out into the street, where Morgan Applegate's carriage would be waiting to take her home.
That same morning Monk went across the river as the light was dawning in the drifting rain. He went first to Wapping station simply to ascertain that no crisis had arisen demanding his attention, then he took a hansom westwards to the Old Bailey to see Rathbone.
'Drunk!' Rathbone said incredulously. 'Rose Applegate?'
'And unforgivably frank,' Monk added.
Rathbone swore, which was an extremely rare occurrence. 'We are losing this case, Monk,' he said miserably. 'If I'm not extremely careful, I shall end up convicting Sixsmith whether I wish to or not, and Argyll will walk away free. The thought makes me seethe, but even if I destroy half the decent men around Argyll-the navvies, the foremen, and the bankers, as well as Sixsmith himself-I still can't be sure of getting him. If Rose Applegate could have persuaded Argyll's wife to testify to anything that would have made her father's story more believable, we might shake him.'
He sighed and looked at Monk, the dread of failure burning visibly inside him. It was in the nature of his profession to gamble on his own skill, and he could not always win. But when it was another man who was going to pay, it clearly cut to the bone of his self-belief. It was a pain he was evidently not used to, and his confusion was naked for a moment in his eyes.
Monk wished he could help Rathbone, and knew it could not be done. There are places each man walks alone, where even friendship cannot reach. All he could do was wait, and be there before and after.
'I'll go back to looking for the assassin,' he said, turning to go.
'If you don't find him in the next couple of days, it won't matter,' Rathbone told him. 'I'd rather let Sixsmith go and drop the case altogether than convict an innocent man.' He smiled thinly. 'My foray into prosecution is not conspicuously successful, it seems!'
Monk could think of nothing to say that was not a lie. He gave a very slight smile and went out, closing the door softly.
He was within half a mile of the Wapping station when Scuff appeared out of the gloom. The boy was soaking wet and looking inordinately pleased with himself. He ran a couple of steps to keep up with Monk. 'I done it.'' he said without the usual preamble of greeting.
Monk looked at him. His small face was glowing with triumph under its outsize cap. Monk had still not managed to tell him it needed a lining. 'What did you do?' he asked.
Scuffs expression filled with disgust. 'I found where the killer lives, o' course! In't that wot we gotter do?'
Monk stopped, facing Scuff on the footpath. 'You found out where the man who shot Mr. Havilland lives?' The thought was overwhelming. Then he was furious. 'I told you not even to think about it!' His voice cut across the air, harsh with fear. A man who would shoot Havilland in his own stables would not think twice about strangling an urchin like Scuff. 'Don't you ever listen?' he demanded. 'Or think?'
Scuff looked confused and deeply hurt. This was seemingly the last thing he had expected. Monk suddenly realized that the boy must have clutched his achievement to himself all the way there, expecting Monk's praise and happiness, only to find the prize dashed out of his hand.
Scuff took a deep breath and looked at Monk, blinking to keep back the tears. 'Don yer wanna know, then?'
Monk felt a guilt so deep that for a moment he could not find the words to express it even to himself, far less to try to mend anything in the child staring at him, waiting.
'Yes, I do want it,' he said at last. He must not intrude on Scuffs precious dignity, for the boy had little else. He must never allow him to know he had seen the tears. 'But I don't risk my men's lives, even for that. That's something you have to learn.'
'Oh.' Scuff swallowed. He thought about it for a moment or two while they both stood in the rain getting steadily wetter. 'Not nob'dy's?'
'Nobody's at all,' Monk assured him. 'Even those I don't like much, such as Clacton, never mind those I do.'
'Oh,' Scuff said again.
'So don't do it,' Monk added. 'Or you'll be in trouble. I'll let you off this one time.'
Scuff grunted. 'So yer wanna know w'ere 'e lives, then?'
'Yes, I do… please.'
' 'E lives down the Blind Man's Cuttin', wot leads inter the old sewer an' tunnel. There's lots o' folk live down there, but I can find 'im. I'll take yer. 'E's a bad 'un, mind. An' 'e knows them sewers like a tosher, exspecial the old ones down near the Fleet.'
'Thank you. I think we had better take some men with us. We'll go to the station and find them.' Monk started to walk.
Scuff remained where he was.
Monk stopped and turned, waiting.
'I in't goin' there,' Scuff said stubbornly. 'It's all rozzers.'
'You're with me,' Monk said quietly. 'Nobody will hurt you.'
Scuff looked at him gravely, his eyes shadowed with doubt.
'Would you rather wait outside?' Monk asked. 'It's wet, and it's cold. But it'll be warm in there, and we'll get a drink of hot tea. There might even be a piece of cake.'
'Cake?' Temptation ached in Scuffs eyes.
'And hot tea, for sure.'
'An' rozzers…'
'Yes. Do you want me to send them all out into the rain?'
Scuff smiled so widely it showed his lost teeth. 'Yeah!'
'Imagine it!' Monk replied. 'That's as good as you'll get. Come on!'
Hesitantly Scuff obeyed, walking beside Monk until they reached the steps, then hanging back. Monk held the door for him and waited while he took smaller and smaller steps, then stopped altogether just inside, staring around with enormous eyes.
Orme looked up from the table where he was writing a report. Clacton drew in his breath, caught Monk's eye, and changed his mind.
'Mr. Scuff has information for us which may be of great value,' Monk told Orme. 'He will give it to us, of course, but it would be pleasanter over a cup of tea, and cake, if there is any left.'
Orme looked at Scuff and saw a wet and shivering child. ' Clacton,' he said sharply, fishing in his pocket and pulling out a few pence, 'go and get us all a nice piece of cake. I'll make the tea.'
Scuff took another step inside, then inched over towards the stove.
Two hours later Monk, Scuff, Orme, Kelly, and Jones, the men armed with pistols, descended down the open workings and along the sodden bottom between the high walls of Blind Man's Cutting. As it closed overhead, they lit their lanterns.
Monk glanced at the sides of the tunnel. The old bricks were set in a close, carefully laid curve, now stained and seeping with steady drips and slow-crawling slime. The smell, unmistakably human waste, was thick in the nose and throat. The skitter of rats' feet interrupted the slurp of water down the channel in the center. Otherwise there was no sound except their own feet slipping on the wet stone. No one spoke. Apart from the frail beam from their lanterns, the darkness was absolute. Monk felt panic rising inside him almost uncontrollably. They were buried alive, as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. He could see nothing but dark, wavering shadows and yellow light on wet walls. The smell was suffocating.
Perhaps their journey was no more than a mile, but it seemed endless until they met a junction of waterways. Scuff hesitated only a moment before turning to the right. He led the way into a narrower tunnel, where they were obliged to stoop in order not to strike the ceiling. The gangers couldn't have been this way recently, because the piled-up sludge beneath their feet was deep and dangerous, catching at them, dragging at their feet, holding them back and sucking them down.
Monk had no idea where they were. They had turned often enough that he had lost all sense of direction. Sounds echoed and were lost; then there was nothing but the steady drip all around them, above, behind, and ahead. It was like endless labyrinths through hell, filled with the odor of decay.
One of the men let out an involuntary cry as a huge rat fell off the wall and splashed into the water only a
