Millar, of course, had just exhibited the violence. He would certainly have beaten Rossanna insensible if Cribb had not intervened. And if he had been left to carry her upstairs, the consequences were loathsome to imagine. Yet it was Carse who made the flesh creep most. His form of violence was more detestable because it was calculated to the last detail and unaccompanied by any emotion. He had condemned three men to death as coolly as if he were ordering a new suit. All that mattered to him was the neatness of the design.
And what a design! Attacks on royalty were nothing new; the Queen herself had survived eight separate attempts on her life, but they were all ineptly carried out, thank Heaven. Since the latest, two years ago at Windsor, and the recent dynamite scares, her personal bodyguard had been trebled, and her appearances in public practically abandoned. The Prince, too, never moved these days without two or three detectives at his shoulder. His presence at Gravesend tomorrow would be the occasion for a massive show of strength by the local police. No one on the route would be allowed within yards of the Royal carriage. The pier and riverside would be cleared of unauthorised persons. Thames Division would patrol Gravesend Reach and escort the launch carrying the Prince from the pier to the Hildegarde.
Who would suspect that assassins would strike from twenty feet below the pier?
Now that he knew the atrocity being planned, Cribb was in an appalling situation. The path of duty plainly lay in the direction of the nearest village. If the alarm were raised, the Prince could be persuaded to cancel tomorrow’s arrangement. But once Cribb left the house, the dynamiters would realise they had been tricked. They would escape. And they would certainly kill Thackeray before they left.
He decided to stay. He was under no illusion; in making this decision he was accepting personal responsibility for the future King of England. But while there was a chance of saving Edward Thackeray of Rotherhithe as well as Albert Edward of the House of Windsor, he was determined to take it. He would stake everything on his own ability to outwit Carse and Millar. There was already a plan in his mind.
At half past ten, he returned by arrangement to the dining room. Carse and Millar were there with McGee. On the table was the box containing the twin of the infernal machine that had gone under the gazebo. The lid was open.
‘We were admiring your handiwork, Brother,’ said Carse. ‘So neatly put together! I believe this is identical with the first bomb. Is that so?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Cribb candidly. ‘I was asked to make two bombs for Mr McGee to choose from. They were alike in every respect.’
‘Good. Then we should have no disappointments tomorrow morning. Do you know, I cannot abide failure, Brother Sargent? If things go wrong I have the most queer compulsion to take revenge on those responsible. The results are sometimes unspeakably distressing. Are you ready to activate the machine? We shall want it to detonate at precisely five minutes past ten tomorrow. By then His Royal Highness will have shaken hands with the local dignitaries and be moving sedately along the pier to the waiting launch. Our agents have studied this procedure before.’
Cribb approached the box and carefully tilted the alarm clock so that its face was visible. Under the watchful eyes of the others it was quite impractical to move the alarm-hand to any position but the one Carse had indicated. ‘Shall I set the clock to the correct time?’ he asked.
Carse drew out a gold watch. ‘Very well. But we shall take the time on my watch as the standard. Yours is incorrect by several minutes, if you remember. Set the hands to twenty minutes to eleven, taking care that the hour hand does not pass over the alarum hand.’
Cribb obeyed.
‘Now you may wind the clock,’ said Carse.
A lively ticking presently issued from the metal box.
‘It’s going all right,’ said Cribb superfluously.
‘But not activated yet, I think,’ said Carse. ‘You have still to wind the alarum. I believe it is the winder itself that makes contact with the trigger of the gun, is it not?’
‘Yes, I was leaving that till last. Now that the times are set, I can put the clock face down and turn the winder, as you say. One needs to be careful at this stage.’
He completed the process, leaving the handle of the alarum in a position where it would strike the trigger with sufficient force to operate the firing-mechanism of the gun.
‘Done!’ said Cribb.
Carse turned to McGee. ‘Is it in order?’
The hooded head nodded assent.
‘Then I shall seal it, and you and I shall carry it ourselves to the submarine boat, Brother Millar. Thank you, Sargent. You will oblige us now by taking Brother McGee upstairs, with the servant’s assistance. He is waiting in the hall, I believe.’
With a nod, Cribb took the handle of the wheel-chair and steered McGee out of the room. In the hall, the manservant came to meet him. Together, they carried the chair upstairs. McGee was pathetically light in weight. At the bedroom door, the servant indicated that he could put McGee to bed without help. Cribb passed along the corridor and quietly let himself into Rossanna’s room.
It would not have been wise to light the gas. He glided through the darkness until his knees came into contact with the bed. He whispered, ‘Rossanna. It’s me—Sargent. I’m going to untie you.’
She stirred, and he realised how close they were to each other. She murmured, ‘Michael.’
It was the name he had invented for his oath-taking. He had practically forgotten.
