The Dark Assassin

chapter Three
The Portpool Lane clinic was a large establishment, not with the open wards that made nursing easy, but with numerous separate bedrooms. However, it had the greatest advantage any establishment that was devoted to the treatment of the penniless could have: it was rent-free. It had once been a highly disreputable brothel run by one Squeaky Robinson, a man of many financial and organizational skills. He had in the past made one serious technical error, and it was that upon which Hester, with the help of the brilliant barrister Oliver Rathbone, had capitalized on. It was then that the brothel had been closed down, its extortion business ended, and the building turned into a clinic for the treatment of any street woman who was either injured or ill.

Some of its former occupants had remained to work at the more tedious but far safer occupations of cleaning and laundering sheets. Squeaky Robinson himself lived on the premises, and under vociferous and constant complaint kept the books and managed the continuing finances. He never allowed Hester to forget that he was there under duress and because he had been tricked. In turn, she was aware that he had actually, against his better judgment, developed a fierce pride in the whole enterprise.

After the terrible period during which Claudine Burroughs had come, and experienced such a change in her life, Margaret Ballinger had also finally accepted Sir Oliver's proposal of marriage. Both women were working at the clinic and fully intended to remain so, leaving Hester with far less responsibility for its welfare, either in the raising of funds to pay for the food, fuel, and medicines or in the day-to-day chores.

The same bitter morning that Monk began investigating the death of James Havilland, Hester was checking the account books in the office at the clinic for the last time.

After the appalling weeks of the previous autumn, when Hester had so nearly died, Monk had demanded that she give up working at the clinic. Although it meant far more to her than a simple refuge for street women who were ill or injured and it filled a need in her to heal, she ultimately acquiesced to Monk's wishes. Even so, she dragged out the last duties in the clinic, putting off the moment of having to leave.

She would greatly have preferred to perform this task in the familiar kitchen, where the stove kept the whole room warm and the lamps gave a pleasant yellow glow on old pans polished with use, and odd china of varying colors and designs. Strings of onions hung from the bare beams along with bunches of dried herbs, and at least one airing rack was festooned with laundered bandages ready for use on the next disaster.

But the ledgers, bills, and receipts as well as the money itself were all in the office, so she sat at the table, feet cold and hands stiff, adding up figures and trying to make the results hopeful.

There was a brisk knock on the door, and as soon as she answered it, Claudine came in. She was a tall woman, narrow-shouldered and broad at the hips. Her face had been handsome in her youth, but years of unhappiness had taken the bloom from her skin and marked her features with an expression of discontent. A couple of months of dedicated purpose and the startling realization that she was actually both useful and liked had only just begun to change that. She still wore her oldest clothes, which were of good quality but out of fashion now. The newer ones were left at home to be worn on her increasingly rarer forays into society. Her husband was annoyed and puzzled by her preference for "good work" over the pursuit of pleasure, but she no longer believed he had earned the right to inflict further unhappiness upon her, and very seldom spoke of him. If she had any friends of her own aside from those at the clinic, she did not refer to them, either, except insofar as they might be persuaded to donate to the cause.

"Good morning, Claudine," Hester said, trying to sound cheerful. "How are you?"

Claudine still did not take pleasantries for granted. "Good morning," she replied, even now unsure whether to address Hester by her Christian name. "I'm very well, thank you. But I fear we can expect a good deal of bronchitis in this weather, and pneumonia as well. Got a stab wound in last night. Stupid girl hasn't got the wits she was born with, working out of a place like Fleet Row."

"Can we save her?" Hester asked anxiously, unintentionally including herself in the cause.

"Oh, yes." Claudine was somewhat smug about her newly acquired medical knowledge, even if it came from observation rather than experience. "What I came about was new sheets. We can manage for a little longer, but you'll have to ask Margaret about more funds soon. We'll need at least a dozen, and that'll barely do."

"Can it wait another few weeks?" Hester regarded the column of figures in front of her. She ought to tell Claudine that she was going, but she could not bring herself to do it yet.

"Three, perhaps," Claudine replied. "I can bring a pair from home, but I don't have twelve."

"Thank you." Hester meant it. For Claudine to provide anything out of her own home for the use of street women was a seven-league step from the wounding distaste the woman had felt only three months earlier. The charity work Claudine had been used to was of the discreet, untrou-blesome kind where ladies of like disposition organized fetes and garden parties to raise money for respectable causes, such as fever hospitals, mission work, and the deserving poor. Some profound disruption to her personal life had driven Claudine to this total departure. She had not confided in anybody what it had been, and Hester would never ask.

"Breakfast will be ready in half an hour," Claudine responded. "You should eat." And without waiting for a reply, she went out, closing the door behind her.

Hester smiled and returned to her figures.

The next person to come in was Margaret Ballinger, her face pink from the cold, but with nothing of the hunched defense against the weather that one might expect. There was a confidence about her, an unconscious grace, as of one who is inwardly happy, all external circumstances being merely peripheral.

"Breakfast's ready," she said cheerfully. She knew Hester was going, but she refused to think of it. "And Sutton's here to see you. He does look a little... concerned."

Hester was surprised. Sutton, a ratcatcher by trade, occasionally did odd jobs for Hester. She stood up immediately. "Is he all right?"

"He's not hurt," Margaret began.

"And Snoot?" Hester was referring to the ratcatcher's eager little terrier.

Margaret smiled. "In excellent health," she assured Hester. "Whatever concerns Sutton, it is not Snoot."

Hester fait immeasurably relieved. She knew how Sutton loved the animal. He was possibly all the family he had, certainly all he spoke of.

Downstairs in the kitchen there was porridge on the large cast-iron stove. Two kettles were boiling, and the door to the toasting fire was closed while an entire loaf of bread, sliced and browned on the fork, sat crisping in two wooden racks. There was butter, marmalade, and blackcurrant jam on the table. The clinic was obviously quite well-off in funds at the moment.

Sutton, a lean man not much more than Hester's height, sat on one of the few unsplintered kitchen chairs. He stood up the moment he saw her. The brown and white Jack Russell terrier at his feet wagged his tail furiously, but he was too tightly disciplined to dart forward.

Sutton's thin face lit up with pleasure and what looked like relief. "Mornin', Miss 'Ester. 'Ow are yer?"

