The Tick of Death

CHAPTER 9

Cribb quietly locked his bedroom door from the inside, withdrew the key and pocketed it. He crossed to the window, pushed it up and looked down at the conservatory roof, ten feet below. After the Alcazar Hotel, this promised to be child’s play. He picked up a length of rope he had earlier scavenged from the coach-house, and firmly secured one end of it to the door-handle. The other he dropped over the window-ledge, leaning after it to see how far down it extended. Far enough for a controlled descent to the frame of the conservatory roof. He tested the strength of the rope, seated himself on the sill, swung his legs over and turned inwards, shifting the weight of his body on to his stomach. Gripping the rope ahead of him, he began to let himself down.

It was after two in the morning, an hour and a half since he and Devlin had retired, and they had been the last to go up. Rossanna had gone first, soon after eleven, leaving the others at a poker game. ‘Our river trip last night has quite upset my routine,’ she had announced. ‘If I don’t retire at once, I shall fall asleep in my chair. Too ridiculous for words! I shall probably wake up in the small hours wanting breakfast when everyone else is deep in slumber. Are you an early riser, Mr Sargent? You look as though you might be. Patrick ought to be, as a sportsman, but he never stirs before nine when he is staying here, do you, Patrick? And Father sometimes sleeps until noon. Well, you need not tell me, because I shall hear for myself. My room is on the first floor landing and I know every loose floorboard in the corridor above. When I hear you, I shall know that I am no longer the only one awake in the house.’ Cribb had not been sure whether she said this to discourage initiatives by night, or the reverse. At any rate, he had decided already that he would have to find a way downstairs that did not bring him into contact with the floorboards, and that was why he was once again performing on a rope.

He lowered himself to the level of the room below his and paused there, trying to see in. It was a first-floor bedroom, unoccupied. He could have forced an entrance through the window if he had wanted, but all it contained, he suspected, was Malone’s luggage. Certainly it had not been inhabited in the last twenty-four hours. Tonight he was looking for Thackeray, not infernal machines.

His feet touched the conservatory roof, lighting safely on one of the wooden crossbeams. The structure was sturdy, well able to support his weight. Leaving the rope dangling, he crossed the roof to a section where it overhung the main entrance, inset between the two gabled wings at the front of the house. On his level, there were the windows of the main first-floor landing. He went confidently to one he had unfastened earlier from the inside, eased it open and climbed into the house again.

During the period after dinner he had occupied himself profitably by making a mental sketch of the lay-out of the bedrooms. The second floor, where his own was, had one other, the manservant’s, built in to the gable opposite. The floor below housed Devlin, McGee and Rossanna, as well as the empty room below his. It was quite impossible, he had decided, for Thackeray to be imprisoned on the first or second floors, for every other room could be accounted for as a bathroom, linen-room or water closet.

There was something else that encouraged him to concentrate on the ground floor. While Rossanna had been cooking those devilled kidneys, he had noticed four trays set out on the dresser, obviously in anticipation of breakfast. Three were matching in design, finely lacquered and laden with expensive porcelain and silver. The other was made of plain, unvarnished wood and there was a tin porridge-bowl on it and a mug, of the sort provided in common lodging-houses. At the time, Cribb had taken them for the manservant’s. Later, he reflected that someone eating in the kitchen had no need of a tray; he would eat from the kitchen table. The probability was that it was for Thackeray. If so, it was not unreasonable to suppose that the place where he was confined was directly accessible from the kitchen. A tray of that description, without even a cloth on it, would have been glaringly conspicuous in any other part of the house.

He pulled the window gently closed and glided towards the stairs. His movements were confident. He had tested the boards on this floor very thoroughly earlier in the day. They were firm under his weight, not straining to betray him like those upstairs. Rossanna, even if she were awake, could not possibly know that he was passing within a yard of her door. Just the same, he drew a long breath when he was safely clear. The danger of McGee’s door opening, or Devlin’s, troubled him less than hers. He moved smoothly past and down the stairs. Without pausing, he crossed the tiled hallway to the dining room and so made his way into the kitchen.

It was darker there than it had been upstairs. The moonlight was all on the other side of the house. He hesitated at the threshold, remembering the myriad objects he might dislodge from shelves and hooks and send crashing to the slate floor. By degrees his eyes adjusted to the conditions. It was a large room, dominated on one side of the table by the range, and the other the dresser, fairly bristling with crockery. The four trays were set out ready for the morning, as before. Other objects, an ironing-board, a tin bath and a meat jack threatened to raise the house if he should accidentally knock them down. It was fortunate that he had not marched blindly in, because there were two fly-papers suspended near the dresser at the level of his head. He would probably have reacted to the unexpected contact by flinging out his arms in self-protection.

