Death on the Lizard (37 page)

“Ah, Kate, my dear,” he said jovially. “Good morning, good morning! I just dropped by to put Charles in the picture about the Royal visit. It went off very well, I'm pleased to say.”

“I'm sure he'll be glad to hear that,” Kate said. “It will cheer him up.”

“Not upset about the shooting, I hope.” Bradford said carelessly.

Kate bristled. “Yes, he is. Charles doesn't go around shooting people as a matter of course. The whole affair disturbed him deeply.”

Bradford harrumphed. “I should have thought that someone who'd shot all those heathenish Dervishes in the Sudan wouldn't cavil at killing a Hun. He was doing his duty, after all—and it was clearly self-defense. That's what the constable testified, wasn't it? Had your husband been a split second slower, he'd have been a dead man.”

Kate knew there was no point in discussing this matter with Bradford and hoped he would have the sensitivity not to raise the matter with Charles. As to the Dervishes, she knew that Charles had great respect for their courage and faith and saw little difference between defending one's king and country and defending one's God and prophet. And as for the German spy, Charles had told her that he had shot the man to keep him from escaping and with the knowledge that, had he been captured, he could not have been brought to trial. The constable had testified to self-defense in order to bring the matter to a speedy and sure close.

But it was probably the spy's weapon that had swung the coroner's jury, Charles said. The Luger recovered from the deck of the yacht was unlike anything the jurors had seen before. This pistol had no cylinder, just a long, bare barrel with a swept-back handle and two round finger grips in back. It held eight rounds in the handle, automatically reloading as fast as the trigger was pulled each time it was pulled, so fast that no human eye could follow the movement. It was clearly capable of killing as many as eight men in rapid succession, and the jurors were not comforted when they learned that the German Navy was about to make this vicious weapon their regulation sidearm. Incensed that a foreigner would have the temerity to bring it into peaceful Britain, it took them only a quarter-hour to reach their verdict. They found that the man known as Niels Andersson had murdered Richard Corey when Corey failed to deliver the stolen Marconi tuner. Andersson's death was ruled a justifiable homicide, Lord Charles Sheridan having acted in self-defense.

With all that in mind, Kate only said, “Charles will be pleased to hear your report. He's up in the attic, running some tests with the Chelmsford Marconi station. I'm sure you can find your way.”

 
 
Charles had cleared away a corner of the large, dusty attic to use as a transmitting station, placing a table for his telegraphic equipment under the gable window and installing a wire to an aerial attached to a chimney. The window gave him a good light, a cool breeze, and a wide view of the orchard and meadow at the foot of the garden, a view that he enjoyed while he worked at his telegraph key. He had put on his headset and was so absorbed in his transmission that he did not hear Bradford's halloo and looked up only when his friend placed a hand on his shoulder. When he completed the message, he removed the headset and sat back in his chair.

“Hullo, Marsden.” He gestured to a stack of wooden boxes. “Pull up a seat and tell me how things went in Poldhu last week.”

Bradford turned up a box and sat down on it. “Everything was splendid, simply splendid,” he said with enthusiasm. “The Prince was deeply impressed by Marconi's demonstration, and the Princess was delighted by the fanfare. The whole countryside turned out: flags, bunting, bands, choirs, the lot. The Prince actually climbed one of the masts and pronounced the view smashing.”

“And the Admiral?” Charles asked eagerly. “What did Fisher have to say about the tuner?” That was his only regret about missing the Royal visit—that he had not been there to see the look on Jackie Fisher's face when Marconi demonstrated Gerard's tuning device and the Admiral understood what an advance on the present technology it represented.

“Oh, that.” Briefly deflated, Bradford took out a cigar and lit it. “Well, as to that, it was a good thing the Admiral wasn't able to come.”

“Not able to come!” Charles exclaimed in surprise. “But I thought that was the whole point of the exercise!”

“Quite,” Bradford replied, puffing on the cigar. “As I said, however, it was a good thing. Marconi has not yet been able to make the tuner work properly.” He made a wry mouth. “Gerard was rather ahead of him, it seems, in certain technical matters. His death is likely to be very unfortunate for us. However, we shall recover. We shall recover.”

Charles sighed regretfully. “If we had been able to find the diary, it would be a different story. That's where all the experiments are recorded.” He paused. “The thing hasn't turned up yet, I suppose.” They had not found it when they searched Andersson's yacht, and Corey had given no clue to its whereabouts.

“Sadly, no. Whatever that bloody Corey did with it, he took the knowledge with him to his death.” Bradford blew a cloud of smoke. “But Marconi will piece it all together eventually. Once you scientists know that a thing can be done, it's just a matter of trying out different ways of making it work. Give Marconi some time for experimentation, and he'll get it right. Although,” he added carelessly, “the company is doing so well—in terms of new contracts and installations, I mean—that we hardly need the damned thing.”

“At least for the moment,” Charles murmured, thinking that for all his friend's shrewdness as a businessman, he was a fool about some things. The tuner was a vital part of the new technology that would have to be developed if the Marconi Company were to stay ahead of the pack. It was a pity that Bradford didn't seem to fully grasp its importance, and that the Marconi board was more interested in employing Marconi on the marketing front, rather than in research and development. But he only smiled and remarked: “The Royal visit was good for business, then, was it?”

“Rather!” Bradford exclaimed expansively. “The press turned out in force, and the newspaper reports were glowing. I must say, the publicity didn't hurt the price of Marconi shares one bit.” He paused. “Marconi is most grateful to you, old man. We all are. If you hadn't got to the bottom of those deaths, the Royal visit would certainly have been cancelled, and the adverse publicity might have spellt the end of Marconi Wireless.”

