“What’s that there mean? That zigzagging thing?”
Patrolman Mercer was once again breathing down his neck, but Bradshaw managed to stay seated. “It’s the symbol for resistance.” He launched into an explanation so full of scientific description it could have been one of Oglethorpe’s own indecipherable lectures. It had the desired effect.
“Oh. Right.” The patrolman was not quite able to mask his baffled expression with a frown. He strolled away to stand importantly in the doorway, rocking back and forth on his heels. Bradshaw, for the moment, could think in peace.
But the answer was going to be elusive. If something had gone wrong with the Machine, he couldn’t see it. The students had done well. The Machine should have been completely safe when operated correctly. So what had Oglethorpe done wrong? Bradshaw saw no evidence that he had altered the Machine in any way. And Oglethorpe extending one of his curved fingers outside the cage was as foolish and unexpected an act as Patrolman Mercer tossing a loaded revolver into the air.
Why had he done it? Suicide? The loathsome word struck Bradshaw so powerfully, he snapped his pencil in two. He looked at the broken pieces in his hands and shook his head wryly. He had no more control over his anxiety than his student. The Patrolman lifted a suspicious eyebrow.
This was not suicide. He need not go there. Oglethorpe, the self-proclaimed genius of electrical engineering, would not have intentionally taken his own life. Behind the conceited confidence, Bradshaw hadn’t detected an underlying insecurity. There’d been no hint of depression or desperation. The man had everything to live for and had bragged of it. A successful career, prominent friends, a new mansion paid for by shrewd investments.
Why, then, had Oglethorpe reached so foolishly outside of the cage?
And why, since the output of the Machine’s secondary coil had a frequency and potential so very high and a current so very low, had the shock killed him rather than painfully jolted him? Bad luck? A weak heart? A stray current diverted from the relative safety of the outer surfaces of the body to the very core?
Lethal potential was there, of course, but if the safety rules were followed coils could be shown to the public. They were flashy and exciting, the science behind them loaded with possibilities for future invention. Why, next week…next week….
“You okay, Professor?”
Bradshaw realized he’d given a small gasp, but the thought that had provoked the gasp could not be spoken aloud, not to this oaf of a patrolman.
“You can’t come in here, this is a crime scene.”
Bradshaw turned to see the patrolman keeping Frank Graves from entering.
“It’s all right, Officer. He’s the University President.”
Graves held out his hand, and the patrolman grudgingly shook it and allowed him entrance.
“I still can’t believe it.” Dr. Graves stared at the copper coils and metallic sphere of the Electric Machine, hands clasped behind his back.
Dr. Frank Pierrepont Graves, aged thirty-two, was three years younger than Bradshaw, but he’d amassed impressive credentials and a host of degrees. He was, in fact, the youngest university president in the country. Yet he exuded a polite, firm authority. Perhaps it was his prematurely receding and thinning hair, or the fuzzy sideburns that met a neatly trimmed mustache. Or the penetrating blue eyes that openly reflected his emotions as well as his intelligence. It certainly wasn’t that dimple in his chin or those ears that stood out a bit further than was considered handsome. Those attributes caused certain females of the institution to call him “adorable,” and he was wise enough to pretend not to notice.
Dr. Frank Graves was as lean and neat and organized in appearance as Patrolman Mercer was sloppy. Side-by-side they made a curious pair. Neither knew much about electrical energy; both knew enough to fear it.
Patrolman Mercer renewed his authority. “This room will have to be locked until Detective O’Brien gets here.”
Dr. Graves said, “Yes, of course. And the Machine will be dismantled as soon as the police say.” He shook his head and made a “tsk” sound of dismay. “It won’t, of course, be shown to McKinley.”
Bradshaw moaned silently.
“McKinley?” Patrolman Mercer’s eyes shot wide.
Graves pointed up at the dark but readable welcome sign that had failed to light during the demonstration because of heat damage to the wire. “President McKinley was to see it next week when he toured Seattle.”
Patrolman Mercer’s jaw dropped. For several seconds he stared speechless and appalled, as if they’d intended exhibiting an assassination machine.
