The Tick of Death

window in the Yard had been shattered by the explosion. Workmen were engaged in shoring up the Police Office with wooden beams.

Cribb reached the police-line, was recognised, and passed through, stepping over the rubble with a sureness of foot quite recently acquired. The entrance was on the side away from the explosion. He mounted the stairs to Jowett’s office.

‘Kindly leave the door open behind you,’ the Inspector called to him as he went in. ‘We shall at least be able to breathe if there is an unobstructed passage of air. This dust is asphyxiating me by degrees.’ He was seated at his usual desk in front of a window-frame empty except for a few jagged segments of glass. A large fall of plaster from the ceiling had all but obliterated the tufted rug to which, as a senior officer, he was entitled. A thin film of white dust lay over everything in the room, including his hair and suit. ‘Unfortunately, there is nowhere else for us to talk.’

‘When did this happen, sir?’

‘Shortly after nine o’clock last night. One of the newspapers has already produced a special edition to report it. I have been here myself since the small hours.’ He stroked the unshaven bristles on his chin to emphasise his quick response to the emergency. ‘They sent a cab out to South Norwood for me.’

Better than a police-van, thought Cribb. ‘Is this the work of the Clan-na-Gael, sir?’

‘Without a shadow of doubt. Did you notice which room was the target of the attack?’

‘It looked to me like the Hackney Carriage Licensing Department, sir.’

‘No, on the upper floor. It is the room next to this, the new headquarters of the Special Irish Branch. They have struck directly at the officers who are investigating them. If that isn’t the Clan snapping its fingers in our faces, I don’t know what is.’

‘Was anyone hurt, sir?’

‘Several. None fatally, we think. P.C. Clarke, the constable on duty in the Yard, was blown against a wall and suffered a severe scalp wound. Six others, including a coachman and the barmaid from the Rising Sun, are in Charing Cross Hospital. Mercifully, no one was in the office at the time. It is extensively damaged, as you may imagine.’ Jowett paused, and frowned. ‘I have not seen inside, but I doubt whether my telephone-set has survived.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. One other point: I wouldn’t wish to criticise a man in no position to defend himself, but if P.C. Clarke was on duty in the Yard, how was it that he didn’t notice the infernal machine before it exploded?’

‘A perfectly proper observation, Cribb. The answer is that it was not in view. The dynamitards had secreted it in what one might describe as a convenient hiding-place adjoining the wall of the building.’

‘Oh? What was that, sir?’ said Cribb, blankly.

Jowett looked embarrassed and ran his hand over the back of his head, producing a small halo of dust. ‘Well, not to beat about the bush. .’

‘Ah! The public urinal, sir! Perfectly sited for their devilish purpose.’

‘Exactly so.’

‘That would account for the blast effects,’ said Cribb, pleased to air his new expertise. ‘The vertical thrust of the blast quite surprised me. The bricks have been displaced to a height of up to twenty feet. The urinal acted like a cannon, you see. Instead of the force being dispersed in all directions from the point of detonation, it was concentrated upwards. Curious-I was due for a practical demonstration of blast effects this morning. I didn’t know the Clan was going to provide it for me.’

‘You have not seen all that they provided,’ said Jowett.

‘What do you mean, sir?’

‘There were two other explosions last night, in St James’s Square. The Junior Carlton Club was attacked at eighteen minutes past nine. Fifteen seconds after, there was a second explosion across the Square, at Sir Watkin Wynn’s residence.’

‘A private residence? What have they got against Sir Watkin Wynn?’

‘Nothing at all. It was patently a mistake. The target must have been Winchester House next door, which is government property.’

‘And the Junior Carlton Club?’

‘Now that is interesting.’ Jowett opened a book on his desk. ‘This is a copy of the London Directory. In the section on St James’s Square there is no mention of the club. You see, its front entrance is in Pall Mall, and the back, in the Square, is used by tradesmen and servants. A foreigner to London might well turn to the Directory as an authority and gain the impression that the back entrance of the club, which is indistinguishable from any other mansion, is, in fact, Adair House, the home of the War Office Intelligence Department.’

‘Good Lord! The Special Branch and the Secret Service on one night! These fellows don’t do things by halves. What was the damage in St James’s Square?’

‘Mostly superficial, I am glad to report. It is miraculous that nobody was killed. The parts of the Junior Carlton occupied by members were almost untouched, but the kitchen and the servants’ quarters suffered somewhat. The bomb had been left at the foot of an iron staircase leading to the basement. The second bomb, at Sir Watkin Wynn’s, shattered all the windows there and in the Duke of Cleveland’s mansion next door, but the fullest force of the impact was curiously diverted at an angle of ninety degrees to Adair House. It brought down the mortar and dashed out the windows with such a powerful concussion that for a time it was believed there had been three explosions in the Square.’

‘That’s a nobby area, sir. Railway stations are one thing, noble residences quite another.’

‘Don’t I know it! Our list of witnesses reads like Burke’s Peerage. Unfortunately, they all appeared after the explosions. Now, Cribb, I have something more to show you, but I am interested to know what your observations are thus far, coming fresh from the explosives course, as you do.’

Fresh was not the word he would have used to describe his condition after three weeks at Woolwich. ‘I would need to see the places where the bombs were placed, sir. Possibly I could tell you then which method of detonation was used. The remnants of a clock-timing device are nearly always detectable at the place where the charge has exploded.’

‘Yes, yes. But what have you got to say about the organisation of the crime?’

What was he coming to? Best tread warily. ‘Well-planned, I should say, sir, allowing that there seem to have been some mistakes in St James’s Square. Possibly the perpetrators were less efficient than the plotters. Friday evening was a good one to choose.’

‘To have the maximum effect upon the populace over the Bank Holiday? You’re right, of course. The Local Government Board explosion last year coincided with the Easter Holiday, if I remember. Everyone came out to watch, as they will this weekend.’

‘There’s also the question of the Oaks, sir.’

‘The Oaks? What has a blasted horse-race got to do with it?’

‘The number of constables withdrawn for duty at Epsom, sir. We’re always under-staffed on Oaks Day. It’s a thing an Irishman might think of.’

‘An Irish-American?’

‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’

Jowett pushed back his chair and stood up, to the sound of splintering glass. ‘Let us not deceive ourselves, Sergeant. I spoke to you before of our concern at the knowledge the dynamite party appears to have of our methods. You remember the matter of the reliefs at the railway stations? We now appear to face an enemy which has got to know the very room in which the campaign against it is being mounted. Which passes freely into Scotland Yard to deposit an infernal machine in a convenience under our very-er-’

‘Noses, sir?’

‘Noses. And walks away without anyone noticing a thing. Doesn’t that tend to confirm that the Clan-na-Gael is as knowledgeable about police matters as you or I or the Commissioner himself?’

‘I’m afraid it does, sir.’

‘At least we understand each other. Now, if you will come with me, I shall show you the other discovery of which I spoke.’

Jowett lifted his bowler hat from the stand, blew off a layer of dust, and led Cribb out of his office and