Peter Lovesey: The Tick of Death

Besides, he was gradually reducing the stretch of water between the dynamiters and himself. It was difficult to understand why, because a smaller craft like theirs ought to have moved more quickly through the water. At this rate, he would be level with them before they entered Fiddler’s Reach. Steadily he bore down, with the police launches still in escort and exasperatingly declining to chase the dynamiters.

A hundred yards soon became seventy, and seventy, fifty. Already he could see Carse at the wheel and Devlin beside him. Then the reason why the dynamiters had cut their speed was made clear. Millar, on deck, had levelled a gun at the submarine boat. They had deliberately allowed their pursuers to come within range.

A small puff of smoke was followed immediately by a sharp impact on the side of the conning-tower. It was aimed at the scuttles, and if Cribb took the boat any nearer, the next could not fail to find its mark. He swung the wheel to port and ducked his head low, as a second shot cracked against the plating on his right. Thank God for Siemens-Martin steel!

He heard two more shots discharged, and was comforted by the sound of one making contact harmlessly somewhere to stern, while the other seemed to have missed altogether. This encouraged him to raise his head and check his position in relation to the launch. The dynamiters were now slightly astern of him and fifty yards to starboard. Millar was still poised on deck, gun in hand, looking for a clear line of fire. The police, like Cribb, had swung defensively towards the Kent bank. There was no sign of the man with the megaphone.

What would Carse do now: move in to give Millar a better chance of a shot, or keep the same course, knowing his pursuers would have to stay out of range?

Cribb watched the bows of the launch, ready to react at once to any change of direction. And as he watched, there was an astonishing development.

Rossanna came running from the cabin and leapt into the river. With arms flailing, she struck out towards the submarine boat, her black cloak riding the water like a manta ray. Millar heard the splash, turned, took in what had happened and made rapidly to inform Carse, who shortly appeared on deck. Rossanna was already thirty yards astern, and he did not take long in deciding to abandon her. Cribb saw him shake his head curtly and return to the wheel.

Seconds later, the launch was ripped apart by a massive explosion. Cribb saw the flash and ducked instinctively. Fragments of wood and metal beat like hail on the hull of the submarine boat. Water cascaded across the scuttles, obscuring vision, and the whole vessel keeled dangerously to port, as the shock wave hit them.

The force of the explosion was indicated by the number of seconds the rain of debris lasted. Some of it must have blown two hundred feet in the air. Cribb turned off the engine and waited. When he raised the lid of the conning-tower, the water was black with Thames mud. Here and there, small splinters of white wood broke the still turbulent surface.

He looked for Rossanna and saw her cloak fanned out in the water not twenty yards from the boat. There was no sign of anyone else.

‘Take charge, Thackeray!’ he called down. He climbed up and dived from the conning-tower. He struck out with his powerful breast-stroke and soon had his hand on the cloak. Rossanna was underneath, on the point of sinking, too exhausted to continue the struggle. She had done amazingly well to stay afloat so long in her sodden clothes.

Holding her firmly around the diaphragm, he tugged the cloak free of her face and unfastened the bow at her neck. It had very likely saved her from being burnt and scarred in the deluge that followed the explosion. Strands of copper-coloured hair were adhering to her face, and he carefully lifted them clear and tilted her head to aid respiration. Then, moving his hands under her arms from the back, he placed them on her shoulders and drew her against his chest, in the life-saving position advocated by Lieutenant Torkington in his Swimming Drill, and taught to such members of the Force as volunteered for aquatic training. He employed his legs to good effect, drawing the exhausted Rossanna easily through the water towards the submarine boat.

It was a shade disheartening to reach there and find that Thackeray had not had the foresight to put out the ladder from the conning-tower. He waited, treading water. After a quarter of a minute, he took a firm grip on Rossanna with his left hand, and thumped with his right on the metal hull.

There was no response from Thackeray. Blast it, the man must have fallen asleep again!

He changed his grip, and saw that Rossanna’s eyes were open. ‘Soon have you aboard, I hope,’ he told her.

‘The launch,’ she said. ‘Is it. .?’

‘Nothing left of it, Rossanna. What happened?’

‘I saw them shooting at the submarine boat and I thought of all the dynamite in it, and my father helpless inside, and I couldn’t bear it. I picked up a cake of dynamite from the case that was on the deck and dropped it in the bucket Patrick was using for the stoking. Then I jumped in the water.’

‘You’re lucky to be alive.’

‘Is my Father well?’

Cribb raised his eyebrows. ‘But I gave you my word.’

‘Of course.’ Rossanna smiled.

‘All right, mate, give us your hand, whoever you are,’ called a sergeant of Thames Division, as their launch drew alongside. ‘My mate says its Captain Webb, but I’ve got my money on Captain Nemo.’

Cribb helped Rossanna up, and then allowed himself to be hauled from the water. He wiped the worst of the mud from his face and smoothed down his hair.

‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I am Detective-Sergeant Cribb of Great Scotland Yard.’

‘Well that bloody well beats everything!’ said the sergeant.

INSPECTOR JOWETT REFILLED HIS pipe, stood up, walked thoughtfully to the window, was reminded that it was still boarded up from the Great Scotland Yard explosion, turned and resumed his seat. ‘Truly an amazing story, Sergeant,’ he said, lighting the pipe. ‘I would have found it difficult to credit if I had not been down to Swanscombe Marshes myself to see where the submarine boat ran aground.’

‘Ah, that was the result of a misunderstanding, sir,’ said Cribb. ‘Thames Division thought that Constable Thackeray was in control. He was asleep, sir. Effects of the chloral he was given. He can’t be blamed.’

‘My word, no!’ said Jowett. ‘I wouldn’t dream of blaming Thackeray. First-rate man. I knew he was dependable from the start, of course. In my position, you have to know your own men, by Jove. Fundamental to the job.’

‘So I believe, sir,’ said Cribb.

‘What you still haven’t explained to me is how you did it,’ Jowett continued.

‘Did what, sir?’

Jowett put another match to his pipe. ‘Well, you were given the job of constructing two identical infernal machines, one of which was to be used to demonstrate your skill as a dynamitard, while the other was afterwards put into the submarine boat. If I’ve understood your account of it correctly, you had no control over the selection of the bombs for these purposes, and the setting of the clocks was most stringently supervised.’

‘Quite correct, sir.’

‘So you couldn’t have interfered with the machines after you had made them.’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Yet the gazebo was blown to bits, while the bomb in the submarine boat failed to detonate. That’s either extraordinary good luck or so ingenious that the explanation eludes me. I repeat, how did you do it?’

Cribb hesitated, tugging his side-whiskers, knowing, as conjurers do, that explanations add nothing to spectacular effects. He really could not refuse to answer Jowett’s question, however. ‘Well, sir. It was very simple. When I built the machines I made sure that neither of ’em would work. I carefully removed all the powder from the cartridges the pistols fired. So they couldn’t go off, you see?’