The Dark Assassin

chapter Twelve
The trial had finished promptly, so Monk was home comparatively early. The weather was bright and clear, and the February evening stretched out with no clouds-only trails of chimney smoke across the waning sky. It was going to freeze, and as he alighted from the omnibus the stones beneath his feet were already filmed with ice. But the air tasted fresh and the sweetness of victory was in it. The sun was low, and its reflection on the pale stretches of the river hurt his eyes. The masts of the ships were a black fretwork like wrought iron against the rich colors of the horizon beyond the rooftops.

He turned and walked smartly up Union Road to Paradise Place and then up the short path to his front door. As soon as he was inside he called out Hester's name.

She must have heard the triumph in his voice. Her face eager, she appeared at the top of the stairs from the bedroom, where she had been sitting with Scuff.

"We won!" he said, starting up the steps two at a time. He caught hold of her and swung her around, kissing her lips, neck, cheek, and lips again. "We won it all! Sixsmith was convicted of no more than attempted bribery, and fined. Everyone knew that Argyll was guilty, and he's probably been arrested already. I didn't wait to see. Rathbone was brilliant, superb. Margaret was so proud of him, she absolutely glowed."

The bedroom door was open, and Scuff was sitting up staring at them. He looked unnaturally pink. His hair was actually much fairer than Monk had supposed. He seemed to have forgotten about the lace on his nightgown, or even that it was Hester's. His shoulder must hurt him, but he was making little of that, too. Now his eyes were bright with expectation, longing to be told all there was to hear.

Hester led Monk into the room and sat on the bed herself so that he could recount it to them both.

"Yer won!" Scuff said excitedly. "They gonna get Argyll fer killin' poor 'Avilland, an' Miss Mary as well? Yer gonna bury 'em proper?"

"Yes," Monk said simply.

Scuffs eyes were shining. He was sitting close to Hester, quite naturally. Both of them seemed to be unaware of it. " 'Ow d'yer do it?" he said, hungry for any piece of information. He had sorely missed being there to see it himself.

"Would you like a cup of tea before we begin?" Hester asked.

Scuff looked at her with total incomprehension.

Monk rolled his eyes.

She smiled. "Right! Then you get nothing until it's all told, every last word!"

He began with the day's proceedings, recounting it as a story of adventure with all the details, looking at their faces, and enjoying himself. He described the courtroom, the judge, the jurors, the men and women in the gallery, and every witness. Scuff barely breathed; he could hardly bring himself even to blink.

Monk told them how he had climbed the steps to the witness box and stared at the court below him, how Sixsmith had craned forward in the dock, and how Rathbone had asked the questions on which it all turned.

"I described him exactly," he said, remembering it with aching clarity. "There wasn't a sound in the whole room."

"Did they know 'e was the man wot killed Mr. 'Avilland?" Scuff whispered. "D'yer tell 'em wot the sewer were like?"

"Oh, yes. I told them how we met him the first time, and how he turned around and shot you. That horrified them," Monk answered honestly. "I described the dark and the water and the rats."

Scuff gave an involuntary little shiver at the memory of the terror. Without realizing it, he moved a fraction closer to Hester, so that he was actually touching her. She appeared to take no notice, except that there was a slight softening of her lips, as if she wanted to smile but knew she should not let him see it.

"Did Jenny Argyll give evidence?" she asked.

"Yes." Monk met her eyes for a moment of appreciation, and an acknowledgment of what it had cost Rose Applegate. "She told it all. Argyll denied it, of course, but no one believed him. If he'd looked at the jurors' faces, he could have seen his own condemnation then." He realized suddenly what a final thing he had said. They had accomplished it, the seemingly impossible. Sixsmith was free and the law knew that Alan Argyll was guilty. It would be only a matter of time before he was on trial himself.

"Funny," Hester said aloud. "We'll never know his name."

"The man who actually shot James Havilland? No," he agreed. "But he was only a means to an end, and he's dead, anyway. The thing that matters is that the man behind it will be punished justly, and perhaps there will even be more care taken in the routing of new tunnels, or at least in the speed with which they're done."

"But Argyll will be charged?" Hester insisted. "So Mary Havilland can be buried properly and... and her father, too?"

"I'll make certain." He meant it as a promise. Seeing the warmth in her eyes, he knew that she understood.

"Did Sixsmith give evidence?" she asked. "Explain it all? He seemed like a decent man-a bit rough, perhaps, but it's a rough profession. He... he felt things deeply, I thought."

He smiled. "Oh, yes. It's always a risk putting an accused man into the dock, but he was excellent. He described exactly what happened, how Argyll gave him the money and what he told him it was for, which was to bribe the toshers who were making trouble. It made sense and you could see that the jury believed it."

He remembered Sixsmith's face in the witness box as he told it. "He said he had not known what the man looked like, and he sat waiting for him. The man recognized him immediately and came over. He was fairly tall, lean, with long black hair onto his collar, and..." He stopped. The room swayed around him, and his limbs suddenly felt far away and cold, as if they belonged to someone else. Sixsmith had described the assassin as he had been when he was killed! Not when Melisande Ewart had seen him on the night of Havilland's death, or two days before.

"What is it? William, what's wrong?" It was Hester's voice calling from a great distance, fuzzy at the edges. She sounded frightened. Scuff was pressed up next to her, his eyes wide, picking up her emotion.

When Monk spoke, his mouth was dry. "Sixsmith said his hair was long. He swore he saw him only once, two days before Havilland's death. But in fact his hair was shorter then, much shorter. Mrs. Ewart said only a little longer than most men's. But it was over his collar when I found him dead."

Hester stared at him, horror slowly filling his eyes. "You mean Sixsmith saw him... just before he was killed? Then..." She stopped, unable to finish the thought.

"He killed him." Monk said it for her. "Argyll was telling the truth. He probably gave Sixsmith the money to bribe the toshers, exactly as he told us. It was Sixsmith who gave the order to kill Havilland, and possibly Mary as well."

