might find yourself in tomorrow's gossip pages.'
'Well that sounds all right,' chuckled Wilfred, still looking distractedly behind him. 'And I'll be sure to consult Debrett's before I canoodle. Tell me, is this some sort of shortcut? I know you said it was in the sticks, but the road's little more than single track in places and there's grass growing in it. Not quite what I expected.'
'It's the only way in,' said Freddy cheerfully. 'Like the back end of nowhere, ain't it? If you want the grand approach, you'll have to wait until we reach the gates, and that's a few miles yet. They'd have owned a good deal of this at one time of course, south of the river, but it's all gone now — death duties. Watch out for the bridge, by the way. It's dangerously narrow, and humped like a camel. Wasn't built for motor traffic.'
'Narrow, eh? That should be interesting. Breathe in.'
Far from slowing, Wilfred seemed to accelerate as they rose between the bridge's ancient parapets, the crackling bark of the car's exhaust suddenly loud around them. With his knuckles mere inches from the rushing stone, Freddy was fleetingly aware of a horrified pedestrian, shrinking into one of the vee-shaped refuges over the piers. Then came the queasy lurch downwards. 'Oh I say, old chap,' he complained. 'I've just had lunch!'
'Sorry, Uncle, but there's someone behind us; an Hispano Suiza, of all things. For some reason he insists on driving right on our tail. I've been trying to shake him off for miles, but whatever I do, he's always there. It's becoming annoying.'
'Is that what this is about? I was beginning to wonder how you'd lived so long.' Cautiously transferring his grip to the back of his seat, Freddy turned to examine their vexatious pursuer, a big black and cream sedanca de ville. 'Ah, thought it might be. That's Charles Prendergast's man, Simms, probably bringing some guests up from the station. Rather an unpolished sort of fellow by all accounts and drives like the devil. Means we've got him all the way, I'm afraid.'
'Well he's spoiling my first decent run out,' grumbled Wilfred. 'We might as well be towing him, for all the difference it would make. Is that your flying-ace Prendergast, engaged to Daphne Lambent? I wondered who would own an Hispano.'
'Yes it is – well remembered – though it's not official yet. Going to announce it tonight, very likely. Handy, eh? Key-of-the-door and engagement party, all in one. Pity they couldn't have slotted in the wedding and christening — save all the travelling.'
'Uncle, you're a wag! Bit of an age difference, then, if he was in the war. He'd need to be thirty at least.'
'Thirty-four, I think. Quite a catch too — war-hero, millionaire, and aspirant MP to boot. Mind you, she's a darned attractive filly, my goddaughter; absolutely the bee's knee's. If anyone was going to turn an old bachelor's head, it'd be Daphne. I just hope he appreciates his luck.'
'I'm looking forward to meeting her,' said Wilfred. 'And Lord and Lady Lambent of course. I'm hoping to see His Lordship's observatory.'
'Really? Well just ask. He'll be flattered by your interest. I've known old Ludo since we were at Oxford together. He's a queer sort of bird – lives in his own little world – but not a bit of side to him. You'll like him. Hullo, is that us he's hooting at?'
At the second imperious blare of the Hispano's horn, Wilfred turned and glared behind him. 'You know, I'm beginning to question that fellow's sanity. He can't overtake here; he'll have us in the ditch.'
'Couldn't you just let him past, if he's bothering you so much?' said Freddy. 'There's no hurry after all. Look, there's a field-gate coming up; you could pull over for a minute.
'What, and be hounded off the road by someone's barmy chauffeur? Not likely! Besides, we'd get all his dust. Let's see what he makes of this. Turn right?'
'Yes, but be careful; it's a tricky one.'
Braking only at the last moment, Wilfred hurled the car into the sharply oblique junction. Grit flew from beneath their protesting tyres as he slewed round on the handbrake and roared away up the next, steep rise. 'How about that?' he shouted. 'You can do anything with her. Wish I'd had her in Africa; she'd have knocked the spots off anything out there.'
'It doesn't seem to have discouraged him,' said Freddy, now clinging to both seat and windscreen. 'He's catching up already.'
'So he is. He can certainly drive, I'll say that for him. All right, Mr Simms; I don't know what your game is, but let's see what you're made of. How far is it now?
'Ten miles or so. Why?'
'That ought to be enough. I'll bet you five pounds we'll be through the gates first.'
Turning to his nephew, Freddy affected an expression of stern reproach. 'Wilfred Carstairs, I'm shocked!' he cried. 'First you reveal an unsuspected fixation on the fairer sex, then you all but toss your uncle off a bridge, and now you propose to wager a week's salary on a one-sided motor race. Has your sojourn amongst the heathen corrupted you entirely?'
'Probably,' grinned Wilfred. 'How about it? You know you want to.'
