Death on the Lizard (29 page)

“A
stolen
key,” Marconi snapped. “I gave you no permission to enter my room.”

“We'll call it unauthorized entry, then,” Bradford said. He held up the wooden box. “And attempted theft. As far as Mr. Fisher's part in the immediate conspiracy is concerned, I can vouch for that. I overheard him confess to Miss Chase that he broke into Mr. Gerard's room on Thursday night, and ransacked it. Moreover, I heard the two of them plotting to steal this valuable object”—he lifted the wooden box—“from Mr. Marconi's room. And Mr. Marconi and I surprised the lady in the act of taking it.”

“Valuable object!” Miss Chase said sarcastically. “Why, it's only a little old wooden box filled with—”

“Shut up, Pauline,” Fisher said. “You talk too much.”

“That's quite enough, you two,” said the constable. He motioned to Fisher with his head. “Come along, now, both of you. We're going into Helston.”

“Into Helston?” Miss Chase's eyes were large and round. “But . . . but what for?”

“You're off to gaol,” said the constable.

“You can't do that,” Fisher protested. “I'm an American citizen!”

“Rubbish,” said the constable sternly. “You have broken a British law. Here in Cornwall, we do not take attempted theft lightly. At the last assize, a man and a woman earned five years each for doing what you've just done.”

“Oh!” cried Miss Chase, and put the back of her hand to her forehead.

“It's no good fainting, my dear,” Bradford advised callously, as she showed every sign of doing just that. “We'll only let you lie until you pick yourself up off the floor.” To Thomas Deane, he said, “Will you need any help with this pair, Constable?”

“Thank you, but I've brought someone with me. He's waiting with the horses. They'll be taken to Helston, where the accommodations are somewhat more comfortable.” The constable regarded Miss Chase. “I certainly shouldn't like to handcuff a lady, but I will be forced to if she—”

“I hardly think that will be necessary,” Bradford said. “Miss Chase understands, I believe, that her cooperation is critical to clearing up this business.” He smiled at her. “Would you like to borrow my mackintosh, my dear? I'll drive up to Helston tomorrow so we can have a little talk. You can return it to me then.”

“Talk?” Fisher asked in alarm. “What do you want to talk to her about? I'm the fellow who—”

“Oh, rather, quite,” Bradford said. “Well, I certainly see why you would not want me to discuss these matters with
her
. But now that you've mentioned it, I believe I might find time to have a chat with you, as well.”

The constable glanced at Bradford. “Lord Sheridan, sir. I've been trying to find him. Is he in the hotel this evening?”

“No. He's been out all day, and isn't expected until tomorrow morning,” Bradford said. “Shall I ask him to stop in at your office?”

“Please do,” Deane said. “Tell him it's important.” To Fisher and Miss Chase, he added, “Let's be off now.”

“How did it happen,” Marconi asked, as they watched the constable shepherd his reluctant charges down the stairs, “that the constable appeared on the scene just after we encountered Miss Chase? And how did he know that Fisher was involved with her?”

“I sent him a note before dinner,” Bradford said, “telling him what I thought might be up. Not that I didn't believe that you and I could apprehend them quite handily,” he added hastily. “I simply felt that we didn't want to go to the bother. Sheridan might have done, but he is otherwise engaged this evening. Thus, the constable. Sheridan says he's a good chap, you know. Quite cooperative and all that.”

“I see,” Marconi said. He frowned. “Although I don't know why you want the trouble of interviewing that pair tomorrow. You might just as well let the law take its course.”

“I intend,” Bradford replied, “to require each of them, as a condition of their release, to sign an affidavit stating who employed them and why. If nothing else comes of this wretched affair, we may be able to force De Forest Wireless to leave off their dirty tricks.”

“ ‘Wretched affair,' ” Marconi said with an anguished sigh. “Too true, I am sorry to say. How could I have been so blind? I believed, oh, I honestly believed she
cared
for me!”

