"Delightful New Mystery Series Set in the Frontier of the Modern Age"
Reviewed by Diana Troldahl
Posted July 14, 2011
Mystery Private Eye
1901 Seattle is the setting for a brand new mystery series
written with a meticulous grasp of detail and engaging hero. Professor Benjamin Bradshaw is horrified to discover his
arch nemesis dead in a Faraday cage only days before a
presidential visit. The set up just doesn't make sense.
There is no way his rival would have reached beyond the safety
of the cage to interact with the current, and even if he had
it would have resulted in a startling but minor shock, not
sufficient to kill him. It is difficult enough to fight his
way through the prejudice against newfangled electrical
power let alone explain the intricacies to the local police
force, but that is what he must do if he is to clear his
name of a murder charge. Professor Bradshaw is a vulnerable hero whose harrowing past
has driven him to keep his life with his young son within
proscribed boundaries. As he follows the trail of clues
leading perhaps to a greater conspiracy against the United
States Government his sole purpose is to remain free so that
he can care for his son. The unexpected arrival of his best
friend's niece is certain to complicate his life, but as her
uncle's suspiciously timed trip to the gold fields of Alaska
has left her without a protector he can do little but bring
her into the fold as well. A SPARK OF DEATH, Pajer's first novel, is an amazing,
immersive experience. Her research is impeccable but even
greater than that is her gift for bringing the experience of
walking the streets of turn-of-the-century Seattle to life
in the mind of the reader. Watching as Benjamin grows beyond
his own comfort zone and learns his knack for solving
mysteries is a delightful beginning to a series I hope to
enjoy for many years to come. For a closer look at the world
of Seattle at the turn of the century, visit Pajer's website
http://bernadettepajer.com/bradshaws-world-2/.
SUMMARY
Can death bring a man back to life? When UW Professor
Benjamin Bradshaw discovers a despised colleague dead inside
the Faraday Cage of the Electric Machine, his carefully
controlled world shatters. The facts don't add up—the police
shout murder—and Bradshaw is the lone suspect. To protect
his young son and clear his name, he must find the killer. Seattle in 1901 is a bustling blend of frontier attitude and
cosmopolitan swagger. The Snoqualmie Falls Power Plant
lights the city, but to most Seattleites, electricity is
new-fangled and dangerous. The public wants a culprit—they
want Bradshaw behind bars. The killer wants Bradshaw dead. His life and liberty threatened, Bradshaw discovers the
thrill of investigation as he's thrust deeper into the hunt. Questions abound. How had the Electric Machine's Tesla Coil
delivered a fatal shock? Was the murder personal—or
connected to President McKinley's planned visit? Were
students involved, or in danger? And why had Bradshaw's best
friend, Henry, fled to Alaska the day of the murder? When Henry's niece Missouri appears on Bradshaw's porch in
need of a home, her unorthodox views and femininity confuse
and intrigue him as he struggles to protect his own haunting
secret. Danger and death lurk everywhere—disguised as
accidents. Has Bradshaw come alive again only to lose all he
holds dear? Before it's too late, will he discover the
circuit path that led to a spark of death?
ExcerptChapter 1
A curtain of pale hair hid the young man’s downturned
face. His skinny fingers trembled as he toyed with the
pencil. He’d been staring at his examination paper without
making a single mark for ten minutes.
Test anxiety. Professor Benjamin Bradshaw knew it well.
Bradshaw himself had never been good at written
examinations. It was the blank page, the abstract theory
that vexed him. Put him on a pole with a length of wire to
string, give him the components of an electric motor to
assemble, and his mind sang. This young man was much the same.
Professor Bradshaw spoke softly. "Mr. Daulton."
Oscar Daulton froze, gripping the pencil so tightly it
snapped in two.
Bradshaw slid open his desk drawer and found a sharp
black lead pencil. As he stood, the squeal of his chair leg
scraping the hardwood floor pierced the hollow silence. He
crossed the empty classroom—the other students had long
gone—and set the new pencil on the edge of Daulton’s desk.
The young man did not look up. He’d spread his hands
protectively over his test, but Bradshaw could see some work
had been done.
"Take your time." Bradshaw put a reassuring hand on the
young man’s shoulder. "I’m in no hurry."
He retreated to the window, his chest tight with the
ghosts of his own youth. In his college years, he’d believed
he would one day leave anxiety behind. Maturity and
experience would sweep worry away. How wrong could he be?
