Joe was taken aback by the sarcasm in her tone and turned the conversation. ‘And Lois Vyvyan? Is it a comfort to have available the company of an educated and sophisticated woman?’ Joe asked.
‘Oh, Mrs Vyvyan,’ she replied with a shrug, ‘Lois is as cultured as her pearls!’
Startled by the casually cruel remark and unsure how to respond, he remained silent.
‘Minor aristocracy fallen on hard times,’ she enlarged on her remark. ‘Her father was a military man. . army, I believe. . Sir Alistair Graham. Lois has done well for herself landing Claude Vyvyan. A well-qualified, good-looking chap like him could probably — should probably — have aimed for an heiress of some sort. I don’t imagine that your government pays him much, though his prospects are good. A wealthy wife would have been a great asset to him. I fear Claude made the mistake of marrying too early in his career.’
Joe was amused. Again, the tones of Queen Mary came vividly to mind. She had discussed the domestic arrangements of one of her footmen with just the same tone of proprietorial concern.
‘But you are too good a listener, Commander. I see I shall have to beware or you’ll ensnare me into admitting it was I who stole the Koh-i-nur diamond! We should return to the palace where I understand you have a busy morning of interviews arranged.’
His audience was over. Joe was being dismissed. He rose to his feet and extended a courteous hand to help her up and then brought her horse over to her. She waited for him to put out his hand again to hoist her up into the saddle and with a regal inclination of the head urged her horse into a showy trot heading in the direction of the stables.
‘Now what the hell was all that about?’ Joe wondered.
Chapter Eleven
He followed at a discreet distance, handed his horse over to a waiting syce then began to wander back to the New Palace. From the shaded verandah on the northern side he stood and watched as a small plane hummed into sight and landed behind a group of low, one-storey buildings screened by a line of poplar trees a quarter of a mile away. Joe decided that if he set off now he would be able to greet Stuart as he was finishing his post-flight checks. A little earlier than planned perhaps but Joe liked to see the people he was interviewing in their context, even catching them off guard.
Setting his topee firmly in place before venturing again into the sunshine he made for the hangar. The pilot, who was indeed Stuart Mercer, was busy giving instructions to an Indian flight engineer in what sounded like a mixture of English and Hindi. There was a good deal of agreeing going on and this appeared to be an easy relationship.
‘Captain Mercer!’ Joe called.
‘Oh, hi there, Sandilands! Good to see you! It’s early — you had coffee? We’ll have a cup of java — though out here it’s more likely to be Mysore. Good, anyway, wherever it comes from!’ He nodded to his engineer who hurried off to fetch more coffee.
Joe liked Americans. He admired their easy ways and their directness but above all he respected the courage and tenacity with which he’d seen them fight alongside in Europe in a struggle which was not their own. And top of the heap, for him, were the young flyers of the Escadrille Américaine. Volunteers, and for the most part from privileged backgrounds, they had wangled themselves into the war before their country was ready to commit them, before it even had an air corps of its own, by being taken under the wing of the French air force. The original group of seven, a mixture of rich playboys, foreign legionnaires, Ivy League graduates and stunt-flyers, had trained in legendary luxury and splendour at Luxeuil in the Vosges. When finally they were unleashed, their effect was deadly. The playboy squadron fought with the unthinking bravery, the dash and skill of a troop of medieval knights, and stories of their exploits had gone like wildfire through the allied forces. Some of the original seven even survived to preside over the adoption of the squadron into the US Air Service, late in the war, in the spring of 1918.
To have served with such a unit was a great honour and must, Joe estimated, have made a considerable impression on Prithvi Singh, prince of a warrior state and amateur airman. He looked from the neat, active figure of Captain Mercer to the planes lined up behind him in the hangar. It stood at the end of a taxiway, screened by trees, and at first sight appeared to be an offshoot of the royal stables. The building combined functionality and decorative grace.
Following his gaze, Stuart gave an understanding smile and said, ‘Okay, let’s go have a look at the planes while we’re waiting for our coffee, shall we?’
They strolled over to the hangar, enjoying the freshening breeze that blew through the open ends.
‘Not a dozen, you see, as some of the society magazines would have you believe. Prithvi has — had — five. Now four. Well chosen all the same and goodness knows how much he had to lay out to locate them and have them brought here.’
As Joe’s eyes grew used to the shade he focused on a familiar shape.
‘Yep, that’s a Curtiss Jenny like the one that crashed. We had them for training and aerobatics. Good little plane — anyone can fly it — teach you if you like? No?’
Joe peered into the cockpit fancying himself at the controls. On the pilot’s seat was a small stuffed toy. A tiger with gleaming glass eyes. Joe reached in and picked it up. ‘Good luck charm?’ he asked with a friendly smile. ‘I suppose all the Escadrille Américaine pilots carried a talisman of some sort or another? I know the British did.’
‘Yes. We’re a superstitious lot. But we called ourselves the Lafayette. I was a member of the Lafayette Flying Corps.’ He paused and returned Joe’s smile. ‘I guess you probably know that. . And the tiger ought by rights to be a black velvet cat. We all carried one. Mine got lost somewhere between France and the States. A tiger seemed an appropriate replacement. Still, I’ve always hung on to the other charm we would none of us in the squadron take to the air without.’ He looked questioningly at Joe. ‘You were in Military Intelligence — you must have heard the rumours?’
Joe nodded. ‘It was generally thought you chaps tucked a lady’s silk stocking under your flying helmet for luck!’
Stuart grinned. ‘That’s right. But it had to be freshly worn, of course. And if you had a crash it meant that the lady didn’t care for you any more.’
He reached into the plane and pulled out a flying helmet. With the gesture of a conjuror, he extracted a black silk stocking. ‘Can’t get out of the habit, you see. But they’re not so easy to come by in India. I had to pay someone to steal this for me!’
Joe didn’t seek to know more of its provenance.
‘But, you know, that story’s all romantic hogwash! We did carry stockings — but not for luck!’
To Joe’s surprise, in a practised gesture, Stuart pulled the stocking over his face and grinned evilly at him through the flimsy fabric. The effect was alarming. The features were no longer recognizable, the gleam of eyes and teeth only visible beneath the flattening taut silk. The leg of the stocking was knotted into a pigtail which added to the outlandish image.
‘Face mask! Damn good protection against the cold when you’re flying in winter at ten thousand feet,’ Stuart explained, replacing it in his helmet. ‘And, in fact, it’s useful against the dust storms out here.’