Chapter 1 : Anyone For Tennis?

April 1937; the sun dappled through the avenue of lime trees as a gleaming, blue, Bugatti sped through the Hampshire country side. The car swung between the wrought iron gates of the Stourside Tennis Club, crunching along the gravel drive towards the club house. The tourer skidded to a halt, it showered the club house lawn with gravel - a result of excessive enthusiasm applied to the hand brake. The honourable Bertie Graham grabbed a canvas bag from the seat beside him and vaulted out of the driving seat. Alice Mottram, who had been sitting on the veranda of the club house leapt to her feet smiling.

“Oh, Bertie, what a complete delight!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “How spiffing to see you.”

“And you, old thing,” Bertie laughed, bounding up the steps onto the veranda. “Now anyone for a sound thrashing on the courts,” he grinned, drawing his racket from the canvas bag with a flourish as if it was a duelling sabre.

“Not so old, you beast,” said Alice wagging an admonishing finger. “And we'll see just who thrashes whom.” She picked up her own racket and grasped Bertie by the arm. “Now you absolutely must tell me what you've been up to and where you've been, I've not seen you for ages,” she said, tripping off with him towards a free court.

An hour later the two of them were sitting on the veranda of the club house as one of the club stewards brought across a tray of drinks. “To the winner, the spoils,” smiled Bertie as he lifted a large Pimms from the tray and presented it to Alice with a gallant gesture. She accepted it with relish. “Why thank you, sir,” she said, smiling at him as she took a sip. “Now, come on, you promised to tell me what you have been up to.”

Bertie, was slowly packing tobacco from a small leather pouch into his pipe. “Well it has all been a bit hush-hush, don't you know?” He pulled a box of matches from the pocket of his striped blazer and lit up. An aromatic cloud of blue smoke slid lazily across the club house veranda.

“How exciting,” Alice grinned at Bertie's intriguing manner. “I know you've been spending oodles of time over at the aerodrome, is it something to do with the record attempt?”

“Ah, hah, my secret life is unveiled! No prospects for me as a spy, eh? Yes, I've got myself a bit of a job up there. Got a bit short of the old mazoomah; found a chap who was looking for a sort of business manager and finds the old title a bit of a help. I've been picking up enough to keep the Bugatti running and the pipe filled.” He tapped out his pipe on the heel of his shoe under the disapproving gaze of the steward and set to filling it again. “I've not had anything to do with the record attempt but there's obviously a lot of excitement about that.”

“Now don't tell me you've met Jean Alardyce, I'll just be too, too jealous.”

“Oh, yes, I see Jean quite often. I'm not really involved in her flight but she's been doing all her preparation up there, getting the plane ready, modifications done, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, Bertie, she's my absolute heroine. First woman to fly non-stop to Delhi; first to cross the south Atlantic from Cape Town to Buenos Aires; fastest solo transatlantic crossing east-west. She's an amazing airwoman. I've watched all her flights on the newsreels and I'm definitely going over to the field to see her take off on this one.”

“Gosh, I hadn't thought you such an expert. Wouldn't have thought that plane's were your thing at all. Far too noisy and greasy: what?”

“Oh, it's not the planes, silly.” Alice took another sip of her Pimms. “Have you seen how she looks? She's always dressed so fabulously. What woman can't envy someone that can fly two thousand miles and then leap down from her aircraft looking as though she just stepped out of a taxi cab in Mayfair ?”

“I don't think you'd say that if you saw her in overalls, with a spanner in her hand and grease streaks across her face.”

“Well that's the other thing – she does all her own work on the plane doesn't she? ‘The Flying Scot Keeps Her Own Kite Flying' it said in the paper. It must be so wonderful to be able to do all that and take on the men at their own game.”

“At more than tennis, you mean?” Bertie laughed. “Anyway, you're in for a treat, here she comes now.” He pointed to the supercharged Bentley that was growling toward them up the club house drive.

Alice craned her head to catch sight of her heroine as the car swung past. “Who's that driving her?”

“Oh, that's Clegg – the chap I'm working for – he's builds aero engines and he's developing a whole family of high speed seaplanes. I expect he's been trying to convince Miss Alardyce that she should use his engines for her future flights. It would be a good advertisement for him.”

Clegg and Jean Alardyce emerged from around the corner of the club house, evidently deep in discussion. Jean was tall and willowy; Alice had heard that she found it difficult to fit into the cramped space in her latest machine. Her blond hair hung unfashionably long and loose ignoring the fashion for bobbed, permed styles. She wore a simple, cream silk dress that flowed with lines as streamlined as the aircraft she loved. Alice thought she was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Bertie got to his feet and Clegg greeted him. “All right Bertie?” he asked. “We won't stop if you don't mind. Sorry to be rude.”

“No. Quite all right old man. I would just like to introduce my companion here to Miss Alardyce, if you've got a moment, though,” Bertie persisted. “She's quite a fan.”

“Why of course, I'm very flattered,” Jean's voice carried a soft Edinburgh accent. “I'm pleased to meet you, Miss?”

“Ah, sorry,” said Bertie. “I'm not doing this too well. Miss Jean Alardyce – Miss Alice Mottram.” Alice got to her feet and was shaking her heroine by the hand in a vigorous way.

“I can't tell you how pleased I am to meet you,” she gushed, “you're just such an inspiration.”

“Well thank you,” Jean smiled, modestly, a little embarrassed by the attention.

Clegg was looking impatient. “We really do need to get on, Jean, if you are to have enough time to make up your mind on the new engine.”

“Don't be stuffy, Freddie, there's plenty of time for that over lunch. I thought that was why we came over here – for a change of air?”

“Oh, I'm sorry Miss Alardyce, I didn't mean to delay you, but… Oh, could I ask you to let me have your autograph?”

“Of course,” Jean smiled at her admirer, “here, let me have that menu card.” She pulled a fountain pen from her handbag and signed the card with a flourish.

“And we really must go,” said Clegg, edging towards the club house restaurant. “Goodbye, Bertie, Miss Mottram.”

Alice Mottram looked down at the menu card as Clegg and Jean left. “To Alice ,” it said, “With very best wishes, Jean Alardyce.” Alice smiled contentedly. “Bertie, you've absolutely made my day,” she laughed. “I might even let you beat me at tennis next time.”

Chapter 2: Two Go Clubbing

There was consternation in the Committee Room of the Royal Aeronautical Club on London 's Park Lane . Police Inspector Jaffe was interviewing Hermione Addams, the Club's archivist and librarian after the break in. Sir George Carstairs, the Aeronautical Club's Chairman was hovering nearby, wringing his hands with concern. Jaffe was trying to calm the distraught Hermione. “Please, Miss Adams, I can understand that you're upset, it must have been a frightening experience..”

“Frightening? That's hardly the point, is it Inspector? Have you seen what they've done?”

“Well, yes Miss Addams, but surely you…”

“Never mind me, what are you going to do about getting it back?”

“Soon, enough Miss Addams, I need to understand what happened, if you could just….”

“It's completely obvious what has happened Inspector – the broken display case should tell you that.”

“If you just tell me what happened to you, then …”

“Please, Hermione, do try to help the Inspector,” Carstairs interjected.

Hermione sighed and adjusted her half moon spectacles. “I've already been through this once with your constable and then with your sergeant, I would have thought that by now you would have enough to…”

“Please, Hermione,” Carstairs again. Jaffe waited, hoping that Carstairs' influence would persuade the librarian to re-tell her story.

“Oh very well.” She gathered herself. “I was working late, Inspector, in the library, cataloguing some of the papers on last year's record attempts. We keep track of all the flights here, you understand?”

“Yes, of course, please go on.”

“I heard a noise down here in the Committee Room. I knew there was no one else in the building so I came down to investigate.”

“Wasn't that a little unwise Miss Addams?”

“I suppose so, but it didn't occur to me at the time. I thought that perhaps Biggles might have…”

“Biggles?”

“Biggles, the Club's cat, he's always getting into places he shouldn't.”

“I see. Do go on.”

“Well as soon as I came in I could see something was wrong. The display cabinet had been broken open, there were maps and charts all over the floor. I made for the desk – we only have the one telephone there but as I got into the room someone grabbed me.”

“Did you see them?”

“Well not really, it was dark and there was just the light shining in from the corridor. Quite a tall man, quite strong – I could hardly struggle against him. He put a hand over my mouth – he was wearing gloves, I couldn't make a sound.”

“And then…”

“The other one started tying me up. They'd ransacked the displays they used some cords to tie my wrists from one of the early parachutes we have in the collection and then gagged me – with that” she pointed to a scarf lying on the desk. “Can you imagine - Major Schroeder wore that on his world altitude record flight in 1920. It's an absolute disgrace – people shouldn't be allowed to come in and ….”

“Did you see anything of the other man, Miss Adams?” Jaffe was feeling his patience draining away.

“Slighter than the first, shorter, wearing a mask across his face – well they both were - and a cap.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“Well they certainly weren't gentle and I was kicking out at them, the shorter one certainly got one of my heels down his shin, but they weren't violent. They didn't hit me or anything. Just dragged me over there…”

“To that propeller …”

“Airscrew, Inspector,” Carstairs, explained.

“I stand corrected – to that airscrew. And then Miss Adams?”

They tied me to it – pulled my wrists up against the top blade and tied my ankles to the bottom. I couldn't struggle at all.”

“The ropes were too tight?”

“No, not particularly. It's just I could run the risk of damaging it.”

“Damaging it?” Jaffe was having problems imagining that the slightly built Hermione could do much damage to an eight foot, solid wooden propeller.

“The airscrew – that was on the Farman bi-plane that first flew across the Irish Sea in 1910. I couldn't possibly have done anything that would have broken it. Not that they would have cared.”

Jaffe was beginning to despair of getting any real picture of what had gone on. Normally his problem was hysterical witnesses, not ones that were excessively matter of fact about irrelevancies. “If you could just return to the story, Miss Chapman, what did the men do once that had tied you to the propeller – sorry, airscrew.”

“Well they had a box – they pulled the trophy from the cabinet and pushed it into the box. Then they were grabbing charts from the cabinet and screwing them up as packing – pushing balls of paper into the box around the trophy. Then they picked up the box and climbed out of that window” she pointed to tall window that looked out on the Club's small garden, “with it. It's a national disaster – the Italians, French and Americans will be laughing at us for ever. You've got to get it back.”

“And after they left?” Jaffe ignored her passionate appeal.

“I was there all night. I couldn't move – the airscrew might have fallen on me, you know – it was only when Mr Carstairs came in this morning that he was able to free me.”

“And was there anything else you remember about the men, Miss? Anything at all?”

“No, I don't think so, Inspector. But you must get it back. It's a terrible loss for the Club and the country.”

“Of course, Miss Addams. We will do all we can. The trophy …”

“Not just the trophy,” Hermione interrupted. “All those charts too – some of the great flights of exploration had been planned on those flights – and they just screwed them up like so much packing.”

“Ah, yes,” Inspector Jaffe sighed, humouring her. “The charts. We mustn't forget the charts.” The truth was that he wasn't much concerned about them but he was worried by the loss of the trophy. Hermione was right; there would be international concern when its loss was announced.

The great, silver, Schneider Trophy for sea plane races – won outright by Britain six years before - had been stolen from its display case

Chapter 3: Taking Off

At Halfpenny Down Airfield on the edge of Stourside, Jean Alardyce had been working hard to get her aircraft ready. After their meeting at the tennis club, Alice was determined to watch Jean take off on her record attempt. She joined the crowds out at the airfield as the sun set – Bertie had explained how an evening take off meant Jean would have the smoothest air when she got to the Atlas Mountains the following day.

There was quite a throng in the area that had been roped off for spectators close to the control tower but Alice had been able to work her way almost to the front. In front of her a broad swathe of grass provided the airfield's runway and beyond she could see the two hangars used by the club and by Clegg's business. She'd managed to get a good position almost directly opposite where Jean's monoplane, the Silver Wing, was standing ready beside Clegg's hangar. It was already laden with fuel for the thirty six hour flight ahead. Its long wings, designed to flex as the aircraft achieved higher altitudes, arced downwards so that their tips were only a foot or so above the grass. It seemed at once laden down and anxious to be free of the ground. Two mechanics busied themselves around the plane. One pulled the cover from the windscreen. Another wedged the door to the cabin open, ready for its pilot.

Not far away was Clegg's seaplane, tied down to its launching trolley. The pencil like body of the streamlined single-seater, polished to mirror like smoothness, glinted in the last rays of the setting sun. Alice had expected to see Clegg himself but he didn't seem to be around.

A great cheer went up as Jean Alardyce emerged from the airfield control tower building. In her characteristic white flying suit, carrying her flying helmet in one hand and her parachute pack across her shoulder, she strode purposefully across the grass. Her hair streamed in the wind as she waved to the crowd and walked towards her aircraft.

She tossed her parachute into the aircraft cabin and then stepped into the hangar. Emerging a few minutes later clutching a bundle of charts and, wearing her flying helmet, goggles and gauntlets, she was now evidently ready to go. The crowd watched as she scribbled her destination on the side of the engine cowling just as she always did for luck. “ Johannesburg ”, it said in large letters. The crowd cheered as she clambered in. They cheered as the aircraft's propeller turned over. They cheered as the engine coughed, and burst into life with spurts of smoke from the two exhaust pipes that ran under the aircraft's fuselage. They cheered as the chocks were pulled away from the plane's wheels and cheered again as Jean waved from the tiny window of her cabin and started to taxi slowly towards the end of the runway. As the aircraft passed in front of the crowd, Alice thought it seemed as though Jean was waving just to her. She yelled out, “Good luck Jean, good luck!” but knew of course that her own cheers would be drowned out by those of the rest of the crowd and the roar of the Silver Wing's engine.

The plane reached the end of the field and turned. A green flare shot up from the control tower and the Silver Wing started its take-off run. Packed with the fuel needed for the non-stop attempt – the papers had christened the plane “The Petrol Tank With Wings” – it started slowly and looked as thought it would never gain sufficient speed to leave the ground. The crowd held its breath and the only sound that could be heard was the straining of the plane's engine. Slowly the tail lifted and the craft bounced on its main wheels. Once, twice, it bounced; its drooping wing tips almost brushing the ground. And then it struggled free of the field, still painfully slowly, off of the ground and into the air. The crowd gave a final cheer as it cleared the airfield boundary and climbed away into the distant dusk.

Alice stayed, staring at the disappearing dot that was Jean's aircraft, as the crowd dispersed. She wasn't sure why but she was worried. Suddenly she was aware that she was alone in the dark, still standing by the fence that had kept the crowd back, still gazing into the distance. Now she did see Clegg. He was silhouetted in the light streaming from the hangar door as he walked across towards his seaplane. Obviously not a man to be caught up in the excitement of an event like this, thought Alice , a bit of a cold fish. She headed back to her car.

An hour later, now far away to the southwest the plane climbed steadily but slowly, reaching its cruising altitude as the plane headed out over the English Channel . Two lighthouse keepers heard the drone of its engine, still steady, as it passed over their lonely rock in the western approaches.

Chapter 4: Clues & Deductions

Inspector Jaffe was back at the Royal Aeronautical Club in the Chairman's office. Sir George Carstairs was looking even more concerned than he had been when the two had previously met. He stubbed out the last of a large cigar and turned his back on the Inspector, staring disconsolately out of the window at the view across Hyde Park .

“It's almost inconceivable, Inspector.” Carstairs said. “Miss Addams was, is, one of our most long standing employees. I find it unbelievable that she could have been involved in this.”

“That's as may be, Sir,” Jaffe responded. “I'm afraid though that things look very much that way from what Ii have discovered so far. You said yourself that she had not been back to work since the robbery.”

“That's true, but I had told her to take a few days off to get over the shock of it all. Didn't really think that she would though – she'd never had a day off for the last six years.”

“So was that when she joined?”

“Yes, 1931, I remember it clearly – every one was busy celebrating the race. We'd just won the trophy outright you know – good heavens you don't think she was planning to steal it even then, do you?”

Jaffe pondered for a moment before answering. “No Sir George, I think that was probably a coincidence but she is very definitely our main suspect now.”

“Can you tell me how you reached this conclusion?”

“Of course, perhaps it may help you to recall some important detail. I was keen to talk to Miss Addams again – there were several points about her story that seemed odd – her obsession with rather trivial points, for example. Then there was all that business with the charts, …”

“She could be rather intense about her work, Inspector. I'm not sure I would have thought that odd at all.”

“Hmm, well that's as maybe. In any case I went around to her flat to talk to her again but could not contact her. According to her landlady, she had left the previous evening with two gentlemen that fitted the description of the two thieves that she had given us. Well I can tell you that seemed unusual to say the least. The landlady offered to show us the flat, so my Sergeant and I decided to have a look around. Needless to say there was no sign of Miss Addams but there was considerable evidence of a hasty departure. She had evidently packed a suitcase very quickly leaving other clothes strewn around the place. The clinching evidence of her involvement in the robbery is this.” Jaffe held out a crumpled, partly burnt, scrap of paper towards Carstairs. “Perhaps you can confirm my opinion as to what it is.”

Carstairs took the paper and, picking up a magnifying glass from his desk, peered at it. “I think I see what you mean, Inspector. It's from a chart - almost certainly from one of the charts that the thieves packed around the trophy. It's a corner from a North Atlantic chart. See - the latitude and longitude figures here would be just north of Ireland . It could be one of the charts that Alcock and Brown used for their crossing.– certainly they were missing after the robbery.”

“I thought so. You have confirmed my suspicions. I am afraid it looks as though Miss Addams conspired with the robbers and has now absconded with the trophy and her associates. They must have taken the trophy to her flat for safe keeping and have now fled.”

“But could there be other explanations, Inspector?”

“I don't think so Sir George. The robbery was evidently carefully planned. Miss Addams would have had every opportunity to do that. She seems to have left willingly and took the trouble to pack a suitcase and to find her passport, bank books and other papers. I could have possibly believed that this scrap of paper was carried in inadvertently by one of the thieves but we retrieved it from the fireplace. The rest was ashes. It looks as though they repacked the trophy and burned the packing that they didn't need. I can't imagine the thieves would have burst into her flat and started burning maps, that's not very likely is it?”

“Well no, Inspector, I suppose not. It still seems extraordinary to me. What can her motive have been? The trophy is quite valuable but it could never be sold, it's instantly recognisable.”

“I doubt that money will turn out to be the issue in this crime, Sir George. I suspect that the motive is more likely to be found in Miss Addams' obsessive behaviour.”

“Well it is all most concerning. The Club will be a laughing stock, Inspector, I have already had the Air Ministry asking if we should pass some other items from our collections and archives to the Science Museum for safe keeping. If it turns out that one of our own staff was to blame the consequences for the Club will be disastrous. What do you intend to do next?”

“Scotland Yard will be searching for Miss Addams. She's the only real suspect that we have. I'd like to get any information that you have about her background.”

“Of course, Inspector Jaffe, I'll do everything I can.”

Chapter 5: Revelations In The Bar

The two lighthouse keepers were the last to hear anything for certain of the Silver Wing or Jean Alardyce, the Flying Scot.

The crew of a steamer, south west of the Scillies, reported a brief flash in the clouds, far to the south of their position and where Silver Wing should have been at the time but thought nothing of it at the time and did not report it until the Silver Wing was reported over due. Nothing was found when ships were sent to search the area.

It was two days later when Bertie saw Alice in the tennis club bar. She was staring glumly into her martini. The press were already speculating about the fate of the Silver Wing and its pilot. In spite of the briefness of their meeting Alice felt it was as though an old friend had suddenly disappeared.

“You're looking a bit bleak for someone that's still got gin in her glass,” Bertie grinned as he sat down at her table.

“Don't be an ass, Bertie, I'm just not in the mood,” Alice snapped. “She's gone hasn't she? There's been no word of her, no sign of the plane, nothing.”

“Well, you never know,” he stammered, disconcerted by her blunt tone. “She might have put down somewhere, engine problems, radio failure…”

“Is it likely? I mean, what do they think out at the airfield?”

“To be honest, they are all a bit gloomy. I don't think anyone's optimistic.” Bertie saw her shoulders slump. “Sorry old thing but your right I'm afraid. The mood's pretty bleak up there. There were two radios on board, she wasn't seen after leaving the coast, and there's that ship's report.”

“So what do they think happened?”

“Probably a problem with the engine overheating – the plane had so much fuel on board – that could have been an explosion the ship saw – she wouldn't have known anything about it, you know, it would have been instantaneous.”

“But engines don't just blow up do they?” Alice took another sip of her drink. It did nothing to cheer her.

Bertie had lit his pipe again. The bar steward peered suspiciously at him. “ Alice I don't know one end of an engine from another – if I have to lift the bonnet on the Bugatti its just one big lump of metal to me. All I know is that she was flying a high performance machine and she was pushing it as far as it would go. It was all she ever wanted to do, you know.”

“Yes, I'm sure. It's just that when we met just that once she seemed so alive. And now, well … Still I can't imagine she would have wanted to go any other way.”

“Probably right, old thing,” Bertie lifted his glass. “Let's toast absent friends anyway,” he said, “I guess none of us can avoid it if the writing is on the wall.”

Alice looked up suddenly. “What did you say?” she said.

“Absent friends?” said Bertie, lifting his glass again.

“No, after that... the writing on the wall, you said. Oh, don't worry – it's just I think I have worked out what's been bothering me.” Alice 's mood seemed to have changed. Suddenly she was brighter. “Look - I think I need to talk to someone about Jean. Did this chap Clegg know her well?”

“Not very well but then I don't think anyone did – she was a loner really, never comfortable if she wasn't in the cockpit. She and Clegg had been working on some contracts, joint plans for a future flight, things like that. What's the problem?”

“That might do. I think I'd like to talk to Mr Clegg, I'm probably just being silly and perhaps he could re-assure me. Could you arrange it?”

Bertie scratched his head and drew on his pipe. “Well yes, of course, I'll try. He's always busy but I can give him a call up at the field if you like. There's a phone in the club room there now I think.”

“Oh, Bertie, you are a sweetie,” Alice Graham jumped up and planted a kiss on the shocked Bertie's forehead.

“I say, old girl,” he blushed.

Alice bounced out of the club bar towards her car and sped off.

Later, everyone agreed that her behaviour that day had been odd. Apparently morose one minute and exuberant the next, she'd seemed like someone that wasn't entirely in control of their emotions. The Honourable Bertie Graham had known she'd been upset by Jean Alardyce's disappearance but he would never have guessed that Alice would do what she seemed to have done next.

The police called at Bertie's home the following morning. They understood that Bertie had seen Miss Graham at the tennis club the previous afternoon. They were anxious to understand what her mood had been. They were very concerned. Alice 's cherry red Austin 7 tourer had been found parked by the beach, the car was full of pictures of Jean Alardyce cut from newspapers. Wedged against the windscreen was the menu card that Jean had signed at the tennis club only days before. Alice was nowhere to be seen but a trail of her clothes led from the car, across the beach, towards the water's edge. The police feared the worst. Alice Graham, the police said, seemed to have gone to join her heroine.

Bertie wasn't able to help the police much beyond the fact that he had seen Alice 's car up at airfield at around seven o'clock the previous evening and that she had seemed fine when he had last seen her. In that respect, at least, he was being completely truthful.

Chapter 6: Holding Hermione

‘HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN??' shouted the headline of the newspaper that Clegg was reading.

Clegg turned to the woman he was sharing his office with. “Very alliterative, don't you think? A tribute to the literacy of the journalistic profession.” he said, pointing out the sub-heading: ‘Sleuths Seek Schneider Suspect.' His companion didn't answer. “Not a bad photo of you, either.” He smiled.

Hermione Addams' only response to his good humoured remarks was a grunt of frustration as she struggled to free herself from the ropes that held her tied tightly to a chair.

“I'm sorry that we had to bring you along but it really was very important to me to get Scotland Yard chasing off after the wrong scent and you certainly seem to have been instrumental in that. See here.” He waved another page of the paper. ‘Police in Edinburgh and Fife alerted,' it said. “I hadn't realised you had roots north of the border but I must confess it suits me very well.”

Hermione scowled at her captor. Her suitcase lay on the floor beside her – Clegg and his accomplice had forced her to pack it at gunpoint. Then they had led her out to Clegg's car, the barrel of a pistol pressed against her ribs all the time. She'd been pushed into the back of the car, forced down onto the floor and blindfolded as the car sped off through London to where she knew not. Now she struggled on a wooden chair, ropes criss-crossing her body in a way that Clegg was pleased to see demonstrated a rather agreeable figure beneath her rather conservative garb.

“The police inspector seems to drawing all the right conclusions if we believe this,” Clegg went on. “Listen – ‘According to police sources the woman behind this robbery is a very cool customer having fooled her employers for years before stealing one of the country's most prized trophies.' It certainly sounds as though they'll be looking for you but not, I am afraid, anywhere that they are likely to find you.”

Hermione frowned at Clegg. “You don't think you can keep me here do you? Surely you see they'll think of looking on any aerodrome, like this? You can't imagine you can steal one of the country's most important trophy's and then cover it up by kidnapping some innocent bystander.”

“Very good,” laughed Clegg. “The first part of that was an excellent deduction but not very difficult for you, I imagine. Can I ask how you knew?”

“The smell. That combination of petrol, oil and cellulose dope is quite distinctive. I don't think you'd find it anywhere else.”

“What an excellent detective you'd make, Miss Addams.” Clegg grinned at Hermione's confused look. “Still, thank goodness you're not working for Scotland Yard. They'd be a bit quicker off the mark if you were. I'm sure you are right about them, though. You're also right about not keeping you here. Eventually good old PC Plod will think to explore the airfields around London but you will be leaving the country shortly. I do hope you enjoy flying – it's the only way to go and you'll have the pleasure of travelling with one of the countries leading aviatrixes. You weren't really right about the kidnapping being to cover up the robbery, though. Really it was more the other way around.” Clegg grinned at her puzzled look. “Now I have a few things to do before the time for your flight, so I'll just check that you're not in danger of falling off of that chair.”

He crossed the room to where Hermione was sitting and checked the ropes that held her, ignoring her attempts to wriggle loose. She gave a cry of pain as he jerked the knots tighter. “Stop this, stop and let me go! You can't keep me here against my will!”

“Ah, yes, something I'd forgotten,” Clegg said. “You'll remember what this is for.” He picked up a rag from the work bench next to Hermione. Hermione shook her head but Clegg ignored her and forced it between her teeth. She choked as he pushed it deep into her mouth. He pulled a scarf from his pocket. The grunt she gave as he tied the scarf behind her neck was sufficiently muffled for him to feel that the gag was good enough.

Clegg looked down at his handiwork, satisfied that Hermione would not be moving far or attracting any attention. “You know that photo really doesn't do you justice,” he said. “You shouldn't wear your hair up like that.” He reached behind her head and unfastened her hair from the bun in which she wore it. “And those glasses don't help either.” He took them from her as she shook her head in protest. “Why, Miss Addams,” Clegg smirked, “you're quite beautiful.”

Hermione blinked up at him short sightedly and growled angrily behind her gag.

“And spirited too. Goodness what assets I have the luck to get hold of – it's wonderful that expediency should go hand in hand with good fortune. I really think that you will go rather well with my other recent acquisition. Now sit tight for a bit until its time for take off.”

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.

Chapter 8: Confrontation

When Clegg turned back towards her, Alice was shocked to see the barrel of a pistol pointing towards her. “Oh,” she started and her hands flew up to her mouth.

“I'm very impressed Miss Mottram by your powers of observation,” Clegg said. “But I'm also afraid that I am not keen for you to discuss your deductions with the local constabulary.”

“Good grief, Clegg,” Bertie interjected. “Is this absolutely necessary?”

“Oh, I think so,” Clegg replied, “I think Alice 's story sounds very plausible. She sounds as though she would make an excellent witness, not the hysterical type at all. I think she would be believed. Unfortunately, that would be very inconvenient. Now, Miss Mottram would you be good enough to walk over to the office there.” He gestured with his pistol. “Oh, and please put your hands up for the moment.”

