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Monk looked Rathbone’s elegant figure up and down. “With rather older clothes, I think. We need to find and prove the connection between Sixsmith and the assassin.”
Rathbone’s eyes widened. “For God’s sake, Monk! How? Sixsmith worked in the sewer excavations. He could have been anywhere when he was out on bail. It was only a bribery charge! And no one has the faintest idea where the assassin was. We don’t even have a name for him!”
“You’ve summed it up perfectly,” Monk said with a smile that was more like a baring of teeth. “I plan on enlisting all the help I can. I’ll start with Runcorn, Orme, and as many of my own men as I can spare, then the doctor, Crow. He’ll be happy to help because the assassin shot Scuff. Then I’ll get as many navvies as’ll help. Toshers, gangers, and watermen, too. And I’ll try to get Sutton, the ratcatcher. He knows the hidden rivers and wells that very few other people do, all the hiding places. People who won’t spe
ak to us will speak to him.”
There was horror, disgust, and self-mockery in Rathbone’s face. “And what is it you imagine I can do in this…this pursuit of the unspeakable?”
Monk grinned now. “Oh, you are in command,” he assured him. “You will tell us what is proof and what is not.”
Rathbone gave him a dark, twisted look and excused himself to change his clothes.
They went first to Runcorn, as a matter of geographical simplicity. He was horrified, as they had known he would be. Even more than that, he was angry with himself for not having seen the difference in the two descriptions of the assassin.
“No one did,” Monk assured him honestly. “It was only when I was telling Hester about it and repeating it myself that I realized. That one detail too much was his only slip.”
Runcorn’s face was hard and bleak. “I’ll trace each step of that bastard’s way,” he promised, “if I have to climb or crawl through every sewer in London and question the bloody rats!”
At the thought, Mark’s face pulled tight, his mouth in a downward turn, but he did not argue.
Next they got Orme out of his bed with an apology for the hour, as he could just barely have gone to sleep after a hard day. He made no complaints, not even by change of expression on his face. Monk hoped profoundly that it was not because he did not dare to. Orme had earned the right to respect and consideration for his feelings, his well-being, and the fact that he might have other cares and occupations in life than serving the demands of the River Police in general, or Monk in particular.
“I can’t do it without you,” Monk said frankly.
“That’s all right, sir. ’Ow’s the boy?” Orme replied, dashing cold water on his face to wake himself up. They were standing in the kitchen of his small home, where Monk had never before been. He was uncomfortably aware that not only had he intruded, uninvited, on the one place where Orme had privacy, mastery, but also he had brought others who were strangers in all but name.
“Recovering well,” he replied. “Can I make you a cup of tea while you dress?”
Orme stared at him. “I’ll make it, sir. If you just like—”
“I’ll do it,” Monk insisted. “I’m not asking for instructions, just permission.”
“Yes…sir. The tea’s in the caddy up there.” He pointed to an Indian-style tin at the back of the tidy kitchen shelf. “The kettle’s beside the stove, and there’s milk in the pantry cupboard. Water’s already pumped for the morning. But—”
“Thank you,” Monk interrupted him again. “Just dress. There’s no need to shave. We’re going down into the sewers.”
Orme obeyed. Monk moved around the small, immaculately tidy kitchen while Runcorn riddled the last ash from the stove and piled it delicately with new coal to make it burn up again, warm the kitchen, and boil the water in the kettle. Rathbone merely sat and watched, as his skills would be required later.
Seven minutes later Orme was back down, dressed for going onto the river. Then over hot, strong tea, they discussed the exact tactics of how they would hunt down the evidence they needed to hang Aston Sixsmith.
“What do we need, sir?” Orme looked at Rathbone.
Rathbone had obviously been considering it. “We have on Sixsmith’s own admission that he knew this assassin.” He frowned. “I wish we could find a name for the man! We need unarguable evidence that Sixsmith knew him, with the credible assumption that he also knew his occupation. It seems obvious enough that Sixsmith told Argyll of the trouble toshers and other men were causing, and that they needed to be bought off. You might see if that’s actually true. How much trouble were the toshers? Because the money went to the assassin, and yet the work is still apparently going on.” He looked at them in turn.
“What about the cave-in?” Runcorn asked. “Do we know exactly what caused that, and if it was foreseeable? Was it what James Havilland was afraid of? Has it anything to do with Sixsmith?”
“And what about Mary?” Monk added.
“And what connection was there between Sixsmith and Toby Argyll?” Rathbone asked. “In short, Alan Argyll may be technically innocent of having hired the assassin, but is he innocent of everything? Is this one man, or a conspiracy?”
Orme looked at Monk. “Questions, sir. We gotta find people ’oo’ve seen Sixsmith an’ the man wi’ the teeth, afore ’Avilland were shot, an’ prove as they know each other. We gotta find navvies an’ toshers an’ the like ’oo know if Sixsmith knew about the dangers o’ movin’ that machine too fast an’ cuttin’ wi’out askin’ enough about streams an’ wells an’ the like.”
Rathbone’s eyes widened. “Exactly,” he agreed. “Very well summed up, Mr. Orme.” He gave a very slight smile. “Perhaps you don’t really need my presence?”
Monk gave him a wry look and then smiled back. “We couldn’t possibly manage without you, Rathbone,” he replied.
They spent some further time apportioning duties and planning where and how often to meet in order to compare notes and keep each other informed. They had an hour’s sleep sitting in the chairs in the kitchen, then another hot cup of tea and several slices of thick toast. By half past four, they were on their way towards the main road, where they caught a hansom and started the journey to the tunnel.
