“Anything, Mrs. Hinchliffe. You may have just heard the tail end of that conversation. I'm working on another story about you right now.”
“Good. If you want my story, I'll tell you everything.”
He smacked his hand on the desk. “Fabulous! How are you faring?”
“We're barely surviving. I'm selling things. I'm doing portraits and I'm thinking about giving piano lessons and art lessons. I've been asked to play the organ at the village church—although it doesn't pay much!”
“Would it be right say you're penniless?”
“Soon will be. We have no means of support, despite everything Miss Mackay promised us.”
“Thanks to Lord Inchcape?”
“You might say that!”
He took out another cigarette, lit it with his gold lighter and snapped it shut. “I've been hearing that you've been in touch with your husband through a psychic medium—is that true?”
“Er, yes.” Millie wasn't sure about this avenue.
“I heard Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is assisting you?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, he's been exceptionally kind. He's a wonderful gentleman.”
“This is great! What did your husband have to say?” Hunter said, smiling. Millie couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic.
“He said we'd get the money.”
“Did he indeed?” Hunter sounded intrigued.
“He said without question,” Millie emphasized.
“Well, that's going to be very interesting, isn't it?—and quite a story. Our readers will be fascinated. They can't get enough of that stuff—or of you, come to that. They're out there rooting for you, you know, Mrs. Hinchliffe. We get letters all the time.”
“My husband also mentioned something else you may find interesting.”
Hunter leaned forward in his chair. “Go on.”
“He says the Cardington Airship R101 is a deathtrap and won't survive her maiden voyage.”
“Wow! I'll put that nugget in the file for later,” Hunter said. “First things first.”
Millie told Hunter about her life, being raised in Holland and meeting Hinchliffe. She gave him the full story about his war years, before they were married, and then his days with the airlines. Hunter took notes while they chatted for an hour or so. They arranged to meet again in the future as a follow up. Before Millie left, Hunter offered his help on a personal level, as a friend. Millie was pleased and flattered. He really was a nice person to be around and seemed to genuinely care.
A few days later the Daily Express ran a story about Millie's heartbreak and hardship.
WIFE OF ATLANTIC PILOT NEARLY PENNILESS
PROMISED INSURANCE POLICY STOPPED BY FAMILY
22
GLENAPP CASTLE
Saturday, May 26, 1928.
It was a sunny morning. Millie and Mrs. East set off with Doyle, very early, for Scotland in his Humber. As they traveled north along country roads, Millie told them the results of her search for the items Hinchliffe had mentioned during the first séance with Eileen Garrett. Doyle was delighted. After the second séance, Millie thought it appropriate to wear black and had purchased a few items in Croydon.
Along the way, Doyle told them about his experiences with the spirit world, even touching on his up and down relationship with Houdini, the great American showman and master of escape. Houdini had been devastated by the death of his mother. Hearing of Doyle's interest in the afterlife, Houdini had contacted him and they'd become fast friends, until intensive research and attempts to contact his mother ended in failure. Houdini became bitter and their friendship came to an end. Doyle remained open-minded.
They arrived in Glenapp at 4:00 p.m. after ten hours on the road with two stops for petrol and a bite to eat. The old stone castle was foreboding. Millie felt intimidated, even before they'd pulled the old bell cord. After a few minutes, the creaking oak door was opened by a hostile-looking butler who glared at them. Doyle introduced himself. The butler appeared unimpressed they'd driven up from London, but asked them, in a rather snooty Scottish accent, to step inside. He'd see if Lord Inchcape was available today, or at any time in the foreseeable future.
Their luck was in. Eventually they were shown into what reminded Millie of a dungeon or a torture chamber. Lord Inchcape sat scowling in the gloom behind a colossal hand-carved desk. Doyle stepped forward, his hand outstretched. Inchcape took it reluctantly.
“Lord Inchcape, I'm—” Doyle began.