"I'm very well, Mr. Sutton," she replied. "How are you? I'm sure you could manage some breakfast, couldn't you? I'm having some."

"That'd be very civil of yer." He watched her, sitting down as soon as she had.

Margaret had already eaten at home; she never ate the clinic's rations unless she was there for too long to abstain. She collected most of the clinic's funds through her social acquaintances, and she was far too sensitive to the difficulty of that to waste a farthing or consume herself what could be used for the sick. She would make an excellent mistress of this in Hester's place.

Sutton devoured his porridge and then toast and marmalade, while Hester had just the toast and jam. They were both on their second cup of tea when Claudine excused herself and they were left alone. Much against her own better judgment, Claudine had given Snoot porridge and milk as well, and he was now happily asleep in front of the hearth.


"She'll spoil 'im rotten, that woman," Sutton said as Claudine closed the door. "Wot good'll 'e be fer rattin' if 'e's 'anded 'is breakfast on a plate?"

Hester did not bother to answer. It was part of the slow retreat by which Claudine was going to allow Sutton to understand that she granted him a reluctant respect. She was a lady, and he caught rats. She would not bring herself to treat him as an equal, which would have made both of them uncomfortable, but she would be more than civil to the dog. That was different, and they both understood it perfectly.

"What is it?" Hester asked, before they should be interrupted again by some business of the day.

He did not prevaricate. They had come to know each other well during the crisis of the autumn. He looked at her earnestly, his brow furrowed. "I dunno as there's anythin' yer can do, but I gotta try all I can. We all knows about the Great Stink an 'ow the river smells summink evil, an' they're doin' summink about it, at last. An' that's all as it should be." He shook his head. "But most folks 'oo live aboveground in't got no idea wot goes on underneath."

"No," she agreed with only a faint gnawing of concern. "Should we?"

"If yer gonna go diggin' around in it wi' picks an' shovels an' great machines, then yeah, yer should." There was a sudden passion in his voice, and a fear she had not heard before. He had been so strong in the autumn. This was something new, something over which he felt he had no control.

"What sort of thing is there?" she asked. "You mean graveyards and plague pits-that sort of thing?"

"There are, but wot I were thinkin' of is rivers. There's springs and streams all over the place. London 's mostly on clay, yer see." His face was tense, eyes keen. "I learned 'em from me pa. 'E were a tosher. One o' the best. Knew every river under the city from Battersea ter Greenwich, 'e did, an' most o' the wells too. Yer any idea 'ow many wells there is, Miss 'Ester?"

"There must be..." She tried to think and realized she had no idea. "Hundreds, I suppose."

"I don't mean where we get water up," he explained. "I mean them wots closed over and goes away secret like."

"Are there?" She did not know why it troubled him, still less why he should have come to her about it.

He understood and grimaced at his own foolishness. "Thing is, Miss 'Ester, there's 'undreds o' navvies workin' on all this diggin'. 'As bin for years, wot with one tunnel an' another for sewers, roads, trains, an' the like. It's 'ard work an' it's dangerous, an' there's always bin accidents. Part o' life. But it's got worse since all this new diggin's bin goin' on. Everyone's after a bit o' the profit, an' it's all in a terrible 'urry 'cos o' the typhoid an' the Big Stink an' all, an' Mr. Bazalgette's new drawings. But it's gettin' more dangerous. People are usin' bigger and bigger machines, an' goin' faster all the time 'cos o' the 'urry, an' they in't takin' the time ter learn proper where all 'em streams an' springs is." His face was tight with fear. "Get it wrong an' clay slips somethin' 'orrible. We've 'ad one or two cave-ins, but I reckon as there'll be a lot more, an' worse, if folks don't take a bit more care, an' a bit more time."

She looked at his drawn, tired face and knew that there was more behind his words than he was able to tell her.

"What is it you think I could do, Mr. Sutton?" she asked. "I don't know how to help injured workmen. I don't have the skill. And I certainly don't have the ear of any person with the influence to make the construction companies take more care."

His shoulders slumped a little, looking narrower under his plain, dark jacket. She judged him to be in his fifties, but hard work-much of it dangerous and unpleasant, plus many years of poverty-might have taken more of a toll on his strength than she had allowed. He might be younger than that. She remembered how he had helped all of them at the clinic, but most especially her, tenderly and fearlessly. "What would you like me to do?" she asked.

He smiled, realizing she had given in. She hoped profoundly that he did not know why.

"If anyone'd said ter me a year ago as a lady oo'd bin ter the Crimea would take ol' Squeaky Robinson's place an' turn it inter an 'ospital fer tarts off the street," he answered, "an then get other ladies ter cook and clean in it, I'd 'a throwed a bucket o' water at 'em till they sober'd up. But if anyone can do somethin' ter get them builders ter be'ave a bit safer, it's you." He finished his tea and stood up. "If you can come wi' me, I can show you the machine's wot I'm talkin' about."

She was startled.

"It'll be quite safe," he assured her. "We'll go ter one o' 'em that's open, but yer can think wot it'd be like underneath. Some tunnels is dug down, then covered over. Cut and cover, they call 'em. But some is deep down, like a rat'ole, under the ground all the way." He shivered very slightly. "It's 'em that scares me. The engineers might be clever wi' all kinds o' machines an' ideas, but they don't know 'alf o' wots down there, secret for 'undreds o' years, twistin' an' seepin'." She felt a chill at the thought, a coldness in the pit of her stomach. The daylight was coming in brighter now through the windows into the scullery. There was a sound of footsteps across the cobbled yard where deliveries were made.

She stood up. "How close will they let me come?"

"Borrer a shawl from one o' yer patients an' keep yer eyes down, an' yer can come right up close wi' me."

"I'll go and speak to Miss Ballinger."

But it was Claudine she met just outside the kitchen door. She began to explain that she was going to be away for a few hours. The books would have to wait. She was happy enough to stretch out the task as long as she could.

"I heard," Claudine said gravely, her face puckered into lines of concern. She was unaware of it, but her anger was so fierce that her sense of social class had temporarily ceased to register. "It's monstrous. If people are being injured by hasty work, we must do what we can to fight it." Unconsciously she had included herself in the battle. "We can manage perfectly well here. There's nothing to do but the laundry and the cleaning, and if we can't manage that, then we need to learn. Just be careful!" This last warning was given with a frown of admonition, as if Claudine were somehow responsible for Hester's safety.

