Free The Dark Assassin by Anne Perry

stood up with a strange
hollowness inside him. "Thank you."
    Runcorn rose as
well. "Are you giving up?" It sounded like a challenge. There was a
note in it close to despair.
    "No!"
Monk exclaimed. In truth, though, he had no idea where else to look for
evidence. Inevitability closed in on him.
    "Tell
me," Runcorn said, frowning, "if you find anything. And ..."
    "Yes, I
will," Monk promised. He thanked him, and left before it could grow any
more awkward. There was nothing else for them to say to each other, and the
brief truce was best unbroken by not trying.
    Monk returned to
Wapping station and spent the afternoon in the general duties that were part of
his new job. He disliked the routine, especially writing reports and even more
reading other people's, but he could not afford to do less than his best. Any
error or omission could be the one that spelled failure. He must succeed. He
had no other skills than for his work and most certainly no other friends like
Callandra Daviot who could or should help financially.
    At five o'clock
it was completely dark. Worse than that, there was a heavy fog rolling in from
the east, shrouding the river so closely he knew he would not find a boatman to
attempt rowing him across. Already the streetlamps were dimming, blurred yellow
ghosts fading altogether after twenty yards, so the night was impenetrable. The
mournful baying of the foghorns on the water broke the silence, and there was
little else to be heard but the steady drip of water and the slurp of the tide
on the steps and against the embankment.
    Monk left at
half past five to begin the long walk up towards London Bridge, where if he was
very fortunate he might find a hansom to take him over, and as far as Southwark
Park and home.
    He buttoned his
coat, pulled his collar up, and set out.
    He had gone
about a quarter of a mile when he was aware of someone behind him. He stopped
just beyond one of the mist-shrouded lamps and waited.
    An urchin came
into the pale circle of light. He looked about nine years old, as much as one
could see of his face through the grime. He was wearing a long jacket and odd
boots, but at least he was not barefoot on the icy stone.
    "Hello,
Scuff," Monk said with pleasure. The mudlark had been of help to him in
the Maude Idris case, and Monk had seen him a dozen times since then, albeit
briefly. Twice they had shared a meat pie. This was the first time he had seen
the boots. "New find?" he asked, admiring them.
    "Found one,
bought the other," Scuff replied, catching up with him.
    Monk started to
walk again. It was too cold to stand still. "How are you?" he asked.
    Scuff shrugged.
"I got boots. You all right?" The second was said with a shadow of
anxiety. Scuff thought Monk was an innocent, a liability to himself, and he
made no secret of it.
    "Not bad,
thank you," Monk replied. "Do you want a pie, if we can find anyone
open?"
    "Yer
won't," Scuff said candidly. "It's gonna be an 'ard winter. You wanna
watch yerself. It's gonna get bad."
    "It's
pretty bad every winter," Monk replied. He could not afford to dwell too
long on the misery of those who worked and slept outside, because he was
helpless to do anything about it. What was a hot pie now and then to one small
boy?
    "This in't
the same," Scuff replied, keeping step with Monk by skipping an extra one
now and then. "Them big tunnels wot they're diggin' is upsettin' folk down
there. Toshers in't appy."
    Toshers were the
men who made their living by hunting for and picking up small objects of value
that found their way into the sewers, including a remarkable amount of jewelry.
They usually hunted together, for fear of the armies of rats that could rapidly
strip a man down to the bone if he was unlucky enough to lose his footing and
injure himself. And there was always the possibility of a buildup of methane
gas given off by the sewer contents, and of course a wave of water if the rain
was torrential