Peter Lovesey - The Tick of Death

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.’