William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

But—”
    “Thank you,” Monk interrupted him again. “Just dress. There’s no need to shave. We’re going down into the sewers.”
    Orme obeyed. Monk moved around the small, immaculately tidy kitchen while Runcorn riddled the last ash from the stove and piled it delicately with new coal to make it burn up again, warm the kitchen, and boil the water in the kettle. Rathbone merely sat and watched, as his skills would be required later.
    Seven minutes later Orme was back down, dressed for going onto the river. Then over hot, strong tea, they discussed the exact tactics of how they would hunt down the evidence they needed to hang Aston Sixsmith.
    “What do we need, sir?” Orme looked at Rathbone.
    Rathbone had obviously been considering it. “We have on Sixsmith’s own admission that he knew this assassin.” He frowned. “I wish we could find a name for the man! We need unarguable evidence that Sixsmith knew him, with the credible assumption that he also knew his occupation. It seems obvious enough that Sixsmith told Argyll of the trouble toshers and other men were causing, and that they needed to be bought off. You might see if that’s actually true. How much trouble were the toshers? Because the money went to the assassin, and yet the work is still apparently going on.” He looked at them in turn.
    “What about the cave-in?” Runcorn asked. “Do we know exactly what caused that, and if it was foreseeable? Was it what James Havilland was afraid of? Has it anything to do with Sixsmith?”
    “And what about Mary?” Monk added.
    “And what connection was there between Sixsmith and Toby Argyll?” Rathbone asked. “In short, Alan Argyll may be technically innocent of having hired the assassin, but is he innocent of everything? Is this one man, or a conspiracy?”
    Orme looked at Monk. “Questions, sir. We gotta find people ’oo’ve seen Sixsmith an’ the man wi’ the teeth, afore ’Avilland were shot, an’ prove as they know each other. We gotta find navvies an’ toshers an’ the like ’oo know if Sixsmith knew about the dangers o’ movin’ that machine too fast an’ cuttin’ wi’out askin’ enough about streams an’ wells an’ the like.”
    Rathbone’s eyes widened. “Exactly,” he agreed. “Very well summed up, Mr. Orme.” He gave a very slight smile. “Perhaps you don’t really need my presence?”
    Monk gave him a wry look and then smiled back. “We couldn’t possibly manage without you, Rathbone,” he replied.
    They spent some further time apportioning duties and planning where and how often to meet in order to compare notes and keep each other informed. They had an hour’s sleep sitting in the chairs in the kitchen, then another hot cup of tea and several slices of thick toast. By half past four, they were on their way towards the main road, where they caught a hansom and started the journey to the tunnel.
    They stopped to pick up Crow. He was a sleepy and startled recruit, but willing enough when he heard the truth of the events. He sent a messenger to find Sutton and tell him where they were going, and that it was extremely urgent that he join them. They did not wait for the ratcatcher, but arranged a rendezvous.
    The wind was gusting hard and carried the smell of rain as they made their way down the muddy slope to the bottom of the tunnel. The walls oozed water in the lantern light, and on the bottom it was running slowly in between the broken bricks and pebbles. The wooden planks were slimy underfoot. When Monk held his lantern up, the beam shone on the mist of fine rain, lighting the wet walls and the planks that held them back, but barely reaching the higher beams that forced them apart, crisscrossing upwards to an invisible sky. The air smelled of earth, water, and old wood.
    Monk wrinkled his nose, not knowing if he really smelled the sour odor of sewers or if it was just conjured by memory and imagination. He had to make a greater effort than he had expected in order to force himself to walk calmly under the brick facing of the tunnel and the vast weight of earth on top of him. Their feet echoed on the boards and the water sloshed around the wood and up over the soles of his boots. It was bitterly cold.
    He heard Rathbone gasp behind him, and wondered if the darkness suffocated him as much, if it brought out the sweat on his skin and made him strain his eyes and ears for anything that would give him a sense of proportion, direction, any of the things one