Hester smiled. "I will," she promised, aware for the first time that Claudine had become fonder of her than perhaps she herself knew. "Sutton will look after me."

Claudine grunted. She was not going to admit to trusting Sutton; that would be a step too far.

In spite of there being little wind, it was fiercely cold outside. The narrow streets seemed to hold the ice of the night. Footsteps sounded loud on the stones, and the brittle crack of puddles was sharp in the close air. This was the time of year when people who slept huddled in doorways could be found frozen to death at first light.

She walked beside Sutton, Snoot trotting at their heels, until they came to Farringdon Road and the first omnibus stop. The horses were rough-coated for winter and steamed gently as they stood while passengers climbed off and on. Hester and Sutton went up the winding steps to the upper level, since they were going to the end of the line. Snoot sat on Sutton's knee, and she envied him the warmth of the little dog's body.

They talked most of the way because she asked him about the rivers under London. He was enthusiastic to tell her, his face lighting up as he described the hidden streams such as the Walbrook, Tyburn, Counter's Creek, Stamford Brook, Effra, and most of all the Fleet, whose waters once ran red from the tanneries. He talked of springs such as St. Chad 's, St. Agnes', St. Brides, St. Pancras'Wells, and Holywell. All had been reputed as sacred at one time or another, and some became spas, like Hamp-stead Wells and Sadler's Wells. He knew the underground courses and bridges, some of which were believed to date back to Roman times.

"Walbrook's as far up as yer could get a boat when the Romans was 'ere," he said with triumph.

He animatedly recounted earlier travels, including the danger of highwaymen, until they reached their stop.

They alighted into a busy street, workmen crowding around a peddler selling sandwiches and hot pies. They were obliged to slip out over the gutter onto the cobbles to pass them, and were nearly run down by a cartload of vegetables pulled by a horse whose breath was steam in the air.

At the corner half a dozen men huddled around a brazier, talking and laughing, tin mugs of tea in their hands.

"Not sure as I like so much change," Sutton said dubiously. "Still, can't be 'elped."

Hester did not argue. They had only a few yards further to go before she saw the vast crater of the new tunnel. It would carry not only the sewer but beside it the gas pipes for the houses that had such luxuries. Skeletons of woodwork for cranes and derricks poked above it like fingers at the sky. There was a faint noise from far within of grinding and crushing, scraping, slithering, and the occasional shouts and the rattle of wheels.

Hester stood on the freezing earth and felt the freshening wind from the tide on the river, with its smell of salt and sewage. She turned to her left and saw the roofs of houses in the near distance, and closer, the broken walls where they had been flattened to make way for the new works. To the right it was the same, streets cut in half as if they had been chopped by a giant axe. She looked at Sutton and saw the pity in his face, as well as the fury he was trying to suppress. To build the new they had broken so much of the old.

"Keep close and don't meet no one's eyes," he said quietly. "We'll just walk through like we got business. There's 'em as knows me." And he led the way, making a path through the rubble and keeping wide of the groups of men. Every now and again he put out his hand to steady her, and she was grateful for it because the rubble was crumbling and icy. Snoot trotted along at their heels.

There was a thick fence around the actual pit in which the men worked, possibly to keep out the idle and to prevent the careless from falling in.

"Got ter go round the end there." Sutton pointed and then led her through a shifting, slithering wasteland of debris. The line of pipes was easy enough to trace with the eye by the wreckage that lay in its path. Twice they were stopped and questioned as to who they were and if they had any business there, but Sutton answered for them both.

She kept silent and followed him patiently. At last-her feet sore and her boots and skirt splattered-she reached the point below which the men were actually working by flares at the face of the tunnel. The earth was excavated deeper than she had expected. She was close to the edge of the drop, and a feeling of vertigo overcame her for a moment as she stared down almost a hundred feet to the brickworks at the bottom of the abyss. She could quite clearly see the floor of what would be the new sewer, and the arching brick sides already laid and cemented. There was scaffolding over it holding the walls apart all the way up. Here and there other pipes crossed it. Fifty yards away, well on the other side, a steam engine hissed and thumped, driving the chains that held heavy buckets and scoops to draw up and empty the rubble and broken brick.

She turned and met Sutton's eyes. He pointed down to where she could see men below, foreshortened to funny little movements of hands and shoulders. They walked, pushing barrows. Others swung pikes or heaved on shovels of soil and rock.

"Look." Sutton directed her eyes towards the walls on the far side. The earth itself was held firm by planks of heavy wood, supported by crossbeams every few yards. Then she followed Sutton's gaze and saw the water seeping through-just a dribble here and there, or a bulge in the wood where the boards had been strained and were coming away.

On the bank opposite, stokers were keeping the great steam engine going. She could hear the wheeze and thump of its pistons and smell the steam, the oil.

She was aware of Sutton watching her. She tried to imagine what it would be like to work down in that cleft in the earth, seeing nothing but a slit of sky above you and knowing you couldn't get out.

"Where's the way up?" she asked almost involuntarily.

" 'Alf a mile away," he answered quietly. "All right ter walk ter, if yer in no 'urry. Nasty if yer need ter move quickish-like if 'em sides spring a leak."

"A leak? You mean a stream... or something? You don't mean just rain?" The picture of that bulging wall giving way filled her mind-a jet of water gushing out, not just dribbling as it was now. Would it fill the bottom? Enough to drown them? Of course it would! Who could swim in a crevasse like that, with freezing water coming down on top of you?

"That's a sewer," he said quietly, standing close to her. "The sewers o' London takes everythin', all the waste from all the 'ouses an' middens in the 'ole city, an' from the sinks an' gutters an' overflows everywhere. If yer a tosher or a ganger, yer know the tides an' all the fivers an' springs, an' keep an eye ter the rain, 'cos if yer don't, yer'll not last long. An' o' course there's the rats. Never go underground alone. Slip and fall, an' the rats'll 'ave yer. Strip a man ter the bone if yer unlucky an' fetch up where they can reach yer. 'Undreds o' thousands o' 'em down there, there are."

