Death on the Lizard

by Robin Paige

  sorry sorry didn’t mean

  not sorry sorry not your

  sorry mother don’t be sorry not your fault

  fault

  fault an accident don’t blame sorry sorry

  don’t blame yourself mother mother dear dear

  Jenna was weeping now, rivulets of tears streaming from tight-shut eyes, her shoulders shaken with suppressed sobs. And then, as Kate watched, there seemed to be something like a struggle, the hand holding the pencil pushing jerkily, producing sharp lines, crooked lines, jagged shapes, but no recognizable words. Jenna was breathing in little gasps, her bosom heaving, her face a sickly gray-white, her head flung back, her eyes open, staring, unseeing, her lips moving in incoherent, inaudible, muttering whispers, as if trying to frame words her pencil refused to write, and all the while her pencil was moving, forming no words at all, only giant, jagged scrawls, like silent screams across the paper.

  Patsy put out a protesting hand. “But she’s ill!” she exclaimed in a low voice. “Sir Oliver, you must put a stop to—”

  “No!” Sir Oliver commanded harshly. “More paper, Lady Sheridan. Quickly!”

  Kate supplied another sheet. There was a pause, the space of several breaths, long enough to hear the wind shouting around the corner of the house and feel a searing flash of lightning at the window, followed almost immediately by a bone-jarring clap of thunder. Jenna seemed to gather herself, and began again, forming words, but these were scrawled, almost illegible, and the point of her pencil attacked the paper with such an angry force that it gouged holes.

  aint fair it aint

  aint

  Ain’t fair? Beryl said blankly. What ghost is this?

  Kate’s heart was thumping in her chest as she stared at the words, incredulity turning to fear. It was as if a different mind had seized the pencil, a different, angry energy, a different—

  aint fair

  aint fair at all

  all i wanted was to to

  to to to

  go

  Jenna’s face was twisted, her body writhing, as if she were wrestling with whatever power was driving the pencil, as though a fierce desperate power had seized her hand and would not let it go until it had howled out all it wanted to say, all it could say.

  go go back

  i only wanted to go back to

  only go back to go

  back to

  bavaria

  damn his bloody eyes

  damn him

  god damn him to hell

  BAVARRRRR

  beware

  There was a loud crash of thunder, so near that it rattled the window. Kate felt her heart stop. Sir Oliver started wildly. Patsy gave a piercing shriek and leapt to her feet, her chair falling backward with a sharp clatter onto the stone floor. On the wall, the clock began to chime, as if it were a pealing bell, although it was nothing near the hour.

  Jenna had slumped back in her chair, her head to one side, the pencil fallen from her fingers. She was breathing with long, shuddering gasps, her eyes closed. Kate rose and went to pour a glass of port, but her fingers were cold and her hand shook so that she dropped the glass. It shattered into fragments against the stone floor. By the time she returned to the table with another glass, Jenna’s eyes were open and she was struggling to sit up. Patsy had gone to the clock and stopped its chiming with her hand.

  “Bavaria?” Sir Oliver muttered, staring at the sheaf of papers he held in his hand. “Back to Bavaria? But—”

  Beware? Beryl asked. Beware of what?

  Patsy joined Kate, and between them, they managed to get Jenna to the sofa, where she lay back exhausted, her breathing shallow, her face very white.

  “Is she all right?” Patsy asked worriedly.

  “Back to Bavaria,” Jenna said, her voice expressionless and dull. “Back to . . .” She closed her eyes. “Harriet,” she whispered. “Thank you, Harriet. Thank . . .”

  “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Kate said, tucking a pillow under her head and spreading the garnet shawl over her. “We should just let her rest.” She looked at Sir Oliver. “What happened, do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Sir Oliver said. “I don’t understand any of it. I thought we were hearing from the daughter, from Harriet.” He shuffled the papers, and put one down on the table. “You see there? ‘Mother dear so sorry not your fault.’ Exactly what we’d expect to hear from the little girl, don’t you see?” His voice grew excited, and the hand holding the papers trembled. “It’s evidence. It’s evidence! No doubt about it, it’s evidence of the survival of the child’s personality beyond the grave!” He gave an enormous sigh. “At last. Oh, at last!”