"But Argyll couldn't be innocent," Hester argued. "It was he who had Jenny write..." She tailed off. "Or perhaps it wasn't? Perhaps she lied, and it was Sixsmith who told her to. But why?"

Scuff was looking at her anxiously, his mouth twisted down at the corners. He might be only nine or ten, but he had lived on the streets. He had seen violence, beatings, revenge. "She 'ate 'im that much?" he asked wonderingly. "That's daft! Less 'e knocked 'er 'alf senseless."

"So she would lie to incriminate her husband and get Sixsmith free?" Hester said with awe and disgust. "Argyll might be cold, and bore her to death, but could she really be in love with Sixsmith to that degree, knowing what he did? Oh, William! He murdered her father and her sister! Has she lost her wits completely? Or..." Her voice dropped. "Or is she now too afraid of him to do anything else?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "I... I don't know." His mind raced to the memory of Jenny Argyll's eyes in court, the power in Sixsmith, and the way she had looked at him. It had not felt like fear then; more like hunger.

Scuff looked from one to the other of them. "Wot yer gonna do?" he asked. "Yer gonna let 'im get away wi' it?" There was incredulity in his face. It was impossible to believe such a thing.

"You can't be tried twice for the same crime," Monk explained bitterly. "The jury found him not guilty."

"But they in't right!" Scuff protested. " 'E done it! 'E paid the man wot shot Mr. 'Avilland! It wasn't Mr. Argyll arter all! Yer can't let 'im get topped fer it! It in't right, even if 'e is a greedy sod."

"But he wasn't tried for shooting the assassin," Hester pointed out eagerly. "Nobody was."

It was true. No one had specifically made any charge about the murder of the assassin; it had simply been implicit that it was Argyll, because he had the motive. But Sixsmith could be charged with that. Legally it was perfectly possible; in fact, it was absolutely imperative that he must be, for only then would the charges against Argyll be dropped.

Monk stood up slowly, oddly stiff. "I must go and tell Rathbone."

Hester stood also. "Tonight?"

"Yes. I can't leave it. I'm sorry."

She nodded slowly. She did not explain that she wanted to come, but could not.

Scuff understood, however. "I'm all right!" he chipped in.

"I know," Hester agreed quickly. "But I'm not leaving you anyway, so don't bother arguing with me."

"But-"

She froze him with a look, and he subsided, wide-eyed, his lips quivering between tears and a smile, refusing to let her see how much her caring mattered to him.

Monk looked at them for a moment longer, then turned and left.

The hansom dropped him outside Rathbone's house. He told the driver to wait. Although the lights were on, it might only mean that the manservant was in, but at least he would probably know where Rathbone could be found.

As it was, Rathbone was at dinner, as Monk had expected, with Margaret Ballinger. Mr. and Mrs. Ballinger were present also, as chaperones at this delicate stage in the younger couple's betrothal. Too, they were delighted to be included in what was also the celebration of a victory. They did not in the least understand its nature, but they were aware of its importance.

"I'm sorry," Monk apologized to the butler in the hall, "but it is imperative that I speak to Sir Oliver immediately, and in private."

"I'm afraid, sir, that Sir Oliver is dining," the manservant apologized. "The soup has just been served. I cannot interrupt them at present. May I offer you something in the morning room, perhaps? That is, if you would care to wait?"

"No, thank you," Monk declined. "Please tell Sir Oliver that I have discovered a fact of devastating importance regarding the Sixsmith case. The verdict cannot be allowed to stand as it is. His attention cannot wait."

The manservant hesitated, looked more earnestly at Monk, then decided to obey.

Five minutes later Rathbone appeared, elegantly dressed in evening clothes. "What is it?" he asked as he closed the door on the glittering dining room behind him, shutting out the voices, the laughter, and the clink of glasses. "I am in the middle of dinner and have guests. You are welcome to join us if you wish. Heaven knows, you did more than anyone else to bring about our victory."

Monk took a deep breath. "It was not a victory, Rathbone. Do you remember Sixsmith describing the assassin when he passed him the money?"

Rathbone frowned. "Of course. What of it?"

"Do you remember Melisande Ewart's description of him when he came out of the mews after he had just shot Havilland, two days after that?"

"Yes. It was obviously the same man. There can't be two looking like that!" Rathbone s face was puzzled, and on the edge of losing patience.

"Hair," Monk said simply. "I saw him when he was dead, and his hair was long over his collar. So did Sixsmith. That was what he was describing on the stand."

Rathbone blushed. "Are you saying that he didn't pay him the money? What..." His eyes widened. Suddenly he understood, and the color died from his face. "Sixsmith shot him! God in heaven-he was guilty all the time! We got him off! I got him off!"

"But not for killing the assassin!" Monk said quietly.

Rathbone stared at him with dawning comprehension.

There was a knock on the door.

Rathbone turned around slowly. "Come," he answered.

Margaret entered. She glanced at Rathbone, then at Monk, a question in her eyes. She was dressed in extravagant oyster satin with pearls at her ears and throat, and there was a warmth in her face that no artifice could lend.

Rathbone went to her immediately, touching her with intense gentleness.

"We were wrong," he said simply. "Monk has just pointed out that Sixsmith must have shot the assassin, and more essentially, that we have accused the wrong man. To save him, we must at the very least prove Sixsmith's guilt of the assassin's death, and if possible convict him of it."

Margaret turned to Monk to verify from his face if that could possibly be true. She needed only an instant to see that it was. "Then we must do it," she said quietly. "But how? The trial is finished. Would taking his testimony to anyone be sufficient?"

"No," Monk said with certainty. "We must prove the whole line of connection, the fact that he knew the man all the way through." He saw in her face that she did not understand. "If we charged Sixsmith now," he explained, "on the strength of his description of the assassin, he could say he heard it from Argyll, or anyone else. He might slip away again." He smiled bleakly. "We must be right this time."

