The Zeppelin Destroyer: Being Some Chapters of Secret History

Certainly I had no reason to doubt Dick’s story. He was a pal of Teddy’s, and I had been up with him twice on his new “Parasol” – that machine which Hendon men will remember as having caused such a sensation.

How flying has changed since the war! In the pre-war days those Sunday meetings out at Hendon, with their passenger-flights, were quite smart frivolous gatherings. In the enclosure stood rows of fine cars with many young “bloods” – who afterwards gallantly put on khaki – with many of their best girls, some of them of the bluest blood of the land, while others were revue actresses, with a few women aged, apeing and adipose, with of course a good sprinkling of girls on the keen look out for husbands.

There are some men who went regularly to “exhibitions of flying” before the war who could tell strange tales – of pretty women held in the clutches of blackguards, and of good, innocent boys who fell, were blackmailed, and were “squeezed” to their death.

But it is ever so in sport. The racecourse and the tapis vert have both been the cause of the downfall of a good many excellent fellows, therefore the organisers of the aerodromes are not to be blamed for the exploits of those pestilent undesirables who as at Epsom, Newmarket or Sandown, having paid the admission fee, passed through its gates.

Ah! I recall – and many will recall with me – those summer afternoons upon the lawn where the little tea-tables were set, and where some of the worst girls in the smartest and most daring of costumes sat with some of the best girls in the neatest to sip the innocuous beverage and to nibble cakes with the best and bravest young fellows in all England.

That strange, daring little world of flying-men – knew it, but they were level-headed and, keeping themselves to themselves, gave the cold shoulder to the unknown ones who drifted in from nowhere to display their brilliant raiment, and to watch, in a bored way, such feats as looping the loop, and other exercises which have proved such splendid training for our flying-boys to-day.

I did not trust Eastwell. Both his actions and his attitude puzzled me. An intimate friend of Sir Herbert, he was often at Cadogan Gardens, telling his host and Lady Lethmere that he firmly believed that Roseye was still ill, and still unidentified.

Purposely I avoided him. Teddy and I were in full agreement over this. A man who had been ill in bed and in pain, with no prospect of getting about for some days, and yet could go and dine merrily at Hatchett’s that same evening, was, I argued, not to be trusted further.

All that Captain Pollock and Inspector Barton had told me served to increase the amazing puzzle.

They said that Roseye was a spy of Germany, but I defied them. I declared that they had lied.

“My own opinion, Munro, is that my poor girl is dead,” Sir Herbert declared one afternoon when I called. “I know,” he went on sympathetically. “I know how deeply devoted you were to her. But alas! we must be brave and face facts in this critical situation in which we all find ourselves to-day.”

For a moment I did not reply. I had frankly told him of that mysterious message found in Roseye’s card-case, and he had followed every channel of my inquiries with eager interest, paying most of the out-of-pocket expenses and having one or two confidential interviews with Inspector Barton.

Like myself, and like Teddy also, he would not hear of any allegation against his daughter. That cryptic message he regarded as the work of the Invisible Hand which, since August 1914, had been raised against our dear beloved country.

Once or twice Lionel Eastwell had called upon me in Shaftesbury Avenue and sat beside my fire, discussing the war, the Zeppelin menace and the apparent apathy in certain quarters to deal firmly with it. At that moment the popular Press were loud in their parrot-cries that we had no adequate defence. In a sense, they voiced the public demand. But those papers which were now loudest in the denunciation of the Government were the selfsame which, before the war, had jeered at any suggested progress in aviation, and had laughed to scorn any prizes offered to aviators as encouragement in designing machines, or in flying them.

The Invisible Hand was, even in those days, laid heavily upon the Press, who laughed at Zeppelins, and declared that on that night long ago, when they had been seen hovering over Sheerness, the naval witnesses of their arrival were “pulling the long bow.”

The Invisible Hand indeed stretched far and wide in the pre-war days. From Wick to Walmer, from Cork to Cromer, and from Donegal to Dover, the British public were assured that Zeppelins could never cross the North Sea. They were only very delicate gas-bags – some called them egg-shells – which could perhaps take up passengers in fair weather and, given continued fair weather, deposit them somewhere in safety.

The Invisible Hand wrote screeds of deliberate lies and utterly bamboozled England, just as the Crowned Criminal of Germany carried on his secret and insidious policy of the Great Betrayal.

