Death on the Lizard (24 page)

“I suppose,” Kate agreed. “And if the water's deep.”

“I shouldn't like to drown,” Alice said, and ate the rest of the currants and the crumbs.

“Nor I.”

“But there wasn't anything I could do, was there?” The girl looked up, and those electric-blue eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “No more than you, when your friend fell off the wall and got killed by the trolley.”

“I'm sure there wasn't,” Kate said simply, “or you would have done it.” She paused, and said, for the second time that day, “If you would like to tell me, I'd be glad to listen.”

“It started with the pigeons,” Alice said. She dashed the tears from her eyes.

“The pigeons?” Kate asked in surprise.

“There were pigeons in the boat, you see. Harriet was the one who saw them first, and told me about it. We'd hide on the bank and watch the boat, and when the man wasn't there, we'd go and look at the pigeons. Harriet said it was all right, because her mother went on the boat, too.”

“And that's when Harriet drowned?” Kate asked in a matter-of-fact tone. “When her mother was on the boat?”

Alice nodded. Her face was pale and pinched. “We'd never gone to the creek at night before, but she came and tapped at my window, and I climbed out. She wanted to know what her mother was doing on the boat, you see. She was curious—Harriet was
always
curious, the most curious person I've ever met.”

A picture of Harriet was emerging in Kate's mind: a girl with a passionate curiosity and her mother's permission to explore. She could hardly be faulted for wanting to know why her mother was secretly stealing through the woods to join a strange man on a strange sailboat at night. “I suppose it was very dark,” she said quietly.

“Oh,
very,
” Alice said. She shivered. “It was cold, too. I didn't think it was going to be much fun. It didn't seem like a very good idea, either, 'specially since my gram would be very angry if she knew. But Harriet didn't like it when I said no. And it wasn't right to let her go alone, either—at least I didn't think so.” She looked anxiously at Kate. “Do you?”

“If I'd been in your shoes, I think I would have gone,” Kate replied, reflecting on the difficult moral choice the girl had made, between her grandmother's anger, or her friend's disappointment. It was a choice which would have baffled many adults. She paused. “Did either of you have a light?”

Alice shook her head, and then went on, very fast: “Harriet thought she knew where she was going, you see, but she didn't, and she went too close to the edge of the creek by the big tree, where the water is deep, and she fell in. I tried to reach her but she was too far.” Her head dropped and her voice became muffled. “I tried really
hard
.”

“I'm sure you tried as hard as you could,” Kate said, and reached Alice's hand. The girl's fingers were surprisingly small and very cold, like a doll's fingers. “And then what happened, Alice?”

“And then I fell in myself. But I grabbed a tree root and pulled myself out. I was scared, and I yelled.” She pulled in her breath. “I screamed really loud, but nobody came.”

“I suppose they couldn't hear you on the boat.”

Alice shook her head. “It was around the bend.”

“And after you climbed out, you were afraid to run to the boat and tell them?”

A sad nod.

By then, it would have been too late, Kate thought. It was winter, and cold, and the girls would have been wearing woolen coats. Harriet had probably been pulled under the surface by her heavy clothing and drowned quickly. Aloud, she asked, “And you came home?”

“I came in through the window. It was hard to get my clothes dry without Gram noticing.” Alice let go of Kate's hand. “I guess I should have told somebody,” she said in a small voice.

“You're telling somebody now,” Kate said. She reached into the basket and handed over another tea cake, thinking about something she had read recently, about the way pigeons were used during the siege of Paris some thirty years before. And she thought of Kirk-Smythe, and his mysterious disguise, and his interest in the man on the boat.

“Pigeons on a sailboat,” she said after a moment. “That's odd, don't you think? But I suppose pigeons have to live somewhere, and a boat is every bit as good as a pigeon loft. Were they kept in a cage?”

“A wooden cage. There were six pigeons in it.” Alice wrinkled her forehead. “Sometimes there were only four or five. Or two.”

“Perhaps they were let out on holiday,” Kate said with a smile, “or to practice flying. Whose pigeons were they, do you think?”

Alice gave her a look. “Why, the man who sailed the boat, of course. They wore bands on their legs, and sometimes little canisters.”

“That's interesting,” Kate said, remembering that, during the siege of Paris, the pigeons carried important messages from the city to the outside world. She pursed her lips. “You wouldn't have seen what was in the canisters, I don't suppose.”

“I did once,” Alice said. “Yesterday morning, actually. One of the pigeons came to the church tower while I was up there, feeding the other birds.” She wore a serious look. “While you were there, too. In the churchyard, I mean. You and Harriet's mother and the other lady, and the bird-watcher.” Before Kate could say anything, she pushed her hand into her apron pocket. “You write things. Somebody wrote this. Maybe you can read it.” Frowning, she took out a wad of flimsy paper, about the size of a large pea, and handed it to Kate. “I can't read it, and I can read almost anything.”

Kate pulled the wad carefully apart, trying not to tear the paper. What she saw surprised her.

“What does it say?” Alice asked.

Kate laughed a little. “It says: ‘I am a very pretty pigeon.' ”

“Really?” Alice asked skeptically.

“Something like that,” Kate said. She thought once again of Kirk-Smythe, and then of Charles. “May I have this? I'd like to show it to someone.”

Another of Alice's elaborate shrugs. “It's of no use to me, I suppose.” She gave Kate a shrewd glance. “If I give you the paper, may I keep the book? Until I've finished it, that is.”

“Lady Loveday says you may have the book,” Kate replied, pocketing the paper.

That brought a smile. “Tell her thank you for me.”

