Death on the Lizard (13 page)

“I didn't even tell anyone I was there and saw what happened,” Kate said sadly. “That's what made me sorriest—after I thought about it, I mean. I should have told somebody. I should have told the policeman. Instead, I ran home, and acted surprised when my aunt told me about it.”

The fifth petal fluttered to the ground and Alice stepped on it, hard, as if it were trying to get away. “Why didn't you tell?”

“Because I couldn't explain why we'd gone where we weren't supposed to go. Because I knew my aunt would be very angry at me and might never trust me to go out by myself again. Because . . .” Kate shrugged, not looking at Alice. “I was a coward, I suppose.”

The rest of the petals flew away in a furious blizzard, and Alice tossed the plucked stem into the grass with an angry gesture. They had reached the top of the hill, and Helford Village lay behind and beneath them. “I hope you weren't sorry forever.” She turned her fierce bright eyes on Kate. “
Were
you?”

“Not exactly,” Kate said. “I finally told my friend's mother, you see. She was so desperately unhappy. I didn't want her to keep on thinking that her daughter had been all alone when . . . when it happened. I wanted her to know why, and how. And that it was . . . it was my fault, too. That we were there, I mean.”

There was a long pause. “Were you glad you told?”

“Yes. I think she was glad, too. But I'm still sorry I didn't tell right away.”

Alice pulled her brows together, as if she were trying to puzzle out a rather difficult question. And then, having apparently come to a conclusion, she said, in a careless tone, “Sometimes Harriet and I went in the woods.” She picked up a rock and threw it, hard, at a fence post. “We were
secret
friends, you know. Not because her mother forbade us. Just because.”

“Sometimes secret friends are best,” Kate said.

Alice nodded. “She would bring her dolls to our secret place. Sometimes she helped me with my chores. Sometimes we read books.”

“Oh, books!” Kate exclaimed. “What books did you read?”

“Well, there was
The Water Babies,
” Alice said, “about the boy who drowned and went to live in the sea. And
Treasure Island,
and
A Child's Garden of Verses
.” She glanced at Kate, shyly now. “Do you like books?”

“Oh, indeed I do,” Kate said. “Books are my very favorite things. Speaking of
A Child's Garden of Verses,
do you know ‘From a Railway Carriage'?” She began to recite:

 
“Oh, yes!” Alice windmilled her arms.

 
she cried.

 
And then they recited all the rest of the poem in unison, down to the very last word. When they were finished, they went back to the beginning and did it all over again, just because the words were such fun. And then they linked hands and as they walked they recited as many of Stevenson's poems as they could remember, which proved to be nearly enough to take them most of the way back to Penhallow.

“I wonder,” Kate said, when they reached the spot where she and Alice had met, “since your name is Alice, whether you have read
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
.” Kate had seen the book on a shelf at Penhallow, and felt sure that Jenna would not object to a loan. And she wanted to talk to the girl again. She was sure that Alice knew something about Harriet's death, although it might not be easy to get her to tell what it was.

“
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland!
” Alice exclaimed. Her blue eyes were very bright. “No, I haven't.”

“If Lady Loveday does not object, I shall bring it to your grandmother's cottage.” Kate paused. “How would tomorrow afternoon suit?”

Alice nodded wordlessly.

“Good,” Kate said. “I'll see you then.” She started toward the manor house, then turned and looked after the girl. Alice was skipping down the lane, chanting the first verses of Stevenson's poem “Looking-Glass River”:

 
“What an exceptional child,” Kate murmured to herself.
A fairy child,
said Beryl, with a happy sigh.
A fairy child
.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 
 
 
Charles spent the whole of Thursday morning with various investigative duties. After he left the constable's office, he went to find the coroner, and repeated to him what he had already told Thomas Deane. As Charles had hoped, the coroner, a largish, balding man who seemed to have a very high estimation of his own importance, took the position that there was no clear connection between the missing tuner and diary and Gerard's death.

“No need to testify,” he said, with a careless wave of his hand. “The items were undoubtedly mislaid.” As far as Charles was concerned, this was a good thing. Word of the thefts was bound to leak out, but the longer that could be delayed, the better.

The inquest itself was the usual presentation of known facts and the drawing of foregone conclusions. Daniel Gerard was said to have been neither mentally nor physically impaired in the days before his death, and was described as a man who normally exercised a great deal of care when he worked with the equipment. It also emerged that the neighbors were increasingly concerned by the enormous amount of electricity generated at the station. A farmer who lived a quarter mile away testified that all the metal gutters and drainpipes on his property ticked and flashed in concert with the station's transmissions, causing the coroner to shake his head and observe dryly, “How very shocking.” When the spectators laughed, he gaveled them into silence, but it was clear that he was pleased at their appreciation of his wit.

