The Tick of Death

by Peter Lovesey

Rossanna was on her feet. ‘Gentlemen, my father wishes to welcome you to this meeting of our camp, here in the enemy’s country. A year has passed since he left his brothers in New York and set sail for England with the object of putting John Holland’s work to practical use on this side of the Ocean. It has been a difficult year, blighted by adversity, but in all our work the flame of the cause has burned bright, never flickering, nor threatening to go out. Maimed as he is, crippled and bereft of speech, my father is still the revolutionary you commissioned to carry out the active work of the Clan. And he is proud to report that with the loyal support of other members of the group here present, not to say the practical assistance of patriots domiciled in London, he has brought his work to perfection.’

  ‘We shall form our own opinion about that,’ said Carse, without much charity. ‘What is the plan?’

  Unperturbed, Rossanna continued: ‘Well, gentlemen, I think you know. Our purpose is assassination. We are pledged to take the life of a certain personage, to demonstrate the strength and resolve of the Irish movement. The difficulties of such a mission at the present time are legion. There is not a public figure in London, not one miserable undersecretary, who does not have his personal body-guard. You cannot get within a hundred yards of a public building with anything that distantly resembles an infernal machine.

  ‘But the more difficult the task is made, the more brilliant will its achievement seem. We have been compelled to answer English organisation with Irish genius. Our submarine boat gives us the means of penetrating the enemy’s defences by a route they cannot dream is possible. For many months, our agents have observed the passage of sea-going ships up and down the reaches of the Thames. It was thought at first that we might mount an attack with torpedoes on one of the vessels of the merchant fleet. Then a more audacious plan suggested itself. It is the custom for ships to anchor in Gravesend Reach to wait for the next tide for the last mile upriver. Outgoing vessels, too, break their journeys here for at least one tide to take on passengers. Gravesend has become the place for fashionable people to embark and disembark. They pass between the ships and Gravesend pier on small steam-launches. Mr Gladstone himself used Gravesend after his cruise in the Pembroke Castle with the Tennysons and Sir Donald Currie last September.’

  ‘Jesus! If only we’d been ready, we could have done for Gladstone!’ said Devlin.

  ‘And set the cause back twenty years,’ said Carse witheringly. ‘The Clan does not murder indiscriminately. Gladstone for all his faults provides the best hope we have of achieving Home Rule. Please go on, Sister.’

  ‘I was remarking that Gravesend is patronised by all the most illustrious ocean-going travellers,’ said Rossanna. ‘It was obvious to my father that sooner or later some person suitable for assassination would appear there. But rather than focus our attention on the ship, and attack it with torpedoes, he fastened on a more certain means of destroying our victim; it is to attach a watertight box containing a bomb to the underside of the pier. It will be clock-timed, of course, and set according to the itinerary, which is always conveniently published in the newspapers when personages of that class set sail.’

  ‘Stunning!’ said Millar. ‘The submarine boat can deposit the bomb two hours ahead, and be clear of the area by the time it detonates.’

  ‘Exactly. And it is far more certain to account for its victim than a torpedo fired at the iron hull of a great oceangoing vessel.’ Rossanna surveyed her audience to see that the point was taken.

  Carse placed his hand palm downwards on the table. ‘One moment. This pier. It would need to be a floating pier to take account of tidal variations, would it not?’

  ‘Lord, yes,’ said Devlin. ‘The average rise and fall is fifteen feet. But the river is twenty-five feet deep at low water at Gravesend. We’ve been into all this.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that you have. What I cannot comprehend is how you propose to attach Brother Sargent’s bomb to the underside of the pier. When you are ten feet under water in a submarine boat, you cannot open the man-hole in the roof, you know.’

  Devlin ignored the sarcasm. ‘That is why I have devised an apparatus—a form of harness—to convey the bomb on top of the conning-tower, after the fashion of the rack on top of a cab. Several hooks will project upwards ready to fasten on to the pier when we pass beneath it and so detach the bomb from its harness.’

  Carse released a long breath, vibrating his lips at the same time. ‘That sounds extremely hazardous to me.’

  ‘Courting disaster,’ added Millar, for emphasis.

  ‘What if the mechanism of the bomb is disturbed?’ said Carse.

  Cribb decided some expert reassurance was wanted. ‘Ah, if that happens, it’s a guinea to a gooseberry that the thing won’t detonate at all.’