Two other doors led off from the kitchen: one, the tradesmen’s entrance, looked on to the kitchen garden; the other promised to be the scullery. He pushed the door behind him shut-and froze in his tracks. Something soft had touched his back, moving rapidly across the width of his shoulders. He wheeled round, and was confronted with a large canvas string bag, swinging gently from a nail on the back of the door. He grunted and moved decisively across the kitchen to the scullery.

A cat came to meet him as he opened the door, and smoothed its fur against his legs. He swung his eyes swiftly around the room. Dresser, sink, door, copper, mangle, door. The second door was the one that interested him. It probably led to a store for fuel or provisions, but it was bolted at top and bottom. He approached it and slipped the bolts. It opened easily. The cat ran inside. Cribb followed.

It was pitch-black. He whispered, ‘Thackeray?’

Not a sound.

‘Thackeray!’

A muffled groan from somewhere to his left.

‘Where are you, man?’

Thackeray’s voice, just coherent, said, ‘Can’t you per-ishers let a man have a wink of sleep?’

‘It’s me. Cribb.’

‘Blimey!’ A fumbling and scratching was followed by the striking of a lucifer, which immediately went out. ‘Blooming cat!’ A second attempt was successful. The lighting of a candle revealed the shaggy countenance of the constable who had once helped to arrest Charlie Peace. He was lying on a bed improvised from sacks stuffed with straw. Bundles of firewood were stacked on all sides of him. ‘Sarge, how did you find me?’

‘Never mind that,’ said Cribb. ‘Keep that candle away from the cat. This place is a blasted tinder-box. Now, Thackeray, are you all in one piece?’

‘Just about, Sarge, but I’ve had enough of this. I’ve been incarcerated here for two days with only a supply of candles and a Bradshaw’s Guide to keep me from going barmy. They bring me food twice a day and I can use the privy in the garden after nightfall-under escort, of course-but it ain’t my notion of a bank holiday weekend. Strewth, I’m glad you’ve come along to get me out of it.’

‘I haven’t,’ said Cribb. ‘I just dropped in, so to speak.’

Thackeray’s jaw sagged. ‘Do you mean that I’m not getting out, Sarge? Are you going to leave me here?’

‘I’ve got no choice. Freeing you would give the game away. They think I’m on their side, you see. I won’t forget you’re here though, depend upon it.’

This solemn assurance seemed to carry little weight with Thackeray. You could have driven a cab through the gap between his moustache and beard.

‘So we must make the most of the time we have,’ continued Cribb. ‘I want a brisk account of how they got you here and what they’ve told you. Pull yourself together, man, and make your report, or there’ll be something on your defaulter-sheet at the end of the week.’

The cold sponge treatment worked best with Thackeray. ‘I’m sorry, Sarge. I was lying here thinking of a warm feather bed when you came in.’

‘And I’ve left one to come and talk to you. Get on with it.’

‘Well, I was right about Malone,’ said Thackeray. ‘He proved to be a regular scoundrel. Not many days after our meeting at The Feathers he came in again. I managed to engage him in conversation and led him to believe that I was sympathetic to the idea of Irish independence. In fact I went so far as to say that a few bomb explosions round London might blast some sense into Mr Gladstone and encourage him to introduce a Home Rule Bill. I wanted Malone to feel that he could impart confidences to me, you see.’

‘Did he?’

‘Not in as many words, Sarge, but he seemed to look upon me as a useful companion, and I was able to tell him quite a lot about the sights of London. He took an uncommon interest in such monuments as Nelson’s Column and the Albert Memorial. The thing that impressed him most of all was a mention I made of the Tower Subway under the Thames. Coming from America as he had, he hadn’t heard of its existence, so I promised to show it to him last Friday.’

‘The night you were captured?’

‘Yes. We had a drink or two and I was confident that he was ready to talk about the dynamite conspiracy. We started on our walk and presently he told me that he thought we was being followed. To tell you the truth, I didn’t take much notice. I didn’t reckon any of the Bermondsey roughs would waylay a hulking great bloke like that, even if he was a blooming Irish Yankee. It was getting late when we passed into the tunnel from the Pickle Herring Street end, and we was the only ones inside except this geezer behind us. If he was following us, he couldn’t make a secret of it there, because it’s only seven feet wide, as you know. Suddenly Malone says, “Let’s stop and see how close the bastard comes.” Before I know what’s happening, he’s produced a big American revolver and shot the poor perisher through the head.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I said, “You’ve killed him,” and he laughed and said it was only a bloody copper and that he’d fix me too if I didn’t hump the body back to Bermondsey. So I did, at gunpoint, and all the way up the blinking spiral staircase, so as to dump it in the river. Then bless me if he didn’t march me down Shad Thames to a steam-launch, order me aboard, tie me hand and foot and leave me in the care of another Yankee, name of Devlin. I was brought here and given the candles and the Bradshaw and that’s almost all I can tell you, Sarge.’