Alice stared at the gun. Without speaking she raised her hands and walked towards the office. The barrel of Clegg's pistol between her shoulder blades prodded her forward. Clegg pulled a heavy wooden chair out from behind the desk. “Do sit down,” he said politely, “and put your hands behind you.”

“Bertie,” she appealed, doing as she had been told “do something. Surely you can't be mixed up in this?”

Clegg ignored her, Bertie looked a little bashful and shrugged but didn't reply. Clegg kept the pistol pointing unwaveringly at Alice . “Bertie,” he said, “You're going to have to start earning that salary I've been paying you. Find something to tie our young friend up with.”

“Sorry about this, old thing,” said Bertie, as he grabbed some rope from a packing case, pulled Alice 's arms behind her and wrapped the rope about her wrists. “Hate to do it, but Mr Clegg's the boss, don't you know.”

“Ow!” Alice exclaimed as Bertie pulled some strapping from a discarded seat harness around her ankles, tying them to the leg of the chair. Clegg watched with growing impatience; rope work and knotting were evidently not among the honourable Bertie's strong points. However the arrangement would not have to last too long.

Bertie finished his task with an entirely undeserved look of satisfaction. Clegg tossed him the silk scarf he wore when flying. “Something to keep the young lady quiet for a few moments.” Bertie pulled the scarf across Alice 's lips and knotted it behind her neck. She looked up pleadingly at the two men. Clegg looked at the gag with disapproval. “That won't do, Bertie,” he said. “You've been watching too many Tom Mix movies. A few shakes of her head and she'll have that off. I'll show you how to do it properly later but just pull it tighter for now so at least it gets between her teeth.”

“OK, Boss,” Bertie seemed willing to learn. He untied the scarf and pulled it tighter, forcing Alice 's mouth open. She gave a muffled cry as he pulled it tight and knotted it again. “Ah, see what you mean, old chap. Needs to be like a horse's bit. You should have said.”

Clegg pushed the gun into the waist band of his trousers. “I hope you'll excuse us for a moment, Miss Mottram,” he said ingenuously. “My colleague and I have a number of things to discuss. I'm sorry we can't make you more comfortable for the moment.”

Clegg and Bertie left the office with Alice still struggling in the chair.

After a few minutes, Alice felt she was getting somewhere. The knots around her wrists showed no sign of loosening but by kicking her legs she had at least managed to slacken off the harness straps that held her feet against the chair. A few moments more and her feet were free of the chair, even if her ankles were still tied to one another. Perhaps, Alice thought, she could hop and shuffle out of the hangar – one thing was clear she needed to escape from these desperate men.

She managed to get to her feet and struggled out of the office. She'd got almost to the hangar door when she heard a car pull up. Not sure if the new arrival was friend or foe, she tried to slide out of sight beside a steel cabinet.

The new arrival turned out to be a woman, a little older than Alice and a few inches taller. Any hopes that Alice had of the newcomer rescuing her disappeared moments later. As she tried to peer around the edge to get a better view, the straps around her ankles tripped her and she toppled against the side of the cabinet. The impact dislodged one of the instruments stored in the cabinet. The altimeter rolled across the metal shelf and crashed to the concrete floor of the hangar. The woman spun around and saw Alice immediately. Clegg and Bertie came running as she grabbed her. “Dear me, Freddie,” the woman said. “you just can't be trusted with young girls. Leaving them lying around the place like this.

Clegg grunted and gave Bertie an irritated look. He picked up a squealing and kicking Alice and carried her across his shoulder back into the office where she was dumped back down in the chair.

Clegg had regained his composure. “I should introduce you two,” he said. “Miss Elspeth Grant, Miss Alice Mottram. Miss Mottram here is a most observant young lady, Elspeth. Miss Grant is a flyer too, Alice , and, as you so recently observed, right handed.”

Alice gave a grunt of frustration from behind her gag. Elspeth shot a warning look at Clegg. “Oh, don't worry dear,” Clegg replied, “I fear Miss Mottram has guessed a good deal about our little charade the other night. She suspects, she tells me, that someone other than Jean Alardyce took the Silver Wing out on its final flight; a conclusion she reached as a result of noticing that the pilot was not left handed as she remembered Jean Alardyce to be.”

“Oh my,” Elspeth replied with a grin, “that is unfortunate.” She looked around at Bertie Graham and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Do be a dear and bring my stuff in from the car, would you? That parachute served its purpose but we might need it again.”

Bertie grinned and padded off. “Sure thing, old girl.”

As he left, Elspeth turned to Clegg. “How's the Honourable Buffoon with all this? He's not wavering is he?”

Clegg grinned and shook his head. “No, there's no problem there. He hasn't got the imagination to get nervous. He seemed quite happy helping to truss up our nosy little friend here. Not too good at it though, as you found out.”

Elspeth turned towards Alice who was still struggling on the chair. “And what next for her? I assume you don't want her expounding her theories to all and sundry. It was enough trouble taking care of Alardyce and getting that bloody aircraft off the ground without it all going to waste.”

Clegg smiled. “I'm sorry, I should have asked – how was your flight?”

“Hard work,” Elspeth frowned, “that plane needed a lot of flying. Trying to work with those old charts was dreadful. The Aero Club should be ashamed that they haven't got anything more up to date. And you know I hate parachutes.”

“Better than being on board the kite when the bomb went off,” Freddie grinned. “And better working with those old charts than trying to rework young Jean's route as you went along.”

“Hmm, maybe, but I didn't enjoy the landing and it took me hours to get to where we'd hidden the car.”

“Never mind, it all seems to have worked out satisfactorily so far apart from our observant young friend here.”

“That's as may be but we've still got to solve the problem.”

“That's all right,” said Clegg. “The last flight turned out so well, I thought I'd take the seaplane out for another speed trial. I'm not sure I got the carburettor settings exactly right and I am sure I can squeeze a bit more out of her with half the load. And while I do that, you and Bertie can take the young lady's car for a drive down to the beach.”

Chapter 9: Flight Into France

The racing seaplane was speeding across the English Channel in the dark of the spring night. Inside the tiny cockpit every control was in easy reach, the instrument panel was barely inches from his nose. Clegg was able to manoeuvre the plane easily with just the slightest pressure on the control column and rudder bar. The finely tuned engine droned constantly as it powered the plane southwards.

Clegg let the plane down from a cruising altitude of 1500 feet as he approached the French coast. By the time that the beaches of Northern France were sliding by beneath his floats he was only 150 feet above the ground and travelling at over 250 miles per hour. Barely protected by his goggles and the tiny windscreen of the streamlined craft, his view of the ground obscured by the bulk of the engine in front and the great slab shapes of the wings on either side, he had to concentrate to make out each way point in turn as he sped over the French countryside.

The ground climbed as he headed inland until the Somme came into view. He threaded his way through a maze of valleys, across to the Meuse , working his way towards the Chateau that was his destination. He slipped the seaplane over a low col and banked to bring the craft down into the line of the valley. As he levelled the aircraft's wings he saw what he was looking for. Ahead of him was the glittering length of the Lac D'Ysel, perfectly illuminated in the light of the night's full moon. At its far end, the Chateau from which the lake took its name was the one sign of habitation in the surrounding wooded countryside.

With practiced ease he throttled back and began his approach. The seaplane's speed fell away slowly; the slippery shape of the craft taking it further and further along the length of the lake. It edged lower and eventually touched down on the lake's surface, sending up a sparkling, phosphorescent, wake. Clegg waited until the plane's speed dropped to a walking pace and then turned the craft towards the bank, pointing it towards a slipway that ran up alongside the Chateau. Steering wasn't easy. The seaplane's engine immediately in front of his windscreen made it impossible to see straight ahead but he used his usual technique of weaving left and right to allow him to steer towards the ramp.

When he was almost at the shore he could see a figure waving him in. The figure drew his hand across his throat and Clegg slid the aircraft's mixture control to fully fine, before setting the magnetos to “off”. The engine coughed and stopped, the propeller slowing to a standstill. The few instrument lights and the light that Clegg used to map read dimmed as the power of the seaplane's generators gave way to that of her batteries alone. He flicked another switch and they went out entirely, leaving the aircraft in total darkness.

There was a quiet grinding noise as a trolley was slipped under the floats. The whirring of a winch could be heard as the trolley and the sea plane with it were pulled from the lake. Clegg unfastened his harness, pulled off his helmet and goggles and eased himself out of the cockpit as the plane came to a standstill inside the small lake side building that doubled as the Chateau's boat house and a small hangar.

He stepped down the short ladder that had been placed beside the ‘plane. “Left float, Monsieur,” he called to the man at the winch pointing down to a plate in the top of the float just in front one of the struts that held it to the plane. “La Gauche. J'en ai une autre pour la collection.”

The winchman took a screwdriver and unfastened the plate. Through the hole Clegg saw the helpless bundle that had been forced into the float back at the Stourside airfield.

Alice had almost been overcome by the horror of her flight. Back at the airfield she had feared that her captors were about to kill her. Then she had been freed of the ropes but ordered to strip naked at gun point. Elspeth had produced a flying suit and told her to get into it. Then they had fastened straps around her, locking her legs one against the other, fixing her arms to her sides. They'd strapped a flying helmet and goggles onto her head but the glass in the goggles had been painted out so she could no longer see. After that she could only guess what had happened. Something hard had been pushed into her mouth and strapped in place. It filled her mouth and almost choked her. Something that smelled of rubber had followed across her face, an oxygen mask she assumed, “Breath slowly, don't panic,” someone – the woman - had hissed in her ear.

Then she'd felt herself being lifted and laid horizontal. There were metallic banging and scraping sounds. She could tell she was hanging from straps that encircled her body. It got colder. She heard an aircraft engine starting; very close, roaring, seemingly only inches from her head. It got colder, she was moving, somehow. The engine noise got louder and then a roaring and banging sound all around her, getting louder all the time and with more and more vibration as whatever she was in was bounced up and down with crashing, concussions every time she was bounced down. The sound and vibration reached a crescendo and then the slamming and banging stopped. She had felt as though she was suddenly not moving at all but the sound of the engine was still there and it had got colder and colder still.

It had continued for what seemed like hours, the sound of the engine droning away above her head, the freezing cold. Then the noise had lessened and she had felt like she was falling slowly. Suddenly the banging and bouncing returned before it died down and she recognised the sound of water slapping against her prison. A grinding sound was followed by scratching and scraping sounds and then she felt herself being pulled backwards.

The two men dragged the helpless, half frozen and numbed, Alice Mottram out, sliding her out from the strops that had held her hanging from a rail that ran the length of one of the seaplane's two floats. They laid her, barely moving, on the floor of the boat house. She was still blinded by the goggles and her mouth was still plugged but she felt her feet and legs being freed. She was pulled to her feet, hardly able to stand. “Va t'en,” she heard a heavily accented voice say in French, as she was gripped by the arms and pushed forward, “Va t'en.”

Chapter 10: A Fine Vintage

In the cellars of the Chateau D'Ysel Hermione Addams and Jean Alardyce had spent the previous two days recovering from their journey – the same as that which Alice had just undergone – but it could hardly be said that they had adjusted to their situation.

They were both naked – the two of them had been stripped of their flying suits and their remaining underclothes within moments of being pulled from the floats of Clegg's seaplane on their arrival. They had been chained – heavy iron shackles locked on to their wrists and ankles restricted their movement and short lengths of chain linked their wrist shackles to rings set in the wall of the cell where they were confined.

The cell had been one of their first shocks. Pulled in chains from the room where they were stripped they had been led down the stone steps that led to the Chateau's cellars. The cellar was lined with enormous wine barrels. Amused by their confusion their gaoler had pulled back a false front on one of the barrels to reveal a barred door behind it. The inside of the barrel was fitted out as a small but effective prison. A single light bulb, secure behind a wire cage provided a dim light. He'd unlocked the door and pushed them inside, securing their shackles to the wall rings before slamming the barred door shut on the women. “They say you should always have a good vintage in your cellar,” he chortled. “We'll have to see how long you two need to be laid down before you're ready. I think this could be a very good year for Vin D'Ysel.” The outer door of the barrel was pushed shut. As it closed their captor smiled in at them. “I'm sure that as intelligent women you will have realised that there is not a great deal of point in calling for help, your cell is well muffled and this cellar is below twenty feet of good French stone. They say empty bottles make most noise. Well, down here the barrels make no noise – empty or full.”

They had panicked as the door slammed shut at first, fearing that there was no air but then, slowly, calm had returned.

They took stock of their situation: Naked, helpless, in an unknown place – somewhere in France they assumed from the name of the place and the accents of their captors – and completely at the mercy of whoever held sway over this mad place.

On the other hand, they could at least move within their tiny cell and they had water in an enamel jug. They'd been provided with a bucket and not long after their arrival a silent gaoler had brought them some warm gruel and bread. For the first time since they started their journey they weren't gagged or blind folded.

On the day of their arrival neither of the women had spoken for a long time. Both were traumatised by their journey, each trapped within one of the floats of Clegg's seaplane. Uncertain as to their whereabouts, or why they there, they were both fearful of what was to become of them.

Hermione was curled up at one end of the barrel. Jean looked up at the top of their cell. “Can they hear us, do you think?” she asked.

Hermione sat up, clutching her arms around her. It was cool in the cell and she was naked. “I don't know. I could almost believe anything of them after what they did to us. I don't care either, I might just tell them what I think of them.”

Jean tried to offer a comforting smile. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I think so. A bit bruised around my ankles and waist and the back of my neck but otherwise OK. Oh, goodness,” Hermione realised who her companion was, “aren't you Jean Alardyce? The flyer? You were supposed to have been killed.”

“Killled? But when? How?”

“On your record flight attempt from Stourside – your plane disappeared. Everyone assumes it blew up.”

“Not with me on, I'm glad to say. Got a thump on the head just as I was about to get in the plane. Someone else must have taken it up. The only flying I've done recently was the trip jammed in the float of that lunatic's seaplane, just like you.”

“Oh, no is that how he brought us here, I hadn't realised. It was just – just horrific …. And he made everyone think you were dead. Oh!” Hermione sobbed. Clegg's treatment of the two women terrified her. She looked down at her wrists. The manacles were already starting to rub them raw, red wheals showed where they circled her limbs.

Now, two days later, they sat mostly in silence, taking each moment as it came, ignored by the guards for most of the time. The indifference of their captors was as disturbing as the violence of their abduction. Now the two sat, quietly, terrified of what the future would bring.

In the cellar beyond the door of their barrel cell, Alice was being hustled in from the outside. She was half pushed, half dragged down a flight of steps. She heard a heavy door slam shut behind her. She half span around in the grip of her captor. “ Reste tranquille !” a voice barked, “Stay still, mademoiselle, stay still.”

She felt the straps at her wrists being released and thought for one, ecstatic moment that she was to be freed. Her relief lasted only a moment. She felt the zipper on her flight suit being drawn down. Still blinded she tried to struggle as she was stripped. He efforts were without avail and she was soon naked. She felt her hands pulled together and the chill of metal bands being locked around them. Finally the flying helmet and goggles were pulled from her head and, blinking in even the gloom of the Chateau's cellar, she could see again.

She looked around her at the brick lined cellar and the rows of barrels; then at the man who had dragged her there. Embarrassed by his appraising stare she tried to cover first her breasts and then her sex with her shackled hands.

“T'ant pis, mademoiselle, t'ant pis. You weel ‘ave to cope with worse than zis in time. But for now…” He gestured towards one of the enormous wine barrels and pulled the front from it. Alice was horrified to see two other naked women inside behind a barred door as the man pulled it open. As they looked up at her, she realised that one was Jean Alardyce. “Maintenant, tu peut tu joindre tes amis.”

“ Voici une autre, mes filles,” he said to the Jean and Hermione, “take care of her.” He pushed Alice into the barrel and slammed the cage door behind her. As she turned toward him the outer barrel door was shut as well. Alice fell to her knees, clawing at the bars of the cage door and whimpering through her gag.

Jean was quickly to her side. “Don't. It's no good, they can't hear you.” Alice turned away from the cage door. Jean recognised her. “Oh, no, didn't we meet – where was it? At the tennis club - last week?” Alice nodded and grunted through the plug of her gag. Jean looked at the strap that held it in place. “Here, hold still,” she said. “The gag is not locked on, I think I can unbuckle it. Turn around.” Alice crouched down as Jean fumbled with the strap of her gag, the buckle came lose and Jean prised the rubber plug from Alice 's mouth.

Alice coughed and spluttered as the plug came free. “Oh, thank you,” she sobbed, “thank you so much. What on earth have we been brought to?”

Hermione and Jean both shook their heads. “I've no idea,” said Hermione. “And neither have I,” said Jean.

Chapter 11: A New Arrival

In England another day had passed. A train sped through the Hampshire countryside. Sally Fellows stared out of the carriage window. The apple green locomotive with “SOUTHERN 928” in gold letters on the side of its tender seemed to take no effort pulling its load. Sally was looking forward to a well earned rest; a few days of sea air and sunshine with luck and best of all some time with her best friend, Alice.

Sally tossed the novel she was reading onto the seat opposite her. By the time her employer's books made it into print she had typed and retyped them so many times that she really didn't know why she bothered to read them. There was no doubt, however, that this latest one had been well received. ‘The Strange Affair At Gates', as it was titled, marked the debut of the latest eccentric detective from the pen of Agnes Crystal. It was a lady golfer this time. Agnes had said why not – we've had Belgian detectives, clerics, members of the House of Lords, why not a sporting detective and a lady at that? Sally had thought it most unlikely at first but had been drawn in by Agnes Crystal's writing as all her audience were. In the end she had enjoyed it – and if the letters from Agnes's publisher were anything to go by, so had thousands of others.

The train slowed as it emerged from a cutting. A sharp blast from the locomotive's whistle was followed by a slow swing to the left as the train rounded a curve. The wheels of the carriage clacked as the train ran over points on the approach to Stourside Town station. Sally hauled her small, battered, brown, suitcase down from the rack over her seat and, as the train stopped, stepped down onto the platform.

Half a dozen others alighted from the train. Sally looked up and down the platform in vain, hoping to see Alice . She sent her a letter only the day before saying which train she'd be on. “She might have come down to meet me,” thought Sally without malice. “but I expect she's forgotten. She's just so vague.”

She picked up her case and began walking to the ticket barrier. She passed the newspaper kiosk on the platform. In front of it stood a hoarding for the local newspaper – “Tragedy of Air Girl's Suicide” it said.

Alice fumbled in her handbag for her ticket as she got to the barrier. Curiously, a policeman was waiting there. As she gave her ticket in, the policeman said; “Miss Fellows? Miss Sally Fellows?”

She replied, yes, and then the policeman had said, “I'm afraid I have some bad news for you….”

The next thing she knew was that she was in the station's waiting room. A concerned porter and the policeman were trying to help her recover. A woman was waving smelling salts under her nose. The pungent small made her cough. “Miss Fellows, Miss Fellows, you're all right. You just fainted. There, please stay still and breath deeply,” the woman was saying.

Sally sat up on the waiting room bench. “Oh, I'm sorry Constable, everybody, you must think me very stupid.”

“Not at all Miss, of course it will have been a nasty shock. We did try to get word to you in London but you had already left. We found your letter in Miss Mottram's flat. It all looks rather tragic I'm afraid.”

Sally listened numbly as the Constable explained the tragic events surrounding Alice Mottram's disappearance. She had met with Jean Alardyce, she had obviously become infatuated with the woman, she had been at the airfield for the take off of Jean's ill-fated flight. A few days later she seemed to have walked into the sea, distraught at the thought of her heroine's death.

“I can't believe it,” said Sally, “it's not like Alice at all. She just wouldn't do something like that. It just doesn't make sense.” She turned around as another man in a trench coat and trilby entered the waiting room.

“Miss Fellows?” he asked, removing his hat. “I'm Detective Sergeant Alnwick of Stourside Police. I can see you're distressed but I wonder if we could ask for your help?”

Sally collected herself. “Well, I'll try Sergeant.”

“It's just that we have Miss Mottram's clothes and some of her belongings down at the Station and we'd like you to identify them – if that wouldn't be too upsetting for you, of course.”

“Well.., I.. , yes of course. There might be a clue perhaps something else happened that I might notice.”

Sergeant Alnwick smiled sympathetically. “Thank you, Miss,” he said. “But I wouldn't get too hopeful, real life isn't often like detective stories. Oh, you dropped this,.” He handed her the copy of ‘The Strange Affair At Gates' that she had been reading on the train. It had fallen from her handbag when she fainted.

Sally blushed and took the book. “I've a car outside now if you feel well enough. We can run you on to your hotel or bring you back here if you decide to go back to London tonight.”

“”Yes, that's fine. I'd just as soon do things now.” The Constable picked up her case and carried it out to the station car park as Sergeant Alnwick led the way to his Riley.

Sally found the business of staring at her friends abandoned clothes deeply upsetting but she could do no other than confirm that they were indeed Alice 's. She looked at pictures of the scene where the clothes had been found but could see nothing that was not her friend's. She really couldn't give the police any reason why she might not have killed herself, given the evidence from the beach. Sergeant Alnwick thanked her for her help and offered to take her back for the London train. Sally decided to go on to the hotel, however. There was someone she had to see, someone she had to give her sympathy to. She really felt she had to talk to Bertie Graham. If Alice 's letters were to be believed they'd become very firm friends. He was bound to be upset - she really had to talk to him.

A telephone call to Bertie's flat and Sally's generous spirit led her to the bar of the Connaught Hotel. The Connaught sat on the cliff top overlooking the town. Brand spanking new, its white concrete exterior gleaned in the floodlights that shone across it. The rows of steel framed windows and the sharp low lines of the building made it look like an ocean liner had come to rest on the East Cliff instead of in the nearby harbour. In the bar chrome and glass sparkled. Sally was perched on a chrome stool at the bar beside Bertie. The tuxedoed barman finished shaking a cocktail and poured it intuita the two chilled, long stemmed glasses that stood waiting.

“ Alice 's favourite,” said Sally, picking up her glass.

“Yes,” said Bertie, doing the same “bottoms up.” Several more cocktails followed; then a dinner of reminiscences and red wine. Finally Bertie and Sally staggered into the Hotel's lounge for brandy. A gramophone in the corner gave out a crackly version of One O'Clock Jump.

“Oh Bertie, thank you for this evening,” Sally slurred as the sounds of the Count Basie Orchestra faded away. “This afternoon was just too, too horrible. Alice 's clothes with all those little brown labels on and those photographs of the beach, just too horrible.

“Quite, quite, old thing, just dreadful. But I think you and I have reminisced enough. If I have another brandy I shall be completely reminisced.” He chortled and Sally giggled.

“Well gallant sir, you must see me to my room for I fear that I too am so reminisced that I may well arrive on the wrong floor and cause great consternation to some matronly lady or other early to bed.”

Bertie helped Sally to her feet. The bar man watched, them leave and then turned his attention to the other couples, all in a similar state, distributed languidly around the hotel lounge.

On the third floor, Bertie was helping Sally along the deserted corridor. “D'you know Bertie,” Sally said. ”I've just thought.”

“What's that, old thing?”

“There was one puzzling thing about those pictures. Something one of Agnes's detectives would think very odd.”

Bertie hiccoughed and apologised. “Oops, sorry old thing, do go on.”

“Yes it was her clothes. There was a trail right across the beach down to the water line but it looked in the photos as if she had some how taken off her stockings and then staggered all the way down the beach before she took off her shoes. Very odd indeed really now I think about it. Don't you?” She had reached her room and was fumbling in her purse for the door key. “Look why don't you pop back to the bar and pick up a bottle of fizz. I'm far too plastered to think any more tonight and still too sober to go to bed.”

Bertie, was only too glad to agree. He was happy to have a few minutes to himself. After Sally's last comment he knew there was one thing he had to do. Before he went back into the bar he slipped drunkenly through the door of one of the small booths that opened off the hotel's lobby. He picked up the telephone and called Clegg.

Chapter 12: The Value Of A Good Man

Bertie woke up with a fully deserved hangover. He recalled quite clearly the early part of the evening with Alice 's friend – he'd taken it upon himself to try to take her mind of the previous day's tragic events – a process that had involved a rather good dinner if he wasn't mistaken and far too many cocktails and even too much champagne if such a thing was possible. He remembered that they'd had a long talk about Alice – this Sally girl was really rather a bright thing he thought. They'd got on famously.

There was, however, something he was worried about but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It had something to do with Clegg, he was sure. Something to do with a telephone call. He decided to postpone thinking about it for a while – at least until after his head stopped hurting.

A knock on his bedroom door heralded the arrival of Jennings , his valet. Bertie's pained groan was insufficiently audible to prevent him entering with a cheerful, “Good morning, Sir,” as he flung back the curtains letting the late morning sunshine stream in. “It is still morning, Sir but only just. ‘Good', I believe is how one should refer to a day when the weather is as fine as this although I would allow some dispute on your part as a result of your current condition.”

“ Jennings ,” pleaded Bertie, “I'm just not equipped for banter at this time on the best of days. And this is most certainly not the best of days.”

“I quite understand, Sir, but I did think it was time for some breakfast.” Jennings put a tray down on his master's bedside table. Bertie cocked a blood shot eye towards the tray. Jennings ' manner might be boisterous but his choice of breakfast at least indicated an understanding of Bertie's condition. Arranged on the tray together with the customary starched white linen napkin were a large glass of still water and a small dish in which sat two aspirin and two seltzer tablets. “Shall I run your bath now, Sir?”

“Thank you, Jennings , that would be fine.”

“Very good, Sir.” Jennings paused at the doorway. “Ah yes, there was one other thing.”

Bertie looked up. He really didn't feel able to engage in much of a discussion right now. “Yes, Jennings , what is it?”

“The young lady, Sir, I just wondered what you might want doing with her.”

Bertie's memory came back in a painful flood. That was what Clegg's call had been about. He had been fairly explicit about what he wanted to happen but Bertie couldn't remember what he done about it apart from making sure Sally had had even more to drink than he had. “Oh, come on, Jennings , don't be so stuffy – this isn't the first time I've got back a bit squiffy with a girl in the back of the car.”

“In the back of the car, yes, it would not be the first time, Sir.” Jennings drew himself up to his full height and peered down at the hung-over Bertie. “In the boot of the car, however…”

Bertie gave a groan and dropped his head into his hands as he remembered the conclusion of the previous evening.

Sally's morning had started a little earlier but certainly no better. She too had woken with a headache but it seemed to be more related to a large bump on the back of her head than to any of the cocktails she had downed in Bertie's very agreeable company the might before. She fingered the lump gingerly as she sat up in a strange bed. She had no real recollection of how she had got there but that wasn't too remarkable – there had been too many nights in the last year where jitterbugging and drinking had resulted in something similar. The only good thing about this time was that at least there wasn't a snoring yahoo passed out in bed next to her.

She was still wearing the dress that she had on the night before. She got unsteadily to her feet, went to the window and looked out. The view from the third floor window looked down towards the beach – she must be in one of the sea front apartment blocks she thought. Bertie had said that he had a place there. She went to the door of the bedroom and tried to open it but it was stuck or locked. She knocked on the door and called out, “Hullo, is there any one there? Hullo?”

Nobody answered her calls but she did hear footsteps in the corridor outside and then there was the sound of a key in the lock of the door. “Hurrah,” she called out, “you heard me. Thank good – Oh!” Her delight at the door opening was cut off by an extraordinary sight. She was looking into the barrel of a service revolver. Holding it was a middle aged man with white hair, dressed in a dark tail coat.

“Good morning, miss,” the man said, “Please don't be alarmed.”

”Why on earth shouldn't I be with you pointing that gun?”

“Ah, yes I can see that might be concerning you but all will be well provided that you do as I say. It seems as though you have been caught up in one of Mr Bertram's little scrapes and as usual I will have to sort out the various loose ends.”

“Scrape? What scrape?”