Bradshaw tried to catch Dr. Graves’ eye, to beg him not to elaborate. But Graves paid him no attention. “McKinley was not to enter the cage, he was to be a spectator. He was to be given a specially made souvenir glass bulb that would light up in his hand when the Machine was running.”
The patrolman’s look of horror intensified.
Bradshaw wished Graves hadn’t enlightened the rumpled patrolman, but it would have come out sooner or later. Eventually, the public would contemplate the what-ifs of next week’s Presidential visit. What if the accident had happened when McKinley was here? What if McKinley had himself been injured, or killed?
Graves rubbed a sideburn thoughtfully, turning the full authority of his blue eyes upon Bradshaw. “Professor, I hate to ask you this, but Mrs. Oglethorpe, their two children….”
The polite but firm request in those sincere eyes couldn’t be ignored. Bradshaw turned to his notes and underlined the word “potential” as he struggled with a way to decline. He said lamely, “Sir, I hardly know her.” He’d wished Oglethorpe gone even as the man was being electrocuted. He could not face the widow.
“We can’t let her hear it from the police, and I won’t be free to see her for several more hours.” Graves laid a gentle hand on Bradshaw’s shoulder.
Let her hear it from someone else then, Bradshaw thought. Not him. It would be better if some other teacher were to go, anybody but Bradshaw, not only because of his ill-timed wish, but also because it was well known, presumably also by Mrs. Oglethorpe, that Professor Oglethorpe despised Bradshaw and often called him a buffoon. And Bradshaw, in a frustrated moment that was unfortunately overheard, had once very recently called Oglethorpe an ass.
Graves squeezed Bradshaw’s shoulder as if in direct answer to Bradshaw’s thoughts. “I know you and Oglethorpe didn’t get along, but that surely is unimportant under the circumstances. Mrs. Oglethorpe must be told immediately, with utmost care, and Bradshaw, I can’t think of anyone who could handle it with more understanding and delicacy than you.”
Bradshaw swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He did understand, far better than Graves realized. And who else was there, truly? Professor Hill was too young for such a task, and Professor Kelly, though kind at heart, had a tendency toward bluntness that wouldn’t suit.
Bradshaw reluctantly agreed.
“It’s imperative that I see to numerous details here immediately. Tomorrow’s exhibition will, of course, be canceled.”
“Yes, of course.” His voice was a foreign, gravelly sound. He gathered his papers and hunted for courage. His head felt oddly light and fuzzy while his body dragged with the weight of lead. Somehow he moved across the lab, out the door. At the bottom of the staircase, he paused, looking up as if facing the icy crags of Mt. Rainier. How could he manage the task before him?
He took a deep breath that made his head all the lighter and his feet all the heavier.
He lifted his anvil foot and climbed.
Chapter Three
The Oglethorpes and the Bradshaws lived on the same street on Broadway Hill in Seattle. But 1204 Gallagher, the address of Bradshaw’s modest two-story house was a world away from 1234 Gallagher, where Oglethorpe’s spanking-new brick mansion reigned. Corinthian columns rose up f
rom the porch through the second story balcony and brought the eye to a giant cameo-shaped window under the gable. The mansion took up the better part of two lots, but the yard and garden had not yet been planted. Planks had been laid across the mud as a temporary walk. Bradshaw propped his bicycle against a utility pole and followed the planks to the steps of the wide porch.
No sound came from within. All was eerily silent. Even the wind had momentarily hushed, the rain abated. Bradshaw took off his damp hat respectfully. A sick feeling, which hadn’t left him since he’d seen Oglethorpe’s dead body, rose in his throat as he rang the bell and heard the sound echo solemnly through the immense house.
He’d had to do this once before, eight years ago.
He’d stood before a door much like this one, preparing to tell his in-laws that his wife, their only daughter, was dead.
With a trembling hand, he rang the bell again.
