by Robin Paige
“Gone!” Andrew exclaimed, sitting forward. His equilibrium, which seemed to have steadied over the last few moments, took on a precipitous tilt. “You don’t mean to tell me that the tuner . . .” He stopped. He hadn’t intended to go that far.
“Ah,” Sheridan said. “You know about the tuner, then?” When Andrew bit his lip and did not reply, he took one or two more puffs of his pipe and went on. “Of course, it’s possible that Gerard died accidentally, and that someone who knew about the existence of the tuner and the diary took them for his own purposes. But it is also possible—quite possible, unfortunately—that Gerard was deliberately pushed into the electrical works, either to put an end to the tuner project, or to steal the tuner itself.”
“Well, then,” Andrew said, feeling that he had better tell all he knew. “I think I might be able to offer you a bit of help. I suppose you know about Jack Gordon—the Marconi operator who went over the cliff at Lizard Point about a fortnight ago.”
If Sheridan was curious about the connection, he didn’t reveal it. “Yes,” he said. “I spent part of the day at the station. As I understand it, nobody saw the accident, if that’s what it was. But I’ve spoken with the other wireless operator, who disallows the possibility of Gordon’s walking off the cliff in a drunken state.”
“He didn’t,” Andrew said simply. He emptied his Scotch and got up to pour another. “I know, because I saw what happened.” He turned, lifting the bottle. “Another for you?”
Sheridan replied by holding out his glass. Andrew filled it and sat down on the bed again, settling himself to his story.
“I’ve had this fellow—the man who appeared in Gillan Harbor this morning—under surveillance for some time. He’s known as Wolf, although of course that’s not his real name. He came to the Lizard around the middle of June. He’s a sailor, you see. Has his own boat, which has posed a bit of a challenge for me. I caught him up the first time among the Frisian islands—how that came about is a rather long and involved tale, and I shan’t bother you with it now. Enough to say that I got onto him when I was in Kiel, doing a little job for the Admiralty.”
“But not in cryptography?” Sheridan asked.
“No, that’s become rather a sideline, although I do keep my hand in.” Andrew took a swallow of Scotch. “Anyway, when I connected with the fellow again, his yacht was berthed in Mullion Cove, and he was spending most of his time hanging about the village. It was not, as I learned, his first visit to the area—he had been here back in the winter, while I was cooling my heels in London with a different assignment. On the night Gordon died, Wolf went down to the pub in Lizard Village, and the two of them—Wolf and Gordon—shared a pitcher of ale.”
“Was this the first time you’d seen them together?” Sheridan asked.
“Yes, but Wolf had been here for a few days by the time I arrived, and it’s possible they’d met during that time. But as I say, it was a new connection for me.” He crossed his legs. “Anyway, I followed Wolf to the pub, and got as close as I could to the pair of them. He and Gordon—I found out his name by asking the barman—talked for a while, amicably at first, and then they seemed to get into a disagreement. I got the idea that Wolf wanted Gordon to do something he wouldn’t, or couldn’t do. After a bit, Wolf shrugged—the sort of disgusted shrug that says, ‘I’m done with it’—and left the pub.”
“And you followed him?”
Andrew nodded, remembering that night, and the feeling that he’d had about it, the feeling of something about to happen, and of wanting to watch it, and not wanting, at the same time. “It was a bit of a delicate business. I went out to the privy and watched through a crack. Wolf hung about behind a nearby shed, and waited until Gordon came out. Then he followed him, trailing not far behind. I kept to the shadows behind the both of them. When Gordon got to the high point of the cliff, Wolf caught him up and they talked for a moment or two. The discussion seemed to be entirely friendly, but then—” He swallowed. He didn’t like telling this. “One shove, and that was it.”
“You didn’t try to stop it?” Sheridan asked.
No, he hadn’t tried to stop it, because interfering would have put himself in the picture—the last thing he wanted to do. At the time, that had seemed right. Now, he wasn’t sure. But now, it was too late for anything except explanations, excuses.