Curiously enough the very organs of the Press which in 1913, when strange airships were reported over Yorkshire and the North-East coast, received the news with incredulity and amusement, were the very organs which now cried the loudest that something must be done to destroy Zeppelins.

I was chatting with Teddy one afternoon in my room, and had pointed out that fact, whereupon he blew a cloud of cigarette smoke from his lips, and said:

“You’re quite right, my dear Claude. The armchair sceptics of 1913 were the people who have since told us that Zeppelins could kill only an occasional chicken – that Zeppelins could not reach London – that Zeppelins, if they did get to London, would never return – that Zeppelins were useless in bad weather – that Zeppelins could not survive a fall of snow – and so on.”

“Do you recollect how one section of the Press violently attacked another because the latter had dared to warn the country against the danger of attacks from the air?” I asked. “The purblind optimists waxed hilarious, and called it the ‘Scareship Campaign.’”

Teddy laughed, as he stretched himself in his chair.

“Yes,” he said. “I recollect quite well, though I had not yet taken my ‘ticket,’ how the ‘trust-our-dear-German-brother’ propagandists were terribly angry because some newspaper or other had demanded a large provision for dirigibles in the coming Estimates. They accused the paper of ‘staging the performance’ for the sake of a new journalistic scoop. One paper, a copy of which I still have,” Teddy went on, “expressed greatest amusement at the statements of witnesses who had seen and heard Zeppelins on the North-East coast. I was only reading it the other day. One person heard ‘the whirr of engines’; another ‘a faint throbbing noise.’ To one, the airship appeared as ‘a cigar-shaped vessel,’ to another as ‘a small luminous cloud.’ These variations – they are not contradictions – were sufficient, in the opinion of that particular paper, to discredit the whole business. The writer of the article calmly stated that what was alleged to be a Zeppelin ‘turns out to have been merely a farmer working at night in a field on the hilltop, taking manure about in a creaky wheelbarrow, with a light swung on the top of a broomstick attached to it.’”

“I know, Teddy,” I exclaimed. “Our dear old England has been sadly misled by those who intended to send us to our ruin and dominate the world. Yet we have one consolation – you and I – namely, that we have, within our hands, a power of which the enemy knows nothing, and – ”

“But the enemy suspects, my dear old fellow,” said my friend seriously. “That’s why you had your unfortunate spill – and why Roseye is to-day missing. Probably I shall be the next to fall beneath the clutch of the Invisible Hand.”

“Yes. For heaven’s sake! do be careful,” I exclaimed anxiously. “You can’t be too wary!”

“Well – we’ve the satisfaction of knowing that they haven’t discovered our secret,” he declared.

“No – and, by Jove! they won’t!” I declared firmly. “Yet, the way in which we have been misled by those infected with the Teuton taint is really pathetic. I remember the wheelbarrow story quite well. Just about that same time a foreign correspondent of one of our London daily papers wrote telling us that Zeppelins were mere toys. They cost fifty thousand pounds apiece to build, and German experts had agreed that in fine weather they might reasonably expect to reach our coast, but that it was doubtful if they could get back. The return voyage, with the petrol running low and the capacity of the ship and crew approaching exhaustion, would probably end in disaster if the wind were contrary. We were also told by this wonderful correspondent that the idea that these ships could drop from one to two tons of explosives on our heads at any time was absurd.”

“Yes, yes,” Teddy sighed. “It is all too awful! That correspondent’s story only serves to show how easily we were fascinated by German friendship, and by the Emperor himself, who raced at Cowes, and who, while bowing his head piously over Queen Victoria’s grave, was already secretly plotting our downfall. But are we not secretly plotting the downfall of the Zeppelins – eh?” he added, with his usual cheery good humour.

“Yes, we are. And, by Gad, we’ll show the world what we can do, ere long,” I said. “But I am full of fierce anger when I recollect how our little aviation circle has been ridiculed by red-taped officialdom, and starved by the public, who thought us airy cranks just because the Invisible Hand was all-powerful in our midst. The German experts deceived the Berlin correspondents of our newspapers; the Emperor uttered his blasphemous prayers for peace, the Teutonic money-bags jingled and their purse-strings were opened. And so our trustful public were lulled to sleep, and we were told to forget all about Zeppelins for they were mere harmless toys, and we were urged, in leading articles of our daily papers, to get on with the Plural Voting Bill, and to investigate the cause in the fall of the output of sandstone – ‘including ganister’ as officialdom describes that commodity.”

