They struck a compromise. “Give him some pure whiskey,” Clara said. “I really don’t care for him to mix his drinks.”
Belle poured him a whiskey, straight, then commanded Crippen to find a taxi. He put on his coat and left. He found nothing, no two-wheeled hansom, no four-wheeled growler, none of the new motorized taximeter cabs. Repeatedly Belle glanced out the front window to look for Crippen. “It seemed to us,” said Clara, “that he would never return.”
At last he did come back, but without a cab. Belle sent him out again. This time he returned within a few moments with a growler.
Crippen helped Paul down the front steps and into the cab. Belle and Clara kissed, and Belle too started down the steps, but without a coat. Clara stopped her. “Don’t come down, Belle, you’ll catch a cold.”
The cab rumbled off into the night. Later Clara would recall that Crippen and Belle “were certainly on affectionate terms” and that apart from Paul’s discomfort the evening had been a pleasure. Belle as always had been warm and jolly, Crippen self-effacing and solicitous of her needs. “On the night of the party,” Clara said, “we were the happiest party imaginable.”
But when Crippen walked back up the stairs to the house after saying a last good-bye to the Martinettis, he found that Belle had undergone a transformation.
“Immediately after they had left my wife got into a very great rage with me, and blamed me for not having gone upstairs with Mr. Martinetti,” Crippen said, referring to Paul’s exit to use the bathroom. “She said a great many things—I do not recollect them all—she abused me, and said some pretty strong words to me; she said she had had about enough of this—that if I could not be a gentleman she would not stand it any longer, and she was going to leave me.” He quoted her as shouting, “This is the finish of it I won’t stand it any longer. I shall leave you tomorrow, and you will never hear of me again.”
So far none of this was novel. “She had said this so often that I did not take much notice of it,” Crippen said.
But now she went one step further and said something she had never said before—“that I was to arrange to cover up any scandal with our mutual friends and the Guild the best way I could.”
Belle retired to her bedroom, while Crippen retreated to his. “I did not even see her the next morning,” he said. “We retired very late, and it was the usual thing that I was the first one up and out of the house before she was ever up at all.”
THAT MORNING, TUESDAY, February 1, Crippen went to his office at Yale Tooth as usual and was, according to Ethel Le Neve, “his own calm self.” She wrote, “Surely we, who knew him so well and every expression of his face, would have noticed at once if he had shown the slightest agitation.”
At midday Crippen left Albion House and walked to the Martinettis’ flat on Shaftesbury to check on Paul. Clara greeted him at the door and told him Paul was sleeping. Crippen was pleased to learn that Paul had gotten no worse during the night. They chatted a few moments longer, then Crippen turned to leave.
Clara asked, “How’s Belle?”
“Oh, she is all right.”
“Give her my love.”
“Yes,” Crippen said, “I will.”
When he returned to Hilldrop Crescent at seven-thirty that evening, he found the house empty, save for the cats, the canaries, and the bull terrier.
Belle had gone.
The main question that now occupied him, he said, was how to avoid the scandal that would arise if the true reason for Belle’s departure ever got out.
THE FATAL OBSTACLE
ON SIGNAL HILL THE WEATHER WORSENED. Marconi listened hard for the sound of three snaps in the static mist that filled his telephone receiver, but he detected nothing. Outside, his men struggled to keep the kite aloft and stable. Each time it bobbed and dipped, its two trailing wires grew longer or shorter. Marconi still had only a vague understanding of how electromagnetic waves traveled and how the length of his antennas affected transmission and reception, but he did recognize that this constant rising and falling could not be helpful.
Trying to send signals to a wildly shifting kite was a bit like trying to catch a fish in a whirlpool.
IN POLDHU MARCONI’S OPERATORS fired chains of S’s into the sky over Cornwall. Thousands of watts of power pulsed through the spark gap. Lightning cracked, and pipes tingled. Electromagnetic waves coursed in all directions at the speed of light. Receivers at the Lizard, at Niton, and at Crookhaven instantly detected their presence. The signals were likely received aboard at least one of the increasing number of ocean liners equipped with wireless, perhaps the
At about twelve-thirty the receiver issued a sharp click, the sound of the tapper striking the coherer. It meant the receiver had detected waves.
The tension in the room increased. Marconi’s face bore its usual sober expression. As was so often the case, his lips conveyed distaste, as if he had scented an unpleasant odor.
“Unmistakably,” he wrote, “the three sharp little clicks corresponding to three dots, sounded several times in my ear.”
He was excited but skeptical. He wanted to hear the clicks so badly that he felt he could not trust his own judgment. He passed the telephone receiver to Kemp.
“Can you hear anything Mr. Kemp?” he asked.
Kemp listened, and he too heard, or claimed to hear, sequences of three dots. They passed the telephone receiver to Paget as well, who listened but heard nothing. He, however, had grown increasingly hard of hearing.
“Kemp heard the same thing as I,” Marconi wrote, “and I knew then that I had been absolutely right in my calculation. The electric waves which were being sent out from Poldhu had traversed the Atlantic, serenely ignoring the curvature of the earth which so many doubters considered would be a fatal obstacle, and they were now affecting my receiver in Newfoundland.”
There was no serenity on Signal Hill. A burst of wind tore the kite free. The men lofted a second one, now with a single wire of five hundred feet. This configuration, Kemp wrote in his diary, “appeared more in harmony with the earth’s electric medium and the signals from Poldhu station. We were able to keep this kite up for three hours and it appeared to give good signals.” In all, they picked up twenty-five of the three-dot sequences.
Marconi wrote a draft of a telegram to Managing-Director Flood Page in London to announce his success but held it back. He wanted to hear more signals before notifying his board and especially before the news became public.
He tried again the next day, Friday, December 13, 1901. The weather grew more ferocious. There was snow, rain, hail, and wind—great gasps of it. Three times they launched kites, and three times the weather drove the kites to ground. During the brief periods the kites were in the air, however, Marconi claimed that he again heard three- dot sequences from Poldhu, though these signals were even less distinct than what he had heard the day before.
Frustrated by the lack of clarity, Marconi still did not send his cable to headquarters. He resolved to wait one more day, until Saturday, to allow time for more trials.
The wind accelerated. On Saturday it reached a point where an attempt to fly anything, balloon or kite, was
