Peter Lovesey - The Tick of Death

Cribb fractionally opened his eyes and watched his captor select a length of rope from several, coiled and suspended on nails in the wall. So Devlin had decided to tie him up. It would be interesting to see how he managed that with a gun in his hand.

The footsteps returned. Cribb took stock of himself, his head still singing from the blow that had floored him. It must have been the butt of the Smith and Wesson that Devlin had used, though it had felt like one of his throwing-hammers. The pains in his shoulder and side had eased somewhat. It was difficult to be sure, but things felt bruised rather than broken. If the chance he was waiting for materialised, he would assuredly take it.

Devlin reached him, stood pensively over him for a second or two, and then squatted by his feet and passed the rope underneath them, the revolver still in his right hand. Cribb watched this through a triangle formed by the underside of his right forearm, his chest and the ground. As a means of observing what was being done to his feet, it was both convenient and safe, for his arm shielded his eyes from Devlin’s view. The disadvantage of the position was that his closeness to the ground robbed him of the ability to judge distance accurately. If Devlin put the gun to the ground, it would be infernally difficult to grab it in one movement. Cribb had something extra in mind.

The rope was now bound tightly six or seven times around his ankles. Devlin paused, ready for the crucial tying of the knot, his broad hands holding two loose ends and a gun, assessing the difficulty of manipulating all three. He passed the gun from the right hand to the left, held it thoughtfully for a second, and then put it on the ground beside him.

Cribb allowed him time to begin the process of tying the knot. Then he moved. In a sequence of actions so rapid as to seem simultaneous, he reached behind his head and fastened his hands on a carriage-wheel for leverage, wrenched his bound legs from Devlin’s grasp, drew his knees up to his chest and thrust his feet back at Devlin with all the force he could muster. It bowled the man off balance, and Cribb had dived for the gun and got it safely in his hand before Devlin lifted his head from the ground.

‘Keep your distance, Mr Devlin,’ he warned. ‘It’s a queer thing: since that knock on the back of my head, my fingers have started to twitch. Nasty affliction to have if you’re holding a Smith and Wesson.’

Devlin lay as he had fallen, like one of the petrified inhabitants of Pompeii, while Cribb considered his next move. Things seemed to happen with embarrassing speed in the Secret Service. Masterly as his counter-plot was, and brilliant in execution, it had ended with possession of the gun. Now that he had a moment for reflection, he could divine certain difficulties in winning the confidence of the dynamite party with a loaded revolver in his hand. Still, he would not have made much of an impression either, tied up in the coach-house in shirt-sleeves and socks. There was at least the opportunity now of making himself presentable. So, one-handed, he retrieved his braces, draped them over his shoulders and fastened them at front and back, a not inconsiderable feat. The waistcoat and jacket followed without fuss, and the hat, lodged firmly in place, and given a slight tilt as an afterthought. By George, he was ready to meet the dynamiters now! Or believed he was, until a slight coolness under the soles of his feet reminded him that he was still standing in his socks. Fortunately, the boots were of the button-fastening type, and quite quickly fixed. That done, he ordered Devlin to his feet. ‘You were going to introduce me to somebody,’ he told him. ‘Isn’t it time we went inside? There is really no need to hold your hands above your head like that. I didn’t ask you to do that, did I? Just walk naturally ahead of me and don’t try anything irregular on the way. I should greatly prefer it if you were still alive to make the introductions.’

With a nod more indicative of co-operation than comprehension, Devlin pushed open a door in the whitewashed wall on his left and led the way up some stairs and through a carpeted passage, Cribb keeping within two paces of him. A second door opened on to the entrance-hall of what was undoubtedly a house of considerable size. They crossed a tiled floor to an oak door, Cribb thoughtfully removing his hat meanwhile. Devlin tapped deferentially and pushed open the door.

Cribb followed him into a spacious, sunlit room, unexpectedly light after the panelling of the hall. In front of the mantelpiece, observing their entrance in a large gilt-framed chimney mirror, stood a young woman with copper-coloured hair formed into a tight bun on the top of her head. The moss-green silk of her tea-gown, a dress cut with such severity of line that the bustle seemed a subversive presence, betrayed not the slightest rustle of movement as she spoke. ‘You have brought us a visitor, Patrick Devlin?’

Devlin cleared his throat. When his voice came, it was thick with the unease of his situation; ‘I have, miss. His name is Sargent.’

‘Why is he standing behind you?’

‘Because of what he is holding in his right hand, miss.’

She shifted her gaze slightly, still looking into the mirror.

‘A silk hat? What does that have to do with it?’

‘There is something inside the silk hat, miss,’ said Devlin, daring as much as anyone in his position could.

There had not been a hint of brogue in her voice before, but now she turned her face from the mirror and spoke in a broad Irish accent, wickedly mimicking Devlin. ‘Indeed, and what might that be? Is it a little rabbit, at all?’ She crossed the room for a better view of Cribb. ‘Sure, I wouldn’t have taken Mr Sargent for a magician.’

‘Lord no, miss,’ Cribb agreed, returning a grin. ‘As you see, there’s nothing in here but my hand. Mr Devlin is under a misapprehension. He thinks I am carrying a dangerous little article that belongs to him, but I left the object in question in the coach-house. I saw a convenient bucket of water and dropped it inside as we passed. You’ll pardon me, I hope, miss, but I didn’t catch your name just now.’

‘It wasn’t mentioned. I am Rossanna McGee.’

And a little over twenty years of age, he added in his mental notebook, with green eyes, dimpled cheeks and as white and even a set of teeth as you would wish to see.

By now, Devlin had turned round and was directing an avalanche of explanation on Miss McGee, who seemed more interested for the moment in taking a long look at Sergeant Cribb. ‘. . And when he comes out of Malone’s hotel,’ Devlin said slowing his speech for emphasis, ‘the first thing he sets his eyes on is our carriage, and he comes up to us at a trot and asks to be taken to Great Scotland Yard. D’you see now why I think your father should take a look at him?’

‘What was that?’ she said absently. ‘Oh, Father. I shall go to him now and ask if he proposes to meet Mr Sargent. See that our visitor is comfortable, Patrick. Try not to behave like a jailor. He would hardly have marched you in here if he were thinking of running away.’

She left the room, and to encourage Devlin’s confidence Cribb seated himself in a leather armchair. ‘Handsome young woman, Miss McGee,’ he ventured. ‘Obviously Irish, but she doesn’t show it in her speech. Not in the normal run of conversation,’ he added.

‘Rossanna had all her schooling in England,’ said Devlin, emphasising her Christian name as if he was wanting to make some point to Cribb.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Cribb. ‘Elocution. Do you know, Mr Devlin, I sometimes wonder at the amount of time our better schools for young ladies devote to inculcating the Queen’s English. But if she’s lost her Irish accent, I dare say she’s retained a proper interest in the cause.’