Death on the Lizard (22 page)

“Oh,” Kate said.

Of course!
Beryl exclaimed excitedly.
That's it, Kate! That's exactly what's happening. It's Harriet!

“I think I mentioned that Sir Oliver is an old friend of my family's,” Jenna went on, her voice sounding stronger. “He's been involved in psychic research for the last dozen years or so. Perhaps it will sound far-fetched to you, but he says I might be able to receive a message from Harriet.” Her slight smile was both ironic and hopeful at once. “Rather like the wireless telegraph, I gather, only using automatic writing.”

“Interesting,” Kate murmured.

Fascinating, rather,
Beryl amended firmly.

“Yes. Well, we're going to try. Tonight, after dinner. Sir Oliver and I had already planned the séance before I learned that you and Patsy were coming. Both you and Lord Charles are invited, of course, and Patsy, too, although I'll certainly understand if you choose not.”

We have to do this, Kate,
Beryl said in a warning tone.
I shall be very disappointed if we don't.

“I can't speak for Charles,” Kate replied, “but I'd like to be there, if only to see how the process works. I might be able to use automatic writing as an element in one of my novels.” The instant she said it, she could feel Beryl's excitement.

Jenna chuckled without humor. “The ‘process', as you call it, may not work at all, of course. Sir Oliver might have come all this way for nothing. But I hope . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Does she?
Beryl whispered, with just the faintest hint of skepticism.
Does she really hope her dead daughter will tell her what happened? Or maybe it's forgiveness she's seeking, rather than knowledge.

“I wonder,” Kate said slowly, “if you've talked to Alice. About Harriet, I mean.”

“Alice?” Jenna frowned.

“A little girl who lives on your estate,” Kate replied. “She's about Harriet's age, I think. Her grandmother is your laundress.”

“Oh, yes. I know who the child is, although I didn't know her name. Her mother died of consumption not long after she was born, and her grandmother is bringing her up.” The frown deepened. “You've met her? You think she might know . . . something?”

“I walked with her yesterday to Helford to post a letter to Charles. She's quite a remarkable child, with an extraordinary imagination. I suspect that she's the one who leaves flowers on Harriet's grave, and the doll, too. She and Harriet were ‘secret' friends, she told me.”

“Secret friends?” Jenna seemed taken aback. “I wanted Harriet to be friends with the children of the estate, but I didn't—” She colored and looked away. “I suppose you're thinking that I should have known who Harriet's friends were. That a good mother
would
have known.”

“I'm not thinking that at all,” Kate said truthfully. “If I had a daughter . . .” A hard lump came up in her throat, and she swallowed it and went on. “If I had a daughter, I would do just as you did. I would let her be a child as long as possible, and let her go to school with other children, rather than shutting her up with a governess. I would let her have animals, and time of her own, and friends—yes, and secret friends—and places to roam.”

“Thank you,” Jenna said. She shut her eyes for a moment. “You'll never know what that means to me, Kate.”

Kate cleared her throat. “Would you like me to talk to Alice, Jenna, and see what I can learn? I offered to lend her a book I saw on your shelf—
Alice in Wonderland.
If you don't mind, I could take it to her, try to draw her out.”

“Mind? Of course not.” Jenna turned to her. “You've already met her, and I . . . well, I'm not sure I'm up to it, actually.” A faint pink came into her pale cheeks and she looked away. “Come to it, you see, I'm not even sure I want to know. Oh, I
say
I do, but—”

“You must want to know,” Kate said gently. “You've agreed to the séance tonight.”

Jenna smiled thinly. “Maybe I don't have any faith in automatic writing.” She looked up. “Here comes Patsy with her camera and an armful of flowers.”

“Oh, don't get up,” Patsy called, coming up the hill. “I've brought flowers for you to hold whilst I take your picture.”

The photographic session over, the three women made their way back down the hill to the waiting horse and gig. As they went, Jenna told Patsy about the plan for the evening. Patsy, her usual curious self, eagerly agreed to participate.

“Oh, what fun!” she cried. “Of course I'll be there!”

But in spite of Patsy's and Beryl's enthusiasm for the idea, Kate herself was not so sure. As she picked her way down the hill, between the mounds of gorse and the piles of ancient rock, Kate could feel the stern, brooding presence of the
menhir,
their stone gazes darkly fixed on her retreating back. She did not know what they would think (if they could) of tonight's séance, and of automatic writing, and of efforts to contact the spirit world. It might seem to them to be an invasion of their own sacred prerogative: the power to embrace the unseen, the unknown; the power to commune with the dead.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 
 
 
About the time that Kate, Patsy, and Jenna had set off for their day on the downs, Charles and Marconi were driving a hired rig south along the road from Mullion to Lizard Village. The sun was bright and cheerful and the narrow lane led over the windswept moor, open and empty except for scattered flocks of sheep and small herds of cattle. The silence was broken only by the wind and the birds' musical calls, and Charles understood why this vast tranquility was so highly prized by the people of the moor.

Charles and Marconi did not experience the easy friendliness which Kate, Patsy, and Jenna enjoyed. The two men had been acquainted for five or six years, but while they shared an interest in wireless and a respect for one another's scientific abilities, they had never been especially close. In fact, Charles doubted that Marconi had many personal friends—except, perhaps, for the ladies he courted, and since his romantic relationships never seemed to last very long, perhaps even these did not count. He was not a cordial man; he spoke with an aloof, almost chilly reserve. He did not usually initiate conversation, and he answered questions with a measured caution, as if he suspected his questioner of having an ulterior motive.

