Death on the Lizard (15 page)

 
Jenna dropped the article into her lap and sat, staring out the window. It was objective and informative and for that she was grateful, for she had never even heard of “automatic writing” until Sir Oliver had told her about it. She would not have considered doing what he asked had he not been an old friend of the family, and such a comforting presence, so sincere in his beliefs and such a well-respected scientist that it was hard to think ill of him in any way.

But if Sir Oliver hoped the article might ease her nervousness about the séance he planned for tomorrow night, he was wrong. She was even more frightened than she had been in the first place, because she understood more clearly what this was all about and why he was so interested in her. It was the fact that she was “susceptible to spirit influences,” as the writer of the article delicately put it: the fact that, ever since Harriet died, she had been having what Dr. Michaels called “hallucinations.”

Yesterday afternoon, for instance, out on the terrace, seeing to the tea, she had looked up and seen a moving shape among the trees, a girl in a blue dress and white apron. The sight had been all the more disturbing because it seemed so utterly real and because she had not felt the physical sensations which usually came with her “visions”: the bone-deep chill, the dizziness and disorientation, the voices. And last night, after she had blown out the candle and gone to bed, she had seen a dim, translucent shape twisting through the dark at the foot of her bed and heard a confused chorus of urgent whispers, like a stream chattering among the rocks, just barely audible beneath the sighing of the wind outside her casement window. She had lain still, unable to move, so frightened that she could scarcely breathe, while the darkness grew icy cold, washing over her like surf freezing on rocks, drowning her in its deathly chill. At last—it seemed like an eternity—the wraith-like shape faded, the air warmed, the whispers died away. But she could not sleep, or perhaps she dared not sleep, for a very long time. And when she finally drifted off, her dreams were dark and dreadful.

Jenna did not have to be a psychic to be aware that these experiences, while they were terrifying for her, made her supremely valuable to Sir Oliver. She was someone who might be able to receive messages from the spirit world, who might be able to produce evidence of the survival of the self after death. Perhaps she should be glad that he didn't think she was losing her mind, that there was another explanation for what was happening to her. But while Sir Oliver's explanation might ease some of her anxiety, it had created a new and even more terrifying fear. What if Harriet
were
able to speak through her? Her stomach turned over and she felt sick, remembering that night, the night Harriet had drowned. What would she say?
What would she say?

She crumpled the article into a paper ball and threw it on the floor.
No!
she cried silently.
I won't! I'll tell Sir Oliver I've changed my mind. I'll tell him that I'm ill, or that I'm too afraid. I'll tell him . . .

She squeezed her eyes tight shut and bit her lip, and the welcome pain, the sudden, salty taste of blood pulled her back to her intention. No, she thought dully, she had to do it. She had to know whether she herself could have been the cause of her daughter's drowning. She did not want to think how painful the knowledge would be, how it would twist like a knife in the belly, gnaw like a rat at the heart. But she had to
know
it!

She opened her eyes, rose from her chair, and went to the window to look out toward the garden, where Snood was cutting back the rosebushes, the red roses Harriet had loved so dearly. Beyond the garden and the green lawn, where the wild woodland fell away to the creek, the boat lay quietly in the water, moored against the bank, under the arching trees. Tonight, after everyone else had gone to bed, she had promised to go there, so they could be together. The last time. It would be the last time, she promised herself. She would never go to him again.

But when the clock struck midnight and the house was dark and silent, and she took a light and crept down the steep path to Frenchman's Creek, the boat was gone.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 
 
 
 
Charles had gone off to Helford for the evening, and Bradford decided upon an early dinner. He left a note for Marconi at the hotel desk, and sauntered into the dining room, glancing around. At this hour, there were only a few diners: a couple on holiday, leaning intimately together; an elderly gentleman with a pince-nez and a book propped under his nose; and a blond, good-looking chap with a bit of the Nordic about him and a yachting cap hung on the back of his chair. The couple made him think that perhaps it would be good to ask his wife Edith to come down when all the fuss of the Royal visit was over. Perhaps they could hire a sailboat—an idea recommended by the sight of the yachtsman—and go out for an afternoon on the sea. Edith would be pleased by that, he thought. And she probably deserved to see the Poldhu station, considering her contribution to the cause.

After a leisurely meal—the wine was excellent and the Poldhu Hotel chef quite good, an import from Paris, someone had said—Bradford was in a mellow mood. In search of solitude, he took himself, his cigar, and a bottle of the hotel's best port onto the terrace overlooking the water.

The terrace was not empty, however. Another man, in golfing tweeds, woolen stockings, and spats, was slouched in a chair with his pipe and a glass of whisky at his elbow. The sun was setting in a bank of burnished clouds on the western horizon, and the fellow seemed to be engrossed in the ocean view. But he looked up and squinted as Bradford took a neighboring chair and set his bottle of port on the table.

“Spectacular sight, eh?” he said. The man was dark-haired and clean-shaven, with a thin dark moustache.

“Yes,” Bradford replied. “I trust you are enjoying it.” He sat down.

“Oh, you bet,” the man said, in that easy, familiar way of Americans. “You bet.” Without getting up, he leaned over and thrust out a hand. “Bryan Fisher. Glad t'meetcha, Mr.—”

“Marsden,” Bradford supplied. “Bradford Marsden. You're a golfer, I see. What do you think of the course here?”

