The Dark Assassin

chapter Ten
In spite of her personal joy, Hester woke in the morning with the utmost remorse over Rose. She packed up Rose's borrowed clothes and returned them. Her army experiences had taught her something of the suffering incurred after overindulgence in alcohol, and she knew how to minister to those afflicted. She spent several hours doing what she could for Rose, to both her and her husband's intense gratitude, then she wished them every possible happiness and took her leave.

She arrived at the Argyll house shortly after noon.

"Good morning, Mrs. Monk," Jenny said with some uncertainty when Hester was shown into the withdrawing room.

"Good morning, Mrs. Argyll," Hester replied with a slight smile. "I thought that after last night's disaster you would naturally be concerned for Mrs. Applegate. I know that you and she were friends." A fraction of a second later she realized she had already put it in the past. "And I owe you something of an apology. Had I been aware of her susceptibility, I might have been able to prevent it. There are some people to whom even a drop of alcohol is a kind of poison."

Jenny cleared her throat. She was obviously profoundly uncomfortable. She was still wearing black, of course, but relieved at the neck and wrists with lavender. She was not handsome, as Monk had said Mary was, but the possibilities of life, passion, and laughter were still there in her face, masked by discretion.

"I suppose it must be." She sounded acutely uncertain, but she could hardly ask Hester to leave, unless she was prepared to be inexplicably rude. "It is something of which I have no knowledge."

"I hope you never have to," Hester said warmly. "I learned when I was caring for injured soldiers, and those facing death on the battlefield." She saw Jenny's face pinch with momentary pity. "When one is facing decisions that are almost unbearable," Hester went on, as if now there was some kind of bond between them, "some of us do not easily find the courage to do what is right, if it might cost us all we hold dear. I am sure you have the sensitivity to understand that, Mrs. Argyll."

"I... er..." Jenny appeared to know that the conversation was leading somewhere she did not wish to go. There was a purpose in Hester's bearing she could not have mistaken. This was no idle call.

Hester forced open the crack of opportunity. "I am sure you are looking for the kindest way to enquire how poor Rose is this morning," she lied. "I have been to see her; she is in great discomfort, but it will pass. I don't believe any physical damage has been done to her, but the injury to her reputation will never heal."

"I imagine not," Jenny agreed. At last she was on more familiar ground. "Society could hardly forget or overlook what she did. I... I hope you are not considering asking my help." Jenny swallowed. "I have no influence in such matters."

"I wouldn't think of it!" Hester said quickly. "I have no idea what anyone could do that would help, or the faintest reason why you should compromise your own standing by attempting it."

Jenny relaxed visibly, something of the natural color returning to her cheeks. She unbent far enough to invite Hester to sit down, and did so herself. "I think her best course would be to retire from society," she added.

"I agree entirely," Hester concurred. "I knew you would have the compassion and the delicacy to understand."

Jenny looked pleased but confused.

"I am so sorry," Hester added.

"Sorry?"

"Rose did not drink alcohol intentionally," Hester explained. "Or even knowingly. It was given to her by someone who wished to discredit her to a degree where she would not be able to appear in public in the foreseeable future." She had already decided that to blame Argyll immediately would be very bad strategy. She must adopt the line taken by the prosecution, the newspapers, and public opinion in general.

Jenny paled. "Why on earth do you think that? Surely... surely if she has such a... weakness..." She left the rest unsaid.

Hester frowned, as if concentrating. "She must have been aware of her trouble," she replied. "It can hardly have happened in public recently, or we would all know of it; therefore it took her by surprise also. Someone else caused it. She drank only lemonade."

Jenny stared at her. She took several long breaths, steadying herself. "There is always the pastries," she suggested, her voice a little husky. "Some cooks mix the dried fruits with brandy, or the creams with liqueur."

Hester had not eaten them, but she should have thought of that. So should have Rose! "Would... would it be enough?" she said, to fill the growing silence. She was playing a game of wits, and she had no time to spin it out. The trial was drawing closer to its verdict, which would be issued any day. Rathbone's time was short, and once the defense started he might not be able to introduce new evidence. She hated having to be so brutal.

Jenny shook her head. "I have no idea. It would seem so. What we saw was... irrefutable. I'm afraid the poor woman was very intoxicated indeed." She thought for a moment. "I'm so sorry."

Hester's mind raced. She must be able to use Jenny's pity, turn it into a feeling of guilt. She had no doubt it was Alan Argyll who had killed Havilland, morally if not physically, and with great skill caused Sixsmith to be blamed.

"Of course," she agreed aloud. "Sometimes the results of our actions are not even remotely as we have imagined they would be." She was moving towards the subject of Jenny's letter to her father, approaching it softly.

Jenny paled. Her hands moved on the black fabric of her skirt, not quite clutching it, then deliberately relaxing again. There was effort in it, control. "I am sure she can have no idea that a few pastries would do such a thing."

