Ethylwyn

By Pat Whitaker

A tale of mystery and romance, Ethylwyn also provides a window into an era that is all but forgotten and largely miss-understood. Very carefully researched, it throws up some interesting information for any enthusiast of LTA technology and insight into what might have been. This said, it is in no way allowed to interfere with the pace or tension of the plot, nor interplay between the characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cooper's Press
• Release date: Feb 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781877557460

Pat Whitaker

Born in England in 1946, I moved to New Zealand with my parents and older brother at the age of four and, apart from five years in my late twenties spent traveling the globe, have lived here ever since. After a fairly rudimentary education, I found work as an Architectural Designer and this became a life-long occupation. I started writing late in 2006. The books I write are intended in the first instance to tell a good story and secondly " once the tale is told " to leave the reader with something to ponder. To this end, all my stories attempt to provide an original take on some commonly held belief, be it cultural, social or scientific. Being a fan of both science fiction and classic murder mysteries, these tend to be common themes, with elements of both often combined in a single story. As a person who likes to read a book in a single sitting, I normally limit each work to around forty-five or fifty thousand words. Unfashionable I know, but it's what I prefer. Of my books, Mindset, Antithesis, Returning and Nmemesis were finalists for the Sir Julius Vogel Awards - Best Adult Novel between 2009-2012, plus Best New Talent in 2009. If you'd like to know more, please visit my website.

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ETHYLWYN

... the innocent sky lightens the black heart of Man.

Pat Whitaker

Copyright © 2019 by Pat Whitaker

Cover design Pat & Robert Whitaker

All rights reserved.

Other Titles by Pat Whitaker

Bad Blood

Time Out

Raw Spirit

Antithesis

Mindset

Returning

Nmemesis

Smashwords Edition 1.0, February 2019

Prologue:

Rufus Savage settled somewhat uncomfortably into the seat allocated him and slowly looked around the room. The hotel, the New Yorker on Manhattan's 8th Avenue, had been a grand establishment when it opened a mere six years earlier but, like so many others, it had suffered badly during the depression and already wore a somewhat jaded, resigned look.

Initially he had been a little surprised that the Airship Guarantee Company had chosen to meet here in New York—rather than London where they were headquartered, or even Canada—but assumed this was in deference to the fact that the majority, if not all, of the claimants were American. And the somewhat less than glamorous nature of the venue was no doubt also deliberate—the company's legal negotiators, the archetypal grey, faceless men in grey suits, would studiously avoid giving the impression of undue affluence. All rather silly and obvious, Rufus thought, but these people were professionals and presumably knew their job.

These three lawyers, along with AGC's Director of Airship Operations, were seated to Rufus's right, across the end of the table. The Ethylwyn's Captain, Brian Willard, was to their immediate right and directly across the table from where Rufus sat.

He could not help but feel for the man—he looked absolutely exhausted, almost hunted, and his eyes were dark and bloodshot. It looked as if he hadn't slept for a week, and he probably hadn't as he was being held personally liable along with the Company. The Ethylwyn's Navigator and the Chief Engineer were also present and neither looked any better. Their eyes met and the Captain gave Rufus a quick smile.

Rufus wished he had been able to talk to Brian before this meeting but the company lawyers had made absolutely sure that nobody got anywhere near the Captain—or any of the crew for that matter.

In truth, Rufus had no intention of suing the company and was only there because he felt a need to bear witness to the death of this final, bold attempt at establishing the airship. He was well aware that, with the failure of the Ethylwyn coming close on the heels of the tragic loss of the R 101, lighter-than-air technology in Britain would finally and forever be confined to history.

Scattered around the table were a further five men, and from their detached looks he concluded they were all lawyers representing the various passengers. He knew from the newspapers that some of these were bringing individual suits against the company, but the bulk of the survivors had opted for a class action. Although no figures had been mentioned at this early stage, it was apparent that the company had little or no chance of survival. It appeared that their legal team was yet to arrive.