‘You haven’t been interrogated yet?’

Thackeray went a shade paler. ‘What’s that, Sarge?’

‘Questions.’

‘By George, yes, I’ve had Devlin in here three times and a very violent man he is, I can tell you. It ain’t Queensberry’s rules in this house, by any manner of means. If you was looking for a split lip or a black eye you won’t find them, but I could show you marks in places no prizefighter ever had to worry over. Some of them was inflicted with the sharp end of that young woman’s parasol too, while Devlin had me pinioned on the sacks here. She ain’t so delicate-minded as she looks, Sarge, believe you me.’

‘Are you badly hurt?’

‘I don’t think there’s any permanent damage, but I wouldn’t like much more of it. I haven’t told them anything. Perhaps I should. They seem to know most of it already. They keep wanting me to confirm that I’m in the Force. How could they have discovered that? You don’t think I should tell them, do you?’

‘No-not if you can help it. When were they last here?’

‘I think it was yesterday morning. Fortunately, they seem to have plenty of other things to do as well. There’s no end of work going on in that big shed at the bottom of the garden. I can hear it each time I get taken outside, and that’s after dark. Is it infernal machines, do you think?’

‘Could be. What’s that?’ He had heard a movement somewhere overhead. It was repeated. Footsteps, he was certain. ‘I’ve got to be off. Now listen, Thackeray. You and I have stumbled upon a plot that promises to be more barbarous than anything the dynamiters have done so far. For some reason, they’ve taken it into their heads to make use of you. When the time comes, co-operate. Take no account of anything untoward you might see me do. I shan’t intervene until the moment I judge right, and I want no half-baked heroics from you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘Goodbye for now, then. And Thackeray, try to keep your wits about you.’ He had gone through the door and almost closed it when Thackeray’s urgent shout arrested him.

‘Sergeant!’

‘What now?’

‘You forgot the blooming moggy.’

‘Perishing animal!’ He reached in, caught the cat by the scruff of the neck and launched it across the scullery. It touched down with a yowl and took cover behind the mangle. He closed the door of Thackeray’s prison and fastened the bolts. The object of the mission was achieved. There only remained the matter of getting back to his room.

If somebody upstairs was on the move, did it follow that they would be making for the kitchen? Cribb decided he could only wait and see. By remaining where he was, he might escape discovery altogether. At the worst, he would hear the other’s approach and give nothing away of his own presence until the last possible moment. It gave him the chance to prepare a reception.

He walked to the kitchen door and listened. All was quiet so far. He dipped his hand into the bag of string and selected a fifteen foot length, free of knots. To one end of this he tied a kettle. He then opened one of the windows on his left and gently lowered the kettle to the concrete path outside, making no sound. He pulled the window almost closed, leaving enough room for the string to have free play across the sill. He unbolted the kitchen door and opened it wide. The cat streaked across the room to freedom. Cribb took up a position behind the door through which his discoverer would come. He had the string in his left hand and a rolling pin in his right.

A minute passed before anything happened. Then came the tell-tale squeak of a floorboard in the room next door. Cribb tensed, watching the door-handle. It turned, with excruciating slowness. Lord, the reception would have to work well!

The door began to open, with obvious caution at first, then, as Cribb had hoped, swinging rapidly inwards. The first thing the intruder would see was the open door to the garden, facing him. Cribb jerked at his string. The kettle outside clattered on the path, suggesting someone had just dashed out there and kicked something, in his hurry to be gone. Caution abandoned, the would-be pursuer surged across the threshold. Cribb swung the rolling-pin towards its mark. In the split second before it connected, he made the satisfying discovery that it was destined for the head of Patrick Devlin. He levelled the score.

There is no reliable way of knowing how soon a man crowned with a rolling-pin will regain consciousness. Cribb did not intend to stay to find out. Pausing only to kick Devlin’s Smith and Wesson out of sight under the dresser, he left the kitchen and hurried through the dining room and across the hall to the stairs. He mounted them two at a time. On the way, he took the key of his bedroom door out of his pocket. This was not the occasion to be suspended on the end of a rope; he would risk the floor-boards instead and get back to his room by the conventional route.

It was a simple enough intention, but he was unable to carry it out. Halfway along the first floor corridor, on his way to the next flight of stairs, he distinctly heard movements overhead, borne down by the eloquent boards. Someone else had been disturbed-the manservant. What deplorable luck!

As if this were not enough to give a man apoplexy, there came sounds from downstairs. Devlin had recovered and was coming at speed through the dining room.

There was no question now of taking to the rope from the conservatory roof. He did the only thing possible in the situation: opened the door nearest to him, stepped inside and closed it. It was Rossanna’s bedroom.

