Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [144]
Rathbone glanced at Monk, then looked back at the navvy. “I think I might begin to understand this, Mr….”
“Finger,” the navvy supplied. “ ’Cos I lost me finger, see?” He held up his left hand, the middle finger missing from the knuckle.
“Thank you,” Rathbone acknowledged. “Mr. Finger, did Mr. Toby Argyll work with Mr. Sixsmith also?”
The navvy grinned, showing several gaps among his teeth. “Jus’ Finger. Yeah, course ’e did. Mr. Toby were keen ter learn all ’e could about the machine, an’ no one knowed as much as Mr. Sixsmith. Mr. Toby were down ’ere ’alf the time.”
“Before Miss Havilland was killed on the river?” Rathbone pressed.
“Yeah, even the day before, as I ’member.”
Monk suddenly understood what Rathbone was thinking, and perhaps a step beyond it as well. “Finger,” he said quickly, “why did Mr. Toby ask Sixsmith about the machine, rather than asking his brother, Alan Argyll?”
“Perhaps his brother wouldn’t tell him?” Rathbone suggested, and looked questioningly at Finger.
“Nob’dy knows ’em machines like Mr. Sixsmith does,” Finger replied with certainty.
“But Mr. Alan was the one who invented the modifications that made Argyll Brothers’ machine better than anyone else’s,” Monk pointed out, cutting across Rathbone.
“ ’E owned it,” Finger said. “It were Mr. Sixsmith wot thought it up. ’E knew it better’n Mr. Argyll, that I’d swear on me ma’s grave, God rest ’er.”
“Ah!” Monk sat back, looking across at Rathbone. “So Mr. Sixsmith had the brains, but Mr. Argyll took the credit and the money. I imagine Mr. Sixsmith was more than a little unhappy about that.”
They thanked Finger, who told them where to find a navvy who could help them further.
They had gone only another mile when there was a tremor in the ground, so faint as to be almost indiscernible. A moment later, the rhythm of the machine altered slightly.
A wave of horror passed over Monk, bringing the sweat out on his skin, then desperate fear.
Rathbone froze.
“Can you smell something?” Sutton whispered.
“Smell something?” Rathbone said hoarsely. “The stench of the sewers, for heaven’s sake. How could anyone not smell it?”
Sutton stood still. In the wavering lamplight it was impossible to tell whether his face was paler or not, but there was a tension in him that was unmistakable.
Then it came again, a louder rumble this time.
“We gotta get out of ’ere!” Sutton’s voice was sharp. “There’s more comin’ down somewhere. C’mon!” He started forward. Snoot was at his feet, hackles bristling.
They crowded behind him, lanterns high. Monk saw the yellow light on the walls. Was it his imagination that they were bulging, as if any moment they would rupture and the water burst through, drowning them all? He was gasping for breath now, his body trembling. Was he a physical coward after all? It was a new and shattering thought.
Was it pain he was afraid of, or death? The end of opportunity to try again, to do better? Some kind of judgment when it was too late to understand or be sorry? Or oblivion, simply ceasing to exist?
And then with a sweet, hard certainty he knew the answer: He was afraid of the ultimate failure of being a coward. And that was something he could control. It might cost him everything he had, but it was still within his power to do it. It was within him, not beyond. He felt his heart steady.
He was treading on Sutton’s heels, and Rathbone on his, then Crow, Orme, and Runcorn. They moved as quickly as they could, heads bent to avoid the low roof, feet slipping on rubble.
The smell seemed stronger. Monk felt it thick and pungent in his nose. It was not just sewage, it was gas. He strained his ears but heard no more rumbling, only the slosh of their feet in deeper water, and the increased skittering and squealing of rats, as if they too were panicking. It made the small hairs stand up on his skin, but he knew it was infinitely better than