“I’m sure you understand the circumstance. If I had intervened—well, the game would’ve been up, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose that was the reason you didn’t attempt to have Wolf arrested for murder.”
Now they were getting a little closer to the uncomfortable truth, and Andrew spoke more cautiously. “My eyewitness testimony would’ve been the only evidence against him at inquest. He would’ve been bound over for trial, of course, which would have put my quarry out of my reach. And when the case came to trial, his defense council would surely have uncovered my interest in the matter.” He grinned ruefully, although not altogether honestly. “That would be the end of my usefulness as an operative, and I’m not quite ready to quit.”
“Yes, I suppose that news of your activities would get back to Wolf ’s colleagues here in England, and to the person they’re working for.” Sheridan paused. “Do you know who that is?”
“I have some suspicions,” Andrew said evasively. In the end, of course, that was the chief issue. “You’re right. Convicted of murder, my man would be out of the game, and so would I. And his associates would know we are on to them and I . . . we should have to start all over to ferret them out.” He shook his head. “I . . . we must keep an eye on them, so that in the event of hostilities, they can all be swept up together.”
“I suspect that Gordon was working for your man Wolf, in one capacity or another,” Sheridan said. “I was told that he had been planning to take a holiday—to visit family in Bavaria.”
Bavaria! That explained a great deal, didn’t it? But it also pointed to the weakness of his own methods. He should have thought to look into Gordon’s background for a clue as to how Wolf might have been using him. “But I thought the Marconi Company refused to employ Germans,” Andrew said, as if to explain to himself why he hadn’t dug any deeper. “That’s what I heard after the Germans tried to break into the Nova Scotia station last summer.” And that’s what they had told the Admiralty, he added to himself.
“So I understand,” Sheridan said with a shrug. “But if a man can pass himself off as British, I imagine whoever is doing the hiring takes him at face value.”
Andrew stared at the opposite wall, thinking. “So Gordon was in league with Wolf,” he muttered. “I suppose he was killed because he knew too much, or was threatening to reveal it, or wouldn’t do as he was told.” He could think of a dozen other reasons, none of them pretty, why one spy might murder another.
Sheridan puffed on his pipe. “And what about this chap Wolf?” he asked after a moment. “Is he of great importance to . . . to whoever you’re working for at the moment?” He eyed Andrew. “And who is that? Army Intelligence?”
Andrew shifted uncomfortably. This was the tricky part. “If you must know, I’ve been seconded to Naval Intelligence. Unfortunately, the Admiralty by and large don’t seem to think that intelligence is vital to the defense of the realm, and they behave as if wireless were no more important than any other technology. They don’t view Wolf and his sort as significant enough to warrant attention. In fact, they don’t seem at all concerned about spies. Somehow, German agents just are not on the horizon.”
“I’ve encountered that attitude,” Sheridan remarked. His gaze lingered on Andrew. “French, Russians, but not Germans.” He grinned around the stem of his pipe. “Probably has to do with the Kaiser being Victoria’s grandson, and her commissioning him as an honorary Admiral of the Fleet. I understand that he told the British ambassador in Berlin that the thought of wearing the same uniform as St. Vincent and Nelson made him positively giddy.”
The old queen’s grandson, Andrew thought with bitter amuseme
nt. As if blood relations had never in the history of the world gone to war. As if the men who worked in Steinhauer’s German Intelligence were all gentlemen, and wouldn’t dream of spying on British soil. Steinhauer—who had previously been a private detective for the Pinkertons!
“Of course,” he said sarcastically, “it might be a different story entirely if one of Steinhauer’s fellows were caught copping the key to Jackie Fisher’s office, or passing design details out of the Portsmouth shipyard. That might make our side wake up and take notice.”
