Death on the Lizard (9 page)

The “four-seven” system which Marconi patented in 1900 and the “Maggie” he and Gerard devised in 1902 were supposed to solve the tuning problem—at least, that's what the company had been telling everybody for the past six months. Anxious about the claims being made in England by the Muirhead-Lodge Syndicate and in the United States by the De Forest Wireless Telegraph Company, the directors had decided to announce that the problem had been solved. The newspapers, always ready to trumpet Marconi's latest achievement, were already claiming that selective tuning was a reality at last.

Privately, however, Marconi knew better. The equipment they were currently using could not be reliably tuned, no matter how many claims the company made. But Gerard had been hard at work on the problem for some months. He'd got a new idea for a valve—an oscillation valve, he called it—from Thomas Edison, with whom he had worked some years before, and the device he was working on was close to completion. Then they would have a tuner that would
really
solve the interference problem, both in commercial use and in special applications for the Admiralty. In the meantime, of course, they would all go on making the usual claims.

So tonight, Marconi had to swallow his grief and pain at the loss of his friend and colleague and tell his audience that he had already done what he knew lay in the future. The demonstration was planned so that wireless messages from Poldhu, relayed via the Chelmsford Station, would be received on a Morse tickertape printer set up behind a screen at the back of the platform. As the messages came in, Arthur Blok would deliver them to the podium, where, with due ceremony, Marconi would read them aloud, demonstrating that the Marconi system could send and receive with the utmost reliability and confidentiality.

But as Arthur Blok turned on the receiver and began to adjust it, Marconi—so experienced with Morse that he could decode dots and dashes while he was speaking to an audience—heard a very different message than the one he expected. To his infinite dismay, the tickertape was printing out a rhyme:

THERE WAS A YOUNG FELLOW OF ITALY, WHO DIDDLED THE PUBLIC QUITE PRETTILY . . . This insulting bit of doggerel was repeated several times and was then followed by a single, astonishing, and emphatic word:
RATS
.

Marconi felt himself go cold. His knees threatened to buckle, and he had to grasp the podium with both hands to stay upright. The message—the appalling message!—was proof positive that his claim of freedom from interference was a lie. If anybody in the audience caught on to it, they would call him a fraud, and they would be right.

Fighting to keep his voice steady, Marconi continued to speak as he scanned the audience to see if the humiliating rhyme had been deciphered. The French investors, who didn't know a dot from a dash, were listening intently to his words. Miss Chase, her eyes fixed on him, her pretty lips pursed, was leaning forward as if enthralled. Everyone else was deeply engrossed in what he was saying. No one seemed to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.

But then Marconi saw someone he recognized, someone who was watching him with amused disdain written across his gaunt, triangular face. It was Nevil Maskelyne, a well-known magician who also dabbled in wireless. Catching Marconi's eye, Maskelyne raised one contemptuous finger and laid it beside his nose. Then he winked, a slow, knowing, and very deliberate wink. There was no doubt in Marconi's mind. It was Maskelyne who had arranged for the intrusive signal.

Marconi's heart sank into his shoes, but he managed to struggle through the rest of the lecture, which was blessedly uneventful. The Morse ticker clicked out the closing message from Poldhu, signing off. Marconi finished speaking, bowed, and the audience burst into enthusiastic applause— all but Maskelyne, who, much to Marconi's great relief, had already made his exit. He did not intend, apparently, to cause any trouble.

But as the applause subsided and Marconi bowed and turned away from the podium, he heard the Morse printer begin again. And this time, the message was much more ominous.
MARCONI IS DEAD,
it said.
MARCONI IS DEAD
.

Arthur Blok handed him the printer tape, his eyes round, his face gray. “Who do you think, sir?” he whispered.

“Don't speak of this to anyone,” Marconi said roughly, taking the tape and stuffing it into his pocket. Then he swallowed his fear, turned on his heel, and went to greet Miss Pauline Chase, who was waiting at the foot of the stairs, her plumed hat tilted becomingly, her feather boa tossed over her shoulder.

