The Tick of Death

by Peter Lovesey

  ‘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 for
get. 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.

  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.’