‘A bit of both, I suppose. You can’t sit in a corner on your own and say nothing. That would give them cause for suspicion, wouldn’t it? I pass the time of day to anyone that catches my eye, and if they want to say a few words more, well I don’t turn my back on them.’
‘Do you buy ’em a drink?’
‘On my wage? Not unless they buy one first for me.’
Cribb nodded. ‘I take your point. My turn to fill the glasses. You’ll have another?’
‘Since it’s my day off, yes. My first Sunday in three months.’
‘These drinking-companions of yours,’ Cribb doggedly began again, when he returned with the beer. ‘The ones that treat you first, I mean. Are any of ’em here this morning?’
‘Not many do, Sarge. We tend to buy our own. It’s more likely to be the occasional visitor that treats you than the regulars. Good health.’
‘Yours, too. Who would want to come to a pub like this-without disrespect, of course-in the backstreets of Rotherhithe, and stand a round of drinks for a bunch of Irish dockers and a constable off duty?’
‘They don’t know about me, Sarge,’ Thackeray assured him in a whisper. ‘Someone with a sharp ear for accents might detect that I wasn’t born in Tipperary, but they don’t know I’m in the Force. If there’s a round of drinks being bought, I’m usually included. I was personally treated once, too.’
‘Who by?’
Thackeray smiled. ‘Ah, a big, bearded American with more money than sense. He came here three or four months ago, early in the new year. Swore he was an Irishman whose family emigrated at the time of the potato famine.’
‘Did he have an Irish name?’
‘I don’t recall, Sarge. We was conversing about trains, and once I’m on that subject I find that I don’t listen much to the other fellow. He wasn’t what you might call a railway connoisseur, but he was interested. He kept asking questions about railway stations and buying me whisky.’
Jerusalem! Cribb blinked. ‘You were on spirits that night, then?’
‘I have a nip just occasional, Sarge. Yes, he was a generous sort of cove. Big, too. Barge-horse of a man. Stood well over six foot. None of the regulars would have wanted to mix it with him.’
‘Was he a fighting man, then?’
‘I don’t think so. I always look at the hands, since you taught me how to spot a pugilist. It was odd, really. There was hard skin on them, and some blistering, but it was on the palms, not the knuckles.’
‘A navvy,’ suggested Cribb.
‘Not with money to spend on whisky, Sarge. Besides, I looked at the fingernails, and they were manicured. You notice a thing like that in a dockers’ pub.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Another thing,’ said Thackeray, clearly experiencing a total recollection. ‘His hands smelt of spirits.’
‘Whisky, you mean?’
‘No, Sarge. Methylated. Strange, I do remember his name now. It came back to me with the smell. Malone.’
‘Malone. Did he happen to mention how long he was staying in London?’
‘No, but I could ask his friends. There’s three or four over from America who visit The Feathers regular.’
‘Three or four?’ Cribb sank the rest of his beer at a gulp. ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me about them. I need another drink first.’
And fast. Three or four! Lord, it was like being beaten over the head with a truncheon. Or a shillelagh. The innocence of the man!
When the descriptions were done, and they stood outside in the street looking for a cab for Cribb, Thackeray seemed at last to sense his concern. ‘I wouldn’t want you to think me unco-operative, Sarge,’ he said, ‘but I’ve never really had the opportunity of doing much detective-work on my own. You know how it is when you overhear something that just might have some connexion with a matter under investigation. You keep it to yourself until you’ve got something positive, or you find that it don’t mean a thing. These blooming Irish have such fanciful notions that if you believed everything they said, you wouldn’t stop another night in London. It’s sorting out what’s the truth that takes the time. But I can wait. I have to win their confidence first.’
‘That’s the dangerous bit,’ said Cribb.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The easiest way to gain a confidence is to give one.’
‘I’m not sure what you’re saying, Sergeant.’
Confound the man. He could not put it more plainly. ‘Think about it, Thackeray. Think about it. There’s no more difficult duty in police work than handling an informant correct. That’s another dictum to remember. Do you understand me?’
Thackeray looked at Cribb for several seconds. Then he nodded his head once. His face was expressionless. It was as if an empty frame signalled the end of a lantern-show.
CHAPTER 3
Cribb’s course at the Arsenal ended in an unexpected way early on May 31st, 1884.
The sound of the morning mug of tea arriving on his locker was followed by a deferential cough. ‘Your beverage, Sergeant,’ a voice announced, ‘and if you would be so decent as to down it at your earliest convenience-’
What the devil! He turned his head on the pillow.
‘-you’ll be ready for the van which is already on its way from Scotland Yard for you,’ continued the duty constable, a mealy-mouthed member of the Woolwich establishment he had scarcely noticed before. ‘I was most particularly instructed to rouse you and advise you in a civil manner to be packed and ready to leave by six. Begging your pardon, Sergeant.’
Scotland Yard? The fellow might have said Timbuctoo for all the significance it had at 5.30 a.m., three weeks into the explosives course. He groped for the programme on his locker. ‘It’s Saturday. Blast effects and craters. I have it written here.’
‘Yes, Sergeant. The platoon has already passed through the gates on its way to dynamite the demonstration area.’
Cribb gripped the sides of the bed. ‘Then what the blazes are you going on about police vans for?’
‘Orders from the Yard, Sergeant. A telegraph from Inspector Jowett arrived during the night. They want you urgently.’
If Jowett had got up in the night to send a telegraph, the urgency was extreme.
‘Then you’d better stop the platoon before it starts the dynamiting.’
‘I couldn’t do that, Sergeant, with respect. That’s an army matter. We have no authority to interfere in army matters.’
‘Confound it, man, they’ll be doing their dynamiting for nothing. I shan’t be here.’
‘Ah, but they’ll still need the craters.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Filling in, Sergeant. There’s a fatigue-party laid on for this afternoon. They parade at half past twelve, draw spades from the store at one o’clock and commence filling in at a quarter past. I stand to be corrected, but I don’t think the army would appreciate having to change all that on the Saturday before the Whitsun holiday.’
Cribb took a mouthful of tea. ‘Why should I agitate myself about the army anyway? Get me some toast and dripping, lad. I’m damned sure Jowett hasn’t invited me to the Yard for breakfast.’
The journey there confirmed that impression. It was not the kind of jaunt that kindled the stomach-juices. The van-driver took the streets of Greenwich and Deptford at the gallop, as if all the cat’s meat men and milk-boys were Red Indians in ambush. Cribb, inside, braced himself grimly against the seat-back and tried to imagine what exigency justified such driving.
There was a marked slowing of the pace after Westminster Bridge, not unconnected, Cribb decided, with the fact that they were now in ‘A’ Division, the home of the Yard itself. But the driver disabused him of that notion by saying through the communication-window: ‘Sorry about the holdup, Sergeant. The traffic’s jammed all the way along Whitehall. It’ll be the crowds ahead, I reckon.’
Crowds? Before eight in the morning on Saturday in Whitehall? Who could they be-Socialists? Suffragists? Extraordinary time for a public demonstration.