The Tick of Death

the Force seemed too remote to bother over, Cribb would point out that even if one earned a commendation (and there was no regular procedure for that) the only place where it could be recorded was on the defaulter sheet.

So Thackeray’s sheet would contain the predictable catalogue of misdemeanours-taking off the armlet to obtain a drink from a publican, gossiping on duty, quarrelling with comrades, soliciting gratuities, unpunctuality, and so on-together with a list of the stations he had served in, and perhaps an entry in red ink commending his part in the arrest of Charles Peace in 1878. Cribb doubted if there would be any subsequent entries in red; none of the crimes he and Thackeray had investigated had caused such a stir.

He thought of going down to Rotherhithe to find out what the Paradise Street contingent knew of Thackeray. There must be someone who had an off-duty drink with him, or lodged in the section house. You could hardly use the same scullery and tin bath without getting to know something about a man. He considered the idea, and rejected it.

This was his dilemma-the repugnance he felt at being asked to spy on Thackeray, and the necessity of discovering what the man was doing. Until he was sure of Thackeray’s complicity, he refused to ignore the bond between them- however slender it suddenly seemed. For Jowett, though, the issue had been clear. ‘The Yard recognises that some of its employees are corrupt,’ he had blandly explained. ‘What do you expect on a wage of seventy-eight pounds a year for a constable, First Class? Read your Police Gazette, Sergeant. It is full of wretched officers who have succumbed to bribery of one sort or another. There are just as many dismissed constables-not to speak of sergeants-scrubbing out workhouses as there are inspectors such as myself promoted for unstinting service. That is the nature of our profession, Cribb. Thackeray has misguidedly transgressed, and must prepare to join the floor-scubbers. Not before he has rendered certain services to the dynamite investigation, however. You are not, on any account, to inform him of what we know.’ There was nothing for it but to cooperate. If Thackeray were really an informer, Cribb could only believe it by seeing it for himself. If not-if he were innocent and shamefully misrepresented-the way to set the record straight was to learn what was going on. Either way, Cribb was now drawn in to the dynamite investigation, and the threat to public safety overshadowed everything. He was committed to a course of action totally repugnant to him-spying on Thackeray, decent, dutiful, dependable Thackeray.

‘Damn you, Thackeray!’ he said aloud, and instantly felt better for it.

He left the Embankment thinking not of his assistant, but Mrs Cribb, and how she would take the news of his move to Woolwich Arsenal.

The course in explosives, Cribb shortly discovered, was organised with Civil Service precision. A team of Home Office experts and sergeant-instructors from the Royal Artillery engaged his attention continuously between 7 a.m. and 9 p.m. each day. As their solitary trainee, he stood in solemn attendance while they mounted their set- pieces, lit the fuses, and retired. Sometimes the preliminaries took two or three hours, but the conversation was entirely confined to such things as time-fuses and percussion-caps. The instructors shrank from anything more sociable. Between detonations they allowed him to eat or sleep. Any remaining time-and there was precious little of it-was expected to be spent practising with fire-arms on the ranges. By the week’s end he was almost ready to doubt whether observation of the Sabbath was permitted to secret agents under instruction.

It required unimaginable self-discipline to raise himself from his pillow on the Sunday, his head still singing from a Lithofracteur blast and his shoulder sore from rifle-practice, and examine a telegraph message from Inspector Jowett: Thackeray off duty today. Suggest you keep under discreet observation. Did this mean no explosions were planned that day? He was into his clothes and out of the Arsenal gates before anyone could tell him otherwise.

A train to Liverpool Street and a cab across London Bridge brought him to Rotherhithe, and Paradise Street police station. The sergeant on duty was an old friend.

‘Thackeray? Reliable man. Helped to arrest Charlie Peace in seventy-eight, did you know that?’

‘He’s helped me too, on occasions,’ said Cribb, a little bleakly. ‘Where do I find him this morning-in the section house?’

