Chapter 9

 

 

 

Four days had passed, and in that time, Oliver could not get Claudia Ellingford out of his mind. Tonight, he traveled to The Piggeries—or Potteries, whatever it was called—and two nights before that, in the East End. Oliver had no idea where his brother was or if Claudia followed him. She had been accurate about one fact: why hire her if he was going to be underfoot, shadowing her every move, either as the viscount or The Sentinel? 

One thing that had stung: Claudia effectively shutting down their attraction. And it was mutual and indisputable. It stunned him how hurt he had been at her cold rebuke. Just as they grew closer, she withdrew, throwing up barriers. But he saw her struggling to hold in her emotions before she departed. Had there been a shimmer of unshed tears in her eyes, or was it his overactive imagination?

Yet, with The Sentinel, she was passion incarnate, taking his hand and laying it over her ample breast, rubbing against, touching, and giving him a raging erection that had taken hours to dissipate. Claudia Ellingford was indeed a maddening puzzle. One he yearned to unravel.

A commotion caught his hearing, multiple voices raised in high dudgeon. Running along the rooftops, Oliver ascertained the ruckus came from the next street. He jumped onto the stairs he had used before