I never flew during the Great War. I was only fifteen when peace was signed, and I was still at Eton.
But aviation had fascinated me for as long as I could remember. Nothing else had ever held my attention in quite the same way.
My father, the first baronet, left me a modest fortune. He died when I was eighteen. Instead of going to Oxford, I became a cadet in the Royal Flying Corps.
There is no need to go through every step of my career. Once I had earned my wings, I joined commercial aviation and eventually became a pilot-commander in the Transatlantic Service.
I had powerful friends and some influence behind me. To make a long story short, I became Assistant Commissioner of the British Air Police at twenty-eight and Chief Commissioner at thirty.
I answered only to the Government, and within the limits of my office, my authority was absolute.
Everything began on the morning of June 25th.
At about one o’clock the previous night, Thumbwood woke me from a sound sleep.
A coded wireless message had arrived at Whitehall.
It was addressed to me personally and came from Sir Joshua Johnson, Controller of the White Star Air Line at Plymouth.
The officers on night duty at Whitehall had considered it important enough to wake me at that hour.
Once I was fully awake—and had finished cursing Thumbwood—I read it.
The message was brief.
A matter of the greatest importance required my personal presence at Plymouth.
Would I come down immediately?
I had dealt with enough nervous and over-important executives of the great air-liner companies to be suspicious of such urgent requests.
More than once, I had been forced to remind them that I was not at the beck and call of every commercial magnate who happened to have a problem.
If that had made me unpopular in certain circles, it had at least earned my office some respect.
So I wrote a quick note to the chief inspector on duty.
“Send a wireless message to Plymouth. Ask for full details.”
Then I went back to bed.
As it happened, I was going to Plymouth the next morning anyway, though for a completely private reason.
Sir Joshua had no idea of that.
His midnight message was simply a coincidence.
I could have flown from Whitehall to Plymouth in my fast police yacht in about an hour. But I had planned to take the train from Paddington.
Sir Joshua could wait until I arrived sometime after lunch.
I remember that morning in London very clearly.
The long departure platform at Paddington was crowded with smartly dressed, cheerful-looking people.
I stood beside the door of my reserved compartment on the Riviera Express, that magnificent train with its curved roof that ran all the way to Plymouth without stopping.
Thumbwood, as useful as ever, had filled the compartment with flowers.
There were huge bunches of white lilac and June roses everywhere.
Even the station-master came over for a chat and stared curiously at the little garden my valet had created.
The Chief Commissioner of the Air Police certainly wasn’t known for travelling like that.
For me, however, the morning was thrilling.
I was almost ridiculously excited, yet at the same time as nervous as a schoolboy about to make his first flight.
That day could turn out to be one of the happiest—or most miserable—days of my life.
I was about to find out.
And there was only one person who could make the difference.
“Confound it, why isn’t Connie here?”
Miss Constance Shepherd, London’s adored young light-comedy actress, was travelling to Plymouth that morning.
To me, she was the loveliest woman in the world.
She was catching the air-liner from Plymouth to New York at eight-thirty that evening.
And she had promised to travel with me.
But I kept wondering whether she would really have agreed to come if she hadn’t guessed what I intended to say to her.
Perhaps she was simply being friendly.
I knew she liked me.
But did she like me enough?
Why wasn’t she here?
There were only eight minutes left before the train departed.
I searched the platform, trying desperately to look calm and unconcerned.
I recognized several famous theatrical faces.
There were two or three of the prettiest girls in England.
There was also a handsome young man with a hooked nose who was probably the best-known theatrical manager in London.
Two famous comedians were carrying bouquets.
Then the newspaper photographers began setting up their cameras.
I had completely forgotten what a celebrity little Connie was.
Of course they were going to give her a grand send-off before she left for America.
Still, I found it irritating.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one.
A tall, thin-faced man in Donegal tweeds stood nearby, glaring at the crowd.
I wondered if he was another friend of hers.
At last Connie arrived.
She was very late, naturally.
She gave me a quick smile, then submitted to the public ceremony surrounding her departure.
I admit that I escaped into the compartment for a few minutes.
From there I could still hear the cameras clicking.
I saw girls embracing her.
Sightseers tried to push their way into the little circle of celebrities.
Then Connie appeared in the corridor.
She leaned out of the window, smiling and waving as the train began to move.
The crowd erupted into loud cheers.
When she finally stepped into the compartment, laughing, I slid the door shut.
“My dear Connie, royalty isn’t in it!”
She laughed.
“Oh, they’re wonderful. They really mean well.”
“Even though we’ll both be in all the newspapers tomorrow?”
“Exactly. And that’s good for business.”
“I thought you were never coming.”
“It’s an impression I like to create.”
