Dark Assassin

by Anne Perry

  Snoot had pricked up his ears at the word rats.

  Hester said nothing.

  “An’ there’s the gas,” Sutton added.

  “Is that what that pipe is?” she asked, gesturing to the one that crossed the deep gash in the earth about fifteen feet down, going diagonally on a quite different track from the cutting.

  Sutton smiled. “No, Miss ’Ester, that’s gas fer lights an’ things in there. I’m talkin’ about the sort o’ gas that collects up under the ground ’cos o’ wot sewers is for carryin’. Gives off methane, it does, an’ if the air or water don’t carry it away, it’s enough ter suffocate a man. Or if some fool lights a spark, with a tinder or a steel boot on stone, then whoomph!” He jerked his hands apart violently, fingers spread to indicate an explosion. “Or there’s the choke-damp wot yer gets in coal mines an’ the like. That’ll kill yer, too.”

  Again she said nothing, trying to imagine what it would be like to have no skill except one that obliged you to labor in such conditions. And yet she had known navvies before, in the Crimea, and a braver, harder-working group of men she had never seen. They had built a railway for the soldiers across wild, almost uncharted terrain, in the depth of winter, in a time most others had considered totally outside any possibility. And an excellent railway it was, too. But that had been aboveground.

  The great steam engine was still pounding away, shaking the earth with its strength, hauling as men and beasts never could. Foot by foot were forming the sewers that would make London clean, safe from the epidemics of typhoid and cholera that had carried away so many in appalling deaths.

  “It’s that damn great thing wot worries me,” Sutton said, staring at the steam engine. “There’s other ones like that, even bigger, wot I can’t show yer, ’cos o’ where they are. Everyone’s in an ’urry an’ they in’t takin’ care like they should. A wheel gets away from yer, chain breaks loose on one o’ them things, an’ before yer knows it, a man’s arm’s ripped out, or a beam o’ wood’s broke wot’s ’oldin’ up ’alf the roof o’ somethin’.”

  “They’re in a hurry because of the threat of typhoid and cholera such as we had in the Great Stink,” she said quietly.

  “I know. But ’cos they’re tryin’ ter beat each other an’ get the next order, too,” he added. “An’ no one says nothin’ ’cos they don’t want ter lose their jobs, or ’ave other folks think they’re scared.”

  “And are they scared?”

  “Course they are.” He looked at her ruefully. “Yer must be froze. I’ll take yer to see someone not a mile from ’ere oo’ll give us a decent cup o’ tea. C’mon.” And without waiting for her to accept, or possibly not, he turned and began walking back from the crevasse the way they had come, through the rubble and piles of timber, much of it rotted. As always, the little dog was beside him, jumping over the stones, his tail wagging.

  Hester followed after him, having to hurry to catch up. She did not resent his pace; she knew it came from the emotion driving him, the fear that a tragedy might occur before he could do anything to stop even the smallest part of it.

  They did not talk in the half hour it took them to weave their way through the narrow streets and alleys, but it was a companionable silence. He was very careful to keep step with her and now and then to warn her of a particularly rough or slippery stretch of road or of the steepness of the step up to an occasional pavement.

  She wondered if this was where he had grown up. During the brief space they had known each other, there had been no time for talk of such things, even had either of them wished to. Before today she had not known that his father was a tosher. But hunting the sewers for accidentally flushed treasures and keeping down the worst of the vast rat population that emerged from that underworld were closely allied trades, though rat-catching was the superior. The tosher would have been proud of his son. He should have been even prouder of his courage and humanity.

  The streets were busy. A coal cart trundled over the cobbles. A costermonger was selling fruit and vegetables on the corner where they crossed. A peddler of buttons brought to her mind the need to replenish her sewing basket, but not now. She hurried to keep up with Sutton’s swift pace. Women passed them carrying pails of water, bundles of clothes, or groceries. They skirted around half a dozen children playing games—tossing knucklebones or skipping rope. For an instant she ached to be able to do something for them—food, boots, anything. She dismissed it from her mind with force. Cats and dogs and even a couple of pigs foraged around hopefully. It was still appallingly cold.

