Death on the Lizard

by Robin Paige

  Charles shook his head and pushed his empty plate away. “I drove over to Helford, to the inn where he is staying, but he wasn’t there. The innkeeper said he often spends the night on the moor, birdwatching.”

  Missing Kirk-Smythe had been a disappointment, for Charles was deeply curious about his errand on the Lizard. But he had left a note, and presumably Kirk-Smythe—or John Northrup, as he was calling himself—would get in touch with him if the need were urgent. But the drive, only seven miles or so, had been quite pleasant, and Helford Village had offered its compensations. Charles had spent an hour or two in the pub and had come away with the interesting observation that, even in Helford, people were talking about Marconi’s wireless station. Several were strongly opposed to it, arguing that the Lizard’s way of life was being altered forever, while others pointed out that the new commerce would boost the district’s economy. Without it, there wouldn’t be any way of life to preserve.

  Then, as the twilight deepened into dark, Charles had walked down to the quay to have a look at the boats— ferries, fishing boats, and pleasure craft—riding gently at anchor on the protected waters of the Helford River. The eastern side of the Lizard was more sheltered than the west (which was open to the ocean and its unpredictable storms) and hence much more hospitable to boaters. If he were sailing a small craft in this area, this is where he would put in. Somewhere along the Helford River, or in one of its small tributaries.

  “The fellow was watching birds at night?” Bradford asked skeptically, applying marmalade to his toast.

  “They were night birds, I suppose,” Charles said with a shrug. “I left a note, telling him where I’m staying. I’m sure he’ll get in touch with me when he has the time.” The waiter came around with the coffee pot and refilled Charles’s cup. When he had gone, Charles said, “Marconi arrived last night, I suppose?”

  Bradford gave him a vexed look, and muttered something unintelligible.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yes, he’s here,” Bradford said, and sighed. “With his current paramour.”

  Charles regarded him. “Did he tell you what problem he encountered at the lecture?”

  “The problem,” Bradford said with a dark frown, “was Nevil Maskelyne. He jammed the Poldhu-Chelmsford transmission with a message of his own, sent from a Morse transmitter around the corner at The Egyptian.” His voice became sarcastic. “ ‘There was a young fellow of Italy, Who diddled the public quite prettily.’ It was followed up by the word ‘Rats.’ ”

  “Rats!” Charles could not resist a short laugh, even though he knew that the episode was not at all amusing. “Did anyone in the audience get onto—”

  “Luckily, no.” Before Charles could say that he was glad, Bradford added, “However, to make up for that deficiency, Maskelyne intends to let The Times know what transpired. His letter will probably appear in the next day or two.”

  Charles was sobered. He could imagine the exchange in The Times, with experts and the public weighing in from every side. Marconi was likely to come out looking a fool.

  Bradford leaned closer and lowered his voice. “But there’s more, I’m afraid, Charles. Arthur Blok was packing up the equipment after the lecture when another unexpected message was received. It was a death threat.”

  “A death threat! Also from Maskelyne?”

  “He denied it, and Marconi believes him. He says it’s not Maskelyne’s style.”

  Charles agreed. He was acquainted with Nevil Maskelyne and found him clever, vindictive, and eminently resourceful, but not a man who would threaten to kill someone. He would much rather embarrass his victim publicly—which he was obviously about to do. But if not Maskelyne, who?

  “What did the message say, exactly?”

  Bradford put down his fork and pushed his plate away. “It said, ‘Marconi is dead.’ No beating about the bush, you see. Straight and to the point. ‘Marconi is dead.’ ”

  “Is he taking it seriously?”

  “He didn’t say. He seemed upset enough, I suppose.” Bradford gave a deep sigh. “Right now, though, he’s obsessed with the woman he’s brought with him. Pauline Chase.” He arched his eyebrows. “That’s not her real name, unfortunately.”

  “You’re going to explain that, are you?” Charles asked with a chuckle.

  Bradford smiled thinly. “When I knew her in Paris—before I was married to Edith, I hasten to say in my defense—her name was Millicent Mitford.”