"It was after her lemonade, before the pastry," Hester corrected her, not certain if that was true.

"How could anyone...?" Jenny started. Her face was very white.

Hester shrugged. "A little bottle, such as one uses for medicines. A distraction of attention, not so very difficult."

Jenny was forced to fill the silence. "Who on earth would do that?"

"Someone who wished to discredit her," Hester repeated. "Rose had been looking into the matters your late father was investigating, just to make certain that there was no danger of serious accident, and-"

"My father was disturbed in his mind!" Jenny said abruptly. "There was no danger at all. The machines my husband's company uses are the best there are. It is skill that has improved them, which is why they are faster, not that they are taking less care." The color was high in her face, her eyes brilliant. "This whole terrible charge has arisen only because of my fathers... I don't like to use the word, but it was hysteria."

Hester could almost believe her, but for the man Melisande Ewart had seen leaving the mews. "And that is why you wrote to your father asking him to meet your husband in the stables?" she said, allowing doubt into her voice. "And poor Mr. Sixsmith is facing a charge of murder?"

Jenny's voice was half strangled in her throat. "It isn't murder! It's... it's just bribery. And even that is nonsense. My husband will see that he is cleared of that. Mr. Dobie is a marvelous lawyer." Her hands were now clenched hard in her lap, knuckles shining.

"Will he?" Hester asked. "Do you believe that, Mrs. Argyll? Why on earth would he? Who else could have hired the man who shot your father?"

A succession of wild emotions crossed Jenny's face: confusion, terror, hatred.

Hester leaned towards her, hating the fact that she had to be the one to do this. "Someone hired that man to kill your father, and so in a way your sister, too. Can you live with not telling the court that your husband made you write a letter asking your father to be in his stables that night? Can you go forward into the future looking at your husband across the dinner table every evening, across the bed, knowing that both of you allowed Aston Sixsmith to hang, when you of all people could have proved his innocence?"

The tears were running down Jenny's face. "You have no idea what you're asking!" she gasped. "No idea!"

"Perhaps not," Hester admitted. "But you do. And if you are honest, you know what it will cost-not only yourself and your children but Mr. Sixsmith as well-if you do not. Do you wish to explain that to your children, or live with it yourself?"

"You are ruthless!" Jenny choked on the words.

"I'm honest," Hester replied. "Sometimes they seem like the same thing. But I take no pleasure in it. You can still see at least that your father is buried with honor and his name cleared."

Jenny sat motionless, her hands locked together. The lamplight, necessary even at midday, bleached her skin of all color.

"The truth can be very sharp," Hester added. "But it makes a cleaner wound than lies. It will not fester."

Jenny nodded very slowly. "Please do not come back," she whispered. "I will do as you say, but I cannot bear to see you again. You have forced me to look at a horror I believed I could avoid. Allow me to do it alone."

"Of course." Hester rose to her feet and walked slowly to the door. She knew that the servants would let her out into the street, where Morgan Applegate's carriage would be waiting to take her home.

That same morning Monk went across the river as the light was dawning in the drifting rain. He went first to Wapping station simply to ascertain that no crisis had arisen demanding his attention, then he took a hansom westwards to the Old Bailey to see Rathbone.

"Drunk!" Rathbone said incredulously. "Rose Applegate?"

"And unforgivably frank," Monk added.

Rathbone swore, which was an extremely rare occurrence. "We are losing this case, Monk," he said miserably. "If I'm not extremely careful, I shall end up convicting Sixsmith whether I wish to or not, and Argyll will walk away free. The thought makes me seethe, but even if I destroy half the decent men around Argyll-the navvies, the foremen, and the bankers, as well as Sixsmith himself-I still can't be sure of getting him. If Rose Applegate could have persuaded Argyll's wife to testify to anything that would have made her father's story more believable, we might shake him."

He sighed and looked at Monk, the dread of failure burning visibly inside him. It was in the nature of his profession to gamble on his own skill, and he could not always win. But when it was another man who was going to pay, it clearly cut to the bone of his self-belief. It was a pain he was evidently not used to, and his confusion was naked for a moment in his eyes.

Monk wished he could help Rathbone, and knew it could not be done. There are places each man walks alone, where even friendship cannot reach. All he could do was wait, and be there before and after.

"I'll go back to looking for the assassin," he said, turning to go.

"If you don't find him in the next couple of days, it won't matter," Rathbone told him. "I'd rather let Sixsmith go and drop the case altogether than convict an innocent man." He smiled thinly. "My foray into prosecution is not conspicuously successful, it seems!"

Monk could think of nothing to say that was not a lie. He gave a very slight smile and went out, closing the door softly.

He was within half a mile of the Wapping station when Scuff appeared out of the gloom. The boy was soaking wet and looking inordinately pleased with himself. He ran a couple of steps to keep up with Monk. "I done it.'" he said without the usual preamble of greeting.