Snoot had pricked up his ears at the word rats.

Hester said nothing.

"An' there's the gas," Sutton added.

"Is that what that pipe is?" she asked, gesturing to the one that crossed the deep gash in the earth about fifteen feet down, going diagonally on a quite different track from the cutting.

Sutton smiled. "No, Miss 'Ester, that's gas fer lights an' things in there. I'm talkin' about the sort o' gas that collects up under the ground 'cos o' wot sewers is for carryin'. Gives off methane, it does, an' if the air or water don't carry it away, it's enough ter suffocate a man. Or if some fool lights a spark, with a tinder or a steel boot on stone, then whoomph!" He jerked his hands apart violently, fingers spread to indicate an explosion. "Or there's the choke-damp wot yer gets in coal mines an' the like. That'll kill yer, too."

Again she said nothing, trying to imagine what it would be like to have no skill except one that obliged you to labor in such conditions. And yet she had known navvies before, in the Crimea, and a braver, harder-working group of men she had never seen. They had built a railway for the soldiers across wild, almost uncharted terrain, in the depth of winter, in a time most others had considered totally outside any possibility. And an excellent railway it was, too. But that had been aboveground.

The great steam engine was still pounding away, shaking the earth with its strength, hauling as men and beasts never could. Foot by foot were forming the sewers that would make London clean, safe from the epidemics of typhoid and cholera that had carried away so many in appalling deaths.

"It's that damn great thing wot worries me," Sutton said, staring at the steam engine. "There's other ones like that, even bigger, wot I can't show yer, 'cos o' where they are. Everyone's in an 'urry an' they in't takin' care like they should. A wheel gets away from yer, chain breaks loose on one o' them things, an' before yer knows it, a man's arm's ripped out, or a beam o' wood's broke wot's 'oldin' up 'alf the roof o' somethin'."

"They're in a hurry because of the threat of typhoid and cholera such as we had in the Great Stink," she said quietly.

"I know. But 'cos they're tryin' ter beat each other an' get the next order, too," he added. "An' no one says nothin' 'cos they don't want ter lose their jobs, or 'ave other folks think they're scared."

"And are they scared?"

"Course they are." He looked at her ruefully. "Yer must be froze. I'll take yer to see someone not a mile from 'ere oo'll give us a decent cup o' tea. C'mon." And without waiting for her to accept, or possibly not, he turned and began walking back from the crevasse the way they had come, through the rubble and piles of timber, much of it rotted. As always, the little dog was beside him, jumping over the stones, his tail wagging.

Hester followed after him, having to hurry to catch up. She did not resent his pace; she knew it came from the emotion driving him, the fear that a tragedy might occur before he could do anything to stop even the smallest part of it.

They did not talk in the half hour it took them to weave their way through the narrow streets and alleys, but it was a companionable silence. He was very careful to keep step with her and now and then to warn her of a particularly rough or slippery stretch of road or of the steepness of the step up to an occasional pavement.

She wondered if this was where he had grown up. During the brief space they had known each other, there had been no time for talk of such things, even had either of them wished to. Before today she had not known that his father was a tosher. But hunting the sewers for accidentally flushed treasures and keeping down the worst of the vast rat population that emerged from that underworld were closely allied trades, though rat-catching was the superior. The tosher would have been proud of his son. He should have been even prouder of his courage and humanity.

The streets were busy. A coal cart trundled over the cobbles. A costermonger was selling fruit and vegetables on the corner where they crossed. A peddler of buttons brought to her mind the need to replenish her sewing basket, but not now. She hurried to keep up with Sutton's swift pace. Women passed them carrying pails of water, bundles of clothes, or groceries. They skirted around half a dozen children playing games- tossing knucklebones or skipping rope. For an instant she ached to be able to do something for them-food, boots, anything. She dismissed it from her mind with force. Cats and dogs and even a couple of pigs foraged around hopefully. It was still appallingly cold.

The door where Sutton finally stopped was narrow, with peeling paint and no windows or letter box. In some places that would indicate that it was a facade placed to hide the fact that there was a railway behind it rather than a house, but here it was that no letters were expected. None of the other doors had knockers, either.

Sutton banged with the flat of his hand and stood back.

A few minutes later it was opened by a girl of about ten. Her hair was tied with a bright length of cloth and her face was clean, but she had no shoes on. Her dress was obviously cut down from a longer one, and left with room to fit her at least another couple of years.

" 'Alio, Essie. Yer mam in?" Sutton asked.

She smiled at him shyly and nodded, turning to lead the way to the kitchen.

Hester and Sutton followed, driven as much by the promise of warmth as anything else.

Essie led them along a narrow passage that was cold and smelled of damp and old cooking, and into the one room in the house that had heat. The warmth came from a small black stove with a hob just large enough for one cauldron and a kettle. Her mother, a rawboned woman who must have been about forty but looked far older, was scraping the eyes and the dirt from a pile of potatoes. There were onions beside her, still to be prepared.

In the corner of the room nearest the stove sat a large man with an old coat on his knees. The way the folds of it fell, it was apparent that most of his right leg was missing. Hester was startled to see from his face that he was probably no more than forty either, if that.

Sutton ordered Snoot to sit, then he turned to the woman.

"Mrs. Collard," he said warmly, "this is Mrs. Monk, 'oo nursed some of the men in the Crimea, an' keeps a clinic for the poor in Portpool Lane." He did not add specifically what kind of poor. "An this is Andrew Collard." He turned to the man. " 'E used ter work in the tunnels."

"How do you do, Mrs. Collard, Mr. Collard," Hester said formally. She had long ago decided to speak to all people in the same way rather than distinguish between one social class and another by adopting what she felt would be their own pattern of introduction. There was no need to wonder why Andrew Collard did not work in the tunnels anymore.

Collard nodded, answering with words almost indistinguishable. He was embarrassed-that was easy to see-and perhaps ashamed because he could not stand to welcome a lady into his own home, meager as it was.

Hester had no idea how to make him at ease. She ought to have been able to call on her experience with injured and mutilated soldiers. She had seen enough of them, and enough of those wasted by disease, racked with fever, or unable even to control their body's functions. But this was different. She was not a nurse here, and these people had no idea why she had come. For an instant she was furious with Sutton for the imposition upon them, and upon her. She did not dare meet his eyes, or he would see it in her. She might then even lash out at him in words, and be bitterly sorry afterwards. She owed him more than that, whatever she felt.