Andrew’s move to Naval Intelligence had come not long after Jackie Fisher was promoted from Second Sea Lord to Commander-in-Chief, Portsmouth—assignments which were established stepping stones to the office of First Sea Lord. It was common knowledge that Fisher viewed Germany as Great Britain’s most probable naval opponent, and that he was already developing a strategy to combat the Kaiser. He had raised the Home Fleet—now called the Channel Fleet—from eight battleships to twelve by withdrawing four ships from the Mediterranean Fleet, and instructed his commanders to think in terms of fighting alongside France, rather than against her. And there were rumors that as soon as he was officially named First Sea Lord (surely no more than a matter of months), he planned to build a ship so formidable that it would strike terror into the heart of any nation which dared to challenge Great Britain on the high seas. Fisher already had a name for it: Dreadnought.
“Wake up our side indeed,” Sheridan remarked thoughtfully. “Still, the Admiralty are very much worried about keeping the tonnage and gunnery secret, not to mention the potential speed. They wouldn’t like any of that sort of information to somehow get to the Kaiser.”
Andrew pounded his fist on his thigh. “But all the Dreadnoughts in creation won’t be worth a bloody farthing,” he burst out, “if we don’t have some better means of communication! I’ve been studying wireless, and it seems to me that Marconi’s system offers our best hope of developing a reliable ship-to-ship and ship-to-shore communication. I’ll be damned if I’ll let the Germans steal it from us, whatever the Admiralty thinks!”
There. It was out, and the devil take it.
Sheridan gazed at him for a moment. “Ah,” he said finally. “So this is your own private patch, is it? Your own bit of personal espionage?” He paused. “I suppose that’s really why you couldn’t report Gordon’s death as murder. You were afraid that word of your doings might get back to the Admiralty.”
“I’ve taken furlough for three months,” Andrew muttered. “They bloody well can’t tell me where I can go or what I can do on my own time. If I want to keep an eye on one bloke or another, or track down a few leads of my own, that’s my bloody business, and none of theirs.”
“Oh, I’m not censuring you,” Sheridan said mildly. “Not at all. In fact, I quite agree with you about the problem of the German spies, and especially where it comes to this wireless business. If we find ourselves at war, particularly a naval war, wireless may well hold the key to victory. But the transmissions have got to be secure against interception and interference—and the German wireless system hasn’t a prayer of achieving that.” He leaned forward, his brown eyes intent. “Is that what Wolf is after, do you think? The tuner Gerard was developing?”
“Yes,” Andrew said emphatically. “I think they got word of Gerard’s work in Berlin, and Steinhauer set Wolf on him. The fellow was a natural choice—he worked for Slaby and D’Arco on that duplex wireless of theirs. He understands what’s involved.” He frowned. “He didn’t steal the tuner— I’d swear to that. If he had, he’d be gone from here by now. But I can suggest someone else.”
“Oh?” Sheridan slanted a questioning look. “And who would that be?”
“I was in Mullion last night, keeping a watch on Wolf. He spent some time at The Pelican, talking to Dick Corey, from the wireless station. Of course, it’s possible that Corey hasn’t a clue, and that Wolf is simply probing—especially if he’s also got word that the tuner is missing. He’s not a man to leave any stone unturned, no matter how unproductive.” He paused, thinking. “You may have already questioned Corey in Gerard’s death, but it warrants another go. He may be simply trying to get rid of stolen property, or he may be deliberately practicing espionage.” Either way, Andrew thought, Corey could very well be in danger. Two men had died already. Corey could be the third.
“I see,” Sheridan said, and reflected for a moment. “Of course, as you say, Wolf may simply be exploring all possibilities. But perhaps we had better arrange a little test for Mr. Corey. What would you say to participating in a bit of counter-espionage?”
“You can count me in,” Andrew said promptly. “What did you have in mind?”
Sheridan looked up at the ceiling, blowing smoke rings. After a moment, he began outlining a strategy. Andrew offered other ideas, and they turned them over for a time, finally agreeing to a plan.
“Very good,” Charles said. “I suggest you sail round the Lizard to Mullion tomorrow, first thing, and we’ll put the business into operation.” He paused again. “How is it, do you suppose, that your man Wolf is communicating with his colleagues?”
