The Tick of Death (13 page)

‘Cripes, that’s brilliant!’ crowed Millar. ‘It can’t fail!’

‘Destroy the submarine boat?’ said Devlin, disbelievingly. ‘It’s taken a year to assemble it.’

‘I appreciate your sentiments, Brother,’ said Carse. ‘It’s a fine piece of engineering. But it was built for one occasion. This is not the kind of exercise one repeats at intervals. Once the job is done, we can never hope to take the British by surprise in the same way again. Far better that the thing is destroyed in action than allowed to survive for the river-police to track down in the intensive search they will certainly mount after the operation. This way is safer for us all.’

‘I don’t think that is altogether true.’ Rossanna had spoken, her voice more controlled and deliberate than before.

‘Why not?’ demanded Carse.

‘Because one of us at least will have to pilot the boat into position under the pier. How is that person going to escape?’

‘That’s a fact!’ said Devlin. ‘If the boat stays down there, someone has to be inside it.’ Even as he spoke the words, their full implication dawned on him. His eyes bulged in horror. ‘I’m the only one who knows how to pilot the thing!’

Carse raised his palm in restraint. ‘Let us not sully the dignity of our meeting by effusions of panic, Brother. There is no reason why we should not conduct our discussion in a civilised fashion. One does not wish to be put into the position of blackballing another member of the Clan, but as Chairman I have my duty to do and I shall certainly not shirk it, if free speech is threatened. I was about to come to the most interesting part of my proposal: the identity of our candidate for assassination.’ He paused dramatically. ‘At this moment there is an ocean-going yacht, the
Hildegarde,
moored in Gravesend Reach. Tomorrow morning at half-past ten, as the tide turns, it is due to set sail on a ten day cruise through the Straits of Dover and along the south coast. All of the party but one are already aboard. They include Lord Charles Beresford, Sir Charles Dilke and several young women well known upon the London stage.’

‘Moses!’ ejaculated Cribb, unable to restrain himself. ‘Would one of them by any chance be Mrs Lillie Langtry?’

Carse produced his approximation of a smile. ‘No, sir. Mrs Langtry is at present on tour in America. But I gather from your inquiry that you have my drift. The final member of the party is due to go aboard the
Hildegarde
tomorrow morning. He will arrive at Gravesend pier at ten o’clock, having come by landau from Marlborough House.’

‘The Prince of Wales?’ said Devlin, half in horror.

‘Albert Edward, the heir to the throne of England,’ said Carse. ‘ “Bertie” to his friends, “Tum-Tum”, one is told, to his intimates. He is to be our victim.’

‘Magnificent!’ declared Millar.

‘A suitable sacrifice to the cause of republicanism,’ said Carse. ‘And justification for all our efforts. Perhaps you can now understand why there must be no possibility of failure. We
must
blow up the submarine and the pier with it.’

There was silence. Everyone was stunned by the enormity of what had been suggested.

After an interval, Rossanna said, ‘I should like to consult my father.’ She took McGee’s hands and engaged in what appeared to be an intensive bout of finger-talk. ‘Father praises the audacity of the plan,’ she presently told Carse, ‘but he still wishes to know how you propose to get the submarine boat into position.’

Carse nodded. ‘A reasonable inquiry. First, I shall put a question to Brother Devlin. I believe, sir, that you have piloted the boat on all its trials so far. Is that true?’

‘Yes,’ Devlin gloomily agreed.

‘And has anyone else accompanied you?’

‘The late Brother Malone, rest his soul,’ said Devlin. ‘And Miss McGee, and her father, on different occasions.’

‘Good. And is it a difficult manoeuvre to cause the submarine boat to dive and travel underwater to a stated destination?’

‘If you could see clearly under water, it would be child’s play,’ said Devlin. ‘The mechanics are perfectly simple. But the Thames is full of impurities, as you know, so we have to steer by coming to the surface at intervals. It’s a process known as “porpoising”.’

‘How appropriate! But the mechanics, you say, are simple. Once you had got within sight of the pier by means of porpoising, you could hand the wheel with confidence to any one of us for the last submersion—first leaving the boat yourself and swimming to a convenient launch—is that so?’

The persecuted look lifted miraculously from Devlin’s face. ‘Why, yes! Anyone could take the boat for the last few yards.’

‘Thank you,’ said Carse, with the air of a barrister who has elicited a vital piece of information from a witness. ‘And now I should like to put a point to all present. It is this: do you agree that the arrival of the Prince of Wales tomorrow morning on Gravesend pier presents Ireland with an opportunity unparalleled in its history?’

