by T E Kinsey
1. Lord Riddlethorpe
2. Mr Featherstonhaugh
3. Mr Dawkins
4. Herr Kovacs
Mr Waterford shall act as Starter and Race Director. Miss Titmus shall be the Official Race Photographer.
I hurried back upstairs and burst into Lady Hardcastle’s room without knocking.
‘I say, steady on, dear,’ she said. ‘It’s just a pair of reading glasses. No need to rush so.’
‘What?’ I said. ‘Oh, the lorgnette. Yes, here you are, my lady.’ I passed her the silver reading glasses.
She took the lorgnette, flicked it open and held it up while she re-read her journal entry. After a few moments, she slowly lowered the device and looked over at me.
‘Is there something the matter? You look confubuscated. Bumsquabbled, even. Whatever’s happened?’
‘I saw a sheet of paper in the great hall, my lady,’ I said.
‘That can be quite a traumatic event, I agree.’
‘What? No, there was something rather surprising written upon it.’
Realization slowly dawned. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘The races. Are you pleased?’
I all but squealed in my excitement. ‘You did it! You managed to get me into the races. Thank you. Thank you.’
‘I say, steady on,’ she said, laughing. ‘It was the least I could do. Although in truth, you have Helen Titmus to thank. Roz Beddows was badgering her to join in, saying that we couldn’t have a proper ladies’ race with just the three of us, but I could tell she didn’t really want to. I caught her on her own a little while after all the plans had been laid, and let slip that you might be interested in racing. She was so relieved that she all but begged me to talk you into it. I said I’d see what I could do, and amended the race card accordingly.’
‘You’re the best employer a poor Welsh servant could ever wish for,’ I said. ‘What do the numbers mean?’
‘They’re the motor cars. We drew lots. It was all frightfully complicated, but the chaps insisted that Fishy shouldn’t be allowed to choose his own motor because he knows them all so well, so we put the numbers in a bowl and drew them out to see who should drive what.’
‘So that means I’m in Number 4?’
‘I believe so, yes. It’s Fishy’s friend’s racer – Herr Kovacs. He was quite pleased to have drawn his own motor for the gentlemen’s race. They say it’s quite a flyer.’
I just grinned idiotically.
The plan was that we should meet at the starting line at noon, and we arrived a quarter of an hour early to find that three of the racing cars were already there. They were the three we had seen in the coach house the day before. Sleek, dark-green machines. Elegant and beautiful, but strangely aggressive and frightening. Warrior goddesses.
We could see Morgan driving up from the motor stable in the fourth, an unfamiliar vehicle whose bare metal bodywork glinted in the noonday sun like brushed silver.
Lord Riddlethorpe was inspecting his motor, making minute adjustments to various valves and tiny levers. He looked up from his tinkering as we approached.
‘Hello, ladies,’ he said in his cheerful, boyish way. ‘I say, don’t you two look just the ticket in your driving togs? Fanners said you drove, but I didn’t think you took it quite this seriously. The other gels are going to have their work cut out for them.’
Lady Hardcastle laughed. ‘I’m not sure we’re up to your standard, dear,’ she said.
‘Perhaps, or perhaps not, but I’d wager you could give my sister a run for her money – she’s a shocking driver. I’ve not seen Roz behind the wheel, but if she drives like she conducts the rest of her life, you’d both better watch out – I can’t imagine she’ll be giving any quarter.’
‘Right you are, dear,’ she said. ‘You hear that, Flo? Watch out for Mrs Beddows.’
‘Will do, my lady,’ I said.
‘Oh, you’ve got nothing to worry about, Armstrong,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe with a chuckle. ‘Fanners has been telling Roz a few choice tales, and I think she might be a little afraid of you.’
‘Me, my lord?’ I said.
‘You, yes,’ he said with a grin. ‘Isn’t that right, Monty?’
Mr Montague Waterford loomed up from behind another of the motor cars, where he had been lurking, unseen, apparently indulging in some tinkering of his own. He was a little older than Lord Riddlethorpe, perhaps around fifty years. His red hair was already white at the temples, and there were wrinkles around his eyes. It was hard to tell whether they were the result of squinting or smiling.