“I don’t have to suppose, I know,” Andrew said, with a dark humor. This was the most amusing part of the whole thing. “The damned fellow is using messenger pigeons.” He chuckled ironically. “Isn’t that something? Doesn’t that impress you with his ingenuity? The man is one of Slaby’s proteges, he’s out to steal the most advanced of communications technologies, and he’s passing the word to his associates via messenger pigeons!”
Sheridan shrugged. “Perhaps. But in the circumstance, it’s a more sure means of communication than any other. Pigeons are generally proof against both interference and interception. If Wolf were operating a transmitter on board that boat, his messages would certainly be picked up.” He glanced at Andrew. “I don’t suppose you have been able to intercept any of the pigeons.”
“Not a chance,” Andrew replied. “I’ve only seen him release two, one a week or so ago, the other one yesterday morning. I doubt he can be keeping more than a few on that yacht of his.”
“Six,” Charles said.
“Six?” Andrew stared at him. He knew that Charles Sheridan was a genius at uncovering information, but— “How the devil do you know how many pigeons Wolf keeps?”
Sheridan regarded his pipe as if wondering whether it had gone out. “A little girl told my wife.”
“Told . . . Lady Sheridan?”
“Yes. It seems that the child—in the company of Jenna Loveday’s daughter, Harriet—climbed onto the boat when they knew the coast was clear. This happened in February, before the daughter’s drowning. They found six pigeons in a cage.”
The child. Andrew had seen her over the past few weeks, watching the boat. So Lady Sheridan had befriended her. It was not an idea which had occurred to him, although it should have done.
“There’s more,” Sheridan said. “It seems that the pigeon whose release you witnessed yesterday morning did not immediately fly off to its destination. It detoured by way of the church bell tower, where the girl—her name is Alice— happened to be feeding the birds, as she does regularly. Kate says she is a very clever child. Clever or simply curious, Alice relieved Wolf’s pigeon of its burden.”
Andrew was dumbfounded. “She—what?”
Sheridan reached into his pocket and took out a scrap of flimsy. “I assume that you read German,” he said, and handed it over.
Andrew read it at a glance. “Item located, negotiations begun,” he whispered. “By God, Wolf has located the tuner. And this is proof!” Holding the flimsy between his fingers, he felt an exultant, victorious surge, which died away as quickly as it arose. Proof was of no use at all, in the circumstance, for there could be no trial, no justice. That tuner was their sole object now. It couldn’t be allowed to fall into German hands.
“Indeed,” Charles said. He paused. “If it’s of any use to you, the name he’s given to Jenna Loveday is Niels Andersson.”
Sheridan nodded. “Kate didn’t say it in so many words, but I got the distinct impression that Wolf and Jenna Loveday are—or have been—lovers.”
“I know.” Andrew turned away. He took a small leather-bound book from the drawer of the bedside table, opened it at the back, and slipped the paper Sheridan had given him into a kind of pocket between the leather cover and the stiff paper which lined it. He returned the book to the drawer. “She was apparently visiting him on the yacht the night that her daughter drowned,” he added in a matter-of-fact tone. “At least, that’s what they’re saying in the village. The affair seems to be a matter of common knowledge, and common talk.”
“Ah,” Sheridan said regretfully. “I doubt if Lady Loveday knows that people are talking. Kate seemed to think the affair was a closely-held secret.”
“The lady is not terribly discreet,” Andrew remarked, and was surprised at the pang which came with the words. “I saw them together myself today, in Gillan Harbor. Both Miss Marsden and I photographed the scene,” he added, and went on to describe what he had seen. “I think it was an accidental meeting, but I’ve been concerned that she might become an unwitting participant in whatever plot Wolf is hatching. He will use her if he can.”
He thought of the scene at Lizard Point, the quick, hard shove, Gordon’s scream as he went over. If Jenna Loveday got in Wolf’s way, something of the sort could happen to her. He thought of Jenna—slim, delicate, vulnerable Jenna—in Wolf’s arms, and of a sudden fierce twist, a broken neck, a body disposed of at sea. He shuddered, suddenly afraid for her.