‘Jesus, yes!’ said Millar, leading the chorus of assent.

‘In that case, then,’ said Carse, allowing a little emotion to enter his voice, ‘is it too much to ask that one of you should volunteer to steer that submarine boat to its place below the pier, and so join the ranks of those who have laid down their lives for Ireland?’

‘The martyrs,’ said Millar with reverence. ‘Wolfe Tone, Thomas Russell, Robert Emmet—’

‘Stow it!’ said Carse, irritably. He looked hopefully round the table, but nobody was volunteering yet to swell the ranks of the martyrs. ‘It seems to me,’ he went on, ‘that this is an opportunity that might be seized by a patriot whose life in recent years has been wholly dedicated to the fulfilment of such a moment of history. I refer, Sister McGee, to your father.’

‘No!’ said Rossanna emphatically.

‘I should prefer to hear from Brother McGee himself,’ said Carse. ‘Nobody appreciates more than I the courage of our brother in carrying through his mission in spite of his appalling injuries. Would he see it fail at this stage for want of somebody to lay down his life for Ireland?’

‘He has suffered enough!’ protested Rosanna, on her feet.

‘With his injuries, Sister, he will have nothing to live for when this work is done.’

‘You can’t ask him!’ shouted Rossanna defiantly. ‘I shan’t tell you his answer! You can’t make me!’

Carse turned to Millar. ‘Take hold of this hysterical woman and eject her from the meeting. We shall obtain Brother McGee’s answer without her.’

‘No!’ screamed Rossanna. ‘Keep away from me!’ She gripped the edge of the table.

Millar moved quickly and with a notable lack of gallantry. Before Rossanna had a chance to turn from the table he was behind her. He gripped the open collar of her dress at each side of her neck and wrenched the bodice apart, pulling the sides down over her shoulders to pinion her arms. Then he fastened his left hand over her mouth to silence her screams. A second later, he screamed himself and jerked it away, dripping blood where her teeth had punctured his flesh. In fury, he raised his clenched right fist above his shoulder to strike her down, but found it grasped and held by the person he knew as Sargent. ‘What the bloody hell—?’ he shouted.

‘Steady now!’ said Cribb. ‘We want no violence, Brother.’

‘He’s right,’ said Carse. ‘Sit down, Millar. Leave it to him.’

Millar resumed his seat, clutching his wounded hand, leaving Cribb to face the wild-eyed Rossanna, her hands ready like claws to make their mark on anyone who came too close. The shreds of her bodice hung about her arms, leaving gaping areas of camisole and stays, which added to the general savagery of the spectacle.

‘Will you come outside, Rossanna?’ asked Cribb, as mildly as if they were both at a ball.

‘Not while Father remains here.’

‘In that case I must . . .’ He dived boldly forward in mid-conversation, burying his right shoulder into the folds of her skirt and clasping both arms around her thighs below the bustle, in the approved fireman’s rescue position. She toppled forward with the impact and he lifted her clean off the ground on his shoulder. ‘. . . remove you forcibly, Rossanna,’ he said.

‘Neatly done, Brother!’ said Carse. ‘Take her to her room and see that she gives us no more trouble.’

With Rossanna’s fists raining blows on the lower regions of his back, Cribb carried her from the room. He mounted the stairs with difficulty, thankful when she seemed to regard her struggle as hopeless and gave up pummelling. In her room, he stood by the bed and spoke to her before putting her down. ‘Now, Rossanna, I want you to believe that I shan’t let your father be killed. Carse and Millar are dangerous men and we must let them think they are having things their way. When the time is right, we’ll foil them, but you must help me.’ He put her gently down on the bed. She lay passively, breathing heavily. ‘I must tie you to the bed,’ said Cribb, ‘to make it seem convincing. Take off your stockings, please. I’ll use those.’

To his profound relief, she compliantly drew off two lengths of black silk and handed them to him.

‘Put your hands against the bars at the head of the bed.’ He tied them securely, one stocking for each hand. Then he picked up the shawl she had worn earlier and bound it round her ankles. As an afterthought, he straightened the tatters of her dress to cover her shoulders. She nodded her thanks. ‘Now I must get back to them,’ he told her. ‘Whatever happens, Rossanna, whatever they tell you, believe me I shall see that your father does not die in that submarine boat.’

‘I believe you.’