  The door where Sutton finally stopped was narrow, with peeling paint and no windows or letter box. In some places that would indicate that it was a façade placed to hide the fact that there was a railway behind it rather than a house, but here it was that no letters were expected. None of the other doors had knockers, either.

  Sutton banged with the flat of his hand and stood back.

  A few minutes later it was opened by a girl of about ten. Her hair was tied with a bright length of cloth and her face was clean, but she had no shoes on. Her dress was obviously cut down from a longer one, and left with room to fit her at least another couple of years.

  “ ’Allo, Essie. Yer mam in?” Sutton asked.

  She smiled at him shyly and nodded, turning to lead the way to the kitchen.

  Hester and Sutton followed, driven as much by the promise of warmth as anything else.

  Essie led them along a narrow passage that was cold and smelled of damp and old cooking, and into the one room in the house that had heat. The warmth came from a small black stove with a hob just large enough for one cauldron and a kettle. Her mother, a rawboned woman who must have been about forty but looked far older, was scraping the eyes and the dirt from a pile of potatoes. There were onions beside her, still to be prepared.

  In the corner of the room nearest the stove sat a large man with an old coat on his knees. The way the folds of it fell, it was apparent that most of his right leg was missing. Hester was startled to see from his face that he was probably no more than forty either, if that.

  Sutton ordered Snoot to sit, then he turned to the woman.

  “Mrs. Collard,” he said warmly, “this is Mrs. Monk, ’oo nursed some of the men in the Crimea, an’ keeps a clinic for the poor in Portpool Lane.” He did not add specifically what kind of poor. “An’ this is Andrew Collard.” He turned to the man. “ ’E used ter work in the tunnels.”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Collard, Mr. Collard,” Hester said formally. She had long ago decided to speak to all people in the same way rather than distinguish between one social class and another by adopting what she felt would be their own pattern of introduction. There was no need to wonder why Andrew Collard did not work in the tunnels anymore.

  Collard nodded, answering with words almost indistinguishable. He was embarrassed—that was easy to see—and perhaps ashamed because he could not stand to welcome a lady into his own home, meager as it was.

  Hester had no idea how to make him at ease. She ought to have been able to call on her experience with injured and mutilated soldiers. She had seen enough of them, and enough of those wasted by disease, racked with fever, or unable even to control their body’s functions. But this was different. She was not a nurse here, and these people had no idea why she had come. For an instant she was furious with Sutton for the imposition upon them, and upon her. She did not dare meet his eyes, or he would see it in her. She might then even lash out at him in words, and be bitterly sorry afterwards. She owed him more than that, whatever she felt.

  As if aware of the rage and misery in the silence, Sutton spoke. “We just bin and looked at the diggin’,” he said to Andrew Collard. “Freezin’ at the moment, and not much rain, but it’s drippin’ quite a bit, all the same. ’Ow long d’yer reckon it’ll take some o’ that wood ter rot?”

  Mrs. Collard glanced from one to the other of them, then told Essie to go outside and play.

  “They’re movin’ too fast for it ter m
atter,” Collard answered. “In’t the wood rottin’ as is the trouble, it’s them bleedin’ great machines shakin’ everythin’ ter bits. Does it even more if they in’t tied down like they should be. Only Gawd ’isself knows what’s shiftin’ around underneath them bleedin’ great things.”

  “Tied down?” Hester asked quickly. “Aren’t they dug in?”

  “Staked,” he answered. “But they shake loose if yer don’t do ’em real ’ard an’ careful, miss. Them machines is stronger than all the ’orses yer ever seen. Stakes look tight ter begin wi’, but arter an hour or two they in’t. Yer need ter move the ’ole engine a dozen yards or so ter fresh ground an’ start over. But that takes time. Means that—”

  “I understand,” she said quickly. “They’re losing loads going up and down when they take up the bolts and move the machine, then stake it and start it up again. And the more firmly they bolt it, the longer it takes to move it.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Collard looked slightly taken aback that she had grasped the point so quickly.

  “Don’t all companies work the same way?” she said.

