The Tick of Death

CHAPTER 1

The infernal machine lay in an underground room in the Danger Buildings of the Royal Arsenal. A sandbag structure round the inspection-bench kept observers an arm’s length away. Illumination was provided by gaslight reflected through glass.

‘The first time I’ve ever set eyes upon one,’ said Detective-Sergeant Cribb, innocent of what was to come.

For all their destructive possibilities, the parts were pleasingly arranged in a metal cashbox. A cheap alarm clock from which the back had been removed. A pistol attached to it with copper wire, so that when the alarum was released, the revolving winder would be set in motion, and depress the trigger. Seven detonators ready in the box, their ends presented to the muzzle. Cakes of dynamite stacked around the side. The whole wrapped in cloth and wedged into a large leather portmanteau stuffed just as solidly with dynamite.

‘It would have made an appreciable alteration to Paddington station last February if the mechanism had worked,’ observed Colonel Martin, the Home Office Inspector of Explosives. A formidable crop of black whiskers covered three-quarters of his face, but his eyes were pale blue and had a wistful look.

The men from Scotland Yard visualized the scene of devastation in Mr Brunel’s great glass and iron structure.

‘Might I venture to inquire what prevented it from working?’ asked Detective-Inspector Jowett, after a decent interval.

‘Observe,’ commanded the Colonel, thrusting a wooden pointer in the direction of the bomb. His companions swayed back on their heels. ‘D’you see the brass plate on the back of the clock, under the gun? And d’you notice the pin at the corner? Well, gentlemen, the Great Western Railway owes the survival of its principal terminus to nothing of more consequence than that pin. It was fractionally dislodged when the bomb was put in place, and it projected far enough from the plate to check the deadly action of the alarum winder.’

‘Fancy that!’ said Inspector Jowett, so dedicated to the cause of personal advancement that he was ready to fancy anything a senior officer showed him. ‘Merely a pin, you say. By Jove, I detect the hand of Providence in this.’

‘A pity Providence was unable to prevent the explosion at Victoria station the same night,’ said Colonel Martin acidly. ‘Perhaps the directors of the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway should search their souls for an explanation. I tend to take a less spiritual view of things, Inspector. The working parts of an infernal machine are relatively simple to arrange, but their effectiveness depends on the proximity of a large and cumbersome mass of dynamite. When all this is encased in a portmanteau and conveyed in hazardous circumstances to the site selected for destruction, you may imagine that a delicate mechanism is liable to be displaced.’

‘I can imagine it perfectly, thanks to your lucid explanation,’ said Inspector Jowett.

The Colonel gave him a long look. ‘Well, that is what happened at Paddington on the night of February 25th. As you probably recall-’

‘Not only that,’ Jowett broke in. ‘Other bombs that had failed to detonate were found next day at two other stations. London Bridge and Ludgate Hill. I don’t know what happened to them, but you might find it worth your while to examine them, Colonel.’

‘Thank you. They are in the room behind you. Each of the alarums was set for one o’clock, the time the explosion took place in the cloakroom at Victoria. Unless you have other information, of course?’

‘Not at all. Simultaneous explosions. Ugly business. There’s an organisation behind this, Colonel, depend upon it.’

The Colonel indicated with a slight narrowing of the eyes that the possibility had not escaped him.

‘A conspiracy,’ Jowett continued without check, steaming ahead on all boilers. ‘No doubt about it. Dynamitards. They’re here in London leaving bombs in station cloakrooms like bowler hats. Question is, Colonel, what have you discovered about ’em? You can’t tell me this box of tricks hasn’t furnished you with information. I know you chaps from the Home Office too well for that.’

It was unfortunately clear that Inspector Jowett did not know Colonel Martin well enough to realise he was irritating him. ‘I forwarded a full report to your Special Political Branch at Scotland Yard two months ago. I suggest that you ask them to allow you to read it.’

