by Robin Paige
But while his idle friends might complain that life was an endless bore, Charles, Lord Sheridan, fifth Baron Somersworth, enjoyed tuning his fancy to new and interesting challenges. And as he drove into the outskirts of Chelmsford, he was pursuing his latest and most compelling interest: wireless telegraphy. He had studied Morse Code while he was serving in the Royal Engineers and had learnt at first hand that swift and reliable communications were vital to the success of military operations. Telegrams were a great improvement on signal lights, semaphore, and carrier pigeons, but were fine only as far as they went—as far as the end of the telegraph wire, where the message was turned over to the uncertain mercies of the dispatch carrier, and might or might not reach its ultimate destination. Telephones had a similar limitation, and more: the instruments had to be connected through an exchange. Wireless, on the other hand— now that was a concept which looked to the future.
In Hall Street, Charles turned at a two-story brick building which had once been a silk factory but now proclaimed itself, in letters three feet high, to be Marconi’s Wireless Telegraphy Company. For the past ten years, a dozen or so scientists and inventors, among them a young Italian named Guglielmo Marconi, had been experimenting with electromagnetic waves (called Hertzian waves, after their discoverer) which seemed to travel through the air in the same way that waves from a stone thrown in a pool rippled in concentric circles through the water. Professor Hertz had demonstrated that these waves lent themselves to the transmission and reception of the telegraphic code invented by Samuel Morse a half-century earlier. A clever young Italian, Marconi had improved upon Hertz’s “resonator,” a device used to intercept the signals, and then used his mother’s connections (Annie Jameson Marconi’s Irish family had made its fortune in whiskey) to raise enough capital to set himself up in business in England. In a scant few years, Marconi’s Wireless Telegraphy Company had secured the necessary investment capital, obtained patents, built experimental stations along the coast, produced equipment, and installed it on numerous ships.
Then, in December 1901, Marconi did the impossible. He transmitted the Morse letter “S”—dit-dit-dit—from a wireless station in Cornwall all the way to Newfoundland. Now there was a daily wireless news service between England and America, and the Marconi Company seemed—to all appearances, anyway—to be supremely successful.
Charles took off his goggles and motoring gloves, climbed out of the Panhard, and went into the Wireless Company by the rear door. He had met Marconi shortly after the young man’s arrival in England in late 1896, and three years later had helped him set up this factory in Chelmsford, only eight miles from Bishop’s Keep. Charles had his own wireless receiver, so he and Marconi kept in frequent touch and occasionally saw one another when the inventor came down from the City to visit the Company.
When Charles entered the office, however, it was not Marconi who greeted him, but a fair-haired, heavyset man with florid cheeks.
“Ah, there you are, old chap,” Bradford Marsden said cordially, with the air of a man who had expected an earlier arrival. He transferred his cigar to his left hand and extended his right. “Good of you to come. Will you join me in a brandy?”
“Hullo, Marsden,” Charles replied in some surprise, taking the hand. “No, no brandy for me, thanks. It’s good to see you.”
“You too, old man.” Bradford went to the sideboard and helped himself, clearly an announcement of proprietary rights. “And how is our spirited Kate?” he asked, over his shoulder.
“As irrepressible as always,” Charles replied, thinking that his wife would smile at the phrase. He had known Bradford Marsden since they were boys, and it was through him and his sisters that he and Kate had first met. Marsden Manor was only a few miles from Bishop’s Keep, the estate Kate had inherited from her aunts and where the Sheridans preferred to live, but they had not seen Bradford since the King’s coronation the previous August. Charles was unaware that his friend had any connection to Marconi, but the knowledge didn’t surprise him. Bradford, who spent all his time thinking of new ways to make money, owned an investment brokerage firm, sinking money into everything from diamond mines in Rhodesia (his wife, Edith, was Cecil Rhodes’s goddaughter) to the new Royce automobiles. He no doubt viewed the Marconi Wireless Company, and Marconi himself, as an extraordinarily promising investment.