The atmosphere in the room was tense, even oppressive.

An occasional, inquisitive glance from the lawyers opposite made Rufus stir self-consciously in his seat—no doubt they saw his being here without counsel or advice as an indication of naïveté, and could smell potential fees to be had. He was certain that at the first break in proceedings he would find himself bailed up like a wounded stag, and he wondered if he would have the chance to make his position clear before this happened. Time would tell.

The heavy wooden door to his left swung open and the Partridges, Wally and Mona, entered with another man, doubtless their lawyer.

That they were here was no surprise. Throughout the voyage they had managed to find fault with anything and everything. Their cabin, the food, the service, their fellow passengers... and Rufus had wondered why they had ever taken the flight. They'd actually seemed to resent being aboard, as if sent against their will. On one occasion Rufus had remarked to Brian about their determination to be miserable, but he had assured him that in every group of passengers there were the 'Partridges' who, despite their grumbling, would often come again and again. Their complaining was simply the way they enjoyed themselves. It was the crew's task to identify such people as soon as possible, and take what measures they could to ensure that they didn't disrupt the other passengers.

Barely had the couple and their watchdog found their seats, than a further group arrived, and quite obviously a legal team. Presumably these were the ones bringing the class action.

A quick glance at his watch and the leading company negotiator called for order.

He introduced himself and his companions, and asked those present to do likewise - and in the case of Counsel to explain who it was they represented.

Sitting to their immediate left, Rufus prepared to say his piece. He was grateful for being placed where he was; as he could clear the air right from the word go. Not that his opinion on the accident was important to the proceedings, but it would help him quell the feelings of guilt he felt sitting across the table from his friend Brian.

He had just started to speak when the door opened, and in walked—or rather limped—Clara Walsh.

The room—time itself—froze.

That she sought redress was no surprise, she had lost far more than anyone else— both during the voyage and in the accident, in which she had been severely injured. Injuries she would carry for the rest of her life.

What was a surprise—and it appeared not only to Rufus—was that she should be here in person, and alone.

BOOK ONE

St Hubert Field, Montreal

Rufus Savage stood with his back to the waiting-room wall and watched as the lights of the train disappeared into the rain and pre-morning gloom. Most of his fellow travellers were inside, noisily discussing their up and coming voyage, but Rufus—after a lifetime rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous—preferred his own company whenever he decently could.

A large man, tall and broad shouldered, Rufus was the Nordic warrior personified. A heavy-featured face, silver-grey cropped hair and a stiff, straight carriage, coupled with piercing blue eyes, caused those who met him to instinctively show deference. He was not a man who could be ignored. When he spoke, however, his soft, gentle voice and ill-concealed sense of humour always came as something of a surprise.

The overnight express that had brought them to the St. Hubert station had been, as was often the case in northern climes, far too hot and that—combined with the cigarette smoke that nowadays pervaded every public space—had left him desperate for some clean, fresh air. Rufus was not a smoker. The train had not been his first choice, he had originally arranged to fly from New York to Montreal as, in deference to the task he had undertaken for the Company, they had approved his request for a personal tour of the facilities and of the ship.

However weather conditions the previous day had meant the closure of the St. Hubert airfield and he had, of necessity, joined the rest of the passengers on the overnight train. Ironically, the fog and rain that precluded flying posed no difficulties for the Ethylwyn and it was anticipated she would depart at 7:00 am as scheduled.

The passengers had been met at the station by a company representative who was now explaining to those assembled inside what was to happen next, but Rufus—keen observer that he was—had noticed that only a single, small motorcar was parked outside. Obviously the early arrival of the night train had caught the Company off-guard and until the coaches arrived to take them to the airfield Rufus saw little need to attend the official's attempted distractions.

The rain was steady but the air was still and fresh, and on the eastern horizon the first fragments of sunlight reflected off the underside of the clouds. With the train gone all was quiet beyond the murmur of those inside and the hiss of the rain. Then, in the distance the odd noise, the sounds of the world waking. A dog barking, a car starting, the distant clatter of human life.

