The Dark Assassin (15 page)

He made detailed
enquiries of clerks at the construction offices regarding old maps, earlier
excavations, waterways, the nature of soil, graveyards, and plague
pits-anything that might affect new tunneling. He was told of James Havillands
investigations.

"And Miss
Mary Havilland?" he insisted. "Did she explain her involvement?
Weren't you curious that a young woman should know anything about such matters,
or care?"

"Yes, I
was," the clerk agreed. "That's 'ow come I remember. As 'e were 'er
father, she told me, an' 'e were dead, she were doin' what she could ter finish
'is work. 'E worked fer one o' the big companies, Argyll Company."

"She told
you that?"

"No. I know
that meself. Not that I knew 'im, like, but I seed 'im on the works once or
twice. Din't look well. Sort o' pale an' sweatin'. Mind, I seen men like that
when they 'as ter go down deep. Scared o' bein' closed in. An' o' the rats an'
the water." He shuddered. ''Don't like 'em much me-self."

Monk pressed it
a little further, noting down the details, then thanked the clerk and left.

The rest of the
day yielded nothing new. Mary Havilland had followed in the footsteps of her
father in half a dozen places. Obviously Havilland had believed that the steam
engines were dangerous, but had he learned anything that proved it?

Monk turned it
over in his mind as he walked back along the dock-side towards the station. It
was dark and there was a fine rain. The smell of the tide was harsh, but he was
becoming used to it. Even the constant slurping of the water against the
embankment and on the steps down to the ferryboats and barges assumed a kind of
familiar rhythm. The foghorns were booming again because the rain blinded
vision; lights loomed out of the darkness before there was time to change
course.

He wondered
about Scuff. Where was he on a night like this? Had he eaten? He had shelter,
Monk knew that, but had he any warmth? Then he remembered that the chief booty
of mudlarks was coal. Very often the lightermen would deliberately knock pieces
off their barges into the shallow water for the small boys to get. Perhaps he
had a fire. The riverside was full of children scraping by the best they
could-like the rest of the city. It was irrational to worry about one.

He forced his
mind back to the case.

Had Havilland
found anything to make it necessary for someone to kill him? It seemed
unlikely. What could it be? Argyll's had had no serious accidents. But
Havilland had been an engineer himself, and he knew exactly what their huge
machines were capable of, what safeguards were taken, and that Alan Argyll, of
all people, would not want injuries or time lost. An unforeseen incident might
kill dozens of men, but it would ruin the company.

So what had
Havilland imagined?

Had he really
learned something so dangerous he had been murdered to hide it? And then Mary
had followed in his footsteps and found it also, and in turn been murdered?

Or was Havilland
simply a man who had lost his mental balance, become obsessed, and imagined
danger where there was none? Were the diverted streams and the threat of
slippage an excuse rather than a reason, in order to close that tunnel and
avoid ever going down there again? Was it even possible he had some kind of a
grudge against the Argylls personally? Mary, devoted to him, had believed his
view, and then when she had finally been forced by the evidence to face the
truth, had she been unable to bear it? Only for her it was worse! First her
father s error, his suicide, her own broken betrothal to Toby Argyll, then an
estrangement from her sister, the shame of her false accusations, and nothing
to look forward to in the future, not even financial security.

Had Toby told
her some truth so bitter it had broken her at last? Could she even have lashed
out at him because of it?

Hester would be
hurt to know that. He winced and shuddered in the cold as he thought of having
to tell her, perhaps tomorrow or the day after.

The next day he
decided to go directly to the deepest tunnel, again using his authority to
oblige them to allow him in.

It was a vast
hive of labor-men wheeling, digging, hacking, and shoring up the entrance where
load after load of earth, clay, stones, and shale came out in wagons. Each cart
was hauled up the forty-foot cliff face to the level above. The tunnel itself
was like the entrance to a mine, high enough for a man to walk in. But it would
be far less when the brickwork was laid. It would become a hollow tube with
occasional holes for storm drains to empty. Iron-ringed ladders would lead up
to the street and daylight, so sewer men could go down and clean out any
blockages that would impede the flow.

A huge steam
engine pounded, shuddering the ground, drawing the chain that pulled up the
loads of debris and carried them away to a pile where they were emptied. It
hissed and belched steam, and the noise of it caused the men to shout to each
other within twenty or thirty yards of it. The stokers shoveled more coal into
the furnace, then returned to hauling and tipping.

Monk showed his
police identification. Grudgingly they gave him access to the bottom down a
steep cutting, but no one went with him. He found himself slipping and losing
his balance several times, only just avoiding falling into the wet clay beneath
him. Several times he banged against the loosely timbered sides.

Once at the
bottom he could walk more easily on the boards laid on the rubble and clay. The
swill of dirty water seeped from the sides and gathered in puddles, trickling
slightly down towards the tunnel mouth. He looked upwards quickly. How deep was
he? He felt a flutter of panic. The walls towered up to a narrow strip of sky,
and the movement of clouds across it made him reel.

He was sharply
aware of the smell of it all around him-wet, earthy, moldy, as if nothing was
ever dry and the wind never cleansed it.

He faced the
dark hole ahead of him with a reluctance that startled him. He had never before
felt such a crowding sense of being enclosed. He had to force himself to keep
walking and try to dull his imagination.

The shadow
closed over him. The winter daylight did not penetrate far. Beyond a few yards
it was lit by covered gaslight. A naked flame could ignite the fumes in the
air. He had heard of mine explosions and men buried forever in collapsed
shafts. Could that possibly happen here? No, of course not! This was one
straight tunnel, which was going to be bricked around, held with steel. Sewers
did not collapse.

