The Tick of Death (14 page)

He extricated himself with difficulty and got to his feet. ‘Time I was gone, Rossanna,’ he said. ‘Much more to do tomorrow.’ It was only after he had crossed the room, gone through the door and closed it behind him that he remembered her legs were still tied together. He did not go back.

Instead, he went downstairs and out into the garden. Although it was late, the warmth of the day still lingered in the air. From farther down towards the river came voices, Devlin’s for sure, and Millar’s. The occasional metallic thump suggested they were working on the submarine boat, possibly moving the dynamite about the hull, with the intention of spreading the ballast as evenly as possible. He could not distinguish words in the conversation, but from the rising and falling tones it was clear that whatever they were doing required frequent consultation. All the signs were that the work would occupy them for some time yet.

One vital part of Cribb’s plan needed to be attended to before the morning: he had to visit Thackeray and prepare him for the ordeal to come. His reasons for taking such a risk were not wholly compassionate; his poor, benighted assistant was entitled to be told the fate the Clan had decreed for him, but the paramount reason for seeing him was to warn him not to take food or drink in the morning, for it would certainly be drugged. If the counter-plan was to have any chance at all, Thackeray would need not only to be conscious, but capable of action. Until this moment, Cribb had intended going to him by night, as he had on the last occasion, but the sounds from Devlin’s workshop made him change his mind. Now, when such preoccupying things were going on outside, was a better time than the small hours for moving secretly about the house.

He re-entered the building through the conservatory and crossed the hall to the dining room. At the kitchen door he paused, listening, in case the servant was inside. Most domestics, being early risers, liked to get to bed tolerably early, but this was an exceptional night in this household. One could take nothing for granted. Hearing no sound, though, he entered and found it in darkness. He crossed to the scullery and opened the door. The cat, again, was the solitary occupant. It treated him like a favourite table, pressing itself against his legs. He carefully slipped the bolts on the door of Thackeray’s prison and opened it.

‘Thackeray?’ In the darkness, it was difficult to distinguish the figure on the bed of sacks. He took a step closer, and discovered nobody was there.

Thackeray had been moved.

‘Gone!’ said a voice close to his ear. He knew from the flat, almost bored tone that it was Carse. ‘It would be wise not to move. The pressure you can feel in the small of your back is from a revolver.’ He must have been standing there in the darkness behind the door, waiting for this.

‘Brother Carse?’ said Cribb, trying to gain time to think. Infuriating to step into a trap like this!

‘Not your brother any longer,’ said Carse. ‘You’ve shown me what you really are—Copper. Lie down on those sacks, and don’t make the mistake of thinking I can’t see you. I’ve been waiting here for you for twenty minutes, so my eyes are quite accustomed to the dark.’

‘Waiting for me?’ repeated Cribb, struggling to understand where he had gone wrong.

‘Do as I say,’ said Carse, more in the manner of a suggestion than an order, ‘or I shall be obliged to put a bullet in your back. It achieves the same result, but I really wouldn’t wish to raise the entire household at this late hour by discharging a gun.’

Cribb groped down towards the sacks. Carse was right: in these conditions it would be suicidal to resist. A man deprived of sight is no match for two functioning eyes and a gun.

‘Would you like to know your mistake?’ Carse was still a disembodied voice, and the removal of the gun from Cribb’s back was no comfort at all. It was probably pointing at his head. Was this to be the last conversation of his life?

He decided to prolong it. ‘I’m interested, yes.’

‘Naturally, I suspected you from the moment I heard about your appearance here. It was just too timely to be acceptable. Things do not happen in such a convenient way, but McGee and the others were so beset with difficulties that they wanted to believe what they should have questioned and rejected. And I give you credit—you have been well primed. Can you see me yet? The gun is aimed at the point between your eyes. Yes, your skill as a machinist is remarkable for a guardian of the law. The demonstration at the lake tonight all but convinced me you were really a professional.’

‘What was wrong, then?’ ventured Cribb, nurturing the conversation with painstaking care.

‘Your mistake?’ said Carse. ‘That was later. I set a small trap for you. I suspected, you see, that this man who was captive here—Thackeray, I think you called him just now— was one of the police, although no amount of questioning or persuasion had tempted him to admit the fact. And I also reasoned that if
you
were a policeman, you would by now have located Thackeray and communicated with him. From the account I had from Devlin and Miss McGee of the disturbance the other night, it seemed highly probable that you were thus engaged when they suspected someone had broken in. It seemed likely to me that Thackeray would have told you about his interrogations, and triumphantly reported that he had not divulged his connexion with the police. So tonight, after you returned from so capably subduing Miss McGee, I tested you in two ways. I stated, quite unequivocally, that our prisoner was a police officer. And you, correctly, reminded us that we did not
know
such a thing. This, of course, told me for certain that you had talked to Thackeray; otherwise you would not have known our interrogations had been unsuccessful.’

