The Airshipmen: A Novel Based on a True Story. A Tale of Love, Betrayal & Political Intrigue.

by David Dennington

“You bring me good luck, obviously.”

  Ishbel joined them as MacDonald turned to Thomson.

  “Come. This deserves a celebratory drink!”

  They went into the Great Room, where they sank into the huge armchairs. Amid the splendid paintings and lofty ceilings they drank cocktails served by the butler, a kindly Scot dressed in black, also from Lossiemouth. The room dwarfed the small party, making them feel out of place. Later they moved to the cosier dining room, where dark oak paneling was brightened by late afternoon sunshine through leaded windows. As in other rooms, original paintings hung from the walls and over the carved mantel. They sat down to a three-course dinner and polite small talk, after which, Marthe faded fast.

  “Well, Ramsay, as thrilled as I am to be in your company, I’m longing to climb into that four-poster bed,” she said, her eyelids fluttering wearily.

  “You must be terribly tired, my dear, after your journey. Be off and get your beauty sleep. Tomorrow we’ll take you for a long walk,” MacDonald said.

  Thomson and MacDonald stood and Marthe kissed first MacDonald and then Thomson. Ishbel excused herself and the two women went upstairs while the men moved to the Hawtrey Room, a comfortable drawing room, overlooking the gardens. The butler brought a bottle of Courvoisier and glasses on a tray, closed the curtains and left.

  “Are you making headway, CB?”

  “I couldn’t be happier, Ramsay. I believe the planets are aligning.”

  “Good.”

  “And if it’s any indication, Marthe’s stopped bringing her confounded maidservant, Isadora. She’s left in Paris these days.”

  “That must be a relief.”

  “She’s like a damned watchdog.”

  “Any progress on the matrimonial front?”

  “Marthe has become closer and more loving of late. I pushed too hard last year, which had a detrimental effect, but she seems to be coming around, although I can never be sure.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m never sure if there aren’t others … well, I know there must be, she’s such a vibrant woman … in the social sense, I mean … she’s been so terribly damaged on the ‘physical side’, if you know what I mean …” Thomson’s voice petered out in embarrassment. MacDonald understood and nodded sympathetically. He frowned, looking up at the ceiling considering what Thomson had just divulged.

  “Perhaps the viceroy position will bring things to a head,” MacDonald said.

  “I’m hoping for her answer before I leave for India in September, but she may not let me know until I return.”

  “You’re definitely going, then?”

  “Yes, I am. I must say, I’ve been rather touched by Marthe’s concern of late.”

  “We’re all concerned, CB. Must you really go?”

  “I’ve stated publicly since 1924 that I’ll be on Cardington R101 when she makes her maiden voyage. I will go, and by golly, I’m looking forward to it. Please don’t worry, Ramsay.”

  MacDonald left it at that.

  The sun shone brightly the following morning and MacDonald and Ishbel were up with the larks. For Marthe, waking up at Chequers seemed like a fantasy. She lay happily in bed, wide awake, studying the room and its floral décor. She enjoyed the aromas and birdsong drifting through her casement windows from the garden—so unmistakably English! How she loved this place. She was aroused from her musing by Thomson’s gentle knock and his entrance with a tray of tea and biscuits. He wore a silk dressing gown over his pajamas.

  “Good morning, my dear,” he said brightly.

  “Ah, there you are, Kit.”

  “I thought perhaps we could spend a little time together before we go down to breakfast,” he said coyly as he put the tray down.

  The idea was met with coolness.

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate, or respectful to our host, Kit, do you?”

  He was used to being rebuffed.

  Later, they came down to the breakfast room looking well-rested, although Thomson didn’t quite have the spring in his step that he’d hoped for. The two men ate their bacon and eggs and drank coffee. Marthe and Ishbel had porridge and fruit.

  “I’ll show you around the gardens this morning, Marthe,” MacDonald said.

  “I’ve been looking forward to this, Ramsay,” Marthe said.

  “I see you’re suitably attired for a walk.”

  “They’re her walking shoes,” Thomson said.

  “I’m a country girl at heart. I love the mountains.”