  “Perhaps she had a legitimate reason for—”

  “And when I saw her in Vienna some time later,” Bradford went on, “she was calling herself Francine Sterne. She was traveling with a man who was known as her uncle. A wealthy American.” He gave Charles a meaningful look. “The man died rather unexpectedly. The cause was a matter of controversy, I understand, and there was a question about the fate of some of his financial assets.”

  Charles felt a distinct stirring of alarm. “And now this woman—Pauline Chase, or Sterne, or Mitford, or whoever she is—has set her sights on Marconi.” He sipped his coffee, frowning. “I suppose you’re going to inform him.”

  “I don’t plan to,” Bradford said gloomily. “This is not the first time he’s got himself entangled in one of these ridiculous infatuations, you know. I could tell you stories about his romantic escapades which would make your blood run cold. When the fellow is entranced, it’s impossible to talk sense to him. If I try, he’ll either blow up like Vesuvius or slip into the sulks. And we’re facing so many problems right now that I don’t dare risk either reaction.” His gloom deepened. “I feel as if we’re all on a ship with a storm on the horizon and a helmsman who’s drunk as a lord.”

  Charles agreed that Marconi’s volatility posed a danger, but doing nothing was worse. There had to be another way to confront the issue. “How about speaking with the woman, whatever her name is?”

  “With her?” Bradford pulled back. He pressed his lips together. “I don’t think I—”

  “Why not? Have a private talk with her. Remind her of Paris and Vienna, and extend your deepest condolences on the death of her ‘uncle.’ And then tactfully suggest that, in the circumstance, it would be prudent if she were to discover an urgent reason to return to the Continent. In fact, if you talked to her this morning, she might just be able to catch the up train this afternoon.”

  Bradford stared into his coffee cup. “Well, I suppose I could,” he said at last, with obvious reluctance. “It’s not something I relish, of course. I should not like to—”

  “Of course not,” Charles said. “However, regardless of her motivation, a woman with a secret past is the last thing Marconi needs right now. As a company director, you must surely agree.” He paused. “You’ll do it, won’t you, Bradford?”

  Bradford heaved a heavy sigh. “Oh, very well.”

  “And there’s something else I think you might do, if you have the time for it. You could take the Panhard around Mount’s Bay to Porthcurno, and see what you can discover about an aerial which is said to’ve been built there by the Eastern Telegraph Company to spy on Marconi. I don’t know if there’s much to be learned, but it might be worth a trip, if you’re game.”

  “You think Eastern might have had something to do with the theft of the tuner?”

  “It’s possible,” Charles said. “If the thing is as important as you and Marconi seem to think, it’s bound to be a threat to the cable telegraph companies. At any rate, I think someone should have a look and see what they’re up to over there. Don’t you agree?”

  “Of course,” Bradford said. “I shall be delighted to do it.” He made a face. “Well, not delighted, perhaps, but willing, at the least. What are you planning for the day?”

  “I’m driving down to Lizard Village. I want to take a look at the cliff where Jack Gordon fell to his death, and talk to the operators at the Bass Point station. They worked with the man, and may know whether there’s any connection between what happened there and what happened here.” He stood. “And t
his evening, you will recall, I’m to have dinner at Penhallow, with Oliver Lodge. I’ll stay the night, I imagine.”

  “Oh, yes, Lodge. Our friend and friendly competitor.” Bradford grimaced. “I hope you’ll give the fellow a good looking-over, Charles. I don’t believe his coming to the Lizard is entirely coincidental. He might have put Maskelyne up to his dirty tricks, you know. And he has the equipment to have sent that death threat. I don’t suppose I need to remind you that the Lodge-Muirhead Syndicate is promoting its own tuning device as superior to Marconi’s. The last thing the Syndicate wants is for Marconi to develop an improved tuner, and especially one which will interest the Admiralty. They—”

  “I understand,” Charles replied. He grinned. “I’ll give Sir Oliver your kindest regards.” And with that, he went out to the hotel desk to arrange the hire of a pony and cart to drive down to the tip of the peninsula.