Downstairs, Carse greeted him as he entered the dining room. ‘Good work, Brother. You managed her in fine style. She’ll thank you for it later, when she’s had time to think it over. Women appreciate a firm hand. And now you may congratulate Brother McGee on his decision. We put my suggestion to him and he unmistakably nodded his head.’

‘No doubt about it,’ Millar confirmed.

‘He will pilot the submarine boat on its last stage tomorrow morning,’ continued Carse. ‘Oh, and he will not be alone. I believe Miss McGee told you about the policeman being held prisoner in the house, who was brought here after his suspicious attempts to befriend Malone. He will accompany Brother McGee, tied up, of course, and heavily drugged. It will be a convenient way of disposing of him.’

Cribb’s eyes widened. ‘But we don’t
know
that he’s a policeman. We can’t condemn a man to death simply because he bought a drink for one of us in a pub!’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t concern yourself about that,’ said Carse. ‘After all, the Prince of Wales hasn’t bought drinks for any of us and
he’s
marked down for destruction.’

CHAPTER
13

CRIBB’S ACQUAINTANCE WITH THE criminal classes was not slight or superficial. Of the seven people in his life he could claim to have understood almost totally, five had been murderers. This was no discredit to Mrs Cribb and Thackeray (who were the other two); it was from professional necessity. However guilty a man appeared according to circumstantial evidence, it was not enough to justify a prosecution. You had to find the motive. So time and again he had sat with prisoners and stranglers, patiently taking the measure of their minds. And to a lesser degree, scores more of the law-breaking fraternity had come under his scrutiny, from blackmailers and swindlers to the petty criminals whose activities were dignified by the cant of the underworld— broadsmen, dippers, dragsmen, maltoolers, screevers and shofulmen. Not one in all his recollection was quite so odious as Carse.

Millar, of course, had just exhibited the violence. He would certainly have beaten Rossanna insensible if Cribb had not intervened. And if he had been left to carry her upstairs, the consequences were loathsome to imagine. Yet it was Carse who made the flesh creep most. His form of violence was more detestable because it was calculated to the last detail and unaccompanied by any emotion. He had condemned three men to death as coolly as if he were ordering a new suit. All that mattered to him was the neatness of the design.

And what a design! Attacks on royalty were nothing new; the Queen herself had survived eight separate attempts on her life, but they were all ineptly carried out, thank Heaven. Since the latest, two years ago at Windsor, and the recent dynamite scares, her personal bodyguard had been trebled, and her appearances in public practically abandoned. The Prince, too, never moved these days without two or three detectives at his shoulder. His presence at Gravesend tomorrow would be the occasion for a massive show of strength by the local police. No one on the route would be allowed within yards of the Royal carriage. The pier and riverside would be cleared of unauthorised persons. Thames Division would patrol Gravesend Reach and escort the launch carrying the Prince from the pier to the
Hildegarde.

Who would suspect that assassins would strike from twenty feet below the pier?

Now that he knew the atrocity being planned, Cribb was in an appalling situation. The path of duty plainly lay in the direction of the nearest village. If the alarm were raised, the Prince could be persuaded to cancel tomorrow’s arrangement. But once Cribb left the house, the dynamiters would realise they had been tricked. They would escape. And they would certainly kill Thackeray before they left.

He decided to stay. He was under no illusion; in making this decision he was accepting personal responsibility for the future King of England. But while there was a chance of saving Edward Thackeray of Rotherhithe as well as Albert Edward of the House of Windsor, he was determined to take it. He would stake everything on his own ability to outwit Carse and Millar. There was already a plan in his mind.

At half past ten, he returned by arrangement to the dining room. Carse and Millar were there with McGee. On the table was the box containing the twin of the infernal machine that had gone under the gazebo. The lid was open.

‘We were admiring your handiwork, Brother,’ said Carse. ‘So neatly put together! I believe this is identical with the first bomb. Is that so?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Cribb candidly. ‘I was asked to make two bombs for Mr McGee to choose from. They were alike in every respect.’

‘Good. Then we should have no disappointments tomorrow morning. Do you know, I cannot abide failure, Brother Sargent? If things go wrong I have the most queer compulsion to take revenge on those responsible. The results are sometimes unspeakably distressing. Are you ready to activate the machine? We shall want it to detonate at precisely five minutes past ten tomorrow. By then His Royal Highness will have shaken hands with the local dignitaries and be moving sedately along the pier to the waiting launch. Our agents have studied this procedure before.’