He sat on the edge of the bed and felt for her left arm. The knot that bound her wrist had tightened, but a few seconds’ work with his fingers succeeded in loosening it. He massaged her hand gently to restore the circulation, and then applied himself to the other knot, which held her right arm against the bars of the bedstead. This was more difficult, for it involved leaning across her body, but by hooking his right foot around the leg of the bed he contrived to maintain his balance while he worked at the knot. If he did come into contact with her person, it was the merest accidental touch of shirt and bodice and should not have prompted what happened next. The instant her right hand was released it snaked around his neck and pulled him firmly down towards the pillow. His right leg, still lodged behind the leg of the bed, contracted agonizingly. ‘It is a year since these lips touched another’s,’ Rossanna whispered passionately. She guided his face towards hers just as his foot regained its liberty. With a small groan of relief, he let his weight bear downwards and felt his mouth meet hers, partly open and returning the pressure he involuntarily exerted.
In cataloguing the various holds that can immobilise a man, manuals of self-defence without exception neglect to state that pressure on the nape of the neck by a determined woman in a horizontal embrace is almost impossible to withstand. Several seconds passed before Cribb was able to draw back from Rossanna. Then she said, ‘I shall not wait another year. That was exquisite, Michael Sargent, you impulsive man.’
Cribb, meanwhile, had retreated out of arm’s range.
‘Are you going to untie my ankles now?’ inquired Rossanna.
‘In a few minutes,’ said Cribb warily. ‘Keep your voice down. The servant is next door, attending to your father.’
‘What has been going on downstairs?’
‘They made me activate the bomb.’
She sat up in bed. ‘The second bomb you made? Did you—’
‘I had no choice,’ said Cribb. ‘They stood over me like prison warders. The clock is set for five past ten tomorrow morning. They’ve sealed the box and put it in the submarine boat. Devlin is packing the hull with all the dynamite left in the house.’
‘Then nothing can be done,’ said Rossanna. ‘And you promised me that Father would not die.’
‘I meant it. But first you must tell me the truth about him. Otherwise I can’t help him.’
‘What do you mean—the truth?’
‘The real extent of his injuries,’ said Cribb. ‘All this deaf and dumb talk between you is play-acting, isn’t it?
He can’t communicate a word to you.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Listen, my dear, I’m sure of it. That night when somebody broke in downstairs, I came into your bedroom here, but found it empty. I got out through your father’s room, because I thought you might scream if you returned here and found me unexpectedly. And as I passed through, he watched me. His eyes followed me across the room. Next morning, over breakfast, you told us about the agitated state he was in for three-quarters of an hour after the disturbance, but you didn’t say why. You had your suspicions, but you couldn’t be sure, because he hadn’t told you. Even when we were alone, taking our walk through the woods, it took a tumble in the bracken to convince you it was me. I remember the words you used: “Then you did come to my room last night.” You mentioned hearing the floorboards upstairs creak as I returned to my room. If your father had been able to make you understand, Rossanna, you wouldn’t have needed creaking floorboards to tell you who your visitor had been.’
Rossanna released a long breath. ‘Very well, Michael. You’re a perspicacious man. I shall speak the truth. His injuries are far more serious than anyone but me has realised. His brain was irretrievably damaged in the accident. He cannot talk or communicate except nod and shake his head. He is like a child, capable of performing simple instructions, but he has lost the power of independent thought.’
‘And have you kept this from the others?’
‘I believe so. Certainly no one in America knew the helplessness of his condition. When I was summoned here after the accident, I was not only shocked beyond words by his injuries, I was frightened, Michael, terrified. You don’t know the Clan as I do. If they knew his brain was damaged, they would kill him. He has too many of their secrets. What use would it be to plead that he was helpless? And even if by some miracle they spared him, what future could there be? He was my provider, all that I had in the world. We should both be in the poor-house in a matter of weeks.’
‘So you decided to create the impression that he was still able to lead the dynamite party?’
‘What else could I do?’ said Rossanna. ‘I went through his papers and learned about the submarine boat that was to be constructed here. I found letters informing him that Tom Malone and Pat Devlin were sailing from New York with the Gaelic American Athletic Club, and would report here on arrival. They were bringing money, English sterling, enough to finance us for a year. I sent a trans-Atlantic cable in my father’s name, informing the Revolutionary Directory of his accident and stating that he had lost the use of his legs and the power of speech, but was otherwise unimpaired. With my help—and I knew that I was listed by the Clan as a patriot and a member of the Ladies’ Land League—he would carry on the work. It was confirmed by return that the arrangement was acceptable to New York. When Tom and Pat arrived I showed the cablegram to them, and they accepted me without question.’
‘Did you intend to carry out the plot exactly as your father had projected it?’
‘I did—until this evening. The only departure from his plan was that you replaced Tom Malone. How was Father to know New York would send us a man who panicked at the first whiff of danger? You can’t have a dynamiter with a nervous disposition—it’s a contradiction in terms. He would have killed us all sooner or later. I did the only thing I could. It’s still our secret, isn’t it?’ She stretched her hand forward and gripped his arm.
‘I didn’t see what happened,’ said Cribb. ‘Merely heard a shot, didn’t I?’
‘You’re a trump, Michael Sargent, a veritable trump, as I live and breathe!’ She tugged him determinedly towards her.
‘I’m sure you do, Rossanna,’ said Cribb, arresting the movement just as a strand of her hair feathered the tip of his nose. ‘But there are things I have to be clear about if I’m to help your father tomorrow. Is he capable of controlling the submarine boat?’