“Haven't played it yet,” Fisher replied. “Been down at the Housel Hotel for a while, and played there.” He screwed up his face. “Have to say I didn't think much of that course. Greens're too rough. Chews up my game. You play?”

“Not here,” Bradford said briefly.

Fisher barked a short laugh. “Well, hell. If you don't play golf, what
do
you come for? Not much else to do around here, except watch the ships go by.” He squinted at Bradford. “Say, don't I recognize you? You're with that Marconi bunch, aren't you?”

“I am a director of the company, yes,” Bradford acknowledged stiffly. He had never quite got used to Americans.

“Well, gee whiz!” Fisher exclaimed. “Here I am, staring straight down the old horse's mouth, so to speak. Must congratulate you, Marsden. Fine work you've been doing. Out to put those cable companies smack dab out of business, aren't you?” He gave Bradford an admiring smile. “Yep, nothing but good times ahead for Marconi, from all I read in the papers. People are crazy for wireless, especially in the good ol' U.S. of A. Nothing but wireless, wireless, wireless, everywhere you go, everybody you talk to.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Bradford replied, somewhat smugly.

“But I reckon it ain't all sunshine and roses,” Fisher said with a grin. “I hear you folks're having some trouble at that station of yours. People dying, transmissions shut off—what the hell's goin' on over there, anyhow?”

Bradford frowned. If there was anything he detested, it was the American habit of assuming too much familiarity. He found it presumptuous and impertinent. “One of our men did suffer an unfortunate accident, if that's what you're referring to,” he said in a chilly tone.

“Unfortunate accident?” Fisher hooted, draining his glass. “I'd say! Poor devil fried himself, didn't he? Guess you need one helluva lot of juice to send those wireless signals over to the land of the free and the home of the brave.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “How much voltage are you fellas puttin' out, anyway? Must have a pretty powerful electrical plant. Gosh, I sure would like to have a look at it. What say you give me the grand tour, huh? First thing tomorrow?”

“I'm sorry,” Bradford said, “we do not give tours, grand or otherwise.” He began to push himself out of his chair. “Now, if you will excuse me—”

“Hey, don't let me run you off,” Fisher said, rising. “I'm going upstairs to change for dinner, so you just stay and enjoy the view.” He waved in the direction of the sunset. “Mighty fine show you Brits put on for us Yanks. Yep, mighty fine.” And with that, he took himself off.

Bradford scowled. Damn the fellow, anyway. He settled back in his chair, poured a glass of port, and lit a cigar, trying to regain the mellow mood the encounter had entirely dispelled. It was too bad that the place attracted fellows like that, the wrong sort altogether.

One thing was certain, though—the view was splendid. The ocean was quiet, the breeze mild, the sky clear. The sun was spilling its last bright rays into a bank of burnished clouds, washing the terrace and the cliffs below with a clear, pure light. The water gleamed a deep aquamarine, and off to his left, the roof and towers of the transmitter station glowed like gold.

Gold. It was a lovely color, a significant color, Bradford thought bleakly, but hardly prophetic. He had got himself involved with Marconi in the hope—no, the expectation— of making a great deal of money, and making it very fast. And that's what should have happened, wasn't it? Commercial wireless telegraphy, after all, was the golden invention of the new century, offering a vision of infinite promise. Wireless messages were now being flashed from London to New York and from London to Paris. Soon it would be possible to send them from Paris to Capetown, Capetown to Calcutta, Calcutta to Sydney, Sydney to San Francisco—all at a fraction of the cost of cable telegraphy, and with a great deal more mobility. Ships at sea, armies at war, the Empire's business in far-flung outposts around the globe—the possibilities were endless. Why, this new communications network, which didn't have to rely on cables and wires, would make it possible to learn, instantly, that diamonds had been discovered in Kimberly, or that the wheat crop had failed in Alberta or New South Wales, or that the Mexican silver mines had been seized by revolutionaries. The advantages to commodities speculators would be enormous. And with the public imagination fired by the “wireless mania” blazing in the U.S. and British newspapers week after week, it was only a matter of time before the money started coming in.

But it hadn't happened yet. Like the other directors, Bradford had originally put some ten thousand pounds into the company, more than he had, much more than he could afford. And still it wasn't enough, and calls for more cash came regularly. The money was borrowed from his wife's fortune, of course; there was nothing left of the Marsden money when Bradford's father had died several years ago. Unfortunately, Bradford's own investments had not worked out as well as he had hoped, and certainly not as well as he pretended. The Marconi investment had to pay off, and very soon. It
had
to, or there would be hell to pay. Bankruptcy was an ominous but entirely likely prospect, and Edith would be understandably angry if he had to tell her that her money had all been lost.

The sun sank behind the clouds and the landscape turned from gold to a bleak, sober gray. Bradford finished his port and chewed on his cigar. It didn't look as if the situation would improve any time soon. Truth be told, the company's cash flooded out much faster than it trickled in. Stations had to be built and equipped, salaries had to be paid, the Chelmsford factory had to be kept producing, research and development had to continue. But the truth could
not
be told, for while the company struggled to stay afloat, it had to turn a confident face to the world, not giving any hint of the difficulties in their financial situation or in the technical problems with wireless itself.