  “We used to walk in the Carpathians,” Thomson said.

  “You must come to the Highlands,” MacDonald said.

  “Indeed we must,” Thomson said. “I remember my first visit to Lossie. I had an affinity with the place immediately.”

  “Sounds delightful,” Marthe said.

  “And the house—such peace,” Thomson said.

  “I built the house for my mother and my dear wife. They both died within the same year. The place brings me solace, but with it dreadful sadness …” MacDonald faltered, his eyes filling with tears.

  “Oh Daddy,” Ishbel said, moving toward him. Before she could embrace him, he got up and moved to the window.

  “It’s a beautiful morning and we must get out there, before it clouds over, as it usually does by midmorning,” he said.

  “I won’t come if you don’t mind. I have things to do,” Ishbel said.

  “Just as you wish, my dear,” MacDonald said. “She’s a busy girl. Runs this house and Number Ten like clockwork. Heaven knows where I’d be without her.”

  While Thomson and Marthe were having breakfast at Chequers, Lou and company were traveling to Brancker’s home, near Warlingham. The house, a black-beamed, white-stucco Tudor, was situated on a hill overlooking the Surrey woods and pastureland. The imposing, oak-planked, steel-studded front door was opened by a young maid in black with a frilly white apron. She showed them into a spacious study with magnificent views from leaded windows. The room was full of antiques and shelves stacked with books. The walls were filled with framed pictures of aeroplanes, airships, aviation personalities, big game kills in East Africa, as well as aviation artifacts, which included a huge wooden airship propeller, stained and varnished. There was one apparently special picture at center, of Auriol Lee, signed in bold lettering. It read:

  ‘With much love and thanks to my dear Brancks’.

  Grouped around Auriol were photos of some of the Kenyan big-game crowd. Denys Finch-Hatton and his mistress Karen Blixen with his soon-to-be mistress, Beryl Markham (who would become an aviation legend within seven years), then a shot of Brancker and three shining natives standing proudly beside a slaughtered buffalo. Alongside that, there were photos of Edward, Prince of Wales with Finch-Hatton, who'd taken up promoting the use of cameras for shooting animals instead of guns.

  The three men studied it all in fascination. The door flew open and Brancker came bounding in, full of vim and vigor—a vortex of pure energy. He shook hands with each of them.

  “Good of you to come. I thought it better we meet here. Too many big ears and wagging tongues in Whitehall—what!” He turned to the maid at the door. “Bring us a pot of tea and plenty of biscuits, Mable, please.” Brancker caught Lou looking at a picture of him (much younger) beside a plane. “I made that flight solo to Persia,” he said proudly.

  “Solo! Gee!” Lou said.

  “Yes, I followed the railway lines most of the way—excellent navigation tool, my boy. You should remember that. Please sit down. We have lots to talk about.”

  Brancker went and threw himself down in a worn, brown leather chair behind an ornate desk. They took their places in easy chairs in front of him.

  “I got you down here to plan our strategy.” He picked up a silver cigarette case on the desk and offered them around. Irwin took one and Brancker lit it for him with a desk lighter. Lou was tempted, but resisted. He’d quit smoking after the war when he joined the airships branch of the Navy. Brancker sat down again a
nd stuck a cigarette in a long black holder and lit up. He immediately started coughing. They waited for him to stop.

  “We need to sort things out. I didn’t ask Scott—he’s not the man he was—you’re people I trust,” Brancker said. Smoke billowed everywhere.

  “Sir Sefton, I …” Colmore began.

  “Yes, Reggie you’re in a very difficult position. We all are.” Brancker stood up and pushed the casement window open behind him. “We need to discuss our options and use our damned intelligence!” He paused to think. “The situation with that inspector fellow—McWade—he certainly set the cat among the pigeons, I can tell you!”

  “He put me in a bind all right,” Colmore said.

  “I know—but he might just come in useful. Let’s start from the beginning. What’s the prognosis on the Howden ship?” Brancker looked at Irwin for an answer.

  “I’ve spoken to both Booth and Meager and they’re satisfied with that ship—and Lou’s flown in both.”