  “But what’s that business about Bavaria?” Patsy asked, puzzled. “Harriet was never in Bavaria, at least to my knowledge. Nor Jenna. And the cursing—that’s not Jenna. Those aren’t her words, nor Harriet’s.”

  “And look at the handwriting.” Kate pointed to the page Jenna had written last, its hard, slashing strokes gouging into the paper. “It’s not the same at all. If what Jenna received was a message from her daughter, this one must be . . . it must be something else entirely. From someone else.”

  “But who?” Patsy asked, bewildered. “Damn whose bloody eyes?”

  And “beware”? Beryl asked ominously. It sounds like a warning.

  There was an expression in Sir Oliver’s eyes of baffled incredulity, as if the thought, the question, was so staggering in its implications that he could scarcely grasp it. “It is another soul coming through,” he said, “another spirit. It had such a powerful message to relay that it broke into the transmission of the child’s message, exactly as would a powerful wireless signal overmaster a weaker.”

  Kate thought of the Kipling story she had read. Perhaps, after all, it was not so fanciful and far-fetched. “I hope,” she said tentatively, “that you aren’t discouraged.”

  Sir Oliver stared at her. “Discouraged? Discouraged, Lady Sheridan? Oh, no! Not in the slightest. This is proof, do you see? Proof of the survival of the soul—of two souls! And we are all witnesses!”

  Jenna moaned, and Kate turned back to her. What was it they had seen? Proof of life after death? Or of some form of hypnotic suggestion, or unconscious wish, or even a communal hallucination?

  Beware, Beryl muttered. What does it mean?

  It was a question Kate could not answer.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Abraham White [the promoter of the American De Forest Wireless Company] had no compunction about inventing the most unlikely successes: to boost his company’s share prices he would plant a story in the newspapers saying it had bought out American Marconi. Before there was time for a denial to be issued he would cash in shares whose value had risen momentarily, then keep his head down until the storm blew over.

  Signor Marconi’s Magic Box

  Gavin Weightman

  The discovery of the covert relationship between Miss Pauline Chase and Mr. Brian Fisher, both in the employ of the American De Forest Wireless Company, had given Bradford Marsden an enormous lift. There was nothing he could do to soften the impact of Maskelyne’s letter to The Times, or to keep Marconi from replying to it, and thereby creating an even worse situation. There was nothing he could do to recover the missing tuner and the notebook— he’d had to put that business into Charles Sheridan’s hands. But in the last few moments, it had begun to seem that there was something he could do to drive a wedge between the rapacious Miss Chase and Marconi, and by damn! he was going to do it.

  Bradford stood by the window for a few minutes, his hands in his pockets, his chin sunk on his chest, deep in thought. Perhaps he could . . . No, not that, but alternatively . . . No, not that either—it was too complicated.

  He frowned. How about . . . no, that wouldn’t do, but what if . . . ?

  Yes, by Jove, that just might be it! He turned the idea over in his mind for a few moments longer, looking at it from one angle, and then another, before deciding triumphantly that,
yes, indeed, this was exactly the way to handle it. Then, with one last glance in the mirror and one more quick smooth of his hair, he went out.

  His task was completed in very short order, for all of the pieces were ready to hand. The other business, finding the right place to conceal the thing he had made, was swiftly and privately attended to, and as he went downstairs to the lobby, he had every reason to anticipate a successful outcome of his plan. He paused at the desk for a moment to dispatch a note, and then went in search of Marconi.

  “Ah, there you are, old chap,” he said pleasantly, finding the man sitting in front of the fire in the lounge, a melancholy look on his face and a Campari at his elbow. Bradford sat down and lit a cigarette. “I trust that you are feeling somewhat better.” To the waiter who came to stand beside him, he said, “Sherry, if you please.”

