Cribb had never experienced an inquisition like it. Inarticulate sounds issued from the hood as Rossanna’s hands made contact with her father’s and engaged in an elaborate procedure of clasping, tapping and stroking. ‘My father wishes to be told the reason for your extraordinary interest in Mr Malone,’ she presently said.
The two hours or so since his abduction had enabled Cribb to prepare for this. He had decided to keep his story as close to the truth as he could, in the interests of self-preservation. ‘I was interested for my own reasons in making contact with the dynamite conspiracy. I had heard of an Irish-American called Malone who was seen in Rotherhithe asking questions about the London stations shortly before the explosion in the cloakroom at Victoria last February. Malone is a common enough name among the Irish, I know, but when I chanced to notice it in a newspaper account of the Gaelic American Athletic Club’s visit to England, I took more than a passing interest. It occurred to me, Mr McGee, what a brilliant stratagem it would be to bring a group of dynamiters to these shores in the guise of sportsmen— perhaps even finding a first-class athlete who was interested in promoting the interests of his country in a practical way. So I decided to get to know Mr Malone better. I managed to insinuate myself into the party of officials at Lillie Bridge, and I endeavoured to engage him in conversation during the hammer-throwing contest. When I found that he was not the sociable sort, I initiated a friendship with Mr Devlin here, thinking to learn what I could about Mr Malone at second hand. I was fortunate in being able to assist Mr Devlin in a small way to secure victory at Lillie Bridge—’
‘I won the bloody contest outright,’ Devlin interpolated.
‘Unquestionably, but it required someone with my recently acquired knowledge of the rules to point it out. You were grateful at the time, which was fortunate for me, because you went on to tell me over a drink where Mr Malone’s hotel was situated.’
‘That was incautious, Patrick,’ commented Rossanna.
‘Faith, I was setting a bloody trap!’
‘Quite right,’ said Cribb. ‘A possibility I had altogether failed to allow for. After I visited the Alcazar Hotel and found the management most uncommunicative on the subject of Mr Malone, I came out and was ensnared, as Mr Devlin has indicated.’
Rossanna put her face close to the mask and indulged in more finger talk with McGee. ‘My father wishes to know what you want with the dynamiters—if you are successful in finding them.’
Cribb permitted himself a slight smile at the addition, a touch of feminine caution, he was sure. McGee had a thoughtful interpreter. ‘I want to join ’em, miss.’
An agitated session with the hands. ‘My father asks why, when you are patently not an Irishman.’
‘The answer is that I am a professional adventurer. I have a taste for danger, and I know a rare amount about the construction of infernal machines. I believe I could be useful to the dynamiters. And I don’t mind admitting that I would expect to be well-paid for my services.’
Another consultation. ‘Mr Sargent, my father thinks what you have said is presumptuous.’
‘I’m damned sure the dynamite party can afford to pay me, miss.’
She tossed her head impatiently. ‘He was not referring to that. He thinks it presumptuous of you to imagine that you can be of any use to the organisation.’
Cribb raised his eyebrows. Inwardly his pulses were pounding. If he were not convincing now, they would undoubtedly kill him. ‘I didn’t come into this blindly, miss. I took a close look at what the dynamiters have done, and I know where they want some expert advice. Oh, I don’t underestimate their ability, miss, or their pluck. And the machines are well enough made. It’s the positioning of ’em that goes wrong. Take this latest group of bombings as an example. Four machines, of which only one does any notable damage, whatever the newspapers say. And one that doesn’t detonate at all. I thought the reasons for giving up clock-timing was to take the uncertainty out of detonations.’ He raised a finger, warming to his theme. ‘But setting that disappointment aside, it’s a poor way to treat two well-constructed machines to put ’em in places where the best they do is frighten a few domestics and give the glaziers some work. Now a man with my knowledge of the metropolis—not to say dynamite—would have done a little better for the cause last night, I can tell you. Bang, bang, bang round the back of Downing Street, and Gladstone wouldn’t be able to get to the House quick enough to introduce a Home Rule Bill!’
‘You’re not an anarchist, are you, Mr Sargent?’
