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  Mr Otterbourne looked startled. ‘That sounds rather alarming. I trust we will get on well enough. Mr Dunbar hasn’t given me any details of Professor Carrington’s work in his letter, but says I am bound to be interested.’ He obviously didn’t have an inkling of the bombshell contained in that manila folder. ‘I was going to send the car to the station but perhaps you would like to meet them instead.’

  Lewis tried to look stricken. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t be here. I’ve had a letter from my Uncle Maurice’s housekeeper. Apparently his chest is very bad again and I thought I’d run down and see him.’

  Mr Otterbourne was clearly put out. ‘That is very inconvenient, Stephen.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, sir,’ said Lewis easily. ‘After all, you don’t really need me and poor old Uncle Maurice is pretty ill, you know.’

  Charles Otterbourne’s lips thinned. ‘As you wish.’ He turned his head dismissively. ‘Ask Ragnall to come here.’

  His tone, the autocratic tone of a monarch dispensing with his subjects, suddenly irritated Lewis. ‘Ragnall’s out for the day, too, I’m afraid.’ Mr Otterbourne looked downright affronted. ‘He seemed very seedy at breakfast,’ Lewis explained rapidly. ‘Molly was concerned about him. He told me he’d slept very badly and thought he might be coming down with something. I thought of packing him off to bed, but he said he’d rather not. I didn’t think he was in any fit condition to talk to either Mr Dunbar or the Carringtons, so I asked him to go along to Stansfields, the timber people. He’s already left.’

  Mr Otterbourne drew himself up. ‘I should have been consulted first. You have overstepped your authority, Stephen. In future I would ask you to remember that Ragnall is not here to come and go at your say-so.’ He frowned. ‘Stansfields? We’ve not dealt with them before.’

  ‘No, but their quote was substantially lower than White and Millwood’s.’

  Charles Otterbourne steepled his fingers together. ‘Quality needs to be paid for. That is one of my guiding principles. We cannot cut corners. You say Ragnall has actually left?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Lewis said. ‘You wouldn’t have wanted him around today. He was really under the weather.’

  ‘I would have liked to have judged that for myself. I am not at all pleased.’ He frowned at Lewis over the top of his pince-nez. ‘If you are going to see your uncle, you’d better be off. Do you intend to return this evening?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Lewis, involuntarily glancing once more towards the folder. He swallowed. ‘I don’t think I’ve got any choice.’

  TWO

  Professor Alan Carrington was, thought Molly, one of the most alarming men she had ever met. Although his name was English enough, there was a sort of foreign arrogance about him, a scary, down-at-heel but aristocratic foreign arrogance. Like Count Dracula, she said to herself and immediately wished she hadn’t. Professor Carrington would make anyone nervous without thinking of vampires. He was tall and spare with high cheekbones, a beaky nose, brilliant blue eyes and nervous, thin hands that were continually in motion. His tweed jacket and grey flannels were shapeless with age, the pockets distended with papers, and bagged at the knee and elbow. Hamilton, the butler, took his shabby hat and coat with a barely perceptible lift of his eyebrows, but it was clear that he thought his master’s latest guest was a very odd fish indeed.

  The Professor was abstracted and irritated to the point of rudeness by the conventional pleasantries. He was clearly far more interested in a wooden crate, about the size of a tea chest, which Eckersley, the chauffeur, together with Gerard Carrington, carried into the hall. He stood by it defensively, arms folded across his chest, Gerard Carrington and Andrew Dunbar on either side.

  It was while Charles Otterbourne was sketching out the day – tour of the factory, tour of the village, lunch – the Professor shook himself impatiently and cut Mr Otterbourne off in mid-sentence. ‘Are you going to buy Dunbar’s firm?’

  Charles Otterbourne, for once taken completely aback, stammered to a halt. ‘I . . . er . . .’

  ‘You can’t ask things like that, Dad,’ said Gerry Carrington, completely unruffled by his father’s abruptness. Dunbar, a short, stout man, pulled at his moustache in a deprecating way. His eyes, Molly noticed, were fixed on her father. In the face of Professor Carrington’s overwhelming personality, it was difficult to think of anyone else, but Molly was suddenly aware she didn’t like Mr Dunbar. Steve said he had a tough reputation, but she also sensed coldness about him, a wary, calculating quality. If her father did do business with Mr Dunbar, he would have to be very careful he didn’t come out the loser from the deal.

