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Monk pressed forward again, more slowly now. He had covered another twenty yards around a curve when he saw the broad-chested figure ahead of him. It was unmistakably Sixsmith from the way he walked. He was coming towards them. He must have recognized Monk at that same moment. He stopped and stood with his arms loosely by his sides. If he was surprised to see Monk was not alone, there was nothing in his voice to betray it.
“You’d better let me past. There’s fire behind me, and I’m the only one who can put it out! If I don’t, it could come up into the streets and burn the whole of London.”
“Did you mean to kill Toby Argyll?” Monk asked without moving.
“Eventually,” Sixsmith replied. “But Mary taking him over with her was a piece of luck. I had intended to have him blamed for her death, but the way it worked out was better. Don’t waste time, Monk. The fire’ll break through soon. That whole tunnel behind me is ablaze. There’s enough air in here to feed it.”
“Why did you do it? For the Argyll Company?”
“Don’t be so damn stupid! For revenge. Alan Argyll took my invention, the money, and far more than that, he took the praise for it! I don’t give a damn if this whole thing blows up, Monk, but you do! You won’t let the city burn, so get out of my way! I can put it out! Those fools up there don’t know what to do.”
Behind Monk, Runcorn was moving. Monk swung around to see what it was, and at that instant Runcorn threw the rock. It caught Sixsmith just as he raised his hand with the gun in it. He fell backwards as the shot exploded, and the bullet hit the rocks.
“Run!” Runcorn yelled, grabbing Monk by the waist and almost pulling him off his feet.
Side by side they hurtled towards the entrance again, feet flying, shoulders banging into the walls. Monk fell once. Runcorn stopped and hauled him to his feet, almost yanking his arm out of its socket, nearly tearing his wound open. But they reached the entrance just as Finger fired the great lifting machine into life, under Orme’s orders. The earth began to shudder and stones were dislodged. Boulders quaked and the whole machine slid forward. The giant stakes that held it were gone and it slithered and pounded, belching steam.
Finger jumped down and ran away from it as it lurched forward. The boulders crashed over and down, then gradually the entire wall and all its retaining boards and planks buckled and slid. Crossbeams exploded like matchsticks. With a great eruption, the earth collapsed with a roar and crashed over the entrance, burying it as if it had never existed.
Pebbles rattled and dropped; steam exploded from somewhere in a white column. Then there was silence.
Monk wiped his hand across his face and found he was shaking.
“Better Sixsmith be buried,” Rathbone said, his voice with only a shred of its old humor. “I’m not sure I could have convicted him anyway.” He smiled ruefully. “Don’t bring me another case for a while, Monk. You’ve ruined my clothes.”
They stood in a row, five of them—filthy, freezing, and strangely victorious.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Monk said. “Each and every one of you.” He had never meant anything more in his life.