Finally he heard the sound of heavy vehicles and in the distance two pairs of flickering headlights could be seen approaching from beyond the station building. Rufus watched for a moment or two then entered the waiting-room to join the others.

It was a week since he and a small party of fellow travellers had set out from London but, in a very real sense, they had yet to begin their journey. Although the Ethylwyn was based in England the ship was to start its circumnavigation of the world from St. Huberts airfield, outside Montreal. Consequently, passengers from Britain and Europe had been required to travel by train to Southampton, steamship to New York, then over-night train to Montreal. To be fair all this was included in the ticket, but it was slightly irksome that they hadn't been able to simply embark at Bedford and cross the Atlantic with the airship.

Officially, the rationale for the North American start was that the initial crossing of the Atlantic was to be a shake-down flight for the new ship but after more than twelve months of testing Rufus doubted this was strictly true. More likely it was the fact that the majority of the passengers were from the States and the company didn't want them to feel in any way short-changed. Unnecessary, perhaps, but at the end of the day the whole voyage was a promotional exercise, designed to generate the maximum favourable publicity for the new company. The perceptions of the passengers mattered.

§

The Ethylwyn rested patiently in her cradle on the mooring-out circle. The crew were at their stations and yet again running through their pre-flight checks—all long since completed—as they waited for the passengers to embark. There was no need, they were ready, but it kept them busy and eased the pre-flight tension.

Captain Willard stood silently to the rear of the control car looking out at the rain. The rain was not a problem, other than compensating for the additional ton and a half or so of water on her skin now that the ship was out of her hangar, but it was a disappointment. With the start of perhaps the greatest airborne voyage ever undertaken, glorious sunshine would have seemed more fitting. Unlike Rufus however, the glimmer of something better far to the east gave him no cause for optimism. The rain was falling vertically and not a breath of wind moved the ship, free as she and her cradle were to swing at the mooring. If the clear skies came at all they would not be here for some considerable time and the ship would have long since departed, heading south toward New York.

Still, he could manage many things, but not this. He turned his attention back to matters at hand. After a final check that all in the control room were ready for their imminent departure, he left and made his way down the lower central passageway to the embarkation point at the rear of the lower lounge. As he arrived the first of the two coaches drew up under the gigantic silver belly of the ship.

It was dry there, and the passengers alighted, making their way to the gangway while the crew quickly transferred their luggage to the ship. This did not take long, as passengers were restricted to forty pounds per person.

Ellesmere Island

The slate grey landscape of the pre-dawn Ellesmere Island slid silently under the great ship. Apart from the two men on watch in the dimly lit gondola and the three mechanics tending their charges, all aboard slept. In a few minutes the faint tinge of red in the East would start to swell and the ship would slowly come back to life.

First to stir was the Head Steward who, as was his habit, rose an hour before his duty started. Once showered and dressed, he went up to the forward observation deck to watch the dawn and enjoy a moment of solitude—something that his job largely denied him.

This morning he was ill at ease. The voyage had been proceeding well and the daily problems that he had to deal with were routine, but his years of stewardship on the world's finest ocean liners gave him a sixth-sense for impending disaster.

Disaster to the Head Steward did not mean a failure of the ship, nor a natural catastrophe; these were things for which he had no special feeling. Disaster to him was a human thing, an unforeseen problem involving the passengers—his charges. What form it would take he had no idea, but he knew that the cause of this disquiet was not some weird psychic insight, but simply a result of years of experience. He resolved to be increasingly vigilant.

They had departed Montreal the previous morning and the flight so far had gone smoothly. The short leg down to New York had been rather out of their way, but then the whole purpose of the trip was sightseeing, and to cruise silently and majestically over Manhattan, and circle around the Statue of Liberty at an altitude barely greater than the statue itself, was definitely that. Fortuitously, the weather had cleared and the city had been bathed in sunshine, sparkling, having been washed clean by the rain.

