Authors: Anne Perry
"Because if
you love someone, you can't stop them doing what they believe they have
to."
He looked at her
more seriously, with the beginning of something that could even have been
respect. "Is that why yer pa let yer go inter the army?"
"Something
like that."
"Wots it
like?"
She told him,
fairly factually, what the troop ship had been like crossing the Mediterranean,
and her first sight of Scutari. She was describing the hospital when she
realized he was asleep. His breathing was even, his brow cool, his skin dry.
She lay down on
Monk's side of the bed and, in spite of her intention not to fall asleep,
almost immediately drifted off too.
When she woke
Scuff was awake, looking uncomfortable. He had been lying close to her, perhaps
afraid to move in case he disturbed her. Yet he remained there now when he did
not have to, his eyes wary, waiting for her to say something, perhaps make some
kind of demand.
She knew better.
He might have been frightened, lonely, and hungry for affection, but if she
offered it too soon he would reject it instantly. He needed his independence to
survive, and he knew it.
"How are
you?" she asked quite casually. "I fell asleep," she added
unnecessarily.
"It
'urts," he said, then instantly seemed ashamed of himself. "I'm
better, ta. I can go 'ome soon."
It was not the
time to argue with him. He needed to feel some part of his fate was in his own
hands. He was afraid of losing his freedom, of becoming dependent, of coming to
like warmth and soft beds, hot food- even belonging.
"Yes, of
course," she agreed. "As soon as you are a little better. I am going
to get something to eat. Would you like something, too?"
He was silent,
uncertain whether to accept or not. In his world, food was life. One never took
it or gave it lightly. All his surroundings were unfamiliar, and he was
conscious enough now to be fully aware of that.
She stood up,
tidying back a few strands of hair and making a poor job of it. In spite of her
determination not to care for the boy, she cared intensely. If he knew, he
would resent it and feel trapped. She must not allow it to show. She went to
the door without looking back, then forgetting at the last moment, she turned.
He was lying in her place, white-faced, the skin pinched around his mouth,
shadowed around his eyes. He looked very small. It was Monk's opinion he cared
about, not hers.
"I'll be
back," she said, feeling foolish, and went down the stairs.
She returned
half an hour later having made an egg custard, something at which she was not
skilled. She had had to work hard to get it right. She had it now in two bowls
on a tray. She set them down on the dresser and closed the door, then offered
him one dish.
He stared at it,
no idea what it was, and raised his eyes to hers, uncertain.
She put some on
a spoon and held it to his lips.
He ate it,
tasting it slowly, carefully. He might never admit it, but it was clear in his
expression that he liked it very much.
Slowly she fed
him the rest, then ate her own. She had a ridiculous feeling of success, as if
she had won a great prize. She looked forward to making something else for him.
"Is that
wot yer feed soldiers when they're 'urt?" he asked.
"If we have
the supplies, yes," she replied. "Depends where we're fighting. It
can be hard to get things over great distances."
"Wot kind
o' things? Yer gotter 'ave food. D'yer 'ave guns an' things too?"
"Yes, and
ammunition, and medical supplies, and more boots and clothes. All kinds of
things." Then she elaborated on army life, and he sat with his eyes never
leaving hers. They were still talking when Monk came back in the late
afternoon.
He came up to
the room quietly. He looked exhausted, but the moment he saw Scuff sitting up
against the pillow he smiled.
Hester rose,
anxious for him now. It was already darkening outside, and he was spattered
with rain even after having taken his coat off downstairs.
"Are you
hungry?" she asked gently, trying to read from his face what he needed
most.
"Yes,"
he answered, as if surprised by it. "Rathbone thinks they may all be
convicted, including Sixsmith."
"I'm
sorry," she said sincerely.
"Navvies'
evidence," he explained. "Perhaps we shouldn't have started this, but
it's too late to undo it now."
"What about
tomorrow?"
"More
navvies, clerks, people who probably had no idea of any of it," he
answered. "Let's eat. I've done all I can. Are you hungry, Scuff?"
