The Tick of Death

CHAPTER 10

It took a long bout of hard thinking to get Cribb downstairs for breakfast. Whichever way he reviewed the night’s events, he came back to the penetrating scrutiny of the grey eyes in that mis-shapen face. They had fastened on him like the eyes of the Argus. It was only with a consummate effort of concentration that he managed to dispel the idea that everything he had done that night was known to McGee.

The facts, when he finally disentangled them, were not quite so depressing. Nothing was known to the dynamiters of his meeting with Thackeray. Devlin had merely checked that the prisoner was still in his cell; it was enough to know that he had not escaped. Rossanna seemed to have convinced herself that because Cribb’s room had been locked, he must have been asleep inside, and not downstairs. The disturbance in the kitchen had been put down to some amateurish attempt at house-breaking. For his own reasons, Devlin had mentioned nothing to Rossanna about the bruise he undoubtedly had on the back of his head. Left to them, the capers in the night were quite likely to be forgotten.

With McGee, it was different. There was no escaping the fact that he had seen Cribb pass through his room. What mattered was how he accounted for it. In his pessimistic turn of mind the previous night, Cribb could think of no other construction than the true one: that he had gone secretly downstairs, been disturbed by Devlin and managed to avoid him by hiding in Rossanna’s room and escaping by way of her father’s. Constable Bottle had been shot for less.

In the morning, though, a happier theory emerged. It started in a curious way. He was sitting on the end of his bed, reflecting on the seriousness of his position, when he was unexpectedly dazzled by the morning sun, beaming in through the open window. He moved out of its direct line, and was reminded of his interrogation in the orchard. At one point in the afternoon the sun had caught the side of his face, causing it to feel quite uncomfortably warm. He had resisted the impulse to move because Rossanna had been so particular about the placing of his chair. It had to be in a position where her father could observe him. And now, with the powerful insight of a man threatened with extinction, he realized why. McGee was deaf.

It should have been obvious before. Damage to the eardrums is a common enough consequence of bomb-blasts, and McGee’s other injuries proved how close to the blast he had been. What was more, he used the deaf and dumb language, and significantly, so did Rossanna when she was addressing him. For the rest, he had to lip-read. That was why the placing of the chair had been so crucial: it had to be set so that he was given a clear view of Cribb’s mouth.

If this were so, then McGee’s interpretation of the previous night’s doings was limited to what he saw; he must have been oblivious of the commotion downstairs and Rossanna’s conversation with Devlin in the corridor. He had simply seen the man he knew as a professional adventurer come out of his daughter’s bedroom and walk quickly through to the corridor. If he had a quarrel to make, it was as an outraged father, rather than the guardian of the dynamiters’ secrets. But with a daughter like Rossanna, what else did he expect from a professional adventurer?

So Cribb stood before his dressing-table mirror, confirmed that he had the look of a man of the world from at least one angle, and went confidently down to breakfast. Devlin and Rossanna were already giving their attention to generous cuts of grilled steak, topped with an egg. The servant hustled out to attend to Cribb.

‘How mistaken I was!’ said Rossanna. ‘I took you for an early riser, Mr Sargent.’ She was wearing a high-necked green silk blouse and black velvet skirt. Her immaculate hair emphasised that she, for one, could not be accused of having lingered overlong in bed.

‘I’m sorry. You must have been waiting for me,’ said Cribb.

‘Not at all,’ said Devlin. ‘Nobody stands on ceremony here, as you’ll find out. If Rossanna and I had got a decent night’s sleep like you, we’d still be in bed ourselves.’

Cribb took the cup of tea Rossanna poured for him. ‘Was there something that disturbed you, then?’

She smiled. ‘A small alarm in the night, Mr Sargent. Patrick surprised somebody in the act of breaking in through the kitchen. We have decided that it must have been a less than competent burglar-someone from the village probably.’

‘We shan’t be calling in the law to investigate,’ added Devlin with a grin.

‘Did you see them?’ asked Cribb casually.

‘I was just too late for that. Next time, perhaps.’

‘Gracious! I hope it won’t happen again,’ said Rossanna. ‘I was thoroughly alarmed by it all. I felt so unprotected when I heard Patrick go downstairs that I wrapped my dressing-gown around me and went up to your room to see if you were awake. You must be a deep sleeper.’

‘Like the dead, once I’m off,’ said Cribb without hesitation. ‘I’m sorry about that, though. You should have given me a shake. Ah, but I think my door was locked. A professional habit from my anarchist days. It was more to protect me from my fellow revolutionaries than from the authorities. Give an anarchist a chance and he’ll preach the social revolution all night long. That’s why they’re all narrow-eyed and pale of face, did you know?’

She laughed. ‘I wonder what you say about the Irish.’

‘Nothing like that, I promise you,’ said Cribb. ‘You don’t look deprived of sleep, Rossanna.’

