William Monk 15 - Dark Assassin

all.”
    “Not fly enough to avoid a cave-in,” Monk observed.
    “Course ’e were!” the father said intently. “ ’E knew as much about streams and wells and clay stretches as any of us. ’E just don’t give a toss.”
    They asked other toshers, but nothing they could elicit contradicted the belief that there was no more trouble than usual, just the odd quarrel or fight. There had been no deliberate sabotage, and the accidents were rather fewer than average for the heavy and dangerous work in progress.
    The thing that struck Monk most forcibly, and which he told the others when they went up in the middle of the day, was that in everyone’s opinion Sixsmith was an extremely clever and able man who was very well aware of all the risks and advantages of everything he did.
    “So he knew about the streams and wells?” Rathbone said grimly. He looked strained. His nostrils flared with the stench he had been unable to avoid. His clothes were spattered with mud and clay, and his boots were sodden. Even the bottoms of his trousers were wet.
    “Yes,” Monk agreed, knowing what the inevitable conclusion must be.
    “It seems he did not care about the cave-in.”
    “Or he may even have wanted it!” Rathbone added. “But why? What is it that we don’t know, Monk? What’s missing to make sense of this?” He turned to Runcorn and Orme.
    “ ’E knew the assassin,” Orme said, his face tight. “ ’Aven’t got a witness as yer could bring inter court yet, but they’re there. ’E knew ’is way around, did Sixsmith.”
    “Don’t put him in the past.” Runcorn looked at them each in turn.
    “He’s still very much here! We’ve got to hurry, before he covers his tracks—or us!”
    Monk found himself shivering. Rathbone’s face was bleak and angry. No one argued. Briefly they conferred on the next step, then set out again, cold, tired, and determined.
     
    Hester slept poorly after Monk had gone. The shock of defeat, just as they were savoring what she imagined to be one of their sweetest victories, had left her momentarily numb. She cleared away the supper dishes and tidied the house automatically, then went upstairs to see if there was anything more she could do for Scuff. She might have stayed up were it not for him, but she knew he could not rest if she did not do so as well.
    She was lying awake at about five o’clock, wondering how they could have been so bitterly wrong, when Scuff spoke to her in a whisper.
    “Yer in’t asleep, are yer.” It was not a question. He must have known from her breathing.
    “No,” she replied. “But why aren’t you?”
    “ ’Cos I can’t.” He inched a fraction closer to her. “Is Mr. Monk gonna put it right?”
    Should she lie to comfort him? If he found out, it would break the frail trust he was building. She might never mend the damage. Wasn’t truth better than the loneliness of that, no matter how harsh? That’s what she would do if he were a man. But was a child different? How much should she protect him, and from what?
    “Is ’e?” Scuff repeated.
    He was not touching her, and yet she knew his body was stiff.
    “He’ll try,” she answered. “Nobody wins all the time. This could be a mistake we can’t mend. I don’t know.”
    He let out his breath in a sigh and relaxed, inching another tiny fraction closer to her.
    “Mr. ’Avilland were right about their machines, weren’t ’e?”
    “I’m afraid he was,” she agreed. “At least partly. He was also right about going ahead too quickly without making sure where all the streams were.”
    “Mr. Sixsmith were the boss down there. Yer’d think as ’e’d ’a told Mr. Argyll, wouldn’t yer?” he whispered.
    “He must have,” she agreed.
    As she said it she realized with a chill, in spite of the blankets over her, that it was not necessarily true. But it made no sense.
    “Wot’s the matter?” Scuff demanded.
    “At least, I
suppose
he’d have told Mr. Argyll,” she answered.
    He put his hand on her shoulder, so lightly she barely felt it, only its warmth. “There’s summink as don’t make no sense, in’t there? Is Mr. Monk gonna be all right? I should ’a bin there to look arter ’im. I think mebbe that Sixsmith’s real bad.”
    “But what does Sixsmith want?” she said as much to herself as to him.
    “Money? Power? Love? Escape from something?” She turned a little towards him. “Do you suppose it was because of Mrs. Argyll? She’s in love with him, I think. And