"I see." Her answer was simple. She was not a beautiful woman, her looks being rather more individual, but at this moment there was a true beauty in her face as she turned back to Rathbone. "We'll celebrate when we have it right," she said calmly. "I shall explain to Mama and Papa, and we can finish dinner quite pleasantly, and then go home. Please do what is necessary. It cannot wait. Whatever time it takes, however difficult it is, it must be accomplished before Argyll is charged and tried. They would hang him for James Havilland's death. Perhaps for Mary's as well, although I suppose it could have been Toby who was to blame for that. Do you suppose Toby did that for Sixsmith?"

Rathbone was thoughtful, but he did not take his eyes from her face. "Possibly, but he might not have realized all the implications. Sixsmith could have asked him to speak to her, try to persuade her that her father's death was suicide after all, and that she was only making it worse by continuing to probe it. Almost certainly he would try to persuade her that there was no danger in the tunnels."

"Was that what James Havilland was afraid of, uncharted underground rivers?" She turned to Monk.

"Yes, I think so. Toby seems to have spoken to toshers a lot, too, but that could have been to try to stop them from interfering with the work. That's what I thought to begin with. I don't think we'll ever know if he meant to kill Mary. Probably not. Not unless there was far more between him and Sixsmith than we know." He tried to visualize again what he had seen on the bridge. "I think it was an accident. She was frightened of him. Perhaps she thought Alan Argyll was behind her father's death and that Toby was going to kill her, too. She tried to get away from him, and whether she meant to or not, she took him with her." As he said it, he was not sure if that was what he really believed. Could Sixsmith deliberately have corrupted Toby Argyll? He remembered Alan Argyll's grief when he had heard of his brother's death. Grief, or guilt?

"We won't know, will we?" Margaret said sadly.

"Probably not," he admitted.

"And Mrs. Argyll?" she persisted. "She swore it was her husband who told her to write the letter."

"I know," Rathbone answered her. "There are a lot of things we still have to learn, and to prove. But we can't afford to wait. I'm sorry."

"I understand." She gave him a smile that was intimate and a little sad, but only for the moment missed, no more. She excused herself and left.

Rathbone looked at Monk. For the first time since Rathbone had realized he was in love with Hester, there was no envy in his eyes, only a deep happiness. He smiled at Monk.

Monk smiled back at him, surprised how pleased he was. "I'm sorry," he said again.

"Where are we going to start?" Rathbone asked him.

Monk looked Rathbone's elegant figure up and down. "With rather older clothes, I think. We need to find and prove the connection between Sixsmith and the assassin."

Rathbone's eyes widened. "For God's sake, Monk! How? Sixsmith worked in the sewer excavations. He could have been anywhere when he was out on bail. It was only a bribery charge! And no one has the faintest idea where the assassin was. We don't even have a name for him!"

"You've summed it up perfectly," Monk said with a smile that was more like a baring of teeth. "I plan on enlisting all the help I can. I'll start with Runcorn, Orme, and as many of my own men as I can spare, then the doctor, Crow. He'll be happy to help because the assassin shot Scuff. Then I'll get as many navvies as'll help. Toshers, gangers, and watermen, too. And I'll try to get Sutton, the ratcatcher. He knows the hidden rivers and wells that very few other people do, all the hiding places. People who won't speak to us will speak to him."

There was horror, disgust, and self-mockery in Rathbone's face. "And what is it you imagine I can do in this... this pursuit of the unspeakable?"

Monk grinned now. "Oh, you are in command," he assured him. "You will tell us what is proof and what is not."

Rathbone gave him a dark, twisted look and excused himself to change his clothes.

They went first to Runcorn, as a matter of geographical simplicity. He was horrified, as they had known he would be. Even more than that, he was angry with himself for not having seen the difference in the two descriptions of the assassin.

"No one did," Monk assured him honestly. "It was only when I was telling Hester about it and repeating it myself that I realized. That one detail too much was his only slip."

Runcorn's face was hard and bleak. "I'll trace each step of that bastard's way," he promised, "if I have to climb or crawl through every sewer in London and question the bloody rats!"

At the thought, Mark's face pulled tight, his mouth in a downward turn, but he did not argue.

Next they got Orme out of his bed with an apology for the hour, as he could just barely have gone to sleep after a hard day. He made no complaints, not even by change of expression on his face. Monk hoped profoundly that it was not because he did not dare to. Orme had earned the right to respect and consideration for his feelings, his well-being, and the fact that he might have other cares and occupations in life than serving the demands of the River Police in general, or Monk in particular.

"I can't do it without you," Monk said frankly.

"That's all right, sir. 'Ow's the boy?" Orme replied, dashing cold water on his face to wake himself up. They were standing in the kitchen of his small home, where Monk had never before been. He was uncomfortably aware that not only had he intruded, uninvited, on the one place where Orme had privacy, mastery, but also he had brought others who were strangers in all but name.

"Recovering well," he replied. "Can I make you a cup of tea while you dress?"

Orme stared at him. "I'll make it, sir. If you just like-"

"I'll do it," Monk insisted. "I'm not asking for instructions, just permission."

"Yes... sir. The tea's in the caddy up there." He pointed to an Indian-style tin at the back of the tidy kitchen shelf. "The kettles beside the stove, and there's milk in the pantry cupboard. Water's already pumped for the morning. But-"

"Thank you," Monk interrupted him again. "Just dress. There's no need to shave. We're going down into the sewers."

Orme obeyed. Monk moved around the small, immaculately tidy kitchen while Runcorn riddled the last ash from the stove and piled it delicately with new coal to make it burn up again, warm the kitchen, and boil the water in the kettle. Rathbone merely sat and watched, as his skills would be required later.

Seven minutes later Orme was back down, dressed for going onto the river. Then over hot, strong tea, they discussed the exact tactics of how they would hunt down the evidence they needed to hang Aston Sixsmith.

"What do we need, sir?" Orme looked at Rathbone.

