Death on the Lizard

by Robin Paige

  A third petal, and a fourth. “But you didn’t do anything to help her.”

  “I didn’t even tell anyone I was there and saw what happened,” Kate said sadly. “That’s what made me sorriest—after I thought about it, I mean. I should have told somebody. I should have told the policeman. Instead, I ran home, and acted surprised when my aunt told me about it.”

  The fifth petal fluttered to the ground and Alice stepped on it, hard, as if it were trying to get away. “Why didn’t you tell?”

  “Because I couldn’t explain why we’d gone where we weren’t supposed to go. Because I knew my aunt would be very angry at me and might never trust me to go out by myself again. Because . . .” Kate shrugged, not looking at Alice. “I was a coward, I suppose.”

  The rest of the petals flew away in a furious blizzard, and Alice tossed the plucked stem into the grass with an angry gesture. They had reached the top of the hill, and Helford Village lay behind and beneath them. “I hope you weren’t sorry forever.” She turned her fierce bright eyes on Kate. “Were you?”

  “Not exactly,” Kate said. “I finally told my friend’s mother, you see. She was so desperately unhappy. I didn’t want her to keep on thinking that her daughter had been all alone when . . . when it happened. I wanted her to know why, and how. And that it was . . . it was my fault, too. That we were there, I mean.”

  There was a long pause. “Were you glad you told?”

  “Yes. I think she was glad, too. But I’m still sorry I didn’t tell right away.”

  Alice pulled her brows together, as if she were trying to puzzle out a rather difficult question. And then, having apparently come to a conclusion, she said, in a careless tone, “Sometimes Harriet and I went in the woods.” She picked up a rock and threw it, hard, at a fence post. “We were secret friends, you know. Not because her mother forbade us. Just because.”

  “Sometimes secret friends are best,” Kate said.

  Alice nodded. “She would bring her dolls to our secret place. Sometimes she helped me with my chores. Sometimes we read books.”

  “Oh, books!” Kate exclaimed. “What books did you read?”

  “Well, there was The Water Babies,” Alice said, “about the boy who drowned and went to live in the sea. And Treasure Island, and A Child’s Garden of Verses.” She glanced at Kate, shyly now. “Do you like books?”

  “Oh, indeed I do,” Kate said. “Books are my very favorite things. Speaking of A Child’s Garden of Verses, do you know ‘From a Railway Carriage’?” She began to recite:

  “Faster than fairies, faster than witches, bridges and houses, hedges and ditches . . .”

  “Oh, yes!” Alice windmilled her arms.

  “Charging along like troops in a battle,”

  she cried.

  “All through the meadows the horses and cattle:

  All of the sights of the hill and the plain,

  Fly as thick as driving rain.”

  And then they recited all the rest of the poem in unison, down to the very last word. When they were finished, they went back to the beginning and did it all over again, just because the words were such fun. And then they linked hands and as they walked they recited as many of Stevenson’s poems as they could remember, which proved to be nearly enough to take them most of the way back to Penhallow.

  “I wonder,” Kate said, when they reached the spot where she and Alice had met, “since your name is Alice, whether you have read Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.” Kate had seen the book on a shelf at Penhallow, and felt sure that Jenna would not object to a loan. And she wanted to talk to the girl again. She was sure that Alice knew something about Harriet’s death, although it might not be easy to get her to tell what it was.

  “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland!” Alice exclaimed. Her blue eyes were very bright. “No, I haven’t.”

  “If Lady Loveday does not object, I shall bring it to your grandmother’s cottage.” Kate paused. “How would tomorrow afternoon suit?”

  Alice nodded wordlessly.

  “Good,” Kate said. “I’ll see you then.” She started toward the manor house, then turned and looked after the girl. Alice was skipping down the lane, chanting the first verses of Stevenson’s poem “Looking-Glass River”:

  “Smooth it slides upon its travel,

  Here a wimple, there a gleam—

  O the clean gravel!

  O the smooth stream!

  Sailing blossoms, silver fishes,

  Paven pools as clear as air—

  How a child wishes

  To live down there!”

