CHAPTER THIRTY

1

They picked up the tosher right where Mrs. Bucks said he*d be, drinking his profits at The Drowning Man. The dark-haired woman behind the bar pointed to him silently when asked.

"Does I know the sewers?" he said, drunk, leaning sideways. "Like the wife's quim, sad to say. All too well. And I know Bucks, too." Then he sat up straighter, frowning, gathering his wits and narrowing his eyes at them. "You can't be thinkin' of going down now, not with this storm coming on."

For an answer the row of grim men simply stared at him while McGowan pulled out his Scotland Yard badge and held it up.

"You must be mad, if you'll forgive my sayin' it, sir. I've worked the sewers for years and nothin' would force me down there. You got the worse thing possible; storm comm', tide risin', autumn tide too."

McGowan folded his arms. "I'll be plain with you. You can take us down and then go straight to Millbank Prison. Or you can take us down and then go straight to the next deportation ship. Or you can take us down and then go home. It's up to you."

The tosher sighed, as if having been through it before, and picked up his shovel-shaped rubber hat, making for the door. "I always knew toshin' was against the law, but who ever thought you coppers would bother with the likes of us? We better get a move on then, that's all I can say."

Once outside the man, sober, sure of himself now, and professional, faced them like a judge. "The only way in, this time of day, is by the old doors."

"We're going in closer to the City," said McGowan. "I don't know anything about any doors."

"The Queenhithe Dock doors, sir," said the tosher, even though McGowan hadn't asked. "It's a bit of a walk once we get inside, at least two miles, but it's the surest way. Any other access would put us God knows where, might be miles of passages before I knew where I was. And things shift down there, there's no telling. But the Queenhithe doors, as long as the river's not too high already, that'd be the way."

McGowan glanced once at Sir Philip, as if asking for authority, and then nodded his head shortly.

The place was only a few streets from the pub, and they trotted in a tense parade down upper Thames Street, to a spot where they could descend steeply to the river by a flight of stairs. All the street noises were left behind. At the bottom step it was just the men and the river and the darkening sky.

The shoal of muddy pebbles under their feet seemed a flat watery world to itself. Gas works jutted up on the Southwark shore. Boats, moored along the river as far as the eye could see, were deserted and silent, their rigging and tackle not even clanking.

The low tide exposed twenty or thirty yards of slate-colored mud, sloping down to the lapping water. An embankment wall of decaying black bricks showed a green line where the tide would rise to, higher than the heads of any man in the group. The tops of the doors were so big that Constable wondered if the architect had ever envisioned some ghostly vessel sailing through. The iron gates could have allowed a sailboat with a thirty foot mast.

They weren't bolted open in any way, but a decade of tides had built up a pile of sand at the base of each that made it impossible for them to close. A continual trickle flowed from the center of the tunnel, down the middle of a channel gutted by erosion. On either side of this foul brook were footprints, fresh since the high tide that morning. They were all sizes, both barefoot and shod.

"Look!" cried Snow, finally taking an interest. "Someone s been in before us!"

The tosher laughed. "Laws, sir, of course. This tunnel is bread and butter for dozens. There's treasure glimmering in there, if you knows where to look, and if you ain't too picky about smells and rats and such. I had a mate found himself a gold coffee pot, solid through, and coins by the pound. Besides, the city works folks would have been digging in here. Rebuilding, they tell us."

McGowan cut off the man with his hand. "We have two hours before the next high tide. Allowing for forty minutes to get to the area under Golden Square and at least another forty to get back, we've got to go now if we do it at all."

They all looked at the sky, dark with clouds.

For a moment, as if in a dream, Constable saw huge mountains to the east, an Alp-high range he had never known before. It filled him with fleeting amazement, this previously unknown body of land so close to London, where before all had been flat and marshy. But then he realized that of course it was only a bank of thunderclouds rising above the river beyond Eastcheap.

A day in northern India came back to him. It was late afternoon, and since dawn he had been scouting along the plains near Jampur. A distant range of treeless hills had for a second seemed to him a bank of blessed, impossible rain clouds. Even when he had realized his mistake, the sensation of relief had lasted all day. It had been years since he'd remembered it.

These London clouds, though, were real enough. The tosher was right. In a few hours the tunnel could be flooded.