When the door remained firmly shut, anger swept over him. If he must do this, he wanted it done now. He didn’t want to have to return later, to have to spend the next hour, or hours, thinking about it. In a fit of anguish, he thought about leaving a note on the door. So sorry, he would write, but Professor Wesley Oglethorpe, husband and father, has been unfortunately killed by the great Machine at the university. My deepest sympathy….
Of course, he couldn’t. He turned with a sigh and spotted a delivery wagon coming up the road, sprouting young slender trees, the limbs showing buds, the roots wrapped in burlap. There were young shrubs too, small green hydrangeas and budding rhododendrons. Amongst the limbs and leaves bobbed the plump faces of two eager children, a girl of about eight, and a boy of five. Both towheaded with noses upturned. Oglethorpe’s children, Olive and Wesley, Jr.
Up front, next to the driver and a garden hand, sat Mrs. Marion Oglethorpe, as round-faced and towheaded as her children. Before the wagon had stopped, she was shouting good-natured instructions and soon all carried the greenery to the mud. Professor Bradshaw, on the porch, went unnoticed. He looked for an opportunity to make his presence known, but none came. They were all so exuberant about their task, so cheerfully argumentative about what was to go where, Bradshaw couldn’t bring himself to interrupt. This might be the last carefree moment they had for a very long time. The girl Olive had distinct opinions as to the placement of the trees, and Bradshaw believed her calls to be good. The boy hadn’t the same artistic eye as his sister and seemed merely concerned that he be noticed and get his own way. Very much like his father, in that respect. His father who, through some accident no doubt triggered by childish ego, now lay cold and dead in the morgue.
“Professor Bradshaw!” Mrs. Oglethorpe had spotted him.
Bradshaw’s hand went numb. He dropped his hat, and it went tumbling down the steps to the mud. While he retrieved it, a girl on a bicycle rode up, apparently the maid, for she launched into explanations of tardiness. She was vaguely familiar to Bradshaw.
“Supper will be on the table well before Mr. Oglethorpe gets home from the university,” the girl said to Mrs. Oglethorpe, then gave a quick nod and smile to Bradshaw. He took in her appearance as he returned her nod: frizzy brown hair, shiny face, intelligent blue eyes. Yes, he did know her. She’d aided Mrs. Prouty with deep spring cleaning several times over the past few years. She now hurried along the boards around toward the back of the house with her bicycle.
“It’ll be cold if you put it out before he gets home, Sheila!” Mrs. Oglethorpe shook her head at the difficulties of maids, but she presented a beaming welcome to Professor Bradshaw.
“Come in, come in.” She ushered him up the steps. “Olive, Wes! Come along, the men will finish up, time for homework. Not the front door,” she added as the children clomped toward Bradshaw and the front porch. “You’re not guests. Around back through the kitchen and leave your muddy shoes with Sheila.”
She turned once again to the Professor. “Do come in, Professor Bradshaw, don’t you worry about your overshoes, I see you’ve stayed to the boards and are clean. Let me take that hat and get the mud before it sets. Have a seat and I’ll be right back.”
Like a gust of stormy wind, Mrs. Oglethorpe swept him into the elegant polished hallway, removed his yellow slicker, and bade him pluck the rubbers from his shoes. She ushered Bradshaw into a front parlor that smelled as clean and new as the showroom floor of Frederick & Nelson, his housekeeper’s favorite department store. He stood alone in the grand room with its maroon tassels and porcelain figures, listening to the bustling sounds of a happy, healthy family go about their routine. How on earth could he shatter their world? He forgot completely the words he had so carefully chosen on the way here.
Mrs. Oglethorpe returned with his now clean hat. “Good as new, Professor Bradshaw. Have a seat, please, and tell me what brings you here? Tomorrow’s exhibition? Wesley is very excited about it.”