“Oh, don't worry about that for now. I'm sure that all will be made clear. Now, I wonder if you could oblige me by lying down on the bed.” He waved the pistol. Sally started and brought her hands up to her mouth.

“Ah, sorry Miss, you don't need to be concerned over any funny business. I just need to make sure you're quite comfortable until Mr Bertram is fully himself – last night's drinks do seem to have taken their toll and I fear it will be a little while before he can join us. So if you could just sit back against the bed head…” He gestured with the barrel of the gun.

Sally did as he indicated. “Thank you very much, Miss,” he said, “and if you could just let me have your stockings.” Sally looked askance but the man just waved the gun impatiently. She turned her back on him and unfastened the suspenders as modestly as she could. “Now stretch out your arms to either side.” Again she did as she was told and then watched as he picked up two neck ties and tied her wrists to the uprights of the bed head. “I'm sorry to have to use Mr Bertram's ties for this, They are rather fine but I'm sure he will understand the necessity.”

Sally's assailant picked up one of the stockings and knotted it, figure of eight fashion around her ankles. Then he took the other. “I was reading that book of yours, ‘The Strange Affair at Gates'. I hope you don't mind but I do think Miss Crystal writes a splendid yarn,” he said. “I didn't expect to be able to pick up tips though. Had you read the bit where the detective – the golfer – gets too close to the killer and is left bound and gagged? The killer uses one of her golf balls in a stocking – I think that would be most effective. Why don't we see?” He picked up a golf ball from the chest of drawers beside the bed. “This was the ball Mr Bertram used to win last month's Captain's Medal – still it's in a good cause.”

Sally scowled at him as he knotted the stocking about half way along, dropped the golf ball inside and then knotted the stocking again above the ball. “That should do it,” he said. “Now as your dentist would ask, open wide.” Sally tried to resist as he pushed the ball between her teeth and into her mouth but without effect. “Now, one further refinement should discourage you from too much moving around.”

Sally gave a strangled, “Gaaak.” as he first of all jerked the stocking tight and knotted it behind her head but then went on to tie the loose ends of the stocking to the bed head rail.

“Do try not to move around too much, my dear,” her captor said as he saw her struggling. “I fear you will only succeed in making your wrists sore. I don't think you will get loose - if so I fear my days in the Navy will have proved to have been of little value.” Sally continued to try to dislodge the knotted ties and the gag.

It was an hour later when Bertie emerged from the worst of his hangover, courtesy of Jennings ' medicinal breakfast. Together with Jennings he made his way to the guest room where Sally was still struggling, unsuccessfully, with her bonds. She scowled as the two men came in.

“Ah, sorry about this old girl,” Bertie started apologetically. “Friend of mine is really keen to have a chat with you and Jennings here was worried you might wander off before he had a chance to get over here. Common problem for me, I'm afraid – waking up in the morning finding the girlfriend's missing. Can't think why.” Bertie looked at how the girl had been tied on the bed. “I say, Jennings , you could have found something else couldn't you, I was a bit fond of those neckers you know.”

“I do understand Sir, I'm most sorry but I thought you would understand given the rather - ah – urgent and unusual nature of proceedings.”

“That's all right, Jennings . Just glad you didn't use the old cricket club tie – chaps down there got no time for women – shouldn't think they'd like the idea at all. Won't have them in the pavilion at all now, you know. Last year, young filly, turned up using a club tie as a hat band. Never heard such a row! Howled off the veranda she was.”

Jennings interrupted. “Sorry to be a trial, Sir, but Mr Clegg phoned earlier to explain. He thought you might not be quite yourself this morning and asked if I could help. He sends his apologies but shan't be able to get over today. He had to take the seaplane over to France and suggested that we might all like to join him. Miss Elspeth, I think it is, has to fly out this afternoon with some spare parts; some trouble with the engine apparently. She's taking the Rapide, I think he said, and there'll be plenty of room for us all. Of course both the cars are only two seaters but the Bentley is a bit larger and I'm sure you won't mind riding in the back just as far as the airfield will you, Miss? Oh yes, and another thing, Miss, I arranged to have you checked out of the hotel. I'm afraid they think you've gone back to London but I don't imagine that will be too much of a problem.”

“Well done, Jennings , you seem to have thought of everything as usual. My head's feeling better all ready. A jaunt across the channel sounds like an excellent idea. Pack a bag will you. I assume you've had Sally's bags collected already?”

“Indeed, Sir, indeed.” Jennings grinned smugly. “Although I understand from Mr Clegg that they won't really be needed.”

Chapter 13: The Chateau & The Comtesse

Clegg had been sitting comfortably in his suite at the Chateau D'Ysel when he had received Bertie's call. It had been disturbing but at least Bertie had been quick enough to realise what needed to be done. Elspeth would make sure that things were sorted out properly but these hiccoughs were always tiresome.

There was a knock at the door of his room. “Come in,” Clegg called, “Entrez.”

The woman that entered was a tall, imposing figure. Clegg got to his feet to greet her. “Bon soir, Madame La Comtesse, ” he smiled.

“Come off it Freddie, one castle doesn't make a countess and anyway they're ten a penny these days,” she said with a broad Scots accent. She sat herself down in one of the suite's enormous armchairs. “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”

Clegg turned to the array of bottles on the sideboard. “Well I can manage a glass of the Chateau's own white or there's a rather pleasing burgundy, some Mosel , …”

“Scotch, I think.” She replied.

“Anything with it? Ice? Water?”

“Scotch, thanks.”

Freddie laughed as he poured her drink, “They can take the girl out of Glasgow but they can't take Glasgow out of the girl, I see.” He passed the glass to her and poured one for himself. “Now to what do I owe the pleasure of your company this evening?”

“Thanks,” she said taking the glass of whiskey from him. “Well I thought since your little menagerie downstairs is growing I would just check what you would like doing with them. They've had a couple of days fairly untroubled, It's a good time to get them started on whatever training you had in mind. When are you moving them on?”

“Err, about a week. The flight's arranged for the 30 th . Oh, by the way there's another one coming in tomorrow but she can just go in with the others. Elspeth's bringing her down in the Rapide, they'll need some transport at the ‘field when they land and some lights to guide them in too. Oh, Elspeth will need a room and there'll be one other plus his man.”

“We can look after that, Freddie. Now what about the trainees?”

“Well let's see there's the two we really started out with: Alardyce and Addams, the tall willowy blonde and the slightly older one.”

“Slim waist, biggish tits, long mousey hair, blinks a lot like she's missing a pair of glasses?”

“That's her. And she is, I guess we ought to do something about that. Well those two don't need too much doing with them. I'll be quite happy if they can just be put through the normal adjustment programme; I'll be happy if you can just turn off their free-will, their sense of independence. They only need to be conditioned for obedience, really.”

“Drugs?”

“If necessary but nothing too addictive – I won't want to have to waste a lot of effort keeping them on a tight rope between high and useful..”

“And the other two?”

“Well, three actually with the one that's coming across. They weren't really in the original scheme but I can see a use for them. They'll need adjustment like the others but you could give them a hand with some of the domestic service skills – plus there's a couple of specifics I'd like you to add to that – mainly to do with working in enclosed spaces – I'll give you the details.”

“Doesn't sound too demanding. Same constraint with regard to drugs?”

“Less of an issue but again they are going to need to be useful so take it easy. It's really too much bother if we have to worry about getting them dosed at this time or that.”

“Fine. Is sex on the agenda?” Clegg peered across at the Comtesse over his glass. “Freddie, behave,” she chided. “You know what I mean.”

Clegg smiled. “It's not central to what they'll be doing. They're all attractive girls and I'm sure it figures in their future. There's no real objection if you feel there's value in using it as part of their adjustment but they don't need to be prepared for anything specific. We can take it as it comes really. Or as they do.”

“Freddie really. Sometimes you seem like a monk; at others you're just a disgrace.”

Clegg grinned. “I'm un-reformed. I admit it. However, I'm sure you can have my little quintet happily singing to whatever tunes I have in mind for them by next week.” The Comtesse nodded. “And in the mean time I hope I can indulge in a little relaxation – it's been a trying few weeks.”

“Of course Freddie, the Chateau is entirely at your disposal. I also have a little do planned for Friday evening. Nothing too elaborate, a few friends. Hope you can join us and Elspeth and your other chap of course. I assume he can hold a glass and talk at the same time.”

“What, Bertie?” Clegg laughed. “That's just about within his capability. We'll be delighted to join you.”

Chapter 14: Rapide Crossing

While Clegg was entertaining the Comtesse in France, back in the UK it was late in the evening as Jennings swung the Bentley past the Stourside airfield control tower and on towards Clegg's hangar..

“Pity we couldn't bring the Bugatti, Jennings . I fear we won't be back for a while and I'd have liked a spin.”

“Indeed, Sir, but unless you had planned to bring Miss Sally along strapped across the bonnet like some American hunting trophy then I fear that we would have had to leave her behind. I don't think that would have been wise, really.”

“No, Jennings , no. You're right of course. Amusing idea, what, strapped across the bonnet. Might have attracted some attention, though. Not a good idea to leave her behind, either. Even I can see that. Still I think we need to send this crate in for a service – there's been a frightful banging from the back all the way out.”

“Ah, I think you'll find that's Miss Sally, Sir.”

Beside Clegg's hangar a De Havilland Dragon Rapide biplane was sitting on the tarmac standing with its two engines already running. Bertie could see Elspeth in the pilot's seat, her face lit by the instrument panel lamps, running through the pre-takeoff checklist. The canvas skin of the bi-plane quivered as she revved each engine in turn checking that each was performing correctly. The car drove around behind the Rapide and into Clegg's hangar.

Jennings stepped out of the Bentley's driving seat, brushed himself down and straiented his bowler hat. He lifted down the large wicker basket that had been strapped to the rack on the back of the Bentley. Unfastening the lid revealed the bound and gagged Sally Fellows within. The helpless girl was extricated from the basket without ceremony and hustled through the open door of the aircraft. Bertie left Jennings to deal with the car and pushed Sally down in one of the seats. He edged his way between the two lines of empty seats up to the front of the aircraft. “All aboard,” he said cheerily to Elspeth as Jennings climbed in through the small door.

“Good,” she replied curtly peering over her shoulder back down the fuselage. “But can you all sit up towards the front for the takeoff. With the weight at the back I'll never get the tail up. And if I don't get the tail off the ground, the rest of this kite won't get off the ground either. So unless you want a personal introduction to the woods at the end of the westerly runway I suggest you come and sit in the two rows behind me.”

“Sure thing old girl,” said Bertie. As Jennings climbed in Bertie gestured to him to bring Sally forward as he strapped himself into his own seat.

The Rapide bounced across the airfield, the single lamp from its nose marking out a cone of light on the grass in front of it. Bertie looked across to the control tower as a single green light signalled permission to take off. Elspeth moved the throttles forward, the two Gypsy Six engines roared and the aircraft began to accelerate across the field. It eased away from the ground in plenty of time to clear the woods and Bertie watched the dark tree tops slide away beneath them.

Elspeth swung the ‘plane around to the north east and eased back on the throttles, setting the aircraft into a slow but steady climb. It was perhaps 20 minutes later that she turned off the aircraft's navigation lights and banked the Rapide again – first of all west and then twenty minutes after that due south. An hour after taking off the ‘plane slid back across the coast well to the west of Stourside.

With the ‘plane's trim set to keep it straight and level, Elspeth was able to turn her attention to her passengers for a moment. She turned around in her seat. The cabin was noisy but she could make herself heard over the engines. “Everyone comfortable?” she asked.

“I'm not sure the young lady would say she was, but Jennings and I are fine,” said Bertie. “How long's the flight?”

“Depends a bit on the weather, couldn't get much of a forecast when I took off. Maybe two hours from here, maybe half an hour more.” Elspeth looked back into the cabin from the cockpit. “Your friend's very quiet.”

“Ah, ha, I'm getting better at this you see,” smirked Bertie. “Found a strap does an even better job than a cloth, see.” He leant across and pulled down the scarf that had been wrapped across Sally's face. A leather belt had been pulled across her mouth gagging her. It was cutting into the corners of her mouth, a small dribble of blood trickled from a short gash where it cut the corner of her mouth. Elspeth could see that the strap held in place a wad of cloth that packed the helpless girl's mouth. Sally gave a whimper and a choking cough.

Elspeth looked despairingly at the excessively vicious gag. She spoke to Jennings . “That's a fine job that Bertie's made of that,” she said, generously. “But she won't attract any attention up here and I'd hate her to choke before we get to where we're going. Do take it off, please.”

Sally spluttered her gratitude as the belt was unbuckled and the cloth that had almost choked her was pulled out. Then she sank into silence as the plane sped on into the dark.

After a while Bertie pulled out hip flask from the recesses of his overcoat. “Bit chilly in here, isn't it?” he asked, offering the flask around. “Any one fancy a nip?”

“No, thanks,” called Elspeth from the cockpit. “Not while I'm driving. I want to be seeing straight when I have to put this down.”

“Perhaps some coffee, Miss Elspeth,” Jennings called, struggling to make himself heard above the engines' noise. “I brought a thermos.”

“Thank you, Jennings , that would be very nice. If you could pass it up here.”

Jennings unscrewed the cup on the top of the thermos and poured some steaming black coffee into it. He got up to make his way forward, crouching in the aircraft's small cabin. “There you are Miss,” he said. “I thought you'd need some of this.” Elspeth took the cup and sipped the hot drink.

“Terrific idea; these flasks,“ she said.

“Yes,” said Bertie, damned clever technology, you know.”

“Uh, huh,” Elspeth replied not really paying attention to him.

“Yes, keeps hot things hot. But it keeps cold things cold. Damned clever. I'd just like to find out how it knows which is which. Ha!”

“Very droll, Mr Bertram,” remarked Jennings , “very droll. Shall I give some to our other passenger?”

“Yes, of course,” called Elspeth. “She'll be cold too.” Jennings held the cup while Sally, her wrists still bound behind her, drank the coffee as best she could. She looked pleadingly at Jennings but got no more than a friendly smile in return. “There, there, Miss Sally,” he said. “Sorry to have to keep you strapped into your seat like that but there's nowhere for you to go anyway.”

Two hours later Elspeth sighted the twin rows of kerosene lamps that marked out the landing strip. She eased the Rapide down and taxied across to the canvas marquee that doubled as a hangar.

Sally was gagged again and taken from the plane. Two men grabbed her at the foot of the aircraft's steps and hustled her towards a waiting Citroen van. She was blindfolded and pushed inside. One of the men climbed in beside her. “Let's see you don't bounce around too much, Mademoiselle,” he said gruffly, pulling her against him as the van drove off, bumping across the field. Her nose was filled with the smell of garlic and stale tobacco as the man reached across her, tying ropes to pin her against the side of the van. “We'd hate you to get hurt.”

After an uncomfortable drive the van drove into the courtyard of the chateau. Sally was introduced to the Chateau's wine cellar, stripped, shackled and united with her friend Alice and the other captives in the depths of the Chateau D'Ysel where the four of them were left alone together.

Bertie, Elspeth and Jennings found more comfortable accommodation.

Chapter 15: Out of the Barrel

Jean, Hermione, Sally and Alice's had spent days in lonely confinement when suddenly all was changed as Jean was taken from the barrel.

The others cried out as one of the guards had opened the cage, unfastened her shackles from the chain that held her to the wall and pulled her from the cell. Without a word, he made no attempt to silence the others, ignoring them as he dragged Jean out, struggling and shouting.

“Where are you taking me,” she demanded, “là où êtes vous me prenant?” but she received no reply and the guard slammed the doors of the cage and the barrel shut on the other three behind her. She was half dragged half pushed along a series of rock cut corridors by her silent captor until finally she was taken through a door and into a brightly lit, comfortably furnished room. To one side there was a long leather couch, beside it a well padded armchair and a low table that carried a lamp where a slender naked woman cast in bronze held aloft a bright opalescent globe. Above the couch hung a richly painted picture of two lovers embracing,

Jean was pushed down on the couch, her hands dragged above her head and fastened there. Her captor went to the other end of the couch, reached beneath it and pulled out another length of chain which he fastened to her wrist shackles. Then with the single word, “Attends,” he left her.

It took only a few experimental tugs to convince Jean that she would have no success in freeing herself from the couch and so she settled back to wait as she had been instructed. At least the room was a little warmer than the cell she had just left. She looked around her but could find little more to give her insight into her captors than she had been able to in the cellar. Against the opposite wall stood a heavy wooden desk and a further chair as well as a tall filing cabinet. Above the desk hung a series of ornate, framed, certificates but from where she was she could not make out what they were for. She was staring at them when the door to the room opened and a short dapper man with a neatly trimmed moustache and beard came in. He pulled open the jacket of his tweed suit and pulled a gold pocket watch from his waist-coat. “So late,” he said with a German accent, “so late.”.

He picked up some papers from his desk and then strode across to the chair beside Jean's couch. “I am so sorry to keep you waiting. It is most bad manners, I know. What is it they say? Punctuality is the politeness of kings? Well I fear I must be the basest of scoundrels, goodness me, so late. I can't imagine how I came to be so late.”

Jean speculated for a moment on what to make of the bizarre circumstance in which she had been kidnapped, dragged halfway across Europe , imprisoned naked in chains in a dungeon cell and now dragged to this new place where her captor's main concern was that he'd kept her waiting. She was about to say something when the bearded man started up again.

“Ach, no please, no need to say anything. I should tell you who I am. My name is Dr Karl Insing. You see my qualifications,” he gestured to the certificates on the wall -. “I am here to help you, I wish to assure you that you will have no difficulty in acclimatising to surroundings that I am sure you are finding confusing and perhaps a little disorienting.”

“Doctor – I have no wish to become acclimatised to this brutal situation. Please tell me what I must do to leave here.”

Insing smiled. “Now you see denial is a common response to a change in circumstance – we must all learn to adapt to the world and to bend to the wind of our life as it slides past us. I should explain. I am professor of adaptive behaviour therapies at the Vienna Institute of Psychiatric Research. I have the very great privilege to work with Siggi and of course Karl. Like them I believe psychiatric theory can help us all, not just the lucky few who suffer from some derangement or other. Luckily our hosts here have been able to fund a considerable body of work researching the techniques that allow us to overcome the irrational compulsion to cling on to the behaviours that help cope with the past when they prevent you from coping with the present.”

“Doctor, I…”

“No, not to interrupt, please. I was late in starting you see and so I must press on. You will experience a series of emotions, denial – anger – bargaining and depression all these are simply obstacles, barriers to the necessary acceptance outcome of adjusted behaviour consistent with your new situation.”

“I don't need to adjust my behaviour, Doctor, I need a different situation.”

“No, no, no, more denial – it really is not mentally healthy to do this. You must find it in yourself to reach out beyond the limits of your previous experience and into the needs of your current circumstance. Why do you find this need to question your circumstances?”

“Because, Doctor, my circumstances are the complete contradiction of anything a normal person would find acceptable. But, Doctor, just supposing for a moment that I were to accept that this is a rational proposal from the obsessive lunatic that abducted me and not the theories of an madman who kidnaps women just what do you propose should be done.”

“Oh, Miss,” – he peered down at his notes – “Alardyce, it is? Now, I fear you are wrong about me, I have not caused your abduction at all, I am merely here to help you come to terms with the results of that. It is always important to be clear about the role that others play in your fate. And I must insist that I am not obsessive, in any respect. I am certainly not obsessive about lateness, for example, there was no question that I could have been here sooner but there were circumstances, it was not possible. But you are right, I should have been on time. It is not a question of obsession, simply a recognition of reality in this particular circumstance. Now, to turn to your main point – I am pleased to see that you are sufficiently interested in my techniques to understand what is required. I have researched this for some time and I have discovered the technique that is most effective in bringing about a change of behaviour and a re-adjustment of personal perspectives.”

“And that is…” Jean asked.

“Oh, I thought you might have realised by now. I should explain. I could have spent more time if I had been here earlier, I'm so sorry. Now where was I? Ach, jah . My technique for perspective adjustment. It is very simple and like all successful methods in the treatment of the human psyche it works with the mind rather than against it, I am sure you will be pleased to hear.”

“I'm sure,” said Jean in an ironical tone that was entirely lost on Insing. “But your technique, this method of your is ….”

“Pain, my dear. I should have been clearer. The threat of and application of extreme pain. Believe me, I have studied these things. Pain accelerates the cycle of denial – anger – bargaining and acceptance. There are many who propose hypnosis or drugs but in the end I find that it is the body's defence mechanism that is the best tool – you see it is natural. Jah ?”

Jen stared back at him, horrified by whatever he might be planning for her.

While Jean was facing up to Dr. Insing, Bertie had inveigled the Comtesse into arranging a tour of the Chateau's facilities. One of the guards had shepherded him around the various cells, chambers and rooms. They ended their tour in the cellars.

“I thought, M'sieur would like to see how we are looking after the ladies that came over from England so recently,” his host said as he waved Bertie into the cellar.

“They seem to be somewhere else, old boy,” Bertie remarked scanning the cold stone room.

“Well hidden aren't they, sir,” Jennings voice came for a dark corner across the cellar, beside one of the barrels. He swung back the false front of the barrel to show the cage within.

“Trust you the find the ladies, Jennings old bean,” Bertie joked to his guide. “This chap always was quite good at cherchezing the old femmes. You'll never go short of some feminine company if Jennings is there to look after you.”

“As you say, sir,” Jennings replied pointing to the cage. “I think you'll find some ladies you know in here.”

“Jolly good, Jennings .” Bertie bounded across to the barrel. “Hello Alice , hello Sally, hope you're being looked after all right.” He waved to Hermione. “I don't think we've met – Bertie Graham, pal of Alice 's.”

Alice sobbed and held out her manacled wrists. She was so distraught and disoriented by her circumstances that she did not even attempt to hide her nakedness. “Bertie look what they've done to us. Please talk to someone. Get them to let us go. We don't know what they are going to do next – Alice has already been taken away, what's to happen to us?”

Bertie turned to the guard. “What is going to happen to them?” he demanded.

The guard gestured to Bertie to come closer. The girls watched as the guard whispered in Bertie's ear as Bertie said in turn, “Really?”, “Well!”, “Golly!” and “Oh my!” Bertie muttered something to the guard under his breath. The guard nodded. They held a brief but muttered exchange. Bertie turned back to the cage. “Sorry, girls, not really up to me you see? Did what I could though.”

There were howls of anguish from the women as the door slammed shut but the thick wood of the barrel's sides prevented them from being heard any more than they could hear the remarks of the men outside.

“So that's understood,” said Bertie.

“Yes, M'sieur, The small dark one, she will be brought to your room this evening.”

“Excellent,” said Bertie. “Oh and Jennings ..”

“Yes, sir.”

“You'd better get them to lay on some champagne. I wouldn't want the lady to think I can't give a girl a good time.”

Chapter 16: After The First Course

It was late in the evening when the outer door to the barrel cell was swung open again. Alice, Sally and Hermione looked up to see Jean being led back into the cellar.

She was no longer struggling or shouting as she had been when she left. She walked quietly along, still naked, behind the guard, following him without the need for the slightest tug on the leash that was fastened to a heavy collar locked around her neck.

The others watched as the guard opened the outer cage door and pushed Jean into the cell. He touched the back of her left calf with the cane her carried and she dropped to her knees without a sound. The guard fastened the chain from the wall ring to her ankles, unlocked her collar and stood up.

Jean said nothing. Staring blankly, straight ahead, she seemed unaware of her surroundings. Hermione turned towards the guard. “What have you done to her? What's happened to her?” she demanded.

The guard ignored her but turned to Alice . Without a word he grabbed her wrists and twisted her arms behind her back. Pinning her against the wall of the barrel and ignoring her cries and the protests of Sally and Hermione he pulled some lengths of cord from his pocket and tied it tightly fixing her left wrist to her right elbow and her right wrist to the left. As he did so, Sally stretching to the end of the reach of her chain tried to hit out at the guard's legs. He swung around catching the girl a blow on the side of her head with his cane that sent her crashing back against the cell wall, stunned. Hermione was quick to her side, cradling her companion to shield her against any future blows, but the guard simply continued with his work. The vicious bondage was followed by a knotted scarf jammed into Alice 's mouth and tied off as a gag. A further scarf followed blindfolding the girl, then came the collar and leash that had been used on Jean. Only with Alice bound, gagged, blindfolded and collared did the guard unfasten the chain that held her to the cell's wall and drag her from the cell.

“No, come back, bring her back,” Hermione called as first the cage and then the outer door slammed shut.

Sally moaned as she recovered from the blow that the guard had dealt her. Hermione comforted her but then the two girls turned toward Jean who was till kneeling, silent and motionless where the guard had left her. Hermione went across to Jean's side.

“What's the matter, Jean?” she asked. “Are you all right? What have they done to you?”

Jean went on staring straight ahead, her eyes unfocussed and her look blank. “We talked,” she said in a flat, emotionless, tone. “We talked, Dr Insing and I. Just talked, that's really all it was, talk. Just talk. And then…” She fell silent.

“Then what? What happened? After you talked? What then?”

“Then I knew. Then I knew that I had to do as they say. Only do as they say. Just do as they say. Do you see?” Jean still hadn't moved from the spot where the guard had left her.

“Oh, Jean,” said Hermione, “What have they done to you? What's happened to your spirit? Yu must fight them. We all must fight them.” Jean didn't react. “Come on you should get some rest.” Hermione and Sally drew an unresisting Jean to her feet and towards the end of the barrel where they now had a few thin blankets to share. Sally tried to wrap a blanket around Jean but she brushed it aside.

“No,” she said, more firmly than anything that she had uttered since she had been returned to the barrel. “No. I must not be covered unless they say so. No.” But then she lay down on the floor, staring up at the ceiling seeming to want to sleep but unable to close her eyes.

Sally and Hermione looked on in horror, terrified less they and Alice faced a similar fate.

Beyond the cellar, though, Alice 's fate was more immediate.

She was being dragged, blindfold, through the corridors of the chateau. As she stumbled she cried out into her gag, an act that earned her a sharp blow from the guard's cane. She soon learned to choke back each cry lest she earn another blow. The stairs were the hardest, the guard made no allowance for the blindfold or the chain that hobbled her ankles. The spiral stone steps threw her off balance again and again, slamming her against the wall of the turret that they were climbing, pitching her forward onto her knees. Finally the ordeal stopped. She felt the guard's hands on her arms, heard a knock at a door, and then Bertie's voice, “Come in, do come in.” She was pushed forward.

She heard the guard address Bertie. “The woman you asked for, M'ssieur. Just let me know when you have finished with her.”

“Yes, yes,” said Bertie, “that's fine. You can toddle off now.” Alice heard the door close behind her and then realised Bertie had taken hold of her leash. “Hello old thing,” he said, haven't seen you since yesterday.”

“Ummgh mmiii,” was all Alice could manage in response. She felt Bertie's hands at the knot of her blindfold and in a moment the cloth was pulled away and she was blinking in the light of Bertie's room. “Annghh ooo,” she grunted in gratitude.

“Well,” began Bertie, I'd like to say I'm sorry about this. Trouble is, seeing you like this, can't say I'd be being entirely truthful. Fact is I got a bit tired of your flirty nature up at the club,”

“Ganghh! Hnnghhh!” Alice complained, incoherently.

“Now don't interrupt, Alice , old thing. What was I saying – oh yes. Bit tired of it. Always felt you were giving me a bit of a come-on and then backing orf. Not very sporting. Always wondered what you had under that tennis dress. Now I see.” Bertie smiled at the naked Alice .

“Ggerghee, eggh ee ghhooo.”

“Sorry, old thing, can't make out a word of it. Anyway – ah, mmm, yes well it's all very nice Nice pair of the old boozooms. Ideal size - bigger than tennis balls, smaller than footballs, what? Ha! Still didn't bring you all the way up here just to look at your titties, nice though they are.” Alice looked puzzled. “No, no, never been much of a one for that, not really my favourite area at all. Now let's see. I think you'd best go here.” Bertie steered her to the vast bed and pushed her down on it. “Hope you appreciate the flowers and bubbly,” he said gesturing towards the bedside table. “You girls are supposed to like a bit of romance aren't you?” He picked up a glass of champagne. “I'd offer you one but then I'd have to take the gag out and I must say I'm enjoying not being interrupted for once.”