Monk looked at him. His small face was glowing with triumph under its outsize cap. Monk had still not managed to tell him it needed a lining. "What did you do?" he asked.

Scuffs expression filled with disgust. "I found where the killer lives, o' course! In't that wot we gotter do?"

Monk stopped, facing Scuff on the footpath. "You found out where the man who shot Mr. Havilland lives?" The thought was overwhelming. Then he was furious. "I told you not even to think about it!" His voice cut across the air, harsh with fear. A man who would shoot Havilland in his own stables would not think twice about strangling an urchin like Scuff. "Don't you ever listen?" he demanded. "Or think?"

Scuff looked confused and deeply hurt. This was seemingly the last thing he had expected. Monk suddenly realized that the boy must have clutched his achievement to himself all the way there, expecting Monk's praise and happiness, only to find the prize dashed out of his hand.

Scuff took a deep breath and looked at Monk, blinking to keep back the tears. "Don yer wanna know, then?"

Monk felt a guilt so deep that for a moment he could not find the words to express it even to himself, far less to try to mend anything in the child staring at him, waiting.

"Yes, I do want it," he said at last. He must not intrude on Scuffs precious dignity, for the boy had little else. He must never allow him to know he had seen the tears. "But I don't risk my men's lives, even for that. That's something you have to learn."

"Oh." Scuff swallowed. He thought about it for a moment or two while they both stood in the rain getting steadily wetter. "Not nob'dy's?"

"Nobody's at all," Monk assured him. "Even those I don't like much, such as Clacton, never mind those I do."

"Oh," Scuff said again.

"So don't do it," Monk added. "Or you'll be in trouble. I'll let you off this one time."

Scuff grunted. "So yer wanna know w'ere 'e lives, then?"

"Yes, I do... please."

" 'E lives down the Blind Man's Cuttin', wot leads inter the old sewer an' tunnel. There's lots o' folk live down there, but I can find 'im. I'll take yer. 'E's a bad 'un, mind. An' 'e knows them sewers like a tosher, exspecial the old ones down near the Fleet."

"Thank you. I think we had better take some men with us. We'll go to the station and find them." Monk started to walk.

Scuff remained where he was.

Monk stopped and turned, waiting.

"I in't goin' there," Scuff said stubbornly. "It's all rozzers."

"You're with me," Monk said quietly. "Nobody will hurt you."

Scuff looked at him gravely, his eyes shadowed with doubt.

"Would you rather wait outside?" Monk asked. "It's wet, and it's cold. But it'll be warm in there, and we'll get a drink of hot tea. There might even be a piece of cake."

"Cake?" Temptation ached in Scuffs eyes.

"And hot tea, for sure."

"An' rozzers..."

"Yes. Do you want me to send them all out into the rain?"

Scuff smiled so widely it showed his lost teeth. "Yeah!"

"Imagine it!" Monk replied. "That's as good as you'll get. Come on!"

Hesitantly Scuff obeyed, walking beside Monk until they reached the steps, then hanging back. Monk held the door for him and waited while he took smaller and smaller steps, then stopped altogether just inside, staring around with enormous eyes.

Orme looked up from the table where he was writing a report. Clacton drew in his breath, caught Monk's eye, and changed his mind.

"Mr. Scuff has information for us which may be of great value," Monk told Orme. "He will give it to us, of course, but it would be pleasanter over a cup of tea, and cake, if there is any left."

Orme looked at Scuff and saw a wet and shivering child. " Clacton," he said sharply, fishing in his pocket and pulling out a few pence, "go and get us all a nice piece of cake. I'll make the tea."

Scuff took another step inside, then inched over towards the stove.

Two hours later Monk, Scuff, Orme, Kelly, and Jones, the men armed with pistols, descended down the open workings and along the sodden bottom between the high walls of Blind Man's Cutting. As it closed overhead, they lit their lanterns.

Monk glanced at the sides of the tunnel. The old bricks were set in a close, carefully laid curve, now stained and seeping with steady drips and slow-crawling slime. The smell, unmistakably human waste, was thick in the nose and throat. The skitter of rats' feet interrupted the slurp of water down the channel in the center. Otherwise there was no sound except their own feet slipping on the wet stone. No one spoke. Apart from the frail beam from their lanterns, the darkness was absolute. Monk felt panic rising inside him almost uncontrollably. They were buried alive, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. He could see nothing but dark, wavering shadows and yellow light on wet walls. The smell was suffocating.

Perhaps their journey was no more than a mile, but it seemed endless until they met a junction of waterways. Scuff hesitated only a moment before turning to the right. He led the way into a narrower tunnel, where they were obliged to stoop in order not to strike the ceiling. The gangers couldn't have been this way recently, because the piled-up sludge beneath their feet was deep and dangerous, catching at them, dragging at their feet, holding them back and sucking them down.

Monk had no idea where they were. They had turned often enough that he had lost all sense of direction. Sounds echoed and were lost; then there was nothing but the steady drip all around them, above, behind, and ahead. It was like endless labyrinths through hell, filled with the odor of decay.