‘Not unless the money’s right, miss. My affiliations are strictly on a mercenary footing. No, I tell you in all seriousness that what the dynamiters lack is the finishing touch. It’s no good coming over from America—without offence to anyone here present—and leaving bombs at random all round St James’s Square. My observations tell me there are three things lacking in the dynamite campaign: local knowledge, steady hands and the knack of putting bombs where they do the most damage. I’m the man to remedy those deficiencies— at a fee, of course. I was going to suggest a level pony—twenty-five pounds—for each successful detonation. Would you say that’s a reasonable offer?’ He addressed his question to the grey eyes behind the mask.
Rossanna put her head close to her father’s and held his hands. More unearthly sounds proceeded from McGee. One thing was certain: no normal palate could produce such distortions of the human voice. Cribb waited, not knowing whether he was hearing an invitation to the dynamite party or a sentence of death.
Devlin approached the invalid-chair and murmured something—no petition for mercy, Cribb was sure. Rossanna drew away from her father. ‘Mr Sargent, there remains a question to be answered. What was your purpose in telling the driver of our carriage that you wished to be conveyed to Great Scotland Yard?’
She put the question in a disarmingly mild manner, but Devlin’s predatory stare from behind McGee left no doubt of the importance of the answer.
Cribb gave a deliberately naive reply. ‘I thought it was a cab, miss.’
‘One takes that for granted, Mr Sargent.’ Her voice took on a more insistent tone. ‘Why Great Scotland Yard?’
He grinned, as if he had some joke to share with her. ‘Ah, I see your point entirely, miss. A pertinent inquiry, in the circumstances. The fact of the matter is that I’m a reader of The Times. Have you seen today’s edition? There’s a stirring account of the damage perpetrated in the capital last night. As one not uninterested in the fortunes of the dynamite campaign, I studied every word of it. What caught my eye in particular was a paragraph about the bomb discovered at the foot of Nelson’s column. Did you know that it was conveyed to Great Scotland Yard and left in the open for reasons of safety? They won’t have it inside for fear of blowing up what’s left of the Detective Department. So there it stands, miss, for anyone to see, and it’s asking too much of a man as interested as I am in explosives to stay away. That was why the Yard was going to be my next port of call.’
Rossanna turned to Devlin. ‘It appears to answer the point, Patrick. Mr Sargent would naturally be interested in seeing an infernal machine for himself.’ Receiving no response, she addressed her father. ‘What do you say, Papa? Is Mr Sargent to be relied upon?’
It was heartening to have Rossanna’s support intimated, even if Devlin maintained a sceptical silence. The verdict that mattered, though, was being uttered from the invalid-chair. Understanding nothing of the inane sounds McGee was producing, Cribb studied the slits in the mask for some flicker of assent, and saw none. The only conceivable indication of what was going on was the movement of McGee’s head, and when Cribb saw which way it was moving he preferred to regard it as a doubtful portent. Possibly, he told himself, the agitated conversation with the hands was rocking the chair.
It stopped. Rossanna faced Cribb. ‘Mr Sargent, my father wishes me to inform you that he is interested in your claims, but not entirely satisfied of their veracity. However, he is prepared to give you an opportunity tonight of convincing
him. You are invited to participate in a small expedition. It provides you with a chance to demonstrate the qualities of a professional adventurer. I take it that the prospect is attractive to you?’
‘Shall I be paid for my services, miss?’ Cribb asked, in a strictly professional manner.
She smiled for the first time. ‘You will get what is due to you, Mr Sargent.’
Cribb decided he preferred Rossanna without the smile.
CHAPTER
7
THE SOUND OF A church bell travelled across the water of Gravesend Reach. One o’clock. The last of a mass of cloud passed inland, uncovering the moon. The slate roofs and spires of Gravesend were picked out sharply in the swiftly-moving luminosity, as if the gauze was being drawn away in some transformation effect at Drury Lane. Certainly the night had a theatrical feel about it for Sergeant Cribb, leaning on the taffrail of a small steam launch chugging past the monstrous shapes of the merchant fleet, moored in readiness for the last few miles upriver on the morning tide. Whatever he had expected from the dynamite conspirators, it had not included a substantial supper, followed by a midnight outing on the Thames. After his ordeal in front of McGee, everyone—even Devlin—had made a point of being disconcertingly civil to him. As he had sipped claret and eaten cold chicken, he had been reminded of the cosseting of condemned men on their last night on earth. From there his thoughts had fastened morbidly on the late Constable Bottle being drawn from the Thames with grappling irons, an image that had been disturbingly revived after supper, when Rossanna had led the party out to a boat-house.
