A Spark of Death

by Bernadette Pajer

  Since he’d last journeyed to Snoqualmie two months ago, more logged land had been cleared of stumps, plowed, and planted with crops. At Bothell, Woodinville, and heading toward Redmond, second growth woods gasped for breath through the haze of burn piles scattered throughout the valley and into the foothills. Farmhouses had sprung up along with the new crops, and where the wind blew, clearing the haze, a picturesque homestead sparkled in the green and fertile land.

  A half hour into the trip, Bradshaw yawned and stretched, and it was then he looked around and realized his fellow passengers had been observing him for some time. Hastily, heads turned away and voices lowered. But he felt their attention as intently as a man upon a stage feels the eyes of his audience. He hid behind the Sunday paper only to discover the reason for their recognition. His photograph. His official university photo, taking up nearly an eighth of the page.

  He didn’t intend to read the article. He didn’t need reminding that the editorial staff had pinned the murder on him. Conjecturing was good for sales—no matter that it ruined an innocent man’s life. But Henry’s name leaped out at him.

  Our sources tell us that Henry Pratt and Professor Benjamin Bradshaw have been friends since their college days. Until Professor Oglethorpe’s electrocution at the university, Henry Pratt resided at 1204 Gallagher, Seattle, in the home of Benjamin Bradshaw. Is it a coincidence that on the very day murder was committed in this city Henry Pratt boarded a boat bound for Alaska? Is it a coincidence that the coroner’s inquest verdict allowed for persons, in the plural, to have committed Oglethorpe’s murder?

  Detective O’Brien of the Seattle Police Department refused comment.

  Dear God.

  The excursion train picked up speed. Bradshaw hid in a cocoon of newspaper, staring unseeing at the passing scenery. Henry, what have you done to me?

  His thoughts became a confused jumble in need of detangling. Those things he’d thought behind him, the future he avoided examining, the scope of his entire life niggled and nagged and wanted organization. He wanted to understand it all and devise a code to live by that would keep him in balance, keep him sane while he navigated this mess. But devising theorems, however much he found them useful, was never his strong point. He was a hands-on inventor. He needed to get hold of things, put them in terms of positive and negative, wires and switches, before he could understand them. And then he had to translate that understanding into words, find analogies to create visual images. His teaching method had grown from this need, from his own inability to easily grasp abstract ideas.

  But his feelings would not be easily sorted.

  He’d read somewhere that in every man’s life there comes something that marks him. A secret that he cannot forget or bury but must carry with him, every moment of every day. His secret had nothing to do with Oglethorpe’s death. His secret was Rachel.

  “Professor?”

  The deep voice was quite near. Bradshaw slowly lowered the newspaper and blinked. It took him a moment to recognize the face before him, so utterly had he been in his thoughts and so unexpected was the young man’s appearance. Artimus Lowe. Bradshaw carefully folded the paper on his lap before saying, “Morning, Mr. Lowe.”

  “May I?” Lowe indicated the vacant seat opposite Bradshaw.

  He shrugged. Lowe sat.

  A silent minute passed. Surely, Lowe had something to say or he wouldn’t have joined him. Bradshaw waited. Lowe only smiled.

  Bradshaw cleared his throat. “You’re going up to Snoqualmie?”

  “Yes, to take your tour.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  Bradshaw resisted rolling his eyes. Before him was a high society law student and proven debater. In other words, a master of circular conversation. Bradshaw didn’t think he had the stomach for it. Ducking and weaving, tricks of language and subtle leading, all the arts of rhetoric would be necessary to get anything out of Lowe.

  Lowe sat forward, brown eyes eager, black hair perfectly in place. He asked, “Professor Bradshaw, may I be honest with you?”

  “Certainly,” Bradshaw said. It couldn’t be so easy as this. A confession from this cool and confidant young man?

  “It’s about the young woman staying with you. Miss Missouri Fremont?”

  “How on earth do you know about her?”

