by Anne Perry
“I’m sorry, madam, but Mrs. Argyll is unwell,” the maid began. “She isn’t receiving today.”
“I was in court yesterday,” Hester replied. “What I have to say will prove Mr. Argyll’s innocence.” She did not add that it would also prove Mrs. Argyll’s guilt.
The parlor maid’s eyes opened wide, then she stepped back and invited Hester in. She was flustered, happy, and still frightened. She left Hester in the withdrawing room, the only place even remotely warm from the embers of the previous night’s fire. Such domestic duties had been utterly neglected that day.
Ten minutes later Jenny Argyll came in. Her black gown was very well cut and flattered her slenderness. Her hair was styled less severely than earlier, but her face was almost bloodlessly pale, and there were bruised shadows around her eyes. She looked feminine and vulnerable. Hester’s last doubts that Jenny was in love with Sixsmith were swept away. Jenny could have helped her actions, but her emotions were beyond her mastery.
“Good morning, Mrs. Monk,” Jenny said with faint surprise. Her voice trembled a little. Was it tension, exhaustion, or fear? “My maid tells me you know something of urgent importance about my husband’s arrest. Is that true?”
Hester had to force herself to remember Rose Applegate’s humiliation in order to say what she must. She was certain now that it had been Jenny who had poisoned Rose’s food or drink with alcohol, not Argyll. It was she who had the motive, and surely it could only have been she who had known of Rose’s weakness. Had Rose’s resolve slipped before, or had she confided in someone in a moment of weakness, perhaps as her reason for not joining them in wine, or a champagne toast to some event? One might require such an excuse to avoid giving offense, for example at a wedding.
Jenny was waiting.
“Yes, it is true,” Hester replied. “I went into court believing, as did my husband, that Mr. Sixsmith was innocent of everything except the very understandable offense of trying to bribe certain troublemakers to stop sabotaging the construction. The only reason he was charged at all was in order to bring the whole subject of James Havilland’s death to court, and during the proceedings to prove that it was actually your husband who was guilty.”
“Then you succeeded,” Jenny said with almost no expression. “Why have you bothered to come and tell me this? Do you imagine I care? What possible difference do your reasons or your beliefs make to me?”
Hester looked at her. Was any of that hurt or outrage real? Or was she showing that emotion to mask the sense of victory she must feel now the prize was almost in her hands?
“None at all,” Hester admitted calmly. “It is the fact that we were mistaken that is of importance. Your husband was not guilty, and I am almost certain that we can prove that.”
Jenny stood motionless, her eyes wide, unfocused. For a moment Hester was afraid she might faint. “Not…guilty?” she said hoarsely. “How can that be? He has been arrested!” That was a denial, almost a defiance.
Hester hoped fervently that Sixsmith was not in the house. Was she taking a stupid risk? It was too late to retreat now.
“But you don’t believe him guilty, surely?”
“How…how can I not?”
“Because you know without any doubt who it was that asked you to write the letter to your father, and since it was Sixsmith who paid to have him killed, it is impossible to believe that it was not also Sixsmith who arranged to have him be in the stables,” Hester replied.
Jenny drew in her breath, raising her hands as if to push Hester away physically. “Oh, no! I—”
“You are in love with him,” Hester continued. “Yes, I know. So much is apparent. But however infatuated you are, it does not excuse the deaths of your father and your sister, and the shame of a suicide’s grave for both.” The anger and all her own old pain poured into her voice until it shook. She had to gulp for breath and try to steady herself. “You may not have known at first, but don’t tell me you don’t know now!”
“I don’t!” Jenny denied furiously. “You’re lying. My husband is guilty! The court knows that! You have no right to come here saying such terrible things!”
“Terrible?” Hester challenged her. “It is terrible that Sixsmith could be guilty of killing your father, but not that your husband is? I think that judgment betrays your loyalties rather clearly, Mrs. Argyll!”
“You accuse me!” Jenny shot back.
“Of course I do. It was you who swore on oath that it was your husband who made you write the letter that lured your father to his death. You could not mistake such a thing. It had to be a deliberate betrayal of both your husband and your father! What does Sixsmith offer you that is worth that?”
