‘Good Lord! The Special Branch and the Secret Service on one night! These fellows don’t do things by halves. What was the damage in St James’s Square?’
‘Mostly superficial, I am glad to report. It is miraculous that nobody was killed. The parts of the Junior Carlton occupied by members were almost untouched, but the kitchen and the servants’ quarters suffered somewhat. The bomb had been left at the foot of an iron staircase leading to the basement. The second bomb, at Sir Watkin Wynn’s, shattered all the windows there and in the Duke of Cleveland’s mansion next door, but the fullest force of the impact was curiously diverted at an angle of ninety degrees to Adair House. It brought down the mortar and dashed out the windows with such a powerful concussion that for a time it was believed there had been three explosions in the Square.’
‘That’s a nobby area, sir. Railway stations are one thing, noble residences quite another.’
‘Don’t I know it! Our list of witnesses reads like Burke’s Peerage. Unfortunately, they all appeared after the explosions. Now, Cribb, I have something more to show you, but I am interested to know what your observations are thus far, coming fresh from the explosives course, as you do.’
Fresh was not the word he would have used to describe his condition after three weeks at Woolwich. ‘I would need to see the places where the bombs were placed, sir. Possibly I could tell you then which method of detonation was used. The remnants of a clock-timing device are nearly always detectable at the place where the charge has exploded.’
‘Yes, yes. But what have you got to say about the organisation of the crime?’
What was he coming to? Best tread warily. ‘Well-planned, I should say, sir, allowing that there seem to have been some mistakes in St James’s Square. Possibly the perpetrators were less efficient than the plotters. Friday evening was a good one to choose.’
‘To have the maximum effect upon the populace over the Bank Holiday? You’re right, of course. The Local Government Board explosion last year coincided with the Easter Holiday, if I remember. Everyone came out to watch, as they will this weekend.’
‘There’s also the question of the Oaks, sir.’
‘The Oaks? What has a blasted horse-race got to do with it?’
‘The number of constables withdrawn for duty at Epsom, sir. We’re always under-staffed on Oaks Day. It’s a thing an Irishman might think of.’
‘An Irish-American?’
‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’
Jowett pushed back his chair and stood up, to the sound of splintering glass. ‘Let us not deceive ourselves, Sergeant. I spoke to you before of our concern at the knowledge the dynamite party appears to have of our methods. You remember the matter of the reliefs at the railway stations? We now appear to face an enemy which has got to know the very room in which the campaign against it is being mounted. Which passes freely into Scotland Yard to deposit an infernal machine in a convenience under our very-er-’
‘Noses, sir?’
‘Noses. And walks away without anyone noticing a thing. Doesn’t that tend to confirm that the Clan-na-Gael is as knowledgeable about police matters as you or I or the Commissioner himself?’
‘I’m afraid it does, sir.’
‘At least we understand each other. Now, if you will come with me, I shall show you the other discovery of which I spoke.’
Jowett lifted his bowler hat from the stand, blew off a layer of dust, and led Cribb out of his office and downstairs. In the Yard outside, they negotiated the debris and made their way to a grille situated at the foot of a wall, out of view of the crowd. A black bag was resting on it.
‘We put it where it could cause the least damage,’ Jowett explained. ‘No one here knew whether it was liable to explode, you understand. However, Colonel Martin himself came out to see it during the night and he has pronounced it harmless. You may examine it if you wish.’
Cribb crouched beside the bomb-for the charred end of a fuse protruding from the bag left no doubt of its identity. He felt inside and took out a piece of brass tubing, into which the other end of the fuse was inserted, and secured by a nipper. Fortunately the fuse had gone out before the flame reached the fulminate. He felt the bag’s weight. Six or seven pounds, he estimated-quite enough to reduce a sizeable building to rubble. He tipped the dynamite out on the ground at his feet. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Jowett’s shoes take a long step backwards. Without looking round, he picked up one of the cakes of dynamite and examined it. Atlas Powder: a standard six-ounce disc.
‘It looks as though the dynamiters have given up the clockwork method of detonation, sir,’ he told the Inspector, who remained just within earshot. ‘Fuses may be dangerous to use, but they’re clearly more successful. I wonder what stopped this one from working.’
‘A small boy, if my information is correct,’ said Jowett. ‘He saw the thing smouldering and stamped it out with the heel of his boot, resourceful lad. Then he drew it to the attention of a constable on duty in the Square.’
‘The Square? Which square was that, sir?’
‘Trafalgar, no less. The bomb was quietly fizzing at the foot of Nelson’s Column, beside the Landseer lion that looks towards St Martin’s. These people will stop at nothing, Cribb. Nelson’s Column-imagine!’
Cribb declined to imagine. It would take more than seven pounds of Atlas Powder to shift Nelson from his perch. The lion might have looked a little the worse for the experience, he was ready to admit.
‘The prospect leaves me speechless, too,’ Jowett went on. ‘Would you believe that the constable who found the thing brought it over from Trafalgar Square in a hansom? When he arrived I was engaged in conversation with Inspector Littlechild, of the Special Branch, assessing the damage to the Rising Sun over a glass of porter that the landlord had most civilly provided. The devastation around us weighed heavily on our minds, Cribb, for when the fellow stumbled in carrying the black bag and muttering something about an infernal machine, we moved as one-straight behind the counter on our knees with the barman. It is a long time since I was constrained to do anything so undignified. After a minute’s precautionary interval, we prevailed upon the constable by signals to convey the bag out of the Rising Sun and deposit it on the grille here. We were not in a position to know that the bomb was no longer active, you appreciate.’
Cribb stood up. Jowett’s self-justifying held no interest for him. It was time the conversation changed. ‘What’s your reason for bringing me here, sir?’
‘Eh?’ The directness of the question-coming as it did from a mere detective-sergeant-produced the effect on Jowett that infernal machines did. He took a step backwards.
Cribb leaned towards him. ‘I appreciate the gravity of the situation, sir, and I can see that what has happened here has a certain bearing on what we talked about three weeks ago, before I was sent to Woolwich. But if you’ve had Colonel Martin, the Inspector of Explosives, here, what’s the purpose of sending for me? Three weeks don’t count for much in experience of bombs, sir.’
‘Granted. That is all you are going to get, however,’ said Jowett, recovering his poise. ‘You will not be returning to the Arsenal. Your services are otherwise required. It is manifestly clear, is it not, that the Clan-na-Gael must have been in possession of privileged information to carry out last night’s detestable work?’
‘Looks like that, sir.’
‘And who do you suppose provided them with such information?’
‘I can’t imagine, sir,’ said Cribb. It was not strictly true. A possibility had stirred in his brain the moment he saw the devastation in the Yard.
‘Can’t you? I can. I am not so confoundedly sentimental. You know as well as I which member of the C.I.D. has been drinking with Irish-Americans.’