  Lowe sat back smugly. “I happened to be passing by your house this morning and I saw her, in your front garden. I was enchanted. I had to learn who she was and was pleased to find that she’s the niece of one Henry Pratt, your friend and dormer now headed for Alaska, and that she’s staying with you.”

  “How on earth,” Bradshaw said again, unable to think of another expression of his astonishment, “did you discover that?”

  “Basic investigative technique, Professor. A lawyer must know where to find information on the quick. The fastest way to find out what’s going on in a man’s home is to ask the help. I went around back and knocked.”

  Mrs. Prouty? He had managed to interview Mrs. Prouty?

  “Why would this information about Henry’s niece please you?”

  “Because you can provide me with an introduction.”

  “Oh, is that a fact?”

  The smugness drained from Artimus Lowe’s handsome face. He sat forward again, pathetically earnest. “Professor, I apologize. I should not have assumed you would grant me an introduction. Forgive me. It is a great favor I ask, no, I beg of you.”

  Beg? Good grief, the passions of the young. “Mr. Lowe, I’m not in a position to grant your request.”

  “Who is?”

  “She is.”

  “But, sir. I can’t just walk up to her and introduce myself.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not done, that’s why not.”

  “It’s not done in society perhaps, but real people do it all the time.”

  “Is that meant as an insult, Professor?”

  “Take it as you like. It is meant as a statement of fact.”

  “She would have nothing to do with me if I behaved so rudely.”

  “What is rude about saying hello?”

  “But a lady is taught—”

  “Miss Fremont is not a lady of society. She was raised on a farm. She knows very little of society’s rules and that’s what makes her so refreshing. There is nothing false about her.”

  “No, I could tell that by looking at her. She is the most intriguing girl I’ve ever seen.”

  A foolish dreaminess came into Lowe’s eyes. Bradshaw felt a twinge in the pit of his stomach. He thought of Missouri, her too slender figure, her over-large nose, that cropped hair. All somehow appealing. He forgot for a moment to censor himself. “You think she’s attractive?”

  “Certainly. Not in the classic sense of course. She’s no great beauty. But there’s something about her that I find compelling.”

  “And?”

  “And what, sir?”

  “After you tell her you find her—compelling, then what?”

  “I don’t know. What happens, happens.”

  “Nothing happens, Mr. Lowe. You can forget it.” Bradshaw’s mind suddenly filled with the image of another young woman, the poor Miss Trout, her face scarlet, her hand resting protectively over her belly. And he recalled Missouri’s innocent trust in him, a man she’d never met, and her Uncle Henry, whom she hadn’t seen in years.

  “Are you refusing me permission to speak with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you just said—”

  “That was before I realized the danger in doing so. It seems a young woman is not safe in this city without the protection of family, and since I am the closest thing she has, I will take on the role.” You arrogant young pup.

  The train slowed to a crawl as it rounded a steep
bend at Gillman. Lush spring woods rolled by unseen as Bradshaw narrowed his gaze upon Lowe.

  “Where were you between twenty after one and ten minutes to four on Thursday afternoon?”

  “Me? A murder suspect. Certainly, you know I had nothing to do with it. I’m as innocent as you are.”

  Lowe’s remark carried to the nearest passengers. No one turned to stare, but Bradshaw noticed a slight leaning of alertness.

  Bradshaw lowered his voice. “Where were you?”

  Lowe followed Bradshaw’s lead, saying quietly, “I shall tell you what I told the police.”

  “I want the truth.”

  “Oh, well, the truth. Is there really such a thing? Don’t we all create our own truths? My perception of events may totally differ from another man’s perception of events, and yet we can both be telling the truth.”

  “Mr. Lowe, save your attempts at confusion for the jury. I have a simple one-track mind and am quite capable of ignoring anything you say that isn’t a direct answer to my question. Now, where were you?”

  Lowe gave Bradshaw a very odd, scrutinizing look.

  “You didn’t like Oglethorpe.” Bradshaw tried Detective O’Brien’s interrogation technique of tossing out remarks designed to probe.

