The Tick of Death

by Peter Lovesey

  To quicken the process, Cribb leant forward and sharply nipped the tip of Thackeray’s right forefinger with his teeth.

  ‘Hey!’ said Thackeray.

  Cribb gripped the constable’s sleeve in his teeth and rolled him on to his back. ‘Wake up, man!’

  Another groan.

  Somewhere deep beneath them, an engine started to vibrate. McGee had switched on the pumps to eject water from the ballast chambers. The submarine boat was about to rise from the river-bed to nestle under the pier itself. By now the Royal carriage must have disgorged its Passenger. He would be strolling over the gangway to meet the assembled dignitaries of Gravesend.

  ‘Look sharp, blast you, you old perisher!’ Cribb said.

  ‘Whassat?’ Thackeray’s eyes opened—and closed again.

  ‘You’ve got to untie me, man!’

  ‘Untie me, man,’ repeated Thackeray.

  He looked at the clock.

  It was five past ten.

  The moment when, by all calculations, the course of history should have been altered. All calculations, that is to say, except Sergeant Cribb’s.

  It was five past ten and the detonation should have taken place, but Cribb had made quite sure that the Person Who Mattered was in no danger.

  The urgency in what was happening under the pier had nothing to do with history. It was simply that Cribb did not intend to suffocate. If Thackeray could be persuaded into consciousness, he would certainly share the intention. Besides, it was unthinkable to be robbed of the pleasure of telling Inspector Jowett how a humble sergeant had foiled a Royal assassination.

  On Devlin’s reckoning, there was now enough air left to last them twenty minutes.

  Cribb leaned over Thackeray. ‘You’re lying in a steel coffin fifteen feet under the Thames.’

  ‘Eh!’ Thackeray sat bolt upright.

  ‘Release me, man, as quick as you can!’ said Cribb.

  It cannot be a pleasant experience to nod off after breakfast and wake up with your head pounding and your feet tied together, in an ill-ventilated submarine boat stacked with dynamite. It says much for Thackeray’s quick response to the call of duty that he carried out the order without a word.

  The straps proved harder to remove than the ropes, but a few choice exhortations to Thackeray assisted his efforts. Free at last, Cribb rubbed his wrists to restore the circulation. He looked at the clock.

  Ten past ten.

  It happened that in the moment he chose to look in that direction, he took in McGee in the same glance. The dynamiter, too, had taken note of the time and the apparent failure of Cribb’s infernal machine. He had taken a box of matches from his pocket. He had struck one and was holding it over the nearest open crate of dynamite, waiting for the flame to catch enough of the match to ensure that it would not go out.

  ‘Hand me a strap,’ Cribb ordered.

  Thackeray put one in his hand and he swung it high and with all the force at his command. It whipped down on McGee’s forearm and encircled the wrist. Cribb tugged it back towards him at the same instant, jerking the arm away from the crate. The match fell on the deck and Cribb swept forward and stamped it out. He lifted McGee from the pilot’s seat and laid him on the ground.

  ‘Put the strap round his arms, Thackeray, and get the matches away from him,’ he ordered. ‘I’m going to try to take us to the surface.’

  The difficulty in taking the controls was that he had heard the instructions without seeing which levers served the appropriate purposes. He looked through the glass to see how close they were to the pier. McGee had done his piloting well; the shadowy underside, fringed with weed, was directly overhead. He found the twin levers controlling the ballast chambers and admitted enough water to take them a fathom down. The lever in the centre, he judged, would start the propeller. It did. The submarine boat moved forward and clear of the pier. He switched on the pumps and they slowly ascended.

  CHAPTER

  15

  THAMES WATER WAS STILL pouring off the superstructure of the boat when Cribb thrust open the conning-tower lid and looked out. The early mist had given way to a clear, cloudless morning, the waves catching sunlight at a million shimmering points. Thirty yards to the left, the Imperial bunting fluttered bravely from a canvas awning specially erected on Gravesend pier. A trombone flashed as the band dispersed across the gangway. Red, white and blue streamers wreathed serpentine shapes in the current.

