Death on the Lizard (17 page)

But Thomas Deane knew his duty, and even though it was not required, he usually stopped in at one or more of Mullion's pubs and inns after dinner, just for a bit of a listen. Tonight he went up the street to The Pelican Inn, which sported a painted sign above the bar:

 
 
There were no hills in Mullion, but Deane did not doubt the second part of the ditty, especially these days. Derek Faull, the owner, was known for his hospitality, and Mrs. Faull for her savory eel pie, and the Pelican had been the place to stay—until the Marconi Company came along, that is, and the new hotel was built on Poldhu Bay. The Marconi people and the tourists found the Poldhu and its Parisian chef much more to their taste, and as custom fell off, Faull had been forced to raise his prices for food and drink. It was, Deane thought sourly, just another example of the short-shrift and no-favor which the village folk had got from the influx of outlanders.

Still, The Pelican was full tonight. Deane took his half-pint to his place at the far end of the bar, greeting men as he went in the colloquial mix of Cornish and English which was Mullion's work-a-day idiom. From his stool, he surveyed the crowd, the usual gang of fishermen, farmers, laborers, tradesmen, and transients. Jim Barrie, the blacksmith, had already had too much to drink—Mrs. Barrie, a proper scold, would be at the door in a few minutes to fetch him. Patrick Mora, the best dartsman in the village, was winning the weekly tournament, and would soon have half poor Mitchell's wages and a fair share of everyone else's. The birdwatcher who was staying at the Oysterman in Helford was sitting all alone in a corner. Faull was serving behind the bar, one of the Faull daughters was washing up the glasses in the corner sink, and Mrs. Faull was bringing out another tray of pies. And at a nearby table—

With a frown, the constable focussed on the two men, their shoulders hunched over empty mugs of ale. One of the men was Dick Corey, from the wireless station, who had testified at the inquest that morning that he had worked closely with Daniel Gerard and was now the station manager. It was a bit of a surprise to see him here, since the Marconi men mostly kept to themselves out at Poldhu.

The other man? The constable regarded him thoughtfully. It was the foreign chap, the sailor, whom he'd seen several times in the Mullion pubs, and who seemed to spend some of his time on this side of the Lizard, some on the other. He had mentioned the fellow to Sheridan that morning, when he'd been asked about strangers. Tall and broad-shouldered, blond hair, skin tanned leathery by sun and wind. He had the look of a Swede or a Dane, the constable thought. Again, he was not the usual sort who frequented The Pelican. He stood out just enough to be noticed.

And while Deane was noticing the pair, he noticed something else. He saw the blond man fold some money in his hand and pass it, under the table, to Corey, who took it without looking and thrust it into his coat pocket. They exchanged a few more words, seemed to laugh together at some joke, and then the blond man stood, nodded to his companion, and left. A moment later, Corey left as well.

Out of curiosity, the constable followed him as far as the edge of the village, where the path to the transmitter station and the Poldhu Hotel slanted off across the moor. The moon had risen, and there was just enough light so that he could watch Dick Corey, his hands in his pockets, his head down, trudging through the quiet night.

Deane watched him out of sight, thinking. He had the feeling that he had witnessed something important. It was certainly something that Lord Charles ought to know about. He would look him up tomorrow.

The constable turned and headed for home and Molly.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 
 
 
 
After his meeting with the woman calling herself Pauline Chase, Bradford Marsden had spent a very uneasy night. She was not Pauline Chase—more precisely, that was not the name she was using when they were acquainted, some two or three years before. Then, she had been Millicent Mitford, a young woman of substantial means (or so it had appeared), indulging herself in the frivolous pleasures of Parisian night life. Their acquaintance had been brief but intimate and entirely satisfying, at least to Bradford, and, he had reason to believe, to Miss Mitford, as well. That it had not continued had been due solely to Bradford's impending marriage to the lovely and well-connected Miss Edith Hill.

