Death on the Lizard (14 page)

“And more,” Bradford said emphatically. “You know the Kaiser.”

Charles gave a dry chuckle. “I know what Bismarck said of him. ‘The Kaiser is like a balloon. If you do not hold fast to the string, you never know where he will be off to.' ”

“Indeed,” Bradford said. “And at the moment, he's obsessed with seeing that Germany is ahead of everyone else in every new technology, whether it's weapons, warships, or communications. He's been driven wild by the idea that the Marconi wireless is more successful than the one invented by his own scientists.”

“The Slaby-d'Arco system?”

Bradford nodded. “It has a limited range and is quite inferior. The Germans have installed it on a few ships—the
Deutschland,
for instance—but they've purchased Marconi equipment for other vessels, such as the
Kronprinz Wilhelm
.” He chuckled. “It infuriates Willie to have to pay for something when he thinks he should have it free.”

“Didn't I read,” Charles asked, frowning, “that the Germans attempted to invade a Marconi station? Not here in England, I think. In America?”

“Exactly,” Bradford said. “Last summer, the Kaiser sent a naval squadron to the Newfoundland station on Glace Bay. The first day, it was the commander and thirty of his officers, demanding a look around. Vyvyan, the station manager, met them at the gate and told them he'd be glad to show them over the place, as long as they could produce a letter of authority from Marconi or the company. Of course, they didn't have one. The commander huffed and puffed and said that His Imperial Majesty would be much annoyed—as if
that
should trouble anyone!—and they went off. The next day, however, they sent in a mob of 150 sailors. They would have overrun the place if Vyvyan hadn't kept his head. He organized a defensive force of laborers to keep them out.”

“And then there was something about Marconi refusing to relay messages, wasn't there? The Kaiser himself made a great deal of fuss about that, I understand.”

“Right. Wilhelm's brother, who was sailing on the
Deutschland,
demanded that a Marconi operator relay a message from his Slaby transmitter, which couldn't send the distance he needed. The Marconi operator refused. The Kaiser foamed at the mouth. He called it ‘deliberate sabotage, ' as I remember, and there were several heated letters in the newspapers. Of course, Marconi said that it was purely a matter of technical incompatibility—”

“Was it?”

Smiling slightly, Bradford shrugged. “Of course not. But why should we relay their bloody messages? If the Germans want to use the Marconi system, they can buy Marconi equipment.” He drained his coffee cup and set it down. “Now, though, they've adopted a different strategy. They've been making a lot of noise about standardizing wireless telegraphy. But any fool can see that they're only trying to steal our patents and break our monopoly.” He shook his head. “It's come to such a serious point that we've had to make it a policy not to hire German wireless operators. They—”

“I say, old chap,” a voice boomed, “you're Marsden, aren't you? On the Marconi Wireless board?”

Charles looked up to see a robust-looking man in tweeds coming toward the table. He had the florid complexion of an outdoorsman, bushy white eyebrows, and a stiff soldierly posture.

Bradford stood. “Bradford Marsden, at your service, sir. And who, may I ask—”

“Fitz-Bascombe. Major Robert Fitz-Bascombe,” the major said briskly, lifting his walking stick in a emphatic salute. “I have the honor, sir, of serving as secretary of the Lizard Peninsula Preservation Committee.”

“Preservation Committee?” Bradford pursed his lips, frowning. “I'm afraid I don't—”

“Bad show for your side, of course,” the major went on, “but rather the better for ours, if y' don't mind my saying so.”

“I don't quite take your point, I'm afraid,” said Bradford, frowning.

“Oh, that's all right,” the major replied benevolently. “That's all right, to be sure. Best course of action, in the circumstance. Realize that the company faces a loss of revenue, but far better that, I'm sure you'll agree, than—”

“What the devil,” Bradford snapped, “are you talking about?”

The major's white eyebrows came together. “Why, about the transmitter, of course. I speak for the other members of the committee when I say that we were shocked, quite shocked and saddened, to hear of the station manager's death.” He sighed gustily. “Poor fellow, and such a tragedy— although electrocution is not the worst way to go. Better than being ambushed by Boers, or having one's throat slashed by—” He made a brisk clicking noise with his tongue, as if to herd himself back to his point. “Be that as it may, and forgive me for saying so, sir, but we are pleased that the transmitter has been shut off. The roar was quite deafening, you know. Left my ears ringing.” And he smacked the side of his head with the heel of his hand, as if to shut off the annoying bells.

“I see.” Bradford shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, I—”

“We are
most
pleased,” the major repeated, and added, suggestively, “Be even more pleased when those unsightly towers are pulled down, of course.”

“Pull down the towers?” Bradford was astonished. “Pull down the
towers?
Why ever should we—”

“Because there's no profit in leaving them up,” the major said with great reasonableness. “They can't be of further use. Quite an eyesore, you have to admit, poking up from the downs as they do. And that aerial is a hazard to flight. Oh, yes, definitely a hazard.”

“To flight!” Bradford exclaimed. “But what—”

“Sea birds,” the major said sadly. “Four dead last week.” He shook his head. “And one black tern, I am sorry to say. We were all quite alarmed when Miss Truebody brought in that particular fatality. The black terns are declining rapidly, and I should be very sorry if the Marconi Company were responsible for any additional deaths.”

Bradford took a deep breath. “Now see here, Major—”

“Fitz-Bascombe,” the major said. “Problem's getting quite serious, y'know, with migratory season approaching. Don't want a repeat of last year. Lost a red-necked grebe, two barn owls, a yellow wagtail—”

“I don't give a damn,” Bradford said fiercely, “about yellow wagtails. The transmitter is shut down temporarily while repairs are effected and we determine the cause of the accident. Transmissions will begin again as soon as possible. And the towers will stay up. Did you hear that, Major?” In a measured voice, he repeated. “The towers will stay up.”