He stood just inside the door, trying to estimate the effect of his sudden entry. What does a woman do when a man bursts into her bedroom in the middle of the night-scream blue murder or become paralysed with fright? Nine women in ten, he guessed, perhaps ninety-nine in a hundred, would do one of those things, but he could not be sure about Rossanna. From what she had said earlier in the evening, she might have been lying awake listening for movements. In that case, it was possible she had heard what he had-the creaking boards upstairs-and put a different construction on the sound. Could she actually have been expecting him? Was she lying there in anticipation of a development she regarded as the logical consequence of having a mature professional adventurer in the house? If so, it was one thing they had not prepared him for at Woolwich Arsenal. But it did provide him with a means of sanctuary. If Devlin came knocking at the door, she was not going to reveal to him that she had a secret visitor-not if she was quickly reassured of the nature of the visit. It rested with Cribb to provide such reassurance. There was not much time for it.

Better not speak too loudly. He took two measured steps in the direction of the bed. The room was so dark that every movement was a small adventure. Her scent, the fragrance of stephanotis, lay on the air, increasing his unease. A Scotland Yard career was no preparation for boudoir atmospheres. Still, he was determined not to forget that he represented law and order; without that, his present situation was unthinkable. He was doing this for the protection of the realm. After what Thackeray had described, he certainly had no inclination to be here for any other reason!

His hands touched something cold and hard: the foot of a brass bedstead. He gripped it strongly and spoke in a subdued, but resolute voice: ‘Such a warm night, Rossanna. Couldn’t sleep at all, so I’ve risen early. No notion of the time, I’m afraid, but I remembered that you said you’d be awake in the small hours. Thought I heard a movement down here, so I came to see if you were wanting company. Not that I want to impose myself. You’d quickly tell me if I wasn’t welcome, wouldn’t you?’

He paused for a response, but got none. She could not possibly still be asleep. He could only interpret silence as encouragement. He edged along the side of the bed for Queen and country. ‘You needn’t be afraid of me, you know,’ he continued. ‘I ain’t the sort to force myself on one of the fair sex, not if it ain’t by invitation. But I’ve knocked about the world a bit, young Rossanna. Paris. . Berlin. . I think I know how to treat the ladies as they like it. Here, let me hold your hand for a moment. Pretty little hand it is, too.’ He put his right hand confidently on the bed. Finding nothing, he moved it towards the centre. Still nothing, and what was even more disturbing, the bed was cold. He felt with both hands. Great Scotland Yard! He had addressed the most passionate speech of his career to an empty bed!

Where the devil was she, then? As if in answer, he heard her voice from the corridor outside. ‘So it was you, Patrick! I was wondering what on earth was happening downstairs. I was really quite frightened. I went up to Mr Sargent’s room for protection, but he is fast asleep with his door locked.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Devlin. ‘Well, if it wasn’t him, somebody must have broken in. I found the kitchen door open and I thought I heard them running off. There was more than one, I reckon.’ His voice hesitated, plainly balking at the full account of what had happened in the kitchen. ‘What were they after, do you suppose?’

‘I really wouldn’t know. Is the prisoner secure?’

‘Quite safe. I checked him.’

‘Good. And the back door-is it locked now?’

‘I think so. That is, I can’t remember.’

‘Really, Patrick! What’s come over you? You must be sharper than that, you know. Go down and make sure, and we can all get some sleep. I shall be locking my door, like Mr Sargent.’

Suddenly, Cribb was profoundly reluctant to be discovered in the bedroom. The situation had altered totally. He wheeled round in desperation, and discerned the dark shape of a door beyond the bed. He opened it and passed through, just as the handle of the other door was being turned.

He found himself in the next bedroom, better lit because the curtains were made of some thinner material. The air seemed fresh after the scent-laden atmosphere next door. He tiptoed towards the door, so determined to get quickly out and upstairs that he gave only a passing glance to the figure in the bed.

A glance he was not to forget. It discovered McGee, for once without the black mask. The dynamiter’s grey eyes stared piercingly from an agglomeration of scar-tissue and raw-red flesh, pitted and contorted beyond belief. Except for the eyes, the only approximation to a human feature was a cavity on the left side, held rigidly agape and twisted at the extremity into a hideous leer. It was a more dreadful testimony to the effects of dynamite than anything Cribb had witnessed on the bomb-ranges at Woolwich. Most chilling of all was the knowledge that McGee was awake and must have recognised him, seen him come from his daughter’s bedroom, and been unable to utter a coherent word of protest. The recriminations would have to wait.

Without turning round, Cribb opened the door and emerged in the corridor. Heedless of the floorboards now, he mounted the stairs to the top floor, arrived at his room, unlocked it, slipped inside and locked it again. He went to the window and hauled in the rope, reflecting as he did so that he might as well have made a noose at the end and put it to personal use. After this night’s doings, there was not much to choose between that and a bullet in the head next morning.