“I dare say, old chap,” Bradford said, putting his arm around Marconi's shoulder. “But you must buck up. You'll find the right girl, just you wait and see. And in the meantime, there's plenty of work to be done.” Tomorrow, he thought, Sheridan would be back from his evening on the other side of the Lizard. Perhaps he would have dug up a lead on the missing tuner, or an idea about Gerard. It was imperative that they get the bloody business completely cleaned up before the Royals put in an appearance.

“Ah, yes, work,” Marconi said listlessly. “I suppose I shall have to spend some time in the laboratory, trying to sort out Gerard's progress. Perhaps I will be able to . . .” His voice trailed off.

“I'm sure you will,” Bradford said encouragingly. “But there's nothing more to be done tonight. Shall we go and see if we can find someone to pour us an after-dinner drink?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 
 
 
 
Andrew Kirk-Smythe was summoned from a restless sleep by an insistent tapping at the door of his room. “Mr. Northrop, Mr.Northrop—are you there? A gentleman t'see you, Mr. Northrup.”

Groggily, Andrew lit the bedstand candle and looked at his pocket watch. Going ten, it was. He didn't usually retire so early, but he'd been up nearly all night the night before and after a day on the water, he was tired to the bone. He pushed himself out of bed and padded barefoot to the door. “Who is it, at this hour?”

“Lord Charles, he says, Mr. Northrup.”

“Show him up, then,” Andrew said, knuckling the sleep out of his eyes. “Oh, and would you be so good as to send a boy up with a bottle of Scotch and a couple of glasses? Your best, if you please. Oh, and some coffee, too.”

He lit the lamp, put on shirt and trousers, and combed his hair. Outside, thunder muttered across the Lizard and rain rattled the window. He doubted that there was any point in going out tonight, after all. Wolf wouldn't leave his mooring in such rough weather, and if he and his lady chose to tryst in the rain, Andrew would not presume to interfere.

By the time he was decent, Lord Charles was at the door, whiskey and glasses in hand. “Hullo, Northrup,” he said with a twinkle. “I understand you're here to do a spot of bird-watching.”

“Come in, m'lord,” Andrew said, and closed the door behind him. “Very good to see you.” He frowned at the bottle. “Sorry, sir. I told the landlord to send the boy with that.”

“I volunteered. And we can dispense with titles.” His guest, whose mackintosh was dripping on the floor, put the glasses on the chest of drawers, unstopped the bottle, and poured them each a drink. “Cheers, old man,” he said, raising his glass. “Here's to all those
rarae aves
you've come to spy out.”

Andrew raised his. “Take off your coat and have a seat,” he said, pointing to the only chair, chintz-covered, beside the window. “Boots, too, if you like,” he added, seeing that they were wet. “Pity there's no fire.” He had chosen one of the dingier room at the back of the inn, next to the back stairs, rather than a larger, better-appointed room with a fire. He hadn't much money, and anyway, in a situation like this, he didn't like to call attention to himself. One never knew who might be watching.

“Not to worry,” Sheridan said, hanging his mackintosh on the back of the door. “I'll soon dry out.”

Andrew sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling awkward and ambivalent about the meeting, at the same time knowing it to be necessary. Sheridan might have information which could help him do what he had come to the Lizard to do. But how much he should tell of what he had already learned—well, he didn't know that yet, did he? It would depend on Sheridan, and he hadn't seen the man since Scotland. It might not be smart to tell him anything. The man had connections in Whitehall. Word might get back.

Before Sheridan sat down in the chair, he picked up the book lying there.
“Riddle of the Sands,”
he murmured. “A fascinating tale. Are you enjoying it?”

“Yes, although I must say that parts of it are rather sobering,” Andrew replied. Erskine Childers's book, recently published, told the story of a pair of young adventurers, sailing off Germany's Frisian and Baltic shores. They uncovered a German plot to land an army of infantry armed with field-guns in a flotilla of sea-going lighters, towed by shallow-draft tugs to Britain's vulnerable east coast. The book was so detailed and well-documented that many readers had taken the fiction for reality.

