Death on the Lizard (32 page)

Charles lit his pipe and listened with growing surprise, mixed with amusement, as the constable related the events of the night before. It sounded as if Bradford had been supremely successful, or very lucky, or both.

“You say that Miss Chase and Fisher are in the Helston gaol?” he asked, when the whole story had been told. “What's to be the charge?”

“Attempted theft. As you heard, the lady was caught red-handed, with what she thought was the tuner. Of course, it was only a wooden box, but she wasn't to know that.” The tea now brewed, the constable poured. Handing Charles a cup, he added, “Don't think there's any direct proof of it, but Mr. Marsden overheard Fisher boast that he had ransacked Gerard's lodging.” He sat down himself and lit a cigarette.

So that was it, Charles thought. He reached into his coat pocket and took out the small round button covered with cream-colored kid he had picked up off the floor in Gerard's room. He put it on the table beside his tea cup.

“What's this?” the constable asked, picking it up and looking closely at it.

“I found it in Gerard's room after the break-in,” Charles said. “I suspected that it might be a button from a woman's kid glove, but it might just as easily have come from a golfer's spats. It should not be difficult to check Fisher's spats—assuming the man wears them—and see whether they are lacking any buttons.”

“I shall do just that.” The constable took possession of the button. “Too bad you couldn't have been there last night, sir. It was what you might call an interesting scene. Full of drama.”

“I'm sure,” Charles said, thinking that however Bradford Marsden had managed the business, he seemed to have successfully accomplished his mission: to separate the dangerous Miss Chase from her victim. “I am truly sorry I missed it.” He paused. “Was that what you wanted to talk with me about?” He rather thought not, since the constable would likely have assumed that Bradford himself would report the news about Miss Chase and Fisher.

“No,” Deane said. “Not directly, anyway.” He tapped the ash off his cigarette into a cracked cup half full of cigarette butts. “It has to do with the tuner that's gone missing, y'see. Not the fake which tripped up the lady last night. The real one.”

“Well, then.” Charles leaned forward. “You have news of it?”

“No, sir, but I have a suspicion. I was in The Pelican night before last, and so was Dick Corey. He was talking with a foreign-looking chap, the one who sails in and out of here on occasion. Danish, the man might be, or Swedish. I saw the sailor slip Corey some money, under the table.”

Money, Charles thought. Kirk-Smythe had missed that— but then, the constable was sitting in a different place, with a different angle of vision. “Were you close enough to hear their talk?”

“No, I wasn't,” the constable said regretfully. “So I can't be sure what the money was for. A gambling debt, maybe, or even a bit of procurement, although I'd have to say I haven't got wind of anything like that going on in the village. Up in Helston, maybe, or Penzance, but not here. However, I know that Corey was one of the men who worked with Gerard, and I did just think—” He stopped and eyed Charles. “Am I off the mark here?”

“I think,” Charles replied, “that you might just be spot on. That sailor has a compelling reason to acquire the tuner. I think you'll understand when I've told you the story, which also involves the murder of Jack Gordon.”

“Murder, eh?” said the constable thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Charles said, “although it can't be proven in a court of law. But listen—” And he related as much of the story as he felt he could, without compromising Kirk-Smythe or his mission.

Deane listened with attention and with a growing seriousness. “I see,” he said, when Charles had concluded. “Well, that's a bit of a facer. What can I do to help?”

Charles stood and began to pace. “I'm afraid we are working against the clock in this matter, Constable, and time is growing short. Here's the plan I have in mind for—”

“Oh, Constable Deane!” a woman's voice cried shrilly, and a female figure of substantial bulk darkened the door. She wore a black coat and a large green hat, which was decorated with a mound of fearsomely colorful raffia flowers. She carried a black umbrella, which she brandished like a spear. “Oh, good, very good. I am so glad to find you in. I have the most important news, you see, and we must discuss it straightaway. There are a great many decisions being made, and you should be informed.”