‘Sargent!’ a voice called from the direction of the cabin. ‘Come below. Miss McGee wishes to speak to you.’
He answered the summons, careful as he descended the steps that no one was concealed on either side, waiting to crack him over the skull again with a blunt instrument. The twinges from the last battering were particularly acute in movements up and down stairs.
Rossanna was seated at a small table lit by an oil lamp. Facing her, more sinister than ever in this light, was Malone, who had joined the party after supper. Devlin stood at the wheel with his back to them. McGee had been left in the house, in the care of the functionary Cribb had taken for a cab-driver, but whose duties he now knew to include serving at table and ministering to the needs of the invalid.
‘Please sit down, Mr Sargent,’ said Rossanna, and added firmly, ‘Here will do,’ when Cribb was faced with the choice of sharing a bench with herself or Malone.
It was quite impossible to position himself on the narrow strip of bench without physical proximity of the sort one usually encountered in crowded third class railway compartments— and then with nameless strangers. To accommodate her bustle, she was seated obliquely, and Cribb was obliged to adopt a similar position to avoid embarrassing contact with her knees under the table. In consequence, his legs were so restricted that he was sure his right thigh would touch her left if he leaned even slightly forward.
‘Observe the map, Mr Sargent,’ Rossanna ordered, as if divining his thoughts and indicating that she, at any rate, was too taken up with the night’s business to be troubled by them. It was a chart of the river from Purfleet to the Estuary, and it was spread out across the table. ‘We have just passed the Ovens buoy, marking Coalhouse Point, and this is the stretch of the river known as The Lower Hope. The place we are bound for is here.’ She touched the map.
‘Canvey Island?’ said Cribb.
‘Not quite, Mr Sargent. Look more closely.’
He was practically sure he felt the warmth of contact on his leg before he moved. ‘A creek,’ he said. ‘Hole Haven. I can’t say I’ve heard of it before.’
‘Then you should read The Times more thoroughly. Hole Haven has more than once been referred to in the Parliamentary Report. Eight hulks are moored there. It is a desolate spot, accessible only by water when the tide is flowing, or across marshland from Canvey Island. Probably not more than a few of the islanders knew of the existence of the hulks until two of them were found unguarded three years ago. The owners were fined a total of over a thousand pounds for negligence.’
‘Seems unaccountably excessive,’ said Cribb.
‘So one would have thought until 1882, when one of them, the George and Valentine, sank in Hole Haven. It was then revealed that it contained two thousand cases of dynamite, the property of Nobel’s Explosives Company. Each of those hulks is a magazine, containing over fifty tons of dynamite.’
‘Jesus!’ said Malone, pulling excitedly at his whiskers.
‘But where’s the sense in it?’ asked Cribb. ‘Nobel’s manufactory is in Scotland. What is the stuff doing in the Thames Estuary?’
‘Waiting to be loaded on to outward bound vessels,’ said Rossanna. ‘They stop there regularly to collect consignments. It would be most unsafe, you understand, to have explosives stored in warehouses in the Port of London. Instead, they use the hulks in Hole Haven. Two of them belong to a German firm, the rest to the mayor of Gravesend, who receives the dynamite from Scotland and sees to the discharging, reloading and storage. An eminently sensible arrangement, and inexpensive, too. Each magazine, I understand, is guarded overnight by a single caretaker.’
‘Holy Mother of God!’ said Malone.
Rossanna was giving her attention to Cribb. ‘So the purpose of the evening is to collect a modest consignment of dynamite from Hole Haven. It will be so much more convenient than making importations from America. In approximately three-quarters of an hour, Patrick will draw alongside the Moravia, the hulk least easily observed by coastguards, because it is partially obscured by two of the other vessels. You, Mr Sargent, and Mr Malone here will then board the Moravia, disincline the caretaker from interfering, and make a careful examination of the cargo. We shall not be able to take much away with us on this small craft, so we shall need to ensure that what we have is of the most powerful grade. You will unload six half-hundredweight cases on to our deck and we shall gently cruise away with enough dynamite to bring down every bridge along the river if we feel inclined.’