  “Most,” he agreed. “Some’s more careful, some’s less. Couldn’t all get engines the same. But more’n that, the earth in’t the same from one place ter ’nother. If yer ever dug it yerself, you know Chelsea in’t the same as Lambeth, an’ Rother’ide in’t the same as the Isle o’ Dogs.” He was looking at her now, his eyes narrow and tired with pain. “There’s all sorts: clay, rock, shale, sand. An’ o’ course there’s rivers an’ springs, but Sutton knows that. More’n ’em, there’s old workings o’ all sorts: drains, gutters, cellars, tunnels, an’ plague pits. Goes back ter Roman times, some of ’em. Yer can’t do it quick.” He stared into the middle distance. Hester could only imagine what it was like for him sitting helpless in a chair while the world narrowed and closed in on him. He saw disaster ahead and was unable to do anything to prevent it. He was telling her because she asked, and she had come with Sutton, but he did not believe she cared, or could help, either.

  His wife lost patience. “Why don’t yer tell ’em straight?” she demanded, ignoring the boiling kettle except for a swift movement to remove it from the heat. If she had intended to make tea, it was forgotten now. “Were a cave-in wot took my ’usband’s leg,” she said to Hester. “One o’ them big beams fell on ’im. Only way ter get ’im out before the ’ole lot caved in were ter take ’is leg orff. If they go on usin’ them great machines shakin’ everythin’ ter bits up on top like that, sooner or later the sides is gonna cave in on top o’ the men wot’s diggin’ an’ ’aulin’ down the bottom. Or when we get rains like we ’ave in Feb’uary, one o’ ’em sewers bursts, an’ ’oos gonna get the men out before it floods, eh?” she demanded, her voice high and harsh. “I know a score o’ women like me, ’oose husbands a’ lorst arms an’ legs ter them bleedin’ tunnels. An’ widders as well. Too many o’ them damn railways is built on blood an’ bones!”

  “There’ve always been accidents,” Hester said reluctantly. “Is any contractor especially bad?”

  Collard shook his head angrily, his face dark. “Not as I know. Course there’s accidents, no one’s gurnin’ about that! Yer do ’ard work, yer take ’ard chances. The wife’s just bellyachin’ ’cos it in’t easy fer ’er. Is it, Lu? In’t no better bein’ a coal miner or seaman, or lots o’ other things.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Don’t s’pose it’s always rum an’ cakes bein’ a soldier, is it?” He waited for her answer.

  “No,” she agreed. “What is it, then, that you are concerned about?”

  The smile vanished.

  “I’m more’n concerned, miss, I’m downright scared. They got ’ole lengths o’ new sewer built, an’ o’ course there’s still most o’ the old bein’ used. Get a couple o’ slides, mud, cave-ins, an’ yer got men cut off down there. If yer don’t get drownded, it could be worse—burned.”

  “Burned?”

  “Gas. There’s ’ouse’old gas pipes in ’em sewers as well. Get a shift in the clay an’ one o’ them cracks, an’ first spark you’ll ’ave not only the gas from the sewage, but back up inter every ’ouse as ’as gaslight. See wot I mean?”

  “Yes.” Hester saw only too well. It could be a second Great Fire of London if he was right. “Surely they’ve thought of that, too?” They had to have. No one was irresponsible enough not to foresee such a catastrophe. A few navvies drowned or suffocated, she could believe. There had been a cave-in when the crown of the arch of the Fleet sewer had broken. The scaffolding beams had been flung like matchwood into the air, falling, crashing as the whole structure subsided and the bottom of the excavation moved like a river, rolling and crushing and burying.

  Sutton was watching her too. “Yer ’memberin’ the Fleet?” he asked.

  She was startled. Of course he had told her about the Fleet River running under London in the tales his father had told him. Now she knew why. He had described the whole network of shifting, sliding, seeping, running waters.

  “Doesn’t everybody know this?” she said incredulously.

  It was Lu Collard who answered. “Course they do, Miss. But ’oo’s gonna say it, eh? Lose yer job? Then ’oo feeds yer kids?”