He sat on the stiff settee, and she perched herself beside him, still talking. “I am so glad you came by, and I’m sorry we haven’t been to see you since we moved in,” she said quite earnestly, though Bradshaw knew her husband would never have made, nor allowed her to make, a social call to him down the street. “…but as you can see things aren’t quite settled yet. Besides the yard, we have entire rooms yet that are completely empty, and though we have Sheila, there’s so much more to do in a house of this size, we’ll have to hire another hand, temporarily of course, to get things in order. We certainly aren’t the sort to have a house full of servants, we’re down-to-earth simple folk, even though we’ve come into money and we’re now in this grand house, but I do love maintaining house myself. Call me old-fashioned, but it gives me great pleasure to see to all the details. It’s a sense of accomplishment, like what Wesley feels at the university, though he doesn’t see it that way, and I’m sure what I do here isn’t nearly as important, at least Wesley doesn’t feel it’s as important, but what would the world be if no one saw to home and hearth and made it a haven? Oh, but I do go on, and here you are so kind to pay a neighborly visit—why, Professor Bradshaw, you’re white as a ghost, what is it? Has something happened?”
Bradshaw nodded, but he couldn’t bring himself to say the words. He hoped wildly that she would continue talking in her tangential way and hit upon the horrible truth and then he wouldn’t actually have to say it aloud.
But apparently, Marion Oglethorpe could be as silent and attentive as she could be talkative, and she took his hands and began patting them as if he were her child.
“I have very bad news, Mrs. Oglethorpe,” he managed at last. “About your husband.”
She raised eyebrows that were thick but so pale they could hardly be seen and gazed at him encouragingly, a kind smile still on her face. What on earth did she think he meant by “very bad news”? Why wasn’t she bracing herself?
“There’s been a terrible accident with the Machine.”
Her face seemed to freeze. The smile was still there, but it was only skin deep and empty. A mask she was too fearful to remove.
“I’m so sorry. It was fatal.” He wished he could assure her that her husband’s death had been quick and painless, but death by electric shock could be both painful and prolonged. Oglethorpe could have been sitting in that chair for many agonizing minutes, his heart still beating but his lungs unable to draw a breath.
“Are you telling me my husband’s dead?”
“Yes.” It was he who now took her hands and patted them comfortingly.
“Dead?”
“I’m so sorry.” This was not how it had gone with Rachel’s parents those many years ago. The news of his wife’s death had devastated them, yes, but not surprised them. They had not questioned his news. They hadn’t had trouble taking it in at all. It was as if they had expected it.
“Dead? It can’t be true. Sheila is preparing his dinner. He’ll be home soon.”
“No, Mrs. Oglethorpe. He won’t be h
ome.”
She looked up at the ceiling, up, no doubt, toward her children’s rooms, wondering how she could tell them their father was dead, how she could be strong for them, how they would all survive. She let go of Bradshaw to place one trembling palm over her mouth, the other over her belly. It was then that Bradshaw realized her roundness wasn’t entirely due to a plump nature. Marion Oglethorpe was with child.
***
A few minutes later, Professor Bradshaw pushed his bicycle along the cement sidewalk as he slowly walked home. His house was a humble little place, white and tidy, two stories high and simply dressed with white shutters and a leaded parlor window. A thin maple tree nearly as tall as the house stood in green relief against the white siding. And beneath the lace-curtained parlor window, in neglected flower beds, little white blooms of lily-of-the-valley bowed among the weeds in misty welcome.
Bradshaw had never been so affected by the sight. Standing outside the white picket gate, he felt strangely that his life had changed. That today, with all the traumatic events, he’d been turned slightly askew from the lonely road he’d been traveling. He’d seen himself in a new and disturbing light in that moving picture. Then death had arrived, shocking him yet again from the routine of his thoughts, his habits.
Change had come, and more change was to come.
He hated change.
Light glowed through the parlor curtains, but he couldn’t bring himself to open the gate to enter the yard. He took a long deep breath of the cool damp air, and the front door flew open.
“Well, he’s gone and good riddance, I say!” Mrs. Prouty’s broad face was flushed, her sturdy frame braced with feet wide apart.
Bradshaw approached his housekeeper with a mixed feeling of admiration and shock. True Oglethorpe had been an egomaniac and generally annoying, but it was only common decency to express regret at a man’s untimely death and forget his less likable attributes.
A Spark of Death Page 2