Following the inquest, Charles walked to the station and spent some time questioning the station employees, one at a time. Gerard was likeable but reserved, he was told, and appeared to have no relationships outside of his professional life. The two wireless operators and the electrical engineer reported that they knew about the red leather diary, for they had seen him making notes in it, and they were aware that he and Marconi had been working on some sort of new device. But none of them seemed to know what it was, or where it was kept, and Charles did not mention that it was missing. They had all visited the company office in the hotel at one time or another, but all denied ever having been alone there.

Concluding the station interviews, Charles talked to Dick Corey at some greater length. Corey, now the station manager, added the information that Gerard was highly demanding and not an easy man to work for, although the two of them had got on together reasonably well. As far as the diary was concerned, Corey said that it was kept in the desk drawer in the office when it was not in Gerard's possession, and that while he was aware that Gerard was working on some sort of experimental device designed to improve reception, Gerard hadn't discussed it with him. Charles had the impression that Corey's relationship with the dead man was not entirely amicable and that there might have been some competition between them, probably a natural thing in the circumstance.

In the middle of the afternoon, Charles found Bradford Marsden waiting for him, as they had arranged, in the hotel lobby.

“Well, now, Sheridan,” Bradford said, greeting him, “what was concluded at the inquest this morning?”

“That Gerard's death was an accidental electrocution,” Charles replied, “the result of falling into the electrical apparatus. I spoke to both the constable and the coroner privately about the thefts, and managed to keep that information from coming out at the inquest. I also spoke to the station employees, but learned nothing new. I see no indication that the death was anything other than a tragic accident—except for the thefts, of course.”

“Shall we see if we can get a cup of coffee?” Bradford asked, and they started across the lobby toward the hotel bar.

“Oh, Lord Sheridan!” the hotel clerk called, from behind the desk. He raised a white envelope. “A letter for you, sir.”

Charles accepted the letter and opened it as he followed Bradford. Since he had left his wife at Penhallow only the afternoon before and was expecting to see her when he returned on Friday for dinner with Sir Oliver Lodge, he was surprised and delighted when the letter proved to be from Kate. It had arrived by the late afternoon post.

“A cup of coffee,” Marsden was saying to the man behind the bar. “The same for you, Sheridan?”

Charles nodded absently. He opened the envelope and scanned the brief and somewhat cryptic handwritten note.

 
P.S. At the Arms, you might ask for John Northrop.

 
Our friend from Scotland and Easton Lodge? The man could only be Andrew Kirk-Smythe, Charles thought, as he folded the letter and went to join Bradford at the table in front of the window overlooking the sea. And Kate obviously suspected that he was up to something and was being discreet, in case her message were read by someone else.

Charles sat down where he could have a view of the ocean. John Northrup, eh? An interesting bit of intrigue. When he and Kirk-Smythe had been together in Scotland, Andrew had been working in Military Intelligence. The fact that he chose not to recognize Kate and was masquerading as a birdwatcher named John Northrup suggested that he was on some sort of intelligence mission. But what? Charles frowned. Was he after a foreign agent? That hardly seemed likely, here on the Lizard. There were certainly plenty of secret agents, as the international situation became more uneasy and unsettled, but they tended to cluster in London, where they could listen at the Government's keyholes.

The waiter appeared with cups and a silver pot. When he had poured their coffee and gone, Charles turned to Bradford. “Tell me,” he said, “what kind of interest Marconi is attracting on the Continent, particularly from foreign governments.”

“A very great deal, in fact,” Bradford replied. “There are the Italians, of course—they turned down Marconi's wireless in the beginning, but they're making up for it now. They've contracted for installations on twenty warships. And last summer, King Victor Emmanuel loaned Marconi the
Carlo Alberto
as a floating laboratory. They sailed the ship to Russia, where the Tsar came aboard to see the apparatus. Apparently it was quite an event, flags flying, bands playing, sailors cheering. There is a great deal of Russian interest in wireless, you know—although they are at the present time primarily using Popov's system.” He smiled thinly. “But Popov is second-rate. They'll come around. It's only a matter of time before they take the Marconi system.”

Charles glanced out at the ocean, where a large ship was steaming across the horizon. Wireless might still be in its infancy, but it had already been of immeasurable benefit to shipping. Steamships could now communicate with one another and with the shore at distances of hundreds of miles. Wireless had saved the lives of the crew of the Goodwin Sands lightship off the coast of Dover, and no doubt it would save many more. And there was the advantage to law enforcement, as well. The summer before, two robbers were arrested in California, the police having been alerted via a wireless message sent from Catalina Island to Los Angeles, where the authorities picked them up as they left the ferry. But the greatest advantage, when the tuning problem could be solved—rather,
if
the tuning problem were solved— would no doubt be military.

“How about the Germans?” he asked. “Is the Kaiser interested?”

“Is the Kaiser interested?” Bradford repeated sarcastically. He looked over his shoulder to make sure that they were not overheard. “Bloody thieves, those Germans,” he said, in a lower voice.

“So it's like that, is it?” Charles remarked with interest.