Death on the Lizard (7 page)

 
 
 
 
Jenna Loveday had been right about the road, which zigzagged across the peninsula from Penhallow on the east to the village of Mullion on the west. It was not a long drive, but it was certainly dusty, and as Charles drove, the Panhard trailed a long gray cloud, like a ragged scarf blowing in the wind. But there was no doubting the beauty of the vast brown moorland, empty of everything but a few dwarfed trees and the ancient stone tumuli built by some vanished civilization.

The road along which they traveled was also empty, until, not far from Mullion, they encountered a farmer's cart, pulled by a horse which had apparently never before seen a motor car. The stone walls were built so closely on either side of the narrow road that there was no room to pull off, and Charles had to reverse the Panhard for quite a distance to find a spot where it could be stopped and the engine turned off. The horse (now blindfolded) was at last led reluctantly past, the farmer muttering imprecations into his beard and Charles wondering aloud whether bringing the motor car had been a good idea, after all.

“Of course it's a good idea,” Bradford growled, climbing back into the car after cranking the engine. “The trouble is that these country folk are so bloody backward.” He snorted derisively. “Did you hear what Jenna Loveday said? People complaining about noise from the wireless station!”

“The trouble is,” Charles said, putting the car into gear, “that the new ways of doing things disrupt people's lives. You can't blame them for being angry.”

Cornwall was the most remote corner of England—one of the reasons Marconi had chosen it, Charles knew, so that he could carry out his experiments out of the public eye. But he also knew that many of the people here still clung to their own Cornish language and spoke reminiscently of the days not long past, when Spanish and Portuguese galleons driven onto the rocks yielded a bounty of gold and goods to those who plundered the wrecks, when smugglers hauled their kegs of brandy up the rocky cliffs to be hidden away in barns and cottages. Except for fishing and mining, there had never been much industry here, and with the decline of the pilchard fishery and the closing of the tin mines, there was precious little employment to be had, except for catering to trippers and tourists.

Charles glanced at Bradford and raised his voice above the clatter of the car, adding, “Perhaps that's what's behind the trouble at the station—some of it, anyway. People resent the disturbances.”

“Well, if that's what it is,” Bradford said roughly, “we'll soon put it right. These ignorant country people need to learn that they can't stand in the way of progress.”

In another few minutes, they were entering Mullion Village, where they found themselves surrounded by a gaggle of shouting children and barking dogs. As they clattered along the narrow street, the doors of the houses flew open and astonished adults ran out to watch the noisy parade. Bradford shouted and brandished his stick threateningly, and Charles—stopping to keep from driving over a pair of women with baskets of laundry—thought to himself that he had been right. Bringing the car to this out-of-the-way place had been a serious mistake, for it attracted attention when he would rather have come unannounced. Better to park it somewhere and find a pony cart or a bicycle.

At last they were past the square gray stone tower of the Church of St. Mellanus and through Mullion Village. Ahead, as they looked across the windswept plateau toward the sea, they could see four tall wooden towers, odd-looking man-made intrusions. They were huge and ugly, Charles thought. He could see why the local people might not like them.

Bradford shouted over the clatter of the motor car, his voice full of pride. “Two hundred feet high, those wooden towers. We put them up after the first masts were blown over. Those trusses are built to stand up against any storm, even a hurricane. They won't come down, by damn.” He pointed. “And you see that aerial wire? That's what transmits and receives the signal, eighteen hundred miles across the Atlantic.
Eighteen hundred miles,
Sheridan! Marconi's miracle, they called that first transmission, eighteen months ago. But that was just the beginning. Why, we'll be flinging signals around the globe in the next decade.”

“You're sure the original masts were sabotaged?” Charles asked.

