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.
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.’
Possibly it was a too obvious attempt to draw Devlin. ‘The cause?’ he repeated vacantly.
‘The deliverance of Ireland.’ Heavens, he would need to be more subtle with Rossanna’s father! ‘Doesn’t every young woman these days espouse a cause-married women’s property, socialism and so forth? Seems sensible for an Irish woman to devote herself to Home Rule, if you see my point.’
If Devlin did, he was unwilling to enter into a conversation about it.
Cribb made one more attempt to elicit information. ‘What kind of man is Mr McGee?’
‘You’ll see, soon enough.’
In seven minutes, in fact, by the skeleton clock under the dome on the mantelpiece. And when McGee did make his entrance, it was unlike anything Cribb could have prepared himself for. The leader of the infernal machinists, the father of the radiant Rossanna, was strapped into an invalid chair, his head lolling helplessly forward as his daughter wheeled him into the room. ‘Perhaps you were not aware, Mr Sargent,’ she said, ‘that my father, Daniel McGee, was the victim of an explosives accident eleven months ago. He lost the use of his legs and much of his face was blown away. That is why he wears this.’ She pulled the bowed head gently against the chair-back. It was covered by a black silk hood through which a pair of grey eyes regarded Cribb, the only certain indication of life. ‘His jawbone was shattered, and the surgeons fixed his mouth in a permanently open position that an unprepared person would find grotesque and offensive. Because he can make only indistinct sounds you might think him an imbecile, but he is not. God in His mercy preserved my father’s intellect. He will speak to you in the language of the dumb, by touching his hands on mine. There are some questions he wishes to put to you.’
Cribb had never experienced an inquisition like it. Inarticulate sounds issued from the hood as Rossanna’s hands made contact with her father’s and engaged in an elaborate procedure of clasping, tapping and stroking. ‘My father wishes to be told the reason for your extraordinary interest in Mr Malone,’ she presently said.
The two hours or so since his abduction had enabled Cribb to prepare for this. He had decided to keep his story as close to the truth as he could, in the interests of self-preservation. ‘I was interested for my own reasons in making contact with the dynamite conspiracy. I had heard of an Irish-American called Malone who was seen in Rotherhithe asking questions about the London stations shortly before the explosion in the cloakroom at Victoria last February. Malone is a common enough name among the Irish, I know, but when I chanced to notice it in a newspaper account of the Gaelic American Athletic Club’s visit to England, I took more than a passing interest. It occurred to me, Mr McGee, what a brilliant stratagem it would be to bring a group of dynamiters to these shores in the guise of sportsmen- perhaps even finding a first-class athlete who was interested in promoting the interests of his country in a practical way. So I decided to get to know Mr Malone better. I managed to insinuate myself into the party of officials at Lillie Bridge, and I endeavoured to engage him in conversation during the hammer-throwing contest. When I found that he was not the sociable sort, I initiated a friendship with Mr Devlin here, thinking to learn what I could about Mr Malone at second hand. I was fortunate in being able to assist Mr Devlin in a small way to secure victory at Lillie Bridge-’
‘I won the bloody contest outright,’ Devlin interpolated.
‘Unquestionably, but it required someone with my recently acquired knowledge of the rules to point it out. You were grateful at the time, which was fortunate for me, because you went on to tell me over a drink where Mr Malone’s hotel was situated.’
‘That was incautious, Patrick,’ commented Rossanna.
‘Faith, I was setting a bloody trap!’
‘Quite right,’ said Cribb. ‘A possibility I had altogether failed to allow for. After I visited the Alcazar Hotel and found the management most uncommunicative on the subject of Mr Malone, I came out and was ensnared, as Mr Devlin has indicated.’
Rossanna put her face close to the mask and indulged in more finger talk with McGee. ‘My father wishes to know what you want with the dynamiters-if you are successful in finding them.’
Cribb permitted himself a slight smile at the addition, a touch of feminine caution, he was sure. McGee had a thoughtful interpreter. ‘I want to join ’em, miss.’
An agitated session with the hands. ‘My father asks why, when you are patently not an Irishman.’
‘The answer is that I am a professional adventurer. I have a taste for danger, and I know a rare amount about the construction of infernal machines. I believe I could be useful to the dynamiters. And I don’t mind admitting that I would expect to be well-paid for my services.’
Another consultation. ‘Mr Sargent, my father thinks what you have said is presumptuous.’
‘I’m damned sure the dynamite party can afford to pay me, miss.’
She tossed her head impatiently. ‘He was not referring to that. He thinks it presumptuous of you to imagine that you can be of any use to the organisation.’
Cribb raised his eyebrows. Inwardly his pulses were pounding. If he were not convincing now, they would undoubtedly kill him. ‘I didn’t come into this blindly, miss. I took a close look at what the dynamiters have done, and I know where they want some expert advice. Oh, I don’t underestimate their ability, miss, or their pluck. And the machines are well enough made. It’s the