One of the men let out an involuntary cry as a huge rat fell off the wall and splashed into the water only a couple of feet from him.

Another half mile and they emerged into a dry tunnel, where the ceiling was considerably higher. There they met a pair of toshers, roped together for safety. They had long poles in their hands for fishing out valuables-or gripping the sides when caught by a sudden current after a rainstorm. They were dressed in the usual tosher gear: high rubber boots, hat, and harness.

It was Scuff who spoke to them, leaving the River Police in shadows with their lanterns half concealed.

Then they moved on again, probing the darkness with their feeble lights. The thought made Monk's stomach churn and his throat tighten: What would happen if they dropped the lamps? They would never get out of here. One day, in a week, or a month, some tosher would find their bones, picked clean by rats.

The last tosher they had questioned, half a mile back, had said there were people using this old way to get from one part of the city to another. The man they were looking for, whose name no one spoke, was one of them. In the subterranean world there seemed little of either friendship or enmity; it was simply coexistence, with rules of survival. Those who broke them died.

It seemed an age before Scuff finally led them up a ladder. Their feet clanged on the iron rungs. A few yards later they passed a sluice rushing so loudly they could not hear their own voices. Above, in a dry passage leading to a blind end, a group of men and women were sitting beside a fire, the smoke going up through a hole a little distance away and disappearing into utter darkness.

A short whispered conversation followed between Scuff and an old woman.

"Which way, ma?" Scuff asked her, touching his tooth to remind her whom he was referring to.

She shivered and jerked her head to the left. A younger man argued with her, pointing to the right. Finally Orme agreed to follow the youth one way with Kelly and Jones and return if he found nothing. Monk took the other two men and went with Scuff the way the old woman had indicated.

Half an hour later, after more twists and climbs, they emerged into an open cutting, air fresh and cold on their faces.

"She lied," Scuff said bitterly. "Scared, I spect. Daft of-" He stopped short of using the word he had been going to say. "That way." He pointed back where they had come from. At the next branch in the tunnel they divided again, Monk and Scuff going alone down more iron steps and deeper into the bowels of the earth.

Monk stopped, Scuff close beside him. Their lights showed only ten feet ahead, and then there was impenetrable darkness. Now there was no sound at all except the steady drip from the ceiling. Monk's anger had worn off, leaving him cold. He could not blame the old woman. He was shivering with fear himself. Had he ever felt this gut-churning terror before? He could not remember doing so. Surely he would never have forgotten it. It was primeval, woven into one's existence. His skin crawled as if there were insects on it, and he heard every sound magnified. His imagination raced. The river could have been twenty feet away or twenty miles. Was the assassin really somewhere ahead of them, perhaps even waiting? He heard nothing but water, dripping, running, splashing around their feet. This part of the old system was no longer used. The stream was shallow, fed by nothing but rain down through the gutters, but it still smelled of stale human waste. The gangers had not been here for a long time. The piled-up silt of excrement was like stalagmites.

There was a sound ahead. Monk froze. It was not the scratch of rats' feet but the heavier noise of a boot on stone.

Monk covered his lantern.

"It's 'im!" Scuff whispered, reaching up and gripping Monk's hand.

The noise of footsteps came again. Then a light reflected yellow on the ancient, slimy stone of the tunnel. A shadow grew larger, moving, swelling.

Scuff was holding Monk's hand so tightly his ragged nails bit into Monk's flesh, and it was all Monk could do not to cry out. He pulled Scuff closer, half shielding the boy behind him. His heart was pounding in his chest, choking him. Had he been aboveground when he was facing the man, however dark the night, he would have been calm apart from heightened senses. He was glad he had a gun, although this was like meeting the devil in his own territory, alien and dreadful, an inhuman evil.

The sound of a boot scraping on stone suddenly vanished as the man coming towards them trod in a drift of silt. There was nothing but the swelling shadow and the dripping of water.

Scuffs breath hissed in through his teeth, and he clung to Monk.

The man came around the corner only twenty feet ahead of them. He had gone another five or six feet before he realized that the shadows of Monk and Scuff by the wall were human and not detritus heaped against the stone. He froze, his lamp unwavering in his hand, the yellow glare of it lighting his face like a lined yellow mask. He was thin, his hair unkempt and ragged to his shoulders. The black slashes of his brows cut across his face. He had a long, narrow-bridged nose, flared nostrils, a lantern jaw, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. Surprisingly, there was intelligence in the eyes, even humor.

Very slowly he smiled, and Monk saw the sharp, oversized eyeteeth, the left bigger than the right. Monk froze, the picture indelible in his mind.

Then the man turned and with astounding swiftness loped away.

