by Robin Paige
“I see.” Bradford shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I—”
“We are most pleased,” the major repeated, and added, suggestively, “Be even more pleased when those unsightly towers are pulled down, of course.”
“Pull down the towers?” Bradford was astonished. “Pull down the towers? Why ever should we—”
“Because there’s no profit in leaving them up,” the major said with great reasonableness. “They can’t be of further use. Quite an eyesore, you have to admit, poking up from the downs as they do. And that aerial is a hazard to flight. Oh, yes, definitely a hazard.”
“To flight!” Bradford exclaimed. “But what—”
“Sea birds,” the major said sadly. “Four dead last week.” He shook his head. “And one black tern, I am sorry to say. We were all quite alarmed when Miss Truebody brought in that particular fatality. The black terns are declining rapidly, and I should be very sorry if the Marconi Company were responsible for any additional deaths.”
Bradford took a deep breath. “Now see here, Major—”
“Fitz-Bascombe,” the major said. “Problem’s getting quite serious, y’know, with migratory season approaching. Don’t want a repeat of last year. Lost a red-necked grebe, two barn owls, a yellow wagtail—”
“I don’t give a damn,” Bradford said fiercely, “about yellow wagtails. The transmitter is shut down temporarily while repairs are effected and we determine the cause of the accident. Transmissions will begin again as soon as possible. And the towers will stay up. Did you hear that, Major?” In a measured voice, he repeated. “The towers will stay up.”
The major looked horrified. “But, my good fellow, a man has died! You can’t intend to carry on as if nothing has happened. It’s a matter of respect. It—”
“You don’t go closing the roads every time some poor chap gets run down by the fish man’s cart, do you?” Bradford growled. “You don’t halt an invasion when the first charge fails. The Marconi Company has tens of thousands of pounds invested in this station. The directors have no intention of shutting it down.”
The major pulled himself up, his white eyebrows dancing furiously. “It’s not just the birds, y’know, Marsden. It’s the noise. Infernal racket, bad during the day, insufferable at night. And the traffic—these roads were never made for dozens of wagons and coaches, one after the other. Why, just yesterday, there was a motor car. Next thing, there’ll be motor lorries speeding along, no regard for horse nor man.” He was warming to his subject. “And more towers, and more building, and destruction of agricultural land and the ancient monuments and the fishing industry and the social harmony of—”
“Excuse me, Major Fitz-Bascombe,” said the barman tentatively, “but Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe is inquiring whether you are ready to leave. She is quite anxious to—”
“Of course, of course,” muttered the major. He lowered threatening brows at Bradford. “Consider well, Marsden. The Marconi Company’s present course is beastly unpopular among the residents of the Lizard. Additional provocation can only result in a dangerous escalation of sentiment and a consequent—”
“Thank you, Major Fitz-Bascombe,” Bradford said with a bow. “I am deeply indebted to you for your advice. And please convey my compliments to Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe. I shall look forward to meeting her, at a more convenient time.”
Charles watched as the major turned on his heel and marched out of the room. “That sounded serious, Bradford.”
“Of course it did.” Bradford fell into his chair, chuckling mirthlessly. “But we’ll assign Major Fitz-Bascombe the duty of greeting Prince George on behalf of Mullion Village, and his wife can hand the Princess a bouquet of flowers. That will change his tune in a hurry.”
“Perhaps,” Charles said. “But it won’t change the fundamental problem. The wider opposition, I mean.”
“Perhaps not,” Bradford said, “but opposing the company won’t do them any good. The station is here to stay, and that’s that.” In a softer tone, he added, “Was that a note from Kate you were reading?”
Charles nodded. “It came by the afternoon post. You recall Andrew Kirk-Smythe, don’t you? You met him at an Easton Lodge weekend, some years ago.”
Bradford pondered. “With the Royal party, wasn’t he? Some sort of bodyguard?”
“Yes. Kate writes that he is on the Lizard. If you should bump into him, it would be best if you did not seem to recognize him.” He spread his hands. “It appears that he’s here on some sort of business he doesn’t want publicized.”
“What sort?” Bradford asked, scowling. “If he’s doing advance scouting for the Royal visit, he ought to coordinate with me.”
“I don’t know why he’s here,” Charles replied. “He’s not in the same division of the government any longer, so I shouldn’t think his presence has to do with the visit. I thought I would hire a cart and drive over to Helford this evening. He’s staying at an inn there, Kate says. If it turns out that his business has to do with the Royals, I’ll ask him to get in touch with you and fill you in on the details.” He paused. “Have you heard from Marconi? When is he coming down?”
“On the late train this evening,” Bradford said, adding with a grimace, “It appears that there was trouble at the lecture last night.”
“Oh?” Charles frowned. “Trouble with the apparatus?”
“He didn’t say. He’ll tell us when he gets here, I suppose.” He sighed. “He’s bringing a guest, which is only going to complicate things, I’m afraid.”
“One of the French investors?”