He pulled the Panhard to a stop and cut off the motor at a spot some distance from the wireless station. His ears ringing in the sudden silence, he pushed up his goggles and looked toward the transmitter building, a substantial structure of plastered brick with a roof of gray-blue slates. It had been erected in the center of a fenced compound of about an acre in size, with a wooden tower at each of the four corners. The four wooden towers, one at each corner of the compound, supported the aerial, which was connected to the transmitter building by a radiating web of wires. Not far away stood the Poldhu Hotel, an imposing gabled edifice which looked out toward the sea to the west and a golf course to the north—a challenging golf course, Charles had been told. He didn't play golf, but had heard Conan Doyle talk about its notorious twelfth hole, where the golfer had to drive his ball across a sixty-foot chasm, the white surf churning on the rocks below. A golf ball graveyard, Doyle called it.

“Of course it was sabotage,” Bradford replied grimly. “Just damn lucky nobody was killed. When the masts came down, one of them barely missed George Kemp, who was working here at the time. Another inch and he would've been a dead man.” He took out a cigar and lit it. “The company, of course, put it about that the damage was entirely due to the storm. They didn't want it known that we'd been the target of sabotage.”

“And so it's been on the other occasions? The company covering up?”

Bradford nodded. “Accidents, they say, mishaps, mistakes, that sort of thing. Never sabotage, for fear of the Press getting hold of the story, and the news getting to the investors. Marconi's oblivious to it all, of course. He's . . . well, he's like other inventors, I suppose. Always scheming for the next innovation, trying to make the product better. And while he spends his time on research, the directors have to keep the company afloat.” His voice darkened. “It hasn't been easy, I'll tell you. This is the first year Marconi Wireless has shown a profit—although it has yet to declare a dividend.”

Charles was startled. “But I thought—”

“That the investors were already getting something back?” Bradford laughed shortly. “Not bloody likely. And if you want to know the truth, even that so-called profit was produced by juggling the financial report. We've a long way to go before there's any real money to be made, with stations still to be built and equipped, and never enough cash to pay the bills. And the worst of it is that we've got to stay ahead of the pack.” His face twisted and he clenched his fist. “Always ahead of the pack, which are nipping at our heels like so many mad dogs.”

“There's that much rivalry, then?” Charles asked.

“And more,” Bradford said grimly. “The cable telegraph companies—particularly Eastern—have fortunes at stake. Imagine the cost to lay and maintain the undersea cables around the world, all of which will be obsolete once we're in full operation.”

Charles pulled his brows together. “You're right about the cost, certainly. But do you really believe that wireless will make cable obsolete?”

“Of course I do,” Bradford said. “And then there are the wireless competitors. Fessenden and Tesla in America. Popov in Russia, Ducretet in France, Slaby and d'Arco in Germany. And the Lodge-Muirhead Syndicate, of course, here in England. You no doubt saw the article in the
Pall Mall Gazette
a few months ago.”

“I did,” Charles said. “Something to the effect that the Lodge-Muirhead system is more reliable and less likely to suffer signal interference.”

“Beastly lot of rubbish,” Bradford muttered.

“As I remember it,” Charles went on, “one of the cable companies had signed an agreement to use the Lodge-Muirhead equipment. There was something about a contract with the Indian government, too, wasn't there?”

“Yes, unfortunately,” Bradford said bitterly. “We were after that Indian contract too, you know. I can't think it's a coincidence that Oliver Lodge is coming to the Lizard. The man has something up his sleeve. He's here to spy, I'll wager.”

“I doubt that, somehow,” Charles said. “Lodge is a gentleman.” Still, he could understand Bradford's feelings. All this rivalry—and especially the very real threat posed by the Lodge-Muirhead Syndicate—must be giving the Marconi Company nightmares. And with the Royal visit looming, no potential source of trouble could be dismissed, no matter how far-fetched it might seem.

Bradford got out and cranked the Panhard again, and they drove down the long slope to the Poldhu Hotel, where they parked and went toward the compound. A guard opened the gate when Bradford identified himself and watched them as they walked to the transmitter building. A rusty bicycle was propped against the wall.

Bradford rapped twice on the door, then twice again, saying over his shoulder to Charles, “I'm afraid we've had to adopt Draconian measures—the guard, coded knocks, passwords—to keep the curious out. They're a bloody nuisance, and it's impossible to separate the sightseers from the spies of other companies and foreign governments.”