  “She’s well balanced and handles pretty well,” Lou said.

  “It’s got its share of problems though …” Colmore said.

  Brancker looked quizzical. “But not to the degree of being un-flyable?”

  “No. I couldn’t quite say that. They’ve had a lot of trouble with the cover and its securing system. I’m still uncomfortable with it. A ship’s only as good as its cover, after all.”

  “Their tail collapsed on her twenty-four-hour test, didn’t it?” Brancker reminded them.

  “Yes, and we just rebuilt it for them,” Colmore replied.

  “That’s big! We need to play up that issue as much possible,” Brancker said.

  “How?” Colmore asked. The maid came in with a tray, set it down on the desk and tiptoed out.

  “I’ll get to that. When is Howden R100 scheduled to leave for Canada?”

  “At the end of this month,” Lou said.

  “Then we don’t have much time,” Brancker said. He stared across the room, admiring Auriol Lee for a moment, drawing on his cigarette.

  “And you’re scheduled to sail in her?” Brancker asked Lou.

  “Yes, he is, and so am I,” Colmore answered, with a frown. Brancker removed the lid from the teapot and slowly stirred the tea. He banged the drips off before replacing the lid.

  “I’ll be mum,” he said, pouring milk from a jug into flowery, bone, china, gold-rimmed cups. He carefully placed the silver tea strainer over each cup and poured out the tea. Lou couldn’t help but smile.

  What a character: the toupée, the monocle, the cigarette holder. Hell, this is like the Mad Hatter’s tea party!

  Although sunny, it was cool. Each wore a sweater. MacDonald led them along a narrow, gravel walk between the house and a high brick wall enclosing the kitchen garden. It contained a variety of bushes, flowering plants and herbs the chef (also from Lossiemouth) used in his dishes. The path was bordered each side by manicured grass. From here, MacDonald showed them the lawn tennis courts. Marthe walked between the two men, slipping her arms into theirs.

  “Doesn’t he look divine in his plus fours, Kit?” Marthe said.

  “Why, thank you. I find them most practical,” MacDonald said.

  “You must get some,” Marthe said to Thomson.

  “I don’t think they’d suit me half as well,” Thomson said.

  “Ramsay, you’re my Lord of the Manor and Kit—he’s my Lord of the Air!”

  “Come, I must show you our tulip tree,” MacDonald said. They went to the entrance court and admired the tree.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it—it’s magnificent!” Marthe exclaimed.

  “It’s actually a type of magnolia,” MacDonald said, picking one of the blossoms with a leaf attached and giving it to Marthe.

  “Thank you. I shall send this to Abbé Brugnier, my close friend.”

  “He’s Marthe’s spiritual advisor in Paris. He’s a very fine fellow,” Thomson said.

  MacDonald picked another and gave it to her. “Then he shall have his own. Send him this one. This tree has deep religious connections,” MacDonald said, his eyes full of fun.

  “Do tell me more,” Marthe said, sensing she was about to be teased.

  “I have it on the highest authority that when Eve—in her naked state—was being run out of the Garden of Eden by God’s angels, she desperately grabbed hold of the last piece of foliage hanging over the wall from a tree—a magnolia tree identical to this. The leaf she held in her hand was just large enough to cover her private parts and thus, she was able to maintain her respectability.”

  Marthe giggled. “You’re obviously very well-versed in botany,” she said.

  “Not to mention Eve’s private parts. It all comes from the Scottish version of the Old Testament,” Thomson told her.

  They laughed and then made their way round to the Lavender Terrace on the south side, where Marthe admired a huge lavender bush and commented on its overpowering aroma. Stone steps led down from the terrace to the rose gardens, flanked by perfectly-cut box hedges. Marthe stood, hands on hips, staring up at the ancient, red brick façade.

  “This is the stuff of ghost stories, Ramsay. It really is!”

  “We should import some ravens from the Tower of London,” Thomson suggested.

  “We do have our share of ghosts here, you know. You’d better keep your head under the covers tonight,” MacDonald said.

  Marthe gave him a knowing smile. “Oh, ghosts appearing in the night don’t bother me.”