  “What an exceptional child,” Kate murmured to herself. A fairy child, said Beryl, with a happy sigh. A fairy child.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Germany, with Professor Adolphus Slaby, was striking out on its own, endeavoring to secure a position where it could ignore the Marconi patents (and royalties). However, Slaby’s devices were far from satisfactory . . . [so] Germany attempted a more direct approach. . . . Relations between Marconi and the German Reich became exceedingly cool, and the company took care not to hire Germans for fear they might be informers.

  My Father, Marconi

  Degna Marconi

  The eerie and alarming appearance of that spark in the rural background of Mullion is something not to be forgotten. When the door of the enclosure was opened, the roar of the discharge could be heard for miles along the coast.

  Recollection of Arthur Blok,

  Marconi assistant

  Charles spent the whole of Thursday morning with various investigative duties. After he left the constable’s office, he went to find the coroner, and repeated to him what he had already told Thomas Deane. As Charles had hoped, the coroner, a largish, balding man who seemed to have a very high estimation of his own importance, took the position that there was no clear connection between the missing tuner and diary and Gerard’s death.

  “No need to testify,” he said, with a careless wave of his hand. “The items were undoubtedly mislaid.” As far as Charles was concerned, this was a good thing. Word of the thefts was bound to leak out, but the longer that could be delayed, the better.

  The inquest itself was the usual presentation of known facts and the drawing of foregone conclusions. Daniel Gerard was said to have been neither mentally nor physically impaired in the days before his death, and was described as a man who normally exercised a great deal of care when he worked with the equipment. It also emerged that the neighbors were increasingly concerned by the enormous amount of electricity generated at the station. A farmer who lived a quarter mile away testified that all the metal gutters and drainpipes on his property ticked and flashed in concert with the station’s transmissions, causing the coroner to shake his head and observe dryly, “How very shocking.” When the spectators laughed, he gaveled them into silence, but it was clear that he was pleased at their appreciation of his wit.

  Following the inquest, Charles walked to the station and spent some time questioning the station employees, one at a time. Gerard was likeable but reserved, he was told, and appeared to have no relationships outside of his professional life. The two wireless operators and the electrical engineer reported that they knew about the red leather diary, for they had seen him making notes in it, and they were aware that he and Marconi had been working on some sort of new device. But none of them seemed to know what it was, or where it was kept, and Charles did not mention that it was missing. They had all visited the company office in the hotel at one time or another, but all denied ever having been alone there.

  Concluding the station interviews, Charles talked to Dick Corey at some greater length. Corey, now the station manager, added the information that Gerard was highly demanding and not an easy man to work for, although the two of them had got on together reasonably well. As far as the diary was concerned, Corey said that it was kept in the desk drawer in the office when it was not in Gerard’s possession, and that while he was aware that Gerard was working on some sort of experimental d
evice designed to improve reception, Gerard hadn’t discussed it with him. Charles had the impression that Corey’s relationship with the dead man was not entirely amicable and that there might have been some competition between them, probably a natural thing in the circumstance.

  In the middle of the afternoon, Charles found Bradford Marsden waiting for him, as they had arranged, in the hotel lobby.

  “Well, now, Sheridan,” Bradford said, greeting him, “what was concluded at the inquest this morning?”

  “That Gerard’s death was an accidental electrocution,” Charles replied, “the result of falling into the electrical apparatus. I spoke to both the constable and the coroner privately about the thefts, and managed to keep that information from coming out at the inquest. I also spoke to the station employees, but learned nothing new. I see no indication that the death was anything other than a tragic accident—except for the thefts, of course.”

  “Shall we see if we can get a cup of coffee?” Bradford asked, and they started across the lobby toward the hotel bar.

  “Oh, Lord Sheridan!” the hotel clerk called, from behind the desk. He raised a white envelope. “A letter for you, sir.”

  Charles accepted the letter and opened it as he followed Bradford. Since he had left his wife at Penhallow only the afternoon before and was expecting to see her when he returned on Friday for dinner with Sir Oliver Lodge, he was surprised and delighted when the letter proved to be from Kate. It had arrived by the late afternoon post.