With age came new forms of anxiety. Apparently, thirty-five
was the age of discovering oneself to be a plodding old
fool. And the Kinetoscope, the modern-day mirror, reflecting
what he’d been blissfully missing.
Bradshaw squared his shoulders with a huff. Kinetoscopes
be damned.
That blasted moving picture machine tick-tick-ticked in
his mind. He saw himself once again—in black-and-white but
unfortunately clear—trudge across the white plaster wall,
the image growing larger, closer, until his own dour face
stared out at him.
Professor Oglethorpe had laughed.
They’d all laughed at Bradshaw’s ridiculous flickering
image. To be fair, the students had laughed at everyone’s
image, their own included. But Oglethorpe’s laugh had been
loudest as Bradshaw lumbered about the moving picture,
looking old, tired. Oglethorpe’s laugh had been full of
condescension and ridicule.
"Arrogant bastard," mumbled Bradshaw. He took a deep
breath and thrust the flickering images, and Oglethorpe’s
laughter, from his mind.
The turret window of this second floor classroom
projected forward, giving Bradshaw a view of the front of
the building. He liked the way the sandstone and brick
French Renaissance style building—complete with rounded
turrets and conical candle-snuffer roofs—dwarfed the
students climbing the steps to the portico entrance. The
University of Washington, with its surrounding woodland and
view of Mt. Rainier, inspired. He felt that was proper.
Institutions of higher learning should humble those who
enter them, encourage them to seek knowledge with a sense of
awe.
Professor Oglethorpe was never awed. This morning,
perfectly groomed and elegant in a navy suit, his wrists
smugly buttoned with opal cufflinks, Oglethorpe had stood
atop those impressive stairs as if he owned the building.
His long frame limp with arrogance—he possessed odd, convex
bones—he’d looked down his sharp nose with undisguised
disgust as Bradshaw approached on his bicycle, sweating from
his ride. With a sniff, he’d turned and entered the
building, headed for that humiliating moving picture the
entire engineering department was scheduled to view, leaving
Bradshaw to park his bike and follow. A lamb to the slaughter.
Now, the steps stood empty. Pink and white blossoms
danced in the spring wind, drawing Bradshaw’s gaze toward
the expanse of green lawn and up to the shifting clouds.
Downstairs, the front doors banged shut, and a second
later a student—Bradshaw recognized him as Artimus
Lowe—hurried down the steps and onto the path only to
disappear from view. The young man had a springing gait that
Bradshaw envied. That’s how I should move, he told himself.
That’s how I will move! He would stride as a professor ought
to stride. He would not stew over his life like some addled
old fool. He was far too young to be addled. A fool? Well,
he could be that at any age.
He supposed he should be grateful he’d seen the truth of
his appearance this morning, but he would much rather be in
ignorance. He hoped to never again see a recorded image of
himself. He’d prefer not to see Professor Oglethorpe again
either. If wishes were horses . . .
The Varsity Bell, in the belfry high atop the building,
tolled. The pleasant note echoed until the wind erased the
final resonance.
The classroom’s electric lights blinked several times,
mimicking the skittering clouds playing with the fading
sunlight. Name the causes of voltage fluctuations—an exam
question for another day.
"Sir?"
Professor Bradshaw turned. Unexpected surprise and
pleasure temporarily lifted his melancholy. Oscar Daulton
had completed his test quickly, once the pressure of time
had been lifted. The young man, his fair hair now
finger-combed out of his face, handed Bradshaw his paper
with a blush of gratitude for the extra time he’d been
given, then rushed out the door. Bradshaw wondered why the
young were always in such a hurry. He then sighed. Better to
be in a hurry than to plod.
He slid Daulton’s exam into his leather satchel as stray
raindrops plinked against the window. He pulled on black
rubber boots and a bright yellow slicker and descended the
stairs to the main floor with a deliberate energetic bounce,
but a steadying hand on the rail. In the main entryway, he
thought of his son. He hoped the afternoon would clear long
enough for a game of catch. Dour old men did not play catch
with their sons. It stood to reason that he did not always
appear as that film had captured him. Yes, a game of catch
with Justin would lift his spirits tremendously if the
weather would only cooperate. He’d reached the heavy oak
doors, pushed one open, and a rush of damp wind whistled
into his face and rustled his slicker. At the same moment,
the building’s lights flickered again, and the entry lamp in
the ceiling directly above Bradshaw’s head sizzled as the
filament burned to a crisp. Bradshaw reluctantly hesitated,
glancing about the entryway. The lamps in the wall sconces
were dim as fireflies.
