Death on the Lizard (23 page)

Worster dropped into his chair and began to hammer his key: CQD CQD UNKNOWN SHIP SSW LIZARD HEADING NE FRENCH SHIP
LA BELLE MARIE
ON FIRE 49 48 N 5 20 W CAN YOU ASSIST.

The receiver remained silent. “Damn,” Worster muttered. “She must not have a wireless.”

“Or perhaps not a Marconi wireless,” Marconi said, as Worster bent over his key and repeated the message. He glanced at Charles. “CQD is the Marconi code for a ship in distress. Ships subscribing to other systems are not supposed to use it.”

Charles frowned, seeing the difficulty created by competing proprietary systems. When it came to desperate situations, such as a ship in distress, competitiveness ought to be set aside. But an instant latter, the telegraph clattered into life, and the doubt was erased.

HMS
HOPEWELL
RESPONDING CQD SMOKE SIGHTED ESTIMATE ARRIVAL 20 MINUTES.

“A British warship!” Worster exclaimed eagerly. “Jolly good, I'd say! She'll have fire-fighting equipment on board. And if all else fails, she can take the crew off.” He shook his head. “It would have saved a deal of time if Falmouth could have picked up her first CQD directly, and if we didn't have the interference problem.” He glanced up at Marconi. “Not to be critical, sir,” he said apologetically.

Marconi patted Worster's shoulder, beaming, his earlier anxiety seemingly forgotten in the excitement of the transmission. “No apologies, Worster. A splendid effort. Splendid!”

“Thank you, sir,” Worster said. He took a deep breath. “If you wouldn't mind watching the key for a few minutes, I'd very much like to go out for a smoke. This sort of work is . . . well, you know.”

“I know,” Marconi said, pulling out the chair. “Have your smoke, old chap, and take your time. I'll keep an ear out for more messages.”

Charles had the idea that Marconi was more than happy to sit with the key for a little while—something he might not get to do very often these days. He followed Worster out of the station.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, as the operator took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. Worster shook his head with a grin, and Charles took out his pipe. “Gets a bit tense in there,” he remarked, filling it with tobacco and tamping it down.

“I'd say, sir,” Worster replied emphatically. “Some days, it's very tense. Some days, there's nothing but urgent messages, CQDs, problems with the equipment or the transmissions. Personnel problems, too. Some days, I'd rather be doing something else.” He grinned slightly. “Wouldn't want Mr. Marconi to hear that, of course.”

“Of course,” Charles said. “There's a lot to running a station like this one.” He paused. “Actually, I'm here to look into some of the problems you mentioned. The recent deaths, for instance.”

“Ah,” said Worster, and let out his breath in a long sigh. “Jack Gorden, eh?”

“And Daniel Gerard.”

Worster looked away. “Can't tell you anything about Gerard, I'm afraid. I was on duty here at the time it happened. Didn't learn about it until they sent somebody down here to tell me why Poldhu wasn't transmitting.” He pulled on his cigarette.

“What about Gordon?” Charles asked. “What kind of a man was he? Given to drink?”

“Drink? Not really. Oh, he'd have his pint or two, like the rest of us. But not to the point where he might just walk off a cliff.” Worster narrowed his eyes. “They asked me that at the inquest, y'know. And that's what I said. Of course, nobody knows what happened that night. Nobody saw.”

“I wonder,” Charles said, “whether he had many friends. Here at the station, for instance?”

“Well, there was only the three of us: Gordon, me, and John Hunt, who came just a week before Gordon died.” Worster hesitated, chewing on a his mustache. “Jack didn't know John, and I wouldn't say the two of us—Jack and me, that is—was friends, exactly. We both worked in the same place, o'course, but not at the same time.” His grin was crooked. “Marconi operators, we're loners, we are. Rather work by ourselves than with people, by and large.”

Charles nodded. Wireless operators must enjoy the solitary life, for the job was known to involve long hours alone in a wireless shack, often at some remote spot along the coast. “Is there anything else?” he asked. “His behavior, for instance? Anything out of the ordinary there?”

Worster screwed up his mouth, thinking. “The weeks before he died, he could've seemed . . . well, preoccupied, you might say. Like he had something on his mind he was trying to work out. And there was a time or two when he asked me to swap shifts with him. Day for night.”

“He wanted to work your night shift? Did you find that a bit unusual?”

“Right.” Worster answered slowly, as if these thoughts were just occurring to him. “Unusual? Well, now that you ask, I do wonder. I didn't mind, o'course. I like a good night's sleep as well as the next man.” He shrugged. “To each his own, though. Jack prob'ly had a good reason. It's a pity it happened when it did, is all I got to say. He was looking forward to his holiday.”

“Ah,” Charles said. “And where was he going?”

“Back to Bavaria. His mother's fam'ly was there, y'see. He loved the Old Country, and . . .” His voice trailed off and his glance slid away.

“Right,” Charles said, as a new thought crossed his mind. “Jack was German, then, was he?”

“Well, not to say German, exactly,” Worster replied defensively. “He was born here, same as me. A man can't help where his mother was born, or where his people come from, can he?” He threw his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. “Worked hard, showed up on time, Jack did. Too bad, that's what it was. Poor chap didn't get his holiday.”

Charles changed the subject. “Mr. Marconi tells me Gerard brought that new tuner of his down here for testing.”

“Right. Two, three times. Maybe more. I don't know anything about it, though.”

“Did he ever leave it here?”

Worster gave a short laugh. “Leave it? Never even let it out of his sight. Afraid somebody was going to steal the secret, I s'pose. He was working on the interference problem, you see. Same trouble as we were having this morning. He was trying to come up with an apparatus which would tune Poldhu out.” He paused, then restated his thought. “Which would tune for any specific station.”

