‘That was in June?’
‘What an excellent memory you have—yes. He was testing a small bomb here in the grounds when it detonated prematurely, with terrible results. He was the Clan’s principal machinist. Despite his injuries, he is carrying on the work.’
‘With your help.’
‘That is so.’
They stopped to watch a hay-boat pass along the Reach, its brown lateen sail catching enough wind to give it the advantage over a toiling lighter laden with bricks. Cribb decided the time was ripe to extend the conversation. ‘Two of the groups in custody, you say. This is dangerous work. Would any of the convicted men inform on us?’
‘They don’t know where we are. It is the policy of the Clan that the groups work independently. We all have our instructions from America, and we are here to carry them out without reference to anyone else. In the last year that I have been working for the Clan, I have not met any of the men who have been taken. Everything I have told you about them you could have read for yourself in the newspapers.’
This was true. ‘So that when a bombing takes place it is just as surprising to you as it is to the public at large?’
‘Exactly—unless we have arranged it ourselves.’
‘Was it yours in Scotland Yard the other night?’
She smiled. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you. It was not. Nor were the others that night. We are here for something altogether more ambitious.’
‘Isn’t Scotland Yard enough?’
‘There are more important targets than that, Mr Sargent.’
He wished Inspector Jowett took the same view. ‘The police are sure to intensify their inquiries. Have they any knowledge of our existence here, do you think?’
‘I think not. Not now.’
‘That sounds significant.’
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘One night when Malone was at the public house in Rotherhithe he got into conversation with a man he suspected was a police agent. This was at the time of the London station explosions—which this group was not responsible for, I might add—and the man was interminably talking about locomotives and timetables. Malone suspected he was trying to feed us false information, but when we checked some of it we could not fault him. Then one night we discovered that he was being watched by the police—a Special Branch man, as we discovered. Malone lured this one into a trap and shot him.’
‘Ah.’ How else could Cribb react, except privately to note that Malone’s own death had been no more than he deserved for killing Constable Bottle? He asked, as casually as he was able: ‘And the other man?’
‘We brought him here. He saw the shooting of the Special Branch man, you understand.’
‘Of course. Did you . . . ?’
‘Not yet. We think our locomotive enthusiast has some useful information for us. He must be a policeman. He possesses all the characteristics, from the thick skull to the flat feet. He was probably wanting to sell information to Malone. They aren’t paid much at Scotland Yard, you know. The Special Branch man must have suspected what was going on, and consequently followed them into the trap. If the Special Branch were interested, then he has got something to tell us, and he is in no position now to demand a fee. We’ll get it from him soon, and then Father has something else in mind for him. He will be incorporated into the plan.’
Whatever that was, it did not matter for the present. Thackeray was alive—thick-skulled, flat-footed and breathing!
‘You have this man here? I haven’t seen him.’
‘You won’t, Mr Sargent. It is better for us all if he is kept locked away until we are ready to use him.’
‘Quite so. Are you sure you can handle him, though? Without Malone’s assistance, I mean.’
‘Perfectly sure. He is no trouble.’
From her manner, she wanted to drop the subject. It would have been incautious to press her further on the matter of Thackeray, tantalising as it was.
‘Pardon me for asking,’ Cribb said, as they turned in the direction of the house. ‘Is it usual for the Clan to employ members of the fair sex?’
She laughed. ‘Not so unusual as you might think, Mr Sargent. We are not the insipid creatures some of you men take us for. The Ladies’ Land League was a far more militant organisation than the men’s, until Mr Parnell got cold feet and insisted upon its dissolution. Besides, modern fashions give us a distinct advantage over men in conveying dynamite secretly to England. How do you think Atlas Powder travels—in men’s trouser pockets?’
‘I’d never considered it,’ said Cribb candidly.
‘Then take my advice and have nothing to do with strange women on ocean-going steam-ships, unless you are prepared for a devastating experience.’
Cribb laughed. ‘Not the kind you have in mind, Rossanna.’
