Death on the Lizard (3 page)

Ah, here it is, Charles thought with some resignation: the reason he had been asked to come.

“I doubt that one would call them
serious
problems,” Marconi began in an offhand tone, but Bradford interrupted.

“The company has been the victim of several very dirty tricks,” he said vehemently. “And they've got to stop before . . . well, they've got to stop, that's all.”

“What kind of dirty tricks?” Charles asked. “How long have they been going on?”

“Since before the transatlantic signal was sent,” Bradford said grimly. “Nearly two years ago. The Poldhu aerial came down, and very nearly put an end to everything.”

“It was blown down in a gale.” Marconi gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Inadequate engineering, nothing more.”

Bradford put down his brandy glass, now empty. “The guy wires were cut nearly through. Someone wanted to make sure that the experiments would not go forward. And that's not the whole of it.” He ticked items off on his fingers. “The fire in the generator building at Poldhu, equipment thefts, and outright sabotage. And less than a fortnight ago, the death of one of the Bass Point operators—”

“An accident,” Marconi said hastily. “It was an accident, I assure you, Sheridan.” Perspiration had broken out on his long upper lip. “The fellow was intoxicated. He fell off a cliff.”

“No one knows how he went off that cliff,” Bradford said. “He had taken that path hundreds of times, in all weathers. An accident does not seem likely.” His voice grew harsh. “And with Royal visitors coming in just over a fortnight, we simply cannot afford to take any chances. The company's reputation hangs in the balance.”

“I don't know,” Marconi said nervously, “that I would put the matter in quite such strong terms, Marsden. It is serious, of course, but—” He broke off and began to pour himself more tea, the cup rattling in the saucer.

Charles looked from one of them to the other. “Royal visitors?”

“The Prince and Princess of Wales are to visit the Poldhu station shortly,” Bradford replied. “It was arranged by—”

“I was not consulted,” Marconi said frostily. “If someone had asked me, I should have refused. I do
not
think it a good plan to invite Prince George at a time when Gerard and I are working on such an important project. I—”

“It was
necessary,
” Bradford put in, with emphasis. “And it was damned difficult to arrange, believe me. All manner of strings had to be pulled. But now it's settled, and the Prince is eager to have a look for himself, and he insists on bringing his wife—a nuisance, of course, but there it is. And where the Royals go, the Press follows. It's a great opportunity to get the company's name in the newspapers and cement our relations with the Admiralty—George is Navy, you'll recall. It won't hurt the price of shares, either.” He stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray. “But the visit
has
to go smoothly. We cannot afford another so-called accident.” He paused and looked straight at Charles. “That's why I thought of you, Sheridan.”

“Ah,” Charles said regretfully.

Marconi's smile was thin and cool. “Marsden seems to imagine that you are another Sherlock Holmes, my friend. He reports that from time to time you have undertaken investigations for certain individuals, on an unofficial and confidential basis.” The corners of his mouth turned downward and something like distaste came into his voice. “I have told him that this . . . this sleuthing business is a side of you I have not seen, but he insisted on imposing upon you this foolish, ill-considered—”

“Damn it, Marconi,” Bradford exploded angrily, “there is nothing foolish or ill-considered about it! The directors have made it clear that something has to be done, whether you like it or not. If one of these ‘accidents' should occur when the Prince and Princess are at the station, I can promise you that the company will
never
recover. You can forget about the Admiralty contract, and any other governmental investment in your wireless.”

This outburst was followed by a tense silence. Marconi tented his fingers under his chin and stared out the window. He looked like a man held at bay by a savage dog. Bradford got up and went to pour himself another brandy.

“What is it you want me to do?” Charles asked, at last.

“Go down to the Lizard with me,” Bradford replied, returning to his seat. “Have a look around. See if you can find out who is behind these acts of sabotage. Is it someone local, or one of the company's competitors? God knows there are enough of them, and none of them are very particular as to the methods they use to ferret out others' secrets. Or perhaps there is something else going on—something we don't understand. Above all, we want you to make damned sure that nothing happens to Prince George and Princess May while they're at Poldhu.” He took out another cigar and lit it. Between puffs, he added, “It would be splendid if Kate could come, too. May is quite her admirer, you know. Reads all her books, that sort of thing.”

Charles frowned. “The Prince and Princess will have their usual bodyguards, won't they?”

“And they'll be the usual careless, incompetent sort,” Bradford replied with a shrug.

Too true, Charles thought regretfully. After a fiasco or two, the Royal bodyguards had come in for some finger-pointing in the newspapers. He pursed his lips. “And why can't you ask the Cornwall Constabulary to investigate the sabotage?”

Marconi, still staring moodily out the window, gave a snort of derision. “The village constable is a fool. The district police are nincompoops.”

“Because,” Bradford said bluntly, “the information would be bound to leak out, and that would be disastrous. Any suggestion that Marconi Wireless has been targeted in this way will be reported in all the newspapers, and trumpeted with glee around the world.” He shook his head as if he were half in despair—an uncommon gesture for Bradford, who was self-confident to the point of cockiness. “You are a scientist, Charles, and you may think of wireless as a science, engaged in by gentlemen who are all on amicable terms. That might have been true once, but no longer. There's too much money involved. It's become a dog-eat-dog business. That's why we can't use the police. That's why we're asking you to find out who's behind this, and stop them. Will you do it?”

Charles sat for a moment, thinking. It was true that he had carried out several investigations, but most of them had involved an interesting forensic problem—fingerprints, ballistics, toxicology, forensic photography—which he was eager to solve. It was the science of criminal investigation which captured his interest, and not the business of catching criminals and bringing them to justice. What's more, he was not at all comfortable mucking about in the swamps of speculative investments and stock brokering, much of which (he suspected) involved crooked dealings and outright chicanery. On the other hand, he had been fascinated by wireless technology since he had first read Professor Herz's work ten years before. And although Marconi was not an easy fellow to like, Charles admired and respected his intellect and abilities. It looked as if the man were in serious trouble and did not want to admit it.