In fact, the relationship might have continued even past his wedding day had it not been for the fact that Bradford had lost touch with the lady. And when he did encounter her again—in Vienna, this time—she was no longer Millicent Mitford, but Francine Sterne, travelling in the company of a very rich American gentleman who was identified to Bradford as Oscar C. Sterne, Miss Sterne's uncle. Bradford obliquely acknowledged their previous acquaintance when they met at a salon, but did not mention the details to Mr. Sterne, or express his concern about the change in Miss Sterne's name and circumstances. He felt rather sorry for that omission when he discovered, some while later, that the poor fellow had died most unexpectedly. Some said it had come about from natural causes, while some were of the opinion that he might have been poisoned. Of Miss Sterne's whereabouts, and the whereabouts of Mr. Sterne's valuable financial assets, no one seemed certain.

These were the worries clouding Bradford's mind on Friday morning as he took his usual brisk before-breakfast walk. He was bound toward Polbream Point, some little way south along the Angrouse cliff path. To his right, the ocean offered a spectacular view, the cliff dropping dizzily into piles of jagged rocks below, where silver surf foamed in great shoals of lather. Sea birds dallied and danced on empty air, while beneath them, the sea shaded from aquamarine to lapis lazuli, the surface lolling in lazy, voluptuous movements, seductive, deceptive, deadly.

Seductive, deceptive, deadly
. Exactly the words Bradford would use to describe Pauline Chase, and Millicent Mitford, and Francine Sterne. There was no doubt about it: whether she was out for money or simply for the glamour of being noticed by the world-famous inventor, the woman was dangerous. And if her behavior with the unfortunate Mr. Sterne offered any clue, things might be worse than that. The man was dead, and there were rumors.

But what the devil am I to do? Bradford wondered. Tell Marconi that he's being deceived by a beautiful woman pretending to be someone she's not, a woman with, to put it quite mildly, an unsavory past? That Pauline, or Millicent, or whoever she is had been involved with numerous men, and that, whatever her motive, it was very doubtful that she had his best interests at heart? That was how he should handle the situation, Bradford knew: Tell Marconi everything and dispatch the dangerous and deadly Miss Chase back to London on the earliest train.

The trouble was that it wouldn't work.

Bradford kicked at a rock in the path. Marconi might be a level-headed inventor and an astute businessman, but when it came to women, he was a naïve, addle-brained romantic who flung himself heart-first into one foolish infatuation after another—even going so far as to propose to women whom he had known for only a few days. Worse yet, there was simply no reasoning with the fellow when he was in such an absurd state. Marconi had been known to smash his instruments when they did not work to suit him; if Bradford tried to warn him about Miss Chase, he was certain to explode in a tantrum or dive into a bottomless funk. And either reaction would be disastrous, especially with all the problems facing them. There was the threat of Maskelyne's letter to
The Times,
which was bound to generate a great deal of negative publicity. And the appalling business of Gerard's death, and the missing tuner and diary, which might at this very moment be in the hands of a competitor. And the Royals and Admiral Fisher due to arrive in a fortnight's time, the Prince and the Admiral expecting to see some sort of innovative device. Bradford couldn't afford to be distracted by one of Marconi's mercurial moods. There was too much delicate work to be done, too much—

“Mr. Marsden! Mr. Marsden, yoo-hoo!” A woman's high, brittle voice penetrated his thoughts, and he turned, guiltily aware that she must have been hailing him for some time. “Oh, I
say,
sir! Mr. Marsden!”

Marching toward him was an apparition: a woman of substantial bulk, military bearing, and an air of indisputable authority which would have struck fear into the heart of even the most battle-hardened Boer. She wore a black coat and a black hat the size of a manhole cover. She was armed with a black umbrella and wore a pair of large binoculars slung round her neck.