'Do you now? Have you been talking to my bookmaker? Well all right; I reckon my money's safe enough. I can't see you staying ahead of that brute all the way to Hathercombe; it must have three times our horsepower, and Albert Simms is driving it.'
'We'll see, shall we?' said Wilfred complacently. 'That's not a car for roads like these, and I don't suppose his passengers will want to be thrown about too much either. If I can gain a mile or so, I'll be in with a chance.'
'Well just be careful; the gels won't want a corpse, you know.'
With the wager of a tidy sum adding a certain gravity to the undertaking, little more was said. Wondering if he'd been altogether wise, Freddy ducked out of the wind to light a comforting cigar, reflecting as he did so that young men never ch
ange; that he had, perhaps, been born too soon, and that at least he hadn't raised a prig.
Meanwhile Wilfred, clearly enjoying himself enormously, pushed the little car to its limits as they tore uphill and down along the winding country lanes. Luck seemed to favour him, for the chauffeur's repeated attempts to overtake them were invariably thwarted, either by an oncoming vehicle or a sudden narrowing of the road; even on one occasion by a gang of startled rustics clearing a ditch. A blast on both motors' horns soon had them leaping into it. But with their destination rapidly approaching, his predicted lead had scarcely stretched to fifty yards when, cornering hard, he violently swerved to avoid a farmer on a dogcart. There was a jarring thud as their nearside wheels regained contact with the ground.
'Oh my goodness! Is he all right? I can't look.'
'He's fine, Uncle. He's waving his whip at us.'
Freddy was minded to call a halt before murder was done. But turning in his seat he saw with slightly guilty relief that both Hispano and dog cart had abruptly disappeared. Still, he reasoned, one couldn't be responsible for the other fellow.
'That's settled his hash!' shouted Wilfred. 'He'll never catch us now.'
He was rather tactlessly enquiring whether five pounds would be enough to treat one of Daphne Lambent's lovely and charming pals to a cream tea, perhaps with the picture palace to follow, when the nature of the road suddenly changed. Now perfectly straight, it fell gently away across lush pastureland, shading at the horizon into a patchwork of gorse and purple heather.
'You didn't tell me about this bit!'
'Sorry, old chap — forgot.'
'Forgot! How could you forget?'
'Well I've never actually assessed the route for its road-racing potential, you know. It's not far now anyway; you should do it easily.'
Looking unconvinced, Wilfred put his foot to the floor, and soon they were fairly bounding over the rough macadam, the needle rising to well above the seventy mark. Alas, it was not enough, for the Hispano now reappeared and quickly began to make up its earlier losses.
'Confound it! If he gets past us here, I'm done for.'
'Can't you go any faster?'
'Not without a following wind.'
'Better watch out then; here he comes. No, wait — cows!'
The first of them, in various shades of brown, were emerging from a field entrance some hundred yards ahead. More could be seen, gathered behind. Slamming on his brakes, Wilfred slid precariously to a halt; the Hispano pulling up alongside. Its driver – a thin, dark man in chauffeur's cap and uniform – glanced briefly down at them before turning away in what might have been embarrassment. Behind him, crammed like sardines, were eight or nine young men and women, the latter on the laps of their fresh-faced escorts. There was, Freddy noticed, a good deal of “necking” going on, and someone, half-standing, was in the process of opening a bottle. There were muffled shrieks from the girls as the cork ricocheted around them.
One of the revellers wound down a window. 'I say chaps, it's Freddy Carstairs! Hullo sir, are you going to Daphne's birthday bash?'
Freddy raised a hand. 'Hullo young Cavendish. Started early I see. Can you tell your man to back off? Road's not really suitable for this sort of thing.'
'Sorry sir, can't do that; wouldn't be sportin'. We've bet him ten pounds he won't beat you to the Hall.'
Leaning precariously out of the car, his companion – a plump, jolly-looking redhead – now attempted to pass them a glass of champagne. 'Freddy, darling! You simply must have some of Charles's bubbly. It's absolutely spiffing.'
'Dammit Bunty, you're spillin' it,' complained the man. 'I know, toss 'em one!'
Wilfred was obliged to duck as an unopened bottle flew over his head, to be deftly caught by Freddy. 'Am I allowed to accept this?' he asked. 'Might be seen as fraternising with the enemy.'
'You can have it as a consolation prize,' growled Wilfred. 'The herd should clear from this side first and I'll have a head start.'
But either out of impatience or devilment the occupants of the Hispano now set up a great hullabaloo of whistles, moos and hunting horn noises, causing the plodding cows if not to bolt, then noticeably to quicken their pace. All, that is, but the last, who stopping dead in her tracks, peered dubiously at the two motors and seemed disinclined to continue. A small boy appeared and began to berate her with a stick, but that served only to render her more intransigent. Instead, she turned her attention to the sports car, lowering her head and observing them with what might have been belligerent intent.
