Biggles Married II Chapter 7.

By Sopwith

Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, any of the Biggles series characters used in this work. This fan fiction was written for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered part of the official storyline.

Warning: Non canon type fan fiction works may contain severe time mix-ups and character deviations. 

Biggles crept away to a quiet corner just outside the clubhouse to have a smoke. Despite his wife’s transformation into a pilot and spy, she was still highly disapproving of Biggles’ smoking and drinking habits.

“Mr. Bigglesworth!” called an eager voice. “How did you feel—”

Biggles gritted his teeth. The reporters had been following him and Jane about all day, asking impossible questions and insisting on taking his picture in various equally impossible poses.

He spun around. “I think,” he said, in as even a tone as he could manage, “I’ve answered enough questions for today. My goodness! The whole affair only took five minutes from start to finish, which is nothing compared to what you lot have been taking.”

“But, sir—”

Biggles stopped groping for his matches and took his unlit cigarette from his lips. “I trust I’ve made my intentions regarding any questions you’d care to ask quite clear,” he grated. “Kindly turn around and allow me to go about my business.”

“Sir—”

“James, darling? Are you there?” called a familiar voice.

Biggles hastily stuffed his cigarette into his pocket. “Over here, Jane. There’s a reporter harassing me.”

“Sir—”

“A reporter, did you say, darling?” Jane appeared from around the corner, her heels clacking on the ground as she went.

“Mrs. Bigglesworth!” said the reporter eagerly. “If I could just have a few words—”

“Go right ahead and ask me anything you want, dear.”

The reporter looked like a child who had just stumbled into a sweet shop by accident. “How did you feel when you saw your husband run down the thief in his Otter?”

“It’s a Camel, dear. And to answer the question, I did feel quite…”

Biggles slipped away quietly. He took refuge just outside one of the hangers and took out his unsmoken cigarette. “Where’re those matches?” he muttered to himself, putting the cigarette between his lips as he patted his pockets.

“Sir, sir!” came another voice from behind him. “Paul Jones, from Newswatch. If I could just ask you—”

Biggles groaned.

&&&

Algy woke up slowly.

That, in itself, surprised him. He had not expected to wake up at all. In fact, he would have not been surprised to find himself playing a harp and sitting on a puffy cloud.

“Oh, well,” he murmured. “They say only the good die young. I can only suppose I’ve haven’t made the grade.”

He sat up, feeling himself gingerly all over for signs of damage, and then, satisfied that he was more or less all right, began to take stock of his surroundings.

He was in a small room sparsely furnished with only a bed and a small table, on which was placed a glass of water and some bread. These last Algy eyed dubiously for a second before rapidly consuming. He had not realized until that moment just how hungry he was, and it did not take long for him to figure out that whatever was going to happen next, he would be better equipped with a full stomach.

There was no window in the room, so he could not tell what time it was, or even guess how much time had passed since he had followed the scientist into his laboratory.

“I wonder where I am?” he wondered aloud. “Am I still on the island, or am I somewhere else?” So surreal was the situation that it did briefly cross his mind that he was dreaming.

He crossed to the door in two quick strides and banged upon it. “Hello?” he called. “Is anyone there?”

There was no answer.

Algy tried again, with no noticeable difference in the results produced.

In desperation, he tried the doorknob, and, to his utter astonishment, it turned easily in his hand and the door swung open.

Casually, after a quick glance both up and down the corridor outside the room, he stepped out, and, closing the door gently behind him, began to make his way to the far end of the corridor.

He turned a corner and saw a flight of stairs leading downwards. Without hesitation, he followed these to the floor below and was just glancing around to ascertain his next move when he saw someone coming towards him.

There was no time to hide, even had he wanted to. In any case, one glimpse at the man’s face was enough to freeze him in his tracks, mouth agape with terrified astonishment.

He had seen the man before; Raymond had shown him a photograph. It was the general’s first secretary, the man whose ghost was rumored to walk the grounds before each death.

&&&

Ginger and Bertie staggered into the flat carrying an armful of papers each. It took a few minutes for them to settle themselves and ring for some tea and breakfast, and a few more minutes to explain their prolonged absence to the distressed housekeeper.

They read the accounts with varying degrees of interest and alarm. The general idea seemed to be that Biggles and Jane had rescued an old woman from having her purse stolen, but the details were appalling in their diversity. One paper said that Biggles had run down the crook with a motor car; another, that he had been flying a Seal, a thing that Bertie found highly unlikely as the theft had not taken place in the sea. Other personal details were equally specific. One paper claimed that Biggles was seventy-five; another, that he and Jane had been married for fifty years; still another referred to Biggles as “Colonel Bigglesworth”.

“What a load of nonsense!” declared Ginger indignantly, waving his half-full cup around in rage, only to wince as the pain in his head intensified.

“Bally steep, what?” agreed Bertie.

“I think I’ll pop along and get some sleep,” said Ginger, who was turning extremely green by now.

Bertie took a look at him and quickly agreed. “Absolutely, old top. I’d take a bucket with you, to be on the safe side, if you see what I mean?”

Ginger said nothing as he made for his bedroom.

Bertie shook his head as he reached for another paper. “Young chaps nowadays,” he murmured to himself sadly. “Can’t hold their drink at all, no, by Jove!”

Go to Chapter 8. 

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