She smiled.
“But I’m actually very careful. My maid arrived with the luggage half an hour ago.”
Then she looked around the compartment.
“What beautiful flowers you’ve got for me, John!”
She settled back into her seat as the train gathered speed.
Ealing flashed past outside in a blur.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
She was wearing a simple white piqué travelling suit.
The white lilac surrounded her face as she lifted a branch and breathed in its scent.
Everyone in England knew that face.
They had fallen in love with little Connie when she sang and danced her way into the public’s heart.
But nobody knew her as well as I did.
Her hair was a wonderful dark chestnut.
Her eyes were a deep, almost violet shade.
Her lips had the perfect shape and the rich colour of coral.
Yet those details alone could never explain her beauty.
A person’s real beauty comes from expression—from something deeper than physical appearance.
Connie’s face was open, kind and sweet.
Looking at her gave me the strange feeling that invisible hands were lifting my heart.
There was only one other day when I had ever seen her look more beautiful than she did that morning.
But it was still too early to say what I had come to say.
Besides, I was nervous.
We hadn’t properly settled into the journey yet.
As I expected, her breakfast had been nothing more than tea and a macaroon.
So I produced a basket.
Lunch would come later.
Inside was a silver box filled with caviare sandwiches, packed in crushed ice inside a larger zinc container.
There was also iced hock and some seltzer water.
Within a few minutes, we both felt completely at ease.
We lit cigarettes.
I was thinking hard about how to begin when someone walking along the corridor glanced into our compartment.
For a moment, I caught sight of a brown face and a dark scowl.
It was the man in tweeds I’d noticed at Paddington.
Connie suddenly frowned.
“That beast!”
I turned toward her.
She looked slightly pale.
“You know him?”
“I did. And I absolutely hate him.”
“Who is he?”
“I suppose you’ve heard his name, John. Almost everyone in London has.”
She hesitated.
“Henry Helzephron. He was a big name in your world once.”
I knew the name.
During the Great War, Helzephron had been a pilot of extraordinary courage and ability.
He had won the Victoria Cross at twenty.
For two remarkable years, his exploits had become part of aviation history.
But he hadn’t flown for years.
Now he divided his time between the more disreputable parts of London’s West End and an estate somewhere in Devon or Cornwall.
At thirty-six, he was regarded as a man who had wasted his life—a sinister, idle figure with a bad reputation.
“Hawk Helzephron,” I said. “I know. I’ve heard what happened to him.”
I looked at her.
“But how do you know him, darling?”
She gave me an unhappy look.
“He asked me to marry him about two months ago.”
“What?”
“Since then, he’s constantly finding ways to appear wherever I am.”
She shuddered.
“He never speaks to me. He just comes to the theatre and stares.”
“I see.”
“I keep running into him everywhere.”
Her voice dropped.
“I hate seeing him. He frightens me.”
That was all the opportunity I needed.
I wasn’t going to let a man like Helzephron—or any of the other unpleasant characters who haunted theatre stage doors—frighten the woman I loved.
A successful aviator has to make decisions instantly.
There is no time to hesitate when you’re flying.
If you hesitate, you’re finished.
So, as the Riviera Express raced through the summer afternoon, I said what I had come to say.
I don’t need to repeat the conversation here.
I probably wasn’t any more original than most men when proposing to the woman they love.
But the result was exactly what I had hoped for.
By the time we were passing the towers and winding river at Exeter, Connie and I were engaged.
I pulled the ring from my waistcoat pocket just as we glided through Exeter Station.
It was a magnificent thing—sapphires and diamonds, the best I could buy.
Connie stared at it as it caught the sunlight.
“O-oh!”
Then she looked at me.
“You wretch! I’ll never forgive you. Never!”
I was puzzled.
“What have I done?”
“You were so certain I’d say yes that you actually bought the ring beforehand!”
“It doesn’t pay to leave important things to chance.”
I slipped the ring onto her finger.
While she was doing that, I gave her several other little presents.
For the rest of the journey, as we passed the red cliffs and blue waters of Teignmouth and Paignton, we talked happily.
We discovered all sorts of things about each other.
Things we’d suspected before were suddenly becoming certain.
There are few experiences in life more wonderful than those first hours after two people who love each other finally become engaged.
It feels like reaching a safe harbour after a long and anxious voyage.
Yet at the same time, you know that a whole new world lies ahead.
New seas are waiting to be explored.
Only this time, you will explore them together.
Connie was going to perform in New York for a month and then in Boston for another two weeks.
It was a major engagement, but six weeks would pass quickly.
And now that Plymouth was only about thirty hours from New York, I could easily cross the Atlantic once or twice to see her.
I was responsible to nobody for my personal time.
