Death on the Lizard

by Robin Paige

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Bradford replied, somewhat smugly.

  “But I reckon it ain’t all sunshine and roses,” Fisher said with a grin. “I hear you folks’re having some trouble at that station of yours. People dying, transmissions shut off—what the hell’s goin’ on over there, anyhow?”

  Bradford frowned. If there was anything he detested, it was the American habit of assuming too much familiarity. He found it presumptuous and impertinent. “One of our men did suffer an unfortunate accident, if that’s what you’re referring to,” he said in a chilly tone.

  “Unfortunate accident?” Fisher hooted, draining his glass. “I’d say! Poor devil fried himself, didn’t he? Guess you need one helluva lot of juice to send those wireless signals over to the land of the free and the home of the brave.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “How much voltage are you fellas puttin’ out, anyway? Must have a pretty powerful electrical plant. Gosh, I sure would like to have a look at it. What say you give me the grand tour, huh? First thing tomorrow?”

  “I’m sorry,” Bradford said, “we do not give tours, grand or otherwise.” He began to push himself out of his chair. “Now, if you will excuse me—”

  “Hey, don’t let me run you off,” Fisher said, rising. “I’m going upstairs to change for dinner, so you just stay and enjoy the view.” He waved in the direction of the sunset. “Mighty fine show you Brits put on for us Yanks. Yep, mighty fine.” And with that, he took himself off.

  Bradford scowled. Damn the fellow, anyway. He settled back in his chair, poured a glass of port, and lit a cigar, trying to regain the mellow mood the encounter had entirely dispelled. It was too bad that the place attracted fellows like that, the wrong sort altogether.

  One thing was certain, though—the view was splendid. The ocean was quiet, the breeze mild, the sky clear. The sun was spilling its last bright rays into a bank of burnished clouds, washing the terrace and the cliffs below with a clear, pure light. The water gleamed a deep aquamarine, and off to his left, the roof and towers of the transmitter station glowed like gold.

  Gold. It was a lovely color, a significant color, Bradford thought bleakly, but hardly prophetic. He had got himself involved with Marconi in the hope—no, the expectation— of making a great deal of money, and making it very fast. And that’s what should have happened, wasn’t it? Commercial wireless telegraphy, after all, was the golden invention of the new century, offering a vision of infinite promise. Wireless messages were now being flashed from London to New York and from London to Paris. Soon it would be possible to send them from Paris to Capetown, Capetown to Calcutta, Calcutta to Sydney, Sydney to San Francisco—all at a fraction of the cost of cable telegraphy, and with a great deal more mobility. Ships at sea, armies at war, the Empire’s business in far-flung outposts around the globe—the possibilities were endless. Why, this new communications network, which didn’t have to rely on cables and wires, would make it possible to learn, instantly, that diamonds had been discovered in Kimberly, or that the wheat crop had failed in Alberta or New South Wales, or that the Mexican silver mines had been seized by revolutionaries. The advantages to commodities speculators would be enormous. And with the public imagination fired by the “wireless mania” blazing in the U.S. and British newspapers week after week, it was only a matter of time before the money started coming in.

  But it hadn’t happened yet. Like the other directors, Bradford had originally put some ten thousand pounds into the company, more than he had, much more than he could afford. And still it wasn’t enough, and calls for more cash came regularly. The money was borrowed from his wife’s fortune, of course; there was nothing left of the Marsden money when Bradford’s father had died several years ago. Unfortunately, Bradford’s own investments had not worked out as well as he had hoped, and certainly not as well as he pretended. The Marconi investment had to pay off, and very soon. It had to, or there would be hell to pay. Bankruptcy was an ominous but entirely likely prospect, and Edith would be understandably angry if he had to tell her that her money had all been lost.

  The sun sank behind the clouds and the landscape turned from gold to a bleak, sober gray. Bradford finished his port and chewed on his cigar. It didn’t look as if the situation would improve any time soon. Truth be told, the company’s cash flooded out much faster than it trickled in. Stations had to be built and equipped, salaries had to be paid, the Chelmsford factory had to be kept producing, research and development had to continue. But the truth could not be told, for while the company struggled to stay afloat, it had to turn a confident face to the world, not giving any hint of the difficulties in their financial situation or in the technical problems with wireless itself.