  The thousand-yard width of Gravesend Reach was studded with river traffic, dominated in midstream by the gleaming lines of the Hildegarde. She was flying the Prince’s standard. The launch which had conveyed him safely across the water was moored alongside. A flotilla of smaller craft cruised interestedly around her.

  Somewhere on this stretch of river were the dynamiters, Cribb was confident. Carse would not forgo the pleasure of witnessing the climax of his plan. They would have been skirting the attendant fleet while the ceremonials took place on the pier, smug in their knowledge of what was under the water. And when their expectation was not realised at the proper time, they would have clenched their teeth and cursed clocks that could not be relied upon. If the machine that had blown up the gazebo had been marginally late in operating, perhaps this identical one was going to be the same. Even as the Royal feet had stepped over the gangway to the launch, the dynamiters must still have watched for what might appropriately be called the upshot of all their plans. And if Cribb was any judge of human nature, they would be lingering on yet, looking for some indication of what had gone wrong.

  Well, now they had got it. The emergence of the submarine boat told them for certain that the charge had failed to detonate. Not only that; they knew now that the law was bound to pursue them, for Cribb and Thackeray must have survived. Carse would swing the launch towards Northfleet and race upriver on the best head of steam he could raise. There was a good chance of reaching the house by the river and escaping in a carriage before Cribb could muster a posse to pursue them.

  It was going to take time to go about it in the orthodox way, he was forced to admit. A request for reinforcements from Gravesend police station would want some explaining when it came from a man in a submarine boat with no identification whatsoever, claiming to be a police officer. An enlightened duty sergeant might be prepared to be convinced after, say, ten minutes of hard talking, but Cribb could not afford to give the dynamiters such a start.

  No. He would finish this as he started it: in style.

  There was one dependable way of collecting police reinforcements quickly and without argument. He put down the lid of the conning-tower and switched on the propellers, at the same time turning the wheel to set the submarine boat on a course directly in line with the Hildegarde. Devlin had been right: she was a capital craft, easy to handle and quick to accelerate. With the wheel held steady, he opened the ballast chambers and took on enough water to submerge the hull, leaving only the conning-tower visible above the waves.

  A hundred yards from the yacht, he surfaced again, gliding audaciously through the inner circle of vessels in support. Through the glass scuttles he noticed a movement on the Hildegarde’s deck; two figures in blazers and white flannels had appeared there, and one was pointing in the direction of the submarine boat. His companion, broadly-built, with neatly-barbered beard, turned to say something to two young women who had appeared behind them with parasols. The prettier of the two stepped forward and linked her arm in his. Cribb swung the wheel to turn the boat in the direction of Northfleet, and discreetly submerged.

  When he surfaced two minutes later, he was gratified to see that his stratagem had worked; he now had an escort of three Thames police launches. He switched the engine to full power.

  He sighted the dynamiters about 150 yards ahead, gaining what help they could from the tidal current. He would have spotted them earlier if his visibility had not been impaired by the thickness of the glass he had to peer through. He put up the lid of the conning-tower and stood on the pilot’s seat for a better v
iew. He could see Millar on deck, facing his direction, undoubtedly keeping the others informed of the progress of the pursuers.

  Cribb was trying to recognise the others—and reflecting that Rossanna, at any rate, should be encouraged by the reappearance of the submarine boat—when, quite unexpectedly, a voice addressed him.

  ‘Ahoy there! This is a river patrol of the Metropolitan Police. You are showing no markings. Heave to, and identify yourself.’

  The instruction had reached him through a megaphone, held by an officer of Thames Division, wearing the white boater trimmed with blue that was conceded as more appropriate to activities on the river than a regulation helmet.

  ‘Declare your identity,’ repeated the officer through the hailer.

  Lord! This was the very thing he had sought to avoid. It was out of the question to stop, much as one regretted defying another member of the Force.

  He waved back in as cordial a manner as he could, pointed meaningfully towards the dynamiters, and put down the hatch. Thames Division’s launches were built for speed, but he doubted whether they could do anything to stop the submarine boat at its present rate of progress, with the Edison-Hopkinson motors running at some 750 revolutions a minute.

  Besides, he was gradually reducing the stretch of water between the dynamiters and himself. It was difficult to understand why, because a smaller craft like theirs ought to have moved more quickly through the water. At this rate, he would be level with them before they entered Fiddler’s Reach. Steadily he bore down, with the police launches still in escort and exasperatingly declining to chase the dynamiters.