  ‘But Mr Sargent’s bomb is so beautifully packed that it is most unlikely to be disturbed by the manoeuvre,’ Rossanna quickly added. ‘You must examine it yourselves. It’s as neat as a picnic-hamper from Fortnum and Mason.’

  Cribb noted the compliment. It was comforting to know that if he was drummed out of the Force for his part in these activities, there might be an opening in the grocery trade.

  ‘Very well,’ said Carse. ‘Let us presume that the explosion is successful. What guarantee is there that it will destroy a man standing upon the pier?’

  ‘I should have thought the answer to that was obvious,’ said Rossanna, clearly becoming nettled by the trend of the conversation. ‘This evening we saw a brick building totally demolished. We are now talking about a pier constructed of wood.’

  ‘The bulk of which,’ countered Carse, ‘is below the surface of the water. I think it would surprise you if you saw the volume of timber required to support a floating pier. The charge—if it detonates—will rend the planks asunder, I agree, but I am not so sure that it will kill anyone standing on top. We have not gone to so much trouble and expense to let our victim off with a ducking.’

  ‘But the gazebo was blown to smithereens by a bomb ten feet underneath,’ persisted Rossanna.

  ‘Not so, my dear,’ said Carse. ‘Brother Sargent’s bomb destroyed part of the understructure. When that was gone, the building collapsed. What we saw tonight was admirable in its way, but quite a different exercise from blowing up Gravesend pier.’ He paused, before adding, with exaggerated courtesy, ‘Sister.’

  Rossanna flushed with annoyance. ‘Then perhaps— Brother—you can suggest a better way of doing it.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Carse in the same bland tone. ‘How much dynamite do we have in store here, Brother Devlin?’

  ‘About two hundredweight.’

  ‘Very good. And is this submarine boat capable of conveying that amount to Gravesend?’

  Devlin frowned, puzzled. ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Very well. This is my proposal, then. Instead of trying to do clever underwater tricks with hooks and harness, we make quite sure that our bomb is lodged in the right place by converting our submarine boat into the biggest and most devastating infernal machine in history. In other words, we stuff the boat with dynamite—including Brother Sargent’s estimable bomb, which in these circumstances will serve as the detonator—and anchor it below the pier. When it explodes, the pier and everyone on it will be blown to bits, and probably half Gravesend as well.’

  ‘Cripes, that’s brilliant!’ crowed Millar. ‘It can’t fail!’

  ‘Destroy the submarine boat?’ said Devlin, disbelievingly. ‘It’s taken a year to assemble it.’

  ‘I appreciate your sentiments, Brother,’ said Carse. ‘It’s a fine piece of engineering. But it was built for one occasion. This is not the kind of exercise one repeats at intervals. Once the job is done, we can never hope to take the British by surprise in the same way again. Far better that the thing is destroyed in action than allowed to survive for the river-police to track down in the intensive search they will certainly mount after the operation. This way is safer for us all.’

  ‘I don’t think that is
altogether true.’ Rossanna had spoken, her voice more controlled and deliberate than before.

  ‘Why not?’ demanded Carse.

  ‘Because one of us at least will have to pilot the boat into position under the pier. How is that person going to escape?’

  ‘That’s a fact!’ said Devlin. ‘If the boat stays down there, someone has to be inside it.’ Even as he spoke the words, their full implication dawned on him. His eyes bulged in horror. ‘I’m the only one who knows how to pilot the thing!’

  Carse raised his palm in restraint. ‘Let us not sully the dignity of our meeting by effusions of panic, Brother. There is no reason why we should not conduct our discussion in a civilised fashion. One does not wish to be put into the position of blackballing another member of the Clan, but as Chairman I have my duty to do and I shall certainly not shirk it, if free speech is threatened. I was about to come to the most interesting part of my proposal: the identity of our candidate for assassination.’ He paused dramatically. ‘At this moment there is an ocean-going yacht, the Hildegarde, moored in Gravesend Reach. Tomorrow morning at half-past ten, as the tide turns, it is due to set sail on a ten day cruise through the Straits of Dover and along the south coast. All of the party but one are already aboard. They include Lord Charles Beresford, Sir Charles Dilke and several young women well known upon the London stage.’

  ‘Moses!’ ejaculated Cribb, unable to restrain himself. ‘Would one of them by any chance be Mrs Lillie Langtry?’