She coloured slightly at the compliment and pulled at the curl that lay against her right cheek. ‘I think my father must agree with you. After we were all disturbed, he detained me for at least three-quarters of an hour. Conversation with the hands is quite fatiguing at half past two in the morning, particularly with an agitated parent.’

So McGee had lectured her already, asked her to account for the man in her room!

‘Did you manage to reassure him?’

She paused. ‘Eventually. He really had no need to be agitated.’

‘I appreciate that, miss. It was all cry and no wool, as the devil said when he sheared the pigs.’

She put her hand to her mouth and giggled briefly. ‘Mr Sargent, you do say some droll things!’

At least she was showing no hostility. Far from regarding the night manoeuvres as evidence of treachery, she seemed encouraged by them. Whatever her father had said, it must have convinced her that the visitor to her room was there by choice. ‘It’s a very old expression, Rossanna. I was referring to the fact that the intruder, whoever he was, didn’t get what he came for.’

This provoked another fit of giggling. Cribb, who had not intended to be facetious, looked Devlin’s way and shrugged his shoulders. He was pleased to see that the Irishman appeared uncomprehending. If Rossanna had told him what her father had seen, he might have divined the truth.

‘Enough of last night, gentlemen,’ said Rossanna with a decisive change of tone. ‘I have an announcement of unusual importance to make. You will know that when my father arrived in London last year, it was to set in motion a plan so brilliant in conception that the Revolutionary Directory of Clan-na-Gael agreed to make available enough of the Skirmishing Fund to cover all our expenses for an indefinite period. A party was selected from the most experienced agents in America, each chosen for the special contribution he could make to the project. The most ingenious arrangements were devised to introduce these men into Britain without arousing the suspicions of the Secret Service. For reasons of security, only one member of the party, my father, was entrusted with the full knowledge of the plan, and he was its architect. The rest of us have had to be content to wait until our contribution was required. And stage by stage it has taken shape before our eyes. Of course, there have been setbacks, as there are in the execution of any project so beset with dangers. My father’s dreadful accident was the first, but we overcame it, and the rest-the loss of Tom Malone and the harassments from the Special Irish Branch of Scotland Yard-were of little consequence by comparison, particularly as you arrived at so timely a moment, Mr Sargent.’

Cribb accepted this small bouquet with a nod.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ Rossanna went on, ‘let us be forthright with one another. We have all been waiting with impatience for the orders that will initiate us into the final mystery-the ultimate object of all our work. The preliminaries are over. We have collected enough dynamite to destroy any building in London. Your many months of labour in the workshops are complete, Patrick, and your team of assistants has been paid and dismissed. Father has told me that his hours of consultations of maps and charts have yielded the information he requires. Yesterday morning, gentlemen, two emissaries of the Revolutionary Directory arrived at Liverpool in the steamship Alaska. They are senior officers-not merely black-baggers. Their decision will give the final authority to the plan.’

‘The darling gentlemen!’ said Devlin with feeling.

‘When shall we see them?’ asked Cribb, with all the enthusiasm at his command.

‘Tomorrow evening. They have convened a formal meeting of the Clan. It will give us the opportunity of admitting you to our ranks, Mr Sargent. That is essential if you are to join us in the climax of our work. I assume that you have no objection to taking a solemn oath to devote yourself to the cause of a free Ireland?’

‘I’ll swear to anything, miss, if I’m paid for it.’

‘That isn’t what our visitors will want to hear, Mr Sargent, but Patrick and I understand the conditions of our arrangement with you, and as my father is proposing you, there should be no difficulties. However, he is most desirous that you should make a good impression on them. Coming as they do, fresh from America, they will not have heard of Tom Malone’s passing, rest his soul.’

‘Amen,’ murmured Devlin, nodding his assent like a man at a prayer-meeting.

‘It will undoubtedly come as a shock to them. Their first inclination might be to cancel the project.’

‘The buggers!’ said Devlin.

‘But we shall then tell them of the more than adequate substitute we have found.’ She indicated Cribb with a wave of the hand. He returned a modest smile.

‘And that is the juncture,’ she continued, ‘at which Father has decided you will do something that will leave no doubt in their minds as to your eligibility for the Clan.’

Cribb’s smile faded. ‘What’s that?’

‘You will provide a demonstration of your bomb-making skills. You are to use the time between now and tomorrow evening in constructing two infernal machines. We shall detonate one of them in full view of our guests in the most dramatic circumstances. It will reinforce all the fine things Father will have to say about your usefulness to the Clan. Isn’t it a splendid plan?’

Cribb took a fortifying sip of tea.

Before he could respond, Rossanna went on, ‘The second machine, which must be identical to the first, will be required later on. You shall have all the materials you need. Tell me, how much dynamite would you say is necessary to destroy a building of moderate size-say the size of Patrick’s workshop in the garden?’