Alice watched in horror as Bertie's hand went to unfasten his belt and the flies of his oxford bags. As he stepped out of his trousers, she tried to back away from him across the bed almost falling to the floor.

“Come on, old girl, don't be shy,” he said gripping her around the waist and dragging her back. She steeled herself for the inevitable but then Bertie swung her over so that her face was pushed into the pillow he jerked her waist up so that she was kneeling with her buttocks in the air. She squealed into her gag as his hand stroked across her backside. “Very nice,” said Bertie, kneeling behind her. “Boyish really. Quite takes me back – last year at school you know. My eighteenth birthday present, a blonde lad in my form – head of house he was, couple of months older than me and quite the nicest bum I've ever seen, then or since.” Alice tried to struggle but Bertie jerked her leash tight and she gave a choking muffled cry. Then she felt Bertie start to press against her and his prick prodding against her arse. She squealed as Bertie pushed himself home. Bertie grabbed the cords the bound her wrists to her elbows and used them as reins, pulling her up from the bed as pushed against her again and again. “Never tried this with a girl before, old thing,” he gasped. “Not bad at all. Might get a taste for it.”

Alice groaned again and again as Bertie went on, ignoring her protests and struggles. Eventually he spent himself and pushed her away, leaving her sobbing. “Now after that I do need a gasper,” said Bertie, picking up a cigarette from the box on the bedside table.

Jennings appeared at the door and surveyed the scene. “Really Sir,” he said, “I do hope you don't take offence but I really feel I must object.”

“Oh, come on Jennings ,” said Bertie. “Don't be a prude. Worse things happen at sea, eh?” Alice groaned still struggling against the ropes that held her, still only able to grunt into her gag.

“I'm sorry, Sir.” Jennings drew himself up to his full height. “I was not in any sense referring to your current amusements. Far be it from me to comment on such things. However, Sir, I do feel entirely able to object to a pair of trousers just cast down on the floor – you may recall, Sir, that they were freshly pressed this morning. While I wouldn't normally comment, I have to say that the laundry facilities here in the Chateau leave a great deal to be desired and I can't be confident that I can return them to the sharp creased perfection you would normally expect.”

“Quite, old chap. Sorry,” Bertie apologised, “thoughtless of me – had my mind on other things – as you see.”

“Indeed I do, Sir.” Jennings peered at the helpless girl. “Can I ask if you intend to do any more with her this evening or should I take her back to where she came from? I understand there's quite a pressing series of engagements for the young lady.”

“Gaaachh,” Alice groaned, shaking her head vigorously.

“Don't worry, Miss,” said Jennings , helpfully, “I'm sure they'll let you know what's going on all in good time.”

Bertie had poured himself a second glass of champagne. “Thank you Jennings , I think I have done with her for now, you might as well take her back down. Might give her another go tomorrow if she's not busy.”

“Very good, Sir,” said Jennings , picking up Alice 's leash. “If you'd like to follow me, Miss,” he said, almost choking her as he pulled her from the bed and towards the door. “I shouldn't be too long, Sir but it's probably better if I take her down than if we bother the guards.”

“Whatever you say, Jennings , old chap, whatever you say.”

Jennings led Alice along the corridor towards the spiral staircase that plunged back down towards the cellars. He stopped beside a door, pushed Alice back against the wall and grabbed hold of her right breast. Alice tried to break away from his grasp. “This is lucky isn't it Miss? We've got some time to ourselves. Why don't we pop in here for a minute or two, Miss?” Jennings reached across her and opened the door. He dragged her inside what was evidently a linen closet and kicked the door shut behind them.

Jennings pushed the girl back against the shelves that held piles of bed linen and towels. “Now, I'm going to take your gag off. You'd like that wouldn't you?”

Alice nodded and grunted her agreement.

“You're to keep quiet, though. Understand?

Another nod, another grunt. Jennings loosened the knot at he back of her neck. As he did so, she forced the knotted cloth out of her mouth and gasped in relief. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” she breathed quietly.

“My pleasure, Miss,” Jennings smirked.

“Did you see what he did to me. Barbaric. Like an animal. Please, how can I get out of here? How can we all get out of here? What should we do?” she begged.

“I really don't know, Miss. Oh, goodness, I think you've misunderstood me.” Jennings gave an embarrassed cough. “I do hope you didn't think I brought you in here to help you get free or anything. Oh dear, I am sorry if I've misled you in any way.”

“But, you took off my gag, and I thought …”

“Ah, sorry for the confusion, Miss. I just thought since the Honourable Bertie had finished I would also take the opportunity to see how accommodating Miss Alice Mottram could be. Alice squealed as Jennings pressed one hand across her mouth muffling her protests, while the other started to unbutton his flies. She struggled more as she realised his intentions but found herself forced to her knees and her face pushed against Jennings 's crotch. He gripped her by the hair, twisting it until the pain forced her to cry out, opening her mouth and allowing him to thrust his cock into it. She was almost choking as it pressed against the back of her throat. “Do try to please me, my dear, it's a skill you'll find helpful, I'm sure. This makes a pleasant change for me, you know. A lifetime in service – it's nice to be served for once.”

Alice whimpered as Jennings , pressed against her over and over, finally coming and spilling his cum deep into her throat. She coughed and choked as he pulled back from her. “There,” he said, “that wasn't too bad. I mean obviously you're a beginner so we can't expect too much. But that wasn't too bad at all.” Alice lay sobbing on the floor of the linen closet as Jennings dressed himself. “Now, you'll be wanting to get back to your friends to tell them of your adventures. I know what you modern girls are like, always gossiping about the chaps you've had. Still we need a gag and a blindfold, I suppose.”

Alice shook her head. “No, please, no,” she begged. Turning to the piles of linen in the closet, Jennings picked up a pillowcase and pulled it over the girl's head. “I sure the Comtesse won't mind us borrowing this,” he said. Then picking up the cloth that had gagged Alice before he retied it over the pillow case, jamming the knot back into her mouth. Pulling the girl to her feet he propelled her back out into the corridor. Naked expect for the pillow case over her head, tied in place by the gag, she was pulled by her leash back towards the cellar.

Chapter 17: A Bit Of A Do

The grand hall of the Chateau was packed. The Comtesse's idea of ‘a bit of a do for a few friends' shouldn't have surprised Freddie but nevertheless it was one of the most elaborate affairs he had ever seen.

The first clue had been when he found the invitation, immaculately lettered on gold edged card, on the table in the lounge of his suite.

“Please join me in the Salon Grand for a Ball Masqu é ,” it had said. “On the theme of villains and fiends.”

Freddie of course was delighted to accept although fancy dress was hardly his thing. “Could he,” he had wondered in conversation with the Comtesse, “come as himself?”

The Comtesse had giggled, chided him with a wagging finger for being a spoil-sport, and then insisted that he could not. He could however, she said, have the run of the Castle's wardrobe, acquired from Neuschwanstein in the confusion following the death, or was it murder, of Ludwig III.

He found a monk's habit, dark brown with a high cowl. This, he coupled with an enormous, ancient looking, mask. The mask was of leather rigid with age. It was modelled on the masks worn by the Florentine's as they went forth to collect the victims of the plague that swept through the city in the 1340's – Freddie had thought that evoking something that had wiped out a quarter of the population of Europe was probably enough of a villain, even for him. The long, hook shaped nose of the mask, originally designed to hold fragrant herbs, stretched out a good two feet in front of his face.

When he entered the Grand Ballroom of the Chateau that Friday evening, no one was quite sure who he was meant to be – all they were sure of was that he certainly fitted the bill of villain or fiend. From the head of the stairs that led down into the ballroom he surveyed the scene. The Comtesse's ‘few friends' were perhaps two hundred people in all.

Clegg saw a figure that was evidently Bertie. Even in a mask it was hard to mistake his bouncing gait. “Hullo, Bertie,” Clegg boomed from within his mask. “Who the devil are you supposed to be?”

“Can't you guess old man, can't you guess?”

Clegg looked closely. “Well he said you look exactly like you've stepped out of Beau Brummel's England but I am not sure how you qualify. Unless of course this was the common dress adopted by the senior prefects at your school. What are you, sir? Villain? Fiend?”

“Ha! Right era, certainly but I, Freddie, am William Pitt. Prime Minister 1783 to 1799 when he was responsible for one of the greatest atrocities ever to afflict mankind.”

Clegg looked blank but his mask, of course, failed to communicate his confusion.

“Biggest villain of them all, Freddie, old man. Know what he did? Introduced income tax! How much of a villain is that. Look over there – Blackbeard – sank a few ships, nothing. Nero – let his city burn down. Trivial! Now my man – takes millions every year. And he's got every government in the world doing it now! Biggest fiend of the lot.”

“I do get your point Bertie,” Clegg chortled, “I do get your point. Not really too much of a problem for me you know but I can see what you mean.” Clegg had to admit that although Bertie could be tiresome he did have his amusing side.

The Comtesse was, Freddie knew, one of the premier traders and trainers in Northern Europe . She also, he knew, saw her vocation as much a pleasure as her work. Those guests who shared her enthusiasms had seized on the opportunity to parade their own particular tastes.

To one side Cleopatra towed two, cork blackened, “Nubian” slaves as she progressed across the room. To the other a crook-backed Richard the Third appeared to have taken some liberties with history as he toyed with what Clegg could only assume were intended to be the little princesses in The Tower.

Clegg was pleased to see that Elspeth had entered into the spirit of things too. This wasn't her sort of thing either but appearing as Britannia was exactly the sort of political commentary he should have expected from her, though whether it was meant to be an indictment of British imperialism or of the exploitation of the British working classes wasn't entirely clear to him. Knowing Elspeth, it was probably both.

Freddie watched as the Comtesse stepped into the room, noticing approvingly the way in which her tight black velvet dress clung to her figure and the deep neckline revealed her cleavage. She wore a long wig with black hair that almost reached to her waist. Her companion – an immensely tall, grotesque looking butler gave Clegg the answer to the question who she had come as. Clegg had seen a copy of the New Yorker earlier that year and been mightily impressed by the work of Charles Addams. He hadn't expected the Comtesse to enjoy cartoons. She moved towards Clegg, almost gliding across the floor – it was hard to see how else she could move given the tightness of her skirt.

“Freddie,” she called, laughing, “I'd know that nose anywhere!”

“Oh, thank you Comtesse,” Clegg responded with irony. “And how is Gomez?”

The Comtesse laughed in response. “Do enjoy yourself, Freddie,” she said before excusing herself and drifting away across the room to greet another of her guests.

Bertie drew Clegg's attention to a woman on the far side of the room. “I say, Freddie,” he said, have you seen that girl over there? That is what I call a villainess”

Freddie peered across. An almost painfully thin woman was standing chatting to Quasimodo. In one had she was holding a drink - a bright green cocktail – in her other she held the leash of a naked, hooded, slave crouching beside her. As Clegg looked more closely he could see that the slave's hood had the legend, “Slave David” marked on the forehead while the unfortunate slave had both of his nipples pierced with rings from which chains linked down to a further ring pierced in the tip of his foreskin. The woman though appeared quite normally dressed as far as Clegg could tell - an elegant, understated, long dress that showed off her angular, almost mannish, features. And there seemed nothing remarkable about the woman either, confident, poised dark hair slicked down with a centre parting.

“No, I'm sorry Bertie. She's got me fooled as well as you had. Evidently likes to keep her chaps well under control but apart from that? I'm obviously not as well up on villains and fiends as I thought,” Freddie said. “Who's she meant to be?”

Bertie smirked triumphantly. “You can't have seen a newsreel in the last year old chap, or looked at a newspaper. Really you should get out more. Absolutely the greatest fiend of the last year according to the tabloid press, the government and the British establishment. That woman was, if you believe them, solely and entirely responsible for putting at risk the entire British Empire not to mention the Anglican Church. Elly would approve I think.” Clegg still looked puzzled. Bertie went on. “That my dear chap is the woman who claimed you could never be too thin or too rich, whose husband is the erstwhile King of England, Edward the Eighth as was. That is the Duchess of Windsor, the American divorcee, Wallis Simpson.”

“Oh, come on Bertie, that's a bit rich. Someone's turned up here dressed as Wallis Simpson?”

Bertie laughed. “No old chap, that's not what I'm saying – not dressed as Wallis Simpson, actually Wallis Simpson.”

Clegg almost choked on his drink. “Then the chap kneeling at her side is ?” Clegg turned around as the Comtesse joined them again.

“Do you know Freddie, I think it might actually be,” she said. “One doesn't like to ask of course, but one hears such rumours.”

“Good lord,” said Clegg. “You certainly do have an extraordinary circle of friends.” He looked across at Wallis and her kneeling slave who was now trying to shuffle along behind his mistress as she headed off to chat with another woman. “Those piercings look rather painful,” he said. “Still after the Prince Edward, perhaps that will be known as a Duke of Windsor!”

The Comtesse grinned and the party went on.

Chapter 18: Alice , Sally & Hermione's Training

The next morning, Elspeth and the Comtesse were walking through the west wing of the Chateau. “It's good of you to show me around Comtesse,” Elspeth said.

“Och, you can drop the Comtesse bit, it's Sandra - Sandy to my friends,” she said.

Elspeth smiled. “Well thank you, Sandy ,” she said. ”Where are we now?”

“Oh this is the old barracks. We use it for the guard's quarters and the main training area. Let's go through here.” Sandy opened a heavy, iron studded, oak door and led the way onto a balcony that stretched across the end of a hall below them. She leant on the rail of the balcony and pointed down into the room below. “There,” she said, “there are some of your party, down there.”

Elspeth joined Sandy at the rail. The three guards in the room below came to attention as they realised that the Comtesse was watching them. “Carry on, lads,” she called. “Continuez. Don't mind us.”

The guards returned to their tasks. Elspeth peered down at the scene. Sally and Alice were the subject of their attentions. Both of the girls were naked except for high heeled mules and thick leather strap gags. The guards were exercising the girls in a rather curious set up. There were four rows of three chairs lined up. White tape marked out an aisle alongside the rows. Each girl was being driven in turn along the aisle and made to kneel beside one of the rows of chairs, then brought to her feet and made to totter back down to where she had started. The slightest waver or hesitation was rewarded by a blow from a guard's stick but Elspeth could see that the girls were making progress. The guards seemed to have had little cause to punish them and most of the bruises and wheals on their thighs, backs and calves looked to be at least a day old.

“They seem to be getting there,” said Elspeth.

“Yes. Of course Doctor Insing's efforts at adjustment makes it easier and Freddie is only looking for them to handle very simple tasks. Not really much of a test for the training regime but as long as they are ready for you then I guess we'll have done our job.”

“And how about Miss Addams and Miss Alardyce?”

“Well, let's see. The flyer – Jean – she was surprisingly quick to adapt. Insing had made significant progress even by the end of the first session. I think she's more or less finished and back in the cell. Surprising really I'd have thought that she would prove more difficult but there you are. Addams has been a little more challenging, I believe. We can stop by the Herr Doktor's office if you like. She should be there and I would be interested to see how he is getting along.”

Insing's office was in a small clinical suite of rooms at the far end of the barracks building. The Comtesse swept past the woman on reception duty. She leapt to her feet, evidently agitated by the unscheduled visit. “Please Comtesse, the Doktor is in a session with a patient,” she appealed. “He does not like to be disturbed.”

“Herr Doktor Insing was disturbed a long time ago,” Sandy laughed. “I'm sure he won't mind.” She opened the door without knocking. The naked, almost comatose form of Hermione Addams was stretched out on the couch, half covered by a sheet. Insing was standing beside her with one hand firmly placed on her naked right breast.

“Morning Herr Doktor,” Sandy called cheerily, smiling as Insing straightened up suddenly, banging his head on the polished metal lamp that had been positioned over the couch.

“Ah, good morning Comtesse,” Insing replied, grimacing at the pain but nevertheless managing to pull himself stiffly to attention while clicking his heels. “And to your delightful companion. I don't believe I have had the pleasure…”

“Nor are you likely to,” thought Elspeth, viewing with distaste the way that he was sucking on the end of his moustache and the fact that it was not only his posture that was stiff.

“This is Elspeth Grant an associate of Herr Clegg,” said Sandy by way of introduction.

The mention of Clegg's name appeared sufficient to remove the leer from Insing's face. “Always interesting to meet anyone that moves in Herr Clegg's circles. Do you know much about the lady we have here?” Insing grinned as Hermione scowled.

Elspeth looked thoughtful “She worked for the Royal Aero Club from 1931. Before that though she was one of the first women to win a mathematics degree at Cambridge , I'm not quite sure how she came to trade the academic world for the role of archivist but I suppose we all have to earn a living. The interesting thing to me, Herr Doktor, is whether you can do as you claim and carry out these ‘adjustments' without damaging her intellectual powers. It is rather important that she should go on being able to calculate.”

Insing replied with confidence. “You will be interested then to learn that the woman here is almost completely adjusted and there is no apparent damage to her other capabilities. You saw me verifying some of her responses as you came in.”

“An original term for it,” thought Elspeth but she said, “And your conclusions?”

“Well you see for yourself she no longer needs restraints. She can remain in place as told without need for that. It's a very difficult balance Mr Clegg is asking for, you understand. The suppression of the will but the retention of her rather exceptional abilities. To ensure she is fully adjusted for compliance but still able to function is a difficult test and it would be irreversible if we were to take her too far. Fortunately my techniques can be finely tuned, I have studied this in great depth you understand, great depth. It is after all a very flexible medium. They should have recognised my work, they could have done so. In time my contribution to psychotherapy will be understood they will have to accept me you know, they will have to accept me.” Insing's voice had got progressively higher through his tirade until he was almost squeaking.

“I'm sorry, Herr Doktor,” Elspeth interrupted. “I'm not sure I've grasped this at all. What is this flexible medium that you refer to?”

“Ach, so sorry. Foolish Insing, I know. Please you see here…” He pulled back the sheet that covered the lower part of Hermione's body and taking each ankle in turn spread her unresisting legs. Elspeth could see a polished metal tube probing into Hermione's vagina. Cables ran from its base to a small control box beside the couch. “Now as I explain to all my patients, my therapy is simple. There are those already who propose electric shock treatment – convulsion therapy that attacks the electrical currents in the brain. This is all very well but it works against the body. I choose to work with the body and use its natural defence mechanisms to establish the adjusted behaviour mode as the way of avoiding that which the body fears most of all – pain.”

“Pain?” said Elspeth. “That's all there is to it? Pain?”

“Now, Fraulein Elspeth, now. No, that is not ‘all there is to it'. Of course. This is not simple pain but extreme, extended, carefully directed and controlled pain. This is science. What do you take me for some form of barbarian?” He turned with a splutter of distaste back to the control box. “Now, please excuse me and Fraulein Addams if you wish to have her ready in time. I still have work to do. All there is to it! Pah!” He began to twist the controls. Hermione's body bucked as a shock tore through her

Sandy laughed. “Come on, Elspeth, I fear you've upset our good doctor. Let's see if we can find a bottle of Chablis.”

“Fine by me,” Elspeth responded and the two women left Insing to his task.

Chapter 19: “Also sprach…”

As Elspeth was returning to her room after a pleasant discussion with Sandy she passed by Insing's office again. She was almost bowled over as Insing's receptionist emerged in a great hurry, carrying a tray of pill boxes and medicines. At least she assumed it was Insing's receptionist since now as well as her white uniform and cap she was wearing a surgical mask.

Curious, thought Elspeth, there's no real need for her to be wearing a mask out here. And even more curious, she thought, looking at the back of the woman walking away from her so briskly, wasn't Insing's nurse a blonde?

Certain that something was amiss she hit one of the red alarm buttons that could be seen on almost every corridor of the chateau. The effect on the woman as the klaxon sounded was enough to confirm Elspeth's suspicions. She dropped the tray and started to run. Two guards, answering the alarm call appeared at the door in front of her. She stopped and span around.

“Grab her,” called Elspeth. “She's an escapee!”

The masked woman turned, trying to spot an escape route but the guards closed in on her and soon had her struggling in their grasp. Elspeth got to them a moment later as they wrenched the woman's arms behind her and span her to face Elspeth.

Elspeth reached forward and pulled the mask down, recognising the woman immediately. “Why Miss Addams,” she said, “I hadn't realised that your skills extended to nursing. I'm not at all sure that you should be wandering around out here. Let's go and ask Dr Insing if your treatment is really complete shall we?”

“Damn you! You're not taking me back to that perverted fiend, you garrkhh!” Hermione's protests were cut off as Elspeth wrenched the surgical mask from around her neck and jammed it into her mouth.

“Bring our friend along, boys,” Elspeth said to the guards as she turned to wards Insing's office. “And don't be too gentle with her.” Hermione squealed into her makeshift gag as the guards half dragged, half pushed her forward.

Insing's office was, unsurprisingly, a shambles. On the floor of the reception area, with a heady smell of ether hanging in the air, was the half naked, unconscious, form of Insing's real nurse. Stripped to her underwear, she was lying on her face. Her wrists had been tied behind her back with strips apparently torn from sheets, the cable from a lamp had been used to truss her ankles and to hog tie her so that her wrists and ankles almost touched. A further length of cloth had been tied across her mouth as a gag. Another length of cloth pulled her elbows back together until they were almost touching. The ends of the cloth that gagged her had been used to drag her head back towards her elbows. A thorough job, thought Elspeth, for an amateur.

In his consulting room, Insing was not unconscious but Elspeth quite felt that he might want to be. He had been strapped across his consulting couch with his wrists chained to his ankles beneath the couch with Hermione's fetters that she had somehow escaped from. His own tie had been used to gag him, his trousers and underpants had been pulled down and the electrified metal tube had been jammed into his anus. It was apparently still working, every so often Insing gave a wrenching struggle and screamed into his gag.

There was a large lump on the back of his bald head where Hermione had evidently hit him. A heavy metal bedpan lay on the couch beside him – seemingly the weapon.

She turned to the guards who were still holding the struggling Hermione. “You'd better get this sorted out and have your stories straight before the Comtesse gets here. She's not going to like this one little bit. I think the young lady out there would like her uniform back for a start. Clegg's not going to be too happy either if this little lady isn't ready for transfer in four hours and believe me you really don't want to be around for that. Herr Doktor is going to have to get a move on if he's going to finish in time.”

“Right, Miss,” the taller of the two guards responded. “Leave it to us. Dr Insing liked to look after his own security but I guess he isn't really up to it. We'll make sure he gets on with things, don't worry.” His colleague was busily stripping Hermione of the nurse's uniform. Having got her naked, he wrestled Hermione to the floor and tied her wrists securely. A length of cord tied across her mouth stopped her spitting out the gag.

Elspeth smiled down at Hermione, as she struggled against the guard. “Good try, Addams,” she said, sounding encouraging, “but I am afraid you'll regret it.” Hermione grunted furiously as Elspeth left the consulting room.

Four hours later, Bertie was standing in the courtyard of the Chateau. Across the lawn and through the gatehouse the view stretched the whole length of the Lac D'Ysel. The sun had just slipped behind the hills that sheltered the west side of the lake and dusk was closing in. A thin mist was forming over the lake. As Bertie stared out at the idyllic scene an airship appeared over the low hills at the far end of the valley. It was enormous, Bertie was impressed as it slid slowly closer. Aligning itself with the long axis of the lake it edged towards the Chateau. The low throb of the airship's engines could be clearly heard as it approached. The last rays of the setting sun glinted on its massive silver envelope.

The dirigible came nearer, its slow but steady speed and massive bulk creating the impression of an unstoppable machine. With surprise Bertie realised that the airship was headed straight toward the Chateau. Clegg had told him they would be leaving that evening but he had not indicated how.

It kept on coming. It was almost overhead the gatehouse when Bertie heard a noise behind and above him. He turned around and looked up. He watched as the cap of the chateau's highest tower rotated until one of its windows was facing directly at the ship. The ship edged ever closer, the control gondola was almost directly above Bertie's head. The vast bulk of the ship blocked out his view of the sky, the noise from the engines in the four power cars that were slung under the ‘ship's body, echoed around the courtyard walls, deafening him. A cross of lights appeared on the wall of the Chateau's tower. The ship edged closer still, its pilot in the gondola evidently using the lights to align the craft. A shower of water ballast fell from the ship, splashing down in the courtyard; lines dropped down from the gondola.

Two teams of men emerged from a door in the courtyard wall and ran towards the lines, mooring the ship to rings set in the paving. Bertie saw a gangway emerge from the tower's window and slide forward to dock against the nose of the airship like a silver mouth to suckle on the vast silver breast of the dirigible's hull.

Bertie heard the ringing of a telegraph from the gondola above him and the ship's propellers began to slow to a standstill. The airship had arrived.

Clegg beckoned him from a door in the far corner of the courtyard. “Come on Bertie, old man,” he called. “Don't want to keep these balloonists waiting, do we?”

Clegg and Bertie climbed the stairway inside the tower to the turret room where the gangway to the airship was. Two of the ship's crew and Jennings were standing by the gangway. Jennings had assembled a pile of suitcases from Bertie's, Clegg's and Elspeth's rooms. “I' do believe I have everything her that you all need, gentlemen. The crew tell me that we should board at once. Miss Grant is seeing to the others.”

“First rate, Jennings ,” said Clegg and then, turning to Bertie, “Your man really does a very good job, Bertie. Very good.”

Clegg and Bertie walked across to the gangway. The crew members stiffened to attention and clicked their heels as the two men passed between them and into the silver tube that led to the airship. As they emerged they were greeted by a uniformed officer. “Gruss Gott, gentlemen,” he said, “Welcome on board the Fredrick Nietzsche. I am First Officer Schneer. Herr Kapitan Luftwehr sends his compliments and hopes that you will join him in the lounge after we have taken off.”

“Thank you Schneer, we'd be delighted,” Bertie said. “Now let's see where you're putting us. First time I've been in one of these.” He peered at the framework of metal girders and canvas that covered the walkway leading away from the nose and down under the belly of the ship. “Looks a bit spartan so far.”

“I think you'll find it comfortable enough, Sir.” Schneer ventured. “Please follow me,” he said, leading the way down the walkway, “and please watch your step, it is quite a way to the cabins.”

Schneer wasn't exaggerating. The Friedrich Nietzsche was almost 800 feet long and the cabins were situated under the belly of the airship. The walkway stretched for about 100 yards curving downwards, steeply and first and then levelling out before it opened into a corridor. Schneer opened two doors one on either side. “Gentlemen, your cabins. Please make yourselves comfortable. I am sure your man will see to the luggage. The lounge is through that door at the end of the walkway. Now if you will excuse me I am needed in the control gondola. We depart in,” Schneer stopped and took a pocket watch from his jacket, “exactly five minutes.” And with that he was gone.

Bertie stepped into his cabin, surprised at the size and comfortable appointments after the factory like walkway. On one side was a bed. He prodded it, noting that it seemed satisfactorily firm. Opposite a white wicker arm chair and couch combined elegant lines and, essential lightness. “No place for heavy oak here,” thought Bertie. A small writing desk which apparently folded down from the side wall completed the cabin's furnishings. On the desk was a printed folder with the double-headed eagle insignia of the Deutsche Zeppelin Reederei airline. “ Wilkommen An Bord : Welcome On Board,” its cover said. The same insignia seemed to adorn all the cabin's appointments. Behind the chair and couch were a pair of curtains. Bertie leant across and pulled them open. He was at once impressed by the sight. Two windows provided a view out, looking down across the Chateau's courtyard. Peering upwards, Bertie could look up at the curve of the ship's body stretching above. Looking forward he could see one of the airship's four power cars and its four bladed propeller. As he was looking at it a puff of smoke emerged from an exhaust pipe on the power car and its engine coughed into life, slowly turning the propeller. Moments later the ship gave the slightest judder under his feet and he became aware that they were sliding slowly backwards. The Friedrich Nietzsche was under way.