  He was standing at the hotel door, waiting for the rig to be brought round from the barn, when Marconi, dapper and well-groomed as always, came down the stairs from the second floor, his hat under his arm, his stick in one hand.

  “Good morning, Sheridan,” he said. “Where are you off to?”

  “To visit the Bass Point station,” Charles replied. “I’ve hired a rig. Perhaps you’d like to go along.”

  “I would indeed,” Marconi said, smiling thinly. “In fact, I was intending to go to there myself. I—”

  “Mr. Marconi, a word, if you please, sir.” The hotel manager, a short, round man with a bald head and eyeglasses, was hurrying toward them, a look of distress on his face. “It’s very vexing, I must say. We have just discovered a . . . a break-in.”

  “A break-in?” Marconi frowned. “You don’t mean—”

  “Yes, most, most vexing.” The little man wrung his hands nervously. “I thought you should know, sir, since it was poor Mr. Gerard’s room. I sent the maid in this morning to pack Mr. Gerard’s possessions into boxes, to be sent to his brother in Lincolnshire. She found the door forced and Mr. Gerard’s things scattered all over the floor. I am dreadfully sorry, sir, but of course, the hotel cannot be held responsible for—”

  “I should like to see the room, if you please,” Charles put in. He turned to Marconi. “Marsden and I had a look just after we got here on Wednesday, and found nothing amiss.” He lowered his voice. “Did Marsden tell you that Gerard’s tuner is missing, and his diary as well?”

  Marconi’s mouth tightened, and he nodded briefly. To the manager, he said, “We’ll have a look.”

  When Charles and Bradford had examined Gerard’s room, it was just as the man himself had left it: the bed made, the clothing folded into the dresser drawers and neatly hung in the closet, a box of writing paper and envelopes in one desk drawer, a few personal papers in another. This morning, however, the story was entirely different. The dresser drawers had been emptied onto the floor, the bedding pulled from the bed and the mattress turned askew, the desk drawers pulled open and their contents dumped.

  Marconi stood in the doorway. “What do you make of this, Sheridan?” he asked in a low voice. “Was it the same person who took the tuner and the diary, do you think?”

  “I don’t believe so,” Charles said. “Those were taken well before this break-in occurred.” He turned to the hotel manager. “It was first noticed this morning?”

  “Indeed, sir,” said the manager. “It had to have occurred after six yesterday evening. That’s when the maid went off duty.”

  Charles nodded. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” When the manager had gone, he turned to Marconi. “Is Gerard likely to have kept any company documents in this room?” he asked in a lower voice.

  “Of course not,” Marconi said stiffly. “Daniel Gerard was a very . . . correct person, who observed company protocol at all times. He kept his notes in his diary and his diary locked in the desk in the company office, as he was instructed to do.” He pursed his lips, frowning at the heaps of clothing and papers. “Whoever did this must have been after something . . . well, personal, although I can’t imagine what it would be.”

  Charles began to prowl around the room, poking at things. “Who were Gerard’s closest friends?”

  “Friends?” Marconi looked puzzled. “We were friends, of course. Otherwise—” He cleared his throat. “I would not characterize him as a man who enjoyed people. He was completely and utterly dedicated to his work, which was why I valued him so highly.” He turned away. “It . . . this is all quite distressing, you know. First his death, then the thefts. And now . . . now this.”

  At that moment, Charles caught a glimpse of something on the floor near the window. He picked it up and held it in his hand, a small button, a tiny round ball, covered with cream-colored kid. It looked very much like the button from a woman’s glove.

  He looked up. “Did Mr. Gerard have any women friends?” “No, of course not,” Marconi said stiffly. “As I said, he was utterly committed to his work, and to the company. That was why—” He looked at Charles, frowning. “What have you found?”

  Charles thrust his hand into his pocket. “Nothing of significance,” he said easily. He gave the room one more glance. “I’ll ask the hotel manager to leave it as it is until I can take the time for a more thorough search.” He steered Marconi out of the room. “I think it is time that we were on our way to Lizard Point.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Now what I love in women is, they won’t Or can’t do otherwise than lie, but do it So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.