Monk galvanized into action. He tore the cover off the lantern and, still grasping Scuff by the hand, floundered through the silt and water and up into the drier streambed after the man. Scuff was now easily keeping up with him, so he let go of the boy's hand. The man ahead was forced to keep his lantern high as he splashed, slipping, his huge shadow on the walls and ceiling like the image of a wounded bird trying to fly, arms wide. The yellow light jerked over the black, shining ooze on the walls and the slick surface of the stream.

There was a turn, and then utter darkness. Scuff was so close to Monk he pressed against him.

Monk realized how wet he was. His legs were frozen, but his body was sweating. He could feel the perspiration run down his back and his chest.

There was a noise ahead, a splash. He jerked around to face it. The right tunnel.

"Rats!" Scuff whispered hoarsely. " 'E's jiggered up ' em rats. C'mon!" And without waiting to make sure, he plunged through the water.

Monk drew in his breath to cry out "Stop!" but bit it back. Sound echoed down here. He had no idea how far ahead the assassin was, perhaps only a few yards. He ran, slipping and struggling after Scuff. The dim reflection on the water made Scuffs small figure oddly elongated as it moved with a jerky, swaying gait.

The light ahead was there again, bright and unguarded. Monk saw the assassin turn to face them, his arm lifted. There was a sharp crack, a spurt of flame. Scuff cried out and crumpled into the water.

Monk lunged forward, pulling his gun out of his pocket. He fired it again and again even after the figure had disappeared and there was no light in the suffocating darkness except his own.

He put his gun away and held the lantern high, staring at the stream, looking for the small figure. Scuff would be already floating, pulled along by the current, scraped by the sludge and filth. Monk saw him, lost him, and found him again. He bent over awkwardly, because there was nowhere to set the lantern, and picked up the limp body. Scuffs face was white and wet, reminding him with a lurch of pain of Mary Havilland, but Scuff was far smaller, pinched and thin, the skin almost blue around his eyes and mouth. Thank God he was breathing, in spite of the blood that oozed through his clothes and stained them scarlet around his shoulder and chest.

The assassin must be somewhere ahead of them, but the thought of leaving Scuff and going after him never entered Monk's head. Clumsily, because of the lantern, and trying to carry Scuff gently with only one arm, he turned and began the long way back. He walked in the center of the sewer floor, where he could move the most easily. He had very little idea where he was, and his only thought was to find the way up towards help.

He did not know how badly Scuff was hurt, but he could not stop here to find out. There were rats everywhere, and they would smell blood. Far worse than that, the assassin knew he had hit Scuff. The fact that Monk had not followed him would tell him that Scuff was not dead and that Monk was trying to get back up again, hampered by carrying a wounded child. As soon as he was certain of that, would he double back and try to finish Monk off? If the positions were reversed, Monk would!

He was lost. There was a fork again: three ways, two ahead, one behind him. Which way had he come? Think! Scuffs life depended on it! The water was flowing around his feet quite rapidly. It must have kept raining all day. What happened if it got harder, heavier? Flash floods, of course! Deep water. Enough to pull him off his feet, maybe even drown him and Scuff. Was it still raining? He could feel the panic rising inside him. He commanded himself to stop behaving like a fool, and think.

Water flows downwards. On the way in, had he been going with the flow or against it? With it, of course. Down, all the time, down. So he had to go back against it now, upwards. It didn't matter anymore where he emerged, as long as it was into the air and he could get help. Any opening would do.

He started forward again. Scuff was growing heavy held on one arm, but he had to hold the lantern high in order to see. Its weight was pulling on the wound from the fight on Jacob's Island. One good thing: If he was simply going up, and not necessarily retracing the way he had come, then there was no trail for the assassin to follow.

As Monk trudged upwards, his mind was working. Why had the killer never gone back to Sixsmith for the second half of his payment, nor apparently to Argyll, either? Perhaps he had never expected to collect the second half; he might have asked for what he meant to have in the first payment. Maybe he feared that Argyll meant to kill him, tidy up the ends. Was he right?

Rathbone would have to drop the prosecution or risk hanging Sixsmith, and Argyll would escape. Neither Mary nor her father would ever be vindicated.

Monk shook his head to clear it. All that mattered now was getting Scuff up to the top before he died of shock and the cold. He wanted to look at the wound, but there was nowhere to lay Scuff down, nowhere to hang the lantern so he could see. His legs were freezing and clumsy, his heart was pounding, and the stench of sewage all but made him gag, but he was moving as fast as he could, always uphill, against the flow of the water. Once he passed a series of iron rungs in the wall; alone he would have climbed, but not with Scuff.

He rounded a corner. The light seemed clearer now. He must be nearing the surface!

Then he saw a figure ahead of him, a man, thin, with his arm raised. There was a shout, but in the tunnel it echoed. Against the roar of the water going over the weir he could not make out the words. It must be raining harder.

The shot still took him by surprise, ricocheting off the wall and sending brick chips and dust flying. He threw himself against the wall, sheltering Scuff as much as he could with his own body.