Bertie stepped out of his cabin and along the corridor to the lounge. Freddie was already there together with Schneer. Here the windows looking down were even larger and gave a panoramic view of the Lac D'Ysel as the Nietzsche came to a standstill and then started to edge forwards and upwards. He watched as the Chateau slid beneath them and the dark forests of the surrounding countryside came into view. The throbbing of the engines slowed and the airship settled into a steady climb away from the lake.

With the Nietzsche under way, Kapitan Luftwehr had time to leave the bridge and join the party in the lounge. Schneer produced two bottles of champagne and opened them. He filled glasses for each of the assembled passengers. “At least there is one thing that I suppose we must thank the French for,” he said, evidently disapproving.

Bertie wasn't keen on the First Officer's attitude. “You chaps are jolly good at the old engineering bit – maybe second only to ourselves. What? Still not quite so good at the vino plonko and the culinary expertise, eh? Hope you're not going to subject us to sauerkraut and dumplings for the whole trip. Not too much w ü rst and worse, eh? Ha, ha!”

Schneer scowled at Bertie's jocular remarks. Kapitan Luftwehr intervened to calm things down. “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he smiled. “We have a long journey and large as this craft is, we all need to get along.”

Clegg said nothing, preferring to grasp a glass of champagne and peer down at the receding countryside.

Elspeth strode into the lounge wearing a floor length, wrap around cream wool coat trimmed with white fur. From the way that the collar dipped between her breasts and the coat fell open as she walked, Schneer was convinced she wore nothing beneath it. “All secure, chief,” Elspeth announced to Clegg, ignoring Schneer's lecherous glance. Then, sensing that all was not calm in the room, she said, “Do you want to check?”

“Hmm,” Clegg responded, absent-mindedly, “Yes, yes, I should. Excuse us, gentlemen. Elspeth, you'd better lead the way.”

Elspeth took Clegg back out into the corridor and through another door. They came out at the foot of a stair way that led up into the cavernous inside of the Nietzsche. The interlocking girders stretched above them like the inside of a metal cathedral. On either side the vast gas bags that served to keep the ship airborne were swollen inside the cables that held them into the frame. Twenty, thirty, forty steps led them upwards. A hundred and fifty feet above the cabins the stairway reached the gangway that stretched from stem to stern through the centre of the ship.

“There we go,” said Elspeth, waving above her, “our guests' personal cabins.”

Clegg looked up. Hanging from the frame of the dirigible each suspended from a pulley system that allowed them to be raised or lowered, were four globe-shaped cages, each made from riveted aluminium bars that left a gap of only inches between each bar. Through tiny gaps between the bars. Clegg could make out that each globe held one of their captives. Jean, Hermione, Sally and Alice swung and span slowly as the airship gave a tremor in its climb.

“And how is our archivist?” asked Clegg. “Is she going to behave herself now?”

“Ah, you heard about that,” Elspeth grinned.

“Well, let's just say I was with the Comtesse when she heard about it. I think Herr Doktor Insing was left in no doubt regarding her views on the matter.”

“He assures me the problem is resolved. Addams' thresholds proved a little higher than he had determined. A further cycle with the tube set at a higher intensity was all she needed, he claimed. Certainly she seemed docile enough when we put her in the globe. I'll keep an eye on her through the trip, don't worry.”

“It's rather important that she is available to us at the other end, you know.” Clegg had confidence in Elspeth but he was still evidently concerned.

“Yes, I know. I'm going to be as dependent on her as any of us.”

“Of course, of course. Anyway how are our birds in their not so gilded cages?”

“Fine, I think. I put them in flight suits,” Elspeth explained. “If we'd left them naked they wouldn't have coped with the cold as far as Rome , much less for the rest of the flight. They're not cuffed or tied but their gags are locked on – we don't want them disturbing us after all.”

“No, no. We certainly don't want them exciting too much attention from the crew. You've done enough of that with Schneer already.” Clegg chuckled.

Elspeth gave a grunt. “Time for dinner, I think,” she said and led the way back down the stairway.

Chapter 20: Cappuccino Volante

It was, thought Gabriella Balzinni, the perfect plan. Of course it was risky but it would be worth it. Airship was the most luxurious, the most fashionable way to travel. Only that morning there had been the commentary on the radio of the Hindenburg leaving Berlin for New York it would reach the United States three days later. Somehow the radio had conveyed all the sense of elegance and excitement that Gabriella knew would have filled the air as the passengers filed aboard and the ship had eased away from its mooring. And now, looking at her newspaper, the Il Messaggero announced, now her sister ship, the Friedrich Nietzsche, was passing through Rome on its way to Africa .

Gabriella was sitting at a table in a pavement café on the Via Veneto. She waved to Lucia Carlo, her best friend as she cycled into view. “Ciao, Lucia,” she called as her friend propped her cycle against a lamp post and came to join her.

“You're dreaming again Gabriella,” Lucia laughed, pointing at the picture of the airship filling fully half of the front page of the Messaggero. “The only way you're going to ride in one of those is if you find a man with a whole lot more money than those boys you currently have in tow.”

Gabriella giggled. Her friend was right, of course. She should never really hope to enjoy the comfort of an airship's lounge, the stunning views as the ship slid steadily over the countryside, the sense of being at one with the winds as the ship sailed towards its destination. But now she had a plan. “Don't be too sure, Lucia,” she said. “Anyway, who knows. I have a lotto ticket this week, I might be lucky.”

The two girls enjoyed their coffees as the morning traffic buzzed busily around them. Gabriella kept her plan to herself but she had already worked out most of the details. As the Nietzsche took on supplies at Rome airfield she would stow away – at the very worst they would have to carry her as far as Athens and she would get the chance to experience something she was sure she would never do otherwise. And, since the Nietzsche arrived that very afternoon, the time to do something about it was now.

From the Via Veneto it was a hot bicycle ride out to the airfield. She cycled through the two wrought iron gates that guarded the entrance to the terminal building. Nobody stopped her as she went inside or noticed as she slipped into the ladies washroom with her tiny back pack.

The airport terminal building was almost the only sign of civilisation on the windy plain where the airfield was. Recently built to show Il Duce's commitment to Italian supremacy of the airways of the Mediterranean , it offered a haven from the hot dry winds that scoured the airfield. The terminal had been built as a curved confection of concrete with a massive bronze fasces over the entrance. Inside, the walls of the large lounge were lined with burr walnut veneer panels, each edged with a strip or brightly shining chrome. Around the lounge deeply padded leather armchairs and sofas provided the seating. A brooding, bronze, bust of Mussolini scowled down from marble pillar in the centre of the wall of steel and glass that looked out across the field to where the airship mooring mast awaited the afternoon arrival of the Friedrich Nietzsche.

Gabriella emerged, looking the height of elegance. Her back pack, now hidden away behind a cistern had held a pale green silk dress “borrowed” from the fashion store where she worked and a small clutch bag. Every crease of the dress had shaken out as soon as she had taken it from her bag to change and now she sat, in one of the lounge's comfortable armchairs, sunglasses perched on top of her head, looking as if she owned the terminal, and affecting a bored look.

She had been there perhaps an hour when a smartly uniformed policeman appeared at her side. “Ciao, signorina,” he smiled clicking his heels to attention as he came up beside her seat. Was she quite comfortable? Nothing she needed? She should not worry. The Nietzsche would be arriving shortly – a problem with head winds. Would the signorina like him to explain?

Gabriella fended off most of his attentions without offending him but then realised that he could help her.

“You must see many women here, officer,” she began.

“Oh some, but none to compare with the beautiful signorina .”

“Well thank you, such a complement is especially welcome from such a handsome officer.” The policeman's chest puffed up with pride. “And you must see much of the pilots of the planes and the airship captains.”

“ Si , of course. With many I am great friends.” He held two fingers out laid one alongside the other.

“Then I will confide in you. I have a great passion for the first officer of the Friedrich Nietzsche. We met when he was last in Rome and for me it was love at first sight.”

“And for him it could be nothing less, I am sure.”

“I thought so. But I write and he doesn't answer. And now I worry that he may be seeing another.”

“How could he, signorina ? They are sometimes cold these Germans, you know. They do not show always how they feel. Il Duce,” he nodded towards the bust atop its marble pillar, “may think he has great influence with Herr Hitler but I think that man will just go where he chooses.”

“Exactly. So I thought I would come here and find him. I am sure if we could just speak, if we could be together then all would be well. But I am so worried that the airship will not be here long, he may not even disembark. I just could not bear it not to see him, even if only for a moment.”

“Fear not. Signorina , I can help you. I know just what to do. You are right, he will probably not leave the ship and even if he did then he would be here for only a few minutes – if you really wish to be with him you will have to take the risk of being aboard when the airship takes off. Could you face that?”

“Oh yes, I would do anything to be with him.”

“Well this is what we must do,” he went on conspiratorially. “When the airship arrives there will always be a confusion at the mast head with a great deal of coming and going. I will take you out to the mast, you can hide by the gangway and when the stores are being loaded you can wait for your moment and simply walk aboard. There are always passengers embarking and disembarking. They do not check the tickets until the very last moment, all you need to do is hide- perhaps in your lover's cabin – that would be so romantic – no?”

“Oh, but will you not get into trouble?”

“For you, Signorina, and for love, it is a small risk. I would love to have a woman care so much for me that she would risk so much to be with me. You do him a great honour and if he fails to recognise this then he is not worthy of you. For me, I am proud to help you.”

“Well thank you, officer. You are a true gentleman and a true champion of amore.”

Which was how Gabriella Balzinni came to be able to slip aboard the airship in the twenty minutes that it paused in its flight at Rome . There had been no one around when she stepped from the tower into the airship. She had found a locker close to the gangway and had slid inside, squeezing in beside the coiled mooring ropes that were used at the nose of the airship when there was no tower for it to dock with. She had waited until the thumps, bangs and clanks were followed by a lurch as the ship left the tower and then had waited another hour so they would be well under way.

When she emerged from the locker there was no sign of anyone. She remembered the diagramme from that morning's paper – the gangway stretching downwards led to the passenger cabins and she would be quickly discovered if she went that way. Instead she followed the walkway that stretched straight ahead of her through the core of the ship, between the gas bags. There was a stair way halfway along, she knew. That way she would be able to slip down right beside the crew cabins – she might be able to persuade one of them to hide her – after all her policeman had been so helpful.

Gabriella made her way along the walkway, the colossal gas bags on either side straining on the netting that held them captive and allowed them to lift the airship. She reached the stair way. Looking up in wonder at the enormous cathedral like space between the gas bags she saw four globes, metallic cages, high above her, spinning and swinging slowly as the ship moved forwards and upwards. “Odd,” she thought, “I wonder what they are.” Then concentrating on listening in case anyone was to discover her, she went slowly down the stair way and slipped into one of the cabins.

Chapter 21: Cocktails For Four

Freddie Clegg lazed back in an armchair in the Nietzsche's bar. He was enjoying the view across Rome as the airship continued its journey southwards. Bertie and Elspeth were there too, the three of them sharing an early evening cocktail. The Vatican , the Colosseum, and the Forum slid away behind them and eventually the jumble of suburbs gave way to countryside.

Bertie was standing at the guard rail that stretched the length of the bar in front of the viewing panels. Jennings appeared at the doorway and gave a discrete cough.

“Ah, excuse me, Miss Grant, Gentlemen,” he said.

“Quite all right, Jennings , we're just enjoying the view, what is it?”

“I just wondered if I could have a word with Mr Clegg, sir. Something that needs his attention.”

Clegg put down his drink. “That's all right, Jennings . What's the problem?”

“Ah, well, sir, I wonder if you could come back to your cabin for a moment. You see there's a girl in there and you hadn't mentioned that anyone would be joining us at Rome .”

Clegg looked bemused.

“A girl you say, Jennings . Attractive filly or what?” Bertie cut in.

“Hard for me to say, sir.”

“Oh, come on Jennings , don't be so stuffy. I know you've got an eye for the ladies as much as the next man.”

“Standards are very different, Sir – we all have our own tastes. I would say, however, that the reason I claimed it was hard for me to say was because I had seen no more than her feet sticking out from under Mr Clegg's bed. I am sure, Sir, you will understand that in those circumstances, irrespective of my personal preferences, it is quite hard for me to say.”

Clegg chuckled. Elspeth stared at Clegg. She obviously wasn't amused. “Freddie, what's this all about?”

“I have absolutely no idea my dear,” he said disingenuously. “I can only surmise that my reputation has gone on ahead of me and the women are just deciding to turn up in order to save me the bother of abducting them.”

Bertie laughed. “First rate idea,” he said. “Get them to form a line and bring their own ropes, what! Save us all a lot of trouble. Ha!”

Elspeth turned to Jennings . “Has she any idea what is going on here?” she asked.

“Goodness, I've no idea, Miss. She should still be under the bed. At least she will still be in the cabin. I took the precaution of locking the door behind me.”

“Good man,” said Clegg. “I suppose I'd better go and sort this out. Come on Jennings , you'd better show me what's what.”

The two of them left the lounge. Elspeth was staring out of the window with a frown on her face. Bertie slid on to the couch alongside her. She appeared not to notice. “Bit of an odd business,” he began.

“Yes,” Elspeth responded, shortly.

“Clegg didn't seem to know anything about it.”

“No.” Elspeth went on staring out through the window.

“Elly, I would like to… “ Bertie started.

“Elspeth,” she cut in. “It's Elspeth.”

“Sorry. Elspeth. Look, I know you think I'm a bit of a waste of space around here.” He paused. He went on. “Err, some sort of contradiction would have been in order there, you know.”

Elspeth raised an eyebrow but didn't reply.

“All right. Look, Clegg has been happy to have me along. I sorted out young Sally, without which there'd have been a few problems. Unless I am completely mistaken the reason that we have Miss Sally Fellows along with us is because you failed to spread out Alice 's clothes in the right order down the beach. This is a fact which I have not bothered to share with our Mr. Clegg.” Elspeth went to interrupt him but he ignored her. “Now, I quite understand that I am not a professional like you and you may find my manner a little jocular for your taste but please don't conclude that I am not fully engaged in this enterprise. I am as stuck into this as you are, so I'll thank you to at least give me credit for that.”

Elspeth was taken aback by his forthright remarks. She knew that the problems on the beach were her own fault and even if he was a bit of a yahoo she had to admit that he'd shown no signs of faltering. “Bertie, I apologise. I've been an ass,” she said. “Can we at least declare a truce?”

“Don't see why not old thing,” he grinned. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Yes, why not. But can you make it ‘Elspeth' rather than ‘old thing'. I do much prefer to be called by my given name.”

“Absolutely old – sorry – Elspeth, coming right up.”

Back on the accommodation deck, Jennings unlocked the door to Clegg's cabin and the two went in. Clegg crouched down and peered under the bed. He could see a young girl trying to edge as close to the cabin wall as she could. “Please, come out, Miss,” he called to her. “ Esce prego, signorina . I feel we need to have a conversation.”

Gabriella wriggled around under the bed and crawled out. She sat on the floor of the cabin staring up at the two men with a frightened look. “Please, I meant no harm,” she said in accented English, “please don't have me taken off the airship. You can't, please don't.”

Clegg looked down at the girl. The dress she had chosen clung closely to a figure that was agreeably curved. Her dark hair, eyes and complexion contrasted greatly with the paler look of the four girls that Clegg knew were swinging in their cages almost directly above them. She was certainly attractive and, given her presence in his cabin, resourceful. He tried to reassure her but whatever her accent, her English was evidently better than his Italian. “ Non sia impaurito,” he said. “Don't be afraid.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “Come and sit here.” He patted the bed alongside him. “I'm sure we can sort out something. Jennings , why don't you leave us so we can have a chat.”

“Yes, of course Sir.” Jennings gave his best butlering bow. Gabriella gave a half suppressed giggle. “If you'll excuse me, Miss,” he said, and left Clegg and the girl alone.

As he left he heard Clegg say, “Now, young lady, perhaps you could explain what you are doing here?”

Jennings returned to the lounge to find, extraordinarily, his master and Miss Elspeth chatting amiably over two large and, he suspected, very dry martinis. “Ah, Jennings ,” Bertie greeted him cheerily, “what's afoot with the mysterious stowaway?”

“Exactly that as far as I could see, Sir,” Jennings replied. “She was most anxious that Mr. Clegg kept her on board.”

“And Freddie's got no idea of who she is?”

“Not as far as I could tell, Sir.”

“Believe me,” said Elspeth, “the last thing Freddie likes on trips like this are surprises. Drama, yes. Excitement, yes. Even the occasional bit of danger. But surprises, no.”

“Well he did seem to be making the best of it. But then the young lady is of, shall we say a comely appearance. I would say she had all the attributes of a good child bearing woman if you'll permit me to say in the chest and hip department but with the slimness of waist that accompanies youth but so often fades in later years. Rather a Mediterranean ‘type' if you know what I mean.”

Elspeth smiled. “Why Jennings , I do believe you are something of a xenophobe. If you looked any further down your nose you be peering at your shoes. Surely you haven't taken against this girl just because she's a foreigner.”

“Not at all, Miss. I certainly don't believe we should look down on foreigners. After all, it's hardly their fault is it?”

“ Jennings , stop it,” Bertie chortled, you're just too much of a hoot.”

Elspeth was, nevertheless, concerned. This wasn't planned, she hated having to improvise and there was more than enough to worry about with the four women that they already had on board. On the other hand they were proving remarkably trouble free – the globes had been a good idea and Insing's “adjustment” seemed to be working .Apart from making sure they were watered and cleaned out each day there wasn't much to do for the women. Perhaps some diversion would be beneficial. Freddie could be a trial if he got bored.

Just as she was thinking this, her attention was attracted by the sound of raised voices in the corridor outside the lounge. Clegg and Schneer were evidently engaged in a very animated discussion and it was clear from the tone that Schneer was losing. Moments later the door to the lounge opened and Clegg ushered Gabriella inside.

“Good evening everybody,” Clegg announced to the assembled group. “I'd like you all to meet my niece, Signorina Gabriella Balzinni. Our crew failed to make arrangements to greet her at Rome and I have had to take First Officer Schneer to task over it. He'll be making a cabin available for Gabriella and I thought it would be pleasant if she joined us for dinner this evening.”

“Niece?” queried Elspeth.

“Yes,” said Clegg, firmly. “Surely you remember me speaking of her?” Elspeth looked sceptical but Clegg just grinned.

“Capital idea, Clegg,” Bertie grinned. “Nice to meet you, Gabby old thing.”

Gabriella turned towards Clegg with a puzzled look. “Gabby?” she said.

“Don't worry,” said Clegg, “you'll get used to it.”

Chapter 22: Dinner over Sorrento

By the time that dinner was served in the Nietzsche's dining room it was eight o'clock and the airship was passing the lights of Naples on the port side. The Bay of Naples was laid out below them and soon they were passing Capri .

As the airship ploughed onwards inexorably Clegg's thoughts turned to the Villa Jovis not far below them. “The Emperor Tiberius,” he mused. “Two thousand years on and we still find it hard to rival his debauchery. I fear he would have found even the Chateau D'Ysel rather tame.”

Gabriella was delighting in the luxurious surroundings as the smartly uniformed crew began to bring in the food. Bertie took in the glittering array of glass on the table as the waiters poured wine for each of them. “They may have saved weight on the fittings in the cabins but there's enough lead in these glasses to need an extra gas bag,” he thought.

As the waiters withdrew and the meal began. Bertie proposed a toast. “Let's celebrate two things from our stop at Rome ,” he said.

“Two?” queried Freddie.

“Yes,” said Bertie. “Your delightful ‘niece', of course,” he winked at Clegg as he picked up his glass – “but also – the fact that the wine has taken a definite turn for the better. We seem to have moved on from that truly dreadful Liebfraumilch to a rather decent Barolo. I must get Jennings to lay in a case or three.”

“Well I'll drink to that,” said Elspeth. “To Gabriella and Barolo!”

The four of them chinked their glasses.

It was later that evening. Gabriella was sitting at the dressing table in her cabin, brushing her hair when there was a knock at the door. She pulled the silk dressing gown, borrowed from Elspeth, around her and got up to open the door. Clegg was standing in the corridor smiling. “I just wanted to check that you were all right,” he said.

“Oh, yes, quite all right ‘uncle', thank you,” she smiled. “Won't you come in for a moment?”

“Do you feel quite safe, asking a strange man into your cabin?”

“Oh really, Mr. Clegg. You are such a gentleman! And how could I think ill of my ‘uncle'?” she laughed and gestured for him to come in.

Clegg sat down on her bunk. “Well, Miss Balzinni, you are an attractive young woman, I might be excused if I forgot myself.”

“Why, Mr Clegg. You are so distinguished that I might well excuse you.” Gabriella giggled, a little drunk from the evening's wine. “This has been wonderful, though,” she said. “I had always dreamed how romantic it would be to travel on such an airship as this and you have been so kind to me; you and all your friends. I should not be in the least disappointed if the Kapitan insists on putting me off at Tripoli . And now the gallant, Mr Clegg comes to call on me in my cabin.” She sat down beside him. “Please call me Gabriella,” she said, “Miss Balzinni sounds so formal, not like an uncle at all.” She reached out a hand and placed it encouragingly on Clegg's knee.

Clegg smiled, seemingly uncomfortable, and swallowed. “Goodness, Miss Balzinni, er Gabriella,” he stammered.

Gabriella giggled at Clegg's apparent shyness. “Goodness has nothing to do with it,” she laughed sliding closer to him. “Don't you think we could have some fun together? I know you English gentlemen are supposed to be shy but are you not seduced by the evening, this beautiful airship and …”

“And you?” Clegg turned towards Gabriella. He stood up. Gabriella was looking up at him, smiling.

It was then that he hit her; a single sharp punch right on the point of her chin. Her face held a startled look for a moment before she collapsed, limply unconscious to the bed. “ Jennings ,” called Clegg, “you can lend a hand now.”

Jennings appeared at the door to the cabin. “Ah, I see you didn't need the chloroform, Sir,” he said, staring at the girl stretched out on the bunk.

“No, sometimes the simplest course is the best. She'll have a sore chin but at least she should be spared that dreadful retching. I keep thinking that we ought to be able to come up with something better but my field's engineering, not chemistry. Someone else can solve that problem.”

“Indeed, Sir. Now how can I help with this?”

“You have the things I asked for?”

“Of course, Sir,” Jennings looked affronted at the thought that he might have failed to provide that which had been requested. “The lengths of mooring line weren't a problem of course but the other items were in rather short supply. The crew were interested to know what I wanted it for, I told them that I needed to repair one of Mr Bertram's suitcases and that seemed to satisfy them.”

“Good. Luftwehr will need to know what's going on, and the cabin steward but we don't need to let more of them know than is absolutely necessary. Now where's that mooring line?”

“Here you are, Sir,” said Jennings as he passed Clegg a coil of rope from the bag he was carrying. “And I thought some heaving line would be helpful for her wrists, Sir,” he produced a coil of much thinner rope. “I think this will be more secure.”

“Excellent, Jennings . Prepared as ever. Now let's get our friend parcelled up before she decides she's slept for long enough. The two men went to work on the unconscious girl, rolling her over onto her face and pulling her arms behind her back. Clegg looked after tying her wrists while Jennings took care of her ankles. Then with the heavier rope Clegg secured her arms to her body and Jennings tied her legs together at the knees.

Gabriella moaned and began to wriggle as she started to recover consciousness. “Time to make sure she stays nice and quiet said Clegg. Jennings passed him a wad of cotton cloth. He pulled her mouth open and pushed the cloth in, packing it carefully up into her cheeks. “Have you got the repair strip?”

“Here it is, this was the difficult stuff to get hold of.” Jennings passed Clegg a piece of quite heavy, rubberised cloth, a bit like a piece of a waterproof coat. It was covered on one side with a brown paper backing. “Pull that off,” said Jennings . “It's sticky underneath.” Clegg did so and smoothed the strip down over Gabriella's lips. She groaned a little but the cloth and the repair strip muffled the sound. “Well if it's good enough to fix a leak in a gas bag it should keep her quiet,” Jennings smiled.

“That's very good stuff,” said Clegg. “I don't think she'll be able to shift it. I must find a way of getting hold of more.”

“I've got half a dozen more patches, Sir,” Jennings advised. “So we should be able to keep her fed and watered. I'm not sure if it will re-seal if we take it off.”

Clegg picked experimentally at one corner of the tape. “I think the problem is going to be getting it off rather than anything else,” he said.

Gabriella regained consciousness, shook her head and tried to move. As she realised her situation she squealed and struggled the more. Peering wide eyed at the men over the repair tape gag, it was clear that she was terrified.

“Please do not struggle, Miss,” Jennings said. I don't think you will find it very successful.”

“It's most unfortunate that you joined us,” added Clegg. “You see, I am afraid that there are four others in a rather similar situation to yourself on board and the end of our journey is not Tripoli as you may have thought. We are carrying on beyond that and I am afraid that you will be coming with us.”

Gabriella struggled and grunted all the more.

Jennings coughed quietly. “I am sorry to interrupt, Sir, but we really should be getting back to Miss Elspeth. She's most anxious that you check on the others.”

“Fine,” said Clegg, “You will excuse us, won't you?” Jennings pulled Gabriella up into a sitting position and slid her up against the end of her bunk. A few turns of rope were all it took to pin her in place. She moaned quietly as the two men left and locked her cabin door from the outside.

Gabriella made no progress in trying to free herself from the ropes. It was warm in the cabin and the more she struggled the more she sweated. Neither could she do anything about the wad of cloth packing her mouth. Her wriggles only served to dislodge her dressing gown so that when the key turned in the door of the cabin and Jennings returned he was treated to the sight of one naked breast. He lost no time in pulling open her robe to bare the other.

“My, my Miss Balzinni,” he laughed, “aren't you being a little forward with the butler of the house? You must know that flaunting your charms like this is only likely to arouse the staff.”

Gabriella tried to wriggle away from him as he sat on the bed beside her, but the ropes held her in place. Jennings admonished her as he unfastened the robe's belt and pulled it completely open. “Now, please don't be difficult. Mr Clegg has asked me to try something out on you. Do you see this?” He held out a small wooden, brass bound, box. “This was given to us by an Austrian doctor to help in our work. Such a clever man but even clever men make mistakes don't they? Anyway Mr Clegg is most keen to see if it works before we need to use it in earnest so to speak, so I hope you won't mind helping out.”

Gabriella stared in terror as he opened the box revealing a series of wires, a dial, and some switches, metal clamps and probes.

“It's good that you have that gag, Miss Gabriella,” he went on. “The way your cheeks are stuffed you look quite like some baroque putti, if you don't mind my saying. I'm afraid that some of this may be a bit painful. Well actually, if it isn't there's something wrong with the whole thing as I understand it. Anyway I'm sure it will all become clear. Let's start with this.”

Jennings reached into the box and took out two of the clips. Gabriella squealed as he fastened them onto each of her nipples and became even more agitated as he ran a wire from each to a terminal on the box. He started to turn the dial. Gabriella felt a tingling in her breasts; a strangely erotic sensation. “Not unpleasant at all,” she thought.

Then Jennings pressed one of the buttons. The shock jerked her upright slamming her head back against the frame of the bunk. The silenced squeal that she gave out could hardly have been heard in the corridor outside the cabin.

Shock after shock followed, each time throwing Gabriella upright. Unable to cry out she could only sob tears of terror and pain until her face was streaked with mascara. Eventually she collapsed against the ropes, virtually unconscious.

Jennings unfastened the clamps. “Well, thank you Miss,” he said, packing away the box. “That all seems to be in order. I'll leave you for now but I expect Mr Clegg will be along in a little while.”