  Carse produced his approximation of a smile. ‘No, sir. Mrs Langtry is at present on tour in America. But I gather from your inquiry that you have my drift. The final member of the party is due to go aboard the Hildegarde tomorrow morning. He will arrive at Gravesend pier at ten o’clock, having come by landau from Marlborough House.’

  ‘The Prince of Wales?’ said Devlin, half in horror.

  ‘Albert Edward, the heir to the throne of England,’ said Carse. ‘ “Bertie” to his friends, “Tum-Tum”, one is told, to his intimates. He is to be our victim.’

  ‘Magnificent!’ declared Millar.

  ‘A suitable sacrifice to the cause of republicanism,’ said Carse. ‘And justification for all our efforts. Perhaps you can now understand why there must be no possibility of failure. We must blow up the submarine and the pier with it.’

  There was silence. Everyone was stunned by the enormity of what had been suggested.

  After an interval, Rossanna said, ‘I should like to consult my father.’ She took McGee’s hands and engaged in what appeared to be an intensive bout of finger-talk. ‘Father praises the audacity of the plan,’ she presently told Carse, ‘but he still wishes to know how you propose to get the submarine boat into position.’

  Carse nodded. ‘A reasonable inquiry. First, I shall put a question to Brother Devlin. I believe, sir, that you have piloted the boat on all its trials so far. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes,’ Devlin gloomily agreed.

  ‘And has anyone else accompanied you?’

  ‘The late Brother Malone, rest his soul,’ said Devlin. ‘And Miss McGee, and her father, on different occasions.’

  ‘Good. And is it a difficult manoeuvre to cause the submarine boat to dive and travel underwater to a stated destination?’

  ‘If you could see clearly under water, it would be child’s play,’ said Devlin. ‘The mechanics are perfectly simple. But the Thames is full of impurities, as you know, so we have to steer by coming to the surface at intervals. It’s a process known as “porpoising”.’

  ‘How appropriate! But the mechanics, you say, are simple. Once you had got within sight of the pier by means of porpoising, you could hand the wheel with confidence to any one of us for the last submersion—first leaving the boat yourself and swimming to a convenient launch—is that so?’

  The persecuted look lifted miraculously from Devlin’s face. ‘Why, yes! Anyone could take the boat for the last few yards.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Carse, with the air of a barrister who has elicited a vital piece of information from a witness. ‘And now I should like to put a point to all present. It is this: do you agree that the arrival of the Prince of Wales tomorrow morning on Gravesend pier presents Ireland with an opportunity unparalleled in its history?’

  ‘Jesus, yes!’ said Millar, leading the chorus of assent.

  ‘In that case, then,’ said Carse, allowing a little emotion to enter his voice, ‘is it too much to ask that one of you should volunteer to steer that submarine boat to its place below the pier, and so join the ranks of those who have laid down their lives for Ireland?’

  ‘The martyrs,’ said Millar with reverence. ‘Wolfe Tone, Thomas Russell, Robert Emmet—’

  ‘Stow it!’ said Carse, irritably. He looked hopefully round the table, but nobody was volunteering yet to swell the ranks of the martyrs. ‘It seems to me,’ he went on, ‘that this is an opportunity that might be seized by a patriot whose life in recent years has been wholly dedicated to the fulfilment of such a moment of history. I refer, Sister McGee, to your father.’

  ‘No!’ said Rossanna emphatically.

  ‘I should prefer to hear from Brother McGee himself,’ said Carse. ‘Nobody appreciates more than I the courage of our brother in carrying through his mission in spite of his appalling injuries. Would he see it fail at this stage for want of somebody to lay down his life for Ireland?’

  ‘He has suffered enough!’ protested Rosanna, on her feet.

  ‘With his injuries, Sister, he will have nothing to live for when this work is done.’

  ‘You can’t ask him!’ shouted Rossanna defiantly. ‘I shan’t tell you his answer! You can’t make me!’

  Carse turned to Millar. ‘Take hold of this hysterical woman and eject her from the meeting. We shall obtain Brother McGee’s answer without her.’

  ‘No!’ screamed Rossanna. ‘Keep away from me!’ She gripped the edge of the table.