Rathbone had obviously been considering it. "We have on Sixsmith's own admission that he knew this assassin." He frowned. "I wish we could find a name for the man! We need unarguable evidence that Sixsmith knew him, with the credible assumption that he also knew his occupation. It seems obvious enough that Sixsmith told Argyll of the trouble toshers and other men were causing, and that they needed to be bought off. You might see if that's actually true. How much trouble were the toshers? Because the money went to the assassin, and yet the work is still apparently going on." He looked at them in turn.

"What about the cave-in?" Runcorn asked. "Do we knew exactly what caused that, and if it was foreseeable? Was it what James Havilland was afraid of? Has it anything to do with Sixsmith?"

"And what about Mary?" Monk added.

"And what connection was there between Sixsmith and Toby Argyll?" Rathbone asked. "In short, Alan Argyll may be technically innocent of having hired the assassin, but is he innocent of everything? Is this one man, or a conspiracy?"

Orme looked at Monk. "Questions, sir. We gotta find people 'oo've seen Sixsmith an' the man wi' the teeth, afore 'Avilland were shot, an' prove as they know each other. We gotta find navvies an' toshers an' the like 'oo know if Sixsmith knew about the dangers o' movin' that machine too fast an' cuttin' wi'out askin' enough about streams an' wells an' the like."

Rathbone's eyes widened. "Exactly," he agreed. "Very well summed up, Mr. Orme." He gave a very slight smile. "Perhaps you don't really need my presence?"

Monk gave him a wry look and then smiled back. "We couldn't possibly manage without you, Rathbone," he replied.

They spent some further time apportioning duties and planning where and how often to meet in order to compare notes and keep each other informed. They had an hour's sleep sitting in the chairs in the kitchen, then another hot cup of tea and several slices of thick toast. By half past four, they were on their way towards the main road, where they caught a hansom and started the journey to the tunnel.

They stopped to pick up Crow. He was a sleepy and startled recruit, but willing enough when he heard the truth of the events. He sent a messenger to find Sutton and tell him where they were going, and that it was extremely urgent that he join them. They did not wait for the ratcatcher, but arranged a rendezvous.

The wind was gusting hard and carried the smell of rain as they made their way down the muddy slope to the bottom of the tunnel. The walls oozed water in the lantern light, and on the bottom it was running slowly in between the broken bricks and pebbles. The wooden planks were slimy underfoot. When Monk held his lantern up, the beam shone on the mist of fine rain, lighting the wet walls and the planks that held them back, but barely reaching the higher beams that forced them apart, crisscrossing upwards to an invisible sky. The air smelled of earth, water, and old wood.

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?

"Is 'e?" Scuff repeated.

He was not touching her, and yet she knew his body was stiff.

"He'll try," she answered. "Nobody wins all the time. This could be a mistake we can't mend. I don't know."

He let out his breath in a sigh and relaxed, inching another tiny fraction closer to her.

"Mr. 'Avilland were right about their machines, weren't 'e?"

"I'm afraid he was," she agreed. "At least partly. He was also right about going ahead too quickly without making sure where all the streams were.

"Mr. Sixsmith were the boss down there. Yer'd think as 'e'd 'a told Mr. Argyll, wouldn't yer?" he whispered.

"He must have," she agreed.

As she said it she realized with a chill, in spite of the blankets over her, that it was not necessarily true. But it made no sense.

"Wot's the matter?" Scuff demanded.

"At least, I suppose he'd have told Mr. Argyll," she answered.

He put his hand on her shoulder, so lightly she barely felt it, only its warmth. "There's summink as don't make no sense, in't there? Is Mr. Monk gonna be all right? I should 'a bin there to look arter 'im. I think mebbe that Sixsmith s real bad."

"But what does Sixsmith want?" she said as much to herself as to him. "Money? Power? Love? Escape from something?" She turned a little towards him. "Do you suppose it was because of Mrs. Argyll? She's in love with him, I think. And her husband is a cold man. She must feel terribly alone."

"Weren't Mr. 'Avilland 'er pa, too?" he asked.

"Yes. I don't believe she knew the assassin was going to kill her father. And afterwards she thought it was her husband who had done it. Maybe she still doesn't know it was Sixsmith, and we can't prove it!"

"But 'e knows," Scuff pointed out. "So 'e din't do it for 'er! If yer love someone, yer din't kill 'er pa."

"No." She stared up at the ceiling, the faintest of lights coming through the curtains from the streetlamps outside. "Maybe he doesn't love her so much as just want her. It isn't the same."

"Mebbe 'e just 'ates Mr. Argyll," Scuff said thoughtfully. "Yer gotta 'member 'e made it look like it were Mr. Argyll wot paid the assassin. An' it were Mr. Argyll's company wot caused the cave-in, and Mr. Argyll wots goin' ter prisin, or mebbe the rope, eh?"

"That's an awful lot of hate," she said quietly, shivering again in spite of herself. "Why would anyone hate that much?"

"I dunno," he answered. "Must 'a bin summink bad."

"It must have been," she agreed, but her mind was beginning to wonder what Jenny had felt. Did she believe that when her husband was imprisoned, or even hanged, she would be rescued from her boredom and emotional desert by Sixsmith? Was she so in love with him that she had thought no further than that?

What would happen when Argyll was shown to be innocent and Sixsmith guilty? Jenny had lied about who told her to write the letter; that was what had turned the tide against Argyll. Sixsmith knew that! What sort of future awaited her, then? Had she used Sixsmith to get rid of Argyll, so that her children would inherit the company, since Toby was also dead? And they would get whatever James Havilland had possessed also, since Mary was gone as well. Did she imagine that this would hold Sixsmith to her, and was that what she wanted? Surely if she had any sense she would fear for her own life.

Or did she believe he truly loved her?

"Yer've thought of summink, 'aven't yer?" Scuff whispered beside her.

"Yes," she answered honestly. "I need to go and see Mrs. Argyll. She lied in court, and she needs to know what that could cost her. I'll send a letter first thing to ask Margaret Ballinger to come to sit with you until I get back."