“And perhaps not far off the mark,” Sheridan said. “I have the feeling that people are going to be discussing this book for quite a time. Fiction or not, it certainly raises questions about how much we know of our German cousins' military intentions.” He gave Andrew a narrow glance. “Are we free to talk here?”

Andrew frowned. Sheridan had a way of getting straight to the heart of the matter. “We're at the end of the hall, sir. The door opposite opens onto a stair, and the room next door is unoccupied. I think we can speak freely.”

“The room next door is occupied now.” Sheridan set his glass on the window sill, pulled off a boot, and dropped it with a thump onto the floor. “I've taken it for the night. I don't propose to go out into that storm again.” He pulled off the other boot and leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him and rubbing one stockinged foot against the other. “Tell me, Andrew—are you still handling cryptography for Military Intelligence?”

“In the main, although not at the moment,” Andrew said guardedly. “I've . . . taken on an additional duty. The world is fast becoming a rather interesting place.” He gave a little laugh, meaning it to sound careless but feeling that he had not quite brought it off.

“Isn't it,” said Sheridan, wiggling his toes. “Wireless, and all that. The Germans appear to have quite an interest in it—and especially in Marconi's system.” He took out his pipe and began to fill it with tobacco. “I'm told that the Kaiser doesn't have a great deal of confidence in the German wireless.” He glanced up, arching an eyebrow inquiringly. “Perhaps you've run across this attitude, in the course of your . . . additional duty.”

A great many possibilities flew through Andrew's mind. Perhaps, although he had been as careful as he could, he had somehow slipped up and revealed himself—not, he supposed, a difficult thing to do, especially with Sheridan watching. Perhaps Sheridan had been alerted by someone in the Admiralty; he didn't think so, but in that labyrinthine maze, one never knew who might have picked up a word here or a word there. Perhaps Sheridan had somehow managed to go round behind, through the Germans—such a thing was definitely possible, given his contacts on the Continent. Or perhaps Sheridan was merely probing, stabbing for reactions, for sensitivities.

But whatever the explanation, it was clear that Sheridan was fishing for his reasons for being on the Lizard, and he resolved to hold fast.

“Before I reply,” Andrew said casually, “I hope you'll be good enough to answer a question of mine. Lady Sheridan told me that you were having a look into that accident at the Poldhu wireless station. The electrocution.” He hesitated. “Is there . . . is there anything more to it than that?”

Sheridan struck a match and put it to his pipe. “Anything more? What more might there be?”

If there was a roundabout way to ask the question, some means of discovering it other than asking, Andrew couldn't for the life of him think what it was. He found himself simply blurting it out. “That is to say, have you a Royal commission? Are you here on behalf of the Crown?”

Andrew was well aware that Charles Sheridan had received such mandates in the past, having been tapped by the Palace for one task or another. They had first worked together when Andrew was serving as a personal bodyguard for the Prince of Wales, now King Edward, and their second job had involved a missing Royal in Scotland—a rather ticklish business which included a spot of espionage. On both occasions, Sheridan had done very fine work—and there may have been other such assignments of which he was unaware. It would undoubtedly make his own job a great deal harder if the man were here on a commission from the Palace, but there was nothing he could do about that.

“No Royal mandate, I am very glad to say,” Sheridan remarked, pulling on his pipe.

Andrew tried not to look as relieved as he felt.

“In fact, quite the reverse,” Sheridan went on. “I'm sure that Marconi would prefer not to call Daniel Gerard's electrocution to the attention of the Royals.” He blew a ring of fragrant blue smoke and added, in an explanatory tone, “Marconi needs to know whether Gerard's death was an accident or something more, but fears that if the police got into it, the story would show up in the press, with negative consequences for the company. That's why I agreed to have a look.”