“Yes?” Bradford snatched off his hat. The woman reminded him of a nanny under whose rule he had suffered as a small child, and a feeling of cold terror congealed in his gut, as if he were eight years old again. “What might I do for you, Mrs.—”

“
Miss
Truebody,” the apparition pronounced emphatically. “I have been looking all over for you, Mr. Marsden, and I am very glad to find you
at last
.” The latter two words were delivered with an icy intonation which clearly implied that Bradford, heathen child that he was and disgracefully delinquent, had failed once more to do as he had been told.

“Quite,” Bradford said uneasily. “I am very sorry, I'm sure. How may I—”

“You may see to it, young man,” she snapped, “that those dreadful telegraphic transmissions remain silent—forever. The wretched noise of those infernal electrical explosions has quite interrupted the nesting cycle of several of our important birds, most notably, that of the red-eyed vireo. Two nests have been abandoned, abandoned utterly. Two!” She gave him a look of dark accusation which let him know that he and he alone was the cause of this lamentable maternal defection. “And what is more, those of us who pursue the peace and quiet of the moor now find it . . .” She closed her eyes and heaved a shuddering sigh of earthquake magnitude. “We find it quite impossible to enjoy the out-of-doors as we are wont to do.” She opened her eyes once more and gave him a narrow, accusing look. “And it is all the fault of the Marconi Company. Your telegraphic transmissions must be
permanently
discontinued, or there will be unspeakable, irrevocable, and intolerable consequences to the wildlife of the Lizard.”

Bradford flinched. “I'm . . . sorry,” he said. It was the best he could do, but the words sounded banal and inane, even to him, and he knew that they must mortally offend her.

They did.

“Sorry?” Miss Truebody rose on the tips of her toes, as if she were preparing to ascend into the heavens. Her eyes flashed and her voice lifted. She reminded Bradford of an operatic soprano tuning up to sing the role of Queen of the Night. “You are . . .
sorry
?”

“Well, yes. I sincerely apologize for any . . . inconvenience we may have inadvertently caused the . . . er, red-eyed vireo.” Bradford took a deep breath. Really, it was absurd to permit himself to be intimidated by this old harridan. He hardened his voice. “However, I must tell you that the transmissions are to be resumed this morning. It has been judged—”

“Resumed?” A look of pure horror suffused Miss Truebody's face, her gloved hand went to her bosom, and her high voice went up yet another octave. Mozart would have been amazed.

“
Resumed
? Young man, you cannot. You
cannot
! It is entirely out of the question!” She thrust her umbrella at him as if it were a rapier, and he backed up hastily. “The Marconi Company have got to go. The good people of Mullion can no longer tolerate—”

“Ah, Mr. Marsden!”

It was the voice of another apparition, flying at him from the opposite direction, arms spread, flowered hat bobbing, scarves and veils fluttering. Bradford shut his eyes, hoping that he might be hallucinating, but when he opened them, the thing was standing directly in front of him, hands on hips. She was neither as tall nor as broad as Miss True-body—in fact, she barely came up to Bradford's chin—but she, too, wore an indomitable look, and Bradford braced himself.

“I am Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe, Mr. Marsden.” Her voice was shrill and strident. “My husband met you yesterday, at the hotel.”

“Oh, ah, yes,” Bradford said feebly. He put out his hand. “Honored, to be sure, Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe.”

Miss Truebody lifted her chin. “I was informing Mr. Marsden,” she began in a chilly tone, emphasizing her words with thrusts of her umbrella, “that the citizens of Mullion can no longer tolerate the presence of the Marconi Company. It—”

“Of course, Agatha.” Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe gave an impatient wave of her hand, as if she were brushing away a fly. “However, I do not believe that you have heard the latest news.”

“Not another abandoned nest!” Miss Truebody cried violently. “I could not tolerate another abandoned—”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe said. “Oh, nothing like that. Nothing like that at
all,
Miss Truebody!” She inclined her head to Bradford. “Mr. Marsden, speaking on behalf of the Lizard Peninsula Preservation Committee, I can only say that we are honored, deeply honored, that you and Mr. Marconi have so generously arranged for there to be a—”