There was another shout, and another, but they sounded further away. He looked around and at first thought there was no one there. Then he saw the lantern held high, Orme's familiar figure behind it. Relief washed over him like a warm tide, almost robbing him of the little strength he had left.

"Orme!" he shouted. "Here! Help me!"

"Mr. Monk, sir! Are you all right?" Orme ran over, slipping in the water, his lantern swaying wildly, his face crumpled with concern.

"Scuffs shot," Monk said simply. "We've got to get him up."

Orme was aghast. "Now? Just now?"

"No! No... we caught up with the assassin and he shot at us."

"Right, sir. I'll lead the way," Orme said steadily. "Come with me."

It seemed a long way before they finally emerged into the open cutting. By now Monk had abandoned his lantern, simply following Orme's light ahead. He wanted to hold Scuff gently, in both arms. The boy was beginning to stir, and every now and then he let out a soft groan.

When they reached the end of the cutting and were on level ground again, they stopped. For the first time Monk saw Scuffs face in the daylight. He was ashen, and there were already hollows of shock around his eyes. Monk felt a tight pinching in his heart. He looked up at Orme.

"You better get 'im to a doctor, Mr. Monk," Orme said anxiously.

Scuffs eyes flickered open. "I want Crow," he said weakly. "It 'urts summink awful! Am I gonna die?"

"No," Monk promised. "No, you're not. I'm going to take you to the hospital-"

Scuffs eyes grew wide and dark with terror. "No! No 'ospitil! Don't take me there, please, Mr. Monk, don't take me..." he gasped. His face turned even whiter. He tried to reach out his hand as if to ward off something, but only his fingers moved. "Please..."

"All right," Monk said quickly. "No hospital. I'll take you home. I'll look after you."

"You've got to get 'im treated proper, Mr. Monk." Orme's voice was sharp with fear. "Just carin' isn't gonna be enough. That bullet's gotter come out an' the 'ole stitched up... an' cleaned."

"I know," Monk answered, more sharply than he meant to. "Get a message to Crow and have him come to my house. My wife's a battlefield nurse."

Orme saw the futility of arguing when time was so desperately precious. He ran out into the street and stopped the first hansom passing, ordering the startled passenger out to find another hansom. This was police business. The man saw the injured child and made no demur.

Orme left to look for Crow.

It was a nightmare journey. Monk sat cradling Scuff in his arms, talking to him all the time about anything and nothing, wishing he knew how to help. The trip seemed to last forever, and yet it was perhaps no more than half an hour before he climbed out, paid the driver, and carried Scuff to the front door.

The house was dark, empty, and cold. God! Had she gone back to Portpool Lane already? He could have wept with fear and the aching loneliness of knowing he was inadequate to do what was needed. Where was Hester? Why was she not here? What could he do without her? He felt panicky and sick. There was no time to wait!

He must keep Scuff warm! He was slipping away, bleeding too fast. His face was gray and there was barely a flutter of his eyelids.

Monk must warm up the room, riddle the stove, put on more fuel. He should boil water to make it clean. Where was Hester? Why was she not here? He had no idea how to get a bullet out! He could kill Scuff just by trying!

He moved quickly, ramming the fire with the poker. He must be careful; if he added too much coal, he would put the fire out. Then it would take ages to light again. He blew on it, to make it draw. Then he filled the biggest pan with water, but changed his mind and put on a small one instead. It would be quicker.

Finally there was no excuse to wait any longer. He lifted Scuff from the chair where he had put him and laid him on the table under the light. He must take off his coat and remove the bit of scarf Orme had put in to pack the wound. It was soaked through with blood. His hands shook as he pulled it off and saw the scarlet hole in the white skin, still welling up scarlet inside. Scuff was unconscious and barely breathing. Perhaps it was too late already?

He did not even hear the front door. It was not until Hester was standing beside him that he realized his face was wet with tears of relief. He did not ask if she could save Scuff because he could not bear the answer.

She said nothing except to give orders: "Pass me the knife... clean this for me... cut up my petticoat, it's soft... put the vinegar on this- yes, it's clean. They used to use it in the navy, in ships of the line. Just do it!"

They worked together. She probed for the bullet, pulled it out, packed the wound, and finally drew the flesh closed and stitched it over with a darning needle dipped in boiling water. She used the only silk thread she had, a dark blue from a dress she had been altering. He obeyed, his teeth clenched, his body now shuddering with cold and exhaustion, his heart pounding with fear.

Finally they were finished. Scuff was bandaged and dressed in one of Hester's nightgowns, which was the only thing that was anywhere near his size, and laid gently on her side of the bed. Only then did Monk finally ask. "Will he live?"

She did not lie to him. Her face was pinched with grief and tiredness, and her blue dress was irrevocably stained with blood. "I don't know. We'll just have to wait. I'll sit here with him, try to keep his temperature down. There's nothing else to do now except wait. Go and wash, and put dry clothes on."

