The Red Zeppelin (Hilary Manningham-Butler Book 2) by Treby Jack

Author:Treby, Jack [Treby, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Mystery, Whodunnit, Hindenburg, Murder Mystery, Zeppelin, Comedy, Airship
Publisher: Carter & Allan
Published: 2015-11-22T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Rain was battering hard against the slanted windows of the Richthofen. The storm was getting closer and visibility had been reduced to virtually nothing. The lightning could be seen only as a sudden illumination of the clouds. A heavy flash was followed twelve seconds later by the diabolical rumble of thunder. I was at the edge of one of the windows on the starboard side, holding on to a support strut for dear life. It was not a dignified position, but the whole ship was being buffeted by the wind. The engine cars were struggling to maintain an even course. In ordinary circumstances, I would have had no fear of a heavy storm like this; but to be inside a balloon with that much electricity crackling around was a distressing proposition.

Most of the passengers were gathered along the length of the starboard promenade, gazing out at the maelstrom on the other side of the glass with varying degrees of awe and apprehension.

‘I thought we were meant to be going around it,’ I muttered anxiously.

‘I’m sure the captain’s doing his best,’ Thomas McGilton replied, his voice a soothing Irish lilt. ‘It’s difficult to know exactly where the outer edges are going to be. If the storm’s directly ahead of us he only has so much room to manoeuvre.’

‘You’re being terribly brave!’ Miss Tanner observed, placing a hand on my shoulder to reassure me. ‘I do admire your spirit, coming out here to look.’

It had not been a matter of choice. I had emerged from the empty starboard cabin a few minutes earlier, my thoughts full of murder and dark deeds. The discovery of the rat poison had shocked me far more than the presence on board of an officer from Scotland Yard. Any chance I might have had to reflect upon its significance had been dashed, however, by the sight of Miss Tanner striding determinedly out of the passenger lounge ahead of me, intent on summoning her American friend from his cabin, in order that he might enjoy the full glory of the storm. Luckily, I had managed to intercept her before she got anywhere near the port side and had convinced her to leave Walter Kendall be, on the unarguable grounds that a man with a hangover shouldn’t be walking around on a ship that was rolling every which way beneath our feet. The unfortunate upshot of this intervention was that I had been forced to accompany Miss Tanner back to the promenade, to take the American’s place at the window.

My stomach was protesting violently with every shudder of the ship. I was kneeling on a padded chair, my arms around the support strut between two large sets of glass. I was surprised so many of the other passengers were gathered here. Why anyone would want to stand and stare at such appalling weather, I had no idea. But I supposed, if we were all going to die, we might as well look fate directly in the face.

Sir George Westlake was not among the crowd and neither was Adelina Koenig.

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