‘I see,’ said Cribb. ‘What was the other test you gave me?’

‘Ah, that was simply to inform you of our plan to send Thackeray to destruction in the submarine boat. It practically ensured that you would make an attempt to release him tonight—and what better time than when everyone appeared to be occupied in the boat-house? I simply transferred Thackeray to the dynamite store and settled down here to wait for you. You were not long in coming.’

‘Now that I’ve fulfilled your expectations,’ said Cribb, ‘what are you going to do with me?’

‘I could blow your brains out now, couldn’t I?’ said Carse. ‘As it happens, though, I have a well-developed sense of irony. I rather enjoy the notion of Scotland Yard sending two men to insinuate themselves into the dynamite party, and training one of them so efficiently in the art of bomb-making that he prepares the charge that blows the Prince of Wales to Kingdom-come. Not only that; there is the added piquancy of our two gallant protectors of the realm actually manning the diabolical underwater machine that does the deed. You will accompany Thackeray and McGee tomorrow morning. It really is a pity. There are unlikely to be enough recognisable pieces of any of you left for the authorities to appreciate the full irony of what has happened, but I shall enjoy it.’

CHAPTER
14

A WHITE MIST HUNG low over the river at 6 a.m. next morning when Cribb was marched down the path leading to the landing-stage. His wrists were lashed behind his back with thick cord, drawn so tight by Millar that all sensation had gone from his hands. Two broad belts pinioned him, one at the level of his chest, the other his waist. They, too, had been tightened to the maximum. Millar had crushed his boot against Cribb’s back with the zeal of the head of a family fixing straps round the holiday portmanteau. The constriction complicated breathing: he had to take repeated short, shallow breaths; anything deeper was insufferably painful.

Ahead, the steam-launch was moored at the landing-stage. Beyond, loomed the whale-like outline of the submarine boat, lying low in the water, the small conning-tower forming no more than a hump on its back.

‘Step aboard,’ called Carse from the cabin of the launch. ‘And be quick about it. We must make Gravesend by eight o’clock whatever happens, and this mist threatens to be difficult.’

In response to a push from Millar, Cribb stumbled aboard. Rossanna, deathly pale in a black cloak and hood, took his arm and guided him past a case of dynamite into the cabin. He felt most unlike the Paladin he had claimed to be the evening before, but he tried to summon a reassuring expression. If anything was to be salvaged from the ruins of his plan, it would require her co-operation.

‘Cast off, then,’ ordered Carse, who was at the wheel.

Millar obeyed, and the engine throbbed into life.

‘We’re going ahead,’ Carse explained. ‘Devlin will steer a similar course from behind. It’s difficult enough trying to see through the scuttles in that thing, without contending with these conditions. Still, if the mist holds as far as Gravesend, he’ll be able to approach much closer to the pier than we planned.’

‘A river mist often lifts quite quickly as the sun comes up,’ said Cribb.

‘Stow your gammon, Copper,’ growled Millar. ‘You’re a dead man. Have the decency to behave like one.’

The launch chugged steadily out into deeper water, with the black hull of the submarine boat settling in its wake. Occasionally a distant ship’s siren sounded, but otherwise they were detached from the world. Visibility was variable, never more than fifty yards. Once they glimpsed a massive sailing-vessel, moored on the starboard side.

‘The
Frederick William,
’ Carse told them. ‘A cadet-ship. Devlin told me to look out for her. We’re passing Ingress Abbey, in that case. This will be one of the quietest stretches of the river. Marshes on either side. Are the others still in sight of us?’

‘Close behind,’ Millar confirmed. He chuckled softly.

‘What’s amusing you?’ asked Carse.

‘I was thinking it’s a good thing Devlin ain’t great shakes as a conversationalist, because he won’t be getting much response from his passengers, McGee being dumb and Thackeray out to the world.’

They cruised on through Fiddler’s Reach and made the steep turn into Northfleet Hope, pressing against the flood tide at little more than four knots. ‘The steamboat jetty at Northfleet is the next landmark,’ said Carse. ‘I’ll move in close so that we don’t miss it. Soon after that we’ll stop the engines and let Devlin draw alongside to take the copper aboard. I never did find out your name, did I?’

‘Sargent will do,’ said Cribb.

‘Well then, Sargent, you’d better consider whether there’s a last message we can pass to Scotland Yard on your behalf. You’ll be taking your leave of us in a few minutes.’

‘That looks like the jetty,’ said Millar.