  A hundred yards soon became seventy, and seventy, fifty. Already he could see Carse at the wheel and Devlin beside him. Then the reason why the dynamiters had cut their speed was made clear. Millar, on deck, had levelled a gun at the submarine boat. They had deliberately allowed their pursuers to come within range.

  A small puff of smoke was followed immediately by a sharp impact on the side of the conning-tower. It was aimed at the scuttles, and if Cribb took the boat any nearer, the next could not fail to find its mark. He swung the wheel to port and ducked his head low, as a second shot cracked against the plating on his right. Thank God for Siemens-Martin steel!

  He heard two more shots discharged, and was comforted by the sound of one making contact harmlessly somewhere to stern, while the other seemed to have missed altogether. This encouraged him to raise his head and check his position in relation to the launch. The dynamiters were now slightly astern of him and fifty yards to starboard. Millar was still poised on deck, gun in hand, looking for a clear line of fire. The police, like Cribb, had swung defensively towards the Kent bank. There was no sign of the man with the megaphone.

  What would Carse do now: move in to give Millar a better chance of a shot, or keep the same course, knowing his pursuers would have to stay out of range?

  Cribb watched the bows of the launch, ready to react at once to any change of direction. And as he watched, there was an astonishing development.

  Rossanna came running from the cabin and leapt into the river. With arms flailing, she struck out towards the submarine boat, her black cloak riding the water like a manta ray. Millar heard the splash, turned, took in what had happened and made rapidly to inform Carse, who shortly appeared on deck. Rossanna was already thirty yards astern, and he did not take long in deciding to abandon her. Cribb saw him shake his head curtly and return to the wheel.

  Seconds later, the launch was ripped apart by a massive explosion. Cribb saw the flash and ducked instinctively. Fragments of wood and metal beat like hail on the hull of the submarine boat. Water cascaded across the scuttles, obscuring vision, and the whole vessel keeled dangerously to port, as the shock wave hit them.

  The force of the explosion was indicated by the number of seconds the rain of debris lasted. Some of it must have blown two hundred feet in the air. Cribb turned off the engine and waited. When he raised the lid of the conning-tower, the water was black with Thames mud. Here and there, small splinters of white wood broke the still turbulent surface.

  He looked for Rossanna and saw her cloak fanned out in the water not twenty yards from the boat. There was no sign of anyone else.

  ‘Take charge, Thackeray!’ he called down. He climbed up and dived from the conning-tower. He struck out with his powerful breast-stroke and soon had his hand on the cloak. Rossanna was underneath, on the point of sinking, too exhausted to continue the struggle. She had done amazingly well to stay afloat so long in her sodden clothes.

  Holding her firmly around the diaphragm, he tugged the cloak free of her face and unfastened the bow at her neck. It had very likely saved her from being burnt and scarred in the deluge that followed the explosion. Strands of copper-coloured hair were adhering to her face, and he carefully lifted them clear and tilted her head to aid respiration. Then, moving his hands under her arms from the back, he placed them on her shoulders and drew her against his chest, in the life-saving position advocated by Lieutenant Torkington in his Swimming Drill, and taught to such members of the Force as volunteered for aquatic training. He employed his legs to good effect, drawing the exhausted Rossanna easily through the water towards the submarine boat.

  It was a shade disheartening to reach there and find that Thackeray had not had the foresight to put out the ladder from the conning-tower. He waited, treading water. After a quarter of a minute, he took a firm grip on Rossanna with his left hand, and thumped with his right on the metal hull.

  There was no response from Thackeray. Blast it, the man must have fallen asleep again!

  He changed his grip, and saw that Rossanna’s eyes were open. ‘Soon have you aboard, I hope,’ he told her.

  ‘The launch,’ she said. ‘Is it . . . ?’

  ‘Nothing left of it, Rossanna. What happened?’

  ‘I saw them shooting at the submarine boat and I thought of all the dynamite in it, and my father helpless inside, and I couldn’t bear it. I picked up a cake of dynamite from the case that was on the deck and dropped it in the bucket Patrick was using for the stoking. Then I jumped in the water.’

