by Robin Paige
So tonight, Marconi had to swallow his grief and pain at the loss of his friend and colleague and tell his audience that he had already done what he knew lay in the future. The demonstration was planned so that wireless messages from Poldhu, relayed via the Chelmsford Station, would be received on a Morse tickertape printer set up behind a screen at the back of the platform. As the messages came in, Arthur Blok would deliver them to the podium, where, with due ceremony, Marconi would read them aloud, demonstrating that the Marconi system could send and receive with the utmost reliability and confidentiality.
But as Arthur Blok turned on the receiver and began to adjust it, Marconi—so experienced with Morse that he could decode dots and dashes while he was speaking to an audience—heard a very different message than the one he expected. To his infinite dismay, the tickertape was printing out a rhyme:
THERE WAS A YOUNG FELLOW OF ITALY, WHO DIDDLED THE PUBLIC QUITE PRETTILY . . . This insulting bit of doggerel was repeated several times and was then followed by a single, astonishing, and emphatic word: RATS.
Marconi felt himself go cold. His knees threatened to buckle, and he had to grasp the podium with both hands to stay upright. The message—the appalling message!—was proof positive that his claim of freedom from interference was a lie. If anybody in the audience caught on to it, they would call him a fraud, and they would be right.
Fighting to keep his voice steady, Marconi continued to speak as he scanned the audience to see if the humiliating rhyme had been deciphered. The French investors, who didn’t know a dot from a dash, were listening intently to his words. Miss Chase, her eyes fixed on him, her pretty lips pursed, was leaning forward as if enthralled. Everyone else was deeply engrossed in what he was saying. No one seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.
But then Marconi saw someone he recognized, someone who was watching him with amused disdain written across his gaunt, triangular face. It was Nevil Maskelyne, a well-known magician who also dabbled in wireless. Catching Marconi’s eye, Maskelyne raised one contemptuous finger and laid it beside his nose. Then he winked, a slow, knowing, and very deliberate wink. There was no doubt in Marconi’s mind. It was Maskelyne who had arranged for the intrusive signal.
Marconi’s heart sank into his shoes, but he managed to struggle through the rest of the lecture, which was blessedly uneventful. The Morse ticker clicked out the closing message from Poldhu, signing off. Marconi finished speaking, bowed, and the audience burst into enthusiastic applause— all but Maskelyne, who, much to Marconi’s great relief, had already made his exit. He did not intend, apparently, to cause any trouble.
But as the applause subsided and Marconi bowed and turned away from the podium, he heard the Morse printer begin again. And this time, the message was much more ominous. MARCONI IS DEAD, it said. MARCONI IS DEAD.
Arthur Blok handed him the printer tape, his eyes round, his face gray. “Who do you think, sir?” he whispered.
“Don’t speak of this to anyone,” Marconi said roughly, taking the tape and stuffing it into his pocket. Then he swallowed his fear, turned on his heel, and went to greet Miss Pauline Chase, who was waiting at the foot of the stairs, her plumed hat tilted becomingly, her feather boa tossed over her shoulder.
“Oh, Marky!” she cried, taking his arm and gazing up at him adoringly, “I just ate up every word. You are exactly what the newspapers call you. The Wizard of Wireless!”
“Are you?” spoke an ironic, drawling voice, deep in the shadows behind the stairs. “Are you the Wizard of Wireless, Marky? Or perhaps we should rather call you the ‘Wireless Humbug’.”
Marconi whirled. “You have some cheek, Maskelyne,” he growled.
“Cheek?” Maskelyne gave an unpleasant laugh. He stepped out of the shadows, carrying an ebony walking stick and wearing a top hat and a scarlet opera cape that made him look like Bram Stoker’s Dracula. “Don’t talk to me about cheek, Marconi. All those claims for proof against interference—they’re nothing but a fraud on the public. Pure humbuggery.” He laughed again. “That Morse signal didn’t come from Poldhu or Chelmsford. It came from The Egyptian Hall, less than a block away, where I perform my magic shows. Your device was completely incapable of tuning it out, and you know it.”