  “Nobody liked Oglethorpe.” Artimus laughed, his wariness fading somewhat.

  “But you had reason to dislike him more than most.” The accusation had come of its own accord. As he watched Lowe’s proud features drift into back into wariness, Bradshaw analyzed his suggestion. Did he really think there had been bad blood between Oglethorpe and this young Lowe? A heated debate over politics in a class designed for such debates need have no underlying vendetta. This was a long cast into a murky pond. But wasn’t Lowe’s reaction interesting?

  “I don’t know what you’re intimating, Professor. I am not a man who seeks revenge through violence. If I had a quarrel with anyone, I would settle matters through the courts.”

  “The courts are now involved in Oglethorpe’s death, Mr. Lowe. The matter will be settled in your favorite arena.”

  Bradshaw turned his gaze out the window to the passing scenery, letting the silence between them lengthen as he pondered what he knew about Lowe and Oglethorpe, and what possible connection, besides student-teacher, they could possibly have had.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The falls at Snoqualmie were more spectacular than Bradshaw had ever seen them. Spring runoff swelled the river, broadening the cascade from its usual slender form to churning white falls stretching the entire width of the brink. For two hundred and seventy feet, the raging water plunged before crashing into a thunderous cloud in the pool below.

  Bradshaw, with Artimus Lowe in tow, climbed the narrow trail through the misty woods, inhaling the sweet fragrance that was a mixture of clean mountain water, evergreen trees, and spring blossoms. He paused often to simply stare, his gaze lifting to the very top of the falls. He stood solidly on the trail a fair distance from the steep slope, and felt not the slightest twinge of anxiety. There had once been a huge boulder in the very center of the brink known as the “Seattle Rock,” but logs too often hung up causing dangerous jams and so last year it was blasted away. Now, only a few jagged black rocks pierced the deep flow. And there was something else.

  Something that resembled a carriage wheel was impaled upon the tallest of the jutting rocks near the far bank above the churning water. The wheel, or whatever it was, and its curious predicament, as well as the sight of such a splendid force as the falls themselves, sent Bradshaw’s calculative mind into happy overdrive.

  How had that wheel gotten stuck above the water line? Why hadn’t it been swept over the falls? What would be the speed of an object at the top of the falls, and what speed at the bottom? Bradshaw had in the past spent many happy hours studying the dynamic hydraulic forces of rivers. He remembered being fascinated by the unique forces that came into play immediately downstream of large rocks where eddies could form and cause the current to actually flow upstream.

  Bradshaw breathed deeply and let problems of physics and motion come and go as they please. The falls sang a pleasant, powerful song, like the crash of the tide without the intermittent pause. It was no wonder the native Snoqualmie people worshipped here, the beauty and energy lifted one quite away from the petty concerns of man. Care had been taken in the modern invasion, and the forest surrounding the falls had barely been disturbed by the construction of the power plant. Except for the handsome brick powerhouse, only a few white cottages to the south of the railway station disturbed the natural scene. The dam behind the top of falls that regulated water flow was completely submerged and thus concealed from view. From below, the falls showed no obvious sign of this human tampering.

  “Professor Bradshaw!” The superintendent of the plant, Mr. Dittmar, a big, balding man in a practical dark suit, came huffing down the path toward them, hand extended.

  Bradshaw shook the superintendent’s hand firmly then introduced Lowe.

  Superintendent Dittmar’s eyes shifted from Bradshaw, to Lowe, then back to Bradshaw. He said, “I didn’t see you coming off the train. I couldn’t believe it when I was told you were here, uh, I mean, I thought it was Professor Hill scheduled today. Honestly, I wasn’t sure he would make it because of the whole Oglethorpe business, but I must say I certainly didn’t expect, that is to say, I mean, Professor…” his words trailed off. Bradshaw pretended not to see the trepidation in his eyes.

  “I’ve never seen the falls so full. Is there something trapped up at the brink? It looks like a wheel.”