Charles was about to ask which governments Bradford suspected, but they were interrupted by a wary voice from within. “Station's closed. Who's there?”

“Marsden. Double-ought-nine. Open up, Corey.”

Double-ought-nine? Charles hid his amusement. The whole thing was beginning to feel like one of those penny-dreadfuls Kate used to write. But a man was dead, and that was nothing to smile about.

There was the sound of a bolt being slid back, and the door opened. “Glad you're here, Mr. Marsden,” the man said with relief in his voice. “It's been . . . well, it's been bad, I'll tell you that. To think that Gerard is dead! Why, I just can't seem to get the fact of it into my mind. I can't—”

“Hold on, Corey,” Bradford said, raising his hand to stem the flow of words. “This is Lord Charles Sheridan. He and I have come to have a look around.” To Charles, he added, “Corey—Dick, is it?—is the assistant manager of the station.”

“Dick, yes,” the man said eagerly. He was about forty, with dark, thinning hair and a receding chin only partly masked by a straggling beard. “I've been here for nearly two years now, and—”

“Right,” Bradford said. “Corey is responsible for keeping the generator going. It's a big brute of a thing, Sheridan. Thirty horsepower, capable of generating twenty-five kilowatts and some fifty thousand volts. When the thing is operating and the door's open, it can be heard for miles.”

“A monster if I may say, sir.” Corey took a large blue handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his sweaty neck. “Beastly and dangerous. Oh, yes, dangerous.” He replaced his handkerchief, shaking his head sadly. “I pity Gerard, poor chap, but he had nobody to blame but himself. He was usually careful, but with all the power we're generating here, it only takes one misstep to—”

“Show us around, Corey,” Bradford broke in impatiently. “We'll get to Gerard in a minute.”

So for the next ten minutes, Charles followed Dick Corey and Bradford around the station. It was a simple layout, clearly designed for economy and efficiency rather than attractiveness. The power room housed the large oil-fueled generator which powered the transmitting equipment. A doorway led to the transmitter room. At one end stood a rack of great boxlike Leyden jars, or condensers, which stored and stepped up the generator's electricity, next to a wooden cage housing other equipment and bearing a sign: CAUTION! VERY DANGEROUS! STAND CLEAR! The floor was covered with rubber mats designed to reduce the danger of electrical shock. On a platform at the other end of the room stood the sending and receiving tables with their various equipment.

“It's quiet enough now,” Corey said, “but when the generator's running and the operator's sending, we have to wear cotton wool in our ears. Every time the key is struck, the spark is as loud as an Lee-Enfield rifle. Sounds like a company of infantry firing in a tunnel.” He shook his head. “Deafening, that's what it is.”

“And where did the accident take place?” Charles asked.

“Gerard's body was found over there,” Corey said, pointing, “beside that bank of Leyden jars. You have to stay well clear, because the generator charges the system to fifty thousand volts, and the current will jump right out to you. A crack and a blue flash, like a bolt of lightning. That's what must have happened. Of course,” he added, “I wouldn't know. I was in Helston, visiting my brother, when it happened.” He shuddered. “But it's a good guess.”

“Must've been like touching a trolley wire,” Bradford muttered.

Charles reflected that the great disadvantage of the Marconi system was the enormous amount of electricity required, especially compared to what was needed to power the telegraph and the telephone. It sounded as if the transmitters were fire-breathing dragons, and the transmitter station a singularly hazardous place, where a man had to be constantly on his guard.

He turned to Corey. “Did anybody witness the accident?”

Corey shook his head regretfully. “All by himself he was, poor chap. The key operator was delayed coming onto his shift—we have four telegraph operators at this station, and two electricians. Eight-hour shifts for the operators, twelve-hour shifts for the electricians, twelve for Gerard and me. But there was some sort of mix-up in the scheduling, and the electrician wasn't aware that he was supposed to be on.” He paused. “It's not a good idea to be in this room alone, of course. But sometimes we've no choice.” He slid a deferential glance at Bradford. “Unfortunately, the company's had to reduce the staff. I'm not complaining,” he added quickly. “We're doing the best we can.”