The Dark Assassin (47 page)

"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.