He removed his hat and found it taken away in exchange for a bundle of clothes.
‘Please do not delay,’ said Rossanna. ‘We are passing Shell Haven on the port side. Our destination is less than a mile away. Give me your jacket. I shall take it to the cabin.’
She was right; it was ridiculous to think of clambering aboard a guarded ship in morning-dress. The others were in jerseys and dark trousers. He unbuttoned the jacket and took it off, checking the pockets first-but all they contained apart from coins was a crumpled rosette. Rossanna took the hat and coat below.
She had left him with a woollen fisherman’s cap-for which he was grateful, preferring not to go bareheaded out of doors, even in these circumstances-a black muffler and a short jacket in the reefer style. They effectively covered the telltale white and grey of his shirt-front and waistcoat. True, the reefer overlapped his shoulders and bulged somewhat in the area of his hips, but it was clearly made for a larger man. Now was not the time to fret over sartorial imperfections.
There remained something on the deck where she had deposited the clothes: a coil of rope, and under it, thoughtfully, a pair of black kid gloves. He slung the rope over his shoulder and was beginning to feel increasingly felonious, when his nostrils caught the whiff of something close at hand that quite restored the detective in him. Stale pipe-tobacco. It was coming from the clothes and he was absolutely sure that the brand was Marcovitch. He had smelt it a hundred times before. He ran his hands down the reefing-jacket, feeling its size and texture. Everything his pounding brain could suggest to check-buttons, pocket-flaps, lapels and vents-tended to confirm that it was Thackeray’s. He searched the pockets, but they had been emptied systematically- or so it appeared, until his hand located a small ticket pocket on the left side. Inside was a railway ticket. He made sure he was not being overlooked and moved closer to the cabin to get sufficient light to examine his find. It was a platform ticket issued by the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway at London Bridge station. The date on the reverse was May 18th, 1884-the Sunday he had found Thackeray beside the Gladstone. He knew, because he had a similar ticket in the pocket of his check waistcoat at home; when they had left the platform, there had been no collector on the gate. Numbed by a possible implication of his discovery, he replaced the ticket and stared unseeing at the dykes along the Essex shore.
‘That’s Canvey away to the right. This is Hole Haven,’ Rossanna presently informed him. ‘It looks a fine stretch of water, doesn’t it? Half a mile, would you say? Moonshine, Mr Sargent. If we turned the helm now we should run aground. The only navigable part is a narrow channel running close to Canvey, and that is where Patrick is making for.’
When the launch did begin to leave the fairway, the hulks were already in view, moored close together in the shadow of a tall dyke that buttressed Canvey Island from the tide. A line of illuminated buoys served as a warning to other shipping, and seemed to have impressed the dozen or so craft seeing the night out in the channel, for they were anchored at respectful distances.
‘We’ll lower the funnel now,’ Devlin called from the wheel. ‘She’s got a good head on her. We’ll go in close, my darlings.’
The launch coursed steadily towards the dynamite flotilla, its own lights now extinguished and its crew alert for any sign of a coastguard vessel. Malone joined Cribb at the stern without exchanging a word. Now that they stood together for the first time, there was six clear inches difference in their heights. Cribb decided it was time to indicate his dependability. ‘That grapnel you have in your hand, Mr Malone. Is it for securing a line to the Moravia?’
The big man gave the curt nod such an obvious inquiry deserved.
‘In that case,’ Cribb went on, ‘perhaps you would allow me to be the first to go aboard. As the lighter man in weight, I should impose less strain upon the line, and when I get to the top I can ascertain that it is quite secure for you.’
Malone was sufficiently touched by this to turn his head and take a closer look at his assistant.
‘I can shin up a rope as well as the next man and a little better than some,’ Cribb added. ‘I shan’t keep you waiting long.’
‘Very well,’ agreed Malone, after considering it.
Devlin had already steered the launch between the buoys, and it was gliding noiselessly towards two hugely-looming hulks, the barnacle encrustments on their surfaces glistening in the moonlight. Cribb glanced towards the cabin. Somewhere in there was Rossanna, wrapped in a black shawl, scrutinising every detail of the night’s doings for her father. A hazardous duty that, for one of the fair sex, but from his observations he would wager that she was equal to any crisis the night would produce.
They passed under the bows of one vessel to the more sheltered side. The Moravia was ahead of them, secured by anchors at bow and stern, and lit by four lanterns. It was fortunate, Cribb decided, that Malone had got some practice, at least, at throwing the hammer. He did not like to speculate on the possible consequence of the grapnel striking one of the lanterns.
Devlin swung the wheel and they came alongside the hulk. Malone had moved forward and neatly fastened the painter to the aft anchor-chain of the Moravia. The launch came gently to rest against the vessel’s towering side. Cribb waited for his companion to throw up the grapnel, hoping he had the wit to realise that on this occasion the object was accuracy, not distance. Happily it lodged neatly in position at the first attempt.
It was Cribb’s turn, the chance to prove his usefulness. He took a high grip on the rope like a bell-ringer, tested the strength of the grapnel’s hold and swung his legs clear of the deck, to clamp the rope between his ankles at the highest convenient point. In rope-climbing, the foothold is everything, as he demonstrated impressively, using the leverage of the thighs to gain height. It was an exercise he had not performed for a number of years, but one well-suited to his long, spare frame, as he had first discovered in his training for the military. Being ordered to demonstrate rope-ascents to the entire platoon at Canterbury barracks had more than compensated at the time for his ineptitude at foot-drill.
He reached the top in seconds, took a grip on the Moravia’s bulwark and clambered aboard. Momentarily, he crouched to recover his breath and relax his stomach-muscles in the way of a seasoned trouper who retires to the wings between displays of agility. He had not taken his second breath when he saw the feet.
They were wearing canvas shoes and coming fast in his direction along the deck. There was no time to take in the rest of the figure, but Cribb was in no doubt that it would be armed with some offensive instrument and he did not propose to present his still-sore head for further attention. Remaining in the crouched position, he tucked his right forearm between shins and deck and rolled rapidly over in the path of the advancing feet. It was like projecting a barrel down a ramp. The impact bowled the feet from under the figure and it crashed over Cribb’s back. He threw himself upon it to crush any retaliatory move, but he need not have bothered. The body was inert.
Cribb examined the man-the ship’s caretaker, he assumed-and found with relief that he was breathing, but unconscious. Probably his head had made connexion with the bulwark on the way down; a fortunate circumstance, because it went against the grain to commit violent assault upon a man who was simply trying to do his duty, albeit with a particularly ugly-looking belaying-pin. Cribb did not pause to moralise longer, but set about tying the hands and feet of the caretaker with the rope he had brought. As he finished the job, Malone’s head appeared above the bulwark. ‘What happened?’ he asked Cribb in a stage whisper, then saw the caretaker on the deck and exclaimed, ‘Moses! You’re a sharp mover. We were supposed to tackle the bugger together.’ He heaved himself on to the deck, leaned over to signal to the launch that all was well, picked up the belaying-pin and wrenched a hasp and padlock from the hatch with prodigious ease. Cribb was thankful he had dealt with the caretaker himself. He might so easily have become a party to murder.