The door opened and Guglielmo Marconi—youthful, slender, lightly mustached and flawlessly dressed—entered the room, followed by an assistant with a large silver tea tray.
“Pleased to see you, Sheridan,” Marconi said. He nodded at Bradford. “I understand that you and Mr. Marsden are already acquainted. Has he mentioned that he is one of the directors of Marconi Wireless?” Marconi’s English, while correct and unaccented, was couched in a formality which made it seem slightly foreign.
“He hasn’t mentioned it yet.” Charles grinned at Bradford. “But I’m not at all surprised to hear it. The company looks to have an exciting future.”
“Remains to be seen,” Bradford replied cryptically.
Charles would like to have known what was behind Bradford’s remark, but Marconi intervened. “Very well, gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the tea tray left on a table. “Let us be seated. We shall have a cup of tea and catch ourselves up on what is new.”
Charles knew that Guglielmo was not yet thirty—he was still in his teens when he began his wireless experiments in the attic of his family’s Italian villa—but his aloof, calculating manner and the controlled precision of his speech made him seem much older. Charles had always found him to be modest about his work and reticent when it came to trumpeting his achievements, so he was a little surprised when Marconi began their discussion of “what was new” by reciting a list of the last few months’ accomplishments: the adoption of the Marconi system by the British and Italian navies, the construction of four new American Marconi stations, and the outfitting of another five transatlantic liners with Marconi equipment operated by Marconi-trained telegraphers from the school at Frinton, in Essex.
Marconi’s glance at Bradford was an odd mixture of deference and defensiveness. “And not least,” he added, “we have got the Maggie perfected and production geared up to satisfy any demand.”
“Maggie” was the magnetic receiver the Marconi Company had patented the year before, reputedly the best of its kind—although Charles knew that the knotty problem of tuning out interfering signals had yet to be solved.
“I must say, that’s all very impressive,” Charles remarked. “But I have the feeling that it isn’t why I’m here today.”
“I was the one who asked Marconi to invite you, old man,” Bradford said, flicking his cigar into an ash tray. His sidelong glance at Marconi gave Charles to understand that there was some considerable tension between the two of them. Perhaps Bradford was not impressed by the recital of achievements, or he felt that his position as a director gave him the right to be Marconi’s minder. He sipped his brandy. “We’ve encountered some rather serious problems, you see, and I thought of you.”
Ah, here it is, Charles thought with some resignation: the reason he had been asked to come.
“I doubt that one would call them serious problems,” Marconi began in an offhand tone, but Bradford interrupted.
“The company has been the victim of several very dirty tricks,” he said vehemently. “And they’ve got to stop before . . . well, they’ve got to stop, that’s all.”
“What kind of dirty tricks?” Charles asked. “How long have they been going on?”
“Since before the transatlantic signal was sent,” Bradford said grimly. “Nearly two years ago. The Poldhu aerial came down, and very nearly put an end to everything.”
“It was blown down in a gale.” Marconi gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Inadequate engineering, nothing more.”
Bradford put down his brandy glass, now empty. “The guy wires were cut nearly through. Someone wanted to make sure that the experiments would not go forward. And that’s not
the whole of it.” He ticked items off on his fingers. “The fire in the generator building at Poldhu, equipment thefts, and outright sabotage. And less than a fortnight ago, the death of one of the Bass Point operators—”
“An accident,” Marconi said hastily. “It was an accident, I assure you, Sheridan.” Perspiration had broken out on his long upper lip. “The fellow was intoxicated. He fell off a cliff.”
“No one knows how he went off that cliff,” Bradford said. “He had taken that path hundreds of times, in all weathers. An accident does not seem likely.” His voice grew harsh. “And with Royal visitors coming in just over a fortnight, we simply cannot afford to take any chances. The company’s reputation hangs in the balance.”