As if aware of the rage and misery in the silence, Sutton spoke. "We just bin and looked at the diggin'," he said to Andrew Collard. "Freezin at the moment, and not much rain, but it's drippin' quite a bit, all the same. 'Ow long dyer reckon it'll take some o' that wood ter rot?"

Mrs. Collard glanced from one to the other of them, then told Essie to go outside and play.

"They're movin' too fast for it ter matter," Collard answered. "In't the wood rottin' as is the trouble, it's them bleedin' great machines shakin' everythin' ter bits. Does it even more if they in't tied down like they should be. Only Gawd 'isself knows what's shiftin' around underneath them bleedin' great things."

"Tied down?" Hester asked quickly. "Aren't they dug in?"

"Staked," he answered. "But they shake loose if yer don't do 'em real ard an' careful, miss. Them machines is stronger than all the 'orses yer ever seen. Stakes look tight ter begin wi', but arter an hour or two they in't. Yer need ter move the 'ole engine a dozen yards or so ter fresh ground an' start over. But that takes time. Means that-"

"I understand," she said quickly. "They're losing loads going up and down when they take up the bolts and move the machine, then stake it and start it up again. And the more firmly they bolt it, the longer it takes to move it."

"Yeah, that's right." Collard looked slightly taken aback that she had grasped the point so quickly.

"Don't all companies work the same way?" she said.

"Most," he agreed. "Some's more careful, some's less. Couldn't all get engines the same. But more'n that, the earth in't the same from one place ter 'nother. If yer ever dug it yerself, you know Chelsea in't the same as Lambeth, an' Rother'ide in't the same as the Isle o' Dogs." He was looking at her now, his eyes narrow and tired with pain. "There's all sorts: clay, rock, shale, sand. An' o' course there's rivers an' springs, but Sutton knows that. More'n 'em, there's old workings o' all sorts: drains, gutters, cellars, tunnels, an' plague pits. Goes back ter Roman times, some of 'em. Yer can't do it quick." He stared into the middle distance. Hester could only imagine what it was like for him sitting helpless in a chair while the world narrowed and closed in on him. He saw disaster ahead and was unable to do anything to prevent it. He was telling her because she asked, and she had come with Sutton, but he did not believe she cared, or could help, either.

His wife lost patience. "Why don't yer tell 'em straight?" she demanded, ignoring the boiling kettle except for a swift movement to remove it from the heat. If she had intended to make tea, it was forgotten now. "Were a cave-in wot took my 'usband's leg," she said to Hester. "One o' them big beams fell on 'im. Only way ter get 'im out before the 'ole lot caved in were ter take 'is leg orff. If they go on usin' them great machines shakin' everythin' ter bits up on top like that, sooner or later the sides is gonna cave in on top o' the men wots diggin' an' 'aulin' down the bottom. Or when we get rains like we 'ave in Feb'uary, one o' 'em sewers bursts, an' 'oos gonna get the men out before it floods, eh?" she demanded, her voice high and harsh. "I know a score o' women like me, 'oose husbands a' lorst arms an' legs ter them bleedin' tunnels. An' widders as well. Too many o' them damn railways is built on blood an' bones!"

"There've always been accidents," Hester said reluctantly. "Is any contractor especially bad?"

Collard shook his head angrily, his face dark. "Not as I know. Course there's accidents, no one's gurnin' about that! Yer do 'ard work, yer take 'ard chances. The wife's just bellyachin' 'cos it in't easy fer 'er. Is it, Lu? In't no better bein' a coal miner or seaman, or lots o' other things." He smiled mirthlessly. "Don't s'pose it's always rum an' cakes bein' a soldier, is it?" He waited for her answer.

"No," she agreed. "What is it, then, that you are concerned about?"

The smile vanished.

"I'm more'n concerned, miss, I'm downright scared. They got 'ole lengths o' new sewer built, an' o' course there's still most o' the old bein' used. Get a couple o' slides, mud, cave-ins, an' yer got men cut off down there. If yer don't get drownded, it could be worse-burned."

"Burned?"

"Gas. There's 'ouse'old gas pipes in 'em sewers as well. Get a shift in the clay an' one o' them cracks, an' first spark you'll 'ave not only the gas from the sewage, but back up inter every 'ouse as 'as gaslight. See wot I mean?"

"Yes." Hester saw only too well. It could be a second Great Fire of London if he was right. "Surely they've thought of that, too?" They had to have. No one was irresponsible enough not to foresee such a catastrophe. A few navvies drowned or suffocated, she could believe. There had been a cave-in when the crown of the arch of the Fleet sewer had broken. The scaffolding beams had been flung like matchwood into the air, falling, crashing as the whole structure subsided and the bottom of the excavation moved like a river, rolling and crushing and burying.

Sutton was watching her too. "Yer 'memberin' the Fleet?" he asked.

She was startled. Of course he had told her about the Fleet River running under London in the tales his father had told him. Now she knew why. He had described the whole network of shifting, sliding, seeping, running waters.

"Doesn't everybody know this?" she said incredulously.

It was Lu Collard who answered. "Course they do, Miss. But 'oo's gonna say it, eh? Lose yer job? Then 'oo feeds yer kids?"

Collard shifted uncomfortably in his imprisoning chair. His face was more wasted with pain than Hester had appreciated before. He was probably in his mid-thirties. He had been a good-looking man when he was whole.

"Aw, Andy, she can see it!" his wife said wearily. "In't no use pre-tendin'.' That's wot them bastards count on! Everyone so buttoned up wi' pride, nob'dy's gonna say they're scared o' bein' the next one 'urt."

"Be quiet, woman!" Collard snapped. "Yer don't know nothin'. Their men in't-"

"Course they is!" She turned on him. "They in't stupid! They know it's gonna 'appen one day, an' Gawd knows 'ow many'll get killed. They don't say nothin 'cos they'd sooner get crushed or drownded termorrer than starve terday, an' let their kids starve! Shut yer eyes, an' wot yer don't see don't 'urt yer!"

"Yer gotta live!" he said, looking away from her.

