Hester rose, anxious for him now. It was already darkening outside, and he was spattered with rain even after having taken his coat off downstairs.

"Are you hungry?" she asked gently, trying to read from his face what he needed most.

"Yes," he answered, as if surprised by it. "Rathbone thinks they may all be convicted, including Sixsmith."

"I'm sorry," she said sincerely.

"Navvies' evidence," he explained. "Perhaps we shouldn't have started this, but it's too late to undo it now."

"What about tomorrow?"

"More navvies, clerks, people who probably had no idea of any of it," he answered. "Let's eat. I've done all I can. Are you hungry, Scuff?"

Scuff nodded. "Yeah, I am."

By the time Monk returned home to Paradise Street after the following day's court, it was dark and raining again. The gutters were awash, slopping over onto the cobbles. The reflections from the lamps danced on wet stone, and the clatter of hooves was broken by splashing. The cold wind coming up from the river carried wreaths of mist that stretched out, wrapped around trees and even houses, then elongated and disappeared again.

Inside, the house was warm. The kitchen smelled of new bread, clean linen, and something savory. Hester greeted him at the door.

"He's fine," she said before he asked.

He smiled as the sweetness of it soaked into him.

"He's been asleep on and off," she went on. "He looks a lot better."

He held her close, kissing her mouth, then her cheek and eyes and hair, allowing the rest of the world to be closed out for a few precious minutes. Then he went upstairs to change into dry clothes and to see Scuff.

"How are you?" he asked.

Scuff stirred and sat up very slowly, blinking a little. He seemed uncertain how to answer.

"Are you worse?" Monk said anxiously.

Scuff grinned lopsidedly. "It 'urts like bleedin' 'eck," he said frankly. "But that egg stuff as she makes is real good. D'yer know some o' 'em places she's bin?" His eyes were huge with amazement and more admiration than he was probably aware of. "I in't never 'eard o' some o' 'em!"

"Neither have I," Monk conceded, coming in and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"She told me 'bout wot she done in the army an' such."

"Me too, now and then. She doesn't talk about it a lot."

"Sad, eh? All 'em men 'urt bad." Scuff frowned. "Lot o' ' em died. She din't say so, but I reckon as they did."

"Yes, I reckon so, too. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah. Are you?"

"Yes."

Scuff tried to climb over to the edge of the bed, as if he would come downstairs to eat.

"No!" Monk said sharply. "I'll bring it up to you!"

"Yer don't 'ave ter," Scuff began.

"I'd rather carry the supper up than have to carry you again," Monk told him dryly. "Stay where you are!"

Scuff subsided and inched back to the center again. He lay against the pillow, watching Monk.

"Please don't fall out," Monk said more gently. "You'll hurt yourself worse."

Scuff said nothing, but he did not move again.

They were all three of them in the bedroom, halfway through eating, when the interruption came. Hester was cutting up vegetables for Scuff and letting him pick them up with a fork. He did it carefully, uncertain at first how to manage. Monk was eating steak and kidney pie with a vigorous appetite. Suddenly there was a loud knocking on the door, again and again, almost as if someone were trying to break in.

Monk put his plate on the tray, the last mouthful uneaten, and went downstairs to find out what it was.

Orme stood on the step in the rain, his hair plastered to his head, his face white. He did not wait for Monk to ask what it was, nor did he attempt to come in.

"There's bin a cave-in," he said hoarsely. "Down at the Argyll tunnel. The 'ole lot. It all came in and God knows 'ow many men's buried."

It was what James Havilland had feared, and Monk would have given everything he owned not to have had him proved right. "Do they know what caused it?" he asked, his voice shaking. Even his hand on the door felt cold and somehow disembodied.

"Not yet," Orme said, ignoring the rain dripping down his face. "Suddenly the 'ole side just slid in, wi' water be'ind it, like a river. An' then 'bout fifty yards further up the line 'nother lot went. I'm goin' back there, sir, ter see if I can 'elp. Although God knows if anyone can."

"Another slide? That means there are men trapped between the two? Is there any sewage down there?"

"Dunno, Mr. Monk. Depends on wot it were that slid. It's close ter one o' the old sewers as is still used. Could be. I know wot yer thinking- gas…" He did not finish.

"I'll come with you." There was no question of what he must do. "Come in out of the rain while I tell my wife." He left the door open and went up the stairs two at a time.

Hester was standing in the bedroom doorway, Scuff sitting up on the bed behind her. Both of them had heard Orme's voice and caught the sound of fear in it.

"There's been a cave-in. I have to go," he told her.

"Injuries? Can-" She stopped.

He gave her a quick smile. "No. Your place is here with Scuff." He kissed her quickly, harder perhaps than he meant to. Then he turned and went back down the stairs again, took his coat from the hook in the hall, and followed Orme out into the street.

There was a hansom waiting. They climbed in and shouted to the driver to hurry back to the tunnel. He needed no urging.

They clattered through the streets. The long whip curled over the horse's back, and water sprayed from the wheels on either side. It took them nearly half an hour to get there, even at this time of night, when there was no traffic. As Orme scrambled out, Monk paid the driver too generously, then followed Orme into the darkness and the rain. Ahead of them, a maze of lamps was moving jerkily as men stumbled over rubble and broken beams as carefully as they could to avoid falling.

Monk was aware of shouting, the sting of wind and rain, and- somewhere, though he could not see where-the thrum of one of the big engines for lifting the rubble. Beyond the periphery of the disaster area there were carriages waiting, and ambulances.

"Bloody awful mess!" Crow emerged into a small pool of light. His black hair was soaked. If he had ever had a medical bag, he had lost it. His hands were covered with blood. Judging by the gash on his left forearm, at least some of it was his own.

"How can we help?" Monk said simply. "Can we get anyone out?"

"God knows," Crow answered. "But we've got to try. Be careful, the ground's giving way all over the place. Watch where you put your weight, and if it goes, yell! Even in this noise, someone may hear you. Throw yourself flat-that'll give you at least some chance of finding a beam or a piece of something to hang on to. Stand straight and you'll go down like an arrow." As he spoke he was leading the way towards a group of lanterns about a hundred yards further on, which were swaying as the men carrying them picked their footing to go deeper into the cave-in area.

"What happened?" Monk asked, having to raise his voice now above the thud and grind of the machine digging and unloading the rubble.

"Must have dug too close to a small river," Crow shouted back. "London's riddled with them. All this burrowing and digging around, and some of them have moved course. Only takes a couple of feet, a change from clay to shale, or striking an old culvert, a cellar or something, and the whole thing can turn. Sometimes it just goes around it and back to the-Watch your feet!"

The last was a shout of warning as Monk's foot sank into a squelching hole. He pitched forward, only just catching Orme's arm in time to pull himself upright and haul his foot out. His leg was now coated in sludge up to his knee. Shock robbed him of breath, and he found himself gasping even after he had regained his balance.