The Golden Age

Chapter 7: Clegg's Hangar

While Scotland Yard were seeking Hermione the master criminal, the Stourside police had more or less given up the search for Alice . The sea would give up her body in time, they believed. She wasn't the first suicide to throw herself into the currents off Stourside Ness and they didn't imagine she would be the last. Their views might have been different if they had pressed the Honourable Bertie Graham further on what had happened the previous day.

Bertie had done as he had promised and arranged for Alice to see Clegg. Clegg had been less than keen because of the work he had on but Bertie had proved persuasive. Alice had gathered up the file of press clippings that she had collected on Jean and her fateful flight and then had driven up to the airfield.

She got there just as the sun was slipping down behind the Halfpenny Downs that gave the field its name. The airfield was quiet with only a single Tiger Moth biplane doing circuits and bumps. It landed for the last time that day as the sun finally set. Alice waited until the Tiger Moth had taxied past her and then her car bounced across the ruts in the field as she drove across towards Clegg's hangar. She parked her Austin 7 beside the hangar's high steel doors, where Silver Wing had been standing a few days before.

She got out and stared again towards the horizon where Jean's plane had been headed. Alice looked into the hangar where Clegg was working on one of his prototype engines. Clegg's seaplane had been brought up into the hangar on its launching trolley after a long proving flight the day before. Alice had watched as the sleek seaplane had swept low over the tennis club before it headed off towards the south, its engine droning powerfully as it picked up height and speed. Clegg was obviously an accomplished pilot, Alice had thought.

Up close the seaplane still looked tiny. Its streamlined cockpit hardly seemed big enough for its single crew; much smaller than the cabin on Silver Wing had appeared; Alice wondered how Clegg – hardly the slimmest of men - fitted into it. The thin, straight wings looked as sharp as razor blades; the seaplane's two floats, like racing canoes slung beneath the wings, glinted. The ‘plane was finished to a mirror-like polish. Every rivet on the all metal panels that covered its fuselage, wings and floats was flush; every fitting had been streamlined to allow the plane to squeeze the last ounce of speed out of the aircraft's powerful V12 engine.

Bertie was in the hangar. He was studying some papers in the small office that had been built by throwing up a couple of wooden panels in one corner of the hangar. He smiled and waved as Alice came in. She went straight across to Clegg, keen not to waste the slightest time. Clegg looked up from the engine block he was working on. He wiped his hands on his overalls, looked down and, seeing the grease, apologised to his visitor. “Miss Mottram. Hope you won't mind if I don't shake hands.”

Alice seemed as ebullient as when Bertie had last seen her. “Thanks awfully for seeing me Mr Clegg,” she gushed. “I'm sorry to disturb you and you must be frightfully busy but I think there's something I noticed about the flight the other night – about Jean's disappearance - and while I can't see what it might mean, it could be important, couldn't it? What do you think?”

Clegg put down the spanner he was holding and wiped his hands on an oily cloth on the bench. He scratched his head. “Its difficult to say without knowing what it is Miss Mottram,” he said, ingenuously. “But often solving the mystery of an aircraft that has disappeared like this turns on some apparently insignificant detail. The smallest clue, the slightest question, the simplest snippet can hold the key to understanding the fate of a plane, an engine or a pilot. What is it you noticed? A problem with the engine? An over-heating exhaust? Damage to a wing tip, perhaps? I should warn you though, I don't think it's likely that we'll see the Silver Wing again.”

“Oh no, Mr Clegg, nothing like that. I really don't know anything about engines or aircraft, I'm afraid. But what would you say if I said that, whoever took up the Silver Wing on its final flight, Jean Alardyce was not the pilot?”

Clegg looked amazed. “What?” he stuttered.

“Jean Alardyce was not flying the Silver Wing when it took off,” Alice said firmly. “I'm absolutely certain of that.”

Clegg scratched his head, leaving a streak of grease. “That's an extraordinary claim,” he said. “How can it be true? We all saw her get into the ‘plane, there were hundreds of people watching, an enormous crowd.”

“I know it seems extraordinary, Mr Clegg, and I can't explain what went on. I know that I saw Jean come out of the Control Tower and walk across to the Silver Wing, just like everyone else did. All I know is that I am sure it wasn't her that finally got into the plane.”

Bertie came across to join the pair of them. “What's all this about old thing?” he asked.

“Do shut up, Bertie,” Clegg interrupted. Bertie stepped back, abashed. “Carry on, Miss Mottram. This is all very odd. I cannot see how what you say could be true, that would mean she was faking her record attempt or something as sinister. I certainly thought I saw her get into the plane, I was watching from here, rather closer than you were, I think. But Bertie said you wanted to ask me something about Jean, something that would help explain your confusion.”

“Well it's more that I wanted you to confirm something about Jean,” Alice said. “Which hand did she write with?”

“I'm sorry?” Clegg was puzzled.

“Was she right or left handed, would you say?” Alice 's voice was calm. “You must have seen her writing, perhaps signing contracts?”

“Well, I'm not sure I noticed. It's hardly that sort of thing you take in. I don't think I could say. What difference does it make anyway?”

“Oh, every difference. You'll soon agree, I think,” said Alice . “You see I am certain she was left handed. She signed that autograph for me and at the time I thought it odd. My brother was left handed and his school teachers had beaten him until he learned to use his right. Jean must have been particularly stubborn to carry on with it. I thought it another example of her determination.”

“Perhaps you are right. I really don't recall. But left handed or right handed I don't see what difference it makes to the fact that she got into the plane, took off and hasn't been seen or heard of since.”

Alice was evidently getting more excited as she continued her tale. “No, you don't understand yet. Listen. Jean came out from the tower and went across to the plane. Then she must have come into the hangar to get something. The she came out to the plane – or at least someone that looked like her; someone in her overalls, in her helmet came out to the plane.”

“ Alice , this is silly,” Bertie had come across to join them, “what possible reason would there be for that?”

“I don't know the reason for it but I don't think I'm being silly. When Jean walked across to the plane, she went to the front and wrote ‘ Johannesburg ' on the cowling.”

“Yes, of course. Jean always wrote the destination of her flight on the aircraft. It was a good-luck thing.”

“I know. I've got pictures of her doing it on the Delhi flight. It's just that when she did it this time she used her right hand.”

“Extraordinary, Miss Mottram,” Clegg sounded impressed. “You think that an impostor took off on her flight?”

“That's my thought, yes, but I wanted to hear if you thought such a thing was possible before I told the police. I mean if what I saw was right she could be alive somewhere, couldn't she?”

“Yes, I suppose so. That would be the case,” Clegg turned away from Alice towards the bench. “Well, I'm certainly pleased that you came to talk to me about this,” he said.