He had forgotten that he was still sodden himself, and the stench of the sewer probably filled the whole house. "But...," he started, then realized she was right. There was nothing further he could do to help Scuff, and catching pneumonia himself would help no one. He was shaking with cold, his teeth chattering. He would change and then make them both a cup of tea. His stomach was empty and sick, and his arm was throbbing.

He was in the kitchen with the teapot when Crow arrived. "How is he?" he asked, searching Monk's face. "God, you look awful.'" His voice shook, his emotions too raw to hide.

"I don't know," Monk admitted. "Hester took the bullet out and stitched the wound, but he's terribly weak. He's upstairs, in my bed. Can you..."

Crow had a gladstone bag with him; he had not even put it down. He turned and went up the stairs two at a time. Monk followed him five minutes later with scalding hot tea.

Crow was standing beside the bed. Hester was still sitting on the chair, Scuffs white hand in hers. Crow turned. "She did a good job," he said simply. "There's nothing more that I can do. It's a bad wound, but the bullet's out and it's clean. It's not bleeding much anymore. I've got bandages here and spirit to clean with, and a drop of port wine to lift him when he wakes." He did not say if, but they all knew he meant it.

"Just... wait?" Monk wanted to do more than that. There must be something.

"Tea," Crow said with a bleak smile.

Monk poured it, and they sat down to endure the long night.

Scuff tossed and turned. By midnight he was feverish. Monk fetched a bowl of cool water from the kitchen, and Hester kept sponging him down. By half past one Scuff was more settled, breathing shallowly but not thrashing around, and no longer covered with sweat.

Crow took off the bandage and repacked the wound. It looked clean, but it was still bleeding slowly. He tried to give Scuff a teaspoonful of wine, but the boy would not take it.

Monk dozed a little in the chair, then changed places with Hester by the bed, watching and waiting.

Outside the rain turned to sleet, then to snow.

At five o'clock Scuff opened his eyes, but he was only half awake. He did not speak, and it seemed as if he had little idea where he was. Hester lifted him very slightly and gave him a teaspoonful of wine. He choked on it, but she gave him some more, and the second time he smiled very faintly. Almost immediately he slipped back into unconsciousness, but his breathing was a little steadier.

Monk went down to build the stove up again and boil more water for tea.

A little after seven Scuff spoke.

"Mr. Crow? That you?"

"Yes, it's me," Crow said quickly.

"Yer came..."

"Of course I did. Did you think I wouldn't?"

"Nah... I knowed. I done it." He smiled weakly. "Told yer."

"What did you do?" Crow asked him.

"I found the feller fer Mr. Monk. I 'elped 'im."

"Yes, I know," Crow agreed. "He told me."

"Did 'e?" Scuff frowned. He gave a deep sigh and fell back to sleep again, smiling.

"Is he going to be all right?" Monk demanded, his voice hoarse.

"Looks better" was all Crow would say.

At eight o'clock Crow left, needing to see his other patients. There was no more he could do for Scuff now, and his manner more than his words said that he trusted Hester's ability as much as his own. He promised to return in the evening.

Monk was weary. His bones were aching and his eyes were smarting each time he blinked, as if there were sand in them. Nevertheless, he knew he must go and tell Rathbone that he had seen the assassin, exactly as Melisande Ewart had described him, and that the killer had shot Scuff and escaped. At least Monk could attest to his existence and his nature.

Hester was exhausted, too, but she dared not sleep in case Scuff suddenly grew worse and she was not there to do all she could. Even so she was only half awake when he spoke to her.

" 'Oo are yer? Are yer Mr. Monk's wife?" His voice was surprisingly clear.

She opened her eyes, blinking. "Yes, I am. My name's Hester. How are you?"

He bit his lip. "I 'urt. I got shot. Did Mr. Monk tell yer?"

"Yes. I took the bullet out of your shoulder. That's why it hurts so much. But it looks as if it's getting better. Would you like something to drink?"

His eyes widened. "Yer looked? Din't yer faint, nor nuffink?"

"No. I was a nurse in the army. I don't faint."

He stared at her, then moved experimentally. Suddenly he saw the lace on his sleeve. "Wo's that? Wot yer done wi' me clothes?"

"It's one of my nightgowns," she replied. "Your own clothes were wet from the sewers, and pretty dirty."

He blushed scarlet, still staring at her.

"I've tended to soldiers before," she said matter-of-factly. "It's all the same, in battle. Not that I gave them my own nightgowns, of course. But I didn't have anything else for you, and no time to go and get anything. You needed to be warm and clean."

"Oh." He looked away, confused.

"Would you like something to drink?" she offered again.

He turned back to her slowly. "Wot yer got?"

"Tea with sugar and a little port wine," she replied.

"I don' mind if I do," he said, a trifle warily. He was obviously still turning over in his mind the fact that he was wearing her nightgown and he had no idea where his own trousers were.