  ‘Well,’ demanded Professor Carrington. ‘Are you?’

  Charles Otterbourne coughed in a bring-the-meeting-to-order way. It had never failed to obtain respectful silence but it failed now.

  ‘Because if you are, I suggest you cease to waste any more time and examine my machine forthwith.’

  ‘Your machine?’ queried Mr Otterbourne.

  ‘Yes, sir, my machine!’ the Professor barked. He put his hand on the wooden crate. ‘This machine. Great heavens, sir, you do know what I’m talking about, I presume?’ In the face of Charles Otterbourne’s blank enquiry, he whirled on Andrew Dunbar. ‘I understood this man was interested in my work. He seems completely ignorant of it.’

  Andrew Dunbar’s accent, that unmistakable Edinburgh twang, grew stronger under stress. ‘You cannot talk to Mr Otterbourne in that fashion, Professor. You ken these things are not decided in minutes.’

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Charles Otterbourne gratefully. ‘I shall be more than happy, Professor, to examine your machine.’ His gaze dropped to the crate. ‘You will understand, I trust, that I cannot possibly give a decision on these far-reaching commercial matters without careful examination of all the possible implications.’ Alan Carrington sighed mutinously and folded his arms again. ‘What does your machine actually do?’

  ‘It records and plays sound, sir!’

  ‘But we—’

  ‘Electronically!’ Professor Carrington ran an impatient hand through his hair. ‘It utilizes electronics.’

  ‘It’s unlike any other machine,’ murmured Dunbar.

  Alan Carrington ignored the interruption. ‘I wish to know with whom I am dealing. If, sir, you are to be responsible for the money necessary to develop my machine, naturally you have a right to understand exactly how it works and what its capabilities are. If you are not, I will bid you good-day.’

  ‘Steady on,’ said Gerard Carrington easily. ‘You can’t go marching off, Dad. We’ve only just arrived.’ He smiled, a warm, friendly smile.

  Molly caught her breath. Gerard Carrington had curly brown hair, mild blue eyes, rumpled clothes and gold-rimmed glasses and Molly suddenly realized he was a very attractive man.

  Gerard Carrington must have heard her little intake of breath, for he turned to her as if eliciting her support. He pushed his glasses firmly on to the bridge of his nose with his index finger. ‘I know Steve’s been called away, Mrs Lewis, but I suppose we’re relatives too, in a manner of speaking, aren’t we?’ He smiled once more. ‘After all, Steve’s my cousin. As a matter of fact, as we are relations, I suppose you should call me Gerry. Everyone does.’

  Molly couldn’t help smiling in return. ‘Of course I will. And you must call me Molly.’

  Gerry looked at his father again. ‘You see, Dad? We can’t go yet. We’re with members of the family, and it would be very bad manners. Besides that, Mr Otterbourne wants to show us the factory and the village and so on, don’t you, sir?’

  Mr Otterbourne was about to answer but Alan Carrington beat him to it. ‘Why on earth should I want to see the factory, let alone the village? I presume, sir, as you are a gramophone manufacturer, you are capable of manufacturing my machine. That is all I need to know.’

  ‘Let me have a word with Mr Otterbourne, Professor,’ said Andrew Dunbar in a conciliatory way. He drew Mr Otterbourne aside further up the hall. Professor Carrington
scuffed his feet and taking his pipe from his pocket, stuffed it with an untidy wedge of tobacco, lit it, and dropped the match on the floor. Gerard Carrington looked at Molly in a resigned plea for understanding that seemed to make them allies. She liked the feeling. Molly heard phrases such as difficult, genius and truly extraordinary, in the mutter of words along the hall, but whether that referred to the Professor or his machine she couldn’t tell.

  ‘We’ve decided to change our plans,’ said Charles Otterbourne after a few minutes’ intense conversation. ‘If Professor Carrington is agreeable, it would perhaps be as well if he explained his work to me right away.’

  ‘Just as you like,’ grunted the Professor through puffs of smoke.

  Molly saw her father control his temper with an effort. ‘Molly, my dear,’ he said turning to her, ‘I intended to escort Mr Dunbar around the factory this morning. That, I’m afraid, is no longer possible. Could you take care of him and Mr Carrington?’ He cast an unfriendly glance at the Professor before turning back to Dunbar. ‘I’m sorry to have to change the arrangements at such short notice but I can escort you round the factory this afternoon.’