Jenny gasped. “Get out of my house…you…” She could not find words to protect herself.
“Is he such a lover?” Hester went on, allowing her own past helplessness to drive her anger.
“How dare you!” Jenny shouted. “You ignorant, complacent, stupid woman with your good works and your petty little ideas! What on earth do you know of passion?”
“I know love and hate, and the price you pay for each,” Hester replied.
“I know death, and I’ve seen better men than you’ve ever known give their lives for what they believed in. I’ve seen grief and war and murder. I’ve made more terrible mistakes, and I’ve loved till I thought I’d die of it. I’ve let people down because I’ve been weak or shortsighted, but I’ve never deliberately betrayed anyone. You betrayed your father, your sister, your husband, and Rose Applegate as well. Was that really worth it just to lie with Aston Sixsmith?”
Jenny swung her arm around and slapped Hester across the face as hard as she could, sending her staggering backwards until she fell onto the armchair several steps behind her.
Hester climbed to her feet slowly, hand to her burning cheek. “I see that it wasn’t,” she observed.
Jenny took a step towards her, face scarlet, eyes bright with rage.
Hester was prepared this time, her own hand ready, fist closed. “Sixsmith murdered the assassin,” she said. “Shot him and left him to be crushed and buried under the cave-in. And don’t bother to argue that. It was what gave him away. He described the man as he was when he was killed, not when Sixsmith said he paid him. It was his only mistake, but it was enough. It’ll save your husband from the rope. Or is that not what you want to hear?” That was an accusation with the bitterest contempt.
“I don’t want any of it!” Jenny said desperately. “And you’re lying. It can’t be true!”
Hester did not bother to argue. “He murdered your father and your sister, and he’s going to murder your husband. Is that the sort of man you trust to look after you, not to mention your children? If you’ve got any wits left at all, you’ll save yourself while you can. Your husband’s going to be freed, whatever you do, and Sixsmith will hang.”
Jenny looked at her with loathing. “And what does it profit you, Mrs. Monk? Why do you care if I survive or not? I think you’re lying, and you need me to betray Aston, or he’ll still beat you and Alan.”
Hester forced herself to smile, but she knew it was a cold, uncertain gesture. “Are you prepared to wager your life on no one finding evidence, now that they know where to look? More than that, are you sure your own future is safe with a man who will kill when it suits him, who betrayed the man who employed him and trusted him by taking his wife and who set him up to hang for a murder he didn’t commit? Look who is dead! Are you sure you are not the next, when your usefulness to him is over, or he finds a younger, prettier woman who isn’t weighed down with another man’s children? Or could it be that your children are heirs to the whole Argyll inheritance? Could that be your value to him? And if you marry him, whose will it be then? Toby’s, dead, too! And Mary.”
Jenny’s face collapsed. Hester imagined the memories that might be racing through her mind, moments of intimacy, of passion. Hester would have pitied her had not so many others paid the price.
“Go to the police a
nd confess perjury,” she said more gently. “While you still have time. Make up some story that you were deceived and now you realize the truth. You might at least survive. You have a choice, today anyway. Live with Argyll, who may be a bore and a bully—or hang with Sixsmith, who is far worse.” She gave a very slight shrug. “There’s no profit in it for me, Mrs. Argyll, but there is for your children. I suppose I care about them.” And she turned on her heel and walked out. She would go back home and have lunch with Scuff, and perhaps tell him what she had done. She would write a letter to Rose Applegate and tell her too, when it was all over.
As Monk and all the others shared a brief lunch with a group of navvies, this time having the benefit of far more knowledge, they questioned them not about Argyll but about Sixsmith. They were deep underground, sitting on stones in the rubble away from the pounding of the engine. It was an old tunnel where debris had been dumped rather than carry it all the way to the surface. The constant dripping of water filled the air with damp and the smell of sewage. The scrabble of rats’ feet was closer than the clang and thump of the machine. The voices around them echoed until it was hard to tell from which direction they came. Darkness hemmed them in on all sides, crowding the frail heart of the lantern light. They could have been twenty feet below the surface of the earth, or hundreds. Monk tried to drive the thought from his mind and keep his stomach from knotting.