"I don' need no one," he said instantly. "I'm almost better."

"No, you aren't," she retorted. "And whether you need anyone or not, I need there to be someone here, so I can stop worrying about you and keep my mind on what I'm doing. Don't argue with me! I've made up my mind. And you'll like Margaret, I expect."

"Mr. Monk said yer as stubborn as an army mule."

"Did he indeed! Well, Mr. Monk wouldn't know an army mule if it kicked him!"

Scuff giggled. Obviously the idea entertained him.

"But I would!" she added, before he got any ideas of insubordination.

"Yer'd kick it back," he said with immense satisfaction, and moved the last couple of inches until he was next to her. She put an arm around him, very lightly. In five minutes he was asleep.

In the morning she sent one of the local boys to take a message to Margaret, wait for her answer, and return with it. She gave him fare for a hansom both ways, and something for himself. It was extravagant, but she judged it necessary, not only for her own peace of mind but for Monk's also. She had not misread the affection in his face for Scuff, no matter how carefully he tried to mask it.

She arrived at the Argyll house a little after ten o'clock. It was strange to realize that the rest of the world still believed Argyll guilty and Sixsmith innocent. For a moment terror overtook her as she walked across the pavement to the steps up to the front door. What if Sixsmith was there already? If he and Jenny were lovers, they might have celebrated their victory together.

No, that would be foolish, even if Argyll had already been arrested. It might arouse suspicions. In order to preserve any dignity or belief in her, Jenny Argyll would have to play the shocked and grieving wife rescued in time by the innocent man. They would be two victims together of Argyll's wickedness.

Hester straightened her shoulders and mounted the steps to the front door, head high.

The bell was answered by a red-eyed parlor maid, and Hester told her that she was here to see Mrs. Argyll on a matter of great importance and urgency. Hester guessed from the girl's appearance that Argyll had already been arrested.

"I'm sorry, madam, but Mrs. Argyll is unwell," the maid began. "She isn't receiving today."

"I was in court yesterday," Hester replied. "What I have to say will prove Mr. Argyll's innocence." She did not add that it would also prove Mrs. Argyll's guilt.

The parlor maid's eyes opened wide, then she stepped back and invited Hester in. She was flustered, happy, and still frightened. She left Hester in the withdrawing room, the only place even remotely warm from the embers of the previous nights fire. Such domestic duties had been utterly neglected that day.

Ten minutes later Jenny Argyll came in. Her black gown was very well cut and flattered her slenderness. Her hair was styled less severely than earlier, but her face was almost bloodlessly pale, and there were bruised shadows around her eyes. She looked feminine and vulnerable. Hester's last doubts that Jenny was in love with Sixsmith were swept away. Jenny could have helped her actions, but her emotions were beyond her mastery.

"Good morning, Mrs. Monk," Jenny said with faint surprise. Her voice trembled a little. Was it tension, exhaustion, or fear? "My maid tells me you know something of urgent importance about my husband's arrest. Is that true?"

Hester had to force herself to remember Rose Applegate's humiliation in order to say what she must. She was certain now that it had been Jenny who had poisoned Rose's food or drink with alcohol, not Argyll. It was she who had the motive, and surely it could only have been she who had known of Rose's weakness. Had Rose's resolve slipped before, or had she confided in someone in a moment of weakness, perhaps as her reason for not joining them in wine, or a champagne toast to some event? One might require such an excuse to avoid giving offense, for example at a wedding.

Jenny was waiting.

"Yes, it is true," Hester replied. "I went into court believing, as did my husband, that Mr. Sixsmith was innocent of everything except the very understandable offense of trying to bribe certain troublemakers to stop sabotaging the construction. The only reason he was charged at all was in order to bring the whole subject of James Havilland's death to court, and during the proceedings to prove that it was actually your husband who was guilty."

"Then you succeeded," Jenny said with almost no expression. "Why have you bothered to come and tell me this? Do you imagine I care? What possible difference do your reasons or your beliefs make to me?"

Hester looked at her. Was any of that hurt or outrage real? Or was she showing that emotion to mask the sense of victory she must feel now the prize was almost in her hands?

"None at all," Hester admitted calmly. "It is the fact that we were mistaken that is of importance. Your husband was not guilty, and I am almost certain that we can prove that."

Jenny stood motionless, her eyes wide, unfocused. For a moment Hester was afraid she might faint. "Not... guilty?" she said hoarsely. "How can that be? He has been arrested.'" That was a denial, almost a defiance.

Hester hoped fervently that Sixsmith was not in the house. Was she taking a stupid risk? It was too late to retreat now.

"But you don't believe him guilty, surely?"

"How... how can I not?"

"Because you know without any doubt who it was that asked you to write the letter to your father, and since it was Sixsmith who paid to have him killed, it is impossible to believe that it was not also Sixsmith who arranged to have him be in the stables," Hester replied.

Jenny drew in her breath, raising her hands as if to push Hester away physically. "Oh, no! I-"

"You are in love with him," Hester continued. "Yes, I know. So much is apparent. But however infatuated you are, it does not excuse the deaths of your father and your sister, and the shame of a suicide's grave for both." The anger and all her own old pain poured into her voice until it shook. She had to gulp for breath and try to steady herself. "You may not have known at first, but don't tell me you don't know now.'"

"I don't!" Jenny denied furiously. "You're lying. My husband is guilty! The court knows that! You have no right to come here saying such terrible things!"

"Terrible?" Hester challenged her. "It is terrible that Sixsmith could be guilty of killing your father, but not that your husband is? I think that judgment betrays your loyalties rather clearly, Mrs. Argyll!"

"You accuse me!" Jenny shot back.

"Of course I do. It was you who swore on oath that it was your husband who made you write the letter that lured your father to his death. You could not mistake such a thing. It had to be a deliberate betrayal of both your husband and your father! What does Sixsmith offer you that is worth that?"