‘Yes, that’s it. And that will be the entrance to Northfleet dockyard,’ said Carse. ‘Any last words, Mr Sargent?’

As Cribb replied, he looked directly across the cabin at Rossanna. ‘I’ve made my arrangements, thank you.’ Silently, he mouthed the words he had spoken in her room the night before, ‘Trust me.’

She nodded, unseen by Millar, who was peering through the mist for the first sighting of Gravesend.

‘Please yourself,’ said Carse. ‘We’ve tried to do our best for you. Not every unsuccessful police spy gets a coffin made of Siemens-Martin steel, subscribed by Irish patriots. I’m shutting down the engines now, Millar. Signal Devlin to heave to alongside us, will you?’

The monstrous vessel sidled close to the launch, and presently the lid of the conning-tower opened and Devlin’s head appeared.

‘I think this will do,’ Carse called up to him. ‘How is she performing?’

‘She’s a capital craft,’ said Devlin.

‘Will you need more ballast when she submerges? I’ve got half a crate more of dynamite here on deck, ready to transfer if you need it.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ said Devlin. ‘Let’s get Sargent aboard.’ He lifted a short metal ladder from inside the conning-tower and attached it to the side.

Cribb felt a prod in the back from Millar. ‘Move up the ladder, Copper. Lean well forward and you shouldn’t fall.’

Aided by several timely shoves from behind, Cribb negotiated the rungs. At the top, Devlin had emerged from the conning-tower. He grasped Cribb’s shoulders as firmly as a throwing-hammer, summoned his strength with an emphatic grunt, and tipped him head first into the hatch. Like a hundredweight of coal, Cribb plunged towards the impact that promised to shatter his skull. By the fortune that only ever favoured him
in extremis,
he hit the side of an upholstered seat provided for the pilot. The rest of his body slumped painfully into a space between this and the steering mechanism.

‘Get to the aft end, with your mate,’ Devlin called, as he dropped down after him, and aimed a kick at his ribs. Cribb squirmed out of range, past the small, hunched figure of McGee, propped against a crate of dynamite. The interior was well-lit by two electric light bulbs. He recognised Thackeray’s recumbent form and wedged himself beside it. The constable was breathing through his open mouth. With each exhalation the top layer of whiskers on his beard flattened like grass on a railway embankment. It would be quite some time before he regained his senses. There was no hope of help from that quarter for hours to come.

‘He’s well dosed with chloral,’ Devlin said, clambering after Cribb. ‘I’ve taken the precaution of binding his hands and feet, in case he wakes up before five past ten. And now I’m going to put a cord round your ankles and tether them to this stanchion, so that you don’t disturb McGee. You can shout as much as you like, though, because he’s stone deaf.’

Cribb felt the cord bite into his shins. Devlin’s technique of fettering a man matched his strength. It would be impossible to escape without assistance.

‘In case you wondered where the bomb is located,’ said Devlin, ‘I fitted it under the engine, by removing one of the steel plates and then riveting it back. There’s no way of reaching your infernal machine from inside, Brother Sargent. Of course, you may move the dynamite about as much as you like if you succeed in getting free, but nothing you do in here can prevent this boat from being blown into a million pieces when the time comes.’ He took out his watch. ‘Lord, it’s almost eight o’clock already. Time I gave McGee his instructions.’ He returned to the front of the boat, picked up the crippled man from the deck with ease, and positioned him on the pilot’s seat. Then, standing where McGee could follow the movements of his lips, he slowly identified the controls. ‘Wheel. Starting switch. Levers to admit the water-ballast, to put the boat in diving trim. This switch controls the force-pump which ejects the water from the ballast chambers . . .’

Cribb listened keenly as the entire process was twice repeated. From where he was, it was difficult to see any of the controls, or how McGee was responding to the lesson.

‘Now, it is quite straightforward,’ Devlin insisted, articulating each word separately to assist comprehension, ‘I shall start the engine and you need not switch it off until the boat is in position under the pier. To set the propellers in motion pull this handle towards you. You will then be under way. To submerge, push down the ballast-levers here and here . . .’ By degrees, the instruction took a simpler turn. ‘Now remember, this one to move forward. These, to go down. This to come up again. This for speed. And this to stop. The pier is two hundred yards ahead, so you will need to surface more than once. You will see the flags ahead. Do you understand? Very well. Now it is time to practise.’

The engine stuttered into life, sending painful vibrations through those parts of Cribb’s body which still retained some feeling.

‘Open the ballast chambers,’ ordered Devlin. ‘Excellent. Now we are in diving trim. Take her slowly forward.’