  “A cup of coffee,” Marsden was saying to the man behind the bar. “The same for you, Sheridan?”

  Charles nodded absently. He opened the envelope and scanned the brief and somewhat cryptic handwritten note.

  Charles, my dear—

  I thought you might like to know that I met our friend from Scotland and Easton Lodge in the Penhallow churchyard this morning, although I am sorry to say that he appeared not to recognize me. Of course, I was in the company of Patsy and Jenna Loveday, which might have had something to do with it. He says he is here on the Lizard for the bird-watching and is staying at the Oysterman’s Arms in Helford.

  All is well at Penhallow. Patsy sends her affection. We are looking forward to seeing you tomorrow evening.

  With much love,

  Kate

  P.S. At the Arms, you might ask for John Northrop.

  Our friend from Scotland and Easton Lodge? The man could only be Andrew Kirk-Smythe, Charles thought, as he folded the letter and went to join Bradford at the table in front of the window overlooking the sea. And Kate obviously suspected that he was up to something and was being discreet, in case her message were read by someone else.

  Charles sat down where he could have a view of the ocean. John Northrup, eh? An interesting bit of intrigue. When he and Kirk-Smythe had been together in Scotland, Andrew had been working in Military Intelligence. The fact that he chose not to recognize Kate and was masquerading as a birdwatcher named John Northrup suggested that he was on some sort of intelligence mission. But what? Charles frowned. Was he after a foreign agent? That hardly seemed likely, here on the Lizard. There were certainly plenty of secret agents, as the international situation became more uneasy and unsettled, but they tended to cluster in London, where they could listen at the Government’s keyholes.

  The waiter appeared with cups and a silver pot. When he had poured their coffee and gone, Charles turned to Bradford. “Tell me,” he said, “what kind of interest Marconi is attracting on the Continent, particularly from foreign governments.”

  “A very great deal, in fact,” Bradford replied. “There are the Italians, of course—they turned down Marconi’s wireless in the beginning, but they’re making up for it now. They’ve contracted for installations on twenty warships. And last summer, King Victor Emmanuel loaned Marconi the Carlo Alberto as a floating laboratory. They sailed the ship to Russia, where the Tsar came aboard to see the apparatus. Apparently it was quite an event, flags flying, bands playing, sailors cheering. There is a great deal of Russian interest in wireless, you know—although they are at the present time primarily using Popov’s system.” He smiled thinly. “But Popov is second-rate. They’ll come around. It’s only a matter of time before they take the Marconi system.”

  Charles glanced out at the ocean, where a large ship was steaming across the horizon. Wireless might still be in its infancy, but it had already been of immeasurable benefit to shipping. Steamships could now communicate with one another and with the shore at distances of hundreds of miles. Wireless had saved the lives of the crew of the Goodwin Sands lightship off the coast of Dover, and no doubt it would save many more. And there was the advantage to law enforcement, as well. The summer before, two robbers were arrested in California, the police having been alerted via a wireless message sent from Catalina Island to Los Angeles, where the authorities picked them up as they left the ferry. But the greatest advantage, when the tuning problem could be solved—rather, if the tuning problem were solved— would no doubt be military.

  “How about the Germans?” he asked. “Is the Kaiser interested?”

  “Is the Kaiser interested?” Bradford repeated sarcastically. He looked over his shoulder to make sure that they were not overheard. “Bloody thieves, those Germans,” he said, in a lower voice.

  “So it’s like that, is it?” Charles remarked with interest.

  “And more,” Bradford said emphatically. “You know the Kaiser.”

  Charles gave a dry chuckle. “I know what Bismarck said of him. ‘The Kaiser is like a balloon. If you do not hold fast to the string, you never know where he will be off to.’ ”

  “Indeed,” Bradford said. “And at the moment, he’s obsessed with seeing that Germany is ahead of everyone else in every new technology, whether it’s weapons, warships, or communications. He’s been driven wild by the idea that the Marconi wireless is more successful than the one invented by his own scientists.”