At the mention of her name, she tightened her grip on his arm. ‘If you were wondering about me, I promise you I have nothing under my skirts to alarm you, Mr Sargent, if you are the man I take you for. I believe you described yourself as an adventurer.’
Heavens! She was at it again, more flagrantly than before. And looking damnably fetching at the same time. He took a long, uplifting breath. ‘That’s correct. But I did say a professional adventurer, and it occurs to me that I might still be on probation, so far as the Clan is concerned. I’m here in my capacity as a dynamiter, nothing else. In other circumstances, Miss . . .’ he added gallantly.
They walked the rest of the way across the lawn in silence, Cribb trying to convince himself that it was just another phase of the inquisition. He would have felt eminently pleased at the way he had come through it, if only the inquisitor hadn’t looked so damnably disappointed.
CHAPTER
9
CRIBB QUIETLY LOCKED HIS bedroom door from the inside, withdrew the key and pocketed it. He crossed to the window, pushed it up and looked down at the conservatory roof, ten feet below. After the Alcazar Hotel, this promised to be child’s play. He picked up a length of rope he had earlier scavenged from the coach-house, and firmly secured one end of it to the door-handle. The other he dropped over the window-ledge, leaning after it to see how far down it extended. Far enough for a controlled descent to the frame of the conservatory roof. He tested the strength of the rope, seated himself on the sill, swung his legs over and turned inwards, shifting the weight of his body on to his stomach. Gripping the rope ahead of him, he began to let himself down.
It was after two in the morning, an hour and a half since he and Devlin had retired, and they had been the last to go up. Rossanna had gone first, soon after eleven, leaving the others at a poker game. ‘Our river trip last night has quite upset my routine,’ she had announced. ‘If I don’t retire at once, I shall fall asleep in my chair. Too ridiculous for words! I shall probably wake up in the small hours wanting breakfast when everyone else is deep in slumber. Are you an early riser, Mr Sargent? You look as though you might be. Patrick ought to be, as a sportsman, but he never stirs before nine when he is staying here, do you, Patrick? And Father sometimes sleeps until noon. Well, you need not tell me, because I shall hear for myself. My room is on the first floor landing and I know every loose floorboard in the corridor above. When I hear you, I shall know that I am no longer the only one awake in the house.’ Cribb had not been sure whether she said this to discourage initiatives by night, or the reverse. At any rate, he had decided already that he would have to find a way downstairs that did not bring him into contact with the floorboards, and that was why he was once again performing on a rope.
He lowered himself to the level of the room below his and paused there, trying to see in. It was a first-floor bedroom, unoccupied. He could have forced an entrance through the window if he had wanted, but all it contained, he suspected, was Malone’s luggage. Certainly it had not been inhabited in the last twenty-four hours. Tonight he was looking for Thackeray, not infernal machines.
His feet touched the conservatory roof, lighting safely on one of the wooden crossbeams. The structure was sturd
y, well able to support his weight. Leaving the rope dangling, he crossed the roof to a section where it overhung the main entrance, inset between the two gabled wings at the front of the house. On his level, there were the windows of the main first-floor landing. He went confidently to one he had unfastened earlier from the inside, eased it open and climbed into the house again.
During the period after dinner he had occupied himself profitably by making a mental sketch of the lay-out of the bedrooms. The second floor, where his own was, had one other, the manservant’s, built in to the gable opposite. The floor below housed Devlin, McGee and Rossanna, as well as the empty room below his. It was quite impossible, he had decided, for Thackeray to be imprisoned on the first or second floors, for every other room could be accounted for as a bathroom, linen-room or water closet.
There was something else that encouraged him to concentrate on the ground floor. While Rossanna had been cooking those devilled kidneys, he had noticed four trays set out on the dresser, obviously in anticipation of breakfast. Three were matching in design, finely lacquered and laden with expensive porcelain and silver. The other was made of plain, unvarnished wood and there was a tin porridge-bowl on it and a mug, of the sort provided in common lodging-houses. At the time, Cribb had taken them for the manservant’s. Later, he reflected that someone eating in the kitchen had no need of a tray; he would eat from the kitchen table. The probability was that it was for Thackeray. If so, it was not unreasonable to suppose that the place where he was confined was directly accessible from the kitchen. A tray of that description, without even a cloth on it, would have been glaringly conspicuous in any other part of the house.
