Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [96]
“Simbister,” Voisey said with intense pleasure and a very slight lift of surprise. The match went out. It was profoundly dark. It was impossible to make out anything at all, not even the paler square of sky through the open hatch.
Then Pitt realized that the hatch was not open. And he had not heard it slam!
Voisey was beside him. He knew it only because he could hear him breathe. He could see absolutely nothing at all.
“Did it fall?” Voisey whispered, although he already knew the answer. The fear was in his voice, almost steady, but with an overpowering effort. “Is there another way out?”
Pitt’s mind was racing, trying to stop panic. Since Voisey was with him, this was not his doing. It must be Grover, or even Simbister himself. “No,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Not unless we make one.”
“Make one!”
There was a jolt, and then another, and Pitt heard a sound of water a little different from the slap and hiss of the tide. It seemed to be from the other hold rather than the hull on either side. He knew with sickening certainty what it was. They were flooding the ship. They were prepared to sacrifice the dynamite in order to kill their two most dangerous enemies. He should have seen it coming. He could hear Voisey’s breath drawn in sharply between his teeth. He had realized it as well. The floor beneath them was beginning to tilt.
“All we’ve got is the dynamite,” he said aloud. “But there are detonators with it. We’ll have to blow the hatch off. And we’ll have to do it fairly quickly.”
Voisey let out a gasp. “How many matches have you got left?”
“Half a dozen,” Pitt replied. “Unfortunately I did not foresee this.”
“I have about three.”
“Good. Well, start lighting them and hold them so I can see what I’m doing.”
Voisey obeyed, and as soon as there was a flicker, Pitt started to work unwrapping the dynamite, looking for a detonator and molding the damp, slightly tacky substance into a strip that would stick to the edge of the hatch. Voisey lit match after match, first from his own box, then from Pitt’s.
Pitt stuck the dynamite around the hatch and placed the detonator, left it and stepped back, pulling Voisey with him. The boat was now listing heavily and the sound of water running into the other hold was clearly audible.
Nothing happened.
“How long?” Voisey said quietly. “We’re going down.”
“I know. It should have gone off.”
Voisey moved. Pitt grabbed at his arm and held him. “Don’t! It still could!”
“That’s not a lot of use if it doesn’t do it in the next three or four minutes,” Voisey pointed out.
“There are more detonators,” Pitt answered. “We’ll have to blow a hole somewhere else.” His mind was racing. They were sinking by the stern. If they blew the bow, it would be into the air. Anywhere else and the water would rush in, carrying them back, not out. “Bow,” he said, standing up. “Light another match. I need to see the dynamite.”
“We’ve only got three more,” Voisey replied, obeying. “You’d better make this work.” There was no criticism in his voice, just a knife-sharp edge of irony, and fear.
Pitt did not answer. He was aware of all the nuances, and it was better to think of those than of Charlotte, his home, his children, or the cold, dirty water of the Thames only a few feet away. He worked as quickly as he could, intensely aware that too much haste, the smallest error, and they would not have another chance.
He pressed the dynamite onto the nearer wall of the hold, placing the detonator.
Voisey struck the last match and lit a cigarette, drawing the smoke into his lungs. The hold went dark.
Pitt could see nothing but the glowing end of tobacco. Words failed him.
“It will last longer than a match,” Voisey said quietly. “Put the detonator in and get on with it!”
With shaking hands Pitt obeyed.
Voisey drew on the cigarette again, and again. The end of it shone red.
Pitt checked the detonator a last time. “Ready.”
Voisey