“Monkey tricks and scientific hooliganism are one thing,” Marconi said low, between gritted teeth, “but a death threat’s quite another. That’s a police matter, you know.”
Maskelyne’s eyebrow went up. “Death threat? I know nothing about a death threat, old chap. You mean to say that there was another transmitter sending you unsolicited messages?” He barked an unpleasant laugh. “Well, I suppose that’s another proof, isn’t it? Your receiver is totally incapable of discriminating among transmitters. Scientific hooliganism, eh? I like that. I like it very much. You won’t mind if I quote you, I hope—Marky.”
Miss Chase was tugging at Marconi’s arm. “A death threat?” She gave a bright, brittle laugh. “How utterly fascinating, Marky! Should I be alarmed?”
Marconi started. He had almost forgotten Miss Chase. He patted her hand. “No, don’t be alarmed. It’s nothing to trouble yourself about, my dear.”
“Oh, indeed,” Maskelyne remarked nastily. “Don’t trouble yourself at all, my dear young lady. But do keep an eye on The Times, Marky.” He grinned. “You won’t want to miss my letter regarding the fun I’ve had at your expense tonight. Since you didn’t see fit to let your audience in on the messages you were receiving on that instrument of yours, I believe I shall do just that.” He tipped his hat and twirled his cape around him with a flourish. “Scientific hooliganism, eh? Yes, indeed, I shall quote you. Do watch The Times. I’ll get the letter off tomorrow—no doubt they’ll print it right away.”
And that remark, more than the unfortunate incident, and even more than the death threat, was what ruined the rest of Marconi’s evening. Not even Miss Chase’s solicitous flirtations could ease his mind.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Thursday, 2 July, 1903
Piracy, privateering, smuggling, and wrecking—the pillaging of shipwrecks—were for centuries features of Cornwall’s maritime life. For one thing, Cornishmen were poor, and these were principal means of employment. For another, the King’s coast guards and prevention agents were often elsewhere, or part of the game, or both. Whatever the case, robbery at sea and along the shore gradually evolved from random attempts to a highly organized business, financed by prosperous merchants and the landed gentry. Many of the respectable people of the Lizard participated in the outlawry, in one way or another.
Tales of Cornwall
Lawrence Jenner
At home, Kate was an early riser, for she always had to settle a certain number of domestic issues and matters having to do with her school. The sooner these things were out of the way, the sooner she could settle down to her writing. But here at Penhallow, with none of her regular responsibilities to meet, she slept later than usual. When she awoke, she stretched and lay still for a while, thinking about the pleasant evening she had shared with Patsy and Jenna Loveday. The three of them had found themselves to be remarkably compatible, and by the time they said good-night and went to bed, they were chattering away like old friends. It had been a long time since Kate had felt that kind of easy, enjoyable companionship with other women, and she was very glad to have found it. She thought Jenna might be glad, too, for there was no evidence that she had any other women friends.
There was a light tap at the door, and the housemaid appeared with a tray of tea and buttered toast. As the curtains were opened to let in the morning sunshine, Kate glanced out the window, half-expecting to see the little red-haired girl perched in the tree. Kate had meant to mention the child to Jenna, but by the time the tea bell had rung and Kate had gone down to the terrace, the girl had disappeared and Kate had forgotten about her. Some village child, probably, playing a woodland game.
Not a child, a fairy! Beryl Bardwell chided. Where’s your imagination, Kate? This is Cornwall, for hea
ven’s sake. The woods must be full of fairies.
“Always on the lookout for excitement, aren’t you?” Kate muttered to herself, and picked up her teacup. Still, Beryl had a point. This was Cornwall, the mythical home of the Little People. Any novelist worth her salt would have to confess to being intrigued.
By the time Kate had dressed and gone down to the breakfast room, Patsy and Jenna were already at the table, where Patsy seemed to be regaling Jenna with a tale of life in the Arabian desert.