The major looked horrified. “But, my good fellow, a man has
died!
You can't intend to carry on as if nothing has happened. It's a matter of respect. It—”

“You don't go closing the roads every time some poor chap gets run down by the fish man's cart, do you?” Bradford growled. “You don't halt an invasion when the first charge fails. The Marconi Company has tens of thousands of pounds invested in this station. The directors have no intention of shutting it down.”

The major pulled himself up, his white eyebrows dancing furiously. “It's not just the birds, y'know, Marsden. It's the noise. Infernal racket, bad during the day, insufferable at night. And the traffic—these roads were never made for dozens of wagons and coaches, one after the other. Why, just yesterday, there was a
motor car
. Next thing, there'll be motor lorries speeding along, no regard for horse nor man.” He was warming to his subject. “And more towers, and more building, and destruction of agricultural land and the ancient monuments and the fishing industry and the social harmony of—”

“Excuse me, Major Fitz-Bascombe,” said the barman tentatively, “but Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe is inquiring whether you are ready to leave. She is quite anxious to—”

“Of course, of course,” muttered the major. He lowered threatening brows at Bradford. “Consider well, Marsden. The Marconi Company's present course is beastly unpopular among the residents of the Lizard. Additional provocation can only result in a dangerous escalation of sentiment and a consequent—”

“Thank you, Major Fitz-Bascombe,” Bradford said with a bow. “I am deeply indebted to you for your advice. And please convey my compliments to Mrs. Fitz-Bascombe. I shall look forward to meeting her, at a more convenient time.”

Charles watched as the major turned on his heel and marched out of the room. “That sounded serious, Bradford.”

“Of course it did.” Bradford fell into his chair, chuckling mirthlessly. “But we'll assign Major Fitz-Bascombe the duty of greeting Prince George on behalf of Mullion Village, and his wife can hand the Princess a bouquet of flowers. That will change his tune in a hurry.”

“Perhaps,” Charles said. “But it won't change the fundamental problem. The wider opposition, I mean.”

“Perhaps not,” Bradford said, “but opposing the company won't do them any good. The station is here to stay, and that's that.” In a softer tone, he added, “Was that a note from Kate you were reading?”

Charles nodded. “It came by the afternoon post. You recall Andrew Kirk-Smythe, don't you? You met him at an Easton Lodge weekend, some years ago.”

Bradford pondered. “With the Royal party, wasn't he? Some sort of bodyguard?”

“Yes. Kate writes that he is on the Lizard. If you should bump into him, it would be best if you did not seem to recognize him.” He spread his hands. “It appears that he's here on some sort of business he doesn't want publicized.”

“What sort?” Bradford asked, scowling. “If he's doing advance scouting for the Royal visit, he ought to coordinate with me.”

“I don't know why he's here,” Charles replied. “He's not in the same division of the government any longer, so I shouldn't think his presence has to do with the visit. I thought I would hire a cart and drive over to Helford this evening. He's staying at an inn there, Kate says. If it turns out that his business has to do with the Royals, I'll ask him to get in touch with you and fill you in on the details.” He paused. “Have you heard from Marconi? When is he coming down?”

“On the late train this evening,” Bradford said, adding with a grimace, “It appears that there was trouble at the lecture last night.”

“Oh?” Charles frowned. “Trouble with the apparatus?”

“He didn't say. He'll tell us when he gets here, I suppose.” He sighed. “He's bringing a guest, which is only going to complicate things, I'm afraid.”

“One of the French investors?”

“I wish,” Bradford replied with a short, hard laugh. “It's a woman. Marconi is off on another one of his damned romantic adventures.” He shook his head grimly. “I hope this one is better than the last.
She
was a disaster, by God.” He leaned forward on his elbows, lowering his voice and speaking confidentially. “I say, old man, you're not really going to Penhallow to have dinner with Lodge, are you?”

“Is there a reason I shouldn't?” Charles asked.

Bradford shot him a penetrating glance. “I don't suppose you've heard of the patent challenge, then.” When Charles shook his head, he went on. “That patent of his, you know, is a very good one, a strong rival to Marconi's. The company's solicitors fear that when the lawsuit finally comes to court, there'll be trouble.”

Charles pushed his chair back. “That has nothing to do with me, Bradford. I'm not an employee of the Marconi Company.” He stood, smiling briefly. “And what's more, I must confess that I rather like Sir Oliver.”

“Like him!” Bradford said in a disgusted tone. “Well, that's up to you, of course. But I'm telling you, Sheridan, his coming just now is no coincidence. Be careful what you say to him, will you? Don't give away any secrets.”

“Oh, come now, Bradford,” Charles said. “You know me better than that.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

 
 
 
 
While Bradford was warning Charles against Sir Oliver Lodge, Jenna Loveday was sitting in her bedroom, reading a letter from that very same gentleman. It was only a short note expressing the hope that she was well and letting her know that he would be arriving on the three o'clock train. Enclosed with the letter was an article clipped from
Macmillan's Magazine,
with a note scribbled at the top.

 
The article was captioned, “Automatic Writing Brings Word from the Other Side.”

Nervously, Jenna scanned the article. It contained a description of the way the process worked: the medium seated at a table in a darkened room, a pen in her hand, writing words which came from some supernatural source. “The procedure is very like a spirit trance,” the writer went on,