Hester went down to the kitchen and made tea, then brought it up and added a few spoonfuls of port. She helped him drink it without any further conversation. His color was definitely better when he lay back.

"Yer looked arter soldiers?" he asked doubtfully.

"Yes."

"Wy d'yer do that? Din't Mr. Monk mind?"

"I didn't know him then."

"In't yer got no ma and pa ter look arter yer?" He frowned, as she evidently did not fit his picture of an orphan.

"Yes, I had then. They didn't like it a lot," she said frankly. "But quite a few young ladies, even very respectable ones, went out to help Florence Nightingale."

"Oh! Yer one of 'em?"

"Yes."

"Were yer scared?"

"Sometimes. But when things are at their worst you don't think of yourself so much-more of the men who are wounded, and if you can help them."

"Oh." He thought for a moment. "I don't need no 'elp. Least, not most o' the time. I 'elp Mr. Monk. 'E don't know much 'bout the river. Not that 'e in't clever, an' brave, like," he added quickly. " 'E s just..."

"Ignorant," she supplied for him with a smile.

"Yeah," he agreed. "If yer knowed that, why'd yer let 'im go?"

"Because if you love someone, you can't stop them doing what they believe they have to."

He looked at her more seriously, with the beginning of something that could even have been respect. "Is that why yer pa let yer go inter the army?"

"Something like that."

"Wots it like?"

She told him, fairly factually, what the troop ship had been like crossing the Mediterranean, and her first sight of Scutari. She was describing the hospital when she realized he was asleep. His breathing was even, his brow cool, his skin dry.

She lay down on Monk's side of the bed and, in spite of her intention not to fall asleep, almost immediately drifted off too.

When she woke Scuff was awake, looking uncomfortable. He had been lying close to her, perhaps afraid to move in case he disturbed her. Yet he remained there now when he did not have to, his eyes wary, waiting for her to say something, perhaps make some kind of demand.

She knew better. He might have been frightened, lonely, and hungry for affection, but if she offered it too soon he would reject it instantly. He needed his independence to survive, and he knew it.

"How are you?" she asked quite casually. "I fell asleep," she added unnecessarily.

"It 'urts," he said, then instantly seemed ashamed of himself. "I'm better, ta. I can go 'ome soon."

It was not the time to argue with him. He needed to feel some part of his fate was in his own hands. He was afraid of losing his freedom, of becoming dependent, of coming to like warmth and soft beds, hot food- even belonging.

"Yes, of course," she agreed. "As soon as you are a little better. I am going to get something to eat. Would you like something, too?"

He was silent, uncertain whether to accept or not. In his world, food was life. One never took it or gave it lightly. All his surroundings were unfamiliar, and he was conscious enough now to be fully aware of that.

She stood up, tidying back a few strands of hair and making a poor job of it. In spite of her determination not to care for the boy, she cared intensely. If he knew, he would resent it and feel trapped. She must not allow it to show. She went to the door without looking back, then forgetting at the last moment, she turned. He was lying in her place, white-faced, the skin pinched around his mouth, shadowed around his eyes. He looked very small. It was Monk's opinion he cared about, not hers.

"I'll be back," she said, feeling foolish, and went down the stairs.

She returned half an hour later having made an egg custard, something at which she was not skilled. She had had to work hard to get it right. She had it now in two bowls on a tray. She set them down on the dresser and closed the door, then offered him one dish.

He stared at it, no idea what it was, and raised his eyes to hers, uncertain.

She put some on a spoon and held it to his lips.

He ate it, tasting it slowly, carefully. He might never admit it, but it was clear in his expression that he liked it very much.

Slowly she fed him the rest, then ate her own. She had a ridiculous feeling of success, as if she had won a great prize. She looked forward to making something else for him.

"Is that wot yer feed soldiers when they're 'urt?" he asked.

"If we have the supplies, yes," she replied. "Depends where we're fighting. It can be hard to get things over great distances."

"Wot kind o' things? Yer gotter 'ave food. D'yer 'ave guns an' things too?"

"Yes, and ammunition, and medical supplies, and more boots and clothes. All kinds of things." Then she elaborated on army life, and he sat with his eyes never leaving hers. They were still talking when Monk came back in the late afternoon.

He came up to the room quietly. He looked exhausted, but the moment he saw Scuff sitting up against the pillow he smiled.

Hester rose, anxious for him now. It was already darkening outside, and he was spattered with rain even after having taken his coat off downstairs.

"Are you hungry?" she asked gently, trying to read from his face what he needed most.

"Yes," he answered, as if surprised by it. "Rathbone thinks they may all be convicted, including Sixsmith."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

"Navvies' evidence," he explained. "Perhaps we shouldn't have started this, but it's too late to undo it now."

"What about tomorrow?"

"More navvies, clerks, people who probably had no idea of any of it," he answered. "Let's eat. I've done all I can. Are you hungry, Scuff?"

Scuff nodded. "Yeah, I am."