Sutton was watching Hester, his thin face anxious.

"Of course you have," Hester answered. "And the new sewers have got to be built. We can't allow the Great Stink to happen again, or have typhoid and cholera in the streets as we had before. But no one wants another disaster like the Fleet sewer, only worse. There's too much money involved for anyone to do it willingly. There needs to be a law involved, one that can be enforced."

"They won't never do that," Collard said bitterly. "Only men wots got money can vote, and Parliament makes the laws."

Hester looked at him gently. "Sewers run under the houses of men with money more than they do under yours or mine. I think we might find a way of reminding them of that. At least we can try."

Collard sat perfectly still for a moment. Then very slowly he turned to look at Sutton, to try to read in his face if Hester could possibly mean what she said.

"Exactly," Sutton said very clearly, then turned to Mrs. Collard. " 'Ow about a cup o' tea, then, Lu? It's colder'n a witch's-" He stopped, suddenly remembering Hester's presence. " 'Eart," he finished.

Collard hid a smile.

Lu glared at him, then smiled suddenly at Hester, showing surprisingly good teeth. "Yeah. O' course," she replied.

That evening Hester spent a couple of hours cleaning and tidying up after the plasterer, who was now finished. Not only were the walls perfectly smooth, ready for papering, there was also elegant molding where the wall met the ceiling, and a beautiful rose for the pendant lamp. But all the time her hands were busy with brooms, dustpans, scrubbing brushes, and cloths, she was thinking about her promise to Andy Collard and, more important, to Sutton. As Collard had observed, Parliament made the laws. That was the only place worth beginning. She must find out who was the member most appropriate to approach.

When Monk came home she proudly showed him how the house decorating was going, and asked after the success of his day. She said nothing about Sutton or her interest in the building of the new sewers. It was not difficult to conceal it, nor did she feel deceitful. She was deeply concerned over the apparent suicide of Mary Havilland, the young woman who had so recently lost her father in a way Hester could understand far more than she cared to remember. She had thought her own loss had been dealt with in her mind and the wound of it healed over. Now it was like a bone that was broken long ago but aches again with the cold weather, a pain deep inside, wakening unexpectedly, too covered over with scars to reach again, and yet sometimes hurting as sharply as when it had been new.


She wanted to hide it from Monk. She could see in the shadow in his eyes, the line of his lips, that he was aware of the memory in her, and that he was pursuing the Havilland case at least in part because Mary made him think of Hester. Inside he was reacting to the old injustice as well as the new.

She wanted to smile at him and tell him that it did not hurt anymore. But she would not lie to him. And it was going to hurt more in the loneliness of the house with only chores to keep her busy, no challenge, nothing to fight. She reached out to touch him, to be close to him and say nothing. Sometimes explanations intruded into understanding that was better in silence.

In the morning Hester visited a gentleman she had once nursed through a serious illness. She was delighted to see that he was in much improved health, although he tired more quickly than earlier. She had gone principally for the purpose of learning from him which member of Parliament to seek out regarding the method and regulations of the new construction of sewers.

She came away with the conviction that it was unquestionably Morgan Applegate. She even obtained a warm letter of introduction so that she might call upon him immediately.

Since she was already dressed in the best clothes she had, and incidentally the warmest, she bought herself a little luncheon from a street peddler-something she had become used to lately. By early afternoon she was at the front door of the home of Morgan Applegate, M.P.

It was opened by a short, extremely plump butler who took her letter of introduction. He showed her into a morning room with a roaring fire that gleamed red and gold on the polished furniture and in the copper globes that decorated the handsome fender.

It was a full quarter hour before Morgan Applegate himself appeared. He was a most agreeable-looking man, of average height, with an aquiline face that yet managed to look mild in spite of a very obvious intelligence. His fairish hair was receding, and he was clean-shaven.

He greeted Hester courteously, invited her to sit, then asked what he might do to be of assistance to her.

She told him of her visit to the excavations the previous day, without mentioning Sutton's name or occupation.

He stopped her in midsentence. "I am aware of this problem, Mrs. Monk."

Her heart sank. The fear of typhoid was everywhere, and the queen was in the grip of a desperate, almost uncontrollable grief since Prince Albert 's death from typhoid. If Applegate was a man of any ambition, he would not risk his career by stating an opinion that must be bound to anger and offend many.

"Mr. Applegate," she said earnestly, "I do understand the very immediate need for new and adequate sewers. I nursed men dying of typhoid in the Crimea, and it is something I could never forget or take lightly. But if you had seen the dangers-"

"Mrs. Monk"-he interrupted her again, leaning forward a little in the chair he had taken opposite her-"I am aware of the matter because it was drawn to my attention by someone else, someone even more disturbed by the possibility of disaster than you are. She gave her whole time and attention to it, and I fear perhaps even her sanity." His face was very grave, and there was an acute consciousness of pain in his eyes. "My wife was very fond of her, and I held her in high regard myself."

"Held?" Hester said with a chill. "What happened to her?"

Now there was no mistaking his distress. "Of that I am not certain. I was informed only of the merest details, and since they are unclear, I prefer not to repeat them. It is no slight upon you, Mrs. Monk, it is a respect for the dead. She was a young woman of great courage, a kind of high daring. In spite of personal loss and forfeit of much chance of happiness, she placed honor first, and it seems to have exacted from her a terrible price. Please do not press me to say more."

But it was impossible for Hester to leave it. She was the equal of anyone on earth for compassion, and had the fire and courage to make it of practical use, but she had never excelled in tact. She was too fierce and too impatient. "If she placed honor first, then it is all the more urgent that we should follow her!" she said intently. "How can you wish to say nothing of her? Are you not proud of her? Do we not all owe her something?"

Now he seemed embarrassed, and very clearly uncertain how to answer. "Mrs. Monk, there are some tragedies that... that should remain... unexplained. I can think of no better word. Please..."

She saw the great crevasse in the ground in her mind's eye again, and her stomach turned at the thought of its collapse. She imagined how it would be for the men at the bottom, possibly even seeing it begin to bulge and give way, knowing what would happen and yet unable to do anything but watch. They would see the water explode through, carrying earth and timber with it to crash down on top of them, bruising, breaking, burying them in the filth and darkness. She could not keep silent.