‘Now there’s a grand conception!’ said Devlin.
‘Beautiful!’ agreed Malone, half-closing his eyes to appreciate it fully.
‘An illustration, merely,’ said Rossanna. ‘My father is planning something infinitely more dramatic and effective— provided that we obtain the means tonight.’ She turned to Cribb again. ‘We want no hitch in this little enterprise. You will follow Mr Malone’s orders implicitly. In the circumstances, I have prevailed upon him not to carry a firearm, but he has no need of one when he can incapacitate a man just as quickly and more painfully with his bare hands.’
‘There’ll be no cause for that, miss,’ Cribb promised her.
When he went on deck again, the winking buoy was well astern and the Estuary had broadened to more than a mile across. Devlin was steering close to the Essex shore, a desolate tract of marshland unbroken by any sign of habitation.
Rossanna’s conference, disturbing as it was to anyone responsible for law and order, had rather fortified Cribb. His immediate future, at least, was less in doubt. The expedition was not planned with the sole intention of sending him the way of Bottle. Or so it seemed. If he were mistaken, it was the most diabolical charade-game he had ever taken part in. No, all the signs were that if he behaved convincingly as Malone’s assistant that night, he would win the confidence of the dynamiters. Put it down to forethought, intuition or uncommon luck, he had offered McGee what the conspiracy lacked at this stage in its campaign: the professional touch. He might shortly be expected to demonstrate it. Lord, he was thankful for those weeks at Woolwich!
He was conscious of a movement at his elbow: Rossanna, holding something in her arms. ‘Tall hats and morning suits look most distinguished, Mr Sargent, but they really will not do for climbing up the sides of dynamite-ships. Put on these things.’
He removed his hat and found it taken away in exchange for a bundle of clothes.
‘Please do not delay,’ s
aid Rossanna. ‘We are passing Shell Haven on the port side. Our destination is less than a mile away. Give me your jacket. I shall take it to the cabin.’
She was right; it was ridiculous to think of clambering aboard a guarded ship in morning-dress. The others were in jerseys and dark trousers. He unbuttoned the jacket and took it off, checking the pockets first—but all they contained apart from coins was a crumpled rosette. Rossanna took the hat and coat below.
She had left him with a woollen fisherman’s cap—for which he was grateful, preferring not to go bareheaded out of doors, even in these circumstances—a black muffler and a short jacket in the reefer style. They effectively covered the telltale white and grey of his shirt-front and waistcoat. True, the reefer overlapped his shoulders and bulged somewhat in the area of his hips, but it was clearly made for a larger man. Now was not the time to fret over sartorial imperfections.
There remained something on the deck where she had deposited the clothes: a coil of rope, and under it, thoughtfully, a pair of black kid gloves. He slung the rope over his shoulder and was beginning to feel increasingly felonious, when his nostrils caught the whiff of something close at hand that quite restored the detective in him. Stale pipe-tobacco. It was coming from the clothes and he was absolutely sure that the brand was Marcovitch. He had smelt it a hundred times before. He ran his hands down the reefing-jacket, feeling its size and texture. Everything his pounding brain could suggest to check—buttons, pocket-flaps, lapels and vents—tended to confirm that it was Thackeray’s. He searched the pockets, but they had been emptied systematically— or so it appeared, until his hand located a small ticket pocket on the left side. Inside was a railway ticket. He made sure he was not being overlooked and moved closer to the cabin to get sufficient light to examine his find. It was a platform ticket issued by the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway at London Bridge station. The date on the reverse was May 18th, 1884—the Sunday he had found Thackeray beside the Gladstone. He knew, because he had a similar ticket in the pocket of his check waistcoat at home; when they had left the platform, there had been no collector on the gate. Numbed by a possible implication of his discovery, he replaced the ticket and stared unseeing at the dykes along the Essex shore.
The Tick of Death Page 8
