The Dark Assassin (11 page)

"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."