‘Jesus!’ said Malone, pulling excitedly at his whiskers.
‘But where’s the sense in it?’ asked Cribb. ‘Nobel’s manufactory is in Scotland. What is the stuff doing in the Thames Estuary?’
‘Waiting to be loaded on to outward bound vessels,’ said Rossanna. ‘They stop there regularly to collect consignments. It would be most unsafe, you understand, to have explosives stored in warehouses in the Port of London. Instead, they use the hulks in Hole Haven. Two of them belong to a German firm, the rest to the mayor of Gravesend, who receives the dynamite from Scotland and sees to the discharging, reloading and storage. An eminently sensible arrangement, and inexpensive, too. Each magazine, I understand, is guarded overnight by a single caretaker.’
‘Holy Mother of God!’ said Malone.
Rossanna was giving her attention to Cribb. ‘So the purpose of the evening is to collect a modest consignment of dynamite from Hole Haven. It will be so much more convenient than making importations from America. In approximately three-quarters of an hour, Patrick will draw alongside the
‘Now there’s a grand conception!’ said Devlin.
‘Beautiful!’ agreed Malone, half-closing his eyes to appreciate it fully.
‘An illustration, merely,’ said Rossanna. ‘My father is planning something infinitely more dramatic and effective- provided that we obtain the means tonight.’ She turned to Cribb again. ‘We want no hitch in this little enterprise. You will follow Mr Malone’s orders implicitly. In the circumstances, I have prevailed upon him not to carry a firearm, but he has no need of one when he can incapacitate a man just as quickly and more painfully with his bare hands.’
‘There’ll be no cause for that, miss,’ Cribb promised her.
When he went on deck again, the winking buoy was well astern and the Estuary had broadened to more than a mile across. Devlin was steering close to the Essex shore, a desolate tract of marshland unbroken by any sign of habitation.
Rossanna’s conference, disturbing as it was to anyone responsible for law and order, had rather fortified Cribb. His immediate future, at least, was less in doubt. The expedition was not planned with the sole intention of sending him the way of Bottle. Or so it seemed. If he were mistaken, it was the most diabolical charade-game he had ever taken part in. No, all the signs were that if he behaved convincingly as Malone’s assistant that night, he would win the confidence of the dynamiters. Put it down to forethought, intuition or uncommon luck, he had offered McGee what the conspiracy lacked at this stage in its campaign: the professional touch. He might shortly be expected to demonstrate it. Lord, he was thankful for those weeks at Woolwich!
He was conscious of a movement at his elbow: Rossanna, holding something in her arms. ‘Tall hats and morning suits look most distinguished, Mr Sargent, but they really will not do for climbing up the sides of dynamite- ships. Put on these things.’
He removed his hat and found it taken away in exchange for a bundle of clothes.
‘Please do not delay,’ said Rossanna. ‘We are passing Shell Haven on the port side. Our destination is less than a mile away. Give me your jacket. I shall take it to the cabin.’
She was right; it was ridiculous to think of clambering aboard a guarded ship in morning-dress. The others were in jerseys and dark trousers. He unbuttoned the jacket and took it off, checking the pockets first-but all they contained apart from coins was a crumpled rosette. Rossanna took the hat and coat below.
She had left him with a woollen fisherman’s cap-for which he was grateful, preferring not to go bareheaded out of doors, even in these circumstances-a black muffler and a short jacket in the reefer style. They effectively covered the telltale white and grey of his shirt-front and waistcoat. True, the reefer overlapped his shoulders and bulged somewhat in the area of his hips, but it was clearly made for a larger man. Now was not the time to fret over sartorial imperfections.
There remained something on the deck where she had deposited the clothes: a coil of rope, and under it, thoughtfully, a pair of black kid gloves. He slung the rope over his shoulder and was beginning to feel increasingly felonious, when his nostrils caught the whiff of something close at hand that quite restored the detective in him. Stale pipe-tobacco. It was coming from the clothes and he was absolutely sure that the brand was Marcovitch. He had smelt it a hundred times before. He ran his hands down the reefing-jacket, feeling its size and texture. Everything his pounding brain could suggest to check-buttons, pocket-flaps, lapels and vents-tended to confirm that it was Thackeray’s. He searched the pockets, but they had been emptied systematically- or so it appeared, until his hand located a small ticket pocket on the left side. Inside was a railway ticket. He made sure he was not being overlooked and moved closer to the cabin to get sufficient light to examine his find. It was a platform ticket issued by the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway at London Bridge station. The date on the reverse was May 18th, 1884-the Sunday he had found Thackeray beside the
‘That’s Canvey away to the right. This is Hole Haven,’ Rossanna presently informed him. ‘It looks a fine stretch of water, doesn’t it? Half a mile, would you say? Moonshine, Mr Sargent. If we turned the helm now we should run aground. The only navigable part is a narrow channel running close to Canvey, and that is where Patrick is making for.’
When the launch did begin to leave the fairway, the hulks were already in view, moored close together in the shadow of a tall dyke that buttressed Canvey Island from the tide. A line of illuminated buoys served as a warning to other shipping, and seemed to have impressed the dozen or so craft seeing the night out in the channel, for they were anchored at respectful distances.
‘We’ll lower the funnel now,’ Devlin called from the wheel. ‘She’s got a good head on her. We’ll go in close, my darlings.’
The launch coursed steadily towards the dynamite flotilla, its own lights now extinguished and its crew alert for any sign of a coastguard vessel. Malone joined Cribb at the stern without exchanging a word. Now that they stood together for the first time, there was six clear inches difference in their heights. Cribb decided it was time to indicate his dependability. ‘That grapnel you have in your hand, Mr Malone. Is it for securing a line to the
The big man gave the curt nod such an obvious inquiry deserved.
‘In that case,’ Cribb went on, ‘perhaps you would allow me to be the first to go aboard. As the lighter man in weight, I should impose less strain upon the line, and when I get to the top I can ascertain that it is quite secure for you.’
Malone was sufficiently touched by this to turn his head and take a closer look at his assistant.
‘I can shin up a rope as well as the next man and a little better than some,’ Cribb added. ‘I shan’t keep you waiting long.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Malone, after considering it.
Devlin had already steered the launch between the buoys, and it was gliding noiselessly towards two hugely- looming hulks, the barnacle encrustments on their surfaces glistening in the moonlight. Cribb glanced towards the cabin. Somewhere in there was Rossanna, wrapped in a black shawl, scrutinising every detail of the night’s doings for her father. A hazardous duty that, for one of the fair sex, but from his observations he would wager that she was equal to any crisis the night would produce.
They passed under the bows of one vessel to the more sheltered side. The
Devlin swung the wheel and they came alongside the hulk. Malone had moved forward and neatly fastened the painter to the aft anchor-chain of the
