Down, all the time, down. So he had to go back against it now, upwards. It didn't matter anymore where he emerged, as long as it was into the air and he could get help. Any opening would do.
He started forward again. Scuff was growing heavy held on one arm, but he had to hold the lantern high in order to see. Its weight was pulling on the wound from the fight on Jacob's Island. One good thing: If he was simply going up, and not necessarily retracing the way he had come, then there was no trail for the assassin to follow.
As Monk trudged upwards, his mind was working. Why had the killer never gone back to Sixsmith for the second half of his payment, nor apparently to Argyll, either? Perhaps he had never expected to collect the second half; he might have asked for what he meant to have in the first payment. Maybe he feared that Argyll meant to kill him, tidy up the ends. Was he right?
Rathbone would have to drop the prosecution or risk hanging Sixsmith, and Argyll would escape. Neither Mary nor her father would ever be vindicated.
Monk shook his head to clear it. All that mattered now was getting Scuff up to the top before he died of shock and the cold. He wanted to look at the wound, but there was nowhere to lay Scuff down, nowhere to hang the lantern so he could see. His legs were freezing and clumsy, his heart was pounding, and the stench of sewage all but made him gag, but he was moving as fast as he could, always uphill, against the flow of the water. Once he passed a series of iron rungs in the wall; alone he would have climbed, but not with Scuff.
He rounded a corner. The light seemed clearer now. He must be nearing the surface!
Then he saw a figure ahead of him, a man, thin, with his arm raised. There was a shout, but in the tunnel it echoed. Against the roar of the water going over the weir he could not make out the words. It must be raining harder.
The shot still took him by surprise, ricocheting off the wall and sending brick chips and dust flying. He threw himself against the wall, sheltering Scuff as much as he could with his own body.
There was another shout, and another, but they sounded further away. He looked around and at first thought there was no one there. Then he saw the lantern held high, Orme's familiar figure behind it. Relief washed over him like a warm tide, almost robbing him of the little strength he had left.
'Orme!' he shouted. 'Here! Help me!'
'Mr. Monk, sir! Are you all right?' Orme ran over, slipping in the water, his lantern swaying wildly, his face crumpled with concern.
'Scuffs shot,' Monk said simply. 'We've got to get him up.'
Orme was aghast. 'Now? Just now?'
'No! No… we caught up with the assassin and he shot at us.'
'Right, sir. I'll lead the way,' Orme said steadily. 'Come with me.'
It seemed a long way before they finally emerged into the open cutting. By now Monk had abandoned his lantern, simply following Orme's light ahead. He wanted to hold Scuff gently, in both arms. The boy was beginning to stir, and every now and then he let out a soft groan.
When they reached the end of the cutting and were on level ground again, they stopped. For the first time Monk saw Scuffs face in the daylight. He was ashen, and there were already hollows of shock around his eyes. Monk felt a tight pinching in his heart. He looked up at Orme.
'You better get 'im to a doctor, Mr. Monk,' Orme said anxiously.
Scuffs eyes flickered open. 'I want Crow,' he said weakly. 'It 'urts summink awful! Am I gonna die?'
'No,' Monk promised. 'No, you're not. I'm going to take you to the hospital-'
Scuffs eyes grew wide and dark with terror. 'No! No 'ospitil! Don't take me there, please, Mr. Monk, don't take me…' he gasped. His face turned even whiter. He tried to reach out his hand as if to ward off something, but only his fingers moved. 'Please…'
'All right,' Monk said quickly. 'No hospital. I'll take you home. I'll look after you.'
'You've got to get 'im treated proper, Mr. Monk.' Orme's voice was sharp with fear. 'Just carin' isn't gonna be enough. That bullet's gotter come out an' the 'ole stitched up… an' cleaned.'
'I know,' Monk answered, more sharply than he meant to. 'Get a message to Crow and have him come to my house. My wife's a battlefield nurse.'
