‘Keep your distance, Mr Devlin,’ he warned. ‘It’s a queer thing: since that knock on the back of my head, my fingers have started to twitch. Nasty affliction to have if you’re holding a Smith and Wesson.’
Devlin lay as he had fallen, like one of the petrified inhabitants of Pompeii, while Cribb considered his next move. Things seemed to happen with embarrassing speed in the Secret Service. Masterly as his counter-plot was, and brilliant in execution, it had ended with possession of the gun. Now that he had a moment for reflection, he could divine certain difficulties in winning the confidence of the dynamite party with a loaded revolver in his hand. Still, he would not have made much of an impression either, tied up in the coach-house in shirt-sleeves and socks. There was at least the opportunity now of making himself presentable. So, one-handed, he retrieved his braces, draped them over his shoulders and fastened them at front and back, a not inconsiderable feat. The waistcoat and jacket followed without fuss, and the hat, lodged firmly in place, and given a slight tilt as an afterthought. By George, he was ready to meet the dynamiters now! Or believed he was, until a slight coolness under the soles of his feet reminded him that he was still standing in his socks. Fortunately, the boots were of the button-fastening type, and quite quickly fixed. That done, he ordered Devlin to his feet. ‘You were going to introduce me to somebody,’ he told him. ‘Isn’t it time we went inside? There is really no need to hold your hands above your head like that. I didn’t ask you to do that, did I? Just walk naturally ahead of me and don’t try anything irregular on the way. I should greatly prefer it if you were still alive to make the introductions.’
With a nod more indicative of co-operation than comprehension, Devlin pushed open a door in the whitewashed wall on his left and led the way up some stairs and through a carpeted passage, Cribb keeping within two paces of him. A second door opened on to the entrance-hall of what was undoubtedly a house of considerable size. They crossed a tiled floor to an oak door, Cribb thoughtfully removing his hat meanwhile. Devlin tapped deferentially and pushed open the door.
Cribb followed him into a spacious, sunlit room, unexpectedly light after the panelling of the hall. In front of the mantelpiece, observing their entrance in a large gilt-framed chimney mirror, stood a young woman with copper-coloured hair formed into a tight bun on the top of her head. The moss-green silk of her tea-gown, a dress cut with such severity of line that the bustle seemed a subversive presence, betrayed not the slightest rustle of movement as she spoke. ‘You have brought us a visitor, Patrick Devlin?’
Devlin cleared his throat. When his voice came, it was thick with the unease of his situation; ‘I have, miss. His name is Sargent.’
‘Why is he standing behind you?’
‘Because of what he is holding in his right hand, miss.’
She shifted her gaze slightly, still looking into the mirror.
‘A silk hat? What does that have to do with it?’
‘There is something inside the silk hat, miss,’ said Devlin, daring as much as anyone in his position could.
There had not been a hint of brogue in her voice before, but now she turned her face from the mirror and spoke in a broad Irish accent, wickedly mimicking Devlin. ‘Indeed, and what might that be? Is it a little rabbit, at all?’ She crossed the room for a better view of Cribb. ‘Sure, I wouldn’t have taken Mr Sargent for a magician.’
‘Lord no, miss,’ Cribb agreed, returning a grin. ‘As you see, there’s nothing in here but my hand. Mr Devlin is under a misapprehension. He thinks I am carrying a dangerous little article that belongs to him, but I left the object in question in the coach-house. I saw a convenient bucket of water and dropped it inside as we passed. You’ll pardon me, I hope, miss, but I didn’t catch your name just now.’
‘It wasn’t mentioned. I am Rossanna McGee.’
And a little over twenty years of age, he added in his mental notebook, with green eyes, dimpled cheeks and as white and even a set of teeth as you would wish to see.
By now, Devlin had turned round and was directing an avalanche of explanation on Miss McGee, who seemed more interested for the moment in taking a long look at Sergeant Cribb. ‘. . And when he comes out of Malone’s hotel,’ Devlin said slowing his speech for emphasis, ‘the first thing he sets his eyes on is our carriage, and he comes up to us at a trot and asks to be taken to Great Scotland Yard. D’you see now why I think your father should take a look at him?’