‘What? Roz?’ he said, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘She looked positively terrified when Harry told her about you breaking that woman’s wrist with a single kick. Or was she simply horrified that a visiting servant had been allowed to get that close to the lady of the house? I can’t quite recall.’ He winked. I began to suspect that the wrinkles were caused by a surfeit of mischievous smiling.
Lady Hardcastle let out a ‘Pfft’, but said nothing.
‘The “lady of the house” was threatening to shoot a policeman,’ I said. ‘I just . . . sort of . . . stopped her. Anyone would have done the same.’
Both men laughed at this.
‘Not me,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘I’d have been cowering under the table. Best place to be when there are guns about.’
‘But I, for one, am looking forward to seeing you drive,’ said Mr Waterford. ‘There are a few ladies in the motor racing world, but not nearly enough. It’ll be exciting to see how you all get on.’
I gave him a smile and a nod of thanks. He seemed about to say more when something else caught our attention. Harry, accompanied by Ellis Dawkins and a man I didn’t recognize, was stomping across the grass towards us. Some way behind them, in a separate group, were Lady Lavinia and Mrs Beddows, who were stepping much more daintily, but with no less purpose. They had left Miss Titmus a little way behind as she fiddled with what appeared to be a rather natty little camera.
What had interrupted our conversation was not the sight of our fellow competitors, but rather the altercation that seemed to be taking place between two of them.
‘Nein, nein, es ist nicht das Gleiche,’ a wiry man with pince-nez spectacles was saying. ‘Not the same thing at all.’
Harry rolled his eyes as the other two continued to glare at each other.
Lord Riddlethorpe chuckled. ‘I say! Viktor! Steady on, old chap,’ he called. ‘Never met a man more determined to start an argument,’ he added to Lady Hardcastle and me, sotto voce.
The bespectacled man stopped mid-rant and glared briefly at his host before raising a hand in surrender and smiling ruefully.
‘My apologies, Edmond,’ he said. ‘I do not wish to sour the morning’s activities, but this young fool . . .’
The young fool raised his hands in appeal, and Lord Riddlethorpe laughed again.
‘Come on over here and meet our eighth competitor,’ he said. ‘You can save your rivalries for the track, what?’
The two combatants approached. Harry brought up the rear, a massive grin – so like his sister’s – lighting up his face.
‘Now then,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Viktor, may I present Florence Armstrong of . . . I say, Miss Armstrong, where are you from?’
‘Aberdare, my lord,’ I said. ‘South Wales.’
‘I say, really? Well I never. This is Florence Armstrong of Aberdare, wherever the dickens that may be, but I’m sure it’s enchanting. She is lady’s maid to Lady Hardcastle, and all-round adventuress and good egg. Miss Armstrong, this is Viktor Kovacs of Vienna, racing driver, owner of Die Kovacs Motorsport Mannschaft, my bitterest rival, and dearest friend.’
Herr Kovacs clicked his heels and bowed slightly towards me. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Fräulein,’ he said. ‘Actually, I am from Budapest, but I have lived for many years in Vienna. You are to be driving my motor car, yes? Do you race?’
‘Not until today, sir,’ I said. ‘But I’m keen to have a go.’
He smiled.
‘The ladies’ race will be interesting, I think.’
‘It will,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘And Dawkins you know already. He’s from . . . er . . . somewhere or other. Bournemouth, or somewhere equally frightful, wasn’t it?’
We nodded our greetings. Dawkins winked at me. I rolled my eyes and turned away.
‘I’m Harry Featherstonhaugh, by the way,’ said Harry from the back of the group. ‘Just in case you were wondering.’
By this time, the ladies had reached us.
‘What’s this, Fishy?’ said Lady Lavinia. ‘Have we missed the introductions?’
‘Lawks,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Umm . . . Lavinia, Roz, Helen . . . This is Florence Armstrong.’
‘A little perfunctory, dear,’ said Lady Lavinia. ‘But it shall have to do. Good morning, Miss Armstrong.’ She smiled at me. ‘We’ve heard so much about you.’
‘I’ll say,’ said Helen Titmus quietly, with a smile and a wave. ‘Super to meet you at last.’
The corners of Rosamund Beddows’s mouth flicked briefly upwards in an approximation of a smile of greeting, but she resumed her studied, disdainful expression almost immediately and looked away.
