Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect)

by Bernadette Pajer

  “I understand,” Bradshaw said. He understood more than the young man knew. He understood the fear, the desperation, the feeling of unworthiness. But in his own case, the chief obstacle between him and the woman he loved was religion, not money. A difference of faith was not something one could alter with determination. Money, on the other hand, could be earned, or stolen, or extorted. If Vernon Doyle had stood in this young man’s way to wealth in some manner, or if Doyle had known something that would soil his reputation in the eyes of the Warrens, he might have just confessed a motive to commit murder.

  “If you think of anything that might prove helpful to the case, will you let me know?”

  Ruzauskas nodded, and combed the hair out of his eyes with his fingers.

  ***

  As Bradshaw passed out of the store, through the throng of holiday shoppers, the noise, the music, and the gay decorations grated against his nerves. He wanted to get away, from everyone, and if he went home, he wouldn’t be in the mood to be cheerful or even kind. He also knew he didn’t truly want to be completely alone with his tormenting uncertainty. So he trudged down the street to the J. M. Taylor Printing Company, where he was told the proprietor was not in, but that he could be found at the university. Bradshaw hopped a crowded streetcar.

  It was a quarter past four when he arrived on campus, and dusk was about to give way to darkness. Lights glowed from many of the windows of the Science and Administration Buildings, but Bradshaw’s destination lay a short walk beyond them.

  The Observatory had been built with locally quarried sandstone left over from the construction of the Administration Building. It was a grand little building topped with a gleaming copper dome. Yellow light spilled from the transom above the door in welcome.

  Inside, the Transit Room door was closed, as was the door to the Pier Room, so Bradshaw headed up the stairs to the dome, where meager lantern light danced. The lower portion of the building was wired for electric lighting, but not the upper Observatory.

  “Professor Bradshaw! How very good to see you!” Professor Joseph Taylor’s greeting was warm and effusive, like the man himself.

  “Good evening, sir. I was told I could find you here.”

  “One of my favorite places on this great Earth. You’re just in time to lend me a hand. Grab a rope.”

  Bradshaw did as instructed, taking hold of a rope that dangled from the base of the copper dome.

  Taylor had already opened one narrow section of the roof, from the apex to the base, to the nighttime sky. Bradshaw tugged the rope and moved forward slowly, setting the copper dome turning on the bearings in the grooved track that circumnavigated the circular tower.

  “Go all the way around once, if you please,” said Taylor, “I just greased the balls.” The dome roof rotated with a whisper-smooth, deep hum, and an occasional creak from the metal panels.

  Taylor pointed, indicating where Bradshaw should slow to a stop, and then Taylor put his eye to the lens to focus the telescope. Eleven years his senior, Taylor yet reminded Bradshaw of his father. He had small, close-set eyes, crinkled at the corners from a lifetime of smiling, and a dashing mustache that curled up at the tips. An outgoing and social man, with many friends and no falseness about him, he’d assumed the role of Bradshaw’s unofficial mentor. Bradshaw first met him the Fourth of July of 1894, at the cornerstone laying ceremony for the Administration Building. As the university’s first mathematics professor, first Professor of Astronomy, and the first Director of the Observatory, as well as holding an esteemed position with the Freemasons, Taylor had been given the honor of laying the cornerstone. He wasn’t currently teaching at the university, but he remained closely associated with the Observatory through various astronomy clubs.

  Taylor had a habit of cocking his head and looking at Bradshaw with both admiration and amusement. The admiration, he knew, for Taylor had explained, was for Bradshaw’s teaching style that built confidence in his students, for his several patents and practical electrical skills, and of late, his ability to solve electrical puzzles and crimes. Taylor’s amusement lay in Bradshaw’s dislike of social interaction. As a man who thrived on conversation, Taylor found Bradshaw’s hermit tendencies befuddling.

  “I haven’t seen enough of you of late,” said Taylor, turning away from the telescope to cock his head and give Bradshaw a grin. “Since you began your new career as Seattle’s Sherlock Holmes, as a matter of fact. How are you?”

  The question was not just politely asked, but honestly so.

