Death on the Lizard Read Free

anyway—to be supremely successful.
    Charles took off his goggles and motoring gloves, climbed out of the Panhard, and went into the Wireless Company by the rear door. He had met Marconi shortly after the young man’s arrival in England in late 1896, and three years later had helped him set up this factory in Chelmsford, only eight miles from Bishop’s Keep. Charles had his own wireless receiver, so he and Marconi kept in frequent touch and occasionally saw one another when the inventor came down from the City to visit the Company.
    When Charles entered the office, however, it was not Marconi who greeted him, but a fair-haired, heavyset man with florid cheeks.
    â€œAh, there you are, old chap,” Bradford Marsden said cordially, with the air of a man who had expected an earlier arrival. He transferred his cigar to his left hand and extended his right. “Good of you to come. Will you join me in a brandy?”
    â€œHullo, Marsden,” Charles replied in some surprise, taking the hand. “No, no brandy for me, thanks. It’s good to see you.”
    â€œYou too, old man.” Bradford went to the sideboard and helped himself, clearly an announcement of proprietary rights. “And how is our spirited Kate?” he asked, over his shoulder.
    â€œAs irrepressible as always,” Charles replied, thinking that his wife would smile at the phrase. He had known Bradford Marsden since they were boys, and it was through him and his sisters that he and Kate had first met. Marsden Manor was only a few miles from Bishop’s Keep, the estate Kate had inherited from her aunts and where the Sheridans preferred to live, but they had not seen Bradford since the King’s coronation the previous August. Charles was unaware that his friend had any connection to Marconi, but the knowledge didn’t surprise him. Bradford, who spent all his time thinking of new ways to make money, owned an investment brokerage firm, sinking money into everything from diamond mines in Rhodesia (his wife, Edith, was Cecil Rhodes’s goddaughter) to the new Royce automobiles. He no doubt viewed the Marconi Wireless Company, and Marconi himself, as an extraordinarily promising investment.
    The door opened and Guglielmo Marconi—youthful, slender, lightly mustached and flawlessly dressed—entered the room, followed by an assistant with a large silver tea tray.
    â€œPleased to see you, Sheridan,” Marconi said. He nodded at Bradford. “I understand that you and Mr. Marsden are already acquainted. Has he mentioned that he is one of the directors of Marconi Wireless?” Marconi’s English, while correct and unaccented, was couched in a formality which made it seem slightly foreign.
    â€œHe hasn’t mentioned it yet.” Charles grinned at Bradford. “But I’m not at all surprised to hear it. The company looks to have an exciting future.”
    â€œRemains to be seen,” Bradford replied cryptically.
    Charles would like to have known what was behind Bradford’s remark, but Marconi intervened. “Very well, gentlemen,” he said, gesturing to the tea tray left on a table. “Let us be seated. We shall have a cup of tea and catch ourselves up on what is new.”
    Charles knew that Guglielmo was not yet thirty—he was still in his teens when he began his wireless experiments in the attic of his family’s Italian villa—but his aloof, calculating manner and the controlled precision of his speech made him seem much older. Charles had always found him to be modest about his work and reticent when it came to trumpeting his achievements, so he was a little surprised when Marconi began their discussion of “what was new” by reciting a list of the last few months’ accomplishments: the adoption of the Marconi system by the British and Italian navies, the construction of four new American Marconi stations, and the outfitting of another five transatlantic