"Mr. Applegate, there is no time for the niceties of feeling! If she saw what I did today and understood what could happen to these men- almost certainly will happen one day, sooner or later-would this woman really wish you to respect her delicacy now she is dead? Think of their lives, of those who still have a chance if we act, if we achieve what she began. Is not the greatest compliment to her, the greatest service, that we take up her cause?"

He was looking at her with profound indecision in his eyes. He was a kind man, torn by conflicting principles of overwhelming power.

Hester realized she was leaning forward as if to physically touch him. Reluctantly she sat back, not in apology but because it might be a bad strategy, and certainly bad manners.

Without explanation Applegate stood up. "Excuse me," he said huskily, and left the room.

Hester was crushed. She had liked the man instinctively, and it seemed she had driven him to the point where he had found her so oppressive he had actually retreated from her presence, as if not knowing how else to deal with her. Was she really so insensitive? Was she dragging out the memory of a woman he had perhaps loved, and treating it with unbearable disrespect? How ugly! And how stupid.

She did not know what to do next.

Then the door opened and a woman came in. She was tall, perhaps even an inch or so taller than Hester, and equally slender. She had a most unusual face. It was handsome in its own way, but far more than for the beauty; it was remarkable for its great readiness for the enjoyment of life.

The woman was immediately followed by Applegate himself, who introduced her to Hester as his wife, then by way of explanation added, "We were both fond of Mary, but my wife the more so. Before I break confidence I felt I should consult her opinion."

"How do you do, Mrs. Monk," Rose Applegate said warmly. Then she glanced at her husband. "Nice of you to consult me, but quite unnecessary." She invited Hester to resume her seat, since she had naturally stood up when Mrs. Applegate came in. Rose sat opposite, leaving her husband to sit where he would. "Mary died a couple of days ago, and we are all very distressed about it, and angry. I don't believe for an instant it was as simple as they say. She wouldn't do it, she just wouldn't."

"My dear...," Applegate began.

She did not exactly say "Hush" to him, but almost. It was apparent that he was devoted to her and that she was sufficiently confident in that devotion not to defer to him when she felt passionately.

Suddenly Hester had a flash of understanding. "Mary Havilland!" she said quickly. "Are you speaking of Mary Havilland?" It would make perfect sense with the little that Monk had told her of the death on the river.

Morgan Applegate and Rose looked at each other, then at Hester. Rose was now pale, her hazel eyes troubled. "The news has spread so widely already?" she asked softly.

Applegate reached over to put his hand on her arm. It was an extraordinarily protective gesture, as gentle as if he touched some wound.

"No," Hester answered, lowering her own voice, aware now that she was dealing with real and present pain. "I know of it only because my husband is in the River Police and was the one who actually saw it happen."

Rose gave an involuntary gasp, and Applegate's hand tightened slightly on her arm. Hester could see in their eyes that they wanted to ask more but dared not, afraid of the finality of the answer.

"He isn't sure what happened," Hester told them. "It wasn't possible to see from that distance, and of course they were looking upwards." She knew why Monk was so reluctant to believe it, but she could not tell these people of her own loss. She had thought the pain of it was healed, safe as long as it was not touched. She had not tried to remember her father's face for a long time, perhaps not since she had learned to believe that Monk loved her enough to let go of his own fears.

"My husband is trying to find out precisely what happened," she added.

Rose blinked. "You mean... it might not be taken as suicide?" There was a flare of hope in her eyes. "She would never have killed herself.' I'd stake anything on that!"

"Rose...," Applegate began.

She shook him off impatiently, without taking her eyes from Hester's. "If you had known Mary, I wouldn't have to tell you that. She had far too much courage to give up. She simply wouldn't! She was too... too angry to let them get away with it!"

Hester saw Applegate wince, but was beginning to appreciate already that he had no control over his wife's passion. If Rose was outspoken, that was part of her nature, and part of what he loved in her.

"Angry with whom?" Hester asked. "Circumstances or people? The Big Stink was appalling. We can't allow it to happen again. And the typhoid was even worse. Some of the soldiers died of typhoid in the Crimea. I wouldn't wish it on Satan himself."

"Oh, I know we must build the new sewers," Rose agreed. "But Mary was sure that some of the machines were being used without regard to safety. People are so determined to be faster than their competitors that they are ignoring the rules, and sooner or later the navvies are going to pay the price. You know about the collapse of the Fleet sewer? Of course you do. It was in all the newspapers. That will be nothing compared to what could happen if-"

"Rose, you don't know that!" Applegate interrupted her at last. "Mary believed it, and she may have been right, but she-"

"She's still right!" Rose corrected him.

"But she had no proof!" he finished.

"Exactly!" Rose said, as if that sealed her point. She stared at Hester. "She knew there was proof and she intended to get it. She was certain she could. Does that sound to you like someone who would take her own life?" She leaned towards Hester, just as Hester had done towards Apple-gate, unconscious of it, impelled by her fervor. "She loved her father, Mrs. Monk. They understood each other in a way few people do who are of different generations. She had a strong, clear mind and immense courage. I don't know why people think women can't be like that! It's our skirts that stop us from running, not our legs!"

"Rose!" Applegate expostulated.

"You are not shocked, are you?" Rose asked Hester with a flicker of anxiety.

Hester wanted to laugh, but it might hurt their feelings, as if she did not take death seriously. She did, infinitely seriously. But she knew that in the drowning, suffocating horror of war or epidemic disease, laughter, however black, was sometimes the only bulwark against defeat-or madness. But one could not say so in a London withdrawing room, or morning room, or any part of the house at all.

"No, no," she assured Rose. "In fact, I would like to remember it to say again. There will be countless times when it will be appropriate. Would you like attribution, or prefer I forget who said it first?"

Rose blinked, but it was with pleasure as well as self-consciousness. "I think it might be better for my husbands position if you forgot," she replied reluctantly. "The House of Commons is extremely robust in its opinions, but then there are no ladies speaking, and that makes all the difference." Her mouth pulled in an expression of wry distaste.

Hester understood. She had been freer to say what she thought on the fringes of the battlefield, and had found the return to England painfully restrictive. She went back again to the subject of Mary Havilland. "Did you know her family?" she asked.