Chapter 23: Sitting On The Dock

While the Freidrich Nietzsche headed southwards, Jerry Crewson stood on the dock in Marseille beside the rusting hulk of a steamer. It had tied up alongside earlier that morning at one the outermost quays. Jerry was fanning himself with his hat to counter the effects of the worst of the muggy heat that presaged a repeat of the last evening's storms. A gangway was pushed from the side of the ship onto the dock.

The ship's captain was leaning over the rail, offering Jerry a gap toothed smile. He pulled his greasy cap from his head and waved Jerry up the gangway. If it wasn't for the stink of diesel oil, Jerry thought, he would be able smell the drink on his breath from the dockside. A cockatoo sat on the rail at the head of the gangway, Jerry guessed it had once been white. The bird ignored him as he boarded.

Five trips now and Jerry still hadn't worked out where the captain came from. Not that it mattered. Him and his crew were all the same; foul smelling and drunk most of the time. Jerry couldn't wait until Freddie's new transport arrangements came on stream and they could forget all about this way of doing things.

“Welcome aboard!” Jerry felt the captain's greeting lacked any form of sincerity. “You have more for me. You get many here. Eh?”

“I get what I'm asked for. I ship them, I get paid. You deliver them, you get paid, what do you care?”

“You want see?”

“Oh, yes. After last time. I'm putting nothing on this boat that I haven't seen aboard.”

“That wasn't my fault. The unloading – your trucks.”

“I don't think so. But anyway it doesn't matter. Like you say, I want see.”

The captain scowled, spat over the side of the ship, turned and led the way through a steel companionway into the deck house. Jerry followed him down three decks until they were below the ship's waterline. The steel walls of the corridor were dripping with moisture and the heat got more oppressive the further they got into the ship. A heavy steel door barred their way. The captain pulled back the bolts that held it closed.

As he did so, Jerry heard the voices of the women from the other side. “No, please, no more, please, no more,” they called as the door swung open. He looked at the Captain's leering grin and he knew why.

The door let them into the bottom of the ship's hold, a vast space stretching up above them still covered by the main hatch and dark except for small pools of light thrown by the lamps around its edge. Water dripped from pipes and ran down the walls of the hold leaving rusty streaks, whether it was from leaks or simply condensation, Crewson could not tell.

On the far side of the hold was what he had come to see. Stone walls may not a prison make, thought Jerry, but those iron bars certainly made a cage. Perhaps ten feet by fifteen it was hardly luxury accommodation and there were three women in there already. The crew had obviously been amusing themselves with them, all three were shackled with their hands behind them, their clothes were torn and hung about them in shreds. One, a striking, black haired, aristocratic looking woman, had a black eye and a bruised right cheek. One of the others a blonde, Scandinavian girl, had a pattern of cigarette burns across the upper part of her naked left breast. The other cowered as far from cage door as she could. Jerry was furious. What was the point in packing the consignments so carefully if this was how they were looked after on the voyage?

The hatch above him slid open and the whine of the winch on the ships derrick started up. He watched as a net holding three wooden crates was swung across from the quay and lowered to the floor of the hold. Two surly crew members emerged from the shadows and pulled the net's strop clear of the hook. They dragged each crate across to where Jerry and the Captain were standing. One of them picked up a crow bar. Jerry nodded. Wood splintered as the lid of the crate was prised open. Inside the crate, a bound and gagged woman was trying to shrink away from whatever she would have to face next but the crewman pulled her out and set her on the floor beside Jerry. Two others followed her, each seeing the others for the first time, squealing and grunting in a mixture of anger and terror.

The captain crouched down and peered at each of the women in turn. In spite of the gags that covered the lower half of each girls face it was clear that the three were identical blondes. He turned to Jerry. “Triplets?” he said. “I'm impressed.”

“Just be careful with them. I'm sure you appreciate the rarity value. And tell your crew to keep their paws off them too. I don't want these three turning up with a shop soiled label on them when they come up for auction.”

“You're asking a lot – they're only human.”

“You could have fooled me. You're being paid to deliver these in good condition. They're unmarked now – make sure they stay that way.”

The captain scowled and pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his grease streaked uniform jacket. He didn't bother to offer Jerry one, but lit it and inhaled deeply. “Put them in the cage,” he snarled at the two crew men, “and make sure they're comfortable.”

The three girls were dragged across the hold towards the cage, each struggling as best they could with their wrists and ankles bound.

Jerry watched as the Captain took delivery of his charges. It would be four weeks at best before they got to Belize City and another week up into the hills. There was no doubt Clegg was right - cutting time off this part of the business was going to make a big difference. Sending them by sea just meant the stock deteriorated and it took longer until they could turn it into cash. He hoped that Clegg's project was going well. He was looking forward to telling the Captain that there would be no more consignments after this one.

Chapter 24: Arrival

The Friedrich Nietzsche continued on its journey southwards. Cramped in their cages Alice , Jean, Sally and Hermione were hardly aware of the time passing. They could feel the temperature rising as the airship headed across the Mediterranean , towards Africa . The girls could sense dawn by the light filtering down through the airship's envelop. The daytime temperature climbed dramatically, the gas bags of the envelope swelled as the hydrogen inside them expanded, pressing against the girls' cages and cutting out almost all the light that filtered had down from panels in the top of the airship's envelope. Every so often either Jennings or Elspeth would come to clean out their cages and give them water, letting them drink in silence before refastening their gags.

Gabriella remained imprisoned in her cabin. Roped and gagged almost all the time, the only relief for her was when Elspeth came to her each morning and evening to let her use the small aluminium commode that was stowed under her bunk. At first she had been embarrassed beyond belief to use the toilet in the other woman's presence but in the end necessity had taken over from modesty. Elspeth had seen that she had water, prising the repair tape away from Gabriella's face and pulling out the wadding gag so Gabriella could drink. There had been hardly any food, just a few pieces of fruit

Alice, Jean, Sally and Hermione had overheard the calls of the ground crew at Rome and surmised they were somewhere in Italy . But the guttural shouts at their next stop, Tripoli , left them confused about their whereabouts and their probable destination. After Tripoli the airship headed westwards.

The girl's routine changed. Both Jennings and Elspeth appeared. After giving the girls their drinks and putting their gags back in place, each girl had straps attached to her wrists and ankles. They accepted this passively, conditioned as they were by Insing's procedures. Once the straps were in place each girl was stood up and chains run from each strap to rings on the frame of the globe. The chains were shortened dragging wrists and ankles out toward the edge of the globe until each girl was secured, spread out, starfish-like, in her own globe. Jennings and Elspeth left the girls swinging; secure, silenced and helpless in their globes.

Within their globe cages, the four girls were aware that the ship seemed to be coming to another mooring. They heard the shouts of the crew drifting up from far below them in the belly of the airship. They could see crew men scuttling along the walkway below them. Then all was quiet as the sound of the engines died for the first time in days.

Jean felt her globe start to move. The cable above her began to creak and the globe began to descend. Looking up she could see that the others were on the move as well. The globe lowered past the gas bags and the walkway, down towards the base of the airship. She looked down as the globe approached level of the cabins. Suddenly a door fell open immediately below her and she realised to her terror that the globe was still fifty feet above the ground. The girls' globes cleared the bottom of the airship through two large doors in its belly. Jean looked up at the receding hull of the airship and the globes of her companions as her own globe was lowered slowly to the ground. She looked around. A rocky shore and a lagoon were all she could see. It was as hot outside of the airship as it had been inside.

Soon all four globes were on the ground in the shadow of the airship. The Friedrich Nietzsche was moored to a tall metal mast. Jean could see crew members scuttling up and down the metal stairways of the mast. In the lounge, Schneer announced to the others that all was ready for disembarkation. Far beneath him, still strapped in their globes, the girls were drenched in sweat from the heat.

Jennings volunteered to look after Gabriella. “I assume you'll be wanting her to join us, Mr. Clegg?” he asked.

When Clegg concurred, Jennings proposed that he should bring her down to the base of the mooring mast. “Yes,, thank you Jennings ,” said Clegg.

When Jennings appeared in Gabriella's cabin she was sufficiently aware of what was happening to be fearful of what was to come for her. Jennings loosened the ropes that held her tied to her bunk. “I do hope you've enjoyed this trip, Miss,” he smiled. “It's been so nice having you along. You've really helped to – ah – cheer up the scenery, if you don't mind me saying so.” As he reached around her, he took the opportunity to stroke and squeeze her breasts. “Yes, definitely an improvement to the scenery, Miss.”

Gabriella, tried to struggle against his attentions, attempting unsuccessfully to kick out with her bound legs. Jennings smiled. “Now don't be difficult, young lady,” Jennings said, pushing her robe up towards her waist, exposing her legs. “If you dress like that you must accept the consequent attention, I am afraid.” Gabriella squealed and wriggled all the more as Jennings ran his hand across her naked belly and towards her sex but her protests did no more than to arouse Jennings enthusiasm still further.

He was interrupted by a knock at the door. “You need to be disembarking the young lady, Herr Jennings,” the voice of the cabin steward called.

Jennings turned to Gabriella with a disappointed air. “Oh my. Never mind, we will continue this later, I am sure. It seems that it's time to go.” He stood up and reached for the girl tossing her over his shoulder with the same ease that he had hefted his ditty bag in his naval career. Gabriella, the wind knocked out of her by the sudden movement, struggled but Jennings simply grabbed hold of her, patted her backside affectionately and said. “Let's go.”

A party of crew men assembled beside the globes. Jean watched as Elspeth appeared to give them directions, pointing down a track towards the lagoon. Two men went to each globe and began to bowl the globes slowly down the track. Chained as they were to the frames of the globes, the girls tumbled over and over as the globes were rolled, spinning giddily as the globes were pushed forward.

Completely disoriented by the experience of being rolled down the track the girls were only just aware that, when the globes came to a standstill, they were onboard a flat bottomed boat, ready for the next stage of their journey.

The boat slid across the lagoon, taking almost as much effort to cut though the stifling air as through the water. They were approaching an island; that much Jean Alardyce could see. … She heard the note of the engine drop as the throttle was eased back. As the boat swung around a headland she suddenly could see a small settlement of crude corrugated tin shacks and sheds, a small jetty and then, as the boat turned further, most astonishing, a gigantic, pure white flying boat.

It was colossal. Far larger than any other heavier than air machine that Jean had seen before. She could remember that she had been invited – by who – oh, yes - Pan American - to what – oh, yes – to fly one of the big Boeing Clippers due to be delivered next year. This must be almost twice as big. As their boat came alongside the jetty the hull of the seaplane towered above them like the chalk cliffs at Dover . She caught sight of Hermione and imagined that she was as astonished as herself, though her blank expression gave no clue. Clegg got up from his seat at the rear of the boat and made his way forward. Jean heard him call out to Bertie. “Well, what do you think?”

“It's astonishing,” Bertie said. “What an absolute whopper. Seeing the plans didn't really prepare me for how big the thing is. Will it actually fly?”

“Oh, yes, this will fly all right. I know a thing or two about engines that those Yanks haven't figured out yet and there's a few other ideas I've picked up that make all the difference. Barnes Wallis, up at Vickers, has some good ideas on light-weight wood frame construction. He's using them to build some high speed bomber but for me it meant that I could put together a really strong but light hull. We'll have a look around if you like.”

Puffed with pride, Freddie led the party down the dock towards the great, white, aircraft. He stopped beside a short ramp that led to a door in the cliff-like side of the flying boat's hull, pulled off his hat and fanned himself against the heat.

The group assembled around him, sheltering from the scorching sun under the shadow of the plane's wing.

“Well,” Freddie declared, “I hope you're impressed. This is the biggest fixed wing aircraft in the world today. It will revolutionise our little business – and others too no doubt. Dirigible technology is just too unreliable, too risky. You only have to watch our friends Luftwehr and Schneer - permanently worried. This sort of machine is the way forward, mark my words. No need for runways, land it anywhere there's enough water. Even inland, just you see. Creating an artificial lake for seaplanes will be cheaper than building long take-off tracks for large landplanes. You'd need to cover enormous areas with concrete to cope with land planes of this capacity. People just won't put up with it.”

Bertie pointed across to where the crew of the Freidrich Nietzsche were huddled in a concerned group by the airship mooring. “Well, they're certainly looking worried now, and Schneer is coming over here.”

They watched as a small motor boat sped across the lake and an ashen faced Schneer strode up the dock to the group. He gave the most perfunctory Nazi salute that Clegg could remember seeing. “Many apologies, Herr Clegg, we have just received a cable. We must return to Friedrichshafen at once. At once.”

“Quite all right, you've done your job but whatever's the matter, man, you're as pale as death.”

“Death, Herr Clegg, is the word. It is our sister ship. LZ129, An accident arriving at Lakehurst . Completely destroyed. We do not know who has survived – if any of them. We have to return.”

“I say,” said Bertie, “dreadful luck.”

“Perhaps,” said Schneer, “but there are many who are jealous of the successes of the Reich. There is a fear that it may have been sabotage. Who knows.” Schneer clicked his heels and turned away. Clegg's group watched as he returned to the crew of the Nietzsche. They saw Kapitan Luftwehr acknowledge them with an equally half hearted sieg-heil. Clegg waved back and shouted, “Good luck,” as the crew clambered up the ladders back into the Nietzsche's gondola.

With a shower of ballast the ship began to ease away from its shore-side mooring. Clegg and the others watched its progress, swinging slowly around and then heading north. Where once the pace of the airship had seemed majestic now it seemed more to echo the slow march of pall bearers.

Elspeth gripped Clegg's arm as they watched the airship slip away. “You could be forgiven for saying ‘I told you so',” she said.

“Hmmph,” Clegg grunted. “There's no pleasure in being proved right at the expense of other men's lives.”

“How many do you think?” said Elspeth.

“Who knows? There'd be 20 crew or so – much the same as we had. She carries up to 50 passengers. If the hydrogen went up before they moored they could all be dead. You can imagine what it would have been like – horrific.”

“Well, I'm dammed glad we don't have to go back on that thing,” Bertie piped up. “That Schneer might have been an unpleasant type but you can't doubt the bravery getting back into that when they don't know what went wrong. Now perhaps, Freddie, you can get on with this guided tour.” He waved back towards the great, white, flying boat. “I, for one, am impressed.”

Clegg regained his composure. “Well, thank you Bertie,” he said, we like to make an impact. Elspeth – you're good with the numbers, why don't you start us off.”

“Let's see – wingspan 190 feet, length 128 feet, 35 feet from the dock to the tip of the fin, six radial engines each with 16 cylinders double banked giving us about 210 – 220 knots, range over 6000 miles - enough to cross the Atlantic non-stop, payload; well you'll see the accommodation in a minute.

“Excellent, Elspeth, thorough as ever. Now Jennings , if you will do the honours with that door there I will show you on board.”

“My pleasure, Mr Clegg, Sir, it's a most remarkable aircraft. A triumph, if you don't mind me saying so.”

“Not in the least, Jennings , not in the least,” said Clegg as he led the way proudly up the ramp.

As he was about to go through into the belly of the flying boat, Elspeth called out. “The girls, Freddie, what about the girls? They'll cook out here on the dock. Do you want me to see to them?”

“Thank you Elspeth, thank you. Most important that we don't forget about them after all the trouble we had getting them here.”

Chapter 25: Taking Off

In Clegg's view things were proving perfectly satisfactory. The test flights had been perfect and they'd loaded enough fuel into the great white seaplane for the maiden flight.

The inlet behind Abu Kammash was perfectly adequate for the sea plane's take-off, Clegg had decided. He'd been a little worried by the risk of floating debris – logs and the like but Elspeth had made a pass in the autogyro over the water that morning and there'd been no sign of any flotsam. She'd been happy and Clegg thought they could risk the take off. Clegg insisted that a launch went down the inlet for a final inspection before they started their take off run.

But then all was ready and it was time to go. Elspeth had organised Sally and Alice to welcome them as they walked aboard the plane. Conditioned by Insing's treatment they were happy to accept any command. Standing either side of the gangway that led from the dock up into the plane they were both staring ahead with fixed, vacuous smiles as Clegg, Bertie, Jennings and Elspeth boarded.

“Welcome aboard, enjoy your flight,” they chorused in unison.

Bertie, turned to Clegg. “So these are your ‘air maids' – hope they look after us well,” he said. “Can't say I think much of the uniforms though – got used to the rather skimpier garb of the girls in the Chateau.” Bertie looked disapprovingly at their rather prim outfits, dark blue suit jackets with skirts that stretched down to the middle of their calves, matching dark blue forage caps, white shirts.

Jennings , following along behind, took the opportunity to stop at the gangway beside Alice . “I just wanted to say how much I enjoyed our little encounter at the Chateau,” he said.

Alice looked blankly ahead and repeated, “Welcome aboard, enjoy your flight.” She said nothing as Jennings grinned and pushed one hand inside her jacket. He grasped her breast and squeezed tightly on the nipple. The pain was evident on Alice 's face but she did not cry out. He turned to Sally.

“I wonder if you are as accommodating as your colleague?” he asked.

“We wish to ensure you have every comfort on your flight. Welcome aboard,” she responded, ignoring the fact that Jennings had was probing inside her own jacket now.

“Well,” said Jennings . “Its hard to tell which of you has the nicer handful. We'll have to experiment.”

He heard a voice from inside the seaplane. “Do come along, Jennings , old chap” he heard Bertie calling. “We're waiting for you.”

Bertie and Jennings took themselves a seat in the seaplane's cabin. Jennings was having no difficulty in adapting to a more luxurious style of travel than was his usual lot. The main cabin was spacious, set low down in the hull under the width of the wings. At one end a series of couches provided comfortable seating accommodation, at the other a table stood with eight seats secured to the cabin floor around it. On a stainless steel pedestal beside the door to the cockpit stood the Schneider Trophy.

Clegg and Elspeth went forward and climbed the spiral staircase that led to the flight deck where Jean and Hermione were waiting for them. Dressed neatly in uniform white blouses and navy blue slacks the two girls sat passively as Clegg and Elspeth arrived.

Jean Alardyce was seated at the controls in the right hand of the plane's two pilot's seats staring blankly forward. Clegg sat down in the left hand seat, alongside her,. Hermione Addams sat behind them at a drop down table that was covered in an array of charts. Above her head a series of instruments showed the status of each of the engines, gauges for the quantity of fuel and switches for the pumps that would transfer fuel from one tank to another to keep the aircraft balanced as the fuel was used up during the flight. Combining the navigator and flight engineers' roles would tax Hermione's mathematical skills.

“Ladies,” Clegg said in an affable way, “let's go to work.”

Elspeth stood in the doorway to the flight deck, watching as Clegg went through the pre-flight and engine start-up checks. The two girls responded as they were required to at every point. The routines were simple, Elspeth admitted but it was quite surprising how well the “coaching” from Dr Insing appeared to have worked. Both Hermione and Jean appeared fully in command of their skills but at the same time completely compliant.

She watched as Clegg reached up to a panel in the roof of the cockpit. Cartridge starters fired in turn on each of the six great radial engines and soon the aircraft was throbbing from their power.

Elspeth looked back over her shoulder down the staircase into the cabin where Bertie and Jennings were seated. Clegg reached up to the throttle leavers overhead and eased them forward. The plane edged away from the jetty and out into the lake. Elspeth could see the marker buoy that they had put down at the far end to mark the cleared runway. Clegg called “ready for take off” and moved the throttles forward again. Elspeth watched the two girls like a hawk, alert for the slightest sign that they were anything other than fully under Clegg's command. She needn't have worried, Insing's techniques proved thorough. The seaplane powered across the lake spilling a broad white wake behind it. As it sped faster it came up onto the step of the hull and began planing across the surface of the water rather than ploughing through it. The whole plane seemed to come alive as though it was keen to be away and into the air.

“Follow me on the control yoke, Alardyce,” Clegg called.

“Sir,” responded, Jean without emotion putting her hands on the control column. Insing's conditioning made certain that she would obey but her conscious mind was thinking – “If he'd only told me what he wanted me to fly I would have come willingly.”

The two of them eased the sea plane into the air and soon the sea was dropping away beneath them. They had 5300 miles ahead of them – 18 hours flying at least.

Chapter 26 : Through A Crystal Darkly

Back in London, Police Inspector Jaffe was puzzled. Life, he felt, was becoming too much like detective novels. After the burglary at the Royal Aero Club and the disappearance of the chief suspect he’d had to deal with the London end of the enquiries into the trivial disappearance of Sally Fellows, Agnes Crystal’s personal secretary. It was quite obvious when he’d interviewed Crystal that Fellows had eloped with Graham – the two had evidently found solace in one another’s company after the suicide of the Mottram girl. No doubt they’d turn up soon enough.

However his latest case was a different kettle of fish. The disappearance of the country’s foremost crime novelist, though, that was another matter; one of national interest. And of course there was speculation that it was linked in some peculiar way to these Sally Fellows disappearance. The one thing Jaffe was sure of was that there had indeed been a kidnapping. Beyond that, the case was taxing his detecting abilities.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t got any clues. “It’s not often you can watch a crime happening before your own eyes,” he said to himself as he sat down to watch her abduction for the tenth time. The lights dimmed in the small cinema and the black and white film flickered into life.

“We’re very pleased to be able to meet with Agnes Crystal here at her country home,” the screen showed a smiling man dressed in white tie and tails, his moustache waxed and rimmed, his hair slicked down against his head. “Miss Crystal has been kind enough to grant an exclusive interview for viewers of Movietone News and I know that many of you will be keen to hear about her work on the latest thriller to come from the pen of one of our most popular and famous authoresses.”

The camera panned slowly across to where Agnes Crystal was sitting, the smiling man joined her. Crystal was wearing an elegant evening gown. Even on black and white film the sparkle of the jewellery she was wearing was evident, an enormous pendant diamond hung from her necklace – the proceeds, Jaffe understood, of her previous book. The interview began. “Miss Crystal,” the man said, “our viewers would be most grateful to hear about your latest work. Is it true that your golfing detective from the ‘Strange Affair at Gates’ makes another appearance?”

“Well, yes, I can say that much at least.” Agnes’ voice was soft and the movie sound level had evidently been boosted. She looked surprisingly young in close up, Jaffe thought. Prejudice he supposed but ‘lady writer’ had conjured up a rather spinsterish image to him. Looking at the film, however, he could quite see how her fans were enthused at her public readings. There must be something rather exciting about this glamorous, young woman conjuring tales of violence and death. Certainly it had made her plenty of money. She went on, “but of course I couldn’t possibly tell you any more, except that it has a dénouement that I think it will prove to be a challenging puzzle – I know how much everyone loves to try to work out who the criminal is.”

“Your descriptions of crimes always have a great deal of detail, Miss Crystal,” the interviewer went on. “Do you talk to many criminals in writing your works?”

Exactly what I wonder, Jafffe thought to himself, but so far he’d been able to turn up no evidence of contact and Agnes’ answer was pretty clear.    

“Goodness, no,” Agnes grinned, winningly, “it’s all just made up you know. I read the newspapers just as everyone does, all the stories have their seeds there, you know.”

“Well, thank you, Miss Crystal,” the interviewer began to close the conversation, “Movietone viewers will...”

Then there was the gunshot. The right hand side of the screen darkened as a lamp went out. Crystal screamed and put her hands to her mouth. The interviewer leapt to his feet. The cameras kept turning as two masked men ran into shot. One pushed a pistol into the starched shirt front of the interviewer. The other gripped Crystal by the wrist and dragged her to her feet. “Stay there, all of you,” barked one of the men in a guttural voice waving his gun towards the cameras. The interviewer was now cowering on the floor, hands in the air.

The other masked man was busily securing Crystal with rope, tying her wrists and ankles. It was the work of moments. Within seconds he was hoisting the squealing, kicking and struggling authoress over his shoulder as the other man grabbed a large cardboard box standing on Agnes’ desk. The two men made their escape with their hostage through the French windows.

The film flickered to a standstill. The lights in the cinema came on. And Jaffe called out, “Thank you.”

The interviewer came out of the projection room and down the aisle to where Jaffe was sitting. “Well inspector, do you think you can catch them?”

“I’m sure we shall,” Jaffe replied, “but I’d welcome any other information you can give me.”

“Well Inspector, you’ve seen it for yourself, it all happened so quickly.”

“Yes, of course, but if you do think of something, however small a point, it could help.” The interviewer had hardly covered himself in glory, Jaffe thought but it’s hard to be brave when you are peering into the barrel of a loaded revolver.  

“And you can release the film for us to exhibit?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s out of the question, Sir,” Jaffe replied with irritation. “After all it’s the only evidence we have at the moment.

“Very well Inspector, but there is tremendous public interest in this, you understand. People are entitled to know what has happened.”

“It’s been my experience, Sir, that the public interest isn’t necessarily the same thing as what interests the public. We’ll hang on to the film for the time being, I think. And I certainly wouldn’t want to see it appearing in any of your newsreels for the time being.”

The interviewer huffed and took his leave. The Inspector was sitting still, staring at the blank cinema screen. The truth was he hadn’t the faintest idea who the men were or where Agnes was. He went over the film again in his mind. All he had so far was the film and the burnt-out wreck of a van which had seemingly belonged to a company called “Theatrical Removals Ltd.”

It was then that a police sergeant burst into the cinema. “Inspector Jaffe, sir,” he called, “a telephone call. It’s Miss Crystal’s publisher, he says it’s urgent.”

Moments later Jaffe was jumping in to the black Wolsley that was parked outside. “Russell Square, Sergeant. - put your foot down,” he barked and the driver, “and set that gong going – we can’t waste any time. And watch out for a motorcycle – rider in black overalls and a silver helmet.”

The car sped away from the Movietone offices and headed away from Soho in the direction of Bloomsbury. With its bell ringing and its blue lights flashing, the police car scattered Londoners and tourists alike as Jaffe sped into Oxford Street, across Tottenham Court Road and round the British Museum. As the car skidded to a halt outside the offices of Snipcock and Tweed, Publishers, Jaffe leapt out. They’d been as quick as they could but there was no sign of the motorcyclist – of course.

Corbett Snipcock was waiting at the door as Jaffe arrived. “No sign of them, Inspector?” he asked as Jaffe went inside.

“No, but thank you for alerting us so quickly. There’s a chance one of the radio cars will spot the bike. Now perhaps you can show me what they left.”

“Yes, of course. Come into my office, Inspector.” Snipcock led the way up an elegant flight of stairs through two enormous mahogany doors and into his office. Jaffe took in the opulence of the surroundings. Snipcock’s desk looked bigger than the office that Jaffe shared back at the station. Unsurprisingly, bookshelves lined the walls, filled floor to ceiling with the various editions of Agnes Crystal’s novels and short stories. “Published in over twenty languages, Inspector,” Snipcock said, “and read in over 100 countries. She’s a phenomenon, a phenomenon.”

“Yes, but an absent one. Except that you now have some news, I believe.”

“Yes, Inspector, a ransom demand. Please,” Snipcock gestured to a large leather upholstered chair, “take a seat. I’ll get Miss Logan.” He leant forward and pressed a button on his desk.

“Miss Logan?”

“She’s one of my most trusted staff. She received the package on reception. It was her description I passed on to your chaps. Opened the package of course. Bit of a shock, the contents though.” There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” called Snipcock.

An evidently distressed Miss Logan entered the office clutching a large brown envelope. “Here you are, Sir,” she said, presenting it to the Inspector.

“Thanks you, Miss,” Jaffe responded. “Can you tell me how it was delivered?”

“Well, yes. It’s as I told your people. A motorcycle pulled up outside and the rider came in with it. He kept his helmet, goggles and scarf on. He dropped the envelope on my desk, waved his hand and went straight out again.”

“He didn’t ask you to sign anything or give you any indication of where he had come from?”

“No, but that’s not unusual. We have riders in and out all the time with manuscripts, galleys, cover artwork. They are always in a rush and so are we.”

“And you opened it?”

“Well, yes. It wasn’t addressed you see. Just a blank envelop. By the time I’d realised what was in it the bike had gone.”