'Get out of the way, you stupid creature!' cried Wilfred, pounding his horn. But even as he did so, the Hispano pulled smoothly away, to the accompaniment of much derisive shouting and laughter from its occupants. By the time they'd backed up and skirted carefully around the apparently immovable bovine obstruction, the big car was already disappearing into the distance.
'Never mind, old chap,' commiserated Freddy. 'It should be a good party anyway, if Bunty's going.'
'Why? Who's she?'
'You haven't heard of Bunty Fairweather? Now I know you've been in Africa. She's an absolutely notorious flapper. Shouldn't have thought she was Daphne's type at all — far too wild, and with a bit of a reputation, if you take my meaning. Still, nothing like a thoroughly naughty gel to pep up the proceedings, what? Pour encouragez les autres!'
But Wilfred wasn't easily to be comforted. 'Well, I think it was damnably unfair, making all that din. I shouldn't have.'
Freddy gazed fondly at his crestfallen nephew. For a moment he could see, in this strapping, sun-brown young man, the stubborn little boy who on the eve of war had insisted on setting off alone to join his widowed father in Nairobi. Clearly nothing had changed about his character since then.
'Did you want terribly much to beat him?' he asked.
'I might have yet, if it hadn't been for that blasted cow.'
'Well there's a turning ahead you might try; takes you across the heath. It's pretty rough in places but it should be passable in this weather. You'd save a few miles and be back in with a chance. If you don't think that's cheating, of course.'
Wilfred was briefly silent. 'All right, let's do it. No-one specified the route.'
'You'll need to be careful or you'll break a spring or something. It's only an estate road.'
'I'm used to that. Just hang on tight.'
'I'm already hanging on tight!'
Moments later they were hurtling along a narrow, stony track; ragged branches of bottle-green furze whipping the car's flanks as they passed. Hunched in concentration over the wheel, Wilfred seldom slackened speed, expertly avoiding the worst of the potholes and occasionally even taking to the close-cropped heather. It occurred to Freddy that this must be very like driving in the African bush, though without the distractions of grazing rhino or wildebeest, or even the noble Zulu, armed with spear and knobkerry. Here there was only a group of half-wild ponies, who looked up with indifference as they passed. From time to time it was possible to make out the far off Hispano, following the main road as it ran in a great bight around the edge of the heath. Against all odds, and at severe risk to the car's suspension, it did appear that they were catching up again. A plantation loomed ahead and soon they were driving between dark blocks of pine, occasionally having to swerve around piles of freshly sawn pit-props. An impatient halt to open a gate, and they were back on a metalled road, the pines giving way first to sun-dappled glades of ancient oak and then more heathland. There were no other vehicles to be seen, or any sign of human habitation, near or far.
'I should say it's two or three minutes now,' said Freddy encouragingly.
'It's bound to be close,' said Wilfred. 'He may have tumbled what we're about and kept his speed up.'
Freddy shrugged philosophically. 'You might just do it. And if you don't, you'll be no worse off than if you hadn't tried. Anyway, the scenery's nice, eh?'
'I had no idea England could be so empty,' marvelled Wilfred, who had scarcely travelled outside Lond
on. 'Is Hathercombe a village or a town?'
'Barely a village, but you won't see that. The Hall is well outside it, quite isolated. It's an imposing sort of place, Palladian portico and all that, though I shouldn't want its upkeep. Ignore that signpost. Just keep going.'
'You seem to know the area pretty well.'
'Well I ought to. There's scarcely an acre I haven't hunted or shot over in the last thirty years. See some of that tomorrow with a bit of luck, eh? Though you might find it rather tame after what you're used to. Lions and tigers more your mark, I daresay.'
'Not tigers. There are no tigers in Africa.'
'Really? I didn't know that. Hey, wait a minute. What the blazes?'
'Not more cows, I hope.'
'No —look!' Freddy, gesticulating wildly, was practically standing. 'Over there! Stop, or we'll miss it!'
'Where? I can't see anything.'
'In the sky, man!'
'Glancing upwards, Wilfred immediately came to a halt, stalling the engine. 'Good heavens! I see what you mean. Why, it's enormous. What the devil is it?'
'Not a plane, surely?'
'No, I don't think so, unless it's some newfangled thing. I can't make out any wings, can you?'
'Whatever it is, it's coming down fast. Look, it's leaving a sort of trail behind it. Is it on fire, do you think?'
'I'm not sure if it's smoke, more like a sort of bright haze. It makes it quite hard to fix its shape.'
'Not a plane anyway; it's far too big.'
'An airship then?'
'Not large enough surely? Besides, it's going too fast. How very extraordinary.'
They watched, transfixed, as the improbable object passed in a long, flat trajectory across the afternoon sky, eventually disappearing behind the distant treetops.
'What on earth was it? I've never seen such a thing.'
'Definitely not a plane. I'd put money on that.'
'I know,' said Freddy. 'It was a meteorite! A whacking great meteorite!'
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