‘I believe he is,’ said Rossanna. ‘Patrick has always maintained that it is the simplest boat in the world to pilot, and of course they don’t expect Father to take the wheel until Gravesend pier is in sight. As I told you, he will carry out any simple instruction you give him. He is pleased to do things, like a small child. That’s why all this is so unfair. He doesn’t understand that they have persuaded him to commit suicide. What can you do to stop it, Michael?’
‘Leave it to me. Be on your guard tomorrow. They’re likely to take you with them, to interpret anything he might wish to say. But don’t imagine you can defeat them. Trust me—however black things seem.’
‘Very well, Michael. One thing baffles me, though. You are a professional adventurer, yet here you are siding with those who are in no position to reward you. Carse and Millar are the paymasters. By interfering with their plans, you sacrifice the fee they would have paid you.’
It was the sort of devastatingly practical remark women were liable to slip into a conversation when you least expected it.
‘Perhaps money isn’t my only consideration,’ suggested Cribb, lost for a convincing explanation.
To his immense surprise, Rossanna seized his shoulders and planted another emphatic kiss on his lips. Her hour or so strapped to the bed seemed to have left her in a demonstrative frame of mind. ‘That was beautiful to hear,’ she told him.
He extricated himself with difficulty and got to his feet. ‘Time I was gone, Rossanna,’ he said. ‘Much more to do tomorrow.’ It was only after he had crossed the room, gone through the door and closed it behind him that he remembered her legs were still tied together. He did not go back.
Instead, he went downstairs and out into the garden. Although it was late, the warmth of the day still lingered in the air. From farther down towards the river came voices, Devlin’s for sure, and Millar’s. The occasional metallic thump suggested they were working on the submarine boat, possibly moving the dynamite about the hull, with the intention of spreading the ballast as evenly as possible. He could not distinguish words in the conversation, but from the rising and falling tones it was clear that whatever they were doing required frequent consultation. All the signs were that the work would occupy them for some time yet.
One vital part of Cribb’s plan needed to be attended to before the morning: he had to visit Thackeray and prepare him for the ordeal to come. His reasons for taking such a risk were not wholly compassionate; his poor, benighted assistant was entitled to be told the fate the Clan had decreed for him, but the paramount reason for seeing him was to warn him not to take food or drink in the morning, for it would certainly be drugged. If the counter-plan was to have any chance at all, Thackeray would need not only to be conscious, but capable of action. Until this moment, Cribb had intended going to him by night, as he had on the last occasion, but the sounds from Devlin’s workshop made him change his mind. Now, when such preoccupying things were going on outside, was a better time than the small hours for moving secretly about the house.
He re-entered the building through the conservatory and crossed the hall to the dining room. At the kitchen door he paused, listening, in case the servant was inside. Most domestics, being early risers, liked to get to bed tolerably early, but this was an exceptional night in this household. One could take nothing for granted. Hearing no sound, though, he entered and found it in darkness. He crossed to the scullery and opened the door. The cat, again, was the solitary occupant. It treated him like a favourite table, pressing itself against his legs. He carefully slipped the bolts on the door of Thackeray’s prison and opened it.
‘Thackeray?’ In the darkness, it was difficult to distinguish the figure on the bed of sacks. He took a step closer, and discovered nobody was there.
Thackeray had been moved.
‘Gone!’ said a voice close to his ear. He knew from the flat, almost bored tone that it was Carse. ‘It would be wise not to move. The pressure you can feel in the small of your back is from a revolver.’ He must have been standing there in the darkness behind the door, waiting for this.
‘Brother Carse?’ said Cr
ibb, trying to gain time to think. Infuriating to step into a trap like this!
‘Not your brother any longer,’ said Carse. ‘You’ve shown me what you really are—Copper. Lie down on those sacks, and don’t make the mistake of thinking I can’t see you. I’ve been waiting here for you for twenty minutes, so my eyes are quite accustomed to the dark.’
‘Waiting for me?’ repeated Cribb, struggling to understand where he had gone wrong.
‘Do as I say,’ said Carse, more in the manner of a suggestion than an order, ‘or I shall be obliged to put a bullet in your back. It achieves the same result, but I really wouldn’t wish to raise the entire household at this late hour by discharging a gun.’
Cribb groped down towards the sacks. Carse was right: in these conditions it would be suicidal to resist. A man deprived of sight is no match for two functioning eyes and a gun.
‘Would you like to know your mistake?’ Carse was still a disembodied voice, and the removal of the gun from Cribb’s back was no comfort at all. It was probably pointing at his head. Was this to be the last conversation of his life?
He decided to prolong it. ‘I’m interested, yes.’
‘Naturally, I suspected you from the moment I heard about your appearance here. It was just too timely to be acceptable. Things do not happen in such a convenient way, but McGee and the others were so beset with difficulties that they wanted to believe what they should have questioned and rejected. And I give you credit—you have been well primed. Can you see me yet? The gun is aimed at the point between your eyes. Yes, your skill as a machinist is remarkable for a guardian of the law. The demonstration at the lake tonight all but convinced me you were really a professional.’
The Tick of Death Page 16