Just now, for instance. Charles could not dismiss the possibility of a connection between Gerard's electrocution at the Poldhu station and Jack Gordon's fall from the cliff near the Lizard station some two weeks before. He needed to know more about the connection between the two wireless stations, and he hoped that Marconi would speak frankly. Getting information out of the man was a little like fishing olives out of a bottle, but after repeated questioning, he was finally able to learn something.

The Lizard station had been built some three years previously. The first of eight Marconi stations along the coast, it was located on the high cliff at Bass Point, near the southernmost tip of the Lizard Peninsula, where converging sea lanes funneled the shipping into the Channel. The station was designed to provide ship-to-shore service for the maritime traffic passing Lizard Point, as well as to monitor transmissions to and from the transmitter at Poldhu. And, Marconi reluctantly added, in response to several probing questions, the station was also used to test newly devised receivers, to see if the more powerful Poldhu signal could be tuned out.

“Newly devised receivers,” Charles said thoughtfully. “That would be something like the tuner Gerard was working on, would it not?”

“Yes, it would,” Marconi said, looking straight ahead. “But the work is very secret, and cannot be discussed with anyone outside the company.” He turned, his eyes narrowed. “I am sure you understand, Sheridan.”

“Indeed,” Charles said. “But you must understand, too, Marconi. I cannot help you unless you are willing to take me into your confidence—not about the workings of the tuner itself, but about the procedures by which it was designed and tested, and who might want it. If I don't know that, at the very least, I'm not likely to be of much use to you.”

“I'm sorry.” Marconi heaved a weary, beleaguered sigh. “It's just that I have had to hold my cards close to the chest, as the Americans say, for a very long time. Too many people will do anything they can to get ahead of us. The Americans, for instance. The De Forest Wireless Telegraph Company has put out a five million dollar stock offering. Five million dollars, Sheridan! That kind of money can buy anything.”

“Even a stolen tuner?” Charles asked.

Marconi's eyes widened. “You don't think—”

“I think it's a possibility,” Charles said. “Go on. Who else?”

“Well, the cable companies are still poking around, causing trouble. And there's Maskelyne, of course, with his dirty tricks. And Oliver Lodge, with that patent business.” Gloomily, he added, “Even inside my own company, there are disagreements and competition. It isn't easy to . . .” His voice trailed away.

“
Inside
the company?”

“I've been battling the directors since the company was first established,” Marconi said thinly. “I had to fight like the very devil to get the money for Poldhu, because the board thought transatlantic transmission was a waste of time—and some still do. I have to fight for every dollar which goes into new stations and new equipment.” As he spoke, his voice took on power, as if he had been bottling up his anger and expressing it at last made him feel the strength of it. “The directors worry endlessly about stock prices, and making a profit. As if money were the only reason we're in business!” he added with sudden vehemence.

Charles thought about Bradford. No doubt the hope of a profit was his chief reason for investing in the Marconi Company. If the other directors were like him, no wonder Marconi was feeling the pressure.

“The problem is that they don't really want to spend money on development,” Marconi went on darkly. “The kind of thing Gerard was doing, for instance. I keep telling them that development is what we desperately need. It's the only thing that will keep us ahead of the pack.” His voice became despairing. “Sometimes I feel I am battling the directors as much as I am battling my competitors. And now that Gerard is dead and the tuner is gone—” He broke off. “It's almost too much to bear,” he muttered.

Charles nodded sympathetically. Having a technology as hugely important as wireless in his hands, Marconi must feel as if he himself had to defend it against the whole world. But there were things Charles had to know. “If the Lizard station was used to try out new equipment,” he asked, “is it possible that Gerard might have sent the tuner there for testing?”

“He would not have sent it,” Marconi replied. “He would have
taken
it. Gerard would not have entrusted the testing to anyone else but himself.” And with that, they pulled up in front of the station on Bass Point, and the conversation was suspended.

The station was little more than a two-room hut, with a hundred-foot mast and aerial alongside. As Charles and Marconi entered, the operator was preoccupied with a flurry of crackling transmissions, punctuated by brief pauses. As Charles's ear adjusted to the stream of Morse dots and dashes and he began to decode the messages, he realized that there were two signals coming in, one strong, the other much weaker.

HANG ON OLD MAN HELP COMING LIFE BOAT STATIONS STANDING BY. That was the stronger signal.

A moment later, the weaker signal came in. FIRE IN MAIN COAL BUNKER IF FLOODING DOES NOT WORK WILL HAVE TO ABANDON SHIP.

The operator began to pound his key, repeating the weaker message, relaying it up the line. When it was sent, he turned and glimpsed Marconi and Charles for the first time. “Oh, it's you, sir,” he said to Marconi. “Sorry, I didn't see you come in.”

“You were doing your job,” Marconi said with the first genuine smile Charles had seen on his face, and introduced Charles and the operator, whose name was Edward Worster. “What's going on here, Worster?”

The operator, small and wiry, with a heavy dark mustache and thinning hair, took off his black Marconi cap and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “French tramp steamer
La Belle Marie
twelve miles due south, sir. Fire below deck, spreading to her coal bunker.
Marie
can receive Falmouth all right—Falmouth handles rescue dispatches, y'see, sir—but her signal is too weak for Falmouth to pick her up. I've been relaying messages. It's a bit of a problem,” he added in an explanatory tone, “because Falmouth drowns
Marie
's signal when they send at the same time.”

“Is rescue on the way?” Charles asked. “And what was that about the coastal life guards?”

“The stations have been alerted to stand by,” Worster replied, “but
Marie
is too far out for the lifeboats to be of much use. Falmouth dispatched a rescue ship, but it's going to be a close run thing.”

As they waited tensely, the receiver once more came to life with
Marie
's message: SHIP SOUTHWEST OF US HEADING OUR DIRECTION MUST SEE OUR SMOKE.