Death Devil's Bridge by Robin Paige

issues he had read that the journal was strongly biased in favor of Dunstable and his promotions—a not altogether surprising fact, since the bulk of the journal’s advertising came from Dunstable’s concerns. More to the point, Simms was the director of one of Dunstable’s manufacturing promotions. It was hardly an arrangement, Charles thought, that fostered independent reporting on the emerging motorcar industry.
    But the arrangement clearly suited Dunstable, who pumped Holt’s hand, then turned to Charles. “Sir Charles,” he said in a mellifluous voice, “I cannot tell you how grateful I am, sir, for your magnanimous offer of your fine estate for our humble event. You are truly a generous man, and I am in your debt. In your debt, my very dear sir!” Sweeping the yachting cap from his head to his breast, he bowed low.
    â€œThe estate is Lady Kathryn’s, Mr. Dunstable,” Charles said quietly, “and the loan of it was to Lord Bradford, who asked it as a favor to a friend.”
    Dunstable beamed, undismayed. “Very good, sir, very good! My compliments to Lady Kathryn. And of course, the affair is entirely Lord Bradford’s from beginning to end, and wholly in his capable hands. And he will get all the glory when Mr. Holt writes of the event in Autocar, all the glory. Isn’t that so, Mr. Holt?”
    Holt’s head snapped up. “Just so, Mr. Dunstable,” he said, and whipped out his notebook. “Lord Bradford, all the glory,” he muttered, scribbling busily.
    Dunstable replaced his cap, straightened his jacket, and turned to Henry Royce. “And you, my dear sir,” he said smoothly, “you are a prospective motorcar owner, I take it? You have come to the right place at the right time! Oh, yes, indeed! Indeed, I must say, sir! Tomorrow, you shall be privileged to see a most amazing performance. I believe I can add, without fear of serious contradiction, that the Daimler will exceed every expectation for speed and road performance. Should you wish to purchase this exceptional machine—”
    â€œI think, Sir Charles,” Henry Royce said, turning his back on Harry Dunstable, “that I should very much like to see Lady Kathryn’s roses. And then perhaps you will show me your electric generator and your new gas plant.”
    â€œI am sure Mr. Dunstable will forgive me,” Charles said thankfully. “Lady Kathryn will be delighted to walk with us through the rose garden.”
    â€œAh, yes,” Royce said, with a sidelong glance at Dunstable. “That would be most... refreshing.”
    Â 
    It was nearly ten that night before Kate could speak privately with Charles in their bedroom. She had spent the afternoon outside, watching the lively panorama with a great deal of interest, taking notes for Beryl’s story. By dusk, a half-dozen other vehicles had driven up the lane, with a great clatter of pistons and odor of burning petrol. Workers were preparing for tomorrow’s fete, as well, raising the Flower Show tent, hanging bunting and banners, and erecting amusements and a bandstand. And all the while, the tethered balloon was rising gently, a rainbowhued mushroom, out of the center of the green croquet lawn.
    â€œYour luncheon was quite successful, I thought,” Charles said, wrenching off his tie.
    Kate smiled as she brushed her long russet hair. Sarah Pratt had assembled a tasty soup, a cold joint, a jellied fowl, a cucumber and tomato salad, two pâtés, and a substantial pudding—all on an hour’s notice. It had been nothing short of a miracle.
    â€œMrs. Pratt certainly distinguished herself,” Kate remarked, “but the luncheon itself was terribly uncomfortable. The tension around the table was enough to ignite a flambé.” She glanced at Charles in the mirror. “It wasn’t just the four drivers, either,” she added, “although they behaved badly enough,