The Tick of Death

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?’

Other books

His Forbidden Bride (The Brides of Paradise Ranch (Spicy Version) Book 7) by Merry Farmer

The Bad Fire by Campbell Armstrong

The Season of the Stranger by Stephen Becker

Silent as the Grave by Bill Kitson

Nemesis: Book Five by David Beers

The Arrangement [Box Set] by Weeks, Abby

The Mysterious Rider by Grey, Zane

Gods and Pawns by Kage Baker

Liars, Cheaters & Thieves by L. J. Sellers

Three Hundred Million: A Novel by Blake Butler