The noise of
hammering and shoveling was ahead of him. He kept on walking, the water
slopping underneath the boards. Where were the nearest rivers? Did anybody even
know for certain? How much did the rivers secretly change course because of
subsidence, the great engines above the ground shaking the earth, compressing
it down, or rattling it loose? He was sweating and his heart was pounding in
his chest.

He was still
walking at exactly the same speed along the boards. The steadiness of his pace
gave him an illusion of being in control, at least of himself. Dripping water
seemed to be everywhere, a sheen on the walls in the gaslight. A rat appeared
from nowhere, making him start. It ran along beside him for a dozen yards, then
the shadows swallowed it up.

Ahead there were
brighter lights, shouts, and the noise of pick blades striking with a sharp
clang against rock and a dull thud against clay. He saw it, a machine like a
huge drum, almost the size of the tunnel itself, the power of it thrumming as
if it were the heartbeat of the earth.

There were at
least twenty men laboring at one task or another, and not one of them looked up
or took the slightest notice of Monk. The air was stale and cold and had a
strange taste to it.

A man trundled
past him with a barrow load of debris. Another rat shot out of the shadows, and
then back in again. The sides of the tunnel beyond the last of the boards
gleamed wet, and here and there were dribbles of water running down to the
sodden earth.

If the diggers
broke into a small underground stream it would gush in here like an open tap,
except there would be no way of turning it off. He must not allow himself to
think of that, or he might panic. He could feel the sweat on his body now.

He strode
forward and deliberately drew the attention of the best-dressed man present,
one of the only two wearing jackets-presumably they supervised rather than
performed the labor themselves.

The man was
broad-shouldered and already spreading a little at the waist, although he
looked no more than in his middle forties. His features were regular, even
handsome, except that his mouth was a trifle large. His hair was dark with a
heavy wave and he had a thick, dark mustache. When he turned to face Monk, his
eyes were blue.

"Yes?"
he said with surprise. He spoke loudly, but that was necessary to be heard
above the din of the machine and the crushing and grinding of earth and falling
stones.

"Monk,
River Police," Monk replied. "I need to talk to the man in charge
here."

"That's me!
Aston Sixsmith," the man told him. "What is it, Mr. Monk?"

Monk waved his
arm to indicate that they should go back towards the entrance, away from the
noise, and he had to concentrate deliberately in order not to turn immediately
and walk ahead. He began to feel far more sympathy for James Havilland than he
had even an hour ago. He could understand any man who felt oppressed by these
walls, the darkness, and above all the close, stale air on his face and in his
lungs.

Sixsmith walked
in front of him and stopped a hundred feet away from the digging. "Well,
Mr. Monk, what can I do for you?" He looked curious. "You said River
Police? We haven't any trouble here, and I haven't taken on any new men in the
last month or so. Are you looking for someone? I'd try the Thames Tunnel if I
were you. There's a whole world down there. Some people live pretty well all
their lives underground. This time of the year it's drier than up above. But I
imagine you know that."

"Yes, I
do," Monk replied, although the world of the Thames Tunnel was one he had
not yet had time to explore. The river itself kept him constantly alert, always
learning, finding the vast gaps in his knowledge and little, stupid mistakes
made out of ignorance. His face was hot with the memory of the times Orme had
rescued him, albeit always discreetly. He could not go on like that. "I'm
not looking for a man." He faced Sixsmith squarely, meeting the clear blue
eyes. "I believe you used to work with James Havilland?"

Sixsmith's
expression darkened with a sudden sadness. His face was more mobile, more
easily marked with emotion than Monk had expected. He looked not unlike the
navvies himself and blended with them easily, but his voice, both in tone and
in diction, placed him as far different, a man of more gentleness and
considerable education, whether formally acquired or not.

"Yes. Poor
man," he replied. "In the end the tunnels got to him." His eyes
searched Monk's, and Monk had the distinct feeling that his own fear was
sensed, if not seen.

"What can
you tell me about him?" Monk asked. "Was he a good engineer?"

"Excellent,
if a little old-fashioned," Sixsmith answered. "He wanted new ideas
tested more thoroughly than I think was necessary. But he was a sound man, and
I know no one who didn't both like and respect him. I certainly did!"

"You said
the tunnels got to him," Monk continued. "What did you mean?" He
was glad when they started to move towards the entrance again, even if it was
to a crevasse rather than the level ground.

Sixsmith sighed
and moved his hands in a slight gesture of regret. Despite the dirt on them,
both the power and the grace were visible. "Some men can't stand closed-in
places," he explained. "You've got to have a special kind of nerve to
work underground. He hadn't. Oh, he tried his best, but you could see him
losing control." He sighed and pulled his wide mouth tight. "I
attempted to persuade him to stay up top, but he wouldn't listen. Pride, I
suppose."

"Was there
anything in particular he was afraid of?" Monk asked as innocently as he
could.

Sixsmith looked
at him carefully. His gaze was very direct, and it was impossible to miss the
intelligence in his eyes. "I suppose there's no point in trying to conceal
it now," he said resignedly. "The poor man's dead, and the world
knows his weaknesses. Yes, he was afraid of a stream bursting through and
sending the whole side caving in. If that happened, of course, men would be
buried alive or drowned. He became obsessed with the idea of lost underground
navvies just waiting to find a way in, almost like an evil presence." He
looked at Monk defensively. "It's not insane, Mr. Monk, not entirely. It's
just the exaggeration of something real-fear taken beyond reason, so to speak.
Tunnel engineering is a dangerous business. Men died in building the Thames Tunnel,
you know? Crushed, gassed, all sorts of things. It's a hard profession, and
it's not for everyone."

"But you
liked him personally?" Monk was shivering in spite of his heavy coat. He
clenched his teeth, trying to hide it.

"Yes, I
did," Sixsmith said without hesitation. "He was a good man." He
pushed his hands in his pockets. He walked easily, even casually.