  “A wheel?” Dittmar was slow to switch subjects. His gaze followed Bradshaw’s to the brink of the falls. “Ah, yes. A wheel. Trapped. Odd, the way it sits there, isn’t it? We’ve tried to lasso it. The tourists are complaining it’s ruining their photographs, but it won’t budge. Maybe you could devise something for us, Professor.”

  “Certainly. After the tours, I’ll take a look.”

  “But Professor, what I mean is—” said Dittmar, now dabbing his brow with a handkerchief. “I didn’t expect anyone from the university to come. I made other tour arrangements.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, yes.” His eyes shifted again to Lowe. He smiled a politician’s sort of beaming grin that Lowe met with a single lifted eyebrow.

  “You understand, of course,” Dittmar said to Lowe.

  “Me? Certainly not. Professor Bradshaw didn’t kill Professor Oglethorpe. There’s no reason he shouldn’t give a public tour.”

  Dittmar babbled inarticulate apologies while Bradshaw bit back a smile. For a moment, he almost liked Lowe.

  “That’s not what I meant, not what I meant at all. It’s just that I, that is we, the power company, it’s been in the paper—I thought I’d give today’s tour.”

  “There’s no need for you to trouble yourself, since I’m here.” Bradshaw turned and strode purposefully up the trail, Lowe on his heels. He heard the superintendent’s footsteps clamor to catch up.

  “Professor!” Dittmar chased breathlessly after them. They reached the top of the trail. “While I give the tours, you could assist Mr. Miller with the installation of the new meters, marvelous devices, really, newest on the market, I think you’ll be most impressed by them, and we’d be most grateful for your assistance, I’m sure.”

  Bradshaw marched resolutely up the narrow path. The task was offered only because Dittmar hadn’t the nerve to tell him to go home. He didn’t slow his pace until they’d reached the dozen tourists who stood anxiously before the small wooden building that sheltered the power plant elevator. He’d had every intention of giving the tour as planned until he saw the change in the tourists’ faces.

  The women, stout matrons wearing “Improvement Society” sashes, inhaled audibly, and their husbands postured, squaring their shoulders and bracing their stances. Dittmar u
shered them all into the elevator, talking over the few voices that attempted to complain.

  The elevator attendant, a little man dressed in a cranberry uniform and box hat as dapper as any attendant in a fancy hotel, closed the grate. From very far below came the echo of a gong, and the elevator began to descend. Bradshaw experienced the very real sensation of his stomach dropping. Never in the past had the feeling triggered his vertigo.

  Today it did, with a speed he found staggering. He gripped the brass hand rail and tried to breathe deeply without visibly gasping. He glanced at the tourists and found he wasn’t alone in his panic. No one knew quite where to look or how to breathe. It wasn’t fear of the plummeting elevator alone he saw on their faces. They pressed back as far as possible into the walls, into each other, so that even in the cramped space he stood alone.

  If he didn’t do something fast he would vomit. Speech was the only distraction within grasp. “Three years ago, engineers temporarily diverted the river from this area, exposing bedrock. Men with compressed air drills labored for a year, drilling straight down, two hundred and seventy feet through solid rock to form this tunnel, down which we are now descending. Beside us, parallel to this elevator, is a pipe called a penstock. A portion of the river above is dropping into the penstock, plunging much more swiftly than we are, heading toward the generating plant.” These last words, Bradshaw shouted above the rising, constant thunder, and soon speech was impossible. Bradshaw gripped the rail and breathed.

  Down the shaft they descended, while in the seven-and-a-half foot diameter pipe parallel to them, the river fell in roaring volumes. At one hundred feet down, the thunder of the water as it struck the revolving wheels of the generators bombarded their eardrums. By the time they reached the bottom, nearly three hundred feet below the surface of the river, they could barely hear their own thoughts.

  Bradshaw was closest to the door when it opened. He hesitated a moment while equilibrium returned. The women were quite pale, the men’s faces hostile. Lowe elbowed him, and Dittmar shouted, “Off we go now.” Bradshaw stepped out. The tourists burst forth liked released prisoners.