“I don’t know,” Marconi said nervously, “that I would put the matter in quite such strong terms, Marsden. It is serious, of course, but—” He broke off and began to pour himself more tea, the cup rattling in the saucer.
Charles looked from one of them to the other. “Royal visitors?”
“The Prince and Princess of Wales are to visit the Poldhu station shortly,” Bradford replied. “It was arranged by—”
“I was not consulted,” Marconi said frostily. “If someone had asked me, I should have refused. I do not think it a good plan to invite Prince George at a time when Gerard and I are working on such an important project. I—”
“It was necessary,” Bradford put in, with emphasis. “And it was damned difficult to arrange, believe me. All manner of strings had to be pulled. But now it’s settled, and the Prince is eager to have a look for himself, and he insists on bringing his wife—a nuisance, of course, but there it is. And where the Royals go, the Press follows. It’s a great opportunity to get the company’s name in the newspapers and cement our relations with the Admiralty—George is Navy, you’ll recall. It won’t hurt the price of shares, either.” He stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “But the visit has to go smoothly. We cannot afford another so-called accident.” He paused and looked straight at Charles. “That’s why I thought of you, Sheridan.”
“Ah,” Charles said regretfully.
Marconi’s smile was thin and cool. “Marsden seems to imagine that you are another Sherlock Holmes, my friend. He reports that from time to time you have undertaken investigations for certain individuals, on an unofficial and confidential basis.” The corners of his mouth turned downward and something like distaste came into his voice. “I have told him that this . . . this sleuthing business is a side of you I have not seen, but he insisted on imposing upon you this foolish, ill-considered—”
“Damn it, Marconi,” Bradford exploded angrily, “there is nothing foolish or ill-considered about it! The directors have made it clear that something has to be done, whether you like it or not. If one of these ‘accidents’ should occur when the Prince and Princess are at the station, I can promise you that the company will never recover. You can forget about the Admiralty contract, and any other governmental investment in your wireless.”
This outburst was followed by a tense silence. Marconi tented his fingers under his chin and stared out the window. He looked like a man held at bay by a savage dog. Bradford got up and went to pour himself another brandy.
“What is it you want me to do?” Charles asked, at last.
“Go down to the Lizard with me,” Bradford replied, returning to his seat. “Have a look around. See if you can find out who is behind these acts of sabotage. Is it someone local, or one of the company’s competitors? God knows there are enough of them, and none of them are very particular as to the methods they use to ferret out others’ secrets. Or perhaps there is something else going on—something we don’t understand. Above all, we want you to make damned sure that nothing happens to Prince George and Princess May while they’re at Poldhu.” He took out another cigar and lit it. Between puffs, he added, “It would be splendid if Kate could come, too. May is quite her admirer, you know. Reads all her books, that sort of thing.”
Charles frowned. “The Prince and Princess will have their usual bodyguards, won’t they?”
“And they’ll be the usual careless, incompetent sort,” Bradford replied with a shrug.
Too true, Charles thought regretfully. After a fiasco or two, the Royal bodyguards had come in for some finger-pointing in the newspapers. He pursed his lips. “And why can’t you ask the Cornwall Constabulary to investigate the sabotage?”
Marconi, still staring moodily out the window, gave a snort of derision. “The village constable is a fool. The district police are nincompoops.”
“Because,” Bradford said bluntly, “the information would be bound to leak out, and that would be disastrous. Any suggestion that Marconi Wireless has been targeted in this way will be reported in all the newspapers, and trumpeted with glee around the world.” He shook his head as if he were half in despair—an uncommon gesture for Bradford, who was self-confident to the point of cockiness. “You are a scientist, Charles, and you may think of wireless as a science, engaged in by gentlemen who are all on amicable terms. That might have been true once, but no longer. There’s too much money involved. It’s become a dog-eat-dog business. That’s why we can’t use the police. That’s why we’re asking you to find out who’s behind this, and stop them. Will you do it?”
