Anne Perry - Dark Assassin

Monk wrinkled his nose, not knowing if he really smelled the sour odor of sewers or if it was just conjured by memory and imagination. He had to make a greater effort than he had expected in order to force himself to walk calmly under the brick facing of the tunnel and the vast weight of earth on top of him. Their feet echoed on the boards and the water sloshed around the wood and up over the soles of his boots. It was bitterly cold.

He heard Rathbone gasp behind him, and wondered if the darkness suffocated him as much, if it brought out the sweat on his skin and made him strain his eyes and ears for anything that would give him a sense of proportion, direction, any of the things one takes for granted above-ground.

A thousand yards on they separated, in order to cover as much ground as possible. For safety's sake they went in pairs: Runcorn and Orme, Rathbone and Crow, with Monk to wait at the appointed place for Sutton.

"Don't go by yerself, sir!" Orme warned, his voice sharp with anxiety. "One slip an' yer finished. 'It yer 'ead an' the rats'll get yer. It in't a nice way ter go."

Monk saw Rathbone's sensitive mouth twist in revulsion, and he smiled. "I won't, Sergeant, I promise you."

Orme nodded and disappeared into the darkness behind Runcorn, their lights swallowed up in moments.

Rathbone took a deep breath and, body rigid, followed after Crow without once looking backwards. Perhaps he was afraid that if he did he would lose his nerve to proceed.

Sutton arrived twenty-five minutes later, accompanied as always by the little dog. "It's a bad business, Mr. Monk," he said grimly. "Were d' yer wanna start?"

The decision had already been made. "The other four are looking to find out if Sixsmith was ever seen with the assassin, and if so, when and by whom. I want to find out more about the dangers of cave-in that Havilland was so worried about, and how much Sixsmith actually knew of it."

"Yer mean could 'e ave stopped it?" Sutton asked. He frowned. "Don't make no sense, Mr. Monk. Why couldn't 'e 'ave gone careful, if 'e'd really understood? Cave-in don't do 'im no good."

"When I thought Sixsmith was innocent," Monk explained, beginning to walk deeper into the tunnel, "I assumed Argyll was giving the orders and he had little choice. I took it for granted that whatever he feared, he would have told Argyll, and been ignored. But maybe that's not true. Is he callous, a villain, or just incompetent?"

"Why'd 'e 'ave 'Avilland killed?" Sutton asked curiously, following on Monk's heels. "It 'ad ter be ter keep 'im quiet about the dangers, 'adn't it?"

"Yes. But that doesn't mean he believed him. He might have thought Havilland was just scare-mongering."

Sutton grunted. "Mebbe."

The first thing they did was to find navvies at the excavation face and question them. They moved with speed. After the ordeal of the trial they did not expect Sixsmith back at the site that day, but it was not impossible that he would be there. He was a man accused wrongly, according to the law, and found innocent by his peers. If they seemed to others to be harassing him now, their position would be unpleasant, to say the least. He might even claim they were exceeding their office. Monk's career could be jeopardized, and possibly Orme's and Runcorn's as well. Rathbone's reputation would not profit from his expedition into the sewers to pursue a man he had prosecuted and failed to convict. He would appear to be losing with neither dignity nor honor.

The navvies told them nothing, and after an hour or so Monk realized he was wasting his time. Instead he took Sutton's advice and sought out a couple of toshers. They were father and son, amazingly alike: both blunt-faced, with a cheerful and sarcastic disposition.

"Sixsmith?" the father said with a twist of his mouth. "Strong feller, not scared o' nobody. Yeh, I knowed 'im. Why?"

Monk allowed Sutton to ask the question. They had already planned what to say. " 'E din't kill 'Avilland arter all," Sutton replied casually. " 'E really thought as the money were ter pay off toshers wot was makin' trouble."

"An' I'm the queen o' the fairies!" the father said witheringly.

"Yer sayin' as yer never took no money?" Sutton asked, his voice almost expressionless.

"Weren't nothin' ter take!"

"Sixsmith's a bleedin' liar!" the son added angrily. "We weren't makin' no trouble, an' wot's more, Mr. Sutton, just 'cos yer catches rats fer the gentry, it don't give yer no right ter say as we were. Yer know that, yer scurvy bastard!"

"I know yer din't used ter," Sutton agreed. " 'Ow about others? Wot about Big Jem, or Lanky, or any o' them?"

"We in't stupid," the father retorted. "Gettin' meself in jail won't 'elp no one."

"Did Mr. Sixsmith know that?" Monk asked, speaking for the first time.

"Course 'e did!" The father looked at him, his face screwed up in disgust like a gargoyle in the lantern light. " 'E's a fly sod, an' all."

"Not fly enough to avoid a cave-in," Monk observed.

"Course 'e were!" the father said intently. " 'E knew as much about streams and wells and clay stretches as any of us. 'E just don't give a toss."

They asked other toshers, but nothing they could elicit contradicted the belief that there was no more trouble than usual, just the odd quarrel or fight. There had been no deliberate sabotage, and the accidents were rather fewer than average for the heavy and dangerous work in progress.

The thing that struck Monk most forcibly, and which he told the others when they went up in the middle of the day, was that in everyone's opinion Sixsmith was an extremely clever and able man who was very well aware of all the risks and advantages of everything he did.

"So he knew about the streams and wells?" Rathbone said grimly. He looked strained. His nostrils flared with the stench he had been unable to avoid. His clothes were spattered with mud and clay, and his boots were sodden. Even the bottoms of his trousers were wet.

"Yes," Monk agreed, knowing what the inevitable conclusion must be. "It seems he did not care about the cave-in."

"Or he may even have wanted it!" Rathbone added. "But why? What is it that we don't know, Monk? What's missing to make sense of this?" He turned to Runcorn and Orme.

" 'E knew the assassin," Orme said, his face tight. " 'Aven't got a witness as yer could bring inter court yet, but they're there. 'E knew 'is way around, did Sixsmith."

"Don't put him in the past." Runcorn looked at them each in turn. "He's still very much here! We've got to hurry, before he covers his tracks-or us!"

Monk found himself shivering. Rathbone's face was bleak and angry. No one argued. Briefly they conferred on the next step, then set out again, cold, tired, and determined.

Hester slept poorly after Monk had gone. The shock of defeat, just as they were savoring what she imagined to be one of their sweetest victories, had left her momentarily numb. She cleared away the supper dishes and tidied the house automatically, then went upstairs to see if there was anything more she could do for Scuff. She might have stayed up were it not for him, but she knew he could not rest if she did not do so as well.

She was lying awake at about five o'clock, wondering how they could have been so bitterly wrong, when Scuff spoke to her in a whisper.

"Yer in't asleep, are yer." It was not a question. He must have known from her breathing.

"No," she replied. "But why aren't you?"

" 'Cos I can't." He inched a fraction closer to her. "Is Mr. Monk gonna put it right?"

Should she lie to comfort him? If he found out, it would break the frail trust he was building. She might never mend the damage. Wasn't truth better than the loneliness of that, no matter how harsh? That's what she would do if he were a man. But was a child different? How much should she protect him, and from what?