Jaffe took the envelope carefully. He’d be amazed if there were any finger prints on it but you never knew. He tipped the contents onto the desk. Three, 8 inch by 10 inch black and white photographs and a small spool wound with steel wire.

The photographs made it plain what the envelop was all about. Each showed a helpless Agnes Crystal, tied to a chair with heavy rope, a thick cloth tied across her mouth. In one, balanced on her lap was a copy of that day’s paper showing that she was still alive – or at least had been that morning.

“It’s a disgrace, Inspector,” Snipcock fumed. “Look at this.”  He pulled a volume down from the book shelf and tossed it onto the desk alongside the photograph. “The Missing Mystic – by Agnes Crystal - Winner of the 1935 Sherlock Award” the cover announced. The captive woman on the book’s dust jacket was tied and gagged just as Agnes was in the photographs. “These kidnappers have a black sense of humour inspector.”

“Indeed. But what is this?” Jaffe held up the spool of wire.

“It’s a voice-writer reel, Inspector.” Miss Logan said. “Agnes used a recorder to dictate her works. Then her secretary would transcribe them.”

“Can we listen to it – do you have a machine here?”

“Oh, yes Inspector, we have all the most modern equipment here. I’ll fetch it.” Miss Logan left the office to return a few minutes later with a brass bound wooden box. On top the box had two spindles. Into a socket in the side a stethoscope-like headset was plugged. Miss Logan put the spool onto one of the spindles and wound the wire around the mechanism of the box before connecting it to the other empty spool. She plugged the box in and passed the stethoscope headset to Jaffe.

Jaffe nodded and indicated to Miss Logan that she should start the machine. She flicked a switch and the spools began to spin. As the spools turned, Jaffe listened. The sound quality was not as good as on the film he had been watching earlier but there was no mistaking whose voice was on the spool. He heard the voice of Agnes Crystal.

“Please help me,” she begged, evidently scared but trying to be as calm as she could be. “They say that they will kill me if you don’t do as they say. I believe them, please believe me. They keep me tied up and gagged. They have the voice spools of my new book too. They say that you can have both me and them safely returned for £250,000. They will let you know how. Please do as they say. I am … anncchk,mmmpphh.”

Agnes’ words were cut off as her captors had evidently pushed her gag back in place.  Then there was another voice, a man this time, “Shouldn’t be too much of a bother for you Mr Snipcock, you’ve made more than that from her works, after all. Don’t bother the boys in blue with this, though. We’d hate it if your star writer got hurt because some copper came clumping along in their size nines. Just have the money ready for collection tomorrow. We’ll let you know what to do with it.” The sound on the tape gave way to a clicking and crackle. The wire ran out and the spool spun uselessly as Jaffe removed the headset.

“You’ve heard this?” he said to Snipcock. The publisher nodded. “I have to advise you not to pay this ransom, you know,”

“I understand, Inspector.” Snipcock replied, “but I feel we have to do something and the money is unimportant if we get Miss Crystal back safe and well.”

“Not to mention her book,” thought Jaffe.

“These men are quite ruthless, Inspector,” Snipcock went on, “Their message is quite clear in the picture.” Seeing Jaffe’s puzzled face he continued. “You’ve not read ‘The Missing Mystic’, I take it.”  Jaffe shook his head. “Well Inspector, let me tell you of the Mystic’s fate. On the cover you see her situation quite near to the start of the book.”

“And by the end?”

“I am afraid she doesn’t make it that far. At the conclusion of Chapter 3 her dismembered corpse is found in a cupboard in a room where she is expected to be hosting a séance. I hope you understand why I am somewhat anxious. I really must insist that you leave things to us.”

Chapter 27: Park Pick Up

Jaffe could not miss the opportunity to apprehend the kidnappers, of course. One of his plain clothes men was stationed across the road from Snipcock & Tweed’s offices.

He watched as an armoured car with the arms of the Provincial and Western Bank drew up outside and needed little effort to guess what might be inside. When Corbett Snipcock emerged just before dusk, clutching a large case and hailed a taxi, heading off towards Greenwich. The detective set off in stealthy pursuit.

Snipcock got out of the taxi just beyond a small antique shop on a corner. He walked slowly, clutching the bag closely to him and peering over his shoulder after every few steps. His route took him past some houses and then, into a small public park.

The park was deserted. Snipcock made his way up some steps toward the top of a small rise. The path gave onto an open grassed area. Almost opposite the top of the steps was a small tree. Beyond it a wooden paling fence surrounded an area of bushes. The detective ducked behind some foliage, watching as Snipcock furtively placed the case on the far side of the fence. Snipcock gave another look around him and walked away, back the way he came.

The detective settled down to wait for the ransom pick up.

It was a long, cold, vigil. It came to its end not with the arrival of desperate men to collect the case but with the appearance of his chief, the Inspector. “I think you can get up Dixon,” Jaffe said. “If I’m right, I think were going to both be back on the beat. I assume that no one has been to collect the ransom?”

“No sir, not a soul.”

“Would you mind fetching the case?”

“Certainly Sir,” Dixon loped across the dark clearing and reached over the fence to collect the case. He brought it back to where Jaffe was standing and, at the Inspector’s nod, opened it.

“Damn,” said Jaffe as he saw the blank paper within. “I feared as much. The Chief Constable is really going to blow up when he hears about this.”

“We’ve lost the ransom, Sir?”

“It’s worse than that Dixon. Snipcock and Tweed have lost their ransom all right but they’ve lost their receptionist as well.”

Jaffe’s interview with the Chief Constable was anything but comfortable. He could only relate what Dixon and Snipcock had told him and what he had managed to learn from interviewing a number of passers-by. Yes, Corbett Snipcock had received a contact from the kidnappers. They had told him to take a dummy case to the park and to get one of his staff – the receptionist will do, they had said – to carry an identical case in the opposite direction with instructions to leave it behind a telephone box in Tavistock Square. Then something must have gone wrong. Perhaps Miss Logan had seen whoever was to collect the ransom. Perhaps she had misunderstood their instructions or had done something to arouse their suspicions.

Whatever the cause, the result was indisputable. Two men had grabbed the case but they had grabbed Miss Logan as well. From the descriptions that Jaffe had managed to get they sounded like the same men that had abducted Agnes Crystal. Bystanders told of how Miss Logan, still carrying the case, had been pulled kicking and yelling into the back of a small van. The doors had been pulled shut as the van drove away.

“Had they managed to trace the van?”, the Chief Constable asked, “or was even that beyond the wit of the CID?”

Jaffe was at least able to satisfy his boss in that respect. A van had been found abandoned on the edge of Epping Forest. In the back was the case, empty of course, some lengths of rope and strips of cloth, a cloche hat and one of Miss Logan’s shoes. Unsurprisingly there was no sign of the driver or the other passengers. The Essex force was combing the Forest but they held out little hope of finding the men or their captive.

“You do realise, Jaffe,” the Chief Constable said frostily, “that they will very probably kill them.”

Jaffe gulped uncomfortably. He couldn’t disagree. In fact he thought the likelihood was that they were both already dead.

Fortunately for Heather Logan and Agnes Crystal, Jaffe was seriously wrong. Heather had indeed been snatched by Agnes’ kidnappers as she carried the ransom to the assigned dropping off point. The two masked men had given her no chance of escape as they bundled her into the van, along with the case and the money. A cloth had been pulled across her mouth and ropes around her wrists almost as soon as the van had started to move. She was helplessly tied and unable to cry out before the van had crossed the Euston Road, more ropes around her chest and around her legs meant she could do little more that wriggle on the floor of the van while the two men transferred the money from the case to a cloth sack.

“The delivery girl don’t seem to like that we’ve given her a ride,” said one of the men, amused by Heather’s attempts to kick herself free of her bonds. “wonder what she’ll think of the next bit?”

Heather lay helplessly while the two men carried on with their task. With all the money in the sack they returned to her. They began to untie her but made it plain that the slightest attempt at escape would result in her being shot.

The van came to a stop. Heather was carried out of the van and dumped unceremoniously on the floor inside a big wooden shed.

Still gagged, she pleaded with her eyes.

“Right darling,” one of the men went on. “We just want to take you on your next bit of the journey. PC Plod will be looking for that van soon enough and we’re not planning to stop here.” They’d freed her wrists now but told her to leave the gag alone. “Put this coat on.”

She looked at them with a puzzled look as they passed her a heavy waxed coat. She fastened it on. “Now these.” They tossed her a pair of heavy leather gauntlets. She pulled them on and the men went back to work reapplying the ropes that moments before had been removed. This time her wrists were fastened in front of her but tied into her lap. Her ankles and knees were bound together under the coat. A scarf was wound across the lower half of her face covering her gag.

“OK, you take her feet,” the first man said grasping her under the arm pits. Heather tried to struggle as they lifted her and carried her round behind the truck. There she saw a motor cycle combination. Without too much gentleness they squeezed her into the side car, running a rope around her waist to keep her in place. They buttoned the weather cover across her lap and pulled a crash helmet on to her head. The final touch as she wriggled against them, grunting into her gag in protest, was to pull down a pair of goggles. As the goggles came down over her eyes, Heather realised with horror that the lens had been blacked out. She could no longer see.

The motor cycle combination burst out of the shed and sped away down the narrow country road scattering ducks and rabbits as it went. With the two men on the cycle and Heather in the side car, the bike could not achieve too great a speed but it progressed steadily through Essex and then doubled back around the edge of London and down into the Sussex countryside.

Chapter 28: Heather’s Rendezvous

The motorcycle combination turned into the grounds of a ruined abbey on the outskirts of Chichester just as the sun was setting. It came to a halt at the end of a gravel drive and the two men lost no time in pulling Heather - still helpless, silent and blinded by her goggles - from the side car. They pushed her forward across cobbles, under an arch, and through a heavy oak door that led into one of the few standing buildings. Once inside they pulled Heather’s helmet and goggles from her head and she found herself blinking in the gloom of a gothic stone vaulted hall.

She stared around her, trying unsuccessfully to break free from the grip of the man holding her arms. She saw the figure of a woman chained beside a flight of steps on one side of the hall. As her eyes became accustomed to the light she realised that the helpless woman was Agnes Crystal. She was still wearing the dress that she had been photographed in for the ransom demand but now her head was locked in a fearsome, medieval, iron cage.

Suddenly Heather became aware of a door opening at the end of the hall. Framed in the door was the silhouette of a figure in a hooded robe.

The man holding her called out to the figure, “Good evening, Abbess. We have the girl and the money.”

The figure did not respond but motioned for the men to go. They dropped the sack and let go of Heather and left the hall without a word. Heather heard the motorcycle drive off and then watched as the figure approached her.

“My, they did a good job on you, didn’t they,” the robed figure said, as she untied the cloth that filled Heather’s mouth.

As the knot came loose, Heather pushed the gag clear of her mouth with her tongue. She coughed and spluttered as it fell out. “Too good a job if you ask me,” Heather said. “I’m sure we could have done without the dramatics, Sandy – our would you still prefer Comtesse?.”

The Abbess pushed back the cowl of her robe, letting her auburn hair fall down around her shoulders.  “Oh, please allow me a little amusement,” Sandy smiled. “And we have to keep the good Inspector Jaffe occupied.”

“Hmm,” Heather sounded unimpressed.

“Oh, now don’t be a spoil sport, young lady, or I’ll leave those ropes on you.”

“Sandy!”

“Oh, it’s all right. Come here.” The Comtesse set to untying the knots. “Did my apostles look after you well?”

“Yes, they were very well behaved. Not a furtive grope from either of them. Quite disappointing in some ways.”

Heather, you are incorrigible. I’m not surprised though, I don’t think that girls are quite their ‘tasse de thé’ if you know what I mean.”

“Ah, what a shame. No chance of reforming them?

“I suspect not. Too long in the English public school system and Cambridge University, I fear. They are a useful asset, however, although I’m not sure how long they’ll last.”

“How so? They seem very dedicated, committed, even.”

“Yes, well, that’s the point. There’s four of them in the team; Guy, Donald, Kim and Anthony. Delightful boys all of them and as you say very committed. The only problem is that they are committed to the triumph of international communism and I’m not sure that that is entirely compatible with my own more, shall we say, entrepreneurial goals.”

But surely their political beliefs don’t matter?

“No they shouldn’t. And they wouldn’t if they didn’t think that these little jobs were sanctioned and sponsored by Soviet intelligence as part of a campaign to disrupt western capitalism.”

“So they think you’re some sort of agent for …”  

There was a muffled grunt of complaint from behind the metal bars of the cage around Agnes Crystal’s head. Sandy turned towards her. “Sorry Agnes, we’ll be right with you. The money’s here so we can be on our way. Don’t worry about your four abductors, Heather, they’ll have plenty to do in time. Now let’s set Agnes free, we’ve got a ship to catch, and we all need to get changed.”

   

Chapter 28: Atlantic Crossing (1)

Bertie stared out of the window as the giant seaplane sped across the inlet. The buffeting of water gave way to a steadier sound of rushing water as the craft lifted up onto the step of the plane’s hull. The white painted houses of the port of Abu Kammash disappeared behind them.

Then they were airborne, climbing steadily across the water. The plane banked in a steady turn across Ras Ajdir and the Tunisian border and headed west. In time it settled down into level flight. The throb of the engines quietened as the throttles were eased back for cruise speed.

Bertie decided to explore. The tour Clegg had given them, when they arrived had impressed him but he hadn’t really had a chance to investigate the ‘plane properly. He looked around the cabin. It was furnished rather like the lounge of the Friedrich Nietzsche but, Bertie was pleased to note in a rather less functional style. As well as the lounge area and the dining table, each of the passengers had a large, comfortable chair with a side table and reading lamp. A small cocktail bar stood on the port side of the cabin, a table holding a gramophone and a pile of records stood to starboard.

Bertie walked aft. A gangway led away from the cabin first past the six small sleeping cabins available for the passengers to the rather simpler accommodation that had been installed for the “cargo”.

Clegg had been delighted that they had been able to use Gabriella as cargo on this maiden flight. “Hardly a maiden flight without a maiden, Bertie had joked. Now he decided to look in on their unfortunate travelling companion. Aft of the cabins, there were two cells, each with their own barred door, one on either side of the gangway. Each cell contained four rows of three seats set close to one another. Each seat was well equipped with straps.

Only the first seat in the port side cell was occupied for this trip. Gabriella sat helpless, strapped to a solid looking chair. Bertie peered through the bars at her as she glowered at him and tried to struggle against the straps.

Forward of the main cabin was a gangway. A metal ladder led up to the flight deck. Beyond it lay four crew cabins and then finally in the nose of the seaplane, the galley. Alice and Sally were hard at work fixing a meal.

Bertie was pleased. He’d been worried in case the transition from the dirigible to this new form of transport was to lead to a down turn in culinary standards but it looked as if the girls had access to all they needed.

Back in the cabin he watched the jungle slide by beneath the hull of the seaplane. They were heading across a mountain range, the High Atlas Bertie assumed. It was easy enough to navigate here, once they reached the coast and headed out over the Atlantic, Hermione would really start earning her keep.

The plane droned westwards but soon lost its race with the setting sun. Lights lit up the cabin as it fell dark outside. Bertie looked out to see the coast of Africa disappearing behind them. A few minutes later, he heard Clegg and Elspeth coming down the ladder from the flight deck. Almost at the same time Jennings appeared from his cabin aft.

“Are our friends all right on their own?” Bertie asked. “I mean after the business with Hermione and that poor nurse?”

“I think Insing’s re-orientation has taken adequately,” Clegg answered. “But I can keep an eye on things from here, anyway.” Clegg slid back a wooden panel over the cabin’s bar. Behind the panel a set of brass-rimmed, black-faced, instruments displayed the seaplane’s heading, altitude, speed, and rate of climb. Six smaller dials showed the rpm and oil temperature for each of the massive engines. “They’re wired to repeat the instruments in the cockpit,” Clegg explained. “It’s partly for the amusement of the passengers but it does mean that I can take some time off from the flight deck. As you can see Addams and Alardyce are steering a steady course so far.”

Jennings waited for Clegg to finish his explanation. “Is there anything I can get for you, Miss, Gentlemen?”

“Capital thought, Jennings, I could do with a drink,” Bertie responded.

“Thank you, Jennings but I think our other two friends should be looking after us.” Clegg interjected. “You take it easy for this evening at least – you’ve earned a rest. Sit yourself down and enjoy the ride.”

“If you say so, Sir.” Jennings looked pleased as he eased himself into one of the cabin’s large armchairs. “And if you’ll allow me to say so, Sir, this is a whole lot more comfortable than that airship. We may have a little less space but at least the furniture doesn’t feel as though it is bending every time that you sit on it.”

Elspeth grinned and turned to head forward. “I’ll go and chivvy up the girls.”

She reappeared after a few moments and Bertie was delighted to see that his original impression of the girl’s uniforms had been wrong. “This is more like it,” he beamed. “I can’t see Luftwehr or Schneer embracing the idea of Cabaret on board their ship! Wilkommen, bien venue, welcome!” he called.

The two girls arrived ready to serve drinks, Sally pushing a trolley carrying a splendid selection of bottles, Alice carrying a tray of glasses. The two girls were dressed identically but all that remained of their earlier uniforms were their caps. Both wore flared skirts that barely came below the level of their crotch, their dark stockings were rolled down and held by garters just above their knees, leaving their thighs milky white above. Above the waist, each girl’s midriff was bare, their breasts only just covered by white, diaphanous cloth that only served to draw attention to their nipples.

After a few cocktails, Bertie and Jennings were enjoying the services of the girls in other ways as each compliantly put her mouth or hands to good use. Bertie and Jennings each had one of the girls kneeling by their side, pleasuring his cock as they downed their drinks.

Having satisfied himself that the arrangements for both the flight deck and the cabin service were working effectively, Clegg decided to turn his attention to the cargo. “Elspeth,” he said, “shall we check that our Italian friend is comfortable?”

Elspeth put her drink down and got to her feet. “Good idea, it will be a long trip for her. Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen,” she announced to Bertie and Jennings, ”we’re going aft for a minute or two.”

Clegg led the way back towards the cells. When he unlocked the door to her cage, Clegg could see that she had nothing to show for her struggles but rivulets of sweat running down her naked body, and a stream of drool, dribbling from the corner of her ball gagged mouth. “You see, Elly,” he gestured proudly, “our friend is quite secure, if not comfortable.”

Gabriella groaned and renewed her struggles without effect.

“These seats are terribly close together,” Elly mused.

“I know,” Clegg responded. “I thought about that but there was a difficult balance to strike between space for the cargo and comfort for the passengers. Once the girls are strapped down in their seats there’s really no need for leg room and this way we got an extra row in, that’s a third more cargo with all that implies.” 

“Isn’t eighteen hours a long time to keep her sat there?”

“No, not really. The toiletry necessities are taken account of in the design of the seat. There’s no real need to feed them. We can provide fluids if necessary. Do you see up there?” He pointed above the girl’s head. Elspeth nodded. “In the event of there being a need for water we can drop a tube down from the panel above the seat. It simply plugs into a valve on the ball gag and she can take on as much fluid as she needs. If we’ve got a full cargo we can leave the water tubes connected permanently. So, apart from an occasional check, the cargo needn’t distract us too much. Now Gabriella, do you need a drink?”

Gabriella glowered at Clegg over her gag and shook her head vigorously.

“Oh dear,” said Clegg, seeing her reaction, “that’s not right at all.” He reached across and pulled another strap from behind her headrest. “We don’t want you waggling your head around like that. It could be dangerous if we encountered turbulence. This should have been fastened before we took off.” He drew the strap tightly across her forehead, pulling her head back against the head rest and fixing it so she could not move. She gave a whimpering grunt. “There, that’s much better,” said Clegg. “We’ll pop back later, there’s only about another ten hours to go.”

Chapter 29 Atlantic Crossing (2)

If Gabriella’s accommodation was cramped then that which Sandy, Agnes and Heather were enjoying was considerably better.

With customs officials all watching the ports after the apparent abductions of Agnes and Heather, Sandy had come up with a plan that allowed them all to join the next transatlantic sailing from Southampton.  As a result they were to enjoy the comfort of an ocean liner’s first class cabin. Well at least Sandy and Agnes were.

While the ports had been alerted to watch out for the novelist and the publisher’s secretary and their presumed abductors, they weren’t particularly worried by a woman leaving for America with her elderly, wheel chair confined aunt and her aunt’s nurse. Every assistance was provided to help the party board, the crew being particularly solicitous over Sandy’s aunt, the poor old lady in the head scarf and dark glasses, who put up so stoically with her wheel chair being man-handled up the boarding ramp. They were even provided with a cabin that opened directly onto the promenade deck so that Sandy could take her aged aunt out for air. It was just a shame that at such short notice they had only been able to accommodate the nurse in one of the third class cabins on F deck.

In Sandy and Agnes’s cabin, Heather was being thoroughly un-amused. She had thrown her starched white cap on the bed angrily as soon as she entered the cabin. “It’s completely unfair,” she protested. “You two are up here enjoying the comfort and I’m stuck down in the bowels of the ship. Have you the slightest idea how hot and stuffy it is down there? Not to mention the noise? Have you?”

Agnes was sitting back on the bed, her head scarf and glasses tossed to one side. Sandy was at the cabin’s dressing table. “Let me think, Heather, let me think,” she said, smirking. “Well, on reflection, no. No, I don’t think we do.” She giggled.

Heather was standing with her arms folded. Well it’s jolly unfair. I had by far the worse kidnapping – dumped in the back of that van and then bouncing around in the side-car. And now I have to wear this stupid uniform on top of being in the smallest metal box that could be possibly referred to as a cabin. It doesn’t even have a window.”

“Port-hole, dear,” Agnes corrected. “Didn’t you learn anything at that publishers?”

“Window, port-hole who cares?” said Heather sulkily.

“And besides,” chimed in Sandy, “I think white suits you.”

“Yes, and so do half the perverted old men I have to pass from my cabin to get up here! My backside must be black and blue.” Heather ran her hands tentatively over her buttocks.

“Most unfair, Heather dear,” Agnes replied. “I thought I was the only one allowed to take advantage of you below the waist. You must show me later. Now don’t be difficult or I’ll be asking the Captain to clap you in irons. Do be a good girl and fetch me some tea.”

Heather gave an irritated snort and left for the dining room. She had just reached the foot of the stairs leading down up to the main saloon when she heard a voice behind her.

“Heather Logan! How extraordinary!”

Heather turned around to find herself face to face with Jennifer Bayliss.

“Oh, this is wonderful,” Jennifer gushed. “It must be eight years or more. How are you? What have you been up to? What are you doing now? Oh, silly of me.” She noticed Heather’s uniform.

Heather thought swiftly. “Well you can see, I went in to nursing. I’ve got a really good job now, looking after an old dear on the crossing. It’s a bit dull but not too much hard work,” she laughed.

“It’s funny seeing you here. I met Lucy Jordan just before I left England, you remember her, she thought you were working for some publisher – she was worried in case you’d been caught up in that dreadful business with Agnes Crystal. She must have been thinking about someone else.”

Now Heather was worried. Lucy wasn’t thinking about anyone else, she Lucy and Jennifer had been firm friends at school but she’d kept in contact with Lucy and they’d often used to meet for tea at Lyons Corner House in the Strand. There would be a real problem when Jennifer and Lucy next spoke - by then Lucy would be sure to have heard about her supposed abduction. It would only take a call on the ship-to-shore radio telephone and she, Agnes and Sandy could be in real trouble.

“Yes, she must.” Heather tried to gather her wits and think what to do. “Still it’s lovely to see you. How are you enjoying the trip? What have you been up to?”

“Oh, I’ve got a wonderful opportunity. You know I was always keen on sports at school,” Heather remembered that Jennifer had been captain of the school netball team and she still had the lithe, loose limbed body and the long blonde hair that had made her the crush of every girl in the lower fourth. “I’ve been invited to Boston as part of a sports exchange programme between the Americans and ourselves.”

“Goodness,” said Heather. “Will you be in America long?”

“I’m not sure, I… ” An elderly couple were trying to make their way along the corridor and Jennifer edged back to let them pass.  “Well look, we can’t stay here chatting,” she said. “Look, you’re obviously in the middle of some errand, why don’t you stop by my cabin later on? I’ve got a bottle of gin down there – it’ll be quite like some of those dorm parties back in school.” She laughed.

“Hmm, yes, that will be great. There’s so much I have to tell you,” said Heather conspiratorially.

“All right then. How about five o’clock? It’s cabin B227.”

“Lovely,” said Heather, “I’ll see you then. But you’re right I really must get back to the old lady.” She waved and scuttled off back to Agnes’ cabin.

Two hours later, Jennifer responded to a knock on her cabin door and opened it to Heather. “Come in,” she urged. “Or are you still on duty?”

“Oh, no, no,” said Heather looking down at her uniform. “I’ve just finished but I thought I’d stop by before I went back to my cabin. I’m right down on E-deck, I’m afraid.”

“That’s all right. It’s good to see you anyway. Come on sit down. Put that satchel down anywhere.” Heather tossed her first aid bag down on the couch and sat down alongside it. “What do you keep in there anyway? All your pills and potions?”

“Yes, it’s a regular drug store as the Americans would say,” Heather laughed.

“Well, I’ll fix a drink. Gin all right for you?”

“No, look, this should be my treat. Here,” Heather pulled a bottle of champagne from her satchel, its neck blocked by an ornate silver stopper. “I liberated a bottle of bubbly from the old dear – she keeps having them sent up but never seems to get around to drinking them. It’s only just been opened so there’s still plenty of fizz in it.”

“Lovely,” said Jennifer producing two glasses from a wall cabinet. “I’m all for freebies.”

Heather poured each of them a glass. “Happy days,” Jennifer laughed taking a big gulp.

“And old times,” replied Heather joining her.

A few sips later, Jennifer said, “Oh, this is really going to my head. I know I haven’t had any for a while but I feel really giddy from just those couple of sips. Oooh, I must sit down.”

“Mmm, I feel quite muzzy, myself,” said Heather. “It must be because it’s warm in here, don’t you think…”

“Well, I,….” Jennifer began but suddenly her eyes drooped shut and she slid back unconscious on the bed. Heather smiled for a moment but then the effects of the drug took hold on her and she slipped into unconsciousness too, falling to the floor beside her old school friend.

The soft thump of the two girls sliding into oblivion was Sandy’s cue. With a stolen pass key she opened the door to the cabin and slipped inside, bringing with her a folding wheel chair and a small soft bag. Surveying the scene she slid Heather away from the bed where Jennifer was sprawled before setting to work. She turned to the chest of drawers and rummaged in each drawer in turn, pulling out a selection of stockings and scarves. Sandy tied Jennifer’s ankles together with a stocking. Working quickly, she took each wrist in turn and tied it to her leg, just above the knee. Finally she tied her knees tightly together as well. Then picking up two scarves she jammed one into Jennifer’s mouth before tying another across it. She had only just worked quickly enough. Jennifer gave a choking grunt from behind her gag as the effects of the drug began to wear off. Heather gave an equally inarticulate groan from the floor but was soon sitting up, holding her head to try to stop the throbbing ache that remained now that consciousness had returned.

“That’s definitely dedication above the call of duty,” said Sandy, helping Heather groggily to her feet. “Are you all right?”

“Hmm, yes, but, oh, my head hurts.  If we need to do that again can we try a different way to lull the suspicions of our victim?”

Jennifer, now fully conscious, had realised her situation without understanding the reason for it. Even so she was not afraid to show that she was both angered and scared by what was going on, grunting vigorously into her scarf gag and throwing herself around the bed in an attempt to get loose.  Sandy looked down at the struggling girl. “You were right she is quite athletic, isn’t she. Are you OK for the next bit?” 

“Mmm, yes, fine,” said Heather. “No worse than after one of Snipcock’s book launches. Now where’s my satchel?” She picked the bag up from the floor and rummaged inside. Triumphantly she pulled out a hypodermic needle and a small phial containing a colourless liquid. She pushed the needle into the cork cap of the phial and drew a measured dose up into the barrel of the hypodermic. “Now if you could just help the patient to be quite still. This has to go into a vein and I wouldn’t want to have to try too many times.”