Besides, there were several genuine matters connected with my work that could provide perfectly respectable reasons for a visit.
After the six weeks were over, we would get married.
“There is absolutely no reason for us to wait,” I told her, completely unaware of what fate had planned for us.
“I’ll have a special licence ready. The moment you land back here, you’ll be Lady Custance, darling.”
And so we settled the matter.
We were both light-hearted and happy.
When we stepped off the train at Plymouth Station, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
Nor was there one in either of our hearts.
Thumbwood had clearly been busy while his master had been busy.
I found him helping a quiet, attractive young woman with the luggage.
She turned out to be Connie’s maid, Wilson.
We left them to deal with the bags and drove to the Royal Hotel.
Before leaving the station, however, I happened to see the train beginning its journey toward Cornwall.
Henry Helzephron was standing in the corridor.
He was watching us with a dark, hateful expression on his hawk-like, worn face.
I had completely forgotten about him.
But at that moment, Helzephron—and every other man alive—was utterly insignificant to me.
Connie was due to leave the sea-drome at eight-thirty that evening aboard the Atlantis.
She was a Royal Mail flying liner and one of the fastest and finest aircraft in the Transatlantic Service.
She could carry three hundred and fifty passengers and a thousand tons of cargo.
Her crew numbered forty.
She was commanded by Captain Swainson, one of the most dependable pilot-commanders in the air service.
I knew him well and liked him.
Connie wanted to rest.
She also wanted some time alone.
“At least I want to be alone for a while and think everything over,” she said.
So she went directly upstairs to her room.
We agreed that I would call for her at five.
We would take a walk and then have an early dinner.
After washing my hands, I wandered into the hotel’s famous long bar.
I ordered a sandwich and a whisky and soda before going on to the White Star Line offices on the Hoe.
As I ate, I began thinking about the strange business that had caused Sir Joshua Johnson to send me a wireless message in the middle of the night.
It seemed an odd hour for an important old gentleman to be disturbing other people.
I had already instructed Whitehall to ask for more information.
But I had no intention of allowing any police business to interfere with my private affairs until I had settled things with Connie.
So, before leaving my rooms that morning for Paddington, I had sent a message to Whitehall.
I told them I was travelling to Plymouth and would wait until I arrived before dealing with the matter.
My assistant, Muir Lockhart, would understand.
He was more than capable of handling anything that arose.
The long bar was full, as usual, of naval officers.
There were also several men from the Air Merchant Service in their grey, silver and light-blue uniforms.
I didn’t recognize anyone.
Then the hotel’s swing doors flew open.
A small, wiry man hurried inside wearing the black and silver uniform of my own corps.
His peaked cap, marked with the silver wings and sword, had been pushed back on his head.
He was sweating heavily and looked extremely worried.
It was Pilot Superintendent Lashmar, commander of the Ocean Patrol based at Plymouth.
He held the same rank as a naval lieutenant-commander and was one of my most trusted officers in the West.
He went straight to the bar.
“Give me a long glass of iced ginger beer, with a little gin in it.”
I walked over and slapped him on the shoulder.
He spun around.
The moment he recognized me, the worry on his face disappeared.
It was replaced by obvious relief.
“Thank Heaven you’re here, sir!”
He saluted.
“We’ve been signalling Whitehall all morning. All they could tell us was that you were on your way.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve been running between Air Police Headquarters and the White Star offices all morning.”
“I came down by train, Lashmar.”
I realized immediately that something serious was happening.
I had clearly arrived later than expected.
Sir Joshua Johnson was one thing.
But if my own people were sending urgent signals, that was something else entirely.
“We thought you’d fly down in the yacht, sir. We’ve been sending wireless messages trying to contact you.”
“I couldn’t.”
I kept my voice calm.
“I had some very important business to attend to. But I’m here now. What’s happened?”
Lashmar stared at me.
“You haven’t heard anything, sir?”
He sounded genuinely astonished.
I cursed my luck again.
But I wasn’t about to let him see that I was completely in the dark.
“We’ll go straight to Sir Joshua Johnson.”
“That would be best, sir. Then everything can be explained to you in the proper order.”
He tapped the report he was carrying.
“I’ve brought my written report. It’s completely up to date. I believe I’ve taken every possible measure so far, but we’ve been waiting for you.”
He lowered his voice.
“Sir Joshua, as you can imagine, is almost out of his mind.”
“He didn’t have very far to go, then,” I replied.
It was only a joke to buy myself a little time.
I still had no idea what any of this meant.
I needed to be careful.
A minute later, Lashmar and I were walking across the Hoe toward the magnificent offices of the White Star Line.
They stood right in the centre of the famous promenade, high above the blue waters of the Sound.