“Oh, Marky!” she cried, taking his arm and gazing up at him adoringly, “I just ate up every word. You are exactly what the newspapers call you. The Wizard of Wireless!”

“Are you?” spoke an ironic, drawling voice, deep in the shadows behind the stairs. “Are you the Wizard of Wireless, Marky? Or perhaps we should rather call you the ‘Wireless Humbug'.”

Marconi whirled. “You have some cheek, Maskelyne,” he growled.

“Cheek?” Maskelyne gave an unpleasant laugh. He stepped out of the shadows, carrying an ebony walking stick and wearing a top hat and a scarlet opera cape that made him look like Bram Stoker's Dracula. “Don't talk to me about cheek, Marconi. All those claims for proof against interference—they're nothing but a fraud on the public. Pure humbuggery.” He laughed again. “That Morse signal didn't come from Poldhu or Chelmsford. It came from The Egyptian Hall, less than a block away, where I perform my magic shows. Your device was completely incapable of tuning it out, and you know it.”

“Monkey tricks and scientific hooliganism are one thing,” Marconi said low, between gritted teeth, “but a death threat's quite another. That's a police matter, you know.”

Maskelyne's eyebrow went up. “Death threat? I know nothing about a death threat, old chap. You mean to say that there was
another
transmitter sending you unsolicited messages?” He barked an unpleasant laugh. “Well, I suppose that's another proof, isn't it? Your receiver is totally incapable of discriminating among transmitters. Scientific hooliganism, eh? I like that. I like it very much. You won't mind if I quote you, I hope—Marky.”

Miss Chase was tugging at Marconi's arm. “A death threat?” She gave a bright, brittle laugh. “How utterly fascinating, Marky! Should I be alarmed?”

Marconi started. He had almost forgotten Miss Chase. He patted her hand. “No, don't be alarmed. It's nothing to trouble yourself about, my dear.”

“Oh, indeed,” Maskelyne remarked nastily. “Don't trouble yourself at all, my dear young lady. But do keep an eye on
The Times,
Marky.” He grinned. “You won't want to miss my letter regarding the fun I've had at your expense tonight. Since you didn't see fit to let your audience in on the messages you were receiving on that instrument of yours, I believe I shall do just that.” He tipped his hat and twirled his cape around him with a flourish. “Scientific hooliganism, eh? Yes, indeed, I shall quote you. Do watch
The Times
. I'll get the letter off tomorrow—no doubt they'll print it right away.”

And
that
remark, more than the unfortunate incident, and even more than the death threat, was what ruined the rest of Marconi's evening. Not even Miss Chase's solicitous flirtations could ease his mind.

CHAPTER SEVEN

 
 
 
At home, Kate was an early riser, for she always had to settle a certain number of domestic issues and matters having to do with her school. The sooner these things were out of the way, the sooner she could settle down to her writing. But here at Penhallow, with none of her regular responsibilities to meet, she slept later than usual. When she awoke, she stretched and lay still for a while, thinking about the pleasant evening she had shared with Patsy and Jenna Loveday. The three of them had found themselves to be remarkably compatible, and by the time they said good-night and went to bed, they were chattering away like old friends. It had been a long time since Kate had felt that kind of easy, enjoyable companionship with other women, and she was very glad to have found it. She thought Jenna might be glad, too, for there was no evidence that she had any other women friends.

There was a light tap at the door, and the housemaid appeared with a tray of tea and buttered toast. As the curtains were opened to let in the morning sunshine, Kate glanced out the window, half-expecting to see the little red-haired girl perched in the tree. Kate had meant to mention the child to Jenna, but by the time the tea bell had rung and Kate had gone down to the terrace, the girl had disappeared and Kate had forgotten about her. Some village child, probably, playing a woodland game.

Not a child, a fairy!
Beryl Bardwell chided.
Where's your imagination, Kate? This is Cornwall, for heaven's sake. The woods must be full of fairies
.