Rathbone drank some water but was reluctant to eat the coarse bread. He did manage to keep the look of distaste out of his expression.
“So Miss Havilland asked for Mr. Sixsmith’s help?” he said again.
“Yeah,” the navvy agreed. He was a big, bull-chested man with fair hair receding at the front and an agreeable, heavily weathered face.
“Course ’e did. Went out o’ ’is way ter give ’er wot she asked fer. Did fer ’er pa, too.”
“Same information?” Rathbone asked.
“I s’pose.” The navvy creased his face in thought. “ ’E ’elped a lot o’ them. Never ’id nuffink. ’E must ’a told Miss ’Avilland wot she asked ’im fer, ’cos it were arter she spoke wi’ ’im that she came ter know as ’er pa were murdered. Or leastways ter think as ’e were.”
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 silence. If the rats were alive, then the air was breathable.
There was another fear that he would not express, but it kept beating in his brain. Sixsmith was free. No one else knew he was guilty except Hester and Scuff. All those who could prove it were here in this worm-hole in the earth, about to be trapped, buried—by Sixsmith?
Sutton was still leading the way, but the water was flowing against them. He bent and picked up Snoot. It was too deep for the little dog to stand in, and he kept having to lift his head up.
No one remarked on the obvious. Monk turned to look behind him once and saw their smudged faces, eyes reflecting fear. Rathbone pulled his mouth down at the corners but said nothing.
“Keep close,” Monk warned. “Better put your hand on the man in front of you. Lose touch, and we’ll all stop. That’s an order!”
They pressed on. The smell was definitely stronger. There was another violent tremor. Sutton stopped and they looked at each other. No one spoke.
They began walking again and came to a fork. Sutton took the right turning, and no one questioned him. Ten minutes later the water was shallower, and a few moments after that they came to a blank wall where the rock had fallen in. It was totally blocked. Not a break of air came from the other side.
“Sorry,” Sutton said gently.
They each dismissed it and told him not to worry. They had barely finished speaking when there was a hollow roar beyond the fall, as if a train had gone by, and then utter, suffocating silence.
Sutton’s lantern slipped out of his hand and crashed into the water, wavering under the thick, filthy stream for a moment or two, then going out.
“What was that?” Runcorn said hoarsely. “Water?”
“No.” Sutton held Snoot more tightly.
“What?” Rathbone demanded.<
br />
“Fire,” Sutton croaked.
“God Almighty!” Rathbone leaned against the wall. In the yellow glare his face was gray.
“Reckon as Mr. Sixsmith knows we’re on to ’im,” Orme observed.
“Pity we din’t get ’im. ’E’s a real bad one.”
“That hardly begins to describe him,” Crow said bitterly. “We’ll go back.”
No one answered him; none of them wanted to argue the realities. They turned and started to retrace their steps until they were at the fork again.
“Other way?” Runcorn asked Sutton.
Sutton shook his head. “That’s the way o’ the fire. We need ter go back the way we come.”
“Water’s deeper,” Crow pointed out.
“I know.” Sutton started forward without adding anything. They went after him, each apparently lost in his own thoughts.
Monk tried hard not to let his mind go to Hester and Scuff. It would take from him his anger and the strength it gave him to go on through the icy, stinking water up to his knees and the filth that was in it. He knocked against the bodies of dead rats. Ahead of him Sutton was still carrying the little dog. Had he any idea at all where they were, or what was ahead of or behind them, except rockfalls and fire?
They turned more corners and passed a weir. The water thundered over the drop so violently they could not hear each other, even if they shouted.
Sutton waved to the left, pointing to another passage.
“That’s…” Runcorn cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, but his words were lost.
Orme looked at Monk.
Crow shrugged and followed after Sutton.
Monk and Rathbone had no better knowledge of the tunnels. All six of them and Snoot crossed over, gripping each other through the fast flowing stream, only just keeping their balance.
The tunnel curved around and started to go upwards. Then, just as Monk was thinking he could smell fresh air, it came to an abrupt end. There was water flowing from the left, a thin, steady spout out of the raw earth already carrying soil with it, and growing stronger even as they watched.