“I wish,” Bradford replied with a short, hard laugh. “It’s a woman. Marconi is off on another one of his damned romantic adventures.” He shook his head grimly. “I hope this one is better than the last. She was a disaster, by God.” He leaned forward on his elbows, lowering his voice and speaking confidentially. “I say, old man, you’re not really going to Penhallow to have dinner with Lodge, are you?”
“Is there a reason I shouldn’t?” Charles asked.
Bradford shot him a penetrating glance. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of the patent challenge, then.” When Charles shook his head, he went on. “That patent of his, you know, is a very good one, a strong rival to Marconi’s. The company’s solicitors fear that when the lawsuit finally comes to court, there’ll be trouble.”
Charles pushed his chair back. “That has nothing to do with me, Bradford. I’m not an employee of the Marconi Company.” He stood, smiling briefly. “And what’s more, I must confess that I rather like Sir Oliver.”
“Like him!” Bradford said in a disgusted tone. “Well, that’s up to you, of course. But I’m telling you, Sheridan, his coming just now is no coincidence. Be careful what you say to him, will you? Don’t give away any secrets.”
“Oh, come now, Bradford,” Charles said. “You know me better than that.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sir Oliver Lodge has had a remarkable career. From 1881 to 1890, he served as Professor of Physics at University College in Liverpool, where he studied lightning, the voltaic cell and electrolysis, electromagnetic waves, and the ether, a medium permeating all space. In 1894, he became the first man to transmit a wireless signal. . . . In 1900, he accepted an appointment as the first principal of Birmingham University College.
Sir Oliver has for many years been deeply involved with the investigation of psychic phenomena, and has a deep scientific interest in communicating with the spirit world.
“Sir Oliver Lodge Knighted,”
Birmingham Gazette, December 1902
While Bradford was warning Charles against Sir Oliver Lodge, Jenna Loveday was sitting in her bedroom, reading a letter from that very same gentleman. It was only a short note expressing the hope that she was well and letting her know that he would be arriving on the three o’clock train. Enclosed with the letter was an article clipped from Macmillan’s Magazine, with a note scribbled at the top.
“I thought perhaps you might like to read this,”<
br />
Sir Oliver had written.
“It explains in scientific terms the procedure we will be using when we attempt to contact the spirit of your sweet Harriet.”
The article was captioned, “Automatic Writing Brings Word from the Other Side.”
Nervously, Jenna scanned the article. It contained a description of the way the process worked: the medium seated at a table in a darkened room, a pen in her hand, writing words which came from some supernatural source. “The procedure is very like a spirit trance,” the writer went on,
except that the medium conveys the message in writing. This is in fact quite helpful, according to Sir Oliver Lodge, president of the prestigious Society for Psychical Research, for the writing becomes a permanent record of the event.
Sir Oliver, indeed, is the epitome of the psychic investigator, for his well-known interest in wireless telegraphy qualifies him as an expert in messages of any sort, including those received by supernatural means, but which may, when the process is better understood, prove to be quite as natural and normal as sending and receiving a telegram.
In fact, it might be said that the medium herself—mediums are often women, who appear to be more sensitive or susceptible to spirit influences than are men—functions rather like a wireless telegraph key. She transmits words and sentences which come streaking inaudibly through the ether, her consciousness functioning as the aerial which receives and sorts out the signals which are then transcribed by her pen. These messages are said to come from the spirit world and convey the sentiments of the departed, who are urgently bent on getting in touch with their loved ones.
These words are the proof which science requires to establish whether or not personality does indeed survive death.
Jenna dropped the article into her lap and sat, staring out the window. It was objective and informative and for that she was grateful, for she had never even heard of “automatic writing” until Sir Oliver had told her about it. She would not have considered doing what he asked had he not been an old friend of the family, and such a comforting presence, so sincere in his beliefs and such a well-respected scientist that it was hard to think ill of him in any way.
But if Sir Oliver hoped the article might ease her nervousness about the séance he planned for tomorrow night, he was wrong. She was even more frightened than she had been in the first place, because she understood more clearly what this was all about and why he was so interested in her. It was the fact that she was “susceptible to spirit influences,” as the writer of the article delicately put it: the fact that, ever since Harriet died, she had been having what Dr. Michaels called “hallucinations.”
Yesterday afternoon, for instance, out on the terrace, seeing to the tea, she had looked up and seen a moving shape among the trees, a girl in a blue dress and white apron. The sight had been all the more disturbing because it seemed so utterly real and because she had not felt the physical sensations which usually came with her “visions”: the bone-deep chill, the dizziness and disorientation, the voices. And last night, after she had blown out the candle and gone to bed, she had seen a dim, translucent shape twisting through the dark at the foot of her bed and heard a confused chorus of urgent whispers, like a stream chattering among the rocks, just barely audible beneath the sighing of the wind outside her casement window. She had lain still, unable to move, so frightened that she could scarcely breathe, while the darkness grew icy cold, washing over her like surf freezing on rocks, drowning her in its deathly chill. At last—it seemed like an eternity—the wraith-like shape faded, the air warmed, the whispers died away. But she could not sleep, or perhaps she dared not sleep, for a very long time. And when she finally drifted off, her dreams were dark and dreadful.
