Dark Assassin

by Anne Perry

  “It’s going to burst through!” Rathbone said, his voice high, beyond his control. “We’ll be drowned!” He swiveled around to look for escape. The tunnel behind him sloped downward, the way the water would flow.

  Monk saw it and understood. There was no escape. Oddly now, with disaster so close, his fear was under control.

  Snoot began to bark, writhing to get from Sutton’s grasp.

  “ ’E can smell rabbits,” Sutton said quietly. “We ain’t got no other way. If we break this the stream’ll come, but it isn’t big. I reckon as we ’it wot they used to call the Lark, afore it went under. It in’t very deep. We’ll get proper wet and cold, but keep goin’ an’ we’ll come out.” And without waiting for approval he attacked the soil with his hands.

  Monk looked at Rathbone, then at the others. Snoot was already digging just as fiercely as his master. Monk stepped forward and joined them, then so did the others.

  The stream broke through in a rush, almost knocking them off their feet. Sutton fell against Runcorn, and Crow bent to help them back to their feet. The lanterns were all shattered, and they were plunged into obliterating darkness. There was no sense of direction except that of the icy water.

  “C’mon!” Sutton shouted.

  There was nothing to do for survival except to follow him into the stream. They crawled against the water, trying to breathe, to keep hold of anything, to move forward, upward, clinging, gasping, cold to the bone.

  Monk had no idea how long it went on, how many times he thought his lungs would burst. Then suddenly there was light, real daylight, and air. He fell out after Sutton into the shingle bed and stumbled up the sides of the stone culvert. He turned immediately to see who was behind him. One by one the others dragged themselves out, filthy, drenched, and shuddering with cold. He swung around to thank Sutton, and saw with a wave of boundless relief that he had Snoot in his arms. “Is he all right?” he demanded.

  Sutton nodded. “Thought ’e weren’t,” he said shakily. “But ’e’s breathin’.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Rathbone held out his hand to Sutton. “You have saved our lives. Now we must go and deal with Mr. Sixsmith. I suggest you get your dog warm.” He fished in his pocket and brought out a gold sovereign. “Be so good as to give him a teaspoon of brandy with my compliments.”

  Monk felt the emotion well up inside him too intensely for him to speak. He met Sutton’s eyes, looked again to make sure that Snoot was indeed breathing, and clasped Rathbone’s arm very briefly. Then they followed Crow, who seemed to know which way to go.

  The five of them were perishing with cold and smeared with clay and remnants of sewage when they reached the head of the tunnel again. They found Finger and almost twenty other navvies near the great machine.

  Finger saw Monk. “We got another cave-in, bad one,” he said grimly. “Blimey! Yer look like bloody ’ell!”

  “Very well observed,” Monk replied. “Too accurate to be accounted abusive language. Where is Sixsmith?”

  “Down there.” Finger pointed at the entrance.

  Monk looked at it and a wave of nausea enveloped him. He could not go in that again. He simply physically could not. His legs were shaking, his stomach sick.

  It was Runcorn who walked forward, his face set like stone. “I’ll get that bastard up here,” he said grimly. “Or I’ll bring the whole bloody lot in on both of us.”

  “What! Runcorn!” Monk shouted after him. He swore violently. He could not let Runcorn go in there. He had no choice. He charged back into the semidarkness a pace behind Runcorn, still shouting at him.

  Fifty yards in, the tunnel was still dimly lit from lanterns on the wall. A hundred yards and the glow came from ahead of them and Runcorn stopped abruptly.

  Monk caught up with him. “Fire,” he said, his voice catching. “I can feel the heat of it. Where’s Sixsmith?”

  Monk pressed forward again, more slowly now. He had covered another twenty yards around a curve when he saw the broad-chested figure ahead of him. It was unmistakably Sixsmith from the way he walked. He was coming towards them. He must have recognized Monk at that same moment. He stopped and stood with his arms loosely by his sides. If he was surprised to see Monk was not alone, there was nothing in his voice to betray it.

  “You’d better let me past. There’s fire behind me, and I’m the only one who can put it out! If I don’t, it could come up into the streets and burn the whole of London.”

  “Did you mean to kill Toby Argyll?” Monk asked without moving.

  “Eventually,” Sixsmith replied. “But Mary taking him over with her was a piece of luck. I had intended to have him blamed for her death, but the way it worked out was better. Don’t waste time, Monk. The fire’ll break through soon. That whole tunnel behind me is ablaze. There’s enough air in here to feed it.”

  “Why did you do it? For the Argyll Company?”

  “Don’t be so damn stupid! For revenge. Alan Argyll took my invention, the money, and far more than that, he took the praise for it! I don’t give a damn if this whole thing blows up, Monk, but you do! You won’t let the city burn, so get out of my way! I can put it out! Those fools up there don’t know what to do.”

  Behind Monk, Runcorn was moving. Monk swung around to see what it was, and at that instant Runcorn threw the rock. It caught Sixsmith just as he raised his hand with the gun in it. He fell backwards as the shot exploded, and the bullet hit the rocks.

  “Run!” Runcorn yelled, grabbing Monk by the waist and almost pulling him off his feet.

  Side by side they hurtled towards the entrance again, feet flying, shoulders banging into the walls. Monk fell once. Runcorn stopped and hauled him to his feet, almost yanking his arm out of its socket, nearly tearing his wound open. But they reached the entrance just as Finger fired the great lifting machine into life, under Orme’s orders. The earth began to shudder and stones were dislodged. Boulders quaked and the whole machine slid forward. The giant stakes that held it were gone and it slithered and pounded, belching steam.

  Finger jumped down and ran away from it as it lurched forward. The boulders crashed over and down, then gradually the entire wall and all its retaining boards and planks buckled and slid. Crossbeams exploded like matchsticks. With a great eruption, the earth collapsed with a roar and crashed over the entrance, burying it as if it had never existed.

  Pebbles rattled and dropped; steam exploded from somewhere in a white column. Then there was silence.

  Monk wiped his hand across his face and found he was shaking.

  “Better Sixsmith be buried,” Rathbone said, his voice with only a shred of its old humor. “I’m not sure I could have convicted him anyway.” He smiled ruefully. “Don’t bring me another case for a while, Monk. You’ve ruined my clothes.”

  They stood in a row, five of them—filthy, freezing, and strangely victorious.

  “Thank you, gentlemen,” Monk said. “Each and every one of you.” He had never meant anything more in his life.

  About the Author

  ANNE PERRY is the author of two acclaimed series set in Victorian England. Her William Monk novels include Death of a Stranger and The Shifting Tide. Among her novels featuring Charlotte and Thomas Pitt are the New York Times bestselling Southampton Row and Long Spoon Lane. With No Graves As Yet, also a New York Times bestseller, Perry began a new miniseries set during World War I. Her short story “Heroes” won an Edgar Award. Anne Perry lives in the Scottish Highlands. Visit her website at www.anneperry.net.

  By Anne Perry

  (published by The Random House Publishing Group)

  FEATURING WILLIAM MONK

  The Face of a Stranger

  A Dangerous Mourning

  Defend and Betray

  A Sudden, Fearful Death

  The Sins of the Wolf

  Cain His Brother

  Weighted in the Balance

  The Silent Cry

  A Breach of Promise

  The Twisted Root

  Slaves of Obsessio
n

  Funeral in Blue

  Death of a Stranger

  The Shifting Tide

  Dark Assassin

  FEATURING THOMAS AND CHARLOTTE PITT

  The Cater Street Hangman

  Callander Square

  Paragon Walk

  Resurrection Row

  Bluegate Fields

  Rutland Place

  Death in the Devil’s Acre

  Cardington Crescent

  Silence in Hanover Close

  Bethlehem Road

  Highgate Rise

  Belgrave Square

  Farriers’ Lane

  The Hyde Park Headsman

  Traitors Gate

  Pentecost Alley

  Ashworth Hall

  Brunswick Gardens

  Bedford Square

  Half Moon Street

  The Whitechapel Conspiracy

  Southampton Row

  Seven Dials

  Long Spoon Lane

  THE WORLD WAR I NOVELS

  No Graves As Yet

  Shoulder the Sky

  Angels in the Gloom

  THE CHRISTMAS NOVELS

  A Christmas Journey

  A Christmas Visitor

  A Christmas Guest

  Dark Assassin is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2006 by Anne Perry

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Perry, Anne.

  Dark assassin : a novel / Anne Perry.

  p. cm.

  1. Monk, William (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Police—England—London—Fiction. 3. London (England)—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6066.E693D37 2006

  823’.914—dc22 2005048140

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-345-49085-8

  v3.0