“There's one thing that troubles me, though,” Charles said thoughtfully. “The death threat that Marconi received at the close of his lecture at the Royal Institution. Obviously, someone out there has a grudge against him, and it needs to be taken seriously. I would very much like to find out who—”

“Haven't I told you?” Bradford said. “That turned out to be the work of Maskelyne's assistant, the one who was transmitting the message.”

“Indeed!” Charles said.

“Yes, the fellow threw it in
gratis,
it seems.” Bradford waved his cigar. “And when Maskelyne found out what the chap had done, he was so chagrined that he withdrew his planned attack in
The Times
. So even that unfortunate bit of business worked to the company's advantage.”

“So it would appear,” Charles said dryly, thinking that the Marconi Company certainly seemed to lead a charmed life. He changed the subject. “I wonder—do you happen to know whether Kirk-Smythe is still on the Lizard?”

“I heard that he has taken possession of Andersson's yacht until the authorities decide what to do with it. No one has stepped forward to make a claim to the boat, and she might well become his.” Bradford gave him a meaningful look. “He's moored her in Frenchman's Creek, I understand.”

“Really?” Charles remarked.

“Yes. He seems to be seeing a great deal of the beautiful Lady Loveday.”

So Kate had said, having heard the news from Jenna herself. Charles smiled. “Well, I've certainly seen worse arrangements. Kirk-Smythe is a good man, and Jenna must lead a lonely life, out there on the Lizard. They may be right for one another.”

“They may, indeed,” Bradford said. “Certainly, a wife like Lady Loveday would do wonders for the fellow.” He gave Charles a wink, “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in want of a fortune must possess himself of a wife with a good one. At least, I have found it true in my case.”

Charles glanced out the attic window and caught a glimpse of Kate, hair blown by the wind and skirts whipping, carrying a basket into the garden. He was suddenly overwhelmed by his feeling for her, and his gratitude for all she gave him: her warmth, her understanding, her support, her love. “I don't know about the fortune,” he said quietly. “But a man without a good wife must be a lonely man, indeed.”

AUTHORS' NOTES

 
 
 
Bill Albert writes about Marconi and wireless:

Susan and I had considered writing a book on Guglielmo Marconi for over a decade, ever since we learned about his wireless factory in Chelmsford, less than ten miles from our fictional Bishop's Keep. Given Charles Sheridan's interest in science and military background, it stands to reason that he would have been an avid follower of the developments in wireless that revolutionized existing communications technologies in the early 1900s, and that he would have made Marconi's acquaintance soon after the young Italian came to England.

Until we actually began the research for the book, however, I found it difficult to see how we could create a compelling fiction about Marconi's life and work. My doubts disappeared when I realized just how ferocious the commercial competition in wireless really was—much fiercer, even, than the competition in the early motor car industry, which we described in
Death at Devil's Bridge.
While motor cars were initially viewed with an exasperated humor as toys for the idle rich and nuisances for everyone else, the public at large easily and enthusiastically grasped the possible applications— commercial, military, governmental, and scientific—of a fully-operational wireless telegraph system using the familiar Morse code. A number of inventors quickly jumped on the wireless bandwagon, while the undersea and landline cable companies (with their colossal investments in infrastructure) were doing everything they could to stop the advance of the new technology. Governments saw the enormous advantage of wireless, and armies and navies were eager to adopt it. Great Britain, which claimed Marconi, might have held a slight lead, but Germany, the United States, France, and Russia were all anxious to benefit—without, as far as possible, paying royalties to the Marconi Company. In fact, on all sides, the historical record shows decades-long attempts to copy ideas and infringe on patents. Some of these suits were not settled until the Second World War.

When writing historical fiction, Susan and I are occasionally challenged by the conceptual divide that exists between our characters and our audience: that is, a concept which would have been familiar to our characters in their period is unknown or alien to our readers—or vice versa. (An example of the latter: One reviewer of
Death in Hyde Park,
a prisoner of contemporary technology, thought that by “wireless” we must be referring to cell phones!) Readers of this book will have to recognize that in 1901, when Marconi sent the coded letter “S” from his transmitter at Poldhu to a receiver in North America, neither he nor anyone else foresaw the use of wireless in broadcast mode. (“Broadcast” was the agricultural term for casting seed by hand). In fact, Marconi envisioned only transmitter-to-single-receiver applications; the ability of multiple receivers to intercept a message from a single transmitter was viewed as a major problem, in terms of security and signal interference, not as an asset that might translate into a whole new technology. Once past its initial inventive phase, the Marconi Company was never again in the forefront of technology or experimentation.

But the technologies that Marconi inspired evolved swiftly. In November of 1906, Lee de Forest created a tube that he called the “audion,” which made it possible to transmit the human voice. And in December of the same year, only forty-one months after the time of our book, Reginald Fessenden broadcast his first epoch-making program of voice and music. The world of mass communications was born—and the future did not belong to Marconi.

A personal note: I have one regret about this book—that is, that my father, Carl Paul Albert, did not live long enough to help with it. He would have been a wonderful source of information and inspiration, for he knew and understood the apparatus we describe in this book. He became a ham operator as a teenager in the early 1920s, and was a life-long radio enthusiast. I loved to hear him tell the story of the proud day when he had finally saved enough to buy and install a single tube in his radio receiver—the tube burned out after only an hour. And I can still remember watching him test and replace the tubes in the family radios in the late 1940s. After his death, as I dismantled his forty-foot radio tower and gave away his stash of circuit boards, resistors, and transistors, I couldn't help reflecting on the technological change in the space of his lifetime.