Peter Lovesey - The Tick of Death

‘The darling gentlemen!’ said Devlin with feeling.

‘When shall we see them?’ asked Cribb, with all the enthusiasm at his command.

‘Tomorrow evening. They have convened a formal meeting of the Clan. It will give us the opportunity of admitting you to our ranks, Mr Sargent. That is essential if you are to join us in the climax of our work. I assume that you have no objection to taking a solemn oath to devote yourself to the cause of a free Ireland?’

‘I’ll swear to anything, miss, if I’m paid for it.’

‘That isn’t what our visitors will want to hear, Mr Sargent, but Patrick and I understand the conditions of our arrangement with you, and as my father is proposing you, there should be no difficulties. However, he is most desirous that you should make a good impression on them. Coming as they do, fresh from America, they will not have heard of Tom Malone’s passing, rest his soul.’

‘Amen,’ murmured Devlin, nodding his assent like a man at a prayer-meeting.

‘It will undoubtedly come as a shock to them. Their first inclination might be to cancel the project.’

‘The buggers!’ said Devlin.

‘But we shall then tell them of the more than adequate substitute we have found.’ She indicated Cribb with a wave of the hand. He returned a modest smile.

‘And that is the juncture,’ she continued, ‘at which Father has decided you will do something that will leave no doubt in their minds as to your eligibility for the Clan.’

Cribb’s smile faded. ‘What’s that?’

‘You will provide a demonstration of your bomb-making skills. You are to use the time between now and tomorrow evening in constructing two infernal machines. We shall detonate one of them in full view of our guests in the most dramatic circumstances. It will reinforce all the fine things Father will have to say about your usefulness to the Clan. Isn’t it a splendid plan?’

Cribb took a fortifying sip of tea.

Before he could respond, Rossanna went on, ‘The second machine, which must be identical to the first, will be required later on. You shall have all the materials you need. Tell me, how much dynamite would you say is necessary to destroy a building of moderate size-say the size of Patrick’s workshop in the garden?’

Devlin was on his feet. ‘What the blazes-’

‘Don’t get so agitated, Patrick. I am merely providing Mr Sargent with an example. Well?’ She raised her eyebrows and looked in Cribb’s direction.

He tapped his nose knowledgeably. ‘Hm. It’s a brick building if I remember. Solidly constructed. Fifteen pounds of the stuff would certainly do it, though, and you might manage with less. It depends very much on where you place your charge.’

‘We shall come to that in a few minutes. Finish your breakfast, Mr Sargent, and you may then escort me into the garden. There is something I must show you. This is just the morning to be outside, don’t you agree?’

In five minutes, she was steering him determinedly into an area of the garden they had avoided in their previous walk, a wilder, more wooded part, where she had to lift her skirt to avoid entangling it in briars. Cribb picked up a stick, trimmed it and used it to beat away obstructions. When they had been going some hundred yards and the house behind them was out of sight, Rossanna gave a small cry of distress. ‘My skirt! It is all caught up on a beastly bramble, Mr Sargent.’

He turned from his beating and went to her aid. It was difficult to account for the accident. He had been most conscientious in clearing every hazard from the footpath, even to the point of slashing the stems of those liable to spring back. For all his efforts, she was undeniably held captive at the side of the path. ‘You should have kept to the centre, Rossanna,’ he told her. ‘Now keep still. It’s not the skirt that’s caught, it’s the petticoat. My word, lace as delicate as this wasn’t made for promenading in the woods, you know. If you’ll just move your foot a fraction to the right, then-oh, my stars!’

How it happened, he was not clear, because he was too occupied stooping to disentangle the lace from the bramble without damage. He was briefly aware of a quivering movement from Rossanna. She wobbled, changed her footing, reached out with her arms and then lost balance altogether, gently subsiding into the fronds of young bracken behind her. It would have been passably discreet if one of her hands had not caught Cribb’s shoulder and toppled him over in the same direction. His fall, too, was gentle. He found himself immersed in a sea of lace and white linen, his right hand in contact with a stockinged knee and the side of his face pressed against an area it did not take a C.I.D. training to identify as her bosom. In trying to extricate himself, he inadvertently brushed his left hand across a surface of smooth, warm flesh terminated by what could only be a garter.

‘Then you did come to my room last night!’ exclaimed Rossanna, without displaying much concern at her predicament. ‘I was sure I heard you move across the floorboards on your way back to bed. No wonder Father was so restless!’

‘I’m not sure what this has got to do with it,’ said Cribb, lifting his head, but refraining from any further movement of the hands.

‘I should have thought it was obvious,’ said Rossanna, giggling. ‘I hope your bomb-making is more restrained than your love-making, Mr Sargent, or we shall all be blown up when you get to work with the dynamite this afternoon. Much as I am flattered by such a display of passion, I must plead to be released on this occasion. There is so much to be done before the emissaries arrive tomorrow, and Father relies on me absolutely.’ She lifted her head and pertly kissed the tip of his nose. ‘Perhaps in a day or two, when the work has been completed. . Now, if you will kindly put down my skirt and help me to my feet, we might resume our walk.’

The whole thing had happened so precipitately and without any initiative on his part-whatever she suggested to the contrary-that he felt quite weak at the knees when he stood up. If, as he suspected, she had engineered it all, then she was a remarkable young woman, a conclusion he had reached soon after meeting her, without realising how remarkable. But why should she have arranged such an accident? Was it to satisfy herself that he had really been on an amorous mission the night before? She had certainly reacted emphatically after the accidental arrival of his hand upon her thigh. Accidental? Fortuitous, more like. She had taken it as the signal of a resumption of passion. It was all she had wanted to know.

Satisfactory as the outcome was, he still felt that his reputation as an adventurer was a little tarnished by the incident. He reflected, as he obligingly removed a thistle from the back of Rossanna’s skirt, that a professional would not have behaved in quite the same way. And he would have struck a short, sharp blow in that area to rekindle her respect for the adventuring profession if she had not been wearing a bustle.

As it was, they continued their journey along the path for another hundred yards or so, when they came to a small lake. On the far side was a tall red-brick tower in the gothic style, crenellated at the top. It was accessible from the bank on one side, but supported in the water by three arches.

‘What’s that?’ asked Cribb.

‘A folly, Mr Sargent.’

‘Folly?’

‘A useless building erected at the whim of a landed gentleman. Some call them gazebos. This one is your target for destruction.’

‘Good Lord! The owner won’t take kindly to that, will he?’

‘The owner is an Irishman. He will be told that his folly was sacrificed to the cause. I am sure you must have destroyed scores of buildings more serviceable to mankind than this monstrosity.’