  “Not a great deal better, by any means,” Marconi replied. He shook his head darkly. “Maskelyne is a cad, a bounder. I’ve made that plain in my letter to The Times. And another disheartening matter has come to my attention, in a newspaper clipping I received this afternoon from New York. You will find this hard to believe, Marsden, but De Forest Wireless is claiming to have bought out our American Marconi company.”

  “Bought the company!” Bradford exclaimed. Outwardly, he was indignant, but inwardly he rejoiced, thinking ahead to his after-dinner arrangements and hoping that Marconi’s anger, already stoked against the De Forest company, would blaze even more brightly when he was confronted with—

  “Of course, there’s not a word of truth in the report,” Marconi went on sourly. “That scoundrel Abraham White planted the rumor merely to boost De Forest’s stock prices. But it will cause us a great deal of damage—and do them a great deal of good—before it can be squelched.”

  “White is nothing but an unscrupulous villain,” Bradford growled.

  Marconi’s sigh was heavy with a sense of personal wrong and injustice. “The world is full of villains, Marsden. I spend far too much time fighting against enemies of the company, when I should be doing more developmental work.” He paused dejectedly, glancing toward the window. “Looks to be a foul night, I’d say. Glad I don’t have to go out in it.”

  “Indeed,” Bradford said. Outside, the landscape had turned drear, the sea was dull and darkly gray, and it was beginning to rain. There would be no sitting on the terrace tonight.

  Marconi glanced at his pocket-watch and stood. “You’ll join Miss Chase and me for dinner, won’t you? I realize that you are somewhat acquainted with the lady, but I should like you to get to know her better. It’s probable that she will be staying here at the Poldhu for a few days—perhaps even until the Royal visit. I believe she would be a delightful addition to our welcoming party, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sure,” Bradford said, in a diplomatic tone. He stretched out his legs to the fire. “But I’ll let you and Miss Chase have a private dinner tonight, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll finish my sherry and have a quick bite, and then be off upstairs. I have some correspondence I must attend to.”

  But Bradford was still lingering over his after-dinner coffee when Miss Chase and Marconi—deeply engrossed in each other at their intimate table—finished their final course. Outside, there was a flash of lightning, a low growl of thunder, and the patter of rain on the window. It was indeed a foul night.

  At that moment, Mr. Fisher, freshly shaven and dressed in evening clothes, appeared in the doorway, looked around, and made a great show of noticing the couple. He made his way toward them, bowed to Miss Chase, and appeared to be introducing himself to Marconi. A moment later the two men were deep in conversation, and Miss Chase had excused herself with a pretty smile and an affectionate pat on Marconi’s shoulder.

  Bradford gave her two minutes. Then he pushed back his chair, went out to the lobby, waited for half-a-minute, and then hurried back to the dining room. Bending over Marconi, he whispered something in an urgent tone.

  Marconi’s eyes widened, and he put down his napkin. “Excuse me, Mr. Fisher,” he said, hastily pushing back his chair. “A business matter has arisen which requires my immediate attention.”

  Fisher threw Bradford a curious, speculative glance. “Sorry to interrupt, Fisher,” Bradford said apologetically. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid. But do stay and have a glass of wine. Mr. Marconi will be back in a few moments. Until then—” He signaled to the waiter. “Please be so good as to bring Mr. Fisher a glass of wine, and add it to the Marconi company bill.”

  “Thank you,” Fisher said complacently. “Very kind of you, I’m sure. Very kind.”

  Marconi hurried out of the dining room, and Bradford followed. In the lobby, Marconi put his hand on Bradford’s arm. “You say you’ve found the tuner?” he asked excitedly.

  “No,” Bradford replied. “I said I’ve learned something which may shed some light on the matter. But we have to hurry.” He went toward the stairs and took them, two at a time.

  “Where are we going?” Marconi asked breathlessly, as they reached the second floor landing.

  “This way,” Bradford directed, turning down the hall which led to Marconi’s room.

  “But where—”

  “Shh.” Bradford put his finger to his lips. They were standing outside Marconi’s door, which hung slightly ajar.