“Good morning, Miss Truebody.” The constable rose to his feet. His voice, Charles noted, was resigned, and he made no effort at introductions. The terrier, who had been jarred out of a sound sleep by the woman's cry, stood and shook himself. “Unless your errand is urgent, I must respectfully ask that—”

“Urgent!” cried Miss Truebody in a very loud voice, enthusiastically gesturing with her umbrella. “Urgent! Why, my dear man, of course it is urgent! We in Mullion are facing one of the most significant challenges in the history of our dear little village! You will have the duty and honor of protecting two of the most august Presences in the land, for we are expecting—” She stopped, having noticed Charles, who had withdrawn to a distant corner of the room. “Pardon me,” she said distantly. “I did not know you were engaged.”

The terrier, with the clearest intimation of disdain, trotted past Miss Truebody and out the door.

“Don't mind me,” Charles said. “I—”

“That's alright, then,” boomed Miss Truebody, bowing in Charles's general direction. “I would not interrupt, of course, but time is growing short and the committee must take decisions of enormous significance on very short notice. You see, Constable Deane, our little village is to be the site of a most unusual, most magnificent event. Their Royal Highnesses, the Prince and Princess of Wales, are due to arrive on—”

“Eighteen July,” said the constable.

Miss Truebody's eyes narrowed. “Indeed. Eighteen July. You are aware? You have been . . . informed?”

“I have been informed,” said the constable. He stood. “Now, if you will excuse me, Lord Charles and I are discussing a rather important matter. If you would be so good as to return—”

“I am sorry, Constable Deane,” she said, her eyes flicking to Charles with rather more respect, now that she understood that he was a lord. “But it is your duty to listen to what the committee—”

“—return tomorrow,” the constable concluded, as though she had not spoken. He frowned. “No, that won't do, tomorrow's Sunday. Come by on Monday morning, Miss Truebody, and we'll have a talk. No, best make it Monday afternoon. I have a pair of prisoners in Helston, and I shall need to see the magistrate.”

“But sir! Your duty!”

“Monday afternoon, Miss Truebody,” the constable said firmly, crossing his arms.

“Oh, very well,” the lady muttered, and swept out of the room, leaving a raffia flower behind on the floor.

“Good show, Deane,” Charles said with admiration, picking the flower up and placing it on the table. The terrier stood on the threshold, surveyed the room as if to be sure that the lady was gone, and found his corner and his blanket again.

“Thank you, sir,” the constable said. He grinned. “I do know my duty. Once the rooster lets the old hens take over the coop, he's done for.” He took out another cigarette. “Now, where were we?”

“We were talking about Dick Corey,” Charles said. “Let me tell you what I have in mind.”

It took only a moment to outline the idea he and Kirk-Smythe had worked out the night before. When he had concluded, the constable nodded. “It might just work,” he said. “And if it doesn't, I suppose there's nothing to lose.”

Yes, there is, Charles reflected grimly. He thought of the wireless tuner in the hands of the Germans, and shivered at the possible consequences. They had better work fast, and they had better do it right. There was a great deal at stake, and a very great deal to lose.

CHAPTER THIRTY

 
 
 
 
Bradford Marsden, feeling smug and self-congratulatory, was breakfasting rather later—and rather more elaborately—than usual, with a glass of the hotel's best champagne beside his orange juice, and the bottle nestled in a bucket of ice. It was by way of celebration, he told himself, for the success of last night's little game. Marconi was cured of his ridiculous infatuation with Pauline Chase, the De Forest Wireless Company's nefarious plot against the Marconi Company had been foiled, and with any luck at all, Sheridan would shortly locate the missing tuner. Then Marconi could finish the job of making the bloody thing work, and they could all get on with the plans for the Royal visit. And then—

But at that moment, a shadow fell across the table, and Bradford looked up.

“Good morning, Charles,” he said heartily. “Just back from Helford, are you? Well, well. Pull up a chair and join me for breakfast.”

“Thank you, but I've eaten,” Charles said, and sat down.