Constable was the first in. Within yards, the ceiling lowered, and he saw that his idea of a boat sailing in would have been impossible. In the same way the descent from the street to the beach hushed all city sounds, this crossing muffled all the river noises and all the light. He hadn't realized before how reassuring was the steady lapping of the waves and occasional gull's cry, even the rustle of light wind around his ears.

The time he had gone down with Bucks to see the sewer renovations, it had been far from the river, and much narrower. But the overall effect was the same as now; the tosher's torch and McGowan's lantern lit the brick walls with a highlighting which exposed all cracks and flaws and made the trickling stream in the center of the path look even slimier. The silence wasn't absolute. A constant dripping played a background to their gritty footsteps. And the squeaking of the rats rose and fell as the men passed unseen nests.

But more powerful than any sight or sound was the smell of human waste, almost giving a texture to the air; visible, caressing, and so strong that Constable had to fight to keep from retching. He was amazed that no one commented on it. I suppose Snow is used to this sort of thing from the places he goes, he thought.

"Better turn left here, gentlemen," said the tosher from the back of the line. "In fact, if you don't mind, I'd best lead from here on. It gets tricky in spots and I know what to expect."

By now McGowan seemed only too glad to let the man take over. They turned aside from the main tunnel, which had been high enough that the ceiling was lost in the darkness overhead, into a much smaller passageway, too narrow to allow for more than a single-file approach and low enough that Snow had to stoop.

Constable felt as if he were walking deeper and deeper into a land of coffins. He had never liked enclosed spaces.

They passed a pile of new brick and a clutter of abandoned pickaxes, shovels, and lengths of rope. Again, no one commented but Constable noticed it. In minutes there was another spot like it, and here the arch overhead had lost its bricks, even though they looked new.

As the last of the file passed under the spot there was a sudden tumble of sand and mud from the ceiling. The second policeman cried out and they all rushed forward.

"The damn tunnel is collapsing on us, Constable," shouted Snow.

"Nothing to worry about," called the tosher from the front of the line. "Happens all the time. Especially lately, with the new works."

Constable saw Snow glaring at him, and he tried to look straight ahead. It was his first sight of what happened when salty sand was used for construction. Holds up for long enough, Bucks had said. Constable assumed he meant a few years. Now he saw it was a few weeks. They might as well have used powdered sugar for mortar.

The water at their feet, a narrow trickle until now, deepened to a few inches. The brown stew soaked through Constable's shoes in seconds, working its way through his socks and between his toes. Again he fought his desire to vomit.

They came to a section so low that all had to bend to get through. Constable's panic rose and as he crouched he felt the tightness in his chest expand, clenching and gripping like a fist. He forced himself to keep walking. Sweat dripped from his brow and his breath came in gasps. In a few yards they could stand upright again and the movement of straightening sent a new course of pain through his chest, so violent that he groaned aloud. He paused, praying that it would pass.

McGowan heard. "We*re making good time. Let's stop a moment."

"No, no, go on, quickly." said Constable. "I'm fine, just a little short of breath."

The pain faded, the sweat dried, and Constable felt stronger. He forced himself to breathe evenly and deeply, putting each wet foot before the other in a conscious act of forward motion.

Another ruined digging site opened up on their right. This one was much bigger. It looked as though an arch had already been completed when it collapsed, for there was a waist-high pile of brick rubble on top of sledge hammers and buckets. Through the debris the words "Great Western Gravel" showed on the buckets.

This time McGowan stopped. "What's been going on here?" he asked, indignant. "It looks like someone's been destroying the sewers.

Snow looked hard at Constable. "Perhaps Sir Philip could tell you."

Constable took a deep breath in panic, but McGowan's question must have been rhetorical, for he didn't respond to Snow*s answer and just kept walking.

Constable went back to chewing over what he'd do when he found Bucks, how he'd get to him first, what he could say in five words that would convince Bucks to keep silent. It was as though the broad expanse of his consciousness had shrunk to three points; his pain, a place to talk to Snow, and how to silence Bucks. Nothing else got through. Least of all any thoughts on what he'd actually say to Snow, or the consequences of not silencing Bucks.