Devlin was on his feet. ‘What the blazes-’

‘Don’t get so agitated, Patrick. I am merely providing Mr Sargent with an example. Well?’ She raised her eyebrows and looked in Cribb’s direction.

He tapped his nose knowledgeably. ‘Hm. It’s a brick building if I remember. Solidly constructed. Fifteen pounds of the stuff would certainly do it, though, and you might manage with less. It depends very much on where you place your charge.’

‘We shall come to that in a few minutes. Finish your breakfast, Mr Sargent, and you may then escort me into the garden. There is something I must show you. This is just the morning to be outside, don’t you agree?’

In five minutes, she was steering him determinedly into an area of the garden they had avoided in their previous walk, a wilder, more wooded part, where she had to lift her skirt to avoid entangling it in briars. Cribb picked up a stick, trimmed it and used it to beat away obstructions. When they had been going some hundred yards and the house behind them was out of sight, Rossanna gave a small cry of distress. ‘My skirt! It is all caught up on a beastly bramble, Mr Sargent.’

He turned from his beating and went to her aid. It was difficult to account for the accident. He had been most conscientious in clearing every hazard from the footpath, even to the point of slashing the stems of those liable to spring back. For all his efforts, she was undeniably held captive at the side of the path. ‘You should have kept to the centre, Rossanna,’ he told her. ‘Now keep still. It’s not the skirt that’s caught, it’s the petticoat. My word, lace as delicate as this wasn’t made for promenading in the woods, you know. If you’ll just move your foot a fraction to the right, then-oh, my stars!’

How it happened, he was not clear, because he was too occupied stooping to disentangle the lace from the bramble without damage. He was briefly aware of a quivering movement from Rossanna. She wobbled, changed her footing, reached out with her arms and then lost balance altogether, gently subsiding into the fronds of young bracken behind her. It would have been passably discreet if one of her hands had not caught Cribb’s shoulder and toppled him over in the same direction. His fall, too, was gentle. He found himself immersed in a sea of lace and white linen, his right hand in contact with a stockinged knee and the side of his face pressed against an area it did not take a C.I.D. training to identify as her bosom. In trying to extricate himself, he inadvertently brushed his left hand across a surface of smooth, warm flesh terminated by what could only be a garter.

‘Then you did come to my room last night!’ exclaimed Rossanna, without displaying much concern at her predicament. ‘I was sure I heard you move across the floorboards on your way back to bed. No wonder Father was so restless!’

‘I’m not sure what this has got to do with it,’ said Cribb, lifting his head, but refraining from any further movement of the hands.

‘I should have thought it was obvious,’ said Rossanna, giggling. ‘I hope your bomb-making is more restrained than your love-making, Mr Sargent, or we shall all be blown up when you get to work with the dynamite this afternoon. Much as I am flattered by such a display of passion, I must plead to be released on this occasion. There is so much to be done before the emissaries arrive tomorrow, and Father relies on me absolutely.’ She lifted her head and pertly kissed the tip of his nose. ‘Perhaps in a day or two, when the work has been completed. . Now, if you will kindly put down my skirt and help me to my feet, we might resume our walk.’

The whole thing had happened so precipitately and without any initiative on his part-whatever she suggested to the contrary-that he felt quite weak at the knees when he stood up. If, as he suspected, she had engineered it all, then she was a remarkable young woman, a conclusion he had reached soon after meeting her, without realising how remarkable. But why should she have arranged such an accident? Was it to satisfy herself that he had really been on an amorous mission the night before? She had certainly reacted emphatically after the accidental arrival of his hand upon her thigh. Accidental? Fortuitous, more like. She had taken it as the signal of a resumption of passion. It was all she had wanted to know.

Satisfactory as the outcome was, he still felt that his reputation as an adventurer was a little tarnished by the incident. He reflected, as he obligingly removed a thistle from the back of Rossanna’s skirt, that a professional would not have behaved in quite the same way. And he would have struck a short, sharp blow in that area to rekindle her respect for the adventuring profession if she had not been wearing a bustle.

As it was, they continued their journey along the path for another hundred yards or so, when they came to a small lake. On the far side was a tall red-brick tower in the gothic style, crenellated at the top. It was accessible from the bank on one side, but supported in the water by three arches.

‘What’s that?’ asked Cribb.

‘A folly, Mr Sargent.’

‘Folly?’

‘A useless building erected at the whim of a landed gentleman. Some call them gazebos. This one is your target for destruction.’

‘Good Lord! The owner won’t take kindly to that, will he?’

‘The owner is an Irishman. He will be told that his folly was sacrificed to the cause. I am sure you must have destroyed scores of buildings more serviceable to mankind than this monstrosity.’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Cribb, remembering himself. ‘But won’t the noise attract unwanted attention from people hereabouts?’

‘It is most unlikely. We are quite isolated here. If anyone heard a distant explosion they would assume it came from the cement workings at Stone. Blast the gazebo out of existence, Mr Sargent. Your reputation depends upon it.’