  “Confused,” he said, and felt better for saying it aloud.

  “Come take a look,” said Taylor. “Feel your insignificance against the vastness of the heavens, and you’ll gain a bit of perspective.”

  Bradshaw put his eye to the lens. Cracks in the storm clouds created a window into the blackness of space. Even in that small window, it seemed a thousand stars winked.

  Taylor said, “I’ve heard it said there are more stars in the heavens than grains of sand on the Earth.”

  It was a staggering thought.

  “Yet among them, do any contain life such as we have here on Earth?” Bradshaw asked. “Or are we alone?”

  “Come now, Bradshaw! Leave it to you to find a gloomy thought while stargazing. Tell me what has you confused and let’s see if a solution can be found.” Taylor took a metal rod from a hook, opened a small door in the base of the telescope and began winding the weights which regulated the clockwork-style mechanism within.

  Bradshaw considered speaking of Missouri, but the Catholic Church was vehemently opposed to both the Masons and the Odd Fellows, with which Taylor was also affiliated. The grounds for the church’s opposition were ideological, and Bradshaw knew Taylor found them unsubstantiated and ridiculous. They’d once enjoyed a vigorous friendly debate on the subject, and while Taylor would never be disrespectful, he certainly would find it difficult to understand Bradshaw’s allegiance to Catholicism if it opposed his choice of wife.

  “Did you ever meet Oscar Daulton?” Bradshaw began.

  “No, I never met him,” Taylor said. “Does this have something to do with the search for his invention? I heard Thomas Edison paid you a visit to inquire about it.”

  “That’s where it may have begun, with that visit. Edison has a representative here, Mr. J. D. Maddock, who is now actively looking for it.” Bradshaw explained about his summons to the Bon Marché and everything he’d learned subsequently that held a possible connection between the hunt for Daulton’s device and Vernon Doyle’s death. He didn’t speak of Doyle’s alleged affair, or the accusation against Olafson. Neither was relevant to the search for Daulton’s device and could be kept private.

  “Such a troubled young man,” Taylor said, shaking his head. “It’s a shame his genius was so warped and may have led to this. I didn’t know him, Bradshaw, but I’ve met his type. If you can get to them young enough, you can save them. I’ve taught boys at nearly every age, or had them in my office as principal. When one slips out of your grasp and goes awry, it’s heartbreaking. Professor Ranum knew Daulton.” He spoke of the current Director of Astronomy. “He’s mentioned that Daulton spent a good deal of time here, alone.”

  Daulton had found several places on campus where he could be alone. As Bradshaw had told Edison, he’d searched them all, including the Observatory, for anything the young man had left behind or hidden. Daulton had written extensively on other aspects of his disturbed life, but his journal contained not a hint of his inventions. He wrote of winning the war against oppression, but always stopped short of describing the weapons he planned to use, other than secrecy.

  “I want to locate Daulton’s box.”

  Taylor’s eyes flashed with interest. “Now that’s an about-face, and the source of your confusion, I’ll wager. How can I help?”

  “Galloway Diving has been searching near the ferry landing and into the bay, to a depth of abou
t a hundred and ten feet.”

  “You believe they should be looking elsewhere?”

  “More than two years’ worth of dives and they’ve found nothing but the basket.”

  “I don’t imagine something that small would be easy to find in the dark depths. Most of Elliott Bay is far beyond the reach of divers, hundreds of feet deep. Maybe a thousand, in some parts. It’s only the edges that man can reach. How close to the landing were you when Daulton tossed the thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps it sank below the mud.”

  “That’s very possible. The batteries likely would have, if they hit mud rather than rock or weeds. They weighed two pounds each, and their cylindrical shape would drop more quickly and penetrate better than a flat-bottomed box.”

  “How much did the box weigh?”

  “I never lifted it, and I can only guess as to what was inside. I believe it was heavy and would sink fairly well, but whether there was something inside providing buoyancy, I don’t know. It vanished when it hit the water, and did not linger, the same as the batteries.”

  “Who calculated the location?”

  “Jake Galloway, based on newspaper and personal accounts of the day when Daulton threw the box overboard.”