  And those problems seemed—at least to Bradford Marsden—almost insoluble. While the company had no undersea cable to maintain at enormous expense, the aerials were constantly at the mercy of the elements. Why, just three months before, in April, the Nova Scotia aerial had been brought down by an ice storm, putting an end to the news service the company had just arranged with The Times. Even when the system was working at its best, long-distance wireless was incredibly slow—two-and-a-half-words a minute, on average—and so garbled that the message had to be sent several times, so that one version could be used to correct the other. And there was the continued problem of interference and lack of privacy. Daniel Gerard had believed that he was close to a breakthrough on a new tuner, designed to improve reception—a device with both commercial and military applications. But now Gerard was dead, and both the tuner and his notes were gone. Everywhere, it seemed, there was disaster and defeat.

  As twilight fell, Bradford, full of dejection, poured himself another glass of port.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Nevil Maskelyne . . . was a self-educated electrician who had been interested in wireless telegraphy since the late 1890s. His demonstration in 1899 that gunpowder could be exploded by wireless control generated widespread public interest. . . . Eventually he became a leading figure in the anti-Marconi faction . . . [and] seemed to be more involved in attacking Marconi than in developing his own practical system.

  Wireless: From Marconi’s

  Black-Box to the Audion

  Sungook Hong

  It was nearly dark when Marconi and Miss Chase, who had brought an extraordinary amount of luggage, checked into the Poldhu Hotel. The clerk handed a note across the counter. Marconi read it and turned to his companion.

  “Go on upstairs and change for dinner, Paulie,” he said. “There’s a fellow I need to see. I’ll be on the terrace. Come out when you’re ready, my dear.”

  Miss Chase nodded sweetly and with one last, flirtatious glance over her fur-clad shoulder, followed her luggage upstairs. Marconi watched her tiny waist and provocatively swaying hips with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. Of course, he was delighted that Paulie was here. She was a dear, sweet girl who held nothing back, who petted and praised him very agreeably, and their relationship was blossoming in a swift and utterly satisfactory way, and held the promise of leading on to even greater satisfactions.

  On the other hand, he was not expecting this trip to the Lizard to be a comfortable or easy one. There were too many unpleasant things going on. He found himself wishing that the two of them might have gone off to some private place, where no company business could interrupt their pursuit of the pleasures of love—chaste love, of course, for Marconi would never stoop to take advantage of a lady. So far, at least, it had been enough for him to woo with words and passionate kisses, although he had to admit that Paulie’s deliciously rounded figure was a strong temptation.

  With a sigh, he looked down at the note in his hand and went off in the direction of the hotel terrace, where he found Bradford Marsden, a cigar in his hand and an empty glass at his elbow, staring out at the darkening sea.

  “Hello, Marsden,” he said, without a great deal of enthusiasm.

  Marsden looked up. “Hello, Marconi. When did you get in?”

  “Just now
.” Bone-weary, Marconi sank into a chair. It had been a long and troubling day, and his new patent-leather boots hurt his feet. “Miss Chase—Pauline, the lady I’ve brought with me—is dressing for dinner. Will you join us?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve eaten,” Marsden said, adding sardonically, “I’ll leave you two lovebirds to your culinary pleasures.” He held up the port, raised his eyebrow, and when Marconi shook his head, refilled his empty glass. Then, with the air of a man who wanted to get right down to business, he said, “I got your wire about the problem at the lecture last night. What happened?”

  Marconi sighed heavily. “The worst possible thing. Interference, from Nevil Maskelyne.”

  “Maskelyne!” Marsden exclaimed, scowling. “Why, he’s not a serious contender.”

  True enough, as Marconi well knew. There were serious contenders in England—Oliver Lodge, for one, who (if he were not wasting his time with spiritualist pursuits) could be a serious danger to the company, especially if he made good his threat to sue over that patent. Maskelyne, whose wireless apparatus was incapable of transmitting any great distance, was only a minor nuisance, but certainly an irritating one.

  “Of course he’s not a serious contender,” Marconi said. “But he’s a troublemaker of the first class. He set up his transmitter at The Egyptian and got someone to send a message during the lecture last night. The receiver on the platform picked it up.”