  Dunbar regretfully shook his head. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Otterbourne, but that won’t be possible. I understand you’ve got a fine concern here and I would like to see it very much. Perhaps we can make an appointment for another day?’ There was a definite gleam in his eye. ‘I’m sure we can work together to our mutual benefit. However, I must be away back up to town. There’s a meeting of a learned society I’m pledged to attend, you understand. The Professor is giving a paper, aren’t you, sir?’ Alan Carrington nodded agreement.

  With his plans for the day in ruins, Charles Otterbourne gave in with reasonable grace. The two Carringtons carried the wooden crate into the study. Gerard Carrington appeared a few minutes later. ‘The guv’nor’s well away,’ he said with a grin. ‘He’s giving poor Mr Otterbourne the full works. He won’t be finished for at least an hour, probably longer.’

  ‘Would you like to see the village?’ asked Molly. ‘We can drive down in the car or we can walk if you’d rather.’

  Andrew Dunbar shook his head. ‘Thank you, Mrs Lewis, but I’ll have to decline. I have some papers I intend to discuss with your father and I’d appreciate some time to look at them. I meant to read through them on the train, but I didn’t have the opportunity.’

  ‘The guv’nor wouldn’t stop talking,’ explained Gerry Carrington. ‘He was on good form, wasn’t he Mr Dunbar?’

  ‘He was very loquacious,’ agreed Mr Dunbar. ‘And very informative. Is there a room I can use, Mrs Lewis?’

  ‘You can have the library,’ she said. ‘You’ll be free from interruption in there.’ She turned to Gerard Carrington. ‘Shall we have coffee in the conservatory, Gerry?’ She felt mildly self-conscious as she said his name but he obviously liked her using it.

  He smiled warmly. ‘That’d be nice.’ His smile broadened. ‘Now the guv’nor’s safely taken care of, I can relax for a bit.’

  The remark gave her the oddest sense of kinship with him. He obviously cared about his father and that protectiveness was something Molly was very familiar with.

  The Professor didn’t fit into the world but neither did Dad. Molly suddenly knew Gerry Carrington would understand how she felt about her father. He was vulnerable. Dad had to have the world run by his rules; he simply couldn’t cope in any other way. He had to be surrounded with an armour of deference because without it, he would be as helpless as a crab without its shell. He was, as Steve said, a pompous old tyrant with no sense of humour. She knew that, but there were worse failings, weren’t there? He might be an old tyrant, but he was a kindly old tyrant and she loved him. Steve was usually privately and cheerfully disrespectful about her father but every so often, he was serious. ‘It’s crazy, Molly,’ he protested. ‘Why on earth do we all have to live by his rules? We’re not children.’

  ‘We don’t have to,’ she said. ‘We just have to pretend.’ It was kinder that way. So in London she danced, drank cocktails and went to card parties, and Steve couldn’t understand that, for Dad’s sake, she was willing to lead this odd sort of double life, but it was for Steve’s sake, too. She didn’t like the double life; she seemed to have been on edge for ages. It was so difficult to simply relax. Gerry, she thought, would understand. The knowledge made her feel slightly shy.

  They sat in the conservatory together. Gerard Carrington seemed completely at home, talking about their surroundings, his father and Steve. He really was a remarkably easy person to get along with.

  ‘What does your father’s machine actually do?’ she asked. ‘What makes it so special?’ She half-expected to be told it was too difficult for her to understand – Steve usually made a joke if she asked a question – but Carrington looked at her with a sort of hesitant enthusiasm.

  ‘Do you really want to know? To put it very simply, it uses electrical impulses to record and play at length on to a magnetized ribbon.’

  ‘Hasn’t that been done before?’ asked Molly, a wayward memory coming to her aid. ‘Wasn’t there a man called Poulsen? I’ve heard my father talk about him.’

  Carrington looked at her with undisguised admiration. ‘Spot on. I must say how refreshing it is to meet someone who has an intelligent interest in the subject.’

  She felt ridiculously flattered. Steve teased her and Dad declaimed but neither told her she was intelligent.