  “The Slaby-d’Arco system?”

  Bradford nodded. “It has a limited range and is quite inferior. The Germans have installed it on a few ships—the Deutschland, for instance—but they’ve purchased Marconi equipment for other vessels, such as the Kronprinz Wilhelm.” He chuckled. “It infuriates Willie to have to pay for something when he thinks he should have it free.”

  “Didn’t I read,” Charles asked, frowning, “that the Germans attempted to invade a Marconi station? Not here in England, I think. In America?”

  “Exactly,” Bradford said. “Last summer, the Kaiser sent a naval squadron to the Newfoundland station on Glace Bay. The first day, it was the commander and thirty of his officers, demanding a look around. Vyvyan, the station manager, met them at the gate and told them he’d be glad to show them over the place, as long as they could produce a letter of authority from Marconi or the company. Of course, they didn’t have one. The commander huffed and puffed and said that His Imperial Majesty would be much annoyed—as if that should trouble anyone!—and they went off. The next day, however, they sent in a mob of 150 sailors. They would have overrun the place if Vyvyan hadn’t kept his head. He organized a defensive force of laborers to keep them out.”

  “And then there was something about Marconi refusing to relay messages, wasn’t there? The Kaiser himself made a great deal of fuss about that, I understand.”

  “Right. Wilhelm’s brother, who was sailing on the Deutschland, demanded that a Marconi operator relay a message from his Slaby transmitter, which couldn’t send the distance he needed. The Marconi operator refused. The Kaiser foamed at the mouth. He called it ‘deliberate sabotage, ’ as I remember, and there were several heated letters in the newspapers. Of course, Marconi said that it was purely a matter of technical incompatibility—”

  “Was it?”

  Smiling slightly, Bradford shrugged. “Of course not. But why should we relay their bloody messages? If the Germans want to use the Marconi system, they can buy Marconi equipment.” He drained his coffee cup and set it down. “Now, though, they’
ve adopted a different strategy. They’ve been making a lot of noise about standardizing wireless telegraphy. But any fool can see that they’re only trying to steal our patents and break our monopoly.” He shook his head. “It’s come to such a serious point that we’ve had to make it a policy not to hire German wireless operators. They—”

  “I say, old chap,” a voice boomed, “you’re Marsden, aren’t you? On the Marconi Wireless board?”

  Charles looked up to see a robust-looking man in tweeds coming toward the table. He had the florid complexion of an outdoorsman, bushy white eyebrows, and a stiff soldierly posture.

  Bradford stood. “Bradford Marsden, at your service, sir. And who, may I ask—”

  “Fitz-Bascombe. Major Robert Fitz-Bascombe,” the major said briskly, lifting his walking stick in a emphatic salute. “I have the honor, sir, of serving as secretary of the Lizard Peninsula Preservation Committee.”

  “Preservation Committee?” Bradford pursed his lips, frowning. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “Bad show for your side, of course,” the major went on, “but rather the better for ours, if y’ don’t mind my saying so.”

  “I don’t quite take your point, I’m afraid,” said Bradford, frowning.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” the major replied benevolently. “That’s all right, to be sure. Best course of action, in the circumstance. Realize that the company faces a loss of revenue, but far better that, I’m sure you’ll agree, than—”

  “What the devil,” Bradford snapped, “are you talking about?”

  The major’s white eyebrows came together. “Why, about the transmitter, of course. I speak for the other members of the committee when I say that we were shocked, quite shocked and saddened, to hear of the station manager’s death.” He sighed gustily. “Poor fellow, and such a tragedy— although electrocution is not the worst way to go. Better than being ambushed by Boers, or having one’s throat slashed by—” He made a brisk clicking noise with his tongue, as if to herd himself back to his point. “Be that as it may, and forgive me for saying so, sir, but we are pleased that the transmitter has been shut off. The roar was quite deafening, you know. Left my ears ringing.” And he smacked the side of his head with the heel of his hand, as if to shut off the annoying bells.