  Marsden stared at him blankly. “A message? What message?”

  With a great deal of bitterness, Marconi recited the absurd little ditty. “ ‘There was a young fellow of Italy, who diddled the public quite prettily.’ ” He paused, feeling himself flush. “It was repeated a time or two, and followed by the word ‘rats.’ ”

  “Rats!” Marsden was incredulous. “Rats?”

  “I gather that it is some sort of pejorative British slang,” Marconi said. “Implying scornful incredulity.” He chewed on his lip.

  “Diddled the public,” Marsden muttered. “Diddled the public!” He puffed out his cheeks. “Damn. I hope the audience didn’t—”

  “No.” Marconi shook his head emphatically. “I continued with the lecture, and no one seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. Maskelyne himself did not speak—until after the lecture, that is. At the time, only Arthur Blok and I were aware of what was happening.”

  “Well, we can be grateful for that much,” Marsden said, relief evident in his voice. He puffed on his cigar. “No one knows what happened, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

  Marconi cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, that’s not quite true. Maskelyne told me after the lecture he planned to get a letter off to The Times this morning, reporting the affair. They’ll print it, no doubt, as soon as they receive it, perhaps in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

  “Damn!” Marsden exploded. “The Times! What abominable cheek that man has!”

  “Right.” Marconi sighed again. “But that’s not the whole of it, Marsden.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a length of printer tape. “As Blok was packing up the equipment, another message came in.”

  “From Maskelyne’s transmitter?”

  “He says not.”

  “What was the message?”

  “It says—” Marconi smoothed out the crumpled tape. “ ‘Marconi is dead.’ ” He paused, staring down at the horrifying dots and dashes. “Do you think we ought to go to the police?”

  “The police!” Marsden’s jaw tightened. “Absolutely not! If the police are involved, there’ll be no keeping the story out of the newspapers. And we can’t afford publicity of that sort, as you are very well aware. One word of a death threat against you and the company stock will fall straight through the floor. No police. I’ll ask Sheridan to look into the matter for us, though. He’ll find out who’s behind it, I’m sure.” He scowled. “You’re sure it isn’t Maskelyne’s work?”

  “He denied it. And it doesn’t seem like him, somehow. He’s an irritant, but I don’t know why he’d threaten my life.” Marconi frowned uncertainly. “Are you confident in Sheridan? I have no doubt about the man’s abilities, of course. It’s just that I’m not sure he can be fully trusted. He’s . . . well, if he got to poking around—”

  He broke off, not wanting to say what he was thinking. Charles Sheridan was enough of a scientist and telegrapher to be able to make sense of what he saw. If he became aware of the significant gap between the Marconi Company’s claims for their equipment and the unhappy truth of the matter, he might—

  “Let’s hope he does find out the truth,” Marsden said darkly. “The truth of that death threat, that is.” He tossed off the rest of his port. “There’s worse news here, I’m sorry to say. The device Gerard was working on—it’s gone. And so are his notes.”

  “Gone!” Marconi cried in disbelief, springing to his feet. “But that’s not possible! It . . . it can’t be!” And then, as the truth sank in, his disbelief turned to despair. “Someone’s stolen it, Marsden. We’ve got to find it! Admiral Fisher is coming to see it, especially—and the Prince, as well! If a competitor got his hands on it, it would be like . . . like stumbling onto a gold mine.” He shuddered. “Where can it be? Where?”

  “How should I know?” Marsden asked huffily. “The office door does not appear to have been forced, but some sort of sharp instrument was used to pry open the desk drawer where he kept his diary.”

  “Oh, God.” A sense of utter hopelessness washing over him, Marconi dropped his head into his hands. “Gerard was so close to a solution. And with his notes . . . with his notes, anyone could replicate all our experiments!” He suppressed a wild groan. “It had to have been taken by someone who wants to pirate our work!”

  “That idea did just occur to me,” Marsden said dryly. He stubbed out his cigar and stood. “And if that’s the case, it would rather seem that Gerard’s death was not an accident, wouldn’t you say?”