‘Ah, now there’s a complication,’ said Jowett, impervious to sarcasm. ‘Your report might make good sense to me, but it is Sergeant Cribb here who will need to have the information, and without disrespect to anyone I would rather that he had it first-hand. Cribb does not know it yet, but he has a privileged status, Colonel. He is in a better position to provide Scotland Yard with information about the dynamite party than the whole of the Special Branch together. We are here on the highest authority.’

Cribb listened in disbelief. The purpose of the visit was a mystery to him. Jowett had simply summoned him to the Yard, hustled him into a hansom and driven him to Woolwich. Even when they drove through the main gate he could think of no reason for being in the Arsenal.

‘Very well, then,’ said Colonel Martin. ‘I’ll address myself to you, Sergeant. What do you know about infernal machines?’

‘Practically nothing, sir.’

‘Hm. Better not stand so close then. No, just my joke, Sergeant, just my joke, though what the wisdom is of assigning a novice to defeat the dynamiters, I cannot begin to apprehend.’

‘Nor me, sir.’

‘At least we understand each other. Let’s look at this contraption then, shall we?’ Colonel Martin stabbed at the bomb again with his pointer. ‘Cheap alarm clock, of American manufacture. Revolting name-Peep o’Day- wouldn’t be countenanced here. Cartridge-firing pistol. Imitation Remington, but it bears no maker’s imprint. Combined cap and cartridge similar to a type made at Bridgeport, Connecticut. Seven detonators containing the usual mixture of chlorate of potassium and fulminate of mercury. Simple metal cashbox with no distinguishing marks. Nothing to be gained from writing it down, Sergeant-it’s all in my report. Now take a careful look at the cakes of dynamite. Don’t count them-there’s thirty-nine altogether-just tell me what you see on the outside.’

The Colonel’s verbal dissection of the infernal machine was performed without a trace of conceit. Cribb warmed to him. ‘The letter A, sir, and the words Atlas Powder. A would indicate some form of classification, I expect.’

‘Good. It is the commercial mark for the highest and strongest form of dynamite. There are seven grades of the stuff manufactured by the Atlas people, at the Repauno Chemical Works, near Philadelphia. This grade contains seventy-five per cent of nitro-glycerine. Do you know what that is, Sergeant?’

‘I fancy I have heard of it, but. .’

‘It is the pure form of the most powerful explosive ever developed. Two volumes of sulphuric acid, one of nitric and half of glycerine together produce a substance so devilishly liable to explode that it is virtually unusable. For twenty years scientists tried to find a means of controlling it-that is to say, exploding it with certainty under confinement. The trick was done at last in 1865 by means of a detonating cap containing fulminate of mercury, developed by a Swede, who must be a millionaire by now. He patented his nitroglycerine under the name of Nobel’s Blasting Oil and sold it like hot cross buns. Trouble was that these buns were liable to blow up when the customers endeavoured to carry ’em home. There were some nasty accidents, gentlemen-uncommon nasty. But give Nobel his due-he persisted with his experiments until he discovered the ready means of absorbing the oil in porous substances. He tried numerous materials-paper, wood-shavings, brick-dust, clay-but none of them worked as well as a type of earth known as Kieselguhr, found in Hanover. It absorbed the nitro-glycerine and gave it the necessary stability. He called the preparation dynamite. It was not so powerful as pure nitro-glycerine, but considerably safer to handle, and still a great advance on gunpowder as an explosive.’

‘Anarchists and revolutionists the world over can regard Mr Nobel as their greatest benefactor, then,’ said Jowett. ‘A fine reputation to have!’

‘Ah, but so can miners and road-builders and railway-engineers. The revolution in the civil engineering industry is far more impressive than anything your anarchists have achieved with dynamite, Inspector. Now, Sergeant, let us resume our examination of the object found on Paddington station. .’