Jenny gasped. "Get out of my house... you..." She could not find words to protect herself.

"Is he such a lover?" Hester went on, allowing her own past helplessness to drive her anger.

"How dare you!" Jenny shouted. "You ignorant, complacent, stupid woman with your good works and your petty little ideas! What on earth do you know of passion?"

"I know love and hate, and the price you pay for each," Hester replied. "I know death, and I've seen better men than you've ever known give their lives for what they believed in. I've seen grief and war and murder. I've made more terrible mistakes, and I've loved till I thought I'd die of it. I've let people down because I've been weak or shortsighted, but I've never deliberately betrayed anyone. You betrayed your father, your sister, your husband, and Rose Applegate as well. Was that really worth it just to lie with Aston Sixsmith?"

Jenny swung her arm around and slapped Hester across the face as hard as she could, sending her staggering backwards until she fell onto the armchair several steps behind her.

Hester climbed to her feet slowly, hand to her burning cheek. "I see that it wasn't," she observed.

Jenny took a step towards her, face scarlet, eyes bright with rage.

Hester was prepared this time, her own hand ready, fist closed. "Sixsmith murdered the assassin," she said. "Shot him and left him to be crushed and buried under the cave-in. And don't bother to argue that. It was what gave him away. He described the man as he was when he was killed, not when Sixsmith said he paid him. It was his only mistake, but it was enough. It'll save your husband from the rope. Or is that not what you want to hear?" That was an accusation with the bitterest contempt.

"I don't want any of it!" Jenny said desperately. "And you're lying. It can't be true!"

Hester did not bother to argue. "He murdered your father and your sister, and he's going to murder your husband. Is that the sort of man you trust to look after you, not to mention your children? If you've got any wits left at all, you'll save yourself while you can. Your husband's going to be freed, whatever you do, and Sixsmith will hang."

Jenny looked at her with loathing. "And what does it profit you, Mrs. Monk? Why do you care if I survive or not? I think you're lying, and you need me to betray Aston, or he'll still beat you and Alan."

Hester forced herself to smile, but she knew it was a cold, uncertain gesture. "Are you prepared to wager your life on no one finding evidence, now that they know where to look? More than that, are you sure your own future is safe with a man who will kill when it suits him, who betrayed the man who employed him and trusted him by taking his wife and who set him up to hang for a murder he didn't commit? Look who is dead! Are you sure you are not the next, when your usefulness to him is over, or he finds a younger, prettier woman who isn't weighed down with another man's children? Or could it be that your children are heirs to the whole Argyll inheritance? Could that be your value to him? And if you marry him, whose will it be then? Toby's, dead, too! And Mary."

Jenny's face collapsed. Hester imagined the memories that might be racing through her mind, moments of intimacy, of passion. Hester would have pitied her had not so many others paid the price.

"Go to the police and confess perjury," she said more gently. "While you still have time. Make up some story that you were deceived and now you realize the truth. You might at least survive. You have a choice, today anyway. Live with Argyll, who may be a bore and a bully-or hang with Sixsmith, who is far worse." She gave a very slight shrug. "There's no profit in it for me, Mrs. Argyll, but there is for your children. I suppose I care about them." And she turned on her heel and walked out. She would go back home and have lunch with Scuff, and perhaps tell him what she had done. She would write a letter to Rose Applegate and tell her too, when it was all over.

As Monk and all the others shared a brief lunch with a group of navvies, this time having the benefit of far more knowledge, they questioned them not about Argyll but about Sixsmith. They were deep underground, sitting on stones in the rubble away from the pounding of the engine. It was an old tunnel where debris had been dumped rather than carry it all the way to the surface. The constant dripping of water filled the air with damp and the smell of sewage. The scrabble of rats' feet was closer than the clang and thump of the machine. The voices around them echoed until it was hard to tell from which direction they came. Darkness hemmed them in on all sides, crowding the frail heart of the lantern light. They could have been twenty feet below the surface of the earth, or hundreds. Monk tried to drive the thought from his mind and keep his stomach from knotting.

Rathbone drank some water but was reluctant to eat the coarse bread. He did manage to keep the look of distaste out of his expression.

"So Miss Havilland asked for Mr. Sixsmith's help?" he said again.

"Yeah," the navvy agreed. He was a big, bull-chested man with fair hair receding at the front and an agreeable, heavily weathered face. "Course 'e did. Went out o' 'is way ter give 'er wot she asked fer. Did fer 'er pa, too."

"Same information?" Rathbone asked.

"I s'pose." The navvy creased his face in thought. " 'E 'elped a lot o' them. Never 'id nuffink. 'E must 'a told Miss 'Avilland wot she asked 'im fer, 'cos it were arter she spoke wi' 'im that she came ter know as 'er pa were murdered. Or leastways ter think as 'e were."

Rathbone glanced at Monk, then looked back at the navvy. "I think I might begin to understand this, Mr..."

"Finger," the navvy supplied. " 'Cos I lost me finger, see?" He held up his left hand, the middle finger missing from the knuckle.

"Thank you," Rathbone acknowledged. "Mr. Finger, did Mr. Toby Argyll work with Mr. Sixsmith also?"

The navvy grinned, showing several gaps among his teeth. "Jus' Finger. Yeah, course 'e did. Mr. Toby were keen ter learn all 'e could about the machine, an' no one knowed as much as Mr. Sixsmith. Mr. Toby were down 'ere 'alf the time."

"Before Miss Havilland was killed on the river?" Rathbone pressed.

"Yeah, even the day before, as I 'member."

Monk suddenly understood what Rathbone was thinking, and perhaps a step beyond it as well. "Finger," he said quickly, "why did Mr. Toby ask Sixsmith about the machine, rather than asking his brother, Alan Argyll?"

"Perhaps his brother wouldn't tell him?" Rathbone suggested, and looked questioningly at Finger.

"Nob'dy knows 'em machines like Mr. Sixsmith does," Finger replied with certainty.