“Well, then, a glass of bubbly.” Bradford hooked his finger at the waiter, who hurried over with a second glass, took the champagne out of the bucket, and poured. Bradford lifted his glass. “To success,” he said, “and the
absent
Miss Chase.” He tilted his head. “Have you heard?”

“I've heard,” Charles said, as the glass rims clinked. He added, to the waiter, “I'll have coffee, please.” To Bradford, he said, “I stopped at the constable's office. He told me what happened, and the outcome. But he couldn't tell me how you managed to set it up.”

“Right,” Bradford said. “I didn't bother to let the constable in on the initial gambit. Sufficient for him to appear at the ultimate checkmate—the moment we nabbed pretty Paulie with the tuner in her dear, dainty hands.” He pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair. “Not the real tuner, of course. Just a wooden box with a generous selection of ‘thingys' in it. They rattled quite satisfactorily.”

“Thingys?” Charles asked, with amusement.

“Her word.” He took out a gold cigarette case, an engagement present from Edith, and extracted a cigarette. “I overheard Miss Chase and Fisher—the American who claimed to be here to play golf—talking in her hotel room, which, most conveniently, was adjacent to mine. During the conversation, it emerged that they were both employed by the American De Forest Wireless Company. Both had the same assignment, to steal the tuner.”

“So they gave themselves away,” Charles said thoughtfully.

“They did indeed. From that point on, it was merely a matter of stage management. I concealed the fake tuner in Marconi's room, without his knowledge, of course. I contacted the constable and arranged with him to make the arrests. And then I took Marconi upstairs to witness the nefarious doings.” He smiled complacently. “Miss Chase did not disappoint. Really, Sheridan, I do wish you had been here to observe.”

“I congratulate you, Marsden,” Charles said. “A splendid job.” His coffee arrived and he added cream and sugar. “Marconi is going to prosecute?”

“I doubt it,” Bradford said. “The negative publicity, you know, although the pair is not to know that just yet. I plan to drive over to Helston this morning to have a conversation with Miss Chase.”

“About those letters?” Charles grinned.

“Yes.” Bradford chuckled, in anticipation. “I imagine the lady will agree that a batch of letters is a small price to pay for freedom. Shouldn't you?”

“Most likely,” Charles said. “I wonder—what were you able to learn yesterday when you went to Porthcurno? What's the purpose of that aerial over there?”

“The purpose is spying, without a doubt,” Bradford said. “Eastern Telegraph—which owns the cables which come ashore in Porthcurno Bay—has built a shack and installed a wireless receiver. I talked to the operator, who told me that the messages are merely intercepted, printed, and filed. And that appears to be the end of it. Nobody has ever bothered to examine the printed tape of the transmissions.” He paused. “Which seems to me to eliminate Eastern as a possible suspect for the theft of the tuner. I shouldn't think they'd go to the trouble, unless they were deeply interested, which appears not to be the case. Would you agree?”

“I would,” Charles said. He considered. “Sounds as if Eastern has concluded that Marconi Wireless is not a competitive threat to its business.”

“More fool they,” Bradford growled. He pulled on his cigarette. “What about your evening, Charles. How did it go, eh? What about Lodge? Why is the man at Penhallow? Do you think he's after information?”

“Oh, he's after information,” Charles said with muted irony, “but not the sort one might expect. It appears that he came to conduct a psychic experiment, with our Lady Loveday as the medium. He was hoping she would be able to contact her daughter, and thus put to rest her feelings of guilt for the daughter's death.”

Bradford stared. “A medium! A
medium?
” And with that, he threw back his head and laughed, long and loud. “I heard that the fellow—for all his vaunted intellect—has an interest in that kind of spiritualist clap-trap. And if that's truly what he has in mind for his visit here, I think we can count him out as a suspect.”

“That's truly his motive, as far as I can tell,” Charles said. “He was, of course, delighted to read Maskelyne's letter in
The Times
.” He picked up his coffee cup. “I hope you were able to dissuade Marconi from answering. Lodge says he is anxious to follow the exchange.”