02 - Flight of Fancy

“Poetry in motion.” Tommy
Fitzgerald murmured as he sat in his wheelchair and watched the aerial
performance, “Had I still got the use of these,” He tapped his crippled legs,
“I would be up in one of those in a second.”

“And giving your poor sister
nightmares.” Annie, the Fitzgeralds’ unconventional maid gave a shudder of
horror at the thought of being in a plane.

Clara Fitzgerald, meanwhile,
was a few paces away scanning the sky with an old pair of binoculars. It was
the first time she had seen a plane flying, though she had read enough about
them in the papers and the war had been full of daring aeronautical exploits,
but that was so different from seeing the thing up close.

She heard a loud bang beside
her and turned sharply.

“Oliver Bankes!”

Oliver Bankes, police
photographer and proprietor of the Bankes’ Photographic Studios, hauled himself
out from under the black cloth draped on the back of his camera and looked
apologetic.

“I’ve never photographed a
plane before. It’s exceptionally hard.” He mumbled under the steady gaze of
Clara, “I do think I missed it once again, predicting where the plane will be
in the sky is quite a bother and really I don’t think the camera can take the
shot fast enough.”

“Why don’t you just enjoy
watching it then? Instead of making all that racket and light?”

“But that’s not the point is
it?” Oliver said mournfully, “It’s the artist inside me, just like a painter
sees a scene and has to capture it on canvas, so I see that plane and
desperately want to capture it on a glass plate.”

“You can never capture
that
.”
Clara motioned to the plane as it did a nippy turn and dashed over the ocean
yet again, so low to the waves it seemed close to skimming them, “Not even a
moving picture could do it. You have to be here, seeing it with your own eyes,
soaking up the excited atmosphere, smelling the foul engine fuel and the reek
of the sea.”

“I did not know you enjoyed
aviation, Miss Fitzgerald.”

“You wouldn’t get me in a
plane, but I
am
curious about this new technology.”

“They predict soon we will be
all flying everywhere in the things.” Oliver took a pause from his camera to
watch the plane do an impressive mid-air twist, “Last year there was that
non-stop transatlantic flight made by Alcock and Brown.”

“Yes, but His Majesty’s Airship
R34 made the first crossings of the Atlantic, going from Scotland to New York
and then back to England. Quite frankly, if one must travel by air, I would
much prefer an airship to these scrawny biplanes, they seem infinitely safer.”

“I say, he is going to land!”
Oliver grabbed his camera with its wooden tripod and raced with the crowd to
the edge of the pier to get a better look.

The little biplane took one
last turn then came down in a steep dive aiming for a straight tract of sand
which had been freshly raked (under the scrutiny of the plane’s crew) that
morning. The plane looked fit to crash to Clara’s eyes, but as the ground raced
up its small wheels touched down with the gentleness of a caress and within
minutes the plane was drifting to a halt in a cloud of yellow dust.

A cheer went up from the pier
and a round of applause rippled through the audience as the pilot of the plane
emerged from his craft and gave everyone a hearty wave.

“Captain O’Harris.” Oliver
informed Clara, “I hear he is aiming to make his own transatlantic crossing in
half the time of Alcock and Brown!”

“Is that feasible?”

“I don’t know, but if I got a
picture of him in front of his plane and then he actually made the flight I
could sell the shot to all the papers.” Oliver was snatching up his camera
again and racing for the stairs of the pier.

Several people were doing the
same and cries of “Captain O’Harris, Captain O’Harris” echoed across the sand.

“A load of fuss over a man who
hasn’t the sense to have a real job.” Annie tutted loudly, wheeling Tommy to
join Clara.

“He is at the forefront of
aviation Annie, imagine the possibilities!” Tommy objected.

“All I saw was a young man
showing off.” Annie said firmly, “Quite frankly, I would rather have stayed at
home and made the fruit cake I’ve been saving all those currants for.”

Clara smiled at the pair of
them.

“Care to meet the famous
O’Harris?” She said to her brother.

Tommy glanced over the edge of
the pier and looked uncertain.

“Not nervous are you?” Clara
asked, sensing his reluctance.

“Just feeling like a bit of a
lame duck next to a graceful swan, is all.” Her brother responded.