Scuff nodded.
"Yeah, I am."
By the time Monk
returned home to Paradise Street after the following day's court, it was dark
and raining again. The gutters were awash, slopping over onto the cobbles. The
reflections from the lamps danced on wet stone, and the clatter of hooves was
broken by splashing. The cold wind coming up from the river carried wreaths of
mist that stretched out, wrapped around trees and even houses, then elongated
and disappeared again.
Inside, the
house was warm. The kitchen smelled of new bread, clean linen, and something
savory. Hester greeted him at the door.
"He's
fine," she said before he asked.
He smiled as the
sweetness of it soaked into him.
"He's been
asleep on and off," she went on. "He looks a lot better."
He held her
close, kissing her mouth, then her cheek and eyes and hair, allowing the rest
of the world to be closed out for a few precious minutes. Then he went upstairs
to change into dry clothes and to see Scuff.
"How are
you?" he asked.
Scuff stirred
and sat up very slowly, blinking a little. He seemed uncertain how to answer.
"Are you
worse?" Monk said anxiously.
Scuff grinned
lopsidedly. "It 'urts like bleedin' 'eck," he said frankly. "But
that egg stuff as she makes is real good. D'yer know some o' 'em places she's
bin?" His eyes were huge with amazement and more admiration than he was
probably aware of. "I in't never 'eard o' some o' 'em!"
"Neither
have I," Monk conceded, coming in and sitting on the edge of the bed.
"She told
me 'bout wot she done in the army an' such."
"Me too,
now and then. She doesn't talk about it a lot."
"Sad, eh?
All 'em men 'urt bad." Scuff frowned. "Lot o' 'em died. She din't say
so, but I reckon as they did."
"Yes, I
reckon so, too. Are you hungry?"
"Yeah. Are
you?"
"Yes."
Scuff tried to
climb over to the edge of the bed, as if he would come downstairs to eat.
"No!"
Monk said sharply. "I'll bring it up to you!"
"Yer don't
'ave ter," Scuff began.
"I'd rather
carry the supper up than have to carry you again," Monk told him dryly.
"Stay where you are!"
Scuff subsided
and inched back to the center again. He lay against the pillow, watching Monk.
"Please
don't fall out," Monk said more gently. "You'll hurt yourself
worse."
Scuff said
nothing, but he did not move again.
They were all
three of them in the bedroom, halfway through eating, when the interruption
came. Hester was cutting up vegetables for Scuff and letting him pick them up
with a fork. He did it carefully, uncertain at first how to manage. Monk was
eating steak and kidney pie with a vigorous appetite. Suddenly there was a loud
knocking on the door, again and again, almost as if someone were trying to
break in.
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 and digging around, and some of them have moved
course. Only takes a couple of feet, a change from clay to shale, or striking
an old culvert, a cellar or something, and the whole thing can turn. Sometimes
it just goes around it and back to the-Watch your feet!"
The last was a
shout of warning as Monk's foot sank into a squelching hole. He pitched forward,
only just catching Orme's arm in time to pull himself upright and haul his foot
out. His leg was now coated in sludge up to his knee. Shock robbed him of
breath, and he found himself gasping even after he had regained his balance.
Crow slapped him
on the shoulder. "We'd better stay together," he said loudly.
"Come on!"
Monk leapt up
with him. "Someone must have known this was going to happen," he
said.
"Sixsmith?"
Crow asked, keeping moving.
"Havilland,
actually," Monk replied.
Crow stopped
abruptly. "Murdered because of it?" There was surprise in his voice,
and but for the wavering lights his expression was invisible. "I don't
know. If he had sense enough to listen to some of the older toshers, maybe.
Some of them knew things that aren't written down anywhere. Just lore passed
from father to son."
They were at the
edge of the crater, which seemed a fathomless pit. Monk felt his stomach
clench, and his body shook even though he tensed every muscle to try to control
it.