“Good morning, Kate,” Patsy said, with a cheerful toss of her head. “You’re just in time to hear all about the Arabian sheik I fell in love with in the desert. So tall and handsome.” She sighed elaborately. “With the face of a god.”
“And the hand of a tyrant, I don’t doubt,” Kate replied practically. “Don’t fall in love with a sheik, Patsy. You’d be bored to desperation by life in a harem. Nothing to do but sit with your embroidery and wait until it was your turn.” As Patsy and Jenna giggled, she helped herself to bacon and eggs from the hot plates on the sideboard and sat down across from Jenna.
“You slept well, I trust,” Jenna said.
“Deliciously,” Kate replied. “There’s certainly something to be said for taking a holiday.” She glanced out the window, where the sunlit lawn sloped down toward the woodland. “Especially in such a beautiful place, and on such a beautiful morning.”
Patsy began to butter her toast. “Harriet’s monument has just been put up,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “and Jenna asked me to walk to the churchyard this morning to see it. You’ll join us?”
“Of course,” Kate said. She was glad that Patsy had opened the subject. They hadn’t spoken about Jenna’s daughter the night before, but perhaps they were comfortable enough now that Jenna might be ready to talk about it.
“I’m not terribly fond of the monument,” Jenna said. “My mother-in-law ordered it, and I couldn’t say no. But visiting Harriet’s grave is a comfort. I’ve somehow felt that I have abandoned her, you know.” Her smile was rueful. “I know that’s silly, but there it is.” She glanced at Kate. “Patsy tells me that you lost a child, too, so perhaps you understand.”
“I do,” Kate said. She spoke truthfully. “If it hadn’t been for Charles, I’m not sure how I would have survived. He couldn’t have been more helpful and tender. The experience brought us together.”
“You’re fortunate, Kate.” Jenna picked up a pitcher. “Patsy, would you like another glass of orange juice?”
Kate felt suddenly awkward, and wished she hadn’t spoken. Jenna’s husband was dead, and there was no one to comfort her.
Patsy held up her juice glass. “Yes, please.” She gave Kate a mock frown. “If our Kate will not permit me to have my handsome sheik, I’ll have to console myself somehow.”
Sheltered by overhanging oaks, the small, gray stone church stood at the edge of a green meadow a half-hour’s walk from Penhallow. It was very old and had been built by her family, Jenna said, on a site which had once been a place for pagan worship and ritual.
“The Tyrrills were privateers, you see,” she said, with the hint of a smile. “Pirates with a fleet of small, fast ships. They moored them in Frenchman’s Creek and sailed out to the Channel to prey on French and Spanish galleons. Penhallow came into their possession as part of a dowry during the reign of King James I, and the family decided to settle down.” She gestured. “They built the church shortly after. I suppose they felt the need to be accepted and respectable. Or perhaps it was penance for their piracy.”
The morning air was mild but still cool enough for Kate to be glad that she had worn her green shawl. The meadow was softened by wisps of silver fog, and the velvety grass was bright with early summer flowers. Jenna had brought a basket of scented roses from the manor garden to put on Harriet’s grave, although the wildings at their feet, Kate thought, were just as beautiful.
They went through the gate into the churchyard. “What a lovely spot,” Patsy said. “It’s so very peaceful.” She glanced around. “Where—?”
“There,” Jenna said, pointing to a spot near the stone wall, beside a large lilac bush. “George’s mother wanted to bury her on the Loveday estate in Kent, with George. But all the Tyrrills are here, and I wouldn’t have my daughter anywhere else.” Her voice was firm. “This is where she belongs. Where both of us belong.”
The small grave was covered with a thick marble slab and marked by a tall, white marble pillar which had been made to look as if it were broken off, topped by a statuesque stone angel in flowing robes, wings spread wide, arms lifted to heaven. An inscription was carved on the face of the monument:
HARRIET
Beloved Daughter of George and Jenna Tyrrill Loveday
4 February, 1893-15 February, 1903
“It’s very . . . impressive,” Patsy murmured. Kate thought that it was not exactly the sort of monument one might erect to a child.