“True, Claude,” exclaimed my friend, as we smoked together. “The whole thing is a striking example of the blindness of those who would not see; and who, even now, when innocent women and children are being killed, are dismissing the raids as ‘of no military importance.’”

“Since war broke out we’ve learnt one or two things – haven’t we?” I said. “Though the public are still in ignorance of the actual truth, we flying-men who have studied aeronautics as perfected by Germany, know that Zeppelins can now be brought to a standstill and mark time during the observations of their pilots. Aiming is still in a primitive stage, notwithstanding the use of ‘directed’ aerial torpedoes such as we know, by the Press bureau, have been used. Smoke-bombs are effective to cover the rising of the airship to safety heights. Zeppelins can fly at a height of two and a half to three miles, while shots through the fabric can be repaired during the flight.”

“Exactly,” replied Teddy. “But we have also proved that warnings to Britons do not foster panic. Nowadays we see quite plainly that Zeppelin raids have been adopted by the Germans as part of their regular campaign, and it is quite clear that during the coming months they may ‘increase and multiply’ – whatever the civilised world may say or think. The enemy is out to damage our cities, and has, indeed, told the neutrals that he will do so, regardless of every law of civilised warfare.”

“I contend that Zeppelin raids are of military importance – of very great importance – and I intend to devote myself to treating them as such, whatever officialdom may say to the contrary,” I declared.

“Bravo! old man!” Teddy said. “And I’ll help you – with every ounce of energy I possess!”

Yet scarcely had he uttered those words, when Theed opened the door and held it back for a visitor to enter.

I started to my feet, pale and speechless! I could not believe my eyes.

There, before us, upon the threshold, dressed cheaply, plain, even shabbily, and utterly unlike her usual self, stood Roseye – my own beloved!

Chapter Thirteen

The Leopard’s Eyes

For a few moments I stood dumbfounded.

I could scarcely believe my own eyes.

The figure before me was pale-faced and wan. She wore an old blue felt hat with wide brim which was most unbecoming, a faded jersey that had once been dark mauve, and an old black skirt, while her boots were cracked and bulging, and she was without gloves.

She smiled at me inanely, as she came across the room and Theed closed the door after her.

“Roseye!” I gasped. “Whatever does this mean?”

“Is it really you!” cried Teddy, equally amazed.

“It is,” she replied in a low, very weary voice.

I saw that she appeared exhausted, for she clutched at the edge of the table, so I led her gently to my chair wherein she sank inertly, with a deep sigh.

“Roseye,” I said. “Where have you been?”

She turned her gaze upon the fire. Her face remained hard-set. The expression upon her white countenance was one of tragedy.

Her chest heaved and fell, and I saw that her ungloved hands, grasping the arms of the chair, were trembling.

“You are cold!” I cried. And dashing to the cupboard I got out some brandy and a siphon.

She sipped a few drops from the glass I offered her, smiling in grateful acknowledgment.

Then, as I stood upon the hearthrug facing her, I repeated my question:

“Tell us, Roseye. Where have you been?”

In her great blue eyes I noticed a strange, vacant expression; a look such as I had never seen there before. She only shook her head mournfully.

“What has happened?” I inquired, bending and placing my hand tenderly upon her shoulder.

But, with a sudden movement, she buried her face in her small hands and burst into a torrent of tears.

“Don’t ask me!” she sobbed. “Don’t ask me, Claude!”

“Look here, old chap,” exclaimed Teddy, who was quite as mystified as myself. “I’ll come back later on. That Miss Lethmere is safe is, after all, the one great consolation.”

And, rising, my friend discreetly left the room.

When he had gone I fell upon my knees before my rediscovered love and, taking her cold hands in mine, covered them with hot, fervent kisses, saying:

“Never mind, darling. You are safe again – and with me!”

All my efforts to calm her, however, proved unavailing, for she still sobbed bitterly – the reaction, no doubt, of finding herself again beside me. With women, in circumstances of great strain, it is the feminine privilege to relieve themselves by emotion.

“Speak!” I urged of her. “Tell me where you’ve been, darling?”