  Millar moved quickly and with a notable lack of gallantry. Before Rossanna had a chance to turn from the table he was behind her. He gripped the open collar of her dress at each side of her neck and wrenched the bodice apart, pulling the sides down over her shoulders to pinion her arms. Then he fastened his left hand over her mouth to silence her screams. A second later, he screamed himself and jerked it away, dripping blood where her teeth had punctured his flesh. In fury, he raised his clenched right fist above his shoulder to strike her down, but found it grasped and held by the person he knew as Sargent. ‘What the bloody hell—?’ he shouted.

  ‘Steady now!’ said Cribb. ‘We want no violence, Brother.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Carse. ‘Sit down, Millar. Leave it to him.’

  Millar resumed his seat, clutching his wounded hand, leaving Cribb to face the wild-eyed Rossanna, her hands ready like claws to make their mark on anyone who came too close. The shreds of her bodice hung about her arms, leaving gaping areas of camisole and stays, which added to the general savagery of the spectacle.

  ‘Will you come outside, Rossanna?’ asked Cribb, as mildly as if they were both at a ball.

  ‘Not while Father remains here.’

  ‘In that case I must . . .’ He dived boldly forward in mid-conversation, burying his right shoulder into the folds of her skirt and clasping both arms around her thighs below the bustle, in the approved fireman’s rescue position. She toppled forward with the impact and he lifted her clean off the ground on his shoulder. ‘. . . remove you forcibly, Rossanna,’ he said.

  ‘Neatly done, Brother!’ said Carse. ‘Take her to her room and see that she gives us no more trouble.’

  With Rossanna’s fists raining blows on the lower regions of his back, Cribb carried her from the room. He mounted the stairs with difficulty, thankful when she seemed to regard her struggle as hopeless and gave up pummelling. In her room, he stood by the bed and spoke to her before putting her down. ‘Now, Rossanna, I want you to believe that I shan’t let your father be killed. Carse and Millar are dangerous men and we must let them t
hink they are having things their way. When the time is right, we’ll foil them, but you must help me.’ He put her gently down on the bed. She lay passively, breathing heavily. ‘I must tie you to the bed,’ said Cribb, ‘to make it seem convincing. Take off your stockings, please. I’ll use those.’

  To his profound relief, she compliantly drew off two lengths of black silk and handed them to him.

  ‘Put your hands against the bars at the head of the bed.’ He tied them securely, one stocking for each hand. Then he picked up the shawl she had worn earlier and bound it round her ankles. As an afterthought, he straightened the tatters of her dress to cover her shoulders. She nodded her thanks. ‘Now I must get back to them,’ he told her. ‘Whatever happens, Rossanna, whatever they tell you, believe me I shall see that your father does not die in that submarine boat.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  Downstairs, Carse greeted him as he entered the dining room. ‘Good work, Brother. You managed her in fine style. She’ll thank you for it later, when she’s had time to think it over. Women appreciate a firm hand. And now you may congratulate Brother McGee on his decision. We put my suggestion to him and he unmistakably nodded his head.’

  ‘No doubt about it,’ Millar confirmed.

  ‘He will pilot the submarine boat on its last stage tomorrow morning,’ continued Carse. ‘Oh, and he will not be alone. I believe Miss McGee told you about the policeman being held prisoner in the house, who was brought here after his suspicious attempts to befriend Malone. He will accompany Brother McGee, tied up, of course, and heavily drugged. It will be a convenient way of disposing of him.’

  Cribb’s eyes widened. ‘But we don’t know that he’s a policeman. We can’t condemn a man to death simply because he bought a drink for one of us in a pub!’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t concern yourself about that,’ said Carse. ‘After all, the Prince of Wales hasn’t bought drinks for any of us and he’s marked down for destruction.’

  CHAPTER

  13

  CRIBB’S ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE criminal classes was not slight or superficial. Of the seven people in his life he could claim to have understood almost totally, five had been murderers. This was no discredit to Mrs Cribb and Thackeray (who were the other two); it was from professional necessity. However guilty a man appeared according to circumstantial evidence, it was not enough to justify a prosecution. You had to find the motive. So time and again he had sat with prisoners and stranglers, patiently taking the measure of their minds. And to a lesser degree, scores more of the law-breaking fraternity had come under his scrutiny, from blackmailers and swindlers to the petty criminals whose activities were dignified by the cant of the underworld— broadsmen, dippers, dragsmen, maltoolers, screevers and shofulmen. Not one in all his recollection was quite so odious as Carse.