a level pony—twenty-five pounds—for each successful detonation. Would you say that’s a reasonable offer?’ He addressed his question to the grey eyes behind the mask.
Rossanna put her head close to her father’s and held his hands. More unearthly sounds proceeded from McGee. One thing was certain: no normal palate could produce such distortions of the human voice. Cribb waited, not knowing whether he was hearing an invitation to the dynamite party or a sentence of death.
Devlin approached the invalid-chair and murmured something—no petition for mercy, Cribb was sure. Rossanna drew away from her father. ‘Mr Sargent, there remains a question to be answered. What was your purpose in telling the driver of our carriage that you wished to be conveyed to Great Scotland Yard?’
She put the question in a disarmingly mild manner, but Devlin’s predatory stare from behind McGee left no doubt of the importance of the answer.
Cribb gave a deliberately naive reply. ‘I thought it was a cab, miss.’
‘One takes that for granted, Mr Sargent.’ Her voice took on a more insistent tone. ‘Why Great Scotland Yard?’
He grinned, as if he had some joke to share with her. ‘Ah, I see your point entirely, miss. A pertinent inquiry, in the circumstances. The fact of the matter is that I’m a reader of The Times. Have you seen today’s edition? There’s a stirring account of the damage perpetrated in the capital last night. As one not uninterested in the fortunes of the dynamite campaign, I studied every word of it. What caught my eye in particular was a paragraph about the bomb discovered at the foot of Nelson’s column. Did you know that it was conveyed to Great Scotland Yard and left in the open for reasons of safety? They won’t have it inside for fear of blowing up what’s left of the Detective Department. So there it stands, miss, for anyone to see, and it’s asking too much of a man as interested as I am in explosives to stay away. That was why the Yard was going to be my next port of call.’
Rossanna turned to Devlin. ‘It appears to answer the point, Patrick. Mr Sargent would naturally be interested in seeing an infernal machine for himself.’ Receiving no response, she addressed her father. ‘What do you say, Papa? Is Mr Sargent to be relied upon?’
It was heartening to have Rossanna’s support intimated, even if Devlin maintained a sceptical silence. The verdict that mattered, though, was being uttered from the invalid-chair. Understanding nothing of the inane sounds McGee was producing, Cribb studied the slits in the mask for some flicker of assent, and saw none. The only conceivable indication of what was going on was the movement of McGee’s head, and when Cribb saw which way it was moving he preferred to regard it as a doubtful portent. Possibly, he told himself, the agitated conversation with the hands was rocking the chair.
It stopped. Rossanna faced Cribb. ‘Mr Sargent, my father wishes me to inform you that he is interested in your claims, but not entirely satisfied of their veracity. However, he is prepared to give you an opportunity tonight of convincing him. You are invited to participate in a small expedition. It provides you with a chance to demonstrate the qualities of a professional adventurer. I take it that the prospect is attractive to you?’
‘Shall I be paid for my services, miss?’ Cribb asked, in a strictly professional manner.
She smiled for the first time. ‘You will get what is due to you, Mr Sargent.’
Cribb decided he preferred Rossanna without the smile.
CHAPTER
7
THE SOUND OF A church bell travelled across the water of Gravesend Reach. One o’clock. The last of a mass of cloud passed inland, uncovering the moon. The slate roofs and spires of Gravesend were picked out sharply in the swiftly-moving luminosity, as if the gauze was being drawn away in some transformation effect at Drury Lane. Certainly the night had a theatrical feel about it for Sergeant Cribb,
Rossanna put her head close to her father’s and held his hands. More unearthly sounds proceeded from McGee. One thing was certain: no normal palate could produce such distortions of the human voice. Cribb waited, not knowing whether he was hearing an invitation to the dynamite party or a sentence of death.
Devlin approached the invalid-chair and murmured something—no petition for mercy, Cribb was sure. Rossanna drew away from her father. ‘Mr Sargent, there remains a question to be answered. What was your purpose in telling the driver of our carriage that you wished to be conveyed to Great Scotland Yard?’
She put the question in a disarmingly mild manner, but Devlin’s predatory stare from behind McGee left no doubt of the importance of the answer.
Cribb gave a deliberately naive reply. ‘I thought it was a cab, miss.’
‘One takes that for granted, Mr Sargent.’ Her voice took on a more insistent tone. ‘Why Great Scotland Yard?’
He grinned, as if he had some joke to share with her. ‘Ah, I see your point entirely, miss. A pertinent inquiry, in the circumstances. The fact of the matter is that I’m a reader of The Times. Have you seen today’s edition? There’s a stirring account of the damage perpetrated in the capital last night. As one not uninterested in the fortunes of the dynamite campaign, I studied every word of it. What caught my eye in particular was a paragraph about the bomb discovered at the foot of Nelson’s column. Did you know that it was conveyed to Great Scotland Yard and left in the open for reasons of safety? They won’t have it inside for fear of blowing up what’s left of the Detective Department. So there it stands, miss, for anyone to see, and it’s asking too much of a man as interested as I am in explosives to stay away. That was why the Yard was going to be my next port of call.’
Rossanna turned to Devlin. ‘It appears to answer the point, Patrick. Mr Sargent would naturally be interested in seeing an infernal machine for himself.’ Receiving no response, she addressed her father. ‘What do you say, Papa? Is Mr Sargent to be relied upon?’
It was heartening to have Rossanna’s support intimated, even if Devlin maintained a sceptical silence. The verdict that mattered, though, was being uttered from the invalid-chair. Understanding nothing of the inane sounds McGee was producing, Cribb studied the slits in the mask for some flicker of assent, and saw none. The only conceivable indication of what was going on was the movement of McGee’s head, and when Cribb saw which way it was moving he preferred to regard it as a doubtful portent. Possibly, he told himself, the agitated conversation with the hands was rocking the chair.
It stopped. Rossanna faced Cribb. ‘Mr Sargent, my father wishes me to inform you that he is interested in your claims, but not entirely satisfied of their veracity. However, he is prepared to give you an opportunity tonight of convincing him. You are invited to participate in a small expedition. It provides you with a chance to demonstrate the qualities of a professional adventurer. I take it that the prospect is attractive to you?’
‘Shall I be paid for my services, miss?’ Cribb asked, in a strictly professional manner.
She smiled for the first time. ‘You will get what is due to you, Mr Sargent.’
Cribb decided he preferred Rossanna without the smile.
CHAPTER
7
THE SOUND OF A church bell travelled across the water of Gravesend Reach. One o’clock. The last of a mass of cloud passed inland, uncovering the moon. The slate roofs and spires of Gravesend were picked out sharply in the swiftly-moving luminosity, as if the gauze was being drawn away in some transformation effect at Drury Lane. Certainly the night had a theatrical feel about it for Sergeant Cribb,
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