He pulled the window gently closed and glided towards the stairs. His movements were confident. He had tested the boards on this floor very thoroughly earlier in the day. They were firm under his weight, not straining to betray him like those upstairs. Rossanna, even if she were awake, could not possibly know that he was passing within a yard of her door. Just the same, he drew a long breath when he was safely clear. The danger of McGee’s door opening, or Devlin’s, troubled him less than hers. He moved smoothly past and down the stairs. Without pausing, he crossed the tiled hallway to the dining room and so made his way into the kitchen.
It was darker there than it had been upstairs. The moonlight was all on the other side of the house. He hesitated at the threshold, remembering the myriad objects he might dislodge from shelves and hooks and send crashing to the slate floor. By degrees his eyes adjusted to the conditions. It was a large room, dominated on one side of the table by the range, and the other the dresser, fairly bristling with crockery. The four trays were set out ready for the morning, as before. Other objects, an ironing-board, a tin bath and a meat jack threatened to raise the house if he should accidentally knock them down. It was fortunate that he had not marched blindly in, because there were two fly-papers suspended near the dresser at the level of his head. He would probably have reacted to the unexpected contact by flinging out his arms in self-protection.
Two other doors led off from the kitchen: one, the tradesmen’s entrance, looked on to the kitchen garden; the other promised to be the scullery. He pushed the door behind him shut—and froze in his tracks. Something soft had touched his back, moving rapidly across the width of his shoulders. He wheeled round, and was confronted with a large canvas string bag, swinging gently from a nail on the back of the door. He grunted and moved decisively across the kitchen to the scullery.
A cat came to meet him as he opened the door, and smoothed its fur against his legs. He swung his eyes swiftly around the room. Dresser, sink, door, copper, mangle, door. The second door was the one that interested him. It probably led to a store for fuel or provisions, but it was bolted at top and bottom. He approached it and slipped the bolts. It opened easily. The cat ran inside. Cribb followed.
It was pitch-black. He whispered, ‘Thackeray?’
Not a sound.
‘Thackeray!’
A muffled groan from somewhere to his left.
‘Where are you, man?’
Thackeray’s voice, just coherent, said, ‘Can’t you per-ishers let a man have a wink of sleep?’
‘It’s me. Cribb.’
‘Blimey!’ A fumbling and scratching was followed by the striking of a lucifer, which immediately went out. ‘Blooming cat!’ A second attempt was successful. The lighting of a candle revealed the shaggy countenance of the constable who had once helped to arrest Charlie Peace. He was lying on a bed improvised from sacks stuffed with straw. Bundles of firewood were stacked on all sides of him. ‘Sarge, how did you find me?’
‘Never mind that,’ said Cribb. ‘Keep that candle away from the cat. This place is a blasted tinder-box. Now, Thackeray, are you all in one piece?’
‘Just about, Sarge, but I’ve had enough of this. I’ve been incarcerated here for two days with only a supply of candles and a Bradshaw’s Guide to keep me from going barmy. They bring me food twice a day and I can use the privy in the garden after nightfall—under escort, of course—but it ain’t my notion of a bank holiday weekend. Strewth, I’m glad you’ve come along to get me out of it.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Cribb. ‘I just dropped in, so to speak.’
Thackeray’s jaw sagged. ‘Do you mean that I’m not getting out, Sarge? Are you going to leave me here?’
‘I’ve got no choice. Freeing you would give the game away. They think I’m on their side, you see. I won’t forget you’re here though, depend upon it.’
This solemn assurance seemed to carry little weight with Thackeray. You could have driven a cab through the gap between his moustache and beard.
‘So we must make the most of the time we have,’ continued Cribb. ‘I want a brisk account of how they got you here and what they’ve told you. Pull yourself together, man, and make your report, or there’ll be something on your defaulter-sheet at the end of the week.’