“I know exactly who you are, sir—and this is the airman's wife, I presume?” Inchcape said, glaring at Millie in her widow's black. He rudely ignored Mrs. East, who stood frozen in shock.
“Yes, I'm Emilie Hinchliffe—” Millie said nervously.
“I've been reading hard-luck stories about you in the Scottish Daily Express. What can I do for you, madam?” Inchcape said harshly.
Millie and Doyle had prepared what they'd say on the way up. Nonetheless, Millie already felt browbeaten, her voice weak and wavering. “First, let me say how sorry I am for your loss. Your daughter was a fine, brave woman with high ideals.”
“I will stop you right there! My daughter was not fine, or brave, and she had no ideals at all. She was a stupid, immature publicity seeker, who deserved exactly what she got!”
Millie was shocked, not expecting such a vitriolic response, but regardless, she soldiered on bravely. “Your daughter made an agreement with my husband—”
“You are all liars and deceivers. Because of your greed and your husband's recklessness he, too, is dead. That's what comes of skulking around in the night, deceiving people. And if I may say so, all this flying around is an affront to God Almighty. If that was His intention, He'd have given us wings!”
“It was your daughter who approached Mrs. Hinchliffe's husband—” Doyle began.
“Enough! She'll not get a penny out o' me!”
Millie was enraged.
“You keep Elsie's damned money for yourself! But you remember this 'til your dying day—it was you, who forced them off that aerodrome, and it was you who forced them out into that storm. All that girl ever tried to do was to impress and please you—you wicked old man!” she screamed, her eyes like daggers.
Lord Inchcape showed no sign of relenting. In fact, quite the reverse. There was no more to be said. Doyle put his arm around Millie and led her out. Once outside, she burst into tears and was comforted by Mrs. East.
“Grief shows itself in different ways, dear. Don't you worry,” she told Millie.
After staying the night in a hotel in Carlisle, they drove back to Croydon the next day.
On Monday, Millie got up after sleeping late. She looked ill. It was while she was preparing a meal in the kitchen and Joan was busy with her crayons that she heard of Lord Inchcape's latest move on the radio.
This is the BBC news. Lord Inchcape, the father of the Honorable Elsie Mackay, announced from Glenapp Castle today that his daughter's entire fortune is to be placed in a fund for the next fifty years, after which time, it will be donated to the government.
Within a week, the mood in Britain regarding this whole affair was one of concern for the 'airman's wife', as the press called her. The atmosphere in the House of Commons was likewise, rapidly becoming hostile toward Inchcape. One MP gave an impassioned speech on Millie's behalf:
“Without detracting from the generosity of Lord and Lady Inchcape, is the Chancellor of the Exchequer aware that Mrs. Hinchliffe is in dire straits as a result of her husband's accident, who in normal circumstances would have claims against Miss Mackay's estate for promises not honored?”
At this, there were cries from the left.
“Hear, hear!”
“Shame!”
“Shame!”
Winston Churchill, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, got to his feet. “Sir, as regrettable as the circumstances are, this has absolutely nothing to do with the Chancellor of the Exchequer!”
The MP would not let it go. “It is unconscionable f
or this house to treat the widow in this way. Her husband was a decorated war hero and a great aviation pioneer.”
“The Chancellor of the Exchequer has no control over what Lord Inchcape does, or does not do, with his daughter's money,” Churchill responded.
There were now cries from the right.
“Hear, hear!”
Whilst all this wrangling was going on, the Atlantic Ocean was as smooth as silk. The sun's rays upon it were like a kaleidoscope of broken glass, reflecting the vivid colors of sunset from the May afternoon sky. In all this wondrous beauty that no one saw, something bobbed in the clear blue water—a rubber tire attached to a splintered wooden aeroplane strut.
23
BRANCKER BRINGS NEWS
Thursday, June 7, 1928.