He took McGee systematically through the manoeuvres required to steer the boat to its position below the pier. As it submerged completely for the first time, Cribb dimly registered that the experience lacked the charm of taking to the air in a balloon, but he was frankly more occupied with devising some means of escape than savouring a new sensation. He nudged Thackeray sharply with his heels. There was still not the faintest response in the somnolent features.

‘Splendidly done! You’ll cope without any trouble at all,’ Devlin announced from the controls. ‘It’s time I left you. I must call up the launch. Once I’ve closed the lid on the conning-tower, you can move off when you like. I’m leaving a clock here on top of this crate. It’s twenty-five minutes past eight now. You should have enough air down here to keep you alive for two hours, and you won’t need that much, will you? We wouldn’t want you to suffocate. That’s an ugly way to go. So there’s just a hundred minutes to wait for a moment of history, gentlemen. God save Ireland!’

After those heroic sentiments, Cribb’s final sight of Devlin before the hatch was sealed was the seat of his trousers moving upwards to freedom. The sound of the lid closing reverberated through the submarine boat.

Painfully, Cribb lifted his head to see whether McGee was equal to the task of moving the boat into position. He had appeared to understand Devlin’s instructions, but could he function independently?

The answer was not long in coming. McGee leaned forward and pulled a lever. The boat began to move through the water. Cribb heard water churning into the ballast chambers beneath him. The submarine boat dipped below the surface. In a few seconds they surfaced, presumably to get a sighting of the pier through the scuttles, and then they submerged again in the approved ‘porpoising’ mode of navigation. The effort of concentration going on in the few functioning parts of that shattered brain must have been prodigious.

The vessel surfaced twice more, taking the long, low dive that meant McGee was moving it towards its final berth below the pier. It powered steadily ahead for seven seconds before he shut off the engine. The vibration wracking Cribb’s body stopped. They glided silently forward for an interval too charged with tension to estimate accurately. Then there was a muffled bump. Another, stronger in impact, caused the boat to lurch towards starboard, before righting itself. A case of dynamite slid across the space behind McGee and stopped on the opposite side of the deck. The submarine boat was stationary. They were resting on the bottom of the Thames. Somewhere above them was Gravesend pier, decorated with the flags of the Empire and His Royal Highness’s personal standard.

Cribb peered at Thackeray to see whether the jolting of the boat had made any difference. It had not.

The situation, then, was clear. A cynic might have described it as desperately clear. They were sealed from outside help by three fathoms of water. There was no chance at all of Cribb releasing himself from his bonds: he might as well have been wearing a strait-jacket. He would get no help from McGee. Thackeray was insensible, and tied hand and foot like himself.

Not quite like himself. They had not bothered with the additional constraint of the two straps about the arms, perhaps because they recognised that the chloral was more than enough to incapacitate him. He was bound around the ankles and wrists.

By turning on his side and leaning forward, Cribb could see the face of the clock Devlin had left behind. Five past nine. If his only hope of release was Thackeray’s emergence from oblivion, then he
had
to assume that the constable would show signs of life at some stage. In the mean time it was sensible to employ himself trying to make some impression on the knots securing Thackeray’s wrists. When his assistant
did
come round, every second, every loosened strand, would be vital.

How would he do it? With his teeth. Thank the Lord for a decent set of grinders!

First it was necessary to move Thackeray on to his side, no easy achievement with a sixteen stone man. It was no use nudging him fitfully with the knees. The job required leverage. He obtained it by planting his feet against the stanchion to which they were tied and wriggling into a position where his thighs were pressed against his chest and his left shoulder was wedged under Thackeray’s right hip. By bracing his legs he succeeded in pressing the constable’s substantial form so hard against the side of the boat that it was forced to turn. Once the right hip was pushed off the deck, it was like rolling a log. Thackeray’s face turned to the wall and his bound hands appeared from under him.

They were tied with rope lashed two or three times round each wrist and then wound repeatedly round both, before being brought between the hands to cross the ligature so formed and bind it laterally. The two ends were secured by a formidable knot. The only encouraging thing about it was that it was in a position where Cribb could work at it with his teeth.

After twenty minutes, he had made no impression at all. It was Devlin’s handiwork, he decided. A boatman’s knowledge of working with rope, and a hammer-thrower’s strength is a redoubtable combination. In the next ten minutes, however, he succeeded in loosening and separating the first join in the knot.

There was also a change in the rate of Thackeray’s breathing, but whether it indicated returning consciousness or mild suffocation from lying face and beard downwards was difficult to estimate.

Twenty-five minutes to ten. Above them, the final arrangements for the Prince’s reception would be under way. Roads adjacent to the river would be closed to traffic and the inspection party would be parading on the pier, with the Gravesend silver band tuning up in the background.