Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

‘My cabman!’ I cry. ‘The scoundrel informed on us! But what are we going to do ? Simmons!’

The noise of our persecutors draws nearer. We can just make out their yells — the word ‘anarchists’ is repeated often, borne aloft on the afternoon breeze.

‘It seems that Mr Kensington must flee,’ says Simmons. ‘If he is taken, his machine is likely to be confiscated.’

‘I can’t leave you!’ protests Kensington. ‘Come with me!’

‘Yes,’ adds Lizzie hastily, ‘we’ll go straight to Iceland!’

It sounds like a most exciting proposition, and I consider it briefly. ‘If we depart now,’ I muse, ‘we would be to Iceland sometime Wednesday morning — which, given that Wednesday is after all Odin’s day, seems rather propitious. To arrive in the land of the pagan gods on the feast day of their chief strikes me as eminently sensible.’

‘Doubtless, sir,’ says Simmons, ‘but we haven’t any supplies or provisions. Surely we cannot be expected to storm the gates of Hell half-starved and weaponless.’

‘He’s right,’ says Lancaster. ‘It won’t do, old boy.’

It is true; but all the same, Simmons’s obvious lack of adventurous inclination is beginning to wear on me. He seems quite set on delaying the expedition, though I cannot for the life of me understand why.

The policemen meanwhile are thundering up the hill.

‘Mr Kensington would really be very well served to depart immediately,’ says Simmons.

‘I’m afraid he’s right again,’ says Lancaster.

‘But I can’t just leave you!’ says Kensington for a second time. ‘It wouldn’t be right at all! We’re in this together now; it would be shameful to desert.’

‘There’s no shame in a strategic retreat,’ says Lancaster. ‘We can regroup later on, but if your machine gets taken then we’re in quite a spot.’

‘We’ll all escape together!’ cries Lizzie. ‘We can land a few miles away and sneak back into the city at night!’

‘I cannot help but point out,’ says Simmons, ‘that the machine has not yet been tested.’

Kensington nods. ‘It’s not safe.’

‘So you’re going to leave us for the police?’ demands Lizzie, rounding on him. She fixes him with a glare that would have basilisked a basilisk; but somehow Will Kensington shrugs it off.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Savage,’ he says. ‘But it wouldn’t be right to take you aloft with the Cirrus in this state. There’s no telling what might happen, and I would be villain indeed if I were responsible for your death.’

‘Besides,’ says Simmons, ‘we can reason with the police. We’ve done nothing wrong, after all. Incidentally, they are quite close now.’

‘What do you mean, “reason with them”?’ says Lizzie. She is stubborn.

‘If we all flee,’ says Simmons, ‘it will seem a tacit admission of our guilt. Our staying when we had means of escape will speak volumes in a court of law.* We must allow ourselves to be taken in order to clear Mr Kensington’s name.’

‘Oh, you don’t have to bother about that—’ begins Kensington; but he is cut off by the bellowing of a portly sergeant puffing his way up the hill.

‘Simmons is right,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Best be off, Will Kensington.’

‘I cannot in good conscience—’

Something whizzes by us and impacts on the hull of the machine. A split second later I hear the sharp crack of a rifle.

‘Hold your fire, damn you!’ thunders Lancaster.

‘Was that a bullet ?’ I ask in bewilderment. ‘Are they shooting at us?’ I’ve never been shot at before.

‘Not very sporting of them,’ says Lancaster disgustedly.

‘I think,’ says Simmons, ‘that it is really time for Mr Kensington to be going.’

‘But—’

Another shot rings out. We all throw ourselves facedown in the dirt, and Lancaster yells several things which make Simmons blush.

‘It does seem,’ says Kensington, ‘that we should decide quite soon.’

‘You should go, lad,’ says Lancaster. He finds a large stone and, coming briefly to his knees, hurls it at our attackers. It seems a vain enterprise — they are still a hundred yards off — but his arm is like a cannon. The stone strikes one of the vanguard in the shoulder and he goes down. The others halt their advance to see to their companion, then draw up a line of battle.

‘It’s true,’ I say. ‘We’ll sort things out here. Find somewhere to hide the machine, and contact us as soon as you’re able.’

Kensington hesitates, then says, ‘Very well. I feel a frightful ass, but I’ll be off. I am so sorry, Miss Savage. I hope you won’t think badly of me.’

‘No, no,’ sighs Lizzie. ‘They’re all quite right, of course. Off you go.’

‘I will return as soon as—’

‘Go, you idiot!’ she says.

Kensington crawls on his belly to the front of the craft, then springs up and vaults over the gunwale. The sudden movement elicits several more shots from the police, none of which come near us. I hope there are no picnickers in the vicinity or their lives may be in serious jeopardy.* I cannot from my vantage see into the machine, but Kensington must have made his way to the engine; for the wings, which have been moving up and down lazily, begin to beat quicker. They move in alternation — first the back wing on both port and starboard (though I do not know which is left and which right),* then the front pair.

More shots, one of which murders an unsuspecting pigeon. Lancaster has been fumbling at his buttons for some moments; he now stands up, and I see that he has unbuttoned his upper body. He sheds coat and waistcoat and removes his shirt. I am less offended by his nudity than I was by Simmons’s, partly because Lizzie is not staring at him and partly because he does not look entirely human. The muscles under his skin are not those of a man, but of a great beast in some foreign jungle. I was mistaken, Lizzie is staring at him. I am about to demand he make himself decent when he begins to wave his shirt over his head and I suddenly understand — it is a white flag of surrender.

The shots stop. We all clamber to our feet. The wings of Kensington’s machine beat even quicker. The engine causes the ground to tremble.

Lancaster slips his shirt back on and raises his hands over his head. Lizzie and Simmons and I do the same. We slowly advance toward the line of police. The portly sergeant barks something, and every gun is trained upon us. We continue toward them. They split into two groups and come at us cautiously from either side. Within a few moments we are roughly and impolitely handcuffed.

A small, thin man in plainclothes accompanies the portly sergeant. He seems the more sensible of the two. He says, ‘My name is Detective Inspector Walter Dewhurst.* This is my colleague Sergeant Paisley. You are under arrest in the name of Her Majesty.’

‘You can’t arrest us, damn you,’ says Lancaster. ‘Do you know who I am?’

‘No, sir, I do not. But we have it on good authority that you are all members of the’—he pulls out a notebook and checks something—‘the Alec Rubeum, an anarchist circle intent upon the aerial bombardment of the Cities of Westminster and London.’

‘That we’re what ?’ I demand. ‘Is this a joke, sir? I’m Lionel Savage the poet, and this is Ashley Lancaster!’

A murmur spreads through the ranks of police — my words have struck a nerve. I do not know if they know my name, but they certainly do Lancaster’s. For a moment I think we have trumped them; but we have not. After brief deliberation they reject our story. I glance at my small party and at once see why. We are to a man covered from head to toe in mud and engine grease; our eyes are bleary and our hair wild; and Lancaster is but half-clothed.