“Nonsense!” Clara shook her
head, “Don’t be ashamed of yourself Tommy. You fought for this country so the
likes of Mr O’Harris could fly his plane over a free England. You sacrificed
your legs for him, nothing to be ashamed of in that.”

Tommy looked grim.

“Doesn’t feel like that.”

“Well, I fancy meeting him.”
Clara declared, “Not every day I get to talk to a pilot.”

She sauntered along the pier
and headed among the crowd. Captain O’Harris had his audience in the palm of
his hand as he regaled them with stories of adventures in his plane.

“…there we were, in the desert,
supposedly trying out the old girl in speed tests and the blooming engine
clogged with sand and we were stuck with no water and miles from our base camp!
Jolly lucky, our guides came to find us.”

“Captain O’Harris, a photo
perhaps?” Oliver called out.

O’Harris gave a modest look of
abashment to the crowd and then walked over to his plane and took up a rather
too well-rehearsed pose to convince Clara that he really was not used to such
attention. She edged her way through the crowd, observing O’Harris in his cream
flying overalls and leather flying cap. He had a beaming grin stuck to his face
and fondly patted ‘The White Buzzard’ his personal biplane. Oliver’s camera
gave a flash and the moment was captured as he had hoped.

“Captain O’Harris is it true
you intend to fly to New York?” Someone called out.

“Why yes,” O’Harris beamed, “I
intend to break the Alcock and Brown record with just myself and a co-pilot
flying.”

“Isn’t that extremely
dangerous?” Clara piped up.

O’Harris turned his radiant
gaze on her and for a second she was disconcerted by his smile.

“Now why would you say that?”
He asked.

“Even supposing you can manage
to get enough fuel aboard, and your plane looks a good deal smaller than that
used by Alcock and Brown, you have to take into account technical faults,
difficulties with the weather and human fatigue. Not to mention I believe you
intend to fly from Brighton? Alcock and Brown chose to go from Newfoundland in
the US to Ireland, a shorter distance.”

O’Harris had a twinkle in his
eye.

“You are very well-informed.”
He grinned, “An aviation enthusiast, perhaps?”

“That’s Clara Fitzgerald!” A
woman announced nearby, “She is Brighton’s first female private detective,
maybe even Britain’s first!”

Clara was humbled to have been
recognised.

“Have you been doing some
detecting on me, Miss Fitzgerald.” O’Harris asked.

“Not specifically.” Clara
muttered, fearing she was blushing, “But I have become quite curious about
aviation since the war.”

“There ain’t much Clara
Fitzgerald don’t know about.” The woman, apparently Clara’s unofficial
publicist, said dramatically, “She has the mind of a man, but the instincts of
a woman. She solved the murder of Mrs Greengage back in January, quite when the
police were at a dead end.”

Clara noted that Captain
O’Harris seemed suddenly even more intrigued by her. In contrast she wanted to
slip away into the crowd.

“To answer your question Miss
Fitzgerald, yes it will be dangerous, but worth the risk if we can set a new
record and push the boundaries of aviation. Why, I do not think it will be many
more years before planes become as common a form of transport as the
automobile.”

This statement raised a whole
host of new questions from the crowd and Clara was relieved to be able to slip
away and return to Tommy on the pier.

“Well, what is he like?” Her
brother asked as she appeared.

“Over-confident.” Clara
shrugged, “Alcock and Brown were lucky, a month before their attempt the
American navy had planned a similar flight with stops built into the journey.
Of the three seaplanes they sent only one made it and they were supported by a
trail of Station Ships, which acted as navigational markers for the pilots.”

“So you think he can’t do it?”

“I don’t say that, but I think
it is highly dangerous for very little reward. We know it’s possible, so why do
it again?”

“I would give it a go, if I
could.” Admitted Tommy.

“Well, I have to say I am very
glad you can’t Tommy Fitzgerald.” Annie said, clutching at his shoulder, “Those
planes give me quite the horrors, my stomach flips right over when he does them
turns.”

“It’s safer than you think
Annie.” Clara assured her.

“Would you go up in one of
those contraptions Miss Fitzgerald?”

Clara felt a shiver ripple down
her spine.

“Certainly not.”

“Well, you may have to revise
that statement, old thing, because the good captain is heading our way.”
Remarked Tommy, “Would you still refuse to go if he asked you?”