  ‘The guv’nor’s machine is an improvement on Poulsen’s. He developed a system of storing electrical signals on magnetized steel wire some time ago now but the sound was terribly distorted when it was replayed. On this machine the sound is very clear.’ Carrington leaned forward enthusiastically. ‘The guv’nor’s come up with the idea of magnetic ribbon wrapped round a cylinder. It’s tricky to use at the moment and he’ll have to come up with some easier way to manipulate the ribbon but the principle’s sound enough.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a silly question,’ said Molly doubtfully, ‘but I don’t see how a sound can be electrical.’

  Carrington grinned. ‘It’s a first-rate question. It really all goes back to Michael Faraday. As you know, Faraday’s major discovery was that a magnetic field can induce an electrical current, yes?’

  Molly nodded to indicate she was comfortable with Faraday and magnetic fields.

  Carrington flushed with pleasure. ‘You really do know something about this, don’t you? Now as far as sound recording and reproduction are concerned, the trick is to turn sound waves into an electrical impulse. Lee De Forest is doing some pioneering work on this in the States and some exciting breakthroughs are being made in the field of thermionic emissions. If you take an equation where K is Boltzman’s constant . . .’

  He broke off, noting the glazed expression in Molly’s eyes. ‘Perhaps I can explain it without maths,’ he said tactfully. ‘A sound can be converted into an electrical impulse by using a carbon-filled microphone.’ He gave a wriggle of enthusiasm. ‘You see where this is going? The sound waves vibrate the microphone diaphragm so they’re converted into a varying electrical current. If you wrap an iron pole within a coil of wire surrounded by a permanent magnet – we’re back to Faraday again – an electrical field is produced and we can use that to make a picture, so to speak, of the sound waves.’

  ‘But you still need a way to turn that picture of the sound waves into actual sound.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Carrington pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘My word, Molly, I’m enjoying this conversation. I’ve never met a girl like you before. We can hear the sound by using a device which picks up the changes in the magnetic field, converting it to an electrical signal which is amplified so it’s powerful enough to make a diaphragm vibrate and reproduce the recorded sound waves audibly. You’ll appreciate there’s more to it than that, but that’s the gist of it,’ he said, looking at her happily.

  He was so appreciative she felt a rush of pleasure. There was a button missing on his shirt, she notic
ed. She suddenly wished she could sew it back on for him. She had the oddest desire to look after him. It was the Otterbourne fault, she thought with a rueful stab of recognition.

  ‘Anyway, that’s the theory behind the guv’nor’s machine,’ said Gerry, picking up his coffee. He raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘You were wary of him, I know.’ She rushed to deny it, but he shook his head. ‘He can be difficult but he’s had a lot to put up with. He had to retire early.’ He drank his coffee. ‘I’m glad he’s got this project to work on. He needs something to occupy his mind, to stop him from brooding. He likes to have me around, which is just as well. I can step in if he’s getting too outrageous. I understand what he’s talking about, you see, but I’m a bit of a plodder compared to him. He really is outstanding but he does find ordinary life very awkward. If things don’t go the way he wants them to, he doesn’t have any way of coping.’ He smiled at her. ‘We do, don’t we?’

  The insight could be nothing more than coincidence, but it seemed so apposite, it took her breath away. She was saved from having to answer by the maid, Dorcas, coming into the room. The cook wanted to consult her about lunch and Molly, putting down her cup and saucer, followed her to the kitchen.

  Hamilton, the butler, passed the biscuit tin to Eckersley, the chauffeur. The two men were good friends and always took their morning cup of tea together in Hamilton’s pantry, secure from the listening ears of the womenservants. Hamilton liked to be able to express an opinion without any danger of having it gossiped about in the village. ‘So what did you think of the Professor?’ he asked.

  Eckersley dunked his chocolate biscuit, raising his eyebrows expressively. ‘I think he’s a couple of screws loose, Mr Hamilton, and that’s the honest truth. I thought I was picking up a tramp when I saw him at the station.’ He bit into his biscuit reflectively. ‘He’s got a shocking tongue on him, to say he’s meant to be a gent. I mean, we’ve had scientific types before and plenty of them, but I’ve never seen the like of him, shouting and losing his temper and carrying on. I reckon young Carrington’s got his work cut out for him, looking after his Pa. More like his keeper, he was. He seemed a nice enough bloke but his Pa’s a right one and no mistake.’