Death on the Lizard (31 page)

“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.”

Andrew felt a surge of deep compassion for Jenna Loveday. “When I saw him first in Kiel, he was calling himself Hans Rhinehardt. There's no particular reason why he should have told her his real name.”

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.

“Wolf's a very dangerous man.”

“And love is a dangerous passion.” Sheridan's smile held a slight amusement, but his glance, Andrew felt, was penetrating. “I shouldn't think spies are immune to it, any more than the rest of us. Love would explain his being here, wouldn't you think? On this side of the Lizard, I mean. So far, at least, all the action has been in Mullion and at Lizard Point. If all the man wants is to get his hands on the tuner, he should be staying over there.”

“Love or lust,” Andrew said, pushing away the thought, and the unexpected anger. “But you're right. He could far more easily tie up in Mullion, or at one of the other little harbors nearer by, instead of sailing all the way round Lizard point to the Helford River. She has to be the reason he comes to Frenchman's Creek.”

He frowned, uncomfortably aware that there seemed to be more here—more in his feeling for Jenna Loveday, that is—than he himself had wanted to admit. He had thought it was merely compassion for her loss, perhaps mixed with admiration for her courage, and certainly for her beauty. But . . . more? He did not want there to be more. It would only complicate what he had to do. Don't linger on it, he thought to himself. Focus on the task and ignore the feelings. They will go away.

“I picked up one other bit of village gossip,” he went on. “Some of the folk here in Helford are saying that Wolf might have had something to do with the child's drowning. It seems that he weighed anchor and left very early on the morning she was found dead, in the creek.”

“If that's true,” Sheridan said, “if he had something to do with her child's death, and if she loves him, it's another tragedy for her.”

Andrew could taste the sourness in his mouth. “Any involvement with the man is a tragedy, if you want my opinion.” He paused. He hated to bring this up now, but now, if ever, was the moment. “I hope you will not take it amiss if I say that it's best not to let Lady Sheridan know anything about this business.”

Sheridan regarded him. “Why?”

“Because if Lady Sheridan spoke of it to Jenna—to Lady Loveday—word might get to Wolf, even if she did not mean to tell him.”

“That's so,” Sheridan said easily, and smiled. “You can count on me to keep it a secret from the ladies, Andrew.”

Andrew relaxed. He'd been dreading having to say that, and there had been no need. He wished the other problem— his feelings for Jenna—were as easily resolved. “Another Scotch?” he asked.

Sheridan wiggled his toes again. “I believe my socks are dry. It's been a very long day, and I am ready for bed. Are you watching birds tonight?”

A flash of blue lightning lit the sky outside, and thunder rattled the windows. “I doubt if Wolf will be going anywhere in this weather,” Andrew said, thinking that if Jenna had gone to him, if the two of them were alone on the boat together, making love, he did not want to know about it. “I believe I'll stay in tonight.”

“Good,” Sheridan said, and tossed off the last of his drink. “I wouldn't have wanted you to go out in this storm alone, but I wouldn't have wanted to go, either. I'm glad you have taken the decision out of my hands.”

He stood, picked up his boots, and retrieved his mackintosh. In his stockinged feet, he opened the door. “Goodnight, Andrew. Don't stew over all we've said. Just go to bed and get a good night's sleep. There'll be plenty to do tomorrow.”

“Goodnight,” Andrew said, and was left staring at the closed door. Go to sleep, when he had so much new information to turn over? The stolen tuner, an inquisitive child, six pigeons, and an intercepted note. And now, Jenna Loveday.

Jenna Loveday, Jenna Loveday.

If Andrew knew himself at all, he knew he'd be awake half the night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

 
 
 
 
Charles rose just before dawn, breakfasted with Andrew, and drove back across the Lizard to Mullion—a pleasant drive in the cool, bright air of the early morning. The road was muddy, but the night's rain had freshened the moor, the sky was a vault of unclouded blue, and diamond droplets of dew sparkled in the sun's first light. The horse seemed energized by the cool breeze, and in spite of the mud and mire of the road, they made good time across the peninsula.

It was just after nine when Charles drove into Mullion. Thinking about what lay ahead for the day, he decided to have a brief talk with the constable, upon whose help he and Andrew might have to rely. He hitched his horse to the railing outside King's Chemist's Shop and went down the narrow alley to the office of the Devon-Cornwall Constabulary in the rear. The constable's red bicycle was there, the door was partly open, and from within came the sound of a broom being vigorously wielded. Charles knocked, and the sweeping ceased. A moment later, the constable came through an interior door, broom in one hand, the terrier at his heels.

“Good morning, Lord Charles,” he said, standing the broom in a corner. “I'm glad you received my message.”

“Message?” Charles shook his head. “Sorry, no. If it was left at the Poldhu, I wasn't there. I've just come from Helford, where I spent the night.”

“I see.” The constable dusted his hands and went to the kettle steaming on the gas ring. “I was about to make tea for myself. Will you have a cup?”

“Yes, indeed.” Charles sat down and took out his pipe. The terrier, as if this were a familiar routine, retreated to his blanket in the corner, turned twice, and settled down with his nose on his tail. “A message, eh? Something new has turned up?”

“You might say so.” Deane grinned. “Two things, actually,” he replied, getting out the pot and spooning in tea. “If you haven't been to the hotel yet this morning, I take it that you haven't heard about Miss Chase and Mr. Fisher.”

“No, I haven't.” Charles took out his tobacco and began the ritual filling of his pipe. “Miss Chase's name is certainly familiar to me, although I've not yet had the pleasure of meeting the lady.” He thought of Bradford's pained expression as he'd related the ominous tale of her manifestations in various places, under various names, all different. “But who is Fisher?”

“Fisher? He's the American I mentioned to you when we talked last—the man who said he was here to play golf but has spent all his time poking about the village.”