“Absolutely.” Clara said
staunchly, turning around to see Captain O’Harris heading along the pier
towards them.

“Couldn’t let you get away
quite like that Miss Fitzgerald.” O’Harris grinned as he drew close, “I’m
having a luncheon for select residents of Brighton tomorrow and wondered if you
would care to join me? Of course the invitation extends to your husband as
well.”

O’Harris’ gaze had slipped to
Tommy.

“This is my older brother,
Thomas.” Clara explained hastily, “And I believe we would both be most
delighted to join you tomorrow.”

“Excellent!” O’Harris’ grin
managed to get broader, “See you about noon then?”

He sauntered off, stopping to
speak to various adoring fans as he went.

“Quite the character.” Tommy
remarked as he vanished from sight.

“Yes.” Said Annie, “And didn’t
he look pleased when he found out you were Miss Fitzgerald’s brother and not
her husband!”

Clara gave them both a
disapproving look.

Chapter Two

“And this is the dining room!”
O’Harris escorted his guests into an expansive room with tall glass windows
lining the length of the back wall and giving fine views over the immaculate
gardens and grounds. You did not get very far in aeronautics without a
substantial private income.

“This is certainly impressive.”
Tommy nodded, casting an eye over the other guests assembled at the impromptu
luncheon, he knew a few of them including the mayor of Brighton, but most were
complete strangers to him.

“Don’t be fooled by
appearances, old boy.” O’Harris chortled, “The roof forever leaks no matter how
often it’s fixed and the draughts about this place in winter would freeze the
fur off a polar bear! Can’t get the whole house warm for love nor money, that’s
why I spend the winters in Spain tweaking the Buzzard’s engines.”

“Still, this is a fine family
home.” The mayor piped up approvingly, he was fund-raising again for the
Pavilion and could see an opportunity when it stood before him, “I imagine you,
ah, inherited quite a fortune from the late Mrs O’Harris?”

“Poor dead aunt Flo.” O’Harris sighed,
“Quite miss the old battleaxe, I was her only nephew you see.”

“Yes.” Said the mayor, feeling
his subject was hooked, “And she was very fond of philanthropic endeavours…”

“I say, is this Doulton?”
Distracted by another guest eyeing up his crockery, O’Harris moved away much to
the mayor’s disappointment.

Clara wheeled her brother to
the window and stared out into the gardens. Hazy sunshine was making up for a
morning of rain and the grounds looked inviting in the yellow light.

“Lucky Captain O’Harris.” Tommy
mused.

“In my experience luck can be
fickle.” Clara replied.

Dinner was served a little
after one and, despite O’Harris’ claims that it would be a light luncheon, the
guests were presented with a series of courses fit for an evening soiree. Soup
was followed by fish, and then a game pie, followed by cheeses and ending with
an array of exquisite looking desserts. Each course was preceded by a small bowl
of chilled sorbet, enough to cleanse the palate for the next dish.

Clara had not seen food on such
a scale since before the war and she noted that several other people were the
same. She took care with each course not to consume too much, but not all were
so sensible and by dessert several guests looked stuffed to their gills. The
temptation to glut themselves on the fish and game pie had just been too great.

O’Harris held sway over his
dinner table like he did over everything else.

“Imagine a plane big enough to
hold twenty people like an airship, or maybe more, maybe 100!” He told a lady
beside him.

“Oh dear Captain, I think you
do take these concepts too far.” The lady’s male companion responded.

“Nonsense, it’s entirely
feasible.”

“But what about the size? You
surely can’t expect 100 people to sit in little cockpits like you and your
co-pilot do.”

“It would be like a coach with
wings, nothing remarkable in that. It’s all about aerodynamics. Get the thrust
and the proportions right and, boom, it’s all yours! Isn’t that right Miss
Fitzgerald?”

Clara glanced up at her name
being called. She was seated close enough to the captain to have heard most of
the conversation, but it would have been impolite to admit she had been
listening.

“What is right, Mr O’Harris?”

“That in the future there will
be planes that can carry a 100 people, maybe even more!”

“Absurd! Absurd!” Chuckled the
unconvinced male guest, but Clara let the question sink in for a moment.

“I suppose it might be a
possibility. Given resources and time, but a plane that large would need a
landing strip of some description. Fields and beaches could no longer be relied
upon.” She answered.