Cribb approached the box and carefully tilted the alarm clock so that its face was visible. Under the watchful eyes of the others it was quite impractical to move the alarm-hand to any position but the one Carse had indicated. ‘Shall I set the clock to the correct time?’ he asked.

Carse drew out a gold watch. ‘Very well. But we shall take the time on my watch as the standard. Yours is incorrect by several minutes, if you remember. Set the hands to twenty minutes to eleven, taking care that the hour hand does not pass over the alarum hand.’

Cribb obeyed.

‘Now you may wind the clock,’ said Carse.

A lively ticking presently issued from the metal box.

‘It’s going all right,’ said Cribb superfluously.

‘But not activated yet, I think,’ said Carse. ‘You have still to wind the alarum. I believe it is the winder itself that makes contact with the trigger of the gun, is it not?’

‘Yes, I was leaving that till last. Now that the times are set, I can put the clock face down and turn the winder, as you say. One needs to be careful at this stage.’

He completed the process, leaving the handle of the alarum in a position where it would strike the trigger with sufficient force to operate the firing-mechanism of the gun.

‘Done!’ said Cribb.

Carse turned to McGee. ‘Is it in order?’

The hooded head nodded assent.

‘Then I shall seal it, and you and I shall carry it ourselves to the submarine boat, Brother Millar. Thank you, Sargent. You will oblige us now by taking Brother McGee upstairs, with the servant’s assistance. He is waiting in the hall, I believe.’

With a nod, Cribb took the handle of the wheel-chair and steered McGee out of the room. In the hall, the manservant came to meet him. Together, they carried the chair upstairs. McGee was pathetically light in weight. At the bedroom door, the servant indicated that he could put McGee to bed without help. Cribb passed along the corridor and quietly let himself into Rossanna’s room.

It would not have been wise to light the gas. He glided through the darkness until his knees came into contact with the bed. He whispered, ‘Rossanna. It’s me—Sargent. I’m going to untie you.’

She stirred, and he realised how close they were to each other. She murmured, ‘Michael.’

It was the name he had invented for his oath-taking. He had practically forgotten.

He sat on the edge of the bed and felt for her left arm. The knot that bound her wrist had tightened, but a few seconds’ work with his fingers succeeded in loosening it. He massaged her hand gently to restore the circulation, and then applied himself to the other knot, which held her right arm against the bars of the bedstead. This was more difficult, for it involved leaning across her body, but by hooking his right foot around the leg of the bed he contrived to maintain his balance while he worked at the knot. If he
did
come into contact with her person, it was the merest accidental touch of shirt and bodice and should not have prompted what happened next. The instant her right hand was released it snaked around his neck and pulled him firmly down towards the pillow. His right leg, still lodged behind the leg of the bed, contracted agonizingly. ‘It is a year since these lips touched another’s,’ Rossanna whispered passionately. She guided his face towards hers just as his foot regained its liberty. With a small groan of relief, he let his weight bear downwards and felt his mouth meet hers, partly open and returning the pressure he involuntarily exerted.

In cataloguing the various holds that can immobilise a man, manuals of self-defence without exception neglect to state that pressure on the nape of the neck by a determined woman in a horizontal embrace is almost impossible to withstand. Several seconds passed before Cribb was able to draw back from Rossanna. Then she said, ‘I shall not wait another year. That was exquisite, Michael Sargent, you impulsive man.’

Cribb, meanwhile, had retreated out of arm’s range.

‘Are you going to untie my ankles now?’ inquired Rossanna.

‘In a few minutes,’ said Cribb warily. ‘Keep your voice down. The servant is next door, attending to your father.’

‘What has been going on downstairs?’

‘They made me activate the bomb.’

She sat up in bed. ‘The second bomb you made? Did you—’

‘I had no choice,’ said Cribb. ‘They stood over me like prison warders. The clock is set for five past ten tomorrow morning. They’ve sealed the box and put it in the submarine boat. Devlin is packing the hull with all the dynamite left in the house.’

‘Then nothing can be done,’ said Rossanna. ‘And you
promised
me that Father would not die.’

‘I meant it. But first you must tell me the truth about him. Otherwise I can’t help him.’

‘What do you mean—the truth?’