But she only shook her head and, still convulsed by sobs, sat there inert and heedless of all about her.

As I knelt in silence, the quiet of my room remained unbroken save for the low ticking of the clock, and the soft sobs of the woman I so dearly loved.

Tenderly I took my own handkerchief and wiped those tears from her white, hard-set face. Then, for the first time, I saw that her left eyebrow showed a dark red scar. It had not been there on the last occasion when we had been together.

That mark upon her brow set me wondering.

Across her forehead she drew her hand wearily, as at last she sat forward in her chair, an action as though to clear her confused and troubled brain.

“Let me take off your hat,” I said and, with a man’s clumsiness, removed the old felt hat from her head.

As I did so her wealth of soft hair, which I saw had been sadly neglected, fell unkempt about her shoulders.

“That —that woman!” she suddenly ejaculated, half starting from her seat. “Ah! that woman!” she cried.

“What woman, dear?” I asked, much mystified at her words.

“That woman – that awful woman!” she shouted.

“Ah! send her away – save me from her – Oh! save me. Look!”

And she pointed straight before her at some phantom which she had conjured up in her imagination.

At once I realised that she was hysterical, and that some hideous ghost of her past adventure had arisen before her.

“Calm yourself, darling,” I urged softly, my arm around her waist. “There is no one here. You are alone – alone with me – Claude!”

“Claude!” she echoed, turning toward me and gazing blankly into my eyes with an expression which lacked recognition. “Oh – yes!” she added in a tone of surprise. “Why – yes – Claude! Is it you —really you?”

“Yes. I am Claude – and you are alone with me,” I said in great apprehension, for I feared lest she might be demented. No doubt she had been through some terrible experiences since last I had clasped her hand.

Again she sighed deeply. For the next few moments she gazed into my eyes in silence. Their stony stare thrilled and awed me. At last a very faint smile played about her lips, and she exclaimed: “Oh, yes! How awfully silly of me, Claude! How very foolish. Forgive me, won’t you?”

“Forgive you, darling! Why, of course,” I said, pressing her closely to me.

“But – but that terrible woman!” she cried, still terrified. “You won’t let her come near me again – will you?”

“No. She shan’t. I’m with you, and will protect you, darling. Trust in me.”

“Ah!” she sighed. “It was awful. How – how I’ve lived through it I don’t know.”

“Through what?” I asked, eager to induce her to tell her story.

“No,” she answered. “You – you would never believe me! – you would never understand! Oh! that woman! Look!” and in terror she raised her finger and pointed again straight before her. “Look! Don’t you see her! She’s fixed her eyes upon me —those awful leopard’s eyes!”

“There’s nobody here, Roseye,” I assured her. “You’re alone with me.”

“Alone! Why, no. She’s there – see straight over there!” cried my love, her face distorted by wild terror. “Ah! she’s coming nearer!” she shrieked, again covering her face with her hands, as though to shut out the imaginary face.

“Ugh!” she shuddered. “Don’t let her touch me! Don’t let her touch me! Don’t, Claude – for Heaven’s sake, I beg of you. That woman – that awful woman with the leopard’s eyes!”

“Come, come,” I said, rather severely. “You must not give way to these hallucinations, Roseye. There’s nobody here, I assure you. It’s all – ”

“But she is here!” she shrieked. “You can’t deceive me; she’s here – with us. Perhaps you can’t see her – but I can. Oh! those horrible eyes – the fiend! Ah! what I have suffered!”

I did not reply. I was at a loss how to act. Sight of my beloved betraying such abject terror unnerved me.

Too well did I recollect the story of the railway signalman near Welwyn, how, when the night-express came out of the tunnel tearing north from London, he had distinctly seen two women struggling. One was in the grasp of the other.

Was this the woman whom Roseye believed was present in my room – the mysterious Woman with the Leopard’s Eyes?

I crossed to the window, and standing at the spot where at my love declared she could see the mysterious female by which she seemed haunted, said:

“Now, look, dear! There is nobody here.”

“There is!” she persisted. “She’s there just behind you. Mind! She intends to do you harm! Yes,” she added. “I saw her at Hendon. I remember, most distinctly! She knows you – and she means to do you harm!”

I returned to her side, frantic at my inability to convince her that all was her imagination.