  “There’s an art and science to finding sunken treasure. Galloway has a good reputation.”

  “It could be he’s better with the art than the science. Would you be interested in looking at the data and making a guess?”

  Taylor beamed. “I would. But surely you know the math as well as I, and I recall a certain waterfall over which you did not plummet because of your grasp of hydraulics.”

  “But I don’t have time to research the tides and currents of Elliott Bay, nor experience with a sextant, nor do I know the captain of the City of Seattle.”

  “Aah, you see how being active socially has its benefits? Can you provide a range of guesses as to the weight and buoyancy of Daulton’s mysterious cigar box?”

  “I can.”

  “Can we take a ferry ride and recreate the event? If I clear it with the captain?”

  “I was hoping you’d ask. Do you have the time?”

  “For this I do. I’ll begin my research at once.”

  “Thank you. I have preparations to make. It might take a bit of experimentation. Shall we say near the end of next week, if the weather allows?”

  “Agreed. If our findings indicate a location not yet searched, will you go for a dive, Bradshaw?”

  “I’d sooner dance naked at a society ball.”

  “An image more gruesome than any monster of the deep. But if you have no intention of diving for it, why try to establish its location? You don’t mean to give the information to Edison’s man?”

  “No, I don’t. But I’d like the mystery solved. I’m tired of thinking about it, and if Vernon Doyle’s death is related to the hunt, then the device is still killing, even from the seabed. Let’s first see what our calculations tell us before I decide what to do with the information.”

  “Speaking of mysteries, occasionally when I’m up here in the dome alone, I hear a strange clicking sound. It’s rather like static, a sharp crackling. But I can’t pinpoint it. I heard it just before you arrived.”

  They stood quietly, listening, but heard nothing.

  Bradshaw asked, “Could it be the metal of the dome expanding or contracting with the change in temperature?”

  “It doesn’t seem to come from above. And there’s a different quality to this clicking. It’s more, oh, sharp, less creaking.”

  “Hmm. Well, if you hear it again, count the clicks, and time the seconds between the clicks.”

  “Will that tell you the nature of the sounds?”

  “No, but it will make the sounds less irritating if you treat them like a science experiment.”

  Taylor laughed. “You show potential, Bradshaw. We may yet find your funny bone. And say, I’ve been hearing rumors about you and Henry Pratt’s niece. Could she have anything to do with your confusion and venture into wit?”

  Bradshaw shrugged and held out his hand, “Sir, I thank you for your assistance and I look forward to next week.”

  Taylor accepted the shake and the less-than-subtle change of subject with good grace. “Take care, my friend.”

  ***

  On his way back downtown, Bradshaw’s eye was caught by a small shop open late for the holiday season. The glowing window display was filled with colorful bars and fancy boxes of soap. If he couldn’t buy that gown for Missouri, because it wasn’t a gown but an undergarment, maybe he could buy her soap. When the streetcar slowed, he leapt off, and backtracked to the shop. Inside the store, his senses were bombarded with warmth and fragrances. He chose a box of lilac-scented imported soap that smelled of spring, wondering if it was too intimate a gift. It was surely more appropriate than a chemise. When she’d lived in his home, the scent of lilac often lingered in the bath and near her room. The kindly sales clerk wrapped the soap box in lavender paper, tied it with delicate gold ribbon, and topped it with a flowery golden bow.

  With the box safely nestled in his coat pocket, he walked to his office, finding it dark and empty. Henry had left a note reporting he intended to spend the night asking about Vernon Doyle in the Tenderloin. For a few hours, Bradshaw worked at his desk, the fragrant gift beside him. When his eyes grew weary, he bundled up again, and took the last streetcar up to Capitol Hill.

  Only the porch light glowed at his house, as he’d hoped, and yet he felt guilty for avoiding his son. Inside, he climbed the stairs, stepping over the third one that tended to creak, then looked in on Justin, who slept soundly. In his own room down the hall, he switched on the electric wall sconce, and immediately spotted the telegram on his dresser. Mrs. Prouty believed all of Missouri’s correspondence contained “swooning,” so she placed letters and wires from her in his room. Like so many others in his life, Mrs. Prouty was ambivalent about his relationship with Missouri.