  Don Juan

  Lord Byron

  Bradford Marsden did not like the idea of confronting Pauline Chase, and he was not at all convinced that he could accomplish anything. But talking to Pauline was certainly a more productive alternative than discussing the situation with Marconi, and he could not think of a reason not to do it, other than the sheer unpleasantness of engaging in a conversation with the woman. So he settled himself in the hotel lobby with yesterday’s Times—this morning’s edition, which was likely to contain Maskelyne’s letter, would not arrive until the afternoon train—and waited for Miss Chase to descend the stairs.

  The lady in question put in an unusually early appearance, and Bradford had scarcely opened The Times when she came down the stairs. One had to admit, Bradford thought, as he stood to greet her, that she was a very beautiful woman. Her blond hair was piled high on her elegant head, she was dressed in a gray-and-green striped silk cut to show off her delicate neck and stylish figure, and she moved with a languid grace which might remind one of a swan—or a tigress. Bradford rose and went to greet her.

  “Ah, Miss Chase,” he said, making a little bow. “Ravishing, as always.”

  She stiffened. “I hardly think that Mr. Marconi would—” she began in a chilly tone, but Bradford took her elbow.

  “Marconi has gone down to Lizard Point,” he said, and tightened his grip. “Shall we walk along the cliff a little way? The ocean breeze is healthy, and I heartily recommend the view. I’m sure that you will see something in it you have never seen before.”

  She tried to pull away, but he held fast to her elbow, and she subsided into a sullen silence as they walked through the lobby and out onto the terrace.

  When they were well down the cliff path, Bradford remarked, pleasantly, “It was a great surprise to see you, my dear. I had not known that you were in England.”

  “What do you want?” she asked in a low voice. The green feathers on her hat rippled and she put up a hand to secure it against the ocean breeze.

  “Why, Miss Chase!” Bradford said, teasingly. “I want nothing more than the pleasure of your lovely company. Oh, and your attention, of course.”

  She gave him an oblique glance, her long, thick lashes veiling green eyes. “My attention?”

  “Yes. You see, my sweet, I have a proposition to make.” She started to speak, but Bradford raised his hand, silencing her. “Hear me out, please. I think you will agree that my proposal is to our . . . shall
we say, mutual advantage.” He smiled and touched her pouty lower lip with the tip of his finger. “Ah, Miss Chase. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and Pauline’s lips are even more tempting than those of Millicent or Florence. Perhaps . . .” He leaned closer, as if to kiss her.

  Angrily, she turned her head away. “All right,” she snapped. “What’s your proposal? And hurry up. I haven’t had my breakfast yet.”

  Bradford pulled back. “Oh, it’s very simple. I propose that you pack your bags, take the up train to London, and disappear from Marconi’s life.” He took out his watch. “Let’s see. I make it nearly eleven. If you hurry, you will get to Helston in time to catch the one o’clock. I shall be glad,” he added, “to arrange a box lunch, so you will not have to go hungry.”

  “Take the train?” Miss Chase widened her bright eyes and laughed a light, musical laugh. “Now, why in the world, Mr. Marsden, would I want to do that? And what would I tell my darling Marky? He’s looking forward to our spending time together.”

  Bradford chuckled in return. “I think you will want to do it, my dear Miss Chase, because if you do not, I shall tell your darling Marky everything I know about you. About Millicent and Florence, too,” he added, with a darker emphasis, “and about Mr. Sterne, who died so opportunely. As to what you tell Marconi, I would not presume to make any suggestions. You are entirely free to devise your own explanation for terminating the relationship.”

  Miss Chase turned away, looking out to sea. “So that’s your game, is it?” She laughed again, less musically. “Well, two can play at that one, sir. You’re not the only one with a bit of blackmail up your sleeve.”

  Bradford stared at her. “My dear girl, what are you talking about?”

  She turned, lifted a gloved hand, and lightly stroked his cheek. “Why, Mr. Marsden,” she said archly, “how very silly of you. You can’t have forgotten your letters, can you?” She smiled and fluttered her eyelashes. “Those wonderful, passionate letters which brought such tears of delight to the eyes of a lonely and desolate girl.”