“Quite, it will need an air
terminal, like the military had during the war. A harbour for planes, if you
will.”

“This is all fantasy,
honestly.” The male guest shook his head in amusement, “I am impressed with
your imagination, but truly there is nothing rational in what you say.”

O’Harris looked mildly
perturbed, but he laughed along with his guest anyway.

Later tea was served to the
guests who milled around the dining room, taking in the views and overcoming
lunch. Clara stood by a tall window gazing at the first signs of spring flowers
emerging in the garden. For a moment she didn’t realise O’Harris had joined her
until he spoke.

“Unimaginative lot, aren’t
they?”

She glanced at him.

“Don’t get me wrong.” O’Harris
continued, “All good souls, but they can’t lift their heads above the parapet
for a second. They don’t see the potential. Quite frankly Miss Fitzgerald I
think I would have gone out of my mind had I not had the fortune to invite
yourself and Mr Fitzgerald.”

Clara smiled.

“Are you suggesting I lift my
head above the parapet?”

“Lift? You, my dear, you are
truly flying!”

Clara felt herself blushing
again, it was uncharacteristic.

“I think you overestimate me.”

“Nonsense! A female detective
in Brighton! You are unique, dare I say, innovative, special even.”

“You flatter me.”

“Isn’t it the truth though?”

Clara looked away out the
window, not certain of how to respond.

“I have a hunch it won’t be
many years before you see female pilots making transatlantic crossings.”
O’Harris continued, diverting the subject.

“That would be something to
see.” Mused Clara.

“Of course, it’s rather an old
boy’s network at the moment. Very much a case of who you know and how much
money you’ve got. Too many folks don’t think there is a future in planes and
the ones that do, well, let’s just say they have a tendency to be old-fashioned
in their thinking except when it comes to aeronautics.”

“They would make it difficult
for women?”

“I should say! Some of the best
trainers wouldn’t want to teach a lady, but it will happen, mark my words. I
just hope it doesn’t take another war for them to realise the value of female
pilots, it took the Great War to get them to see the worth in planes!”

Clara nodded thoughtfully.

“I could take you up, if you
would like?”

Clara almost spilled her tea at
the suggestion.

“In a plane?”

“In old Buzzard.”

“I fear not Mr O’Harris.” Clara
said, trying to pretend she had not gone quite pale, “I am inclined to keep my
feet firmly on the ground.”

“She really is quite safe.”

“Even so.”

O’Harris laughed.

“I supposed she does seem a bit
of a schoolboy’s project in comparison to the automobile and the train. But she
has to be light you see.”

“I quite understand, but
forgive me if I would rather entrust my safety to the pavement than to a
vehicle constructed of paper and wood.”

“Don’t call her a vehicle.”
O’Harris purred, putting on a pretence of hurt, “She is a thing of grace and
beauty, she is an aeroplane – as far removed from those clunky automobiles
people swear are the latest thing as a bird is from a horse! She is freedom,
she is…” O’Harris faltered for words, “She is everything I ever dreamed of as a
boy. When I was trapped in that dreary boarding school, wishing the days away
until I could break free, I could only half imagine the adventures I would
eventually live. Flying during the war, weaving in and out of the old Hun,
getting the scoop on the battlefields below for the boys in the trenches. We
lived every moment waiting for a stray bullet to cast us down into No Man’s Land,
yet no sooner did I land then I wanted to be up in the air again. I have been
addicted to flight ever since.”

“It sounds as though you are
not the sort of man to live a quiet life.” Clara observed.

“No, I suppose not.” O’Harris
grinned.

Distantly a clock in the
hallway chimed the hour.

“I’ve asked a handful of guests
to stay on for a drink in the drawing room and perhaps a hand of bridge by the
fire, I would welcome an extra lady to the party.” O’Harris’ charm was
infectious.

“That sounds delightful.”

“Then you will be my bridge
partner?”

“I don’t play.”

“But I suspect, dear lady, with
your mind you could pick up the game in an instant.”

Clara was amused.

“No wonder the old Buzzard
works so well for you, if you show her half as much charm as you are showing
me.”

“The Buzzard is fond of her
master.” O’Harris winked, “But like most decent women she can be fickle with
her love.”

He offered his arm to Clara,
who took it, not knowing quite how to respond.