  He set down the soap, opened the wire, and felt his weariness harden into a heavy weight. She was not coming home. Not as planned. She’d written in abbreviated language to reduce the cost of the wire.

  WRIGHT BROS ATTEMPT FLIGHT NC COLIN INVITED ME OTHERS HOME DELAYED 1 WEEK LOVE MISSOURI.

  Chapter Ten

  Bradshaw woke Friday morning, the third day of the investigation into Doyle’s death, with a growling stomach, which didn’t bode well. This being a Friday during Advent, it was a day of fasting, and that meant he was restricted to one full meal at dinnertime with fish, but no meat.

  He bathed and dressed, then went downstairs to the kitchen where the smell of Justin’s warm oats and maple syrup enveloped him in a tortuous embrace. Bradshaw was only allowed a warm beverage this morning, and two ounces of dry toast. He usually skipped the toast but could not be so noble this morning. He ate his slice slowly, savoring the sourdough flavor, grateful for Mrs. Prouty’s gift for bread-making. He sat at the kitchen table across from his son, watching him devour a great mound of syrupy oats, two thick pieces of toast slathered in butter, and a fried egg. Children were not held to the fasting rules, and for this the Jesuits were surely grateful. A room full of lads with empty stomachs would not be teachable.

  “Three days,” said Justin, once he’d cleaned the last drip of butter from his plate with his last bite of toast.

  “Three days?”

  “Until Missouri gets home.”

  Bradshaw’s stomach clutched and his hunger fled. He’d had a whole night in which to consider the implications of Missouri Fremont traveling to North Carolina to meet up with Colin Ingersoll. “A change of plans, son. Missouri won’t be home until the twenty-first or second.” He told Justin about her invitation to North Carolina, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. It was a wasted effort. Justin scowled.

  “She said she’d be home twe
lve days before Christmas.”

  “I know, but with each attempt, the two Wright brothers have been getting closer to success. They may achieve powered flight. This could be historic. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

  “So is Christmas. It only comes once a year, and this one will never come again. A boy only gets so many, Dad.”

  “That’s true. I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

  Justin crossed his arms and asked, “When you’re married, will you make her stay home?”

  Bradshaw stalled by drinking his coffee. He cleared his throat. “First of all, it’s not when, but if. You know I care very much for Missouri, but we haven’t yet decided to marry.” He’d had to explain this several times to the boy ever since his relationship with Missouri had changed. In his son’s young eyes, there was no reason for delay or any question of an outcome. Justin loved Missouri, he saw that his father did, too; therefore, they would marry. “And secondly, a man does not treat his wife like a child.”

  “But Roy said when his sister got married they had to say vows, and she had to say she would obey her new husband. She didn’t want to say it because she’s a suffragette, but they made her say it, and now she has to do whatever her husband says.”

  “Roy? The new boy at the end of the block? His family belongs to the Episcopal Church, I believe. The Catholic marriage ceremony doesn’t include the word obey. Even so, in all Christian marriages, wives are to be treated kindly and with respect.” Had he given his son the impression that women were servants to men? He certainly hadn’t intended to teach his son anything but respect for women.

  What relationships had Justin witnessed? What relationships had Bradshaw modeled? The only female Justin regularly observed Bradshaw with was Mrs. Prouty. Mrs. Prouty certainly did all the work about the house, but he paid her a good wage and rarely made demands, only requests. Which, admittedly, Mrs. Prouty acquiesced to, sometimes willingly, other times with a grumble. Yes, she obeyed his requests as if they were demands, and he was the master of his home. Someone had to be in charge, and it was his home after all, not Mrs. Prouty’s. Although, in truth, it was her home. She had no other. This had been her home for more than a decade. What must that be like? To know the home you live in is not yours, but owned by your employer, and that you live there as a condition of your employment? But Mrs. Prouty was not really an employee. She was like family. He would never think of letting her go, hiring another housekeeper. She knew that, surely.