  Marconi frowned. “I’m sure I closed and locked it,” he said. “And I turned off the light, as well.” He stepped forward, pushing the door open, and stopped just inside. “Paulie!” he exclaimed. “What the devil—”

  Miss Chase gave a scream as she whirled from the wardrobe, a wooden box in her hand. She turned pale. “Marky, you startled me! I didn’t expect . . . that is, I thought . . .”

  “It is quite obvious that you did not expect me.” Marconi went into the room and Bradford, closing the door behind the two of them, exulted at the definite chill in his tone. “You will explain what you are doing in my room, and what that object is in your hand.”

  Bradford stepped forward and took the box out of Miss Chase’s hand. When she did not speak, he said, “She believes that this is Gerard’s tuner, or a copy of it. You certainly have to give the lady full marks for following instructions,” he added admiringly.

  “Instructions?” Marconi was imperious. “What instructions?” he demanded. “Who instructed you to invade my room, Miss Chase?”

  Miss Chase put out her lower lip in a childish pout. “Oh, please, Marky, don’t be angry with your Paulie,” she pleaded. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears. “She was only trying to—”

  “Who, I said!” Marconi screamed. His face was twisted, his jaw was mottled red, and Bradford saw with satisfaction that he had flown into one of his famous Italian tantrums. “You will tell me who, by God, or I—” He seized her wrist and forced her into a chair.

  “Ow!” she wailed, rubbing her arm. “You hurt me! You can’t—”

  “I will do much more than that,” Marconi said between gritted teeth. “Do you think I have no influence in Society, no influential friends? I will make it impossible for you to show your face in London henceforward. Who put you up to this?”

  “I advise you to tell,” Bradford said comfortably. “I am sure that neither White nor de Forest will stand up on your behalf. And as for Fisher, he’s in it just as deep as you are, you know.”

  “How did you—” Miss Chase turned wondering eyes on him. “How could you—”

  “White and de Forest!” Marconi cried incredulously. He stamped his foot. “Those scoundrels! And Fisher—the American who was chatting me up downstairs?”

  “The very same,” Bradford said. “Miss Chase is lodged in the room next to mine. I was able to overhear her and Fisher discussing their assignment. It seems that they were hired by De Forest Wireless to make off with the tuner and—”

  “So that’s what happened to it,” Marconi said bitterly, looking down at Miss Chase. “You and Fisher took it! Why, you are nothing but a . . . a common thief! I shall have you prosecuted!�
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  “I resent being called ‘common,’ ” Miss Chase replied petulantly, lifting her chin, her eyes flashing. “And we didn’t take it, either. It was already gone by the time Mr. Fisher came to look for it.” She frowned. “If we’d had the blasted thing, you don’t think I would have come up here to your room to look for it, do you?”

  Marconi narrowed his eyes and muttered a string of what Bradford took to be Italian oaths. Bradford had to suppress a smile. Really—the situation would have been comic had it not been so serious.

  “Anyway,” she went on, with an airy wave of her hand, “I don’t know what all the fuss is about. So what if the original tuner was stolen? You’ve got another one. A copy. That box I found in the wardrobe.”

  “Actually, it’s not a copy,” Bradford said. He held up the box and shook it. It rattled. “It’s only a wooden box filled with—as you so charmingly put it this afternoon— ‘thingys.’ I placed it on Mr. Marconi’s shelf after I overheard you and Fisher planning your search of this room.” He turned to Marconi. “I have been hesitant to tell you this, my friend, but our delectable Miss Chase has a rather speckled history of—”

  “Mind what you say, Mr. Marsden,” Miss Chase hissed. “Remember those letters!”

  Bradford smiled pleasantly. “Ah, but blackmail is a game which any number can play. When we’re finished, I doubt if you’ll have the appetite for it.” He turned to Marconi, who was staring at him, his jaw working, his lips compressed into a thin line. “As it turns out, Pauline Chase is not the only name this lovely creature has used. When I met her in Paris, she was Millicent Mitford. In Vienna, she was Francine Sterne, traveling with a wealthy American who had the misfortune to die rather unexpectedly. After the gentleman’s death, neither Miss Sterne nor several of his valuable personal items could be found.”