The cold sponge treatment worked best with Thackeray. ‘I’m sorry, Sarge. I was lying here thinking of a warm feather bed when you came in.’
‘And I’ve left one to come and talk to you. Get on with it.’
‘Well, I was right about Malone,’ said Thackeray. ‘He proved to be a regular scoundrel. Not many days after our meeting at The Feathers he came in again. I managed to engage him in conversation and led him to believe that I was sympathetic to the idea of Irish independence. In fact I went so far as to say that a few bomb explosions round London might blast some sense into Mr Gladstone and encourage him to introduce a Home Rule Bill. I wanted Malone to feel that he could impart confidences to me, you see.’
‘Did he?’
‘Not in as many words, Sarge, but he seemed to look upon me as a useful companion, and I was able to tell him quite a lot about the sights of London. He took an uncommon interest in such monuments as Nelson’s Column and the Albert Memorial. The thing that impressed him most of all was a mention I made of the Tower Subway under the Thames. Coming from America as he had, he hadn’t heard of its existence, so I promised to show it to him last Friday.’
‘The night you were captured?’
‘Yes. We had a drink or two and I was confident that he was ready to talk about the dynamite conspiracy. We started on our walk and presently he told me that he thought we was being followed. To tell you the truth, I didn’t take much notice. I didn’t reckon any of the Bermondsey roughs would waylay a hulking great bloke like that, even if he was a blooming Irish Yankee. It was getting late when we passed into the tunnel from the Pickle Herring Street end, and we was the only ones inside except this geezer behind us. If he was following us, he couldn’t make a secret of it there, because it’s only seven feet wide, as you know. Suddenly Malone says, “Let’s stop and see how close the bastard comes.” Before I know what’s happening, he’s produced a big American revolver and shot the poor perisher through the head.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I said, “You’ve killed him,” and he laughed and said it
was only a bloody copper and that he’d fix me too if I didn’t hump the body back to Bermondsey. So I did, at gunpoint, and all the way up the blinking spiral staircase, so as to dump it in the river. Then bless me if he didn’t march me down Shad Thames to a steam-launch, order me aboard, tie me hand and foot and leave me in the care of another Yankee, name of Devlin. I was brought here and given the candles and the Bradshaw and that’s almost all I can tell you, Sarge.’
‘You haven’t been interrogated yet?’
Thackeray went a shade paler. ‘What’s that, Sarge?’
‘Questions.’
‘By George, yes, I’ve had Devlin in here three times and a very violent man he is, I can tell you. It ain’t Queensberry’s rules in this house, by any manner of means. If you was looking for a split lip or a black eye you won’t find them, but I could show you marks in places no prizefighter ever had to worry over. Some of them was inflicted with the sharp end of that young woman’s parasol too, while Devlin had me pinioned on the sacks here. She ain’t so delicate-minded as she looks, Sarge, believe you me.’
‘Are you badly hurt?’
‘I don’t think there’s any permanent damage, but I wouldn’t like much more of it. I haven’t told them anything. Perhaps I should. They seem to know most of it already. They keep wanting me to confirm that I’m in the Force. How could they have discovered that? You don’t think I should tell them, do you?’
‘No—not if you can help it. When were they last here?’
‘I think it was yesterday morning. Fortunately, they seem to have plenty of other things to do as well. There’s no end of work going on in that big shed at the bottom of the garden. I can hear it each time I get taken outside, and that’s after dark. Is it infernal machines, do you think?’
‘Could be. What’s that?’ He had heard a movement somewhere overhead. It was repeated. Footsteps, he was certain. ‘I’ve got to be off. Now listen, Thackeray. You and I have stumbled upon a plot that promises to be more barbarous than anything the dynamiters have done so far. For some reason, they’ve taken it into their heads to make use of you. When the time comes, co-operate. Take no account of anything untoward you might see me do. I shan’t intervene until the moment I judge right, and I want no half-baked heroics from you. Do you understand?’
The Tick of Death Page 11