Sandy grabbed hold of Jennifer and twisted her right fore arm around exposing the veins in her wrist. Heather tapped the syringe, peered at it and pushed a small amount of the drug out to ensure that no bubbles of air were trapped in the needle. Then, ignoring Jennifer’s wide eyed terror and muffled protests she slipped the needle into a vein and pushed the plunger.

Jennifer felt a cold sensation in her arm and then unconsciousness returned.  

Sandy and Heather bundled the drugged Jennifer onto the wheel chair, put a blanket across her lap, pulled a scarf around her head and put a pair of dark glasses on her. They wheeled her out of her cabin and back towards the lift that would take them up to the promenade deck. As far as anyone they met in the corridors of the ship was concerned, the old lady was simply being taken out by her nurse for a breath of air.

“She’ll be out for several hours,” said Heather to Sandy, as they got her back to Agnes’s cabin. “She can have another shot this evening and she’ll be ready to leave the boat like this when we dock tomorrow morning.”

“No one will miss her from her cabin tonight with all the jollity of the Captain’s dinner,” said Sandy. “You couldn’t have met at a more convenient moment, if you have to bump into friends from your past.”

Jennifer, bound, gagged and unconscious was stretched out on Agnes’s bed. “What a very healthy looking young lady,” Agnes smiled, sitting beside her and running a finger down her cheek. “I do like the tone that exercise brings to the skin. So much more attractive than the pallor of a life of alcohol and tobacco.” She looked across at Heather who was sitting at the cabin’s cocktail bar with a drink in one hand, cigarette in the other. Heather simply scowled in return. She was used to Agnes’s bitchy comments.

Chapter 30: Atlantic Crossing (3)

Heather’s cabin on the liner may have been primitive when compared to the stateroom that Agnes and Sandy occupied but it was luxury indeed compared with the conditions that the triplets were enduring.

Their ordeal had started when they had been approached by the man, Crewson. He was in advertising he had said. Promoting a new soap. He was looking for three beautiful young ladies to be photographed for the advertisements. What could be better than triplets? The advertising slogan said “Three Ways Better; softer lather, deeper cleansing, smoother skin.” Triplets were ideal. He was sure he could get them a very good fee. It would all be very tasteful he said. He showed them the costumes that they would be photographed in; flowing Greek robes. Like goddesses, he had said.

Heidi, Hanni and Helen had been flattered by his words, attracted by the promise of the fee, and won over by the thought of their pictures appearing in all the newspapers.

He’d sworn them to secrecy. Other soap manufacturers were anxious to discover the secret of the promotional campaign. They’d gone to an old house where there was a folly of a Greek temple in the grounds. They hadn’t even been startled by the chains and manacles. “Like Andromeda,” he’d explained. “Imprisoned by problems of poor complexion, set free by Orion, the soap of the gods.”

And then, once they were chained, all pretence was abandoned. The gags had been pulled across their mouths, the chains replaced with harsh ropes. They’d been pushed into the wooden crates, the crates pushed onto a truck taking them away, until finally they were loaded onto the ship and handed over to the brutality of the captain and his crew.

They had been freed of their ropes and gags and shackled like the others in the cage at the bottom of the ship’s hold. They had been allowed to keep their robes but in a few days these were sweat stained, soiled, torn and grease streaked from the conditions in the cage.

As a result of Crewson’s threats neither the captain nor the crew dared rape any of the triplets. But, as the captain said, he hadn’t mentioned the others. The Scandinavian girl was popular with the crew and bore the brunt of their attentions.

And of course, Crewson had only said that the triplets had to stay unmarked. But, the Captain thought, they might prove susceptible to coercion and threat, especially threats to the well being of the others. They had been four days out at sea when the Captain sent for Hanni. They had kept the shackles on her wrists and ankles, of course, and Helen and Heidi had sobbed as they took Hanni from the cage but they had not hurt her. The Captain had given her soap and a bowl of warm water so that she could wash. There had been hot soup and bread which she had eaten greedily.

He wanted some company, he explained. It was a terrible job he had, having to cope with the animals they gave him as crew. He was pleased to have her there, he wanted her to spend the evening with him.

Hanni viewed the Captains advances with suspicion, but took the food nevertheless.

“Do you know what will happen to you?” the Captain asked as Hanni spooned broke another chunk of bread from the loaf.

She shook her head. “No, no,” was all she could say.

“The men that took you – they want to sell you. They’ll take you to where they have a market, you’ll be sold with the others.”

“Sold?” said Hanni. “How can people be sold? Why?”

“There are always men that will pay for women,” the Captain said. “For sex. To be their slaves. Who knows what else. There are many terrible men, you know.”

“Oh, we know nothing of sex. Heidi, Helen and I are virgins. What use would we be?”

The Captain almost choked on his beer. “You will need help. Perhaps when we get to our destination I could find some way to see that you are well treated.”

“Oh could you? It would mean so much to my sisters and me.”

“Possibly. I am not sure I could help your sisters as well though. It would be difficult. Three of you, you see.”

“But please, we’ve never been separated. It would be terrible to be parted!”

“Well, there is a chance, I suppose. If you have the skill. If you can please men in other ways. Then perhaps I could convince the people in the market that you should be sold together, but I don’t know, three times the cost – you see.”

“Oh, please, you must. What skills? I am sure we can do all sorts of things that would please these men.”

The captain sat down beside her and whispered in her ear as he slid one strap of her robe slowly from off her shoulder. Hanni began to sob as she listened to him, clutching her hands to her mouth as the Captain explained just how she could pleasure a man with her lips and her tongue. She shook her head in disbelief. “How can such a thing bring pleasure? To have a woman cowering on her knees before a man? To have her burying her head in his lap?”

“I know my dear,” the Captain said sympathetically, “it seems extraordinary but it’s true. And if all three of you could learn such a trick there is a chance that I can keep you together. Such skills would have a high price in the market.”

“So you could save us? Let us be together?”

The Captain shrugged his shoulders in a non-committed way. “Perhaps, with luck,” he said.

“But how could we learn? Heidi and Helen know nothing of this either. I had never even seen a man’s,” Hanni coughed with embarrassment, “thing, until I had to watch one of the crew with one of the other girls in the hold.”

“That must have been awful for you,” the Captain said with understanding, sliding his hand down from her naked shoulder to cup her breast.

Hanni shuddered but did not attempt to pull away. “Yes,” she said, “but I will try. My sisters and I, we will all try. Would you let me try with you now? Then I could tell my sisters what they must learn to do.”

“If you like,” said the Captain. “I’m sure you will not find it difficult.” He moved his hand from her breast to the back of her neck and guided her head towards his crotch. “Now unfasten my trousers, I am sure that you will catch on quite quickly.”

Chapter 32 Trans-Atlantic Arrival

On Clegg’s great, white, flying boat, Bertie had woken from an energetic night spent enjoying the attentions of Sally and Alice. The surface of the sea beneath them was just seeing the glint of the rising sun as he had walked through the cabin. He climbed up the stairs to the flight deck. Elspeth was in the left hand seat, Jean in the right; Hermione still at her navigator’s table, checking the fuel gauges and engine instruments.

Peering out through the plane’s windscreen, Bertie could just make out a coast line emerging from the darkness.

“There you are Bertie,” said Elspeth, “Florida. Right on time too. Hermione has done her job well.”

The thin line on the horizon took on a more distinct form as the sun rose and they flew towards the coast. Soon the swamps of the Everglades were sliding beneath them and the ‘plane turned north. Bertie peered out at the unending stretch of trees, marshy ponds and scrub below. “Might find it a bit of a challenge landing something this big on that lot,” he said.

“Don’t worry Bertie,” Clegg’s voice came from behind him as Freddie reached the top of the stairs. “We’re headed a bit further north. There will be plenty of water to put this down on.”

As Clegg’s plane flew north across Florida crossed the Florida coast, the Captain was beginning to off-load his cargo in New Jersey. Each of the women were secured and gagged. Heidi, Helen and Hanni were sobbing as the three of them were dragged from the Captain’s cabin where they had spent most of the crossing. The Captain was sorry to see them go, they had proved willing pupils and while they were still, technically at least, virgins, they could not longer be described as innocent of the male sexual drive. The rest of the women, their resistance broken by the privations and abuse of the crew, gave no problems as each was settled into her own packing crate and swung aloft and across to the quay by the ship’s derrick. All they knew of the next stage of their journey was the cough of a truck’s engine and a short but bumpy drive before they felt their crates being lifted and carried.

Sandy, Heather and Agnes had disembarked at the liner terminal in New York, smuggling the drugged, unconscious Jennifer off the ship in a wheel chair disguised as Sandy’s aged aunt and with Sandy impersonating Jennifer. A few telephone calls from Sandy to her associates over the river in Newark had made an ambulance available to meet the boat. Jennifer had been wheeled straight down the gangway and into the ambulance, with Heather at her side. Customs officials, reluctant to be seen to delay the seriously ill old lady had waved them all through with the minimum of formalities. The four women, together with their driver, headed across to the Holland Tunnel, under the Hudson and turned off into a railway yard just off 18th Street in Hoboken. They arrived just as dusk fell. The rusting ship that had carried the triplets and the rest of Crewson’s human cargo was moored alongside the quay.

In the ambulance Jennifer, conscious once more, had been securely bound by Agnes. Heather had watched jealously as Agnes pulled the ropes carefully around Jennifer’s body, taking delight in the way that her bonds crushed her breasts and dragged her elbows tightly together behind her back. Only after she had carefully stuffed the poor girl’s mouth with a discarded scarf did she call Heather over to complete the gag with some of her adhesive strapping tape.

 

In the dark of the railway yard, Jennifer was dragged out of the ambulance and hustled at gun point over towards a two railway cars, a passenger saloon and a baggage car. “Do get in, my dear,” invited Agnes pointing to the steps of the passenger saloon. As they boarded, Heather was stunned by the luxurious fitting inside the saloon but Sandy insisted that they carried on through the connecting corridor and into the baggage car behind.

The driver of their ambulance reappeared in the uniform of a Pullman Car conductor. “I’ll look after the young lady if you like,” he said in a New Jersey accent that was thick enough to slice. It took Agnes some effort to understand what he was saying.

Sandy intervened. “Thank you,” she said. “She’ll be travelling through to our destination with the others. Make sure she’s well looked after.” She turned to Heather and Agnes. “Ladies, let’s take our seats. The train is about to depart.” Moments later there was a clunk as the two Pullman cars were coupled to an engine that shunted them out of the Hoboken yard on the first leg of their journey south. 

Clegg and Elspeth peered through the flying boat’s wind shield as the swamps of the Everglades and the scrubby Florida countryside unwound beneath them. Jean and Hermione had been led below and secured in the cargo hold alongside Daniella. Clegg and Elspeth were making the final checks needed before their arrival. Alice and Sally were serving Bertie and Jennings with their breakfast in the main cabin. They looked up as they heard Clegg’s voice over the plane’s tannoy. “Please take your seats for landing, Bay Lake is just ahead of us.”

Bertie made himself comfortable. He peered out at the ground below. “Where’s that?” he said pointing across to a small town visible not far away.

“Having consulted the maps Miss Addams was working with,” said Jennings, “I think, Sir that would be Orlando.”

“Never heard of it,” said Bertie.

“No sir. I think that’s why Mr Clegg chose it. For his purpose it is an ideally out of the way place. No tourists, you see.”

“Ah,” said Bertie. “Of course. Don’t want too many folk sniffing around with the stuff that Freddie’s up to, I suppose.”

Bertie had barely finished speaking when the flying boat sank down onto the lake, the sound of the water against the hull drowning out the sound of the engines. It slowed to a stop and then swung around towards a pier at the side of the lake. The engines coughed and died as Freddie cut the power. He and Elspeth, clambered down from the flight deck. Alice and Sally, their uniforms returned to some semblance of respectability, were waiting by the door as Clegg, Elspeth, Bertie and Jennings disembarked. “Thank you for flying with us, Good-bye,” they smiled as the four left the aircraft.

As they emerged onto the pier, Clegg was met by a group of four men. Bertie watched as Clegg pointed them towards the aircraft. Two of them grabbed Alice and Sally and dragged them off down the pier while the others disappeared inside the aircraft. Moments later they emerged with Hermione, Jean and Gabriella in tow. Clegg and Elspeth watched as they disappeared into a low building.

“Isn’t that great white bird going to look a little conspicuous?” asked Bertie.

“Well it would do normally,” said Clegg as another party appeared on the pier. They towed the flying boat to the edge of the lake and Bertie watched in astonishment as two wooden frames carrying camouflage netting were pulled forward over the craft. “Abracadabra,” said Clegg. “Now you see it, now you don’t. Picked up some very good ideas from a chap called Maskelyne.”

“Amazing,” said Bertie. “Absolute magic.”

Later that evening Clegg was playing host to the group in a small bar in the complex. “You must have been pleased with the flight, Freddie,” Bertie said. “First go, right across the ocean.”

“Well, I must admit to a sense of satisfaction,” Clegg smiled. “This will really open up the North American market for us, you see. I have my eye on a few more flyers to do the donkey work. We can bring across 24 on each flight, that’s almost a hundred girls we can get from Europe to here every week.”

“Is there really that level of demand?” Jennings asked.

“Hmm, yes, I think so. Our colonial cousins have developed quite a taste for taking advantage of their erstwhile masters. French girls go down well in Canada, Brits here of course, Spanish south of the border. It’s a wealthy country and getting more so. Plus of course with the Insing techniques we can give our customers a well conditioned product in a very short time.”

“Seems like a sound business,” said Jennings.

“Indeed,” said Elspeth. “and we have one of our investors joining us shortly. She’s coming down with the last sea-borne shipment.”  

Chapter 33: Breakfast In America

A train whistle echoed out across the countryside. Freddie Clegg rolled over, peering out with one bleary eye as the pink light of dawn slanted in through the window shutters. He gave the slow, drawn-out, groan familiar to all that have spent a night taking stock of the products of the vineyards surrounding Épernay. His hung-over glance fell on two of his night time companions – an empty magnum of Veuve Cliquot nestling between the two pillows of the king size bed and the naked and handcuffed form of Hermione Addams, stretched out, still asleep, alongside it.

The train whistle blared out again. “That’s your early morning call, Freddie.” Clegg looked up to see Elspeth framed in the door of his bedroom. She was smiling at the sight of Clegg, evidently still the worse for the previous evening’s entertainment. Clegg grunted an acknowledgement. Elspeth, cool and languorous in her floor length silk dressing gown, looked the complete opposite of how he felt. She took a slow drag on her cigarette, sending a stream of smoke across the room into the beams of sunlight.

“Have you got one of those for me,” asked Clegg, “or have I got to fix my own breakfast?” Elspeth smiled, reached into the pocket of her dressing gown and tossed a pack of cigarettes and a box of matches across to Clegg. He took one of the cigarettes, lit it and inhaled deeply. “Anyway, how come the train is here already? I didn’t think it was due until Thursday.”

“That’s right,” said Elspeth. “You did have quite a good time, you know.”

“Ah,” said Clegg, sitting up slowly. Hermione gave a quiet yawn, stretched and curled up again, apparently undisturbed by the chain that ran from her neck to the bed-head rail.

“And I do think that poor Bertie and Jennings felt you rather monopolised the girls last night.”

“Huh?” said Freddie turning his head to follow Elspeth’s critical gaze across to the floor on the far side of the room where the shackled, naked, sleeping forms of Jean Alardyce, Sally Fellows and Alice Mottram were piled in an intimate heap, apparently in no better shape than Hermione. “Ah,” said Freddie, embarrassed. ”Crew de-briefing, you know. They did do a frightfully good job.”

“Crew and cargo, I see” said Elspeth, lifting up the quilt that covered a heap on the floor at the foot of the bed which turned out to be the similarly helpless Gabriella Balzinni. Without the benefit of Insing’s conditioning, Freddie had been obliged to keep Gabriella gagged as well. She alone of the girls still had a fiery defiance in her eyes and groaned in protest, shaking her head in a fruitless attempt to dislodge the ball that was strapped into her mouth. “Really Freddie, you are incorrigible. Don’t you know about ‘enough’?”

Freddie sat up, shrugging off the effects of his exertions. He smiled. “Pah, I’ve always been there with Shakespeare – ‘bring me excess of it’ – and I don’t mean music.”

The train whistle sounded again. Bertie and Jennings appeared at the door. “Morning old chap,” Bertie hallooed, heartily. Clegg winced.

Jennings coughed. “Excuse me, Sir,” he ingratiated, “I took the liberty of preparing the restorative that I usually offer Mr Bertram on these occasions.” Clegg looked across at Jenning’s tray with its glass of water and the small plate carrying two aspirin and two seltzer tablets.

“Thank you, Jennings,” Clegg said sitting up. “Just the water and this,” he waved his cigarette, “will be fine.” He leant across and patted Hermione on the backside. She grunted, stretched and smiled before going back to sleep, undisturbed by her chain. Clegg turned to Bertie. “I say old man would you do me a favour and sort these dear ladies out while I have a shower. I really feel that I want to be in a fit state to greet our new arrivals but I want this lot to be ready for the flight back tonight. This is only a short lay-over.”

“My pleasure, Chief,” said Bertie.

Chapter 34: Florida Pullman

Bertie pulled himself up onto the steps of the Pullman Saloon. Clegg followed him on board. “Morning, Sandy,” Clegg called cheerily.

“Good morning Mr C,” the Comtesse returned. “Let me introduce your new investor – Miss Agnes Crystal, eminent novelist – allow me to present Mr Frederick Clegg, eminent – well Freddie, how would you describe yourself?”

“Lecher, if the last day’s activities are anything to go by,” cut in Bertie.

Agnes raised an eyebrow, Heather giggled and Sandy smiled. “Thank you, Bertie,” said Clegg. “Would you mind just checking the consignment?”

“Sure thing, old man,” he chuckled, heading off to the baggage car.

Clegg, Sandy and Agnes sat down around the saloon’s large central table. Agnes reached down and lifted up a large carpet bag. “I think you will find that contains the agreed sum.”

“I am sure it does,” said Clegg, taking the bag from Agnes and putting it down by his feet. “Can I say how much I was impressed by your method of raising the funds for the participation in this enterprise, Miss Crystal.”

“Well, thank you Mr Clegg, I take that as a great compliment.” Agnes smiled, primly. “Somehow it seemed appropriate, using the ransom from a kidnapping. I could have raised the money from my own sources but I always felt that Snipcock and Tweed owed me rather more than they ever paid me in royalties. This has served to redress the balance. Oh, by the way how is the young lady I pointed in your direction?”

“Oh, yes, Miss Sally Fellows, I’d almost forgotten she’d been your secretary. She’s doing very well, thank you. She’s joined the cabin crew for my new flying boat - doing perfectly so far. I must say all the recommendations we had for flight crew turned out well. Our pilot was your idea wasn’t it, Sandy? Anyway I’m sure you’ll meet up as we go around the facilities. I take it you have some time before you are ‘rescued’?”

“Yes, yes. I’m keen to see how you’ll be putting my little stake to use. I’m travelling back from Miami, via Havana and into Spain. When we get back to the UK, Heather and I will ‘escape’ from our ‘captors’ and turn up in some out of the way place with no memory of what has gone on.”

“Excellent. I do hope we didn’t inconvenience your young companion too much.”

“Heather?” Agnes laughed. “Goodness, no. She’s quite happy with a little rough play aren’t you dear? Especially if involves some rope.” Heather scowled. “I’m sure she was more than a little excited by her treatment although she might have liked it even better if your friend Elspeth had been involved.”

Heather blushed. “Really, Agnes,” she protested. “Please don’t tease.”

“Miss Logan,” Freddie said comfortingly. “Don’t be embarrassed. We all think you played your part splendidly.”  Heather smiled, grateful for the appreciation.

In the baggage car Bertie was overseeing the paper work for the receipt of the new arrivals. Much impressed by the triplets, he also found the athletic Jennifer Bayliss very much to his taste as well but, obliging, Freddie, he put his personal interests to one side in order to complete the transfer dockets, carefully cross referencing the details on each girl’s packaging with the list that Freddie had given him.

Jennings had joined Bertie. Ostensibly he was to check their restraints but didn’t fail to take the opportunity to check on their other attributes. Each of the girls was secured in a small crate with a wire grill at the top. Through each grill, Jennings could see that the girl’s ball gag was still locked in place and the shackles about their wrists and ankles were still secure. Satisfied that they presented no security threat, Jennings unlocked each of the crates in turn and pulled each girl out.

The seven girls were lined up one behind the other along the length of the baggage car. The girls from the ship seemed completely prepared to accept whatever was done to them, cowed by their treatment on board. Jennifer was still resisting rather more than the others but Jennings fitted each in turn with a broad leather neck collar, and then ran chains between them.

Bertie went down the line of girls checking them against his receipt list too.  “I say, Jennings,”  he said, looking at the bruises and marks that all but the triplets bore, “some of these girls are looking a bit the worse for wear. Freddie’s going to be cross if he wants to put them in next week’s auction.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jennings. “On the face of it some of them do appear somewhat shop-soiled. I understand that was one of the reasons why Mr Clegg has been so keen to get all of the transport arrangements under his own control. These three, however,” he gestured to the triplets, “seem unmarked.”

“Good thing too,” said Bertie. “I may be new to this business but even I can guess that three of a kind is likely to fetch a little extra mazoomah. And they are quite pleasant looking young ladies, too.”

Jennings had already come to the same conclusion and was keen that his involvement in the arrival of the newcomers was not limited to checking them against the goods inwards list. “Yes, indeed, sir, but if you don’t mind, I think I should take them across to the accommodation block.”

“Of course, Jennings, silly of me. Don’t mean to keep you hanging about. You carry on, I’ll drop these papers off for Freddie.”

“Thanks you, Sir,” Jennings smiled as Freddie gathered up his papers and got down from the baggage car. Turning to the shackled and cowering girls, he grinned again. “Let’s go and find where you’ll be staying, I’ll help you all get bedded down,” he said, grasping the chain from the leading girl’s collar and dragging the six women, whimpering in protest, behind him in a line. 

To Jennings’s great disappointment, as he reached the accommodation block with the six new arrivals in tow, he met Freddie, emerging from the building. “Ah, good man, Jennings,” he said. Holding out his hand for the girl’s leading chain. “I’ll take these, now and save you the trouble.”

Reluctantly Jennings gave over the lead, abandoning his plans for a morning of debauchery involving the triplets.

Chapter 35: Hibernian Links

Clegg lead the way from the Pullman car across a scrubby area of vegetation, towards some a complex of derelict sheds.

“I have to say, Clegg,” Agnes began. “This doesn’t look too impressive. I hope I’m being well advised with this investment.”

“Do not fear Miss Crystal and do not be misled by first impressions. After all, even though there aren’t too many people around here it hardly pays to advertise our presence.”

“I can see that, I can see that, Mr. Clegg.”

“Well, look at this.” Clegg pushed back a splintered wooden door. Inside it was another polished steel door. It swung open with a hiss, revealing a brightly lit reception area with a long corridor leading back from it behind a barred gate. “Well ladies, welcome to Clegg Enterprises Inc.” said Freddie, expansively, ushering Sandy, Heather and Agnes inside. “this ladies and gentlemen is the results of your endeavours and investments.”

The receptionist waved the party through. “Good morning Mr Clegg,” he said, “everything is in order.”

Clegg led the group to a large room to the right of the reception area. “This is the auction hall,” said Clegg. “We can accommodate thirty bidders in here and another twenty bidding over the phone. The stage area can be equipped with posts to shackle the girls to during the auction or they can be simply walked through from their accommodation. The auctioneer has a podium to the side there. After each sale is completed the lot is led out that way,” he pointed to a door in the far corner. “That goes straight to the packaging bay so they can be boxed up or just secured as needed. There is a loading area behind it so they can be on their way in less than twenty minutes after they are sold.”

“Quite a production line, Freddie,” said Sandy.

“Now come and see the accommodation,” Freddie invited. “I hope you’ll be impressed with the security arrangements.”

Agnes Crystal smiled at Heather, “Don’t get too excited young lady,” she cautioned. “I don’t think I can afford to install this sort of arrangement for your amusement. If you’re very nice to Mr Clegg, though, perhaps he’ll let you have the use of a free cell for an evening before we go.”

Heather gave a harrumph.  Clegg ignored the two women’s bickering and directed them back past reception, through a barred and locked sliding door, and along the corridor.  Off the right side of the corridor were a series of cells each with floor to ceiling bars that allowed the occupants no privacy at all. There were a dozen cells in all, the first held the triplets and in the next cell were the three other girls from the ship. Beside them were Gabriella and Jennifer sharing a cell and furthest from the door was Freddie’s flight crew; Hermione, Jean, Sally and Alice.

Agnes was impressed by the arrangements. Freddie was keen to reassure her about her investment. “Really Miss Crystal, I don’t think you should have any concerns about this. The only problem with this site would be if someone were to suddenly decide that the Florida swamps were an ideal holiday destination. Quite frankly that seems wholly unlikely to me.”

Freddie was delighting in expounding the qualities of the detention area. The girls for auction were well shackled, of course. Each cell had its own sleeping, toilet and washing facilities. Occupants could be fed without opening the cell doors.

Gabriella and Jennifer, having not had the benefit of attention from the Captain or the crew of the steamer, still had rather more spirit in them than the others and were secured rather more stringently as a result. Their hands were chained behind them and they both wore leather head harnesses that held solid bar gags across their mouths.

Finally the party reached the flight crew’s cell. All four of the girls were naked after their debriefing session with Freddie. Completely submissive as a result of Insing’s treatment they needed no restraints. Even Hermione sat passively on the edge of her cot, not reacting to the observers outside the bars of her cell.

Only Jean Alardyce, the pilot, appeared to notice Freddie and his group. She appeared agitated for a moment as she saw them approaching and leapt to her feet before Insing’s conditioning took effect and she returned to her seat, staring blankly.

“The pilot seems a little perturbed,” said Bertie, “not too pleased to see us at all. I thought she’d been well tamed but there are obviously still some underlying currents there.”

“Well,” said Freddie, “I expect it’s the shock.”

“Can’t be a surprise to see us can it? She’s seen most of us at one time or another over the last few days. All a bit of a puzzle, what?”

“Not altogether,” said Sandy stepping forward. “She’s just surprised to see her sister after all this time, aren’t you, Jean?”

“She’s your sister!” exclaimed, Bertie. “No wonder she’s at little upset. I say, that’s a bit rich isn’t it?”

“Oh, Bertie, don’t moralise,” laughed Sandy. “We were never that close. When Bertie said he was looking for a pilot I thought it would be a great chance for her to have a change of career direction. All those record attempts were quite dangerous, you know. I really only had her bet interests at heart.”

Bertie looked quizzical. “Well I hope you won’t extend your consideration to me.”

Jennings interrupted the exchange. “Excuse me ladies, gentlemen,” he said. “I thought you might like to take some lunch.”

Bertie brightened up immediately. “Capital idea,” he said, capital idea, indeed.” Clegg, Sandy and the others responded with similar enthusiasm.

“If you’d like to make your way over to the guest complex, ladies and gentlemen, it’s all ready now.” Clegg lead the way out of the detention area, pointing out the various security features and enthusing about his future plans as he went

Jennings brought up the rear, hanging back as the party left the corridor between the cells. As he got to the cell holding the triplets, he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the cell door. “Hello girls,” he smiled. “I just thought I’d try out some of the lots before you’re put up for auction. It would be a terrible thing if we were to be offering sub-standard stock in any way. I hear that your sea voyage has taught you all sorts of interesting tricks with your tongues. I thought you might like to demonstrate.”

The girls looked on in resignation to their fate as he pulled the belt from his trousers.

“Now,” he said, encouragingly, “who’s first?”

< The End>