“Harriet would have been amused by the angel,” Jenna said dryly. “But I think a fairy would have been more to her taste.” She stopped, staring down at the grass. “There,” she said. “It’s happened again.”
“What’s happened?” Kate asked.
“The flowers,” Jenna replied helplessly. “I don’t know where they come from, or who leaves them there. It’s very strange.”
Kate looked down. In the grass around the marble slab lay drifts of loose blossoms—daisies, meadow sweet, bluebells. “They’re lovely,” she said.
“First it was the doll,” Jenna said in a troubled voice. “Lately, it’s been flowers. They’re always here, and always fresh, every time I come.” She laughed a little. “I thought I was seeing things, but they’re very real.”
“The doll?” Patsy asked.
“One of Harriet’s. I hadn’t noticed it in the nursery for quite a time, and then—” Jenna shook her head. “Then it was here. I have no idea how.”
Fairies! Beryl whispered, but Kate paid no attention to her. “Harriet’s governess, perhaps,” she hazarded.
“There was no governess,” Jenna replied, putting the basket of roses down at the foot of the monument. “I wanted Harriet to go to the school in Helford, as I did, when I was growing up here. The teacher is a young woman, very well thought of and unusually good with the children. In another year or two, a governess, perhaps, for French and drawing—” She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “But childhood is so short, so fleeting. I wanted her to have the freedom to enjoy it.”
Kate understood Jenna’s feelings. She herself violently disagreed with the practice of consigning young children to nannies until the little boys were old enough to be sent off to boarding school and the girls handed over to governesses. It was ironic, she often thought, that the children of wealthy people often grew up with fewer freedoms, and certainly a narrower view of the world, than the children of their parents’ servants.
“My mother-in-law didn’t agree with me, of course,” Jenna added. “She came last year, bringing a governess from London, but I sent her away. And she thought it was scandalous that I would let Harriet go into the woods alone. She said I was letting her run wild.” She waved her hand toward the trees beyond. “But I grew up here, and I think I must have inherited some of my ancestors’ adventurous spirit. My mother allowed me to explore as I liked, to learn the birds and the plants. To climb trees and play in the woods. I wanted my daughter to have that same sense of freedom.” Her voice grew thin and her face twisted. “The . . . the only place she wasn’t supposed to go was the creek. I don’t understand why she disobeyed. Oh, God!” she cried suddenly, and buried her face in her hands. “I wish I knew what happened! What was she doing there? How did she die?”
Without a word, Patsy gathered her into her arms and held her tight, rubbing her back and whispering comforting words. Kate saw the tears streaming freely down Jenna’s face and understood. If Jenna could have guessed the future, she might have been more strict, more watchful. With a cold shiver, she remembered a horrib
le thing which had happened when she was a child in New York, an accident which had led to the death of her best friend. Children weren’t always mature enough to use their freedom wisely, and—
And then, over Patsy’s shoulder, Kate saw a fair-haired, mustached young man striding around the corner of the church, dressed as if for hunting in a Harris tweed jacket and breeches, woolen stockings, shooting spats, and stout boots—but without a gun. Instead, he carried a walking stick and wore a canvas pack on his back. A pair of field glasses were slung around his neck.
“Andrew!” Kate exclaimed, astonished to see his familiar figure in such an unfamiliar place. She stepped forward and put out her hand. When he did not appear to recognize her, she added, “Kate Sheridan, Andrew. Are you here to help Charles investigate the accident at the wireless station?”
The young man took off his cap and bowed slightly. “I fear you have mistaken me, ma’am,” he said in a distant tone. “My name is John Northrop.” His eyes went to Jenna and then away again. He slipped off his pack, took out a leather card case, and presented Kate with a card. “I am an amateur ornithologist. I come to the Lizard frequently, to observe the birds. There are quite a few rarities here, you know.”
Kate, somewhat surprised, glanced at the card, which indeed confirmed the man’s identity as John Northrop, of Colchester, Essex. But she knew she was not mistaken, and Beryl knew it, too.