Without answering Bradford's question directly, he addressed himself to Marconi. “You'll be at the Poldhu station for the Royal visit, will you, Guglielmo?”

Marconi nodded. “I'll be there on Thursday. I'm to give a lecture at the Royal Institution tomorrow night, and meet with a group of potential French investors.” He cast a hopeful look at Bradford. “Although Professor Fleming could certainly do the lecture as well as I. In fact, I could go to Poldhu tomorrow with you, Marsden. That would give me a few extra days to work with Gerard on our project. If we're to demonstrate it to the Prince of Wales and Admiral Fisher—”

Charles shifted in his chair, feeling a new curiosity. Admiral Fisher? Jackie Fisher, who had just been appointed Commander-in-Chief at Portsmouth? What did he have to do with—

“The investors don't want Fleming,” Bradford said roughly. “They want
you
. You're the brains of this company, Marconi, and its newsmaker. It's your name and face which have to be kept in the press. You agreed to do the lecture, and it's been widely advertised. What's more, we've arranged for the investors to come from Paris. So we will proceed as planned.”

“But the tuner,” Marconi objected. “Admiral Fisher will want to see exactly how it works, and what—”

“You said yourself that Gerard has the thing nearly finished. Don't worry about it. It'll be ready when you get there.”

With an air of defeat, Marconi sighed and looked out the window again, his shoulders slumped. But he turned his head as the door flew open and his assistant burst in, a horrified expression on his face.

“Mr. Marconi, sir!” he blurted out. “There's just been a wire. A terrible accident, sir, at Poldhu. Daniel Gerard is dead!”

Marconi leapt to his feet. “Gerard—dead?” he gasped wildly. “No!”

“How?” Bradford barked. He hoisted himself out of his chair. “What happened? When?”

“Last night, sir. We would've heard earlier, but they've had to shut down the Poldhu station while they sort things out. Gerard was—” He gulped, his face white. “He was electrocuted, sir.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Marconi whispered, his eyes bleak. “Gerard has been with me since I came to England. So reliable, so intelligent, such a friend. I will never find another.” He dropped his head into his hands. “What's more, he was working on . . .” The rest of his words were lost in a despairing groan.

Bradford wheeled upon Charles. “Well, Sheridan?” he demanded brusquely. “Another accident, another man dead. What do you say now?”

Charles looked at Marconi, who sat with his shoulders slumped, his face buried in his hands. He had, it seemed, no choice but to agree. “When do we leave?”

“As quickly as we can,” Bradford said. “Tomorrow is the first of July. The Royals will be at the station Saturday fortnight.” He turned back to Marconi. “You can finish the tuner you and Gerard were working on? That's what the Prince and Admiral Fisher are coming to see, you know. That's what the Admiralty is interested in.”

“I suppose I can finish it,” Marconi said dully. “But without Gerard . . .”

“Good,” Bradford said. He nodded to Charles. “We should leave as early tomorrow as we can get away. Is that agreeable to you?”

“Yes,” Charles said, and thought once again, curiously, of Admiral Fisher.

CHAPTER TWO

 
 
 
 
Kate Sheridan finished reading the letter from her American cousin and began to study the snapshot Meghan had sent, a smile curving her mouth. Meg O'Malley was sixteen now, and very pretty, with Kate's exuberant auburn hair, intelligent eyes, and firm features. The girl had been a scrawny seven when the two of them had said goodbye at the New York dock where Kate had taken leave of her Irish-American family and begun her journey from America to England. She had thrown her arms around Kate's neck and cried, although her tears had probably been forgotten in the excitement of watching the enormous ship slip its moorings and head out to sea.

Nine years. It had been a momentous time, during which Kate, using the pseudonym Beryl Bardwell, had established herself as a successful novelist. Even more importantly, she had married an Englishman: Charles, Lord Sheridan, the fifth Baron Somersworth. But while Kate's life had changed dramatically since she left America, she had not forgotten her family. They exchanged letters and gifts, and she had made sure that Aunt and Uncle O'Malley, who had reared her after her mother died, had a comfortable home and that the numerous younger O'Malleys were able to continue their education. Now that Meghan was old enough to travel alone, Kate thought, it was time to invite her to England.

Kate looked fondly at the snapshot and inserted it into the corner of a silver picture frame on her writing desk. The frame displayed the photograph of a handsome, smiling young man, holding a horse. She and Charles had no children of their own—the only real sadness that had overtaken her in the past nine years was the loss of her child, and a pain which seemed to become even more poignant as she grew older—but they had adopted a young waif named Patrick, now nearly seventeen, and passionate about horses. He was currently working at Newmarket with George Lambton, one of Britain's leading horse trainers. He and Meghan might enjoy one another's company.

And Meghan would certainly enjoy Kate's favorite project, her thriving School for the Useful Arts. Kate had created it several years before, here at the Essex estate she had inherited from her aunts. Now, the school enrolled over two dozen young women, some coming daily from nearby Dedham village, a few living in a recently completed residence under the stern surveillance of Mrs. Bryan, who oversaw the year-long practical courses in horticulture, market gardening, dairying, beekeeping, and orchard management. Kate's school was one of only a few in England organized to help the women of rural districts (including the more famous one established by the Countess of Warwick near Dunmow), but she hoped that as more women began to seek ways to make their own independent livings, other schools would spring up. Hers, happily, was nearly self-supporting, but when it needed help, or when she wanted to add something new to the curriculum, she was able to use the income from her writing.