The passengers had been running on adrenaline, excited at such a new and novel experience, and the Head Steward knew that it would take a little longer for them to settle into the routine of the ship. It had always been the way on the liners he had served—this would be no different.

Still, he was uneasy. He took one last, lingering look at the rising sun, glanced at his watch, and headed off to the galley.

The Arctic

Clara Walsh stretched comfortably and opened her eyes. She saw the bunk above her was empty, but this was no surprise. Her husband Valentin had always been an early riser, and over the last few weeks he had got worse. Seldom would he be in bed after five in the morning.

The cabin they shared was small by hotel standards, but lacked nothing in comfort. It had an old-fashioned opulence that was becoming rarer these days—pushed aside by the stark modernism of the Bauhaus school.

In truth, she was glad he was not here. Their marriage was dead—there was no other way to describe it—and it had been for a long time now. Valentin was seventy years old. Extremely short and weighing under nine stone, he was exceptionally straight and quick in his movements. His face, and in particular his eyes, were permanently devoid of all expression. A harsh, rude man, he was intolerant of all around him and indifferent to the displeasure he caused. What had possessed her to marry him she no longer knew.

But he was gone, and she had the small cabin to herself. She threw back the continental quilt and ran her hands over her body. That she was beautiful was something she knew and accepted. It wasn't arrogance—she had been a celebrated fashion model before she met Valentin—for she understood it was simply an accident of birth.

Her hands passed down across her stomach and for a brief moment she felt a stirring inside her. She hesitated, then closed her eyes and let one hand move on down. It had been so long since she had felt the touch of a loving man.

When Clara arrived in the dining room breakfast was well under way. As was always the case, for a brief moment conversation stopped and all heads turned to look at her. This had been the way all her adult life and, although it still made her uncomfortable, Clara had learnt to live with it. Since her marriage to Valentin the nature of the looks had changed somewhat. Certainly her physical presence caused a stir, but now there was the added speculation as to why she had married such a nasty little man.

He was, of course, incredibly wealthy and the normal assumption was that she was the classic gold-digger—young, blonde, and as thick as a brick. She was young, of course, only twenty nine, but brunette not blonde and very far from stupid.

She had been born to a wealthy socialite family and there had been no expectation of her other than that she enjoyed life and made a good marriage.

After a ride in a cockpit of a young friend's Stearman biplane she'd become passionate about flying. Her mother heartily disapproved—not a suitable occupation for a lady—but her father indulged her. In no time she had a pilot's licence, which was quickly followed by an instructor's certificate.

Fully qualified, she'd been determined to start a flying school of her own. Her father now feared his tolerance had been a mistake and refused any further help. Undeterred, and knowing a flight instructor's pay alone would never provide the capital she needed, she supplemented it by finding work in the fashion industry, both as an event organiser for a major fashion house and as an occasional model. It was not a world she particularly enjoyed, but it was one where her social contacts worked to her advantage. Clara had almost accumulated enough cash to purchase her first aeroplane when she met Valentin.

She fell in love. She knew it didn't make any sense—their different ages, backgrounds, interests—his three previous wives. She knew it was all wrong, but she simply had no choice. She quit her job and married him.

Looking around the dining room she could see no sign of him, so she found herself a small table at the window and sat down. Hardly had she done so than a waiter was at her side. She ordered coffee and toast, then settled back and watched the magnificent desolation of the Arctic tundra gliding silently past below. Alone with her thoughts, she tried to arrive at some course of action, some plan. Their marriage was over. The courteous, attentive man who had wooed her disappeared the minute they had married. Like so many acquisitive men, once Valentin had her as his wife she meant no more to him than any other object he displayed to bolster his self-esteem. Not that he treated her badly, just indifferently. Now she must leave.