‘The real extent of his injuries,’ said Cribb. ‘All this deaf and dumb talk between you is play-acting, isn’t it? He can’t communicate a word to you.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Listen, my dear, I’m sure of it. That night when somebody broke in downstairs, I came into your bedroom here, but found it empty. I got out through your father’s room, because I thought you might scream if you returned here and found me unexpectedly. And as I passed through, he watched me. His eyes followed me across the room. Next morning, over breakfast, you told us about the agitated state he was in for three-quarters of an hour after the disturbance, but you didn’t say
why.
You had your suspicions, but you couldn’t be sure, because he hadn’t told you. Even when we were alone, taking our walk through the woods, it took a tumble in the bracken to convince you it was me. I remember the words you used: “Then you
did
come to my room last night.” You mentioned hearing the floorboards upstairs creak as I returned to my room. If your father had been able to make you understand, Rossanna, you wouldn’t have needed creaking floorboards to tell you who your visitor had been.’

Rossanna released a long breath. ‘Very well, Michael. You’re a perspicacious man. I shall speak the truth. His injuries are far more serious than anyone but me has realised. His brain was irretrievably damaged in the accident. He cannot talk or communicate except nod and shake his head. He is like a child, capable of performing simple instructions, but he has lost the power of independent thought.’

‘And have you kept this from the others?’

‘I believe so. Certainly no one in America knew the helplessness of his condition. When I was summoned here after the accident, I was not only shocked beyond words by his injuries, I was frightened, Michael, terrified. You don’t know the Clan as I do. If they knew his brain was damaged, they would kill him. He has too many of their secrets. What use would it be to plead that he was helpless? And even if by some miracle they spared him, what future could there be? He was my provider, all that I had in the world. We should both be in the poor-house in a matter of weeks.’

‘So you decided to create the impression that he was still able to lead the dynamite party?’

‘What else could I do?’ said Rossanna. ‘I went through his papers and learned about the submarine boat that was to be constructed here. I found letters informing him that Tom Malone and Pat Devlin were sailing from New York with the Gaelic American Athletic Club, and would report here on arrival. They were bringing money, English sterling, enough to finance us for a year. I sent a trans-Atlantic cable in my father’s name, informing the Revolutionary Directory of his accident and stating that he had lost the use of his legs and the power of speech, but was otherwise unimpaired. With my help—and I knew that I was listed by the Clan as a patriot and a member of the Ladies’ Land League—he would carry on the work. It was confirmed by return that the arrangement was acceptable to New York. When Tom and Pat arrived I showed the cablegram to them, and they accepted me without question.’

‘Did you intend to carry out the plot exactly as your father had projected it?’

‘I did—until this evening. The only departure from his plan was that you replaced Tom Malone. How was Father to know New York would send us a man who panicked at the first whiff of danger? You can’t have a dynamiter with a nervous disposition—it’s a contradiction in terms. He would have killed us all sooner or later. I did the only thing I could. It’s still our secret, isn’t it?’ She stretched her hand forward and gripped his arm.

‘I didn’t see what happened,’ said Cribb. ‘Merely heard a shot, didn’t I?’

‘You’re a trump, Michael Sargent, a veritable trump, as I live and breathe!’ She tugged him determinedly towards her.

‘I’m sure you do, Rossanna,’ said Cribb, arresting the movement just as a strand of her hair feathered the tip of his nose. ‘But there are things I have to be clear about if I’m to help your father tomorrow. Is he capable of controlling the submarine boat?’

‘I believe he is,’ said Rossanna. ‘Patrick has always maintained that it is the simplest boat in the world to pilot, and of course they don’t expect Father to take the wheel until Gravesend pier is in sight. As I told you, he will carry out any simple instruction you give him. He is pleased to do things, like a small child. That’s why all this is so unfair. He doesn’t understand that they have persuaded him to commit suicide. What can you do to stop it, Michael?’

‘Leave it to me. Be on your guard tomorrow. They’re likely to take you with them, to interpret anything he might wish to say. But don’t imagine you can defeat them. Trust me—however black things seem.’

‘Very well, Michael. One thing baffles me, though. You are a professional adventurer, yet here you are siding with those who are in no position to reward you. Carse and Millar are the paymasters. By interfering with their plans, you sacrifice the fee they would have paid you.’

It was the sort of devastatingly practical remark women were liable to slip into a conversation when you least expected it.

‘Perhaps money isn’t my only consideration,’ suggested Cribb, lost for a convincing explanation.

To his immense surprise, Rossanna seized his shoulders and planted another emphatic kiss on his lips. Her hour or so strapped to the bed seemed to have left her in a demonstrative frame of mind. ‘That was beautiful to hear,’ she told him.