‘What was that?’ she said absently. ‘Oh, Father. I shall go to him now and ask if he proposes to meet Mr Sargent. See that our visitor is comfortable, Patrick. Try not to behave like a jailor. He would hardly have marched you in here if he were thinking of running away.’
She left the room, and to encourage Devlin’s confidence Cribb seated himself in a leather armchair. ‘Handsome young woman, Miss McGee,’ he ventured. ‘Obviously Irish, but she doesn’t show it in her speech. Not in the normal run of conversation,’ he added.
‘Rossanna had all her schooling in England,’ said Devlin, emphasising her Christian name as if he was wanting to make some point to Cribb.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Cribb. ‘Elocution. Do you know, Mr Devlin, I sometimes wonder at the amount of time our better schools for young ladies devote to inculcating the Queen’s English. But if she’s lost her Irish accent, I dare say she’s retained a proper interest in the cause.’
Possibly it was a too obvious attempt to draw Devlin. ‘The cause?’ he repeated vacantly.
‘The deliverance of Ireland.’ Heavens, he would need to be more subtle with Rossanna’s father! ‘Doesn’t every young woman these days espouse a cause-married women’s property, socialism and so forth? Seems sensible for an Irish woman to devote herself to Home Rule, if you see my point.’
If Devlin did, he was unwilling to enter into a conversation about it.
Cribb made one more attempt to elicit information. ‘What kind of man is Mr McGee?’
‘You’ll see, soon enough.’
In seven minutes, in fact, by the skeleton clock under the dome on the mantelpiece. And when McGee did make his entrance, it was unlike anything Cribb could have prepared himself for. The leader of the infernal machinists, the father of the radiant Rossanna, was strapped into an invalid chair, his head lolling helplessly forward as his daughter wheeled him into the room. ‘Perhaps you were not aware, Mr Sargent,’ she said, ‘that my father, Daniel McGee, was the victim of an explosives accident eleven months ago. He lost the use of his legs and much of his face was blown away. That is why he wears this.’ She pulled the bowed head gently against the chair-back. It was covered by a black silk hood through which a pair of grey eyes regarded Cribb, the only certain indication of life. ‘His jawbone was shattered, and the surgeons fixed his mouth in a permanently open position that an unprepared person would find grotesque and offensive. Because he can make only indistinct sounds you might think him an imbecile, but he is not. God in His mercy preserved my father’s intellect. He will speak to you in the language of the dumb, by touching his hands on mine. There are some questions he wishes to put to you.’
Cribb had never experienced an inquisition like it. Inarticulate sounds issued from the hood as Rossanna’s hands made contact with her father’s and engaged in an elaborate procedure of clasping, tapping and stroking. ‘My father wishes to be told the reason for your extraordinary interest in Mr Malone,’ she presently said.
The two hours or so since his abduction had enabled Cribb to prepare for this. He had decided to keep his story as close to the truth as he could, in the interests of self-preservation. ‘I was interested for my own reasons in making contact with the dynamite conspiracy. I had heard of an Irish-American called Malone who was seen in Rotherhithe asking questions about the London stations shortly before the explosion in the cloakroom at Victoria last February. Malone is a common enough name among the Irish, I know, but when I chanced to notice it in a newspaper account of the Gaelic American Athletic Club’s visit to England, I took more than a passing interest. It occurred to me, Mr McGee, what a brilliant stratagem it would be to bring a group of dynamiters to these shores in the guise of sportsmen- perhaps even finding a first-class athlete who was interested in promoting the interests of his country in a practical way. So I decided to get to know Mr Malone better. I managed to insinuate myself into the party of officials at Lillie Bridge, and I endeavoured to engage him in conversation during the hammer-throwing contest. When I found that he was not the sociable sort, I initiated a friendship with Mr Devlin here, thinking to learn what I could about Mr Malone at second hand. I was fortunate in being able to assist Mr Devlin in a small way to secure victory at Lillie Bridge-’