  “I shall remember that, Marthe,” Thomson said.

  She caught the scent from the rose beds and breathed deeply. “Mmm, that fragrance!”

  “Not quite as nice as our special roses, my dear,” Thomson said.

  This tweaked MacDonald’s interest. He looked at Marthe.

  “Kit always buys me very special roses—Variété Général Jacqueminot. They’re extraordinary. We refer to them as our own,” Marthe explained.

  “I didn’t realize CB was so profound in matters of love.”

  “Don’t give my secrets away, Marthe,” Thomson said.

  “Do you send flowers to Lady Wilson?” Marthe asked.

  “Once in a while I send flowers to friends, but not such exotic varieties as Thomson’s, obviously.”

  “I thought we might be seeing something of her this weekend,” Marthe said.

  “We both have busy schedules. Besides, I wanted to focus exclusively on you and CB.”

  “She is such a lovely lady,” Marthe said.

  “She is, indeed.”

  Brancker lit another cigarette and continued, “Okay, first things first. Get Richmond to write a memo to be read by all, saying neither ship has been designed to carry enough hydrogen and therefore neither provides adequate lift. Describe this as a massive safety problem,” he said, as he handed a cup to Colmore. “It’ll say it’s not the designer’s fault. The blame belongs with the Air Ministry, since they wrote the specifications.”

  Colmore stirred his tea. “I had a hand in that,” he said, his expression pained.

  “Don’t worry about that, Reggie—so did lots of other people.” Brancker held out tea to Lou and Irwin. “I want you to put it out there that not only does Cardington R101 require an extra bay, but so does Howden R100. You can say drawings are on the boards and an additional bay is being designed for both ships, right now.”

  “That’s a very good idea—after all, we own them both now,” Colmore said.

  “Then I want you to get Rope to write another memo to everyone and his dog, saying the covers on both airships are in terrible shape, making them both less than airworthy. He’s to say that it’d be better to postpone the flights for six months—no, make that a year—rather than take unnecessary risks with peoples’ lives for no damned good reason.”

  “They’ll gladly comply. It’s exactly what they think,” Colmore said.

  Brancker smiled. “I know it is, Reggie.”

  He turned to Irwin. “The next thing I want is for you
, Captain, to write a report on the dismal performance of Cardington R101 this week. That document is also to be read by all and sundry.”

  “I’ve already written it, sir,” Irwin said.

  “Excellent!” Brancker responded, rubbing his palms together.

  The three companions strolled down to the meadow south of the rose garden, past the gate house and through the five-bar gate, stopping to admire the countryside. MacDonald pointed down the hill.

  “We used to own a small house not far from here before I became a Member of Parliament. My wife and our five children used to come up this way for walks to Beacon Hill. I wrote to Lord Lee for permission to cross this land. He was here renovating the house in readiness to make it a deed of gift to the government for the use of future Prime Ministers—”

  “Such as yourself!” Thomson said.

  “Yes, indeed. He invited us for lunch on the terrace and told us all about it. Wonderful fellow!”

  “And now you’re enjoying his gift—little did you know!” Marthe said.

  “Funny how things work out,” Thomson said.

  “Now you practically own it,” Marthe said.

  “Everything’s only ever on loan, Marthe,” MacDonald said.

  Marthe looked back toward the trees. “I could swear I just saw someone up there behind that tree.”

  “Oh, it’s only Robards. He’s there to protect me.”

  “I see, and who will protect me?” Marthe asked.

  “Why, CB, of course!”

  They walked along a wide grassy pathway between lines of flowering lime trees. MacDonald looked more serious and stopped. He disengaged his arm from Marthe’s and turned to face them.

  “Marthe, you know I’ve asked CB to take up the post of Viceroy to India?”

  Marthe beamed. “Yes, Prime Minister, I think it’s a wonderful opportunity for him.”

  “Then you’d support such a move on his part?”

  “Wholeheartedly! I know he’s a great leader of men, and returning to the land of his birth in that capacity would be a huge triumph.”

  “It’s a vitally important position.”

  “Without doubt.”

  “He’s the one man in Britain most suited to the position.”