There was no doubt that, deeply impressed upon her memory, was some recollection of terrifying events in which a mysterious woman had played a leading part.

As I looked at that blank, yet horrified expression upon her pale, sweet face I became more than ever convinced that she had been held beneath the thraldom of some woman of evil intent – that woman whom she described as possessing the crafty eyes of a leopard.

For a full half-hour I argued with her, endeavouring to calm her but, unfortunately, to little avail. Presently, however, her expression altered, she grew less agitated, until at last, as I sat holding her in my arms, I kissed her fondly upon the lips, and again begged:

“Do tell me, my darling, where you have been all this long time? I’ve searched for you everywhere.”

“I – I don’t know,” was her blank reply. “I can’t tell you.”

“But surely you recollect something?” I urged eagerly. “Those are not your own clothes that you are wearing. Where did you get them from?”

She looked quickly down at her jersey and at her skirt, and then raised her eyes to me in dismay. Apparently, for the first time, she now realised that she was dressed in some one else’s clothes.

“That’s curious!” she exclaimed, as though speaking to herself. “That’s very curious. That hat is not mine, either!”

“No, it isn’t,” I said, handing it to her to examine, which she did critically.

Then, placing her hands idly upon her knees, she remained for a long time with brows knit in silence, apparently trying to recall the past.

“You lost your chatelaine – the one I gave you,” I said, hoping that the fact might, in some way, stir the chords of her blunted memory.

“My chatelaine!” she repeated, looking at me vacantly.

“Yes. You lost your purse and money, and other things,” I said. “I think you must have lost it from a train.”

Suddenly she raised her face again to mine, and asked in a half-dazed kind of way:

“Are you —are you Claude?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Surely you remember me!”

“Oh – yes! But – oh! my head – my poor head!” and she placed her hands to her temples and drew a long breath.

“Cannot you recollect – do try and tell me something. Try and describe to me what occurred after you left home. What happened to you?”

She shook her head sadly.

“I can’t tell you,” she said at last, speaking quite rationally. “I really can’t.”

“But you must recollect something, dear?” I asked. “Your chatelaine was found dropped from a train on the line near Welwyn station, on the Great Northern Railway.”

“On the railway?” she repeated slowly. “Ah!”

“That brings back something to your memory, dearest, does it not?” I inquired anxiously, for I now felt convinced that she remembered something regarding her loss.

“Yes – but – but – well, I can’t tell you about it, Claude.”

“You can’t, dearest – or do you mean that you decline to tell me! Which?”

For a few moments she was again silent. Her blank white face had become almost as its own self, with that sweet, calm smile I had known so well.

“I must decline to tell you,” she slowly answered at last. “I’m sorry – but I – I only ask your forgiveness, Claude.”

“What is there for me to forgive?” I cried dismayed. “You disappeared. Everybody feared foul play – and – ”

“There was foul play!” she interrupted in a hoarse voice.

“By whom?”

“By somebody.”

“You know who were your enemies?” I asked quickly. “You must know, indeed.”

She nodded in the affirmative, her eyes once more downcast, as though fearing to meet my gaze.

“Cannot you name them – cannot you denounce them, darling? It is your duty,” I said in a low, persuasive tone. “Reveal the truth to me, Claude.”

“No, never!” was her plain and instant reply.

“Why not?”

“There are reasons.”

“What reasons?”

“Reasons of my own. Strong reasons.”

“And may I not know them?” I asked with some resentment.

“No, Claude – I can never reveal the truth – not even to you.” She was now quite her old self.

“But I thought we trusted each other blindly and implicitly,” I protested. “You surely know how deeply and fondly I love you, my darling.”

“Exactly,” she exclaimed, with one of those sweet and winning smiles of hers. “That’s just my point. If you love me as you declare – and I believe you do – then you will trust me, and you will, when I assure you that I cannot tell you what has happened, refrain from further questioning me.”

Her argument was, certainly, one to which I could not very well reply. It was a curious argument, and aroused suspicion within me.

She had now grown quite calm, and I could plainly see that she had at last recalled the past, yet she did not intend to make any statement whatever regarding it.

Why? This disinclination to reveal to me the slightest fact was, in itself, most extraordinary. I then found myself reflecting upon the discovery of that secret memorandum in her card-case, and the allegation made against her by the red-tabbed Intelligence officer.