This was no simple fluctuation of the University’s power
plant, no fallen limb on a power line. Someone in the
building was using a tremendous amount of power, and the
only place tremendous amounts of power could be tapped was
down in the electrical engineering lab. It was most likely
Professor Oglethorpe down there causing trouble. Indeed,
Bradshaw fumed, it was Professor Oglethorpe’s interference,
and not Edison’s Kinetoscope, responsible for this entire,
disastrous day.
Oglethorpe had provoked the students into building that
modified Edison Kinetoscope by telling them they hadn’t the
skills to pull it off. Oglethorpe was responsible for Oscar
Daulton’s heightened test anxiety. Oglethorpe had all the
electrical engineering students muddled and anxious with his
indecipherable teaching method. And now, with the electrical
students’ big exhibition scheduled for tomorrow, Bradshaw
suspected it could only be Oglethorpe down there in the lab,
tampering with their Electric Machine in hopes of stealing
all the glory for himself.
No, Bradshaw decided angrily. He wouldn’t allow it. With
a pang of regret, he abandoned thoughts of child and home
and hurried instead to the stairwell, following the wide
steps down to the basement. Before he reached the bottom
step, he could hear the crackle of electric arcs. The
pungent odor of ozone hovered outside the electrical
engineering lab. Blue light danced erratically beneath the
closed door. Bradshaw hesitated only a moment before putting
his hand on the glass knob. He opened the door.
The laboratory lights were off, revealing the Electric
Machine’s full visual glory. Electric arcs erupted from the
silver sphere atop the copper coil, and little needles of
fiery purple arcs danced on the bars of the Faraday cage.
Inside the cage, amidst the charged, poisonous, and
deafening air, sat Professor Oglethorpe upon a three-legged
stool, head propped against the metal bars, looking like a
slumbering circus attraction: See Bird-Man in Giant Flaming
Cage!
"Professor Oglethorpe!" Bradshaw buried his nose and
mouth in the crook of his arm. What in God’s name was
Oglethorpe up to? Bradshaw flipped the switches that
activated the lights and exhaust fans, and the roar of the
blades joined the cacophony as they sucked the dangerous
vapors from the building.
"Oglethorpe!"
Professor Oglethorpe did not reply nor did he move. In
the harsh glare of the overhead lights, Bradshaw couldn’t
see Oglethorpe’s face, only the back of his dark, pomaded
head. He was in shirtsleeves. His expensive navy cassimere
vest and pants were not in their usual state of perfection,
but askew. The vest rode high, revealing an expanse of white
shirt. A pant leg bunched about the calf.
Bradshaw choked. A pompous black silk stocking adorned
with white polka dots had broken free of its supporter. It
had fallen into a puddle above Oglethorpe’s polished leather
shoe, exposing a pale ankle. The sight of it, above all
else, sent a shiver of alarm through him.
He turned the safety key of the Electric Machine to the
off position. Immediately, the arcing ceased. Only the
ventilation fans now disturbed the air. He yanked the
electric plug from the building supply socket as a final
precaution. A burning acrid smell rose in a thin haze from
the wires hanging from the ceiling that spelled "Welcome
McKinley" against hard, and now over-heated, black rubber
plates.
A numb sort of unreality possessed him as he climbed the
steps to the cage. Oglethorpe was so very still. Bradshaw
avoided looking at the puddled polka dot sock, the exposed
ankle. Slowly, he opened the cage door and stared in stunned
silence at Oglethorpe’s extended hand, at his slightly
curved index finger protruding from the safety of the cage.
The tip of the finger was blackish-red and swollen. A
trickle of smoke rose from the charred flesh. The rest of
the finger, the rest of the hand, was absent of color,
bloodless.
He whispered, "Dear God," and staggered back away from
the smell of cooked flesh.
And then Oglethorpe moved. Slowly at first, he began to
tip sideways. His head lolled, his torso collapsed, his arms
flopped uselessly. And then he dropped with a sickening thud
to the wooden floor. His face was pasty white, his thin lips
blue, his grey eyes clouded, staring vacantly directly at
Bradshaw.
If wishes were horses—he hadn’t meant it. He hadn’t
wished this.
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