“Always on the lookout for excitement, aren't you?” Kate muttered to herself, and picked up her teacup. Still, Beryl had a point. This was Cornwall, the mythical home of the Little People. Any novelist worth her salt would have to confess to being intrigued.

By the time Kate had dressed and gone down to the breakfast room, Patsy and Jenna were already at the table, where Patsy seemed to be regaling Jenna with a tale of life in the Arabian desert.

“Good morning, Kate,” Patsy said, with a cheerful toss of her head. “You're just in time to hear all about the Arabian sheik I fell in love with in the desert. So tall and handsome.” She sighed elaborately. “With the face of a god.”

“And the hand of a tyrant, I don't doubt,” Kate replied practically. “Don't fall in love with a sheik, Patsy. You'd be bored to desperation by life in a harem. Nothing to do but sit with your embroidery and wait until it was your turn.” As Patsy and Jenna giggled, she helped herself to bacon and eggs from the hot plates on the sideboard and sat down across from Jenna.

“You slept well, I trust,” Jenna said.

“Deliciously,” Kate replied. “There's certainly something to be said for taking a holiday.” She glanced out the window, where the sunlit lawn sloped down toward the woodland. “Especially in such a beautiful place, and on such a beautiful morning.”

Patsy began to butter her toast. “Harriet's monument has just been put up,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, “and Jenna asked me to walk to the churchyard this morning to see it. You'll join us?”

“Of course,” Kate said. She was glad that Patsy had opened the subject. They hadn't spoken about Jenna's daughter the night before, but perhaps they were comfortable enough now that Jenna might be ready to talk about it.

“I'm not terribly fond of the monument,” Jenna said. “My mother-in-law ordered it, and I couldn't say no. But visiting Harriet's grave is a comfort. I've somehow felt that I have abandoned her, you know.” Her smile was rueful. “I know that's silly, but there it is.” She glanced at Kate. “Patsy tells me that you lost a child, too, so perhaps you understand.”

“I do,” Kate said. She spoke truthfully. “If it hadn't been for Charles, I'm not sure how I would have survived. He couldn't have been more helpful and tender. The experience brought us together.”

“You're fortunate, Kate.” Jenna picked up a pitcher. “Patsy, would you like another glass of orange juice?”

Kate felt suddenly awkward, and wished she hadn't spoken. Jenna's husband was dead, and there was no one to comfort her.

Patsy held up her juice glass. “Yes, please.” She gave Kate a mock frown. “If our Kate will not permit me to have my handsome sheik, I'll have to console myself somehow.”

 
 
Sheltered by overhanging oaks, the small, gray stone church stood at the edge of a green meadow a half-hour's walk from Penhallow. It was very old and had been built by her family, Jenna said, on a site which had once been a place for pagan worship and ritual.

“The Tyrrills were privateers, you see,” she said, with the hint of a smile. “Pirates with a fleet of small, fast ships. They moored them in Frenchman's Creek and sailed out to the Channel to prey on French and Spanish galleons. Penhallow came into their possession as part of a dowry during the reign of King James I, and the family decided to settle down.” She gestured. “They built the church shortly after. I suppose they felt the need to be accepted and respectable. Or perhaps it was penance for their piracy.”

The morning air was mild but still cool enough for Kate to be glad that she had worn her green shawl. The meadow was softened by wisps of silver fog, and the velvety grass was bright with early summer flowers. Jenna had brought a basket of scented roses from the manor garden to put on Harriet's grave, although the wildings at their feet, Kate thought, were just as beautiful.

They went through the gate into the churchyard. “What a lovely spot,” Patsy said. “It's so very peaceful.” She glanced around. “Where—?”

“There,” Jenna said, pointing to a spot near the stone wall, beside a large lilac bush. “George's mother wanted to bury her on the Loveday estate in Kent, with George. But all the Tyrrills are here, and I wouldn't have my daughter anywhere else.” Her voice was firm. “This is where she belongs. Where
both
of us belong.”