Orme saw the futility of arguing when time was so desperately precious. He ran out into the street and stopped the first hansom passing, ordering the startled passenger out to find another hansom. This was police business. The man saw the injured child and made no demur.
Orme left to look for Crow.
It was a nightmare journey. Monk sat cradling Scuff in his arms, talking to him all the time about anything and nothing, wishing he knew how to help. The trip seemed to last forever, and yet it was perhaps no more than half an hour before he climbed out, paid the driver, and carried Scuff to the front door.
The house was dark, empty, and cold. God! Had she gone back to Portpool Lane already? He could have wept with fear and the aching loneliness of knowing he was inadequate to do what was needed. Where was Hester? Why was she not here? What could he do without her? He felt panicky and sick. There was no time to wait!
He must keep Scuff warm! He was slipping away, bleeding too fast. His face was gray and there was barely a flutter of his eyelids.
Monk must warm up the room, riddle the stove, put on more fuel. He should boil water to make it clean. Where was Hester? Why was she not here? He had no idea how to get a bullet out! He could kill Scuff just by trying!
He moved quickly, ramming the fire with the poker. He must be careful; if he added too much coal, he would put the fire out. Then it would take ages to light again. He blew on it, to make it draw. Then he filled the biggest pan with water, but changed his mind and put on a small one instead. It would be quicker.
Finally there was no excuse to wait any longer. He lifted Scuff from the chair where he had put him and laid him on the table under the light. He must take off his coat and remove the bit of scarf Orme had put in to pack the wound. It was soaked through with blood. His hands shook as he pulled it off and saw the scarlet hole in the white skin, still welling up scarlet inside. Scuff was unconscious and barely breathing. Perhaps it was too late already?
He did not even hear the front door. It was not until Hester was standing beside him that he realized his face was wet with tears of relief. He did not ask if she could save Scuff because he could not bear the answer.
She said nothing except to give orders: 'Pass me the knife… clean this for me… cut up my petticoat, it's soft… put the vinegar on this- yes, it's clean. They used to use it in the navy, in ships of the line. Just do it!'
They worked together. She probed for the bullet, pulled it out, packed the wound, and finally drew the flesh closed and stitched it over with a darning needle dipped in boiling water. She used the only silk thread she had, a dark blue from a dress she had been altering. He obeyed, his teeth clenched, his body now shuddering with cold and exhaustion, his heart pounding with fear.
Finally they were finished. Scuff was bandaged and dressed in one of Hester's nightgowns, which was the only thing that was anywhere near his size, and laid gently on her side of the bed. Only then did Monk finally ask. 'Will he live?'
She did not lie to him. Her face was pinched with grief and tiredness, and her blue dress was irrevocably stained with blood. 'I don't know. We'll just have to wait. I'll sit here with him, try to keep his temperature down. There's nothing else to do now except wait. Go and wash, and put dry clothes on.'
He had forgotten that he was still sodden himself, and the stench of the sewer probably filled the whole house. 'But…,' he started, then realized she was right. There was nothing further he could do to help Scuff, and catching pneumonia himself would help no one. He was shaking with cold, his teeth chattering. He would change and then make them both a cup of tea. His stomach was empty and sick, and his arm was throbbing.
He was in the kitchen with the teapot when Crow arrived. 'How is he?' he asked, searching Monk's face. 'God, you look awful.'' His voice shook, his emotions too raw to hide.
'I don't know,' Monk admitted. 'Hester took the bullet out and stitched the wound, but he's terribly weak. He's upstairs, in my bed. Can you…'
Crow had a gladstone bag with him; he had not even put it down. He turned and went up the stairs two at a time. Monk followed him five minutes later with scalding hot tea.
Crow was standing beside the bed. Hester was still sitting on the chair, Scuffs white hand in hers. Crow turned. 'She did a good job,' he said simply. 'There's nothing more that I can do. It's a bad wound, but the bullet's out and it's clean. It's not bleeding much anymore. I've got bandages here and spirit to clean with, and a drop of port wine
