Margot Bennett - The Man Who Didn't Fly

“I’m sorry to ask these questions now.”

She ignored the apology, and sat as still as if she had been drugged.

“Then there’s Harry Walters,” the inspector said.

“Harry?” Moira repeated with hatred. “He stayed with us. But there’s nothing I can tell you. He’s Hester’s concern.”

Hester stared at the floor.

“He was a poet,” Prudence volunteered.

“A poet,” the inspector repeated, apparently surprised. “Do you know anything about poetry, Sergeant?”

“A little, sir.”

“I thought so.” The inspector shut his lips and sank back in his chair.

“Did you like his poetry?” Sergeant Young asked Prudence carefully.

“I thought it was pretty feeble,” she said. “I like good poetry. Browning and people like that.”

“I don’t care for Browning much. Did you like his poetry, Miss Wade?”

“Yes.”

“And you, Mrs Ferguson?”

“I’m no judge,” she said, looking away. “My husband didn’t like Harry.”

Lewis sat up again. “Did he ever read you his poems, Miss Wade?”

“Read? Not exactly. No, he didn’t read his poems to me.”

“But he sometimes quoted lines?”

Sergeant Young turned away, like a specialist whose evidence was no longer required.

“I’m anxious to help,” Hester said in a low voice. “But I don’t see the point of those questions.”

“I’m trying to form an idea of all those four men. They were all known to you. Did you know Harry Walters well?”

“Not exactly.”

“Did anyone here know him well?” He looked directly at Moira Ferguson.

“I did,” Prudence said. “He was always coming here for meals. And he used to play Donegal Poker. With Morgan.”

The inspector looked at the sergeant for help. “I’ve never heard of it, sir.”

“So Harry Walters and Morgan Price were friends?”

“Not exactly.”

“Is there anything that Harry Walters was, exactly?”

“Nothing that could be described in a few words. People aren’t classified, like racing cars,” Hester said in agitation.

“Take as many words as you like.”

Hester looked desperate, and her father spoke quickly, trying to shield her from the heavy artillery, like a loyal native with a bow and arrow.

“How can we answer these questions? What can one decently say of the dead? Harry was cheerful, entertaining, kind. He was helpful, even generous, sometimes,” he protested.

Inspector Lewis nodded incredulously, and turned to Hester again. “He sounds an ideal character,” he said, on a note of suggestion.

“I know how I’d describe him,” Prudence muttered. “Oh, I’m sorry, Hester.”

“Please say what you think, Prudence,” her elder sister said contemptuously. “Inspector Lewis wants information.”

“I won’t say a word,” Prudence said, beginning to sob. “I promise you I won’t, Hester.”

“This is worse than words,” Hester said.

Moira laughed, implying that she could say a great deal about Harry, if she chose.

“Tell us what you want to know,” Hester said.

“I’ll try to explain, Miss Wade. One of these four men, all intimate friends of your family – and all known to you, Mrs Ferguson – had such powerful reasons for wanting to disappear that he took the course of pretending to die on that plane. Shall we say that he missed the plane, heard of the crash, and discovered almost instantly – the same day, if he listened to the news bulletin – that no one knew which three of the passengers had travelled? He took the chance of pretending to be one of them, and of disappearing for good. There must have been something very strange in this man’s private life to make him do this. You’re in a position to know something of the private lives of all these men. In the public interest, I’d like to hear what you know.”

“Oh, the public interest,” Prudence muttered scornfully.

“There are other points,” Inspector Lewis said mildly. “There’s Mrs Ferguson, here. She doesn’t know if her husband is dead or alive. Some of the others might have been married – might even have fathers, or sisters, who are doing a bit of worrying now.” He stopped, and gave them a minute to let their confusion deepen.

“I think, Hester,” Wade began resolutely, “I think—”

“I think there’s nothing more we can tell you,” Hester said loudly.

“Not if one of them was connected with the criminal classes? Not if one of them was frightened? Not if one had a peculiar background, or financial troubles?”

“Nothing. Nothing more.”

“There’s the question of property. That’s very serious. No legatee would be able to benefit, as things are now. Have you thought of that?” Inspector Lewis urged.

Moira looked grimmer than before.

“And there’s the possibility of crime,” the inspector said in a harsher voice. “The man who didn’t fly on that plane may be dead. How are we to know unless you give us the facts?” he demanded of Hester. “Do you think that’s a possibility, Miss Wade?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

“If people are murdered, it’s for a reason. Was there anything in the lives of any of these four – and remember, it might have been something as simple as carrying too much money in his pocket-book – anything so out of the ordinary that it might have led him into trouble?”

He waited. No one spoke, although the silence had an intensity that suggested everyone was about to speak.

“You’re all reasonable people,” he said. “I’m not here to attack you. I came in the hope that with your help I might arrive at the truth.” He looked again at Hester, and saw her make her decision.

“It’s so difficult to explain,” she said. “I don’t know how to begin.”

“Did anything unusual happen before they left? They were all here on Thursday night. Can you tell me anything about Thursday?”

They looked at each other, their collective memories moving slowly back into the events of Thursday, a day already buried beneath the weight of other days. They returned to it slowly, like divers exploring a submarine cave; seeing the grey form of the fish trembling in the still water; clutching at the sunken rock with both hands while their bodies streamed upwards as lightly as weed; fingering the crevices; scraping empty shells from the deep sand.

Hester shook her head. “I can’t begin with Thursday. On Wednesday I met Marryatt first, Jackie came at night, and Harry – I think I must begin with Wednesday.”

“Then Wednesday. Two days before the plane took off.”

“Wednesday,” she said wistfully. “On Wednesday morning everything seemed so peaceful. Father was painting a room…”

CHARLES WADE stood on top of a step-ladder, painting a wall with wild, frightened strokes. Harry Walters lounged against the door.

“Is there any advice I could give you?” he asked. “If you worked more from the wrist, wouldn’t it look less like a hair-shirt?”

“This new paint dries like glass and lasts for ever,” Wade said.

“But the wall behind it won’t, Father. Shouldn’t you have filled in the hole first?” Hester asked.

“It’s only a little hole. It could have paper pasted over it,” Wade said.

Hester tapped it with her knuckles. Sand streamed out of it and down the wall. “The ruined sides of kings,” she said absently.

Wade stared at her with baffled, parent’s eyes.

“You’re in a destructive mood, Hester. Now I’ll have to fill it in. Be a good girl and get me the bag of plaster. It’s in the larder.”

“Two flights of stairs,” Hester said. She looked at Harry, who sat down in a corner and lit a cigarette.