‘Well, that’s that all done,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Is everybody ready for some fun? What do you say we get on with the racing?’
There were cheers all round.
‘Splendid,’ he said, clapping his hands. ‘Now who’s got the race card?’
Harry held up the sheet of paper I’d seen in the great hall. ‘Here, Fishy,’ he said.
Lord Riddlethorpe took the proffered paper and glanced at it. ‘Right, I’m in car number one,’ he said, walking towards the motor. ‘Fanners, you’re in two, Dawkins is in three and Viktor, you’re in your own silver machine, number four. Three laps of the circuit, and we’ll forgo the foot race and start in the motors with the engines running . . .’
‘Wait a moment,’ said Lady Lavinia, stepping towards him and taking the sheet of paper. ‘I think you’ll find that the ladies’ race is first.’ She indicated the race card, where, sure enough, the ladies’ race was listed first.
‘Just politeness, Jake,’ he said plaintively. ‘It’s my track; I say who gets to go first.’
She sighed. ‘You’re such a child, Edmond Codrington. We’ll toss for it. Who has a coin?’
Harry rummaged in his trouser pocket and pulled out a florin.
‘Two bob, Fanners?’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘I had no idea you Foreign Office Johnnies were so well paid.’
‘It’s surprising how much money a chap can make if he’s prepared to lift a finger and do an honest day’s toil,’ said Harry.
‘Will the two of you just shut up and toss the blessed coin,’ said Lady Lavinia impatiently.
With a grin, Harry dutifully shut up and tossed the coin.
‘Heads,’ called Lady Lavinia as it reached the top of its arc.
It landed with a ringing clink on the tarmacadam of the track, and we all bent to examine it.
‘Tails it is, then,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Gentlemen, to your motor cars.’ He stuck out his tongue at his sister, who harrumphed and turned away.
‘Just a moment,’ said Miss Titmus in her timid voice. ‘Would you mind awfully if I took a couple of photographs? I am the race photographer, after all.’ She held up the camera, which she’d been carefully carrying all this time.
Mrs Beddows sighed. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Titmouse,’ she said. ‘Must we?’
‘Yes, dear, we must,’ said Lady Lavinia. ‘I think it’s a splendid idea before we get all flyblown and oily, or whatever it is that happens during these things. Gentlemen, line up over there.’ She pointed to a spot on the track where it would be possible to get both the men and the motor cars into the shot. ‘How’s that, Helen, dear?’
‘Wonderful, thank you, Lavinia,’ said Miss Titmus.
The men dutifully lined up, and Miss Titmus positioned herself for the photograph.
‘Not yet,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘Fanners is still smiling.’
Harry, whose gaze seemed to be on Lady Lavinia, was indeed smiling, but he quickly composed himself, now blushing.
‘I honestly don’t know why we’re not allowed to smile,’ said Lady Hardcastle. ‘Future generations will think us a frightfully po-faced, miserable lot.’
‘Oh, just get on with it, Titmouse,’ said Mrs Beddows. ‘We haven’t got all day to wait for you and your stupid camera.’
Miss Titmus took a few more seconds to compose her shot and then snapped the photograph.
‘At last,’ said Mrs Beddows, striding towards the motor cars for her own picture. ‘Come on, Jake, let’s get it over with.’
Lady Lavinia ushered Lady Hardcastle and me towards the designated spot. It looked for a moment as though Mrs Beddows might be about to object to my presence, but she held her tongue.
‘Come on, girls,’ said Lady Hardcastle brightly, once we were in position. ‘What say we break with convention and show posterity that we really can have fun? Everybody smile.’
Lady Lavinia and I dutifully tried to smile, but Lady Hardcastle remained unimpressed. ‘Hopeless,’ she said. ‘Harry? Tell us one of your jokes.’
‘What?’ said Harry. ‘Well . . . I . . . er . . . This chap goes into a pub . . . and . . . er . . .’
‘Hopeless,’ she said again. ‘Oh, I know what.’ She gathered us into a huddle and whispered to us all. Propriety prevents me from repeating what she said to us, so it shall have to suffice to say that it left Lady Lavinia and me guffawing, and even Mrs Beddows grudgingly sniggered.