  Marconi felt as if his legs would not support him, and he dropped back into the chair. “Not an accident!” he whispered. “You mean, someone deliberately—”

  “I don’t know,” Marsden said. “The inquest was held this morning, so at least we’re past that hurdle. No one at the station or in the village seems to suspect that it was anything but a fatal accident. But Sheridan is continuing to look into the matter. He—” He stopped.

  Marconi looked around, his attention caught by the seductive scent of perfume. Miss Chase stood in the open French doors, wearing an elegant gold evening dress, daringly décolleté, with a double string of pearls and elbow-length ivory kid gloves, neatly buttoned. The light behind her made a halo of her fair hair.

  “Ah, Paulie, my darling,” Marconi said distractedly, rising to his feet and wincing at the pain of pinched toes. “I didn’t expect you so soon.”

  “I rushed to change,” she said, “because I didn’t want to waste a minute of our precious time together. I—”

  She caught sight of Marsden and stopped suddenly. Marconi saw her eyes widen, the color flame in her cheeks, and a look he could not read cross her face. But in another half-instant, she had recovered herself. Marconi was about to introduce Marsden to her, but she intervened, stepping forward and extending her gloved hand with a bright smile.

  “Why, Mr. Marsden!” she exclaimed brightly. “I was not expecting to encounter you here. What a delightful surprise!”

  “Indeed, Miss Chase,” Marsden murmured, bowing over her hand. “I am . . . astonished to see you here.”

  Marconi stiffened, an instinctive jealousy—a legacy from his passionate Italian forefathers—rising in him like hot lava. “I had no idea, Marsden, that you and Miss Chase knew one another.”

  “Oh, not well,” Miss Chase said, coming close and tucking her hand into Marconi’s arm. “It was rather a long time ago, some years, in fact. In Paris, I believe.”

  “Paris?” Marsden seemed to reflect. “Yes, it might have been. And then there was Vienna, was there not?”

  Paris and Vienna? Marc
oni was not pleased.

  Miss Chase frowned and touched the pearls at her throat. “Vienna? I’m afraid I don’t recall—”

  “Yes,” Marsden said decidedly, “we met again in Vienna. I’m sure of it.”

  “Oh, well, perhaps.” Miss Chase tossed her head. “One travels to so many places and does so many things. One does tend to forget, I’m afraid.”

  “Some things, my dear Miss Chase,” Marsden murmured, “one can never forget.”

  Marconi knew very well that something was going on here, but he did not have a clue as to what it was. He felt as if he were witness to a tennis match, the ball being served and returned and returned again, harder. He frowned as Miss Chase broke into a light, animated laugh.

  “Why, what a wonderful compliment, Mr. Marsden!” she exclaimed. “Marky, isn’t that a delightful compliment?” She pouted a little, very prettily. “Now, my dear, do you suppose we could claim our table? I am most frightfully hungry. I’m sure I haven’t eaten for . . . oh, several weeks, at least!”

  “Of course,” Marconi said, and nodded to Marsden. Then he followed Miss Chase as the maitre d’ led them to their table, walking carefully, so as to keep his boots from pinching.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The district constable was an essential and valuable part of village life, the eyes and ears of all the people. He generally knew everyone in all the villages in his district and in the countryside roundabout. He knew what was happening, and why, and how, and who was involved, and his thoughtful observations and quiet interventions often made stronger action unnecessary.

  “The Local Constabulary in Nineteenth-Century England,”

  Clyde Sanderson

  In all of Thomas Deane’s ten years as the Mullion constable, he had never seen such a fortnight for trouble. Jack Gordon had gone over the cliff down at the toe of the Lizard, and Daniel Gerard had fallen into the electrical works at the Poldhu station. Then there was that disturbing business about the thefts Lord Charles had mentioned and the worse news about the Royals coming, which might polish Mullion’s pride but cause everyone concerned a great lot of trouble. And even the usual village affairs had been unusually bothersome: Mrs. Morgan’s cow broke into Mrs. Pearson’s garden and ate all the rutabagas; Mr. King’s new bicycle was pinched by the butcher’s lad and ridden to Helston, where it turned up at the railway station with both tyres flat; and there had been another bad row at the Boden place, old Boden drunk as a lord and taking his fists to his youngest son. All things considered, the constable had been a busy man. He had earned an evening at home with his wife Molly and their children.