  Collard shifted uncomfortably in his imprisoning chair. His face was more wasted with pain than Hester had appreciated before. He was probably in his mid-thirties. He had been a good-looking man when he was whole.

  “Aw, Andy, she can see it!” his wife said wearily. “In’t no use pretendin’! That’s wot them bastards count on! Everyone so buttoned up wi’ pride, nob’dy’s gonna say they’re scared o’ bein’ the next one ’urt.”

  “Be quiet, woman!” Collard snapped. “Yer don’t know nothin’. Their men in’t—”

  “Course they is!” She turned on him. “They in’t stupid! They know it’s gonna ’appen one day, an’ Gawd knows ’ow many’ll get killed. They don’t say nothin’ ’cos they’d sooner get crushed or drownded termorrer than starve terday, an’ let their kids starve! Shut yer eyes, an’ wot yer don’t see don’t ’urt yer!”

  “Yer gotta live!” he said, looking away from her.

  Sutton was watching Hester, his thin face anxious.

  “Of course you have,” Hester answered. “And the new sewers have got to be built. We can’t allow the Great Stink to happen again, or have typhoid and cholera in the streets as we had before. But no one wants another disaster like the Fleet sewer, only worse. There’s too much money involved for anyone to do it willingly. There needs to be a law involved, one that can be enforced.”

  “They won’t never do that,” Collard said bitterly. “Only men wot’s got money can vote, and Parliament makes the laws.”

  Hester looked at him gently. “Sewers run under the houses of men with money more than they do under yours or mine. I think we might find a way of reminding them of that. At least we can try.”

  Collard sat perfectly still for a moment. Then very slowly he turned to look at Sutton, to try to read in his face if Hester could possibly mean what she said.

  “Exactly,” Sutton said very clearly, then turned to Mrs. Collard. “ ’Ow about a cup o’ tea, then, Lu? It’s colder’n a witch’s—” He stopped, suddenly remembering Hester’s presence. “ ’Eart,” he finished.

  Collard hid a smile.

  Lu glared at him, then smiled suddenly at Hester, showing surprisingly good teeth. “Yeah. O’ course,” she replied.

  That evening Hester spent a couple of hours cleaning and tidying up after the plasterer, who was now finished. Not only were the walls perfectly smooth, ready for papering, there was also elegant molding where the wall met the ceiling, and a beautiful rose for the pendant lamp. But all the time her hands were busy with brooms, dustpans, scrubbing brushes, and cloths, she was thinking about her promise to Andy Collard and, more important, to Sutton. As Collard had observed, Parliament made the laws. That was the only place worth beginning. She must find out who was the member most appropriate to approach.

 
When Monk came home she proudly showed him how the house decorating was going, and asked after the success of his day. She said nothing about Sutton or her interest in the building of the new sewers. It was not difficult to conceal it, nor did she feel deceitful. She was deeply concerned over the apparent suicide of Mary Havilland, the young woman who had so recently lost her father in a way Hester could understand far more than she cared to remember. She had thought her own loss had been dealt with in her mind and the wound of it healed over. Now it was like a bone that was broken long ago but aches again with the cold weather, a pain deep inside, wakening unexpectedly, too covered over with scars to reach again, and yet sometimes hurting as sharply as when it had been new.

  She wanted to hide it from Monk. She could see in the shadow in his eyes, the line of his lips, that he was aware of the memory in her, and that he was pursuing the Havilland case at least in part because Mary made him think of Hester. Inside he was reacting to the old injustice as well as the new.

  She wanted to smile at him and tell him that it did not hurt anymore. But she would not lie to him. And it was going to hurt more in the loneliness of the house with only chores to keep her busy, no challenge, nothing to fight. She reached out to touch him, to be close to him and say nothing. Sometimes explanations intruded into understanding that was better in silence.

  In the morning Hester visited a gentleman she had once nursed through a serious illness. She was delighted to see that he was in much improved health, although he tired more quickly than earlier. She had gone principally for the purpose of learning from him which member of Parliament to seek out regarding the method and regulations of the new construction of sewers.

  She came away with the conviction that it was unquestionably Morgan Applegate. She even obtained a warm letter of introduction so that she might call upon him immediately.