We returned hurriedly to our places, genuine smiles on our lips, and Miss Titmus took her photograph.
‘Splendid,’ said Lord Riddlethorpe. ‘And now let’s race. Gentlemen, to your motors!’
It took a few minutes for the men to pull overalls over their day clothes. There followed a small amount of fiddle-faddling once they were in their motors while Morgan went along the line cranking the engines to life.
Miss Titmus hadn’t struck me as the sort of woman to become particularly animated under any circumstances, but as the drivers prepared to race, she scarcely stopped moving. Crouching here, leaning there, even standing on one leg, and all to get just one more photograph.
Harry gunned his engine as she pointed her camera at him. This elicited a monstrous roar from beneath the green bonnet of the motor car, which startled him. To our delight, this was the moment Miss Titmus’s shutter clicked. He waved, grinning sheepishly as she moved on.
Lord Riddlethorpe didn’t notice her, so intent was he on the dials and controls in his cockpit. She captured an image of rapt concentration, and moved on again.
Herr Kovacs didn’t notice her, either. He was intent on the newer, experimental motor car beside him. I imagined a study of nonchalance as the shutter clicked, and Miss Titmus moved on once more.
Ellis Dawkins saw her and mugged at the camera. Even through his goggles we could see his cheeky wink.
Finally, she turned her camera on Mr Waterford and snapped a picture of him as he prepared to bring down his starter’s flag.
Engines roared. Tyres squealed. They were off. Four of the most powerful racing machines in the land thundered away towards the first bend, with Miss Titmus managing to get one last photograph of them through the dust and exhaust smoke before they disappeared.
Over the past few months, I had grown accustomed to the pleasant, friendly clatter of the Rover’s little engine as it pulled us along the lanes. I had heard the rumble of larger motor cars and even motor wagons in the city, but none of that had prepared me for the roar of those four monster machines. It was as though the motor cars we met in the streets of our towns and villages were the domesticated versions of some wild, ferocious beast. Somehow, Lord Riddlethorpe and his friends had captured a handful of the feral variety and were riding them around the track. They went from goddesses to tigresses in my imagination.
Even from the farthest point of the c
ircuit, we could hear the roar of the engines, and I confess to feeling a twinge of excitement as the sound grew louder and the motor cars drew closer.
Suddenly, they were upon us. Lord Riddlethorpe was in the lead, but only just, with the silver car of Herr Kovacs almost level with his rear wheel. Dawkins, the other professional driver, was just a few yards behind the leaders as all three shot past what would soon become the finishing line.
Bringing up the rear, way off the pace, but still with an idiotic, boyish grin of glee on his face, was Harry. He gave us a wave as he passed the line and shouted something unintelligible. Miss Titmus had managed to get another couple of photographs, and I hoped that at least one of them came out.
Soon, Tail-End Harry had disappeared round the bend, and we were left waiting again for their thrilling return. The noise, the speed . . . It was intoxicating. Lady Hardcastle was standing to my left, chatting to Miss Titmus about photography, while Lady Lavinia and Mrs Beddows were deep in conversation a little way off to the right. Mr Waterford was flicking at the grass with his flag.
I turned towards Lady Hardcastle as I heard her mention my name. I was about to ask her if she wouldn’t mind repeating the question when we were all silenced by a terrible grinding screech, followed by a crash and thump. It was loud enough that we could imagine it was next to us, but we knew that it came from the woods about a quarter of a mile away, where the racing circuit snaked between the trees. We heard the other engines slow and stop, and then, almost as one, we began running towards the scene of the crash.
Morgan Coleman, the chauffeur, was the first to arrive, closely followed by Mr Waterford. He held up his arms and tried to stop the rest of us from getting any closer.
‘Oh, don’t be such a silly ass,’ said Lady Hardcastle, pushing past. ‘They need help.’
I followed her to the wrecked motor car, but the other three ladies stayed back, gratefully obeying Mr Waterford’s instructions not to look.
To our immense relief, we saw that the motor car was in reasonably good shape. The bodywork was dented and the number ‘3’ painted on its side was a little scratched, but other than that it seemed barely damaged. Our relief was short-lived, though, when we realized, from the contorted angle of his broken body, that the motor car’s driver, Ellis Dawkins, was dead.