“A challenge, as I understand it.” Charles puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. “Did he succeed?”

Worster shrugged. “Not as far as I could tell. 'Course, I wasn't here every time he brought the tuner here. He may have made it work other times, or in other situations.” He grinned crookedly. “I was hoping he'd come up with something, him or Marconi. Guess now it'll have to be Marconi, although he doesn't seem to have a lot of time these days for inventing. But at least he's got Gerard's work, and all he has to do is finish it.”

Charles regarded Worster, wondering if he should tell him that the tuner had been stolen. But instead, he said, “This holiday Jack was planning to take. He
was
coming back, wasn't he?”

Worster regarded him for a moment, narrow-eyed. “How'd you know?”

“Just a guess. He wasn't, then?”

Worster shook his head slowly. “Said he'd had enough of telegraph work. Thought he'd do something different.” Inside, the key began to clatter. “Time for me to get back to work.”

“If you think of anything having to do with either Gerard or Gordon, you'll let me know, will you?” Charles asked. “I'm staying at the Poldhu Hotel.”

Worster cocked his head, and a slight crease appeared between his brows. “Think there's something funny, do you? Think somebody's out after Marconi operators?” He grunted. “Should I be worried?”

Charles gave a little shrug. “I doubt it,” he said, “unless you have something that somebody wants.”

“Well, I don't know what it would be,” Worster said with an uneasy laugh. “And that's God's truth.”

As the man went back into the station, Charles turned to look out to sea. Daniel Gerard had the tuner and the notes describing its operation.

What did Jack Gordon have that someone might want?

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

 
 
 
With the book under her arm and a basket of currant tea cakes left from the picnic, Kate set off down the path to the cottage Alice shared with her grandmother. It was a small cottage in need of whitewashing and roofed with an untidy thatch full of birds' nests. But a bower of red roses arched over the window, red geraniums brightened the window sill, and a half-dozen hens scratched diligently beside the path. The door was partway open, and Kate called out, “Alice, are you at home?”

There was a scurrying noise inside, the door was flung wide, and Alice appeared, wearing the same blue dress and white pinafore she had worn the day before. But her braids were full of twigs and leaves and her pinafore was hardly white. From the leaves in her hair and the red stains on her pinafore, Kate guessed that she had been picking berries and—from the smears on her cheeks and chin— eating them too.

“Hullo,” Alice said, with an oh-it's-you-look, and added, “Your ladyship,” as an afterthought.

Kate glanced at the table, where a bowl of berries, tins of flour and sugar, and a rolling pin testified to Alice's present occupation. “I've interrupted your baking, I see,” she said.

“I'm making a berry tart,” Alice said. “It's a surprise for Gram.” Her eyes lit up as she noticed what Kate was carrying, and her tone became warmer. “You've brought the book. And cakes!”

“Yes,” Kate said, and put both on the table. “I hope you'll enjoy it as much as I did when I first read it. Lewis Carroll has quite a vivid imagination. As a writer, I've learned a great deal from him.”

“You're a writer?” Alice asked, frowning skeptically. “You write
books
?”

“Yes,” Kate said, pulling out a chair. Sustained skepticism seemed to be the girl's ordinary state of mind, and she was certainly a creature of moods. “I could read a bit of the story out loud, if you would like to go back to your baking. I shouldn't like to delay your gram's berry tart.”

“Is it as good as
Treasure Island
?” Her tone implied strong doubt.

“I think so,” Kate replied. “Would you like me to read?”

“Oh, I suppose,” Alice said, with an elaborately nonchalant shrug which disclaimed any interest at all, and picked up her rolling pin.

Kate began to read the familiar text, while Alice—with a dexterity obviously born of experience—put the berries and sugar into a deep pie pan, rolled out a circle of pastry, fitted it neatly over the top, and crimped the edges. She continued to read as the girl put several lumps of coal into the black iron range built into the chimney, opened the oven, and slid the tart into it. When she finished the first chapter, she glanced inquiringly at Alice, who commanded, “Go on,” and began to clear the table. As Kate started the second chapter, “The Pool of Tears,” the girl finished the washing up, then sat down on the braided rug at Kate's feet and crossed her legs, still listening.

Kate finished the chapter and closed the book. “Did you like it?” She sniffed the warm aroma coming from the oven. “Your tart already smells delicious.”

“Of course I liked it,” Alice said indignantly. “I
loved
it.” She pulled out her lower lip between her fingers and attempted to look at it. Her eyes crossed. “What sort of books?”

“Pardon me?” Kate asked.

“What sort of books do you write? The boring sort, or good ones like
Alice
?”

“I hope they're good,” Kate said with a smile. “Perhaps you could read one or two and tell me your opinion.” On second thought, though, perhaps she wouldn't want to hear Alice's opinions. She had the idea that they might be scathing.

Alice rolled over on her stomach and propped her chin in one hand, twisting her hair in her fingers. “P'rhaps I shall write a story.” She thought for a moment, then rolled over on her back. “That was a sad one you told me yesterday.”

“Yes,” Kate said and sighed. “When it happened, I cried so much that I might have drowned in a pool of my own tears, like Alice in Wonderland.” She took a currant tea cake out of the basket and handed it to the girl, then took one for herself. “But I expect everybody has at least one sad story to tell. Don't you?”

Alice shot her a look. “About somebody dying?”

“There are all kinds of sad stories.”

“The ones about people dying are the saddest,” Alice said definitively. She sat up, pulled out her pinafore, and began picking the currants out of her tea cake and dropping them into her lap.

“Yes,” Kate said.

Alice picked up the currants and ate them, one by one, slowly. “I s'pose it's not so hard to drown,” she said, “especially if you can't swim.”