It was not going to be pleasant, she knew that, but she had a more specific problem. Why were they here? For Valentin to agree to such a trip would have been surprising, but he had not agreed, he had insisted. This was so out of character that Clara was at a loss to explain it, but she was seriously concerned.

Do you mind if I join you?

Standing before her was a man in his mid-thirties. Well, if somewhat showily dressed, he was a good-looking man—although a little smarmy for Clara's taste.

Sorry, do I know you?

The rebuke passed straight over his head.

No. Fellow passenger...

Obviously.

What? Oh, I see. Yes, sorry. I was just thinking such a beautiful woman should not have to eat alone.

Oh please! You've got to be joking! Now if you don't mind I'd like to get on with my breakfast. That, at least, has good taste.

The man, obviously not used to such open rejection of his advances, turned away embarrassed and confused. Clara watched him go. 'Still he did have a nice backside; pity he talked through it'. She returned to her food.

In another corner of the dining room Rufus Savage had finished his breakfast and was enjoying a second cup of coffee.

May I join you for a moment?

Rufus half rose from his seat and nodded in his rather old-fashioned manner.

Please, please.

The ship's Canadian captain, Brian Willard, sat down opposite him. For a moment the two men looked at one another.

The older man was something of an enigma to the captain; he was travelling alone as a guest of Sir John Ellerman, the owner of the company and saviour of the British airship industry, and the captain had been asked to personally see to the man's comfort. An odd—and unwelcome—request, but in the event Brian had taken an instant liking to Savage. Rather proper and military in his manner, not surprising with his background, he was nevertheless a direct and intelligent man.

Settled in, Rufus?

Oh yes, very comfortable, very comfortable indeed. And I must say, very much quieter than I had expected.

Yes, we are very satisfied with the noise levels. We had expectations, of course, but we did anticipate a bit more structural noise, a framework this large and light does tend to flex a fair bit.

Indeed, for all practical purposes the ship was totally silent. If you listened very carefully, there was a low background sound from the engines and propellers, for all the world like the rolling of surf on a distant shore. And, if you rested your hand on a hard surface there was the faintest sensation—not exactly vibration—but rather a subtle feeling of the ship being somehow alive.

Can I ask you something, Captain?

Certainly. But only if you call me Brian.

Rufus looked somewhat uncomfortable. Being old-fashioned by nature and having spent his entire working life in the police, he was used to addressing people by rank, and the colonial manner of easy informality left him feeling rather nonplussed.

Your choice of engine. I was surprised when I read that you'd decided on the Beardmore diesels.

How so?

After the fiasco of trying to adapt the engine for the R 101, I would have thought that was a road you wouldn't want to tread. I assumed you'd stick with the Condor engine from the R-100.

True, the Beardmores had their problems, but the situation was rather over-stated in the press. The real problem was political—public and media pressure pushed the programme ahead even when development was still not complete. The engines were simply not ready. That said, they performed all right and in no way contributed to the loss of the R-101.

Were they not very overweight?

Well yes, they were—although it was expected that once the design was fully developed a lot of weight could be shed—but the real issue is not the weight of the engines themselves, it's the total weight of engine and fuel. The Condors on the R-100 collectively weighed around nine tons less than the Beardmores, but required eleven and a half tons more fuel to cross the Atlantic.

So you persisted?

Yes and no. Although derived from the Tornado, the Ethylwyn's engines are a different animal altogether. Similar size, but V12's not straight 8's—and much more refined.

Rufus hesitated, then observed But if I'm not mistaken, you sought me out with a purpose?

Always the policeman, eh? Nothing dramatic, though. About 11:00 hours we will be passing over the North Pole. If the weather permits, and it looks like it will, we intend to land and let the passengers out onto the ice. I wondered if you would like to be on the bridge for the landing?

May I? That would be wonderful, as long as you don't think I'll get in the way.

Rufus, we'd be honoured. Come down to the gondola about 10:30.

The Captain rose, nodded to the seated man, and returned to his duties. Rufus sat a while longer, then got up and made his way to the long