Millie's anxiety over money grew worse, even though they had enough for the short term. The estate agent in Croydon had purchased the land from her and that would tide them over. But she knew this, and the generosity of friends, couldn't last forever. Millie was determined to survive and was working on ways to make some money. Sinclair had planted out more of the rear gardens beyond the walls and hedges and had vegetables growing in abundance. They'd sell most of them. Also, the chickens were doing well and producing plenty of eggs, which they also sold. Sinclair had added a huge chicken coop to house another fifty birds. His beekeeping honey-producing venture would also contribute. None of this was a fortune, but it helped sustain them.
Millie decided to capitalize on her own talents and began giving art classes and piano lessons as she'd told Hunter she would. She was also painting portraits of local people. The newspapers had been helpful—many readers asked for their portraits doing. Some even sent money or checks. The whole nation was becoming obsessed with Millie's story, but Elsie's father was unyielding.
Millie took down the portrait of a young choirboy in his surplice and cassock from her easel and laid it on her work table. A woman waited, her son at her side. Three other paintings were propped on a wall shelf, waiting to be picked up. The boy stared in fascination at Millie's paintings of Endeavour, one in the hangar, and one in the air, while Joan proudly explained that they were pictures of 'her daddy's aeroplane and that he was away flying it'. Joan told him that sometimes he came back—while she was asleep. Millie pretended she hadn't heard as she wrapped the portrait in newspaper. She tied it with string and handed it to the woman. The doorbell rang. Millie excused herself and opened the door to Brancker, who stood with a sympathetic smile. He thrust another bouquet of flowers at her, put his arms around her and kissed her cheeks.
“I have some news,” Brancker told her grimly. Millie led him into her studio, where her clients patiently waited. Millie handed her the painting and the woman gave her a check. Brancker watched all this with interest and smiled as they were shown out. She returned to find him inspecting her latest artwork. He was studying his own finished duplicate copy and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's portrait, now in progress.
“These are magnificent, Millie. Wonderful likenesses,” Brancker exclaimed.
“Thank you.”
“This is a wonderful idea. I'm sure you're going to do well. How are you making out?”
“It's a struggle, but everyone's been very kind,” Millie said.
“Yes, yes, it must be hard. I'll do what I can. I spoke to Beaverbrook yesterday. They're all coming out to bat for you, Millie,” Brancker said.
“Everyone except Lord Inchcape, Sir Sefton,” Millie said. She was itching for Brancker to get to the point of his visit.
“Millie,” he said, and then hesitated, his eyes down.
She waited.
“I told you as soon as I heard something … you might ask the Sinclairs to come in, if they're around,” Brancker said. Millie hurried off to fetch them.
When they came in, Brancker looked at Joan pointedly, and Millie asked Kate to take Joan into the kitchen out of the way.
“The wheel of a plane has washed up on a beach in County Donegal,” he told them.
Millie gave a small startled cry. “Oh!”
“I contacted the Stinson factory in Detroit yesterday. They've confirmed that the tire was the type used on Raymond's plane. The wheel had the special brakes they used, too. They are the only manufacturer using that system. I also gave them a description of the wooden strut attached to the wheel. It all matches, sad to say.”
Sinclair put his hands to his head. “Sweet Jesus!” he whispered.
Millie stood woodenly still. “I suppose that's it, then,” she said finally. Although she already knew Hinchliffe was dead, this was still painful—like reading his death certificate.
“I'm afraid it looks that way, my dear. But please know that everyone has their shoulder to the wheel,” Brancker assured her. But Millie looked doubtful.
Later, in the evening, Millie took Joan to bed and kissed her goodnight. The baby was already in her crib, fast asleep. Joan glanced at the plane on her music box. She asked about her daddy, as she did every night and Millie told her the same thing—she wasn't sure when he'd be back, but not to worry, he was somewhere nice, and he was thinking of them all. Joan lay her head on the pillow looking at the little silver plane facing away from her. “I do love Daddy's present, Mummy. And I do love Daddy.”
The following morning, Joan slowly opened her eyes, focusing them on the plane on the music box. It was now facing her. She slowly got out of bed, not taking her eyes from it, and crept downstairs to her mother who was standing at the kitchen sink.