"But Mr. Alan was the one who invented the modifications that made Argyll Brothers' machine better than anyone else's," Monk pointed out, cutting across Rathbone.

" 'E owned it," Finger said. "It were Mr. Sixsmith wot thought it up. 'E knew it better'n Mr. Argyll, that I'd swear on me ma's grave, God rest 'er."

"Ah!" Monk sat back, looking across at Rathbone. "So Mr. Sixsmith had the brains, but Mr. Argyll took the credit and the money. I imagine Mr. Sixsmith was more than a little unhappy about that."

They thanked Finger, who told them where to find a navvy who could help them further.

They had gone only another mile when there was a tremor in the ground, so faint as to be almost indiscernible. A moment later, the rhythm of the machine altered slightly.

A wave of horror passed over Monk, bringing the sweat out on his skin, then desperate fear.

Rathbone froze.

"Can you smell something?" Sutton whispered.

"Smell something?" Rathbone said hoarsely. "The stench of the sewers, for heaven's sake. How could anyone not smell it?"

Sutton stood still. In the wavering lamplight it was impossible to tell whether his face was paler or not, but there was a tension in him that was unmistakable.

Then it came again, a louder rumble this time.

"We gotta get out of 'ere!" Sutton's voice was sharp. "There's more comin' down somewhere. C'mon!" He started forward. Snoot was at his feet, hackles bristling.

They crowded behind him, lanterns high. Monk saw the yellow light on the walls. Was it his imagination that they were bulging, as if any moment they would rupture and the water burst through, drowning them all? He was gasping for breath now, his body trembling. Was he a physical coward after all? It was a new and shattering thought.

Was it pain he was afraid of, or death? The end of opportunity to try again, to do better? Some kind of judgment when it was too late to understand or be sorry? Or oblivion, simply ceasing to exist?

And then with a sweet, hard certainty he knew the answer: He was afraid of the ultimate failure of being a coward. And that was something he could control. It might cost him everything he had, but it was still within his power to do it. It was within him, not beyond. He felt his heart steady.

He was treading on Sutton's heels, and Rathbone on his, then Crow, Orme, and Runcorn. They moved as quickly as they could, heads bent to avoid the low roof, feet slipping on rubble.

The smell seemed stronger. Monk felt it thick and pungent in his nose. It was not just sewage, it was gas. He strained his ears but heard no more rumbling, only the slosh of their feet in deeper water, and the increased skittering and squealing of rats, as if they too were panicking. It made the small hairs stand up on his skin, but he knew it was infinitely better than silence. If the rats were alive, then the air was breathable.

There was another fear that he would not express, but it kept beating in his brain. Sixsmith was free. No one else knew he was guilty except Hester and Scuff. All those who could prove it were here in this worm-hole in the earth, about to be trapped, buried-by Sixsmith?

Sutton was still leading the way, but the water was flowing against them. He bent and picked up Snoot. It was too deep for the little dog to stand in, and he kept having to lift his head up.

No one remarked on the obvious. Monk turned to look behind him once and saw their smudged faces, eyes reflecting fear. Rathbone pulled his mouth down at the corners but said nothing.

"Keep close," Monk warned. "Better put your hand on the man in front of you. Lose touch, and we'll all stop. That's an order!"

They pressed on. The smell was definitely stronger. There was another violent tremor. Sutton stopped and they looked at each other. No one spoke.

They began walking again and came to a fork. Sutton took the right turning, and no one questioned him. Ten minutes later the water was shallower, and a few moments after that they came to a blank wall where the rock had fallen in. It was totally blocked. Not a break of air came from the other side.

"Sorry," Sutton said gently.

They each dismissed it and told him not to worry. They had barely finished speaking when there was a hollow roar beyond the fall, as if a train had gone by, and then utter, suffocating silence.

Sutton's lantern slipped out of his hand and crashed into the water, wavering under the thick, filthy stream for a moment or two, then going out.

"What was that?" Runcorn said hoarsely. "Water?"

"No." Sutton held Snoot more tightly.

"What?" Rathbone demanded.

"Fire," Sutton croaked.

"God Almighty!" Rathbone leaned against the wall. In the yellow glare his face was gray.

"Reckon as Mr. Sixsmith knows we're on to 'im," Orme observed. "Pity we din't get 'im. 'E's a real bad one."

"That hardly begins to describe him," Crow said bitterly. "We'll go back."

No one answered him; none of them wanted to argue the realities. They turned and started to retrace their steps until they were at the fork again.

"Other way?" Runcorn asked Sutton.

Sutton shook his head. "That's the way o' the fire. We need ter go back the way we come."

"Waters deeper," Crow pointed out.

"I know." Sutton started forward without adding anything. They went after him, each apparently lost in his own thoughts.

Monk tried hard not to let his mind go to Hester and Scuff. It would take from him his anger and the strength it gave him to go on through the icy, stinking water up to his knees and the filth that was in it. He knocked against the bodies of dead rats. Ahead of him Sutton was still carrying the little dog. Had he any idea at all where they were, or what was ahead of or behind them, except rockfalls and fire?

They turned more corners and passed a weir. The water thundered over the drop so violently they could not hear each other, even if they shouted.

Sutton waved to the left, pointing to another passage.

"That's..." Runcorn cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, but his words were lost.

Orme looked at Monk.

Crow shrugged and followed after Sutton.

Monk and Rathbone had no better knowledge of the tunnels. All six of them and Snoot crossed over, gripping each other through the fast flowing stream, only just keeping their balance.

The tunnel curved around and started to go upwards. Then, just as Monk was thinking he could smell fresh air, it came to an abrupt end. There was water flowing from the left, a thin, steady spout out of the raw earth already carrying soil with it, and growing stronger even as they watched.

"It's going to burst through!" Rathbone said, his voice high, beyond his control. "We'll be drowned!" He swiveled around to look for escape. The tunnel behind him sloped downward, the way the water would flow.