‘A first-class bore, that Colonel Martin,’ Jowett declared. ‘It’s always so with these forensic experts. Inspectors of explosives, pathologists, toxicologists-they’re all alike. They get too close to their work, lose all perspective. I know-I’m dealing with them all the time. Utterly boring. It’s an experience you’ve been spared until today, Sergeant, getting your information from me, as you usually do.’

Cribb quietly noted the irony in the statement, and looked across the marshland towards the Thames. They were returning from the Danger Buildings to the main gate in the first class compartment of the Arsenal train, a narrow-gauge, single-line service used for transporting personnel about the three mile extent of the grounds. The Colonel had remained behind, pleading extra investigation-work. Cribb suspected he preferred half an hour with the infernal machines to fifteen minutes more with Jowett.

It was a desolate stretch of land, broader in extent than Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park together, but without trees. The skyline was broken instead by mist-patches of varying intensity, and tall banks of earth-probably rifle-butts, but conceivably the tops of subterranean buildings. This suggestion of the other-worldly was reinforced by the occasional sighting of workers dressed identically in canvas jackets and trousers and hats with numbers attached. A group boarded the train at a stop called Mugby Junction- all third-class passengers, who had to sit back-to-back on open wagons at the rear.

‘There are ten thousand or more employed here,’ said Jowett, ‘and they change into those clothes on arrival. There is a strict rule forbidding tobacco or matches, and anyone found disobeying it is dismissed. They have their last smoke on the way to work in the mornings and then throw away their clay pipes-which they have got free from public houses-by the entrance. I was reliably informed by the police on duty that the debris lies ankle-deep at the gate until the road-sweeper arrives each morning.’

Cribb acknowledged this information with a nod, prompted as much by the train’s motion as interest in Jowett’s monologue. He felt no obligation to exchange small-talk at this stage. It was high time Jowett told him the real purpose of the visit to the Arsenal. He had a right to be told, but he was damned if he would ask.

‘Then there is a thriving community who live inside the Arsenal. They are mainly officers and members of the managerial staff and their families, with the servants housed in converted stables nearby. It is a veritable walled town, concentrated near the main gate, with its own shops and hospital. And the section-house, of course, for members of the Force. That’s where you will be lodging.’

Cribb turned from the carriage-window. ‘Me? What do you mean, sir?’

‘Exactly as I say, Sergeant. A room has been prepared for you. I’m told it’s very comfortable once you get used to the bell they ring at intervals. I have arranged for you to move in tonight. Now don’t look so outraged-you might say something you’ll regret. There is time for you to collect your things from your quarters and inform your dependants. The gate is locked at midnight, ten minutes after the closing-bell sounds.’

There was silence while Cribb struggled to subdue his fury and Jowett almost slavered over the exercise of his authority.

‘Why should I need to lodge here?’

‘The need was made abundantly clear this afternoon, Sergeant. I believe the import of what you said to Colonel Martin was that you are completely ignorant upon the subject of infernal machines. We are giving you the opportunity of becoming better informed. You will remain here until such time as the Colonel deems you sufficiently enlightened.’

It sounded like a prison sentence. ‘Sufficiently for what, sir?’

‘Ah. We shall come to that. You will admit, I hope, that the finer points of bomb-manufacture cannot be learned in a single afternoon. In a few weeks or so, Cribb, if you are an attentive pupil, you should graduate from this academy as the best-informed detective in the Force-upon explosives, that is.’

‘Why me, sir?’

‘I think we are approaching the main gate, Sergeant. Ah, now that is Dial Square, and the section house is on the side street nearest the gate. Do you see it? That is where you report tonight. We shall shortly transfer to a cab, and I shall endeavour to answer your question on the journey back to Scotland Yard.’

‘Do you recall the start of the dynamite campaign?’ Jowett resumed, when their hansom was making good speed along the Woolwich Road.

Cribb drew a deep breath. Getting information from Jowett was never straightforward. ‘In London, sir? I think the attempt on the Mansion House was the first, in the spring of 1882. Someone found a canister of dynamite attached to the railings.’