Jenna did not have to be a psychic to be aware that these experiences, while they were terrifying for her, made her supremely valuable to Sir Oliver. She was someone who might be able to receive messages from the spirit world, who might be able to produce evidence of the survival of the self after death. Perhaps she should be glad that he didn’t think she was losing her mind, that there was another explanation for what was happening to her. But while Sir Oliver’s explanation might ease some of her anxiety, it had created a new and even more terrifying fear. What if Harriet were able to speak through her? Her stomach turned over and she felt sick, remembering that night, the night Harriet had drowned. What would she say? What would she say?
She crumpled the article into a paper ball and threw it on the floor. No! she cried silently. I won’t! I’ll tell Sir Oliver I’ve changed my mind. I’ll tell him that I’m ill, or that I’m too afraid. I’ll tell him . . .
She squeezed her eyes tight shut and bit her lip, and the welcome pain, the sudden, salty taste of blood pulled her back to her intention. No, she thought dully, she had to do it. She had to know whether she herself could have been the cause of her daughter’s drowning. She did not want to think how painful the knowledge would be, how it would twist like a knife in the belly, gnaw like a rat at the heart. But she had to know it!
She opened her eyes, rose from her chair, and went to the window to look out toward the garden, where Snood was cutting back the rosebushes, the red roses Harriet had loved so dearly. Beyond the garden and the green lawn, where the wild woodland fell away to the creek, the boat lay quietly in the water, moored against the bank, under the arching trees. Tonight, after everyone else had gone to bed, she had promised to go there, so they could be together. The last time. It would be the last time, she promised herself. She would never go to him again.
But when the clock struck midnight and the house was dark and silent, and she took a light and crept down the steep path to Frenchman’s Creek, the boat was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Transatlantic communication was possible but not reliable— some messages were sent twenty-four times before they came through. . . . The Marconi Company barely survived falling stock values and sky-rocketing costs for new stations. . . . Internationally, [it] was not doing business very profitably.
My Father, Marconi
Degna Marconi
Charles had gone off to Helford for the evening, and Bradford decided upon an early dinner. He left a note for Marconi at the hotel desk, and sauntered into the dining room, glancing around. At this hour, there were only a few diners: a couple on holiday, leaning intimately together; an elderly gentleman with a pince-nez and a book propped under his nose; and a blond, good-looking chap with a bit of the Nordic about him and a yachting cap hung on the back of his chair. The couple made him think that perhaps it would be good to ask his wife Edith to come down when all the fuss of the Royal visit was over. Perhaps they could hire a sailboat—an idea recommended by the sight of the yachtsman—and go out for an afternoon on the sea. Edith would be pleased by that, he thought. And she probably deserved to see the Poldhu station, considering her contribution to the cause.
After a leisurely meal—the wine was excellent and the Poldhu Hotel chef quite good, an import from Paris, someone had said—Bradford was in a mellow mood. In search of solitude, he took himself, his cigar, and a bottle of the hotel’s best port onto the terrace overlooking the water.
The terrace was not empty, however. Another man, in golfing tweeds, woolen stockings, and spats, was slouched in a chair with his pipe and a glass of whisky at his elbow. The sun was setting in a bank of burnished clouds on the western horizon, and the fellow seemed to be engrossed in the ocean view. But he looked up and squinted as Bradford took a neighboring chair and set his bottle of port on the table.
“Spectacular sight, eh?” he said. The man was dark-haired and clean-shaven, with a thin dark moustache.
“Yes,” Bradford replied. “I trust you are enjoying it.” He sat down.
“Oh, you bet,” the man said, in that easy, familiar way of Americans. “You bet.” Without getting up, he leaned over and thrust out a hand. “Bryan Fisher. Glad t’meetcha, Mr.—”
“Marsden,” Bradford supplied. “Bradford Marsden. You�
��re a golfer, I see. What do you think of the course here?”
“Haven’t played it yet,” Fisher replied. “Been down at the Housel Hotel for a while, and played there.” He screwed up his face. “Have to say I didn’t think much of that course. Greens’re too rough. Chews up my game. You play?”
“Not here,” Bradford said briefly.
Fisher barked a short laugh. “Well, hell. If you don’t play golf, what do you come for? Not much else to do around here, except watch the ships go by.” He squinted at Bradford. “Say, don’t I recognize you? You’re with that Marconi bunch, aren’t you?”
“I am a director of the company, yes,” Bradford acknowledged stiffly. He had never quite got used to Americans.
“Well, gee whiz!” Fisher exclaimed. “Here I am, staring straight down the old horse’s mouth, so to speak. Must congratulate you, Marsden. Fine work you’ve been doing. Out to put those cable companies smack dab out of business, aren’t you?” He gave Bradford an admiring smile. “Yep, nothing but good times ahead for Marconi, from all I read in the papers. People are crazy for wireless, especially in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Nothing but wireless, wireless, wireless, everywhere you go, everybody you talk to.”