“Daddy was here again last night, Mummy,” she said.
Millie wasn't the least surprised. “How do you know, darling?”
“He keeps moving the plane. I know he's doing it. He comes when I'm asleep,” Joan said.
Millie wasn't fazed. She knew Hinchliffe probably had been in Joan's room. She stood at the window, remembering the day he'd returned from his Fokker-retrieving expedition. She saw a vision of the scene reenacted in the garden. Hinchliffe playing the fool with the sheet over his head, pretending to be a ghost, the dog barking, and then the three of them coming together in a big family hug. The scene faded away. She turned back to the cooking stove in the hearth.
The following week, Millie was in her studio, working on Brancker's second portrait. She heard the sound of a vehicle on the driveway and went to investigate. It was the biggest, shiniest black Rolls Royce Millie had ever seen. She didn't recognize the man emerging from the backseat while the chauffeur held the door. He looked impressive in a black pinstriped suit; his hair was slicked back, with a razor-sharp parting. He strode to the door.
Millie waited until the bell rang before she opened it. The visitor smiled broadly, his teeth even and sparkling white. “I am presuming that you are Mrs. Hinchliffe. Please forgive me showing up like this. I'm Max Aiken,” he said, holding out his hand. Millie stared up into his piercing, intelligent eyes, none the wiser. “You may know me as Lord Beaverbrook.”
Millie gulped.
“I was wondering, could we talk? I heard you're one of the best portrait painters in the country,” he continued.
“Why don't you c-come in,” Millie stammered. She'd heard of Lord Beaverbrook, of course. He was a Canadian business tycoon who'd settled in England and was a member of the government. He also owned the Daily Express, amongst many other newspapers, making him the biggest newspaper proprietor in the world. She led him into her studio, where he marched up to Brancker's portrait.
“Ah, I recognize this gay old dog—it’s Brancks. He's a jolly good man!” he said. “He was the one who told me where to come to get my portrait painted.” He cast his eye warily over Lowenstein in the corner and frowned.
“That was very kind of Sir Sefton,” Millie said.
Beaverbrook looked around and out the window at the garden.
“Lovely place you've got here,” he said. “Mrs. Hinchliffe, I want to help you. I know all about you and your husband. Believe me, I am sorry. He was a great pioneer. Planes and pilots fascinate me—t
hey're incredible people—certainly gave those Huns a run for their money! His Atlantic attempt was not a waste. He's contributed immensely to this country's aviation—more than you could possibly know.”
Millie was very touched. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“I must have a portrait. Can you fit me into your schedule? I know you're busy. There are at least six MP's I know of who want you to paint them.” He gestured over to Doyle's picture. “I see Sir Arthur is on your list of clients, too.”
Millie was astonished. Word must have got around fast in higher circles.
“Yes, of course, er—”
“Max. Call me Max.”
“Yes, Max.”
“Now, about your situation, a syndicate has been formed and a fund is being set up for donations to assist you until Inchcape comes to his senses,” Beaverbrook said.
“I don't know what to say—”
“Now, where shall I sit?” He pulled the wooden armchair Millie used for sitters toward the French windows. “How about here—will this do?”
Millie was in awe of this man. He was a powerhouse. He sat down and she took some photos. She set up an easel and started roughing out his likeness. After about forty-five minutes he jumped up.
“You have enough to be getting on with?”
“Yes, I think so,” Millie said.
“One more visit do?” he asked.
“Yes, I'm sure you're a busy man.”
He took out his wallet. “Two hundred, all right?”
Millie screwed up her face. “That's way too much,” Millie protested.
“Absolutely not!” He placed two hundred pounds on the table and left.
She knew he might show up any day in the future and she'd have to drop everything. This was a man who got things done, and who expected immediate results. He reminded her of Brancker. Their auras were similar, well-balanced, with generous amounts of red, yellow, pink, green and orange.
The Ghost of Captain Hinchliffe Page 15