The Tick of Death

crashing to the slate floor. By degrees his eyes adjusted to the conditions. It was a large room, dominated on one side of the table by the range, and the other the dresser, fairly bristling with crockery. The four trays were set out ready for the morning, as before. Other objects, an ironing-board, a tin bath and a meat jack threatened to raise the house if he should accidentally knock them down. It was fortunate that he had not marched blindly in, because there were two fly-papers suspended near the dresser at the level of his head. He would probably have reacted to the unexpected contact by flinging out his arms in self-protection.

Two other doors led off from the kitchen: one, the tradesmen’s entrance, looked on to the kitchen garden; the other promised to be the scullery. He pushed the door behind him shut-and froze in his tracks. Something soft had touched his back, moving rapidly across the width of his shoulders. He wheeled round, and was confronted with a large canvas string bag, swinging gently from a nail on the back of the door. He grunted and moved decisively across the kitchen to the scullery.

A cat came to meet him as he opened the door, and smoothed its fur against his legs. He swung his eyes swiftly around the room. Dresser, sink, door, copper, mangle, door. The second door was the one that interested him. It probably led to a store for fuel or provisions, but it was bolted at top and bottom. He approached it and slipped the bolts. It opened easily. The cat ran inside. Cribb followed.

It was pitch-black. He whispered, ‘Thackeray?’

Not a sound.

‘Thackeray!’

A muffled groan from somewhere to his left.

‘Where are you, man?’

Thackeray’s voice, just coherent, said, ‘Can’t you per-ishers let a man have a wink of sleep?’

‘It’s me. Cribb.’

‘Blimey!’ A fumbling and scratching was followed by the striking of a lucifer, which immediately went out. ‘Blooming cat!’ A second attempt was successful. The lighting of a candle revealed the shaggy countenance of the constable who had once helped to arrest Charlie Peace. He was lying on a bed improvised from sacks stuffed with straw. Bundles of firewood were stacked on all sides of him. ‘Sarge, how did you find me?’

‘Never mind that,’ said Cribb. ‘Keep that candle away from the cat. This place is a blasted tinder-box. Now, Thackeray, are you all in one piece?’

‘Just about, Sarge, but I’ve had enough of this. I’ve been incarcerated here for two days with only a supply of candles and a Bradshaw’s Guide to keep me from going barmy. They bring me food twice a day and I can use the privy in the garden after nightfall-under escort, of course-but it ain’t my notion of a bank holiday weekend. Strewth, I’m glad you’ve come along to get me out of it.’

‘I haven’t,’ said Cribb. ‘I just dropped in, so to speak.’

Thackeray’s jaw sagged. ‘Do you mean that I’m not getting out, Sarge? Are you going to leave me here?’

‘I’ve got no choice. Freeing you would give the game away. They think I’m on their side, you see. I won’t forget you’re here though, depend upon it.’

This solemn assurance seemed to carry little weight with Thackeray. You could have driven a cab through the gap between his moustache and beard.

‘So we must make the most of the time we have,’ continued Cribb. ‘I want a brisk account of how they got you here and what they’ve told you. Pull yourself together, man, and make your report, or there’ll be something on your defaulter-sheet at the end of the week.’

The cold sponge treatment worked best with Thackeray. ‘I’m sorry, Sarge. I was lying here thinking of a warm feather bed when you came in.’

‘And I’ve left one to come and talk to you. Get on with it.’

‘Well, I was right about Malone,’ said Thackeray. ‘He proved to be a regular scoundrel. Not many days after our meeting at The Feathers he came in again. I managed to engage him in conversation and led him to believe that I was sympathetic to the idea of Irish independence. In fact I went so far as to say that a few bomb explosions round London might blast some sense into Mr Gladstone and encourage him to introduce a Home Rule Bill. I wanted Malone to feel that he could impart confidences to me, you see.’

‘Did he?’

‘Not in as many words, Sarge, but he seemed to look upon me as a useful companion, and I was able to tell him quite a lot about the sights of London. He took an uncommon interest in such monuments as Nelson’s Column and the Albert Memorial. The thing that impressed him most of all was a mention I made of the Tower Subway under the Thames. Coming from America as he had, he hadn’t heard of its existence, so I promised to show it to him last Friday.’

‘The night you were captured?’

‘Yes. We had a drink or two and I was confident that he was ready to talk about the dynamite conspiracy. We started on our walk and presently he told me that he thought we was being followed. To tell you the truth, I didn’t take much notice. I didn’t reckon any of the Bermondsey roughs would waylay a hulking great bloke like that, even if he was a blooming Irish Yankee. It was getting late when we passed into the tunnel from the Pickle Herring Street end, and we was the only ones inside except this geezer behind us. If he was following us, he couldn’t make a secret of it there, because it’s only seven feet wide, as you know. Suddenly Malone says, “Let’s stop and see how close the bastard comes.” Before I know what’s happening, he’s produced a big American revolver and shot the poor perisher through the head.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I said, “You’ve killed him,” and he laughed and said it was only a bloody copper and that he’d fix me too if I didn’t hump the body back to Bermondsey. So I did, at gunpoint, and all the way up the blinking spiral staircase, so as to dump it in the river. Then bless me if he didn’t march me down Shad Thames to a steam-launch, order me aboard, tie me hand and foot and leave me in the care of another Yankee, name of Devlin. I was brought here and given the candles and the Bradshaw and that’s almost all I can tell you, Sarge.’

‘You haven’t been interrogated yet?’

Thackeray went a shade paler. ‘What’s that, Sarge?’

‘Questions.’

‘By George, yes, I’ve had Devlin in here three times and a very violent man he is, I can tell you. It ain’t Queensberry’s rules in this house, by any manner of means. If you was looking for a split lip or a black eye you won’t find them, but I could show you marks in places no prizefighter ever had to worry over. Some of them was inflicted with the sharp end of that young woman’s parasol too, while Devlin had me pinioned on the sacks here. She ain’t so delicate-minded as she looks, Sarge, believe you me.’

‘Are you badly hurt?’

‘I don’t think there’s any permanent damage, but I wouldn’t like much more of it. I haven’t told them anything. Perhaps I should. They seem to know most of it already. They keep wanting me to confirm that I’m in the Force. How could they have discovered that? You don’t think I should tell them, do you?’

‘No-not if you can help it. When were they last here?’

‘I think it was yesterday morning. Fortunately, they seem to have plenty of other things to do as well. There’s no end of work going on in that big shed at the bottom of the garden. I can hear it each time I get taken outside, and that’s after dark. Is it infernal machines, do you think?’

‘Could be. What’s that?’ He had heard a movement somewhere overhead. It was repeated. Footsteps, he was certain. ‘I’ve got to be off. Now listen, Thackeray. You and I have stumbled upon a plot that promises to be more barbarous than anything the dynamiters have done so far. For some reason, they’ve taken it into their heads to make use of you. When the time comes, co-operate. Take no account of anything untoward you might see me do. I shan’t intervene until the moment I judge right, and I want no half-baked heroics from you. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Sergeant.’

‘Goodbye for now, then. And Thackeray, try to keep your wits about you.’ He had gone through the door and almost closed it when Thackeray’s urgent shout arrested him.

‘Sergeant!’

‘What now?’

‘You forgot the blooming moggy.’