Death on the Lizard (18 page)

Miss Truebody stamped one black-booted foot. “What on earth are you babbling on about, Claudia? You cannot possibly—”

“Deeply honored,” repeated Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe, with a dark look at Miss Truebody. She turned back to Bradford. “I should very much like to be the first, Mr. Marsden, to extend to you my most heartfelt wish to be of service. And I know that I speak for every member of our committee when I extend their wishes, as well. We shall be delighted to—”

“Claudia!” cried Miss Truebody, her bosom heaving dangerously. “What are you
saying,
Claudia?”

“Agatha,” replied Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe, bending forward at the waist and giving Miss Truebody a very severe look, “you have undoubtedly
not
heard the news.”

“News?” Miss Truebody asked. “What news?”

Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe pulled herself up to her full height. “That, in only a fortnight's time, our fair little village is to be favored by a visit from . . .” she paused for dramatic effect, and concluded, with a flourish, “from the Prince of Wales!”

“The Prince—” Miss Truebody swallowed.

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe smugly. “
And
the Princess.
And
a full entourage of dignitaries, including Admiral Fisher.” She beamed. “And it is all on account of the Marconi Company, and Mr. Marsden. Is that not so, sir?”

Bradford was swept by a sudden wave of relief. “Indeed, ladies, I am delighted to confirm that this is the case. Their Highnesses will be arriving Saturday fortnight to tour the station and observe the Lizard transmitter in full operation. I am not yet privy to the details of the delegation, but I can assure you that—”

“Flowers,” said Miss Truebody, with great presence of mind. “There must be flowers, of course. I shall be glad to mobilize the Garden Club, Claudia.”

“And bunting,” said Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe, opening her purse and taking out a small notebook and pencil. “Flags, to be sure, and a red carpet. And the children.” She scribbled busily. “The children shall sing. Miss Lewis will organize a chorus.”

“A parade,” said Miss Truebody, pursing her lips.

“Luncheon on the hotel terrace, in view of the sea.”

“High tea at the vicarage.”

“A tour of St. Mellanus Church.”

Bradford replaced his hat. “You ladies obviously have a great deal to do. If you will excuse me—”

They did not even notice when he stepped past Miss Truebody and started back to the hotel, walking very fast.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 
 
 
 
Charles Sheridan was halfway through his breakfast when Bradford Marsden came into the hotel dining room, red-faced and huffing, as if the devil were at his heels. Charles gestured to a chair.

“Good morning, Bradford,” he said amiably. “Breakfast?”

“Thank you, old chap,” Bradford said. He signaled the waiter to pour a cup of coffee, then went to the sideboard and came back with a plate of kippers, scrambled eggs, and toast. “What a vexation!” he said as he sat down. He told Charles about his encounter with Miss Truebody and Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe. “Not the way one would like to begin one's morning,” he concluded disgustedly.

Charles sat back with a laugh. “It had not occurred to me that the Royal visit might help you out of a sticky wicket.” Bradford growled something Charles didn't quite catch. He laughed again, and added, “Well, at least the prospect of Royals will keep the village ladies busy. And it sounds as if the event is momentous enough to change their opinions about the Marconi Company. Temporarily, at least.”

There was another growl, and then Bradford asked: “Did you locate your friend last night?”

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 this 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.”