  ‘You’re lucky to be alive.’

  ‘Is my Father well?’

  Cribb raised his eyebrows. ‘But I gave you my word.’

  ‘Of course.’ Rossanna smiled.

  ‘All right, mate, give us your hand, whoever you are,’ called a sergeant of Thames Division, as their launch drew alongside. ‘My mate says its Captain Webb, but I’ve got my money on Captain Nemo.’

  Cribb helped Rossanna up, and then allowed himself to be hauled from the water. He wiped the worst of the mud from his face and smoothed down his hair.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I am Detective-Sergeant Cribb of Great Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Well that bloody well beats everything!’ said the sergeant.

  INSPECTOR JOWETT REFILLED HIS pipe, stood up, walked thoughtfully to the window, was reminded that it was still boarded up from the Great Scotland Yard explosion, turned and resumed his seat. ‘Truly an amazing story, Sergeant,’ he said, lighting the pipe. ‘I would have found it difficult to credit if I had not been down to Swanscombe Marshes myself to see where the submarine boat ran aground.’

  ‘Ah, that was the result of a misunderstanding, sir,’ said Cribb. ‘Thames Division thought that Constable Thackeray was in control. He was asleep, sir. Effects of the chloral he was given. He can’t be blamed.’

  ‘My word, no!’ said Jowett. ‘I wouldn’t dream of blaming Thackeray. First-rate man. I knew he was dependable from the start, of course. In my position, you have to know your own men, by Jove. Fundamental to the job.’

  ‘So I believe, sir,’ said Cribb.

  ‘What you still haven’t explained to me is how you did it,’ Jowett continued.

  ‘Did what, sir?’

  Jowett put another match to his pipe. ‘Well, you were given the job of constructing two identical infernal machines, one of which was to be used to demonstrate your ski
ll as a dynamitard, while the other was afterwards put into the submarine boat. If I’ve understood your account of it correctly, you had no control over the selection of the bombs for these purposes, and the setting of the clocks was most stringently supervised.’

  ‘Quite correct, sir.’

  ‘So you couldn’t have interfered with the machines after you had made them.’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Yet the gazebo was blown to bits, while the bomb in the submarine boat failed to detonate. That’s either extraordinary good luck or so ingenious that the explanation eludes me. I repeat, how did you do it?’

  Cribb hesitated, tugging his side-whiskers, knowing, as conjurers do, that explanations add nothing to spectacular effects. He really could not refuse to answer Jowett’s question, however. ‘Well, sir. It was very simple. When I built the machines I made sure that neither of ’em would work. I carefully removed all the powder from the cartridges the pistols fired. So they couldn’t go off, you see?’

  ‘Frankly, I don’t,’ said Jowett. ‘One of them destroyed the gazebo, so it must have gone off.’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ said Cribb apologetically. ‘That box is probably still lying intact at the bottom of the lake. It was a straightforward charge of dynamite that blew up the gazebo. I removed a couple of bricks from the underside of one of the arches above the water and stuffed in several discs of Atlas Powder. Then I attached a piece of slow-match— that’s a slow-burning fuse, sir—and gave it an hour. It was slightly late in working, but near enough to be convincing. That’s a far more reliable way of blowing up a gazebo than using clocks and detonators nine feet under the water.’

  ‘So that was it,’ said Jowett, with disappointment in his voice. ‘I thought it must be something cleverer than that.’

  Cribb stoically accepted the rebuke. He watched Jowett make another attempt to light his pipe, before saying, ‘I was rather wondering if you had any idea what would happen to Miss McGee and her father, sir.’

  Jowett shook his head. ‘Not much at all, Sergeant. From what you have told me, the major criminals perished in the explosion. Between you and me, there are reasons why it might be necessary to keep this case out of the courts altogether. The—er—party on the Hildegarde were blissfully unaware that the submarine boat was full of dynamite, and it is probably best all round if they remain unenlightened on that point. There is not much to be gained from bringing a helpless cripple like McGee before a judge, and his daughter seems to have played quite an insignificant part in the proceedings, from what you say. We’ll keep an eye on her through the Special Branch, of course. Got to give those fellows something to occupy them, eh?’