‘Ah, yes. But the first explosion?’

‘That was last year, sir, in March. The Local Government Board Offices in Charles Street.’

‘Yes. Four or five rooms were totally demolished. And by a singular misfortune the building was situated opposite the headquarters of “A” division, the King Street police station. It broke every window in the place, Cribb. The attack on The Times office the same night was only averted, if you recall, by the resourcefulness of a night-watchman with a bucket of water. That night’s doings more than anything else precipitated the passing of the new Explosives Act. Then, three weeks later, public confidence was restored by a timely police success, the discovery of the nitro-glycerine manufactory at Birmingham and the arrest of the infamous Dr Gallagher and his fellow-conspirators. It confirmed what many had suspected-that the dynamitards were Irish-Americans, and the campaign a ruthless attempt to bring the issue of Home Rule before the public-possibly even to intimidate the Government into yielding to the Irish faction. You haven’t any Irish blood in your family, have you, Sergeant?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Excellent. Not that one questions your loyalty, of course. We cannot over-estimate the dangers involved in this business. If a certain detective in Birmingham had not had his suspicions aroused by the behaviour of the man Whitehead, the chemist of the plotters, and visited him in disguise, we might well have seen the swift destruction of many of London’s finest edifices. There was enough nitro-glycerine there to demolish every street in the City of London, Cribb. He was consigning it to the Metropolis in india-rubber fishing-boots contained in packing-cases. The others, who frequented small hotels and retired lodgings in the south of London, were arrested before they could carry out their frightful work. Gallagher himself, the brains of the conspiracy, had travelled over first-class in the Cunarder Parthia and was living as a gentleman in the Strand, if you can credit that. He and three others were given penal servitude for life. And there the matter ended, until the two explosions on the Underground Railway last October. Railway property was seriously damaged. The cost of repairs amounted to several thousand pounds, did you know that? I believe a number of passengers were maimed for life by the Praed Street explosion as well-only men of the labouring-class, but no less worthy of our pity for that, Sergeant. Incidents of that sort impress the populace. The newspapers made a good deal of it. Fears were revived, Sergeant, fears were revived.’

‘More so by the explosion at Victoria in February,’ added Cribb, with an interest in bringing the catalogue briskly up to date. ‘And the simultaneous attempts on London Bridge, Paddington and Ludgate Hill.’

‘What did you say?’ said Jowett, still mentally at Praed Street. ‘Ah, yes, indeed. The railway station outrages. Well, the dynamite party unwittingly did you a good turn, Sergeant, leaving three unexploded machines for us to take to Woolwich and dismantle. You cannot expect to have such good fortune again, however. Next time, the disagreeable things are sure to go off.’

Cribb decided it was time to correct the impression that he had a personal stake in the dynamite campaign. ‘I’m confident that the Special Branch has allowed for that, sir. Some of the best detectives in the Force were conscripted for it. Best leave it all to them, I say.’

‘The Special Branch,’ Jowett repeated distantly. ‘A handpicked group of detectives brought together for the sole purpose of combating the dynamitards. They occupy the room next to mine. I had to give them my telephone-set and two of my clerical assistants. Most inconvenient. Brand-new desks and stools and a hat-stand of their own. Someone in high authority is exceedingly exercised about all this, Cribb.’

‘I’m not surprised, sir. Who’s to say where the next bomb might be placed? For a party of Irish-Americans just off the boat, these dynamiters have an uncanny knack of setting their machines down in public places without being noticed. Each of those stations was well patrolled. And you know how it is with railway station patrols-one constable is always assigned to watch the comings and goings at the cloakroom. What with trunk murders and stolen property and anarchists’ black bags, you need to keep an eye on everyone who approaches the counter. How four large cases containing bombs were deposited the same night at four stations without anyone having any recollection of who left them, I can’t fathom.’