Charles sat for a moment, thinking. It was true that he had carried out several investigations, but most of them had involved an interesting forensic problem—fingerprints, ballistics, toxicology, forensic photography—which he was eager to solve. It was the science of criminal investigation which captured his interest, and not the business of catching criminals and bringing them to justice. What’s more, he was not at all comfortable mucking about in the swamps of speculative investments and stock brokering, much of which (he suspected) involved crooked dealings and outright chicanery. On the other hand, he had been fascinated by wireless technology since he had first read Professor Herz’s work ten years before. And although Marconi was not an easy fellow to like, Charles admired and respected his intellect and abilities. It looked as if the man were in serious trouble and did not want to admit it.
Without answering Bradford’s question directly, he addressed himself to Marconi. “You’ll be at the Poldhu station for the Royal visit, will you, Guglielmo?”
Marconi nodded. “I’ll be there on Thursday. I’m to give a lecture at the Royal Institution tomorrow night, and meet with a group of potential French investors.” He cast a hopeful look at Bradford. “Although Professor Fleming could certainly do the lecture as well as I. In fact, I could go to Poldhu tomorrow with you, Marsden. That would give me a few extra days to work with Gerard on our project. If we’re to demonstrate it to the Prince of Wales and Admiral Fisher—”
Charles shifted in his chair, feeling a new curiosity. Admiral Fisher? Jackie Fisher, who had just been appointed Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth? What did he have to do with—
“The investors don’t want Fleming,” Bradford said roughly. “They want you. You’re the brains of this company, Marconi, and its newsmaker. It’s your name and face which have to be kept in the press. You agreed to do the lecture, and it’s been widely advertised. What’s more, we’ve arranged for the investors to come from Paris. So we will proceed as planned.”
“But the tuner,” Marconi objected. “Admiral Fisher will want to see exactly how it works, and what—”
“You said yourself that Gerard has the thing nearly finished. Don’t worry about it. It’ll be ready when you get there.”
With an air of defeat, Marconi sighed and looked out the window again, his shoulders slumped. But he turned his head as the door flew open and his assistant burst in, a horrified expression on his face.
“Mr. Marconi, sir!” he blurted out. “There’s just been a wire. A terrible accident, sir, at Poldhu. Daniel Gerard is dead!”
Marconi leapt to his feet. “Gerard—dead?” he gasped wildly. “No!”
“How?” Bradford barked. He hoisted himself out of his chair. “What happ
ened? When?”
“Last night, sir. We would’ve heard earlier, but they’ve had to shut down the Poldhu station while they sort things out. Gerard was—” He gulped, his face white. “He was electrocuted, sir.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Marconi whispered, his eyes bleak. “Gerard has been with me since I came to England. So reliable, so intelligent, such a friend. I will never find another.” He dropped his head into his hands. “What’s more, he was working on . . .” The rest of his words were lost in a despairing groan.
Bradford wheeled upon Charles. “Well, Sheridan?” he demanded brusquely. “Another accident, another man dead. What do you say now?”
Charles looked at Marconi, who sat with his shoulders slumped, his face buried in his hands. He had, it seemed, no choice but to agree. “When do we leave?”
“As quickly as we can,” Bradford said. “Tomorrow is the first of July. The Royals will be at the station Saturday fortnight.” He turned back to Marconi. “You can finish the tuner you and Gerard were working on? That’s what the Prince and Admiral Fisher are coming to see, you know. That’s what the Admiralty is interested in.”
“I suppose I can finish it,” Marconi said dully. “But without Gerard . . .”
“Good,” Bradford said. He nodded to Charles. “We should leave as early tomorrow as we can get away. Is that agreeable to you?”
“Yes,” Charles said, and thought once again, curiously, of Admiral Fisher.
CHAPTER TWO
Bishop’s Keep, near Chelmsford
A Lady an explorer? a traveller in skirts?
The notion’s just a trifle too seraphic:
Let them stay home and mind the babies, or hem our ragged
shirts;
But they mustn’t, can’t, and shan’t be geographic.