Lillian hadn't crossed his mind in an hour. He'd forgotten his son. His life was now a stream of dark wet brick, pain, forward motion, and repetition of a frantically imagined whispering. "Don't talk, I'll make it worth it. You'll be rich." The only other effort Constable allowed himself was an occasional attempt to get in front of the file again, in case they should come on Bucks unexpectedly.

The water was now splashing to their knees. Snow lifted his heavy case shoulder high, muttering in annoyance.

Suddenly the tunnel opened up and Constable felt he could breathe easier.

"This is it, sir," said the tosher. "We've reached Golden Square."

They were in a vaulted space like a small cathedral transept, with tunnels going off symmetrically in four directions. Smaller recesses and stairs in between the four main tunnels led to darker spaces. The noise of the rats was loud. The stink was abominable.

"What are we to do now?" said McGowan. "Have you any idea where in here he could be?"

"Well, those smaller places, each of them leads up to the street eventually. One of them, the north one I think, has a little space in it about halfway up, almost like a room. A place toshers from my father's day used for to hide out. That's the spot where I'll bet he be. But we've got to be quiet. If he hears us coming he can get out and up to the street and we've lost him."

McGowan fidgeted. "Why didn't we just come down from above?"

"It ain't that simple. The passage ain't direct. It goes down into a smaller sewer path before it comes up. Some of them have been blocked since I last was here. The best one is under water now. Only Bucks knew it well enough to use it like this."

As the man spoke, a rushing watery sound swooped behind them from the passage they*d just come up. It was the only warning they got of a thigh-high wave which drenched them and withdrew in seconds. Constable almost fell with the force of it.

"Damn," shouted Snow. "I've lost my case." He grabbed a torch from one of the bobbies and held it down to the water, groping with one hand. The light was useless, though. Only black reflections shimmered up at him. He could have been standing in oil, or thin tar.

The rest of them took a moment to catch their breath. Constable was the first to speak.

"We can't go back the way we came, that's clear. We'd better get up those stairs." He watched Snow, still kicking the water all around them, hoping to find the case.

"Snow, we've got to go on," shouted McGowan.

Snow looked up, an expression of loss on his face. "That was my best brass ether tube. I designed it myself. I used it on the queen."

"We'll just have to use force when we catch him," said McGowan, "it can't be helped."

Snow didn't bother to answer, but leaned over for one more look.

The tosher stamped his feet with nervousness. "Come on, guvnor, we got to get going. Maybe it'll turn up in my bag someday."

No one laughed. Suddenly, inches from where Snow had bent to grope one last time, a hansom-sized section of new concrete and brick vaulting crashed into the water. Snow covered his head with his arms and lurched forward. Constable stumbled to one knee with the shock.

When the dust cleared they all looked at the ceiling. On one side of the arch, a hole now gaped into the medieval carvings of some older vault, left from the time before the fire of London, or before the Plague. From it came a stench far worse than anything they*d smelled before, and in the dim light the working of some metal piping chugged and bubbled.

Snow stared up at it while he rubbed the back of his head, where a brick had glanced. He turned to the tosher.

"Did you say we're under Golden Square?"

"Well, not exactly, sir. A bit to the east, I think. Under Broad Street."

"Broad Street and Cambridge?"

"I expect so." He looked over his shoulder, not interested, just wanting to move. "Best be off. The whole place could come down."

They all followed. Except for Snow, who stared over his shoulder at the exposed pumping works until he had to run, splashing through the water, to catch up.

They silently filed into the smallest of the four tunnels. It immediately narrowed even further and turned into a winding staircase. It was so cramped that Snow, the tallest among them, was forced to bend over to get up.

"How far below the street are we?" Constable asked the tosher.

"Shh! About twenty feet when we get to the room. But don't talk. We're almost there."

Constable, at the head of the party, was the first to see a light ahead. He motioned to the others to stop and cover their lanterns, dampen their torches. They were left in a deep brown darkness. He groped his way toward an open door. A clear bar of yellow light came from behind it.

A soft slapping from the room sounded vaguely familiar to Constable. He couldn't quite place it. He inched his way up to the open door, secure in his darkness, and looked in, gesturing to those behind him to be silent.

Bucks sat at a rough table with his back to the door, playing solitaire with a deck of cards. He continually held his watch to the candle. Across the room another doorway opened onto darkness.