Jowett nodded his agreement. ‘I suppose one must accept that constables on duty are not infallible. There is the possibility, for example, of some person unknown chancing to deliver an infernal machine to the cloakroom in the interval between reliefs, when the new relief are being marched to their beats, but it is quite inconceivable that such a thing could have happened at four stations on one evening. Unless, of course, the dynamite party got to know the times at which the reliefs were changed.’

Cribb was sceptical. ‘Not likely, in my estimation, sir. The recent practice is to vary the reliefs from week to week. One week they might change over at six, the next half-past. It’s all arranged by the divisional Inspectors. The information isn’t given to the men themselves until a day or two before. The dynamiters couldn’t possibly have known it without the co-operation of one of the Force. And that, sir, would mean that we were harbouring an informer.’

Cribb fully expected Jowett to consider the suggestion as scandalous and outrageous as a bare head at Ascot, or braces in the Boat Race. Instead, he lifted his forefinger in front of him in a gesture pregnant with significance.

‘Exactly what I was coming to, Sergeant. What would you say if I told you that one of the Force-one of the Detective Department, indeed-had been seen in the company of Irish-Americans in a public house shortly before the explosion at the Local Government Board, and again before the attacks on the railway stations?’

‘I should find it difficult to believe, sir-unless there was some explanation. Perhaps the officer concerned was a member of the Special Branch.’

‘He was not, Sergeant. Nor did he record any account of the meetings in his daily diary.’

‘Then I should want an explanation, sir,’ decided Cribb. ‘I should call him in and ask him to give an account of himself.’

Jowett smiled in a superior way. ‘Doubtless you would, Sergeant, doubtless you would. It seems the obvious thing to do. However, the obvious thing is not necessarily the most productive of results. If we call the officer in and question his behaviour, the word will not be long in reaching his American associates. Dismissing this man from the Force would be a poor exchange for keeping in contact with the dynamitards, if dynamitards they be.’

Cribb frowned, and said nothing, not a little shocked at the deviousness of what Jowett was suggesting.

The inspector seemed to read his thoughts. ‘You must understand that we are not dealing with petty thieves or one of your backyard murderers, Cribb. We are fighting a secret society pledged to wrench Ireland from Her Majesty’s dominion by every means at its disposal. It is better organised and better financed than any Irish conspiracy this century. It is known as the Clan-na-Gael. Its membership in America runs to thousands, Sergeant, thousands, all organised into numerous subordinate bodies, or camps. The dynamitards are emissaries of the Clan, trained men picked for their daring and knowledge of explosives and sent here to mount a campaign of terror and destruction. Faced with a conspiracy on such a scale as that, we are not going to pounce on the one policeman whose erratic behaviour may help us to defeat the Clan. He will be dealt with when his usefulness to us is over, you may be assured.’

Cribb was floundering. He knew nothing of secret societies. Wasn’t there said to be a War Office Intelligence Department to deal with such things? ‘Might I enquire what connexion this has got with me, sir?’

‘Indeed you may, Sergeant. You have been nominated to make contact with the constable in question and win his confidence.’

‘Me, sir?’

‘If you perform your duties well, Cribb, you may be the first agent to penetrate the dynamite conspiracy in London.’

‘Agent?’ repeated Cribb, eyes agape.

‘No more than a word, Sergeant. I can promise you that the whole of the Special Branch is deeply interested in the outcome of your mission. You will function independently of them, however, and remain responsible to me. It is at my suggestion that you are to be educated in the science of explosives. The closer one gets to the dynamitards, the more necessary it becomes to understand their diabolical machines. Do you follow me?’

‘I’m not sure, sir. Are you proposing that I should infiltrate the dynamite conspiracy by befriending the constable who is suspected of being an informer?’

‘Exactly so, Cribb. And to anticipate your next question, the reason why you have been selected is that you already know the constable in question better than anybody else in the Force. He is your sometime super-numerary and satellite, Detective-Constable Thackeray.’