Monk saw it and understood. There was no escape. Oddly now, with disaster so close, his fear was under control.

Snoot began to bark, writhing to get from Sutton's grasp.

" 'E can smell rabbits," Sutton said quietly. "We ain't got no other way. If we break this the stream'll come, but it isn't big. I reckon as we 'it wot they used to call the Lark, afore it went under. It in't very deep. We'll get proper wet and cold, but keep goin' an' we'll come out." And without waiting for approval he attacked the soil with his hands.

Monk looked at Rathbone, then at the others. Snoot was already digging just as fiercely as his master. Monk stepped forward and joined them, then so did the others.

The stream broke through in a rush, almost knocking them off their feet. Sutton fell against Runcorn, and Crow bent to help them back to their feet. The lanterns were all shattered, and they were plunged into obliterating darkness. There was no sense of direction except that of the icy water.

"C'mon!" Sutton shouted.

There was nothing to do for survival except to follow him into the stream. They crawled against the water, trying to breathe, to keep hold of anything, to move forward, upward, clinging, gasping, cold to the bone.

Monk had no idea how long it went on, how many times he thought his lungs would burst. Then suddenly there was light, real daylight, and air. He fell out after Sutton into the shingle bed and stumbled up the sides of the stone culvert. He turned immediately to see who was behind him. One by one the others dragged themselves out, filthy, drenched, and shuddering with cold. He swung around to thank Sutton, and saw with a wave of boundless relief that he had Snoot in his arms. "Is he all right?" he demanded.

Sutton nodded. "Thought 'e weren't," he said shakily. "But 'e's breathin'."

"Thank you, sir." Rathbone held out his hand to Sutton. "You have saved our lives. Now we must go and deal with Mr. Sixsmith. I suggest you get your dog warm." He fished in his pocket and brought out a gold sovereign. "Be so good as to give him a teaspoon of brandy with my compliments."

Monk felt the emotion well up inside him too intensely for him to speak. He met Sutton's eyes, looked again to make sure that Snoot was indeed breathing, and clasped Rathbone's arm very briefly. Then they followed Crow, who seemed to know which way to go.

The five of them were perishing with cold and smeared with clay and remnants of sewage when they reached the head of the tunnel again. They found Finger and almost twenty other navvies near the great machine.

Finger saw Monk. "We got another cave-in, bad one," he said grimly. "Blimey! Yer look like bloody 'ell!"

"Very well observed," Monk replied. "Too accurate to be accounted abusive language. Where is Sixsmith?"

"Down there." Finger pointed at the entrance.

Monk looked at it and a wave of nausea enveloped him. He could not go in that again. He simply physically could not. His legs were shaking, his stomach sick.

It was Runcorn who walked forward, his face set like stone. "I'll get that bastard up here," he said grimly. "Or I'll bring the whole bloody lot in on both of us."

"What! Runcorn!" Monk shouted after him. He swore violently. He could not let Runcorn go in there. He had no choice. He charged back into the semidarkness a pace behind Runcorn, still shouting at him.

Fifty yards in, the tunnel was still dimly lit from lanterns on the wall. A hundred yards and the glow came from ahead of them and Runcorn stopped abruptly.

Monk caught up with him. "Fire," he said, his voice catching. "I can feel the heat of it. Where's Sixsmith?"

Monk pressed forward again, more slowly now. He had covered another twenty yards around a curve when he saw the broad-chested figure ahead of him. It was unmistakably Sixsmith from the way he walked. He was coming towards them. He must have recognized Monk at that same moment. He stopped and stood with his arms loosely by his sides. If he was surprised to see Monk was not alone, there was nothing in his voice to betray it.

"You'd better let me past. There's fire behind me, and I'm the only one who can put it out! If I don't, it could come up into the streets and burn the whole of London."

"Did you mean to kill Toby Argyll?" Monk asked without moving.

"Eventually," Sixsmith replied. "But Mary taking him over with her was a piece of luck. I had intended to have him blamed for her death, but the way it worked out was better. Don't waste time, Monk. The fire'll break through soon. That whole tunnel behind me is ablaze. There's enough air in here to feed it."

"Why did you do it? For the Argyll Company?"

"Don't be so damn stupid! For revenge. Alan Argyll took my invention, the money, and far more than that, he took the praise for it! I don't give a damn if this whole thing blows up, Monk, but you do! You won't let the city burn, so get out of my way! I can put it out! Those fools up there don't know what to do."

Behind Monk, Runcorn was moving. Monk swung around to see what it was, and at that instant Runcorn threw the rock. It caught Sixsmith just as he raised his hand with the gun in it. He fell backwards as the shot exploded, and the bullet hit the rocks.

"Run!" Runcorn yelled, grabbing Monk by the waist and almost pulling him off his feet.

Side by side they hurtled towards the entrance again, feet flying, shoulders banging into the walls. Monk fell once. Runcorn stopped and hauled him to his feet, almost yanking his arm out of its socket, nearly tearing his wound open. But they reached the entrance just as Finger fired the great lifting machine into life, under Orme's orders. The earth began to shudder and stones were dislodged. Boulders quaked and the whole machine slid forward. The giant stakes that held it were gone and it slithered and pounded, belching steam.

Finger jumped down and ran away from it as it lurched forward. The boulders crashed over and down, then gradually the entire wall and all its retaining boards and planks buckled and slid. Crossbeams exploded like matchsticks. With a great eruption, the earth collapsed with a roar and crashed over the entrance, burying it as if it had never existed.

Pebbles rattled and dropped; steam exploded from somewhere in a white column. Then there was silence.

Monk wiped his hand across his face and found he was shaking.

"Better Sixsmith be buried," Rathbone said, his voice with only a shred of its old humor. "I'm not sure I could have convicted him anyway." He smiled ruefully. "Don't bring me another case for a while, Monk. You've ruined my clothes."

They stood in a row, five of them-filthy, freezing, and strangely victorious.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Monk said. "Each and every one of you." He had never meant anything more in his life.