Constable had only a few seconds to decide. As he stood trying to catch his breath another spasm gripped him across the chest. A low moan burst out of him.

Bucks whipped around, scattering cards, his face rigid with fear and surprise.

"Don't — don't speak," gasped Constable in a whisper through his pain. "Rich — you'll be rich. Don't talk."

That was all he had time for. Just as the rest of the search party pushed up behind Constable into the room, Bucks hurled his chair at the men in the doorway, shoved over the table to further block their way, and rushed from the room out the opposite passage. The single candle fell to the floor and went out. In the confusion of sudden darkness Bucks's steps faded down the passageway.

2

By the time they managed to light the lanterns and torches several minutes had passed. They pressed forward.

The tosher was now in full stride, with no qualms about giving orders to everyone. "Got to go faster. He can't get far now, not if the tide continues the way it has. There's a place up ahead where the stairs go down again like I told you, and it's the only way out. I know that passage'll be underwater by now. Unless he's a water rat, that's where he'll be."

They were going down stairs even narrower than the ones they'd climbed. Constable's pain was continual now. His vision came and went. But now that he'd delivered his message to Bucks, that part of his mind was at rest and he felt enormously relieved, almost jubilant. He could focus on his body's direct orders to breathe, walk, breathe, walk.

Until he collided into the man in front of him he didn't realize he'd been staggering forward with his eyes shut. They'd stopped at the bottom of a flight of stairs.

The tosher was whispering, "When we turn the corner of this passage, that's where the flooded part'll be, along a channel, and that's where he'll be if I'm right." The man turned and headed up the last short passage. Constable followed blindly.

The tosher was right. As they turned the corner and went down three steps, Bucks was there, pacing on the brick embankment of a rushing underground stream. He saw them and made as if to jump in but stopped. He probably couldn't swim.

But even as the first man stepped forward they heard a gurgling roar from the darkness to the right, where the water flowed out of the tunnel. Before anyone could think, a wall of water poured out on them. It was neck high, but they held on to the bricks behind them and didn't fall. As soon as the wave receded enough to stop the pull against their legs the party retreated back up the stairs.

Constable shouted to Bucks, using what felt like the last air in his lungs. "For God's sake, man, get out of the way. Give yourself up, come to higher ground." Bucks's footing looked unsteady and the place where he stood was still two feet deep. Warnings of another swell spoke from the darkness to their right, and Constable reached a hand out to the man, shouting, "Grab it! This one will be bigger, let me pull you in!" Some mechanical reaction seemed to take over and he felt suddenly stronger. He knew his plea to Bucks in the room wouldn't be enough, or would even make things worse. Bucks had to be silenced.

Now was his chance. Constable felt for a firm footing and made ready for the push he could give Bucks under cover of the rushing flood. The light of the torches was too dim for the others to see what was going on. But as icy froth swirled around him he looked at Bucks's face and saw in his eyes the dread of death. Constable knew that fear too well. It sang him to sleep at night with the ringing of the blood in his head.

The shock of realizing that he had something in common with the man was so great that he hesitated and lost his chance.

The wave receded but another came almost on top of it. This time Constable didn't think. He reached his arm out and shouted, "Grab it, you fool! It's your last chance!"

Bucks lurched toward the outstretched hand. He gripped fiercely in his panic. Constable no longer thought of pushing Bucks in. Suddenly, it seemed that the most important thing in his life was to rescue him. He was dimly aware of Snow, behind him, leaning out from the stairs and shouting something, grabbing his other hand.

But even before the water reached its highest level, another flood of pain washed over his chest. It was connected, like a tree root, to Bucks's grip on his right hand and the pulling of Snow on his left. Pain surged over his whole body, even down to his toes, and the dark spots that had filled his view earlier turned golden and brilliant.

He felt Bucks's tug on his right arm and he knew that the man, in his panic, was too strong to be rescued. He knew he would be pulled in along with him.

His last thought was a decision to pull his left hand free of Snow's, and he did it. A final wave of river water burst through the tunnel. As Constable's vision was overwhelmed with a wash of light, the stream lifted him off his feet, engulfed him, and sent him and Bucks into the tunnels beyond the foot of the stairs.