“Why don't you tell her yourself, Alice. And I also think you might tell her what you've told me.”

Alice looked down. “She would be very angry at me.”

Kate leant over and tipped up the girl's chin so she could see her face. “I think you're wrong,” she said softly. “I'm sure she would be sad, and so would you. But in the end, both of you would feel better.”

“Really?” Alice asked again but this time, there was more of hope than of skepticism in her voice.

“Really,” Kate replied.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Charles arrived at Penhallow shortly before seven that evening, and when he was shown into the drawing room, he discovered that everyone was already gathered there for dinner. He greeted his hostess and Patsy Marsden, dropped a kiss on Kate's cheek—she looked especially rosy tonight, as if she had spent the day in the sunshine and wind—and turned with a ready smile and a warm handshake to Sir Oliver Lodge, whom he had not seen for some time.

“Lord Sheridan!” exclaimed Sir Oliver, beaming. He was a tall, distinguished-looking man with stooped shoulders, a balding head, heavy gray mustaches, and neatly trimmed gray beard broadly streaked with white. He shook Charles's hand with enthusiasm. “I am delighted, absolutely delighted to see you, my dear fellow! An unexpected pleasure. And what, if I may ask, has brought you out to the Lizard?”

“I'm here to give Marconi a hand with a problem at the wireless station,” Charles said, feeling that he should mention his association with Sir Oliver's rival and get it out of the way, in case there might be hard feelings about it. He was also mindful of Bradford's insistence that Lodge's visit was no coincidence. He did not think it likely that the man had ulterior motives, for he was widely respected as a teacher and scientist. But it was a possibility that had to be considered, especially since it seemed improbable that Sir Oliver would take time from his duties at the new Birmingham University, where he had recently been appointed Principal, to come to the Lizard on an inconsequential errand.

Sir Oliver's eyes twinkled. “Oh, dear me. I do hope it's a
serious
problem!” He chuckled. “There, there. I'm sure you don't want to tell me what it is. After all, the Lodge-Muirhead Syndicate is Marconi's closest competitor, you know. We're negotiating a new wireless contract with—” He broke off, laughing heartily. “But then, I mustn't let the cat out of the bag, must I? I shouldn't want Marconi to discover what we're up to.”

“I've read that your system has some advantages over Marconi's,” Charles said truthfully. Sir Oliver was known to have sent wireless signals before Marconi and to have developed a device that—according to some, at least—Marconi had copied and adapted. What was more, his patent on tuning was a strong rival to Marconi's.

“A great many advantages, especially where tuning is concerned.” Sir Oliver paused. “I have nothing against Marconi himself, you know—although that patent of his . . . well, I shan't talk about that, either. I'll simply say that the young fellow's commercial advisers have done him a great disservice by making excessive claims and seeking premature publicity.”

“It's a difficult balance,” Charles said in a neutral tone. Privately, he agreed with Sir Oliver. It seemed to him that the company was promoting a product which was not yet perfected. And if the tuner and Gerard's notes were not found, it might be a much longer time before—

“Those fools on his board of directors can't understand that everything depends on the credibility of the company,” Lodge said emphatically. “On the company's ability to keep its promises. They're going to ruin it all for short-term gain. And when Marconi himself is thoroughly discredited, as he was at the Royal Institution night before last—” He shot Charles amused glance. “You know what happened at the lecture, do you?”

“I understand that Nevil Maskelyne indulged in a spot of jamming,” Charles replied with a smile.

“And followed it up with a revealing letter to
The Times,
” Sir Oliver said, “which will be made much of, in all quarters. In case you haven't yet seen it, I'll lend you my copy. But I'll want it back.” He slapped Charles's shoulder playfully. “It's worth keeping, as far as I'm concerned. In fact, it's worth framing and displaying on the wall above my desk. Not that I hold a personal grudge, mind you. But Marconi has got his feathers trimmed in a most public way, and I for one find it amusing.” He chuckled mirthfully. “And I suppose the fellow will reply, and then Maskelyne will reply, and the entertainment will continue for a while, eh?”

Lodge's remarks were more than a little unsettling. Charles had not known that the man bore so much animosity toward Marconi and the Marconi Company for violating his patent—or at least, that's how he saw it. Enough to make an effort to obtain the tuner? Enough to attempt to cause difficulties for the company?

Charles was framing a reply when Kate came up to them, looking extraordinarily beautiful in a silvery dress which showed off her fine throat and the auburn richness of her hair. “I suppose you two are talking about wireless,” she said with a smile.

“I'm afraid we are, my dear,” Charles said, circling her waist with his arm. “But if you'd rather we change the subject, I'm sure Sir Oliver wouldn't mind.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” Kate said. “Actually, I wanted to ask Sir Oliver if he's read Rudyard Kipling's story. It appeared in
Scribner's Magazine,
in February, I believe.” To Charles, she explained, “It's about a wireless operator who receives nothing but garbled signals, while at the same time, an old man in a nearby room goes into a trance and receives a message from the poet Keats, who is long dead, of course.” She turned back to Lodge. “Did you read it, Sir Oliver? Is it too fanciful and far-fetched?”

“Fanciful, yes, but I thought it a delightful story,” Sir Oliver said. “In fact, I have often argued that the ether is just as capable of carrying spirit messages from those who have passed over as it is of carrying wireless signals. Mr. Kipling's tale demonstrates how that might be done—it's quite amusing, too, don't you think?” He beamed. “And tonight, we may have an opportunity to test my theory.” As Jenna came up to them, he bowed to her in an avuncular way. “Isn't that right, my dear?”