Yet as he stood at the Embankment wall and regarded the river-not the steam-launches and sailing-barges, nor the beguiling glitter of afternoon sunlight, but the water itself below him, turbid and thick with impurities, flowing more rapidly than ever it appeared from a cursory glance across the surface-Cribb decided to re-examine his opinion of Thackeray. It took several more minutes’ contemplation of the water to achieve the detachment to penetrate the layers of loyalty and regard formed in five years. What was then revealed-what he really knew of the man-was so slight that he winced at the realisation.
He called himself a detective and all he knew about his principal assistant was that he stood six feet tall in his socks, sported a grey beard and was game for anything except educational classes. Exaggeration, perhaps, but not short of the truth. Oh, there were other details-the fondness for melodrama and Kop’s ale, the tender feet and the sensitiveness upon the subject of retirement-but what did they amount to? What grounds had he for believing Thackeray incorruptible? The plain truth was that the section house adjoining Paradise Street police station could be a dynamite manufactory for all he knew. Not once had he met Thackeray off duty. He had no idea whether he was a Home Ruler or a hot gospeller. The man was dependable when it mattered, and that had always been enough.
He supposed he ought to examine the divisional defaulters’ book. Thackeray’s name would be there, for sure. There was not a constable of any length of service whose sheet was blank. Entries on the defaulter sheet in the first years of service, said the Police Code, will materially reduce the possibility of eventual promotion and selection for the prizes of the Force-so every station inspector took it as his duty to foster discipline among young constables by including their names from time to time in the Morning Report. Nor were the not-so-young forgotten: If a man’s conduct has not been uniformly good, or his incapacity may have been brought about by irregular or vicious habits, the Commissioner will recommend that a lower scale of pension or gratuity be granted to him. In his more bitter moments, when the prizes of 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.