‘I doubt it. He’s an early riser. He’ll have been up since six. Thackeray doesn’t believe in spending his time here when he can be up and about. Not lately, anyway.’

Cribb noted the emphasis. ‘He’s changed his habits, you mean?’

There was a shade too much of the professional manner in the inquiry. The duty-sergeant shot him a quick glance. He felt the shabbiness of what he was doing.

‘He goes out a bit more, that’s all,’ explained the sergeant. ‘I don’t believe in prying into a man’s off-duty hours.’

‘Nor me,’ said Cribb emphatically. ‘A bobby’s entitled to his private life, as much as any member of the public. Do you know the duty I shirk more than any other? Inspecting the lodgings once a month. It’s a liberty going into a man’s home uninvited, in my opinion. No, I was wanting to see Thackeray for old time’s sake. We’ve worked together so often, you understand. You wouldn’t know where I could find him, I suppose?’ This was altogether more casual and disarming.

‘Sunday morning?’ said the sergeant. ‘Probably at one of the main railway stations. He spends a lot of his time at the stations, if my information’s correct.’

Cribb gulped.

‘I’ll ask if anyone knows,’ the sergeant continued. ‘I wouldn’t want to send you to Paddington if he’s fixed on Waterloo this time.’

The constable at the desk thought Thackeray had set off in the direction of London Bridge.

‘I’ll try that, then,’ said Cribb, quickly. ‘You wouldn’t know what he does at the main line stations, would you?’

‘I’ve no idea, Sergeant. He don’t talk to nobody about it.’

Cribb thanked them, and took a bus up Jamaica Road and Tooley Street, a mile’s drive along the riverside, past breweries and warehouses. To the left, trains thundered along the viaduct above the chimney-pots of Bermondsey.

He left the bus at a step brisk enough to betray anxiety about the future of London Bridge station. Thackeray was not in the booking-hall. Nor had the man in the cloakroom seen anyone answering his description that morning. His step eased a little.

Eventually he discerned a familiar, bearded figure in bowler hat and ulster at the far end of the Brighton platform. He purchased a platform ticket and strode straight up to his man. Discreet observation be blowed!

Thackeray had not noticed his approach. ‘Good Lord! You, Sarge? Fancy that!’

‘I saw you standing there,’ said Cribb, truthfully, ‘so I came along.’

‘What are you doing, then? Are you off to Brighton for the day?’

‘Not me,’ said Cribb. ‘How about you?’

A tinge of mild embarrassment coloured the constable’s cheeks. ‘Me, Sarge? I-er-well, if you really want to know, I’m here because of this.’ He made a small, limp gesture with his hand.

Cribb’s eyes followed the direction, and then blinked. ‘That, you mean?’

Thackeray nodded.

In his bee-line along the platform, Cribb had quite omitted to notice it: an enormous express locomotive painted in the brilliant golden ochre and dark olive green livery of the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway Company.

‘Number 214,’ Thackeray said, as if he were making an introduction. ‘The Gladstone. One of William Stroudley’s engines.’

Cribb nodded, avoiding the impulse to lift his hat.

‘Did you ever see such a finish?’ Thackeray went on, with undisguised emotion. ‘Look at that buffer-beam, Sarge. There’s all of five colours in it-red, white, black, yellow and claret. And how about the wheels-ain’t they the handsomest that ever touched a track? What other railway company would paint its wheel-centres bright yellow and keep ’em as clean as that?’ He turned on Cribb, almost challenging him to supply an answer.

The sergeant frowned. ‘Do I understand, Thackeray, that you came here this morning to make the acquaintance of this-er-Number 214? To a railway terminus, on your day off?’

‘I couldn’t have seen her anywhere else, Sarge,’ said Thackeray, simply. ‘And she’s worth a mile walk on a Sunday morning, you must admit. Mr Stroudley hasn’t any rivals as a locomotive-engineer, in my opinion.’