Rose shrugged. "Slightly. I liked Mary very much, and it was difficult to do that and be more than civil to the rest of them."

"They were at odds?"

"Oh, yes. You see, Jenny-that is her elder sister, Jenny Argyll-is completely devoted to her husband and children, as she has to be." An expression of both irritation and surrender crossed her face.

"Has to be?" Hester asked quickly.

"I have no children to depend upon me, and a husband whom I would trust to the ends of the earth. But few women are as fortunate as I am, and Jenny Argyll is certainly not among them." Rose shrugged again. "I believe Alan Argyll is reasonable enough, but if he has faults, Jenny may naturally prefer not to be more aware of them than she is obliged to be. She will not appreciate her sister finding them for her, since she cannot afford to address them! When you are helpless, ignorance is a great comfort."

"And Mary... did that?" Hester asked. "Either his faults were very grave indeed, or she was very insensitive." A darker picture was forming at the back of her mind.

"I don't know," Rose admitted. "Of course, when we love someone, we don't always exercise the best sense when warning them of what we perceive to be a danger. I do know that Mary broke off her own betrothal to Toby Argyll, Alan's younger brother. She was candid about it to me."

"Candid?" Hester pressed, uncertain what Rose meant. "You mean she told you why she broke it off? Was it something she learned of him?" She would rather not have known, but it could not be avoided now. "Was that what..."

"Oh, no!" Rose said quickly. "You mean did she learn that Toby had some part in her father's death? And she couldn't bear it? Is that what you are thinking?"

"Yes," Hester admitted. "It might be enough to break one's spirit, even that of someone very strong."

"Not Mary." Rose had no doubt in her voice at all. She was sitting upright in the chair now, back straight. "She wasn't in love with Toby, not really in love, where her world would be plunged into darkness without him! She liked him well enough. She thought his was probably the best offer she would get. After all, how many of us really fall headlong in love with someone we can marry?" She smiled as she said it, her hands relaxed in her lap, and Hester knew that she was not including herself when she spoke. "Most women make an acceptable bargain," Rose continued. "And Mary was realistic enough to do that. But believe me, breaking it off did not cast her into despair." She lowered her voice confidentially. "In fact, I think that part of it was no small relief to her. She could refuse him with an easy conscience. No one would expect her to marry so soon after her father's death, poor soul."

"My dear, you should not repeat that," Applegate warned.

"I shan't," she promised. Apparently she felt that telling Hester was a matter of honor, a debt to Mary she had no intention of neglecting. "She did not take her own life, Mrs. Monk. Nor did she believe that her father had done so; for him, it would have been not only a sin against the Church, but far worse than that-a sin against himself. And if it was true for him, then it must be true for her. I don't know what happened, but I will do anything and everything I can to help you find out. Any information I can find, any door I can open, you have but to tell me. Perhaps we can still effect the reform she was working on, and save the lives of at least some of the men who would be killed if there were further accidents in the construction."

"Thank you," Hester said warmly. "I will call on you the moment I have a clearer idea of what to do." She turned to Applegate. "What information was Mary Havilland going to bring you? What do you need to know before you can act?"

"Proof that the safety rules are not being kept," he replied. "And I am afraid that proof will be very hard to find. Engineers will say that they have surveyed the ground and the old rivers and streams as well as is possible. Men who work with the machines are accustomed to danger and know that a degree of it is part of life. Just as men who go to sea or down into the mines live with danger and loss, without complaining, so do navvies. They would consider it cowardly to refuse or to show self-pity, and would despise any man who did. More than that, they know they would lose their jobs, because for every man who says he will not, there are a dozen others to take his place."

"And lose arms or legs, or be crushed to death?" Rose demanded. "Surely..." She stopped, looking to Hester for support.

Hester remained silent. What Applegate said was true. There were tens of thousands like the Collards: proud, angry, stubborn, desperate.

She stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Applegate. I will do all I can to find the proof Mary Havilland was looking for. As soon as I have something I shall return."

"Or if we can help," Rose added. "Thank you for coming, Mrs. Monk."

"No!" Monk said firmly when she told him that evening. "I'll pursue it until I find what happened to both Mary Havilland and her father."

"There's going to be a disaster if nothing is done, William," she argued urgently. "Do you expect me to sit by and let that happen?" She made no reference to giving up Portpool Lane, but it hung unsaid between them.

They were standing in the kitchen, the dishes cleared away and the kettle pouring steam into the air as Hester prepared to make the tea.

"Hester, Mary Havilland may have been murdered to prevent her doing precisely that!" Monk said angrily. "For the love of heaven, isn't that what you've just been telling me?"

"Of course I can see it!" she retorted as she yanked the kettle off the hob. "Are you going to stop your investigation?"

"Am I...? No, of course not! What's that got to do with it?"

"It has everything to do with it!" she answered, raising her voice to match his. "You can risk your life every day, but if I want to do something I believe in, suddenly I'm not allowed to?"

"That is completely different. You are a woman. I know how to protect myself," he said, as if it were a fact beyond dispute. "You don't."

She drew in a deep breath. "You pompous-" she began, then stopped, afraid she would say too much and let all her frustration and loss pour through. She would never be able to retract it because he would know it was true. She forced herself to smile at him instead. "Thank you for being afraid for me. It's really very kind of you, but quite unnecessary. I shall be discreet."

For a moment she thought he was going to lose his temper entirely. Instead he started to laugh, and then laughed harder and harder until he was gasping for breath.

"It is not all that funny!" she said waspishly.

"Yes, it is," he replied, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "You've never been discreet a day in your life." He took her by the shoulders, quite gently but with thorough strength that she could not escape. "And you are not going to pursue Mary Havilland's path finding proof that any of the construction machines are being used dangerously!"

She said nothing, but when she turned her attention back to the tea she realized that the kettle was almost empty; it had boiled nearly dry. She would have to refill it and begin again.

"William," she said gently, "I'm afraid the tea will have to wait a little. I'll bring it through to you when it's ready, if you like." If he wanted to think that was any kind of admission of defeat or of obedience, this was not the time to point out to him that it was nothing of the sort.

"Thank you. That is a good idea." He turned and went back into the sitting room.

"Really!" she said under her breath, but glad it was over for the moment, and she could be alone to gain control of her feelings again.