Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [123]
Monk put his plate on the tray, the last mouthful uneaten, and went downstairs to find out what it was.
Orme stood on the step in the rain, his hair plastered to his head, his face white. He did not wait for Monk to ask what it was, nor did he attempt to come in.
“There’s bin a cave-in,” he said hoarsely. “Down at the Argyll tunnel. The ’ole lot. It all came in and God knows ’ow many men’s buried.”
It was what James Havilland had feared, and Monk would have given everything he owned not to have had him proved right. “Do they know what caused it?” he asked, his voice shaking. Even his hand on the door felt cold and somehow disembodied.
“Not yet,” Orme said, ignoring the rain dripping down his face.
“Suddenly the ’ole side just slid in, wi’ water be’ind it, like a river. An’ then ’bout fifty yards further up the line ’nother lot went. I’m goin’ back there, sir, ter see if I can ’elp. Although God knows if anyone can.”
“Another slide? That means there are men trapped between the two? Is there any sewage down there?”
“Dunno, Mr. Monk. Depends on wot it were that slid. It’s close ter one o’ the old sewers as is still used. Could be. I know wot yer thinking—gas…” He did not finish.
“I’ll come with you.” There was no question of what he must do.
“Come in out of the rain while I tell my wife.” He left the door open and went up the stairs two at a time.
Hester was standing in the bedroom doorway, Scuff sitting up on the bed behind her. Both of them had heard Orme’s voice and caught the sound of fear in it.
“There’s been a cave-in. I have to go,” he told her.
“Injuries? Can—” She stopped.
He gave her a quick smile. “No. Your place is here with Scuff.” He kissed her quickly, harder perhaps than he meant to. Then he turned and went back down the stairs again, took his coat from the hook in the hall, and followed Orme out into the street.
There was a hansom waiting. They climbed in and shouted to the driver to hurry back to the tunnel. He needed no urging.
They clattered through the streets. The long whip curled over the horse’s back, and water sprayed from the wheels on either side. It took them nearly half an hour to get there, even at this time of night, when there was no traffic. As Orme scrambled out, Monk paid the driver too generously, then followed Orme into the darkness and the rain. Ahead of them, a maze of lamps was moving jerkily as men stumbled over rubble and broken beams as carefully as they could to avoid falling.
Monk was aware of shouting, the sting of wind and rain, and—somewhere, though he could not see where—the thrum of one of the big engines for lifting the rubble. Beyond the periphery of the disaster area there were carriages waiting, and ambulances.
“Bloody awful mess!” Crow emerged into a small pool of light. His black hair was soaked. If he had ever had a medical bag, he had lost it. His hands were covered with blood. Judging by the gash on his left forearm, at least some of it was his own.
“How can we help?” Monk said simply. “Can we get anyone out?”
“God knows,” Crow answered. “But we’ve got to try. Be careful, the ground’s giving way all over the place. Watch where you put your weight, and if it goes, yell! Even in this noise, someone may hear you. Throw yourself flat—that’ll give you at least some chance of finding a beam or a piece of something to hang on to. Stand straight and you’ll go down like an arrow.” As he spoke he was leading the way towards a group of lanterns about a hundred yards further on, which were swaying as the men carrying them picked their footing to go deeper into the cave-in area.
“What happened?” Monk asked, having to raise his voice now above the thud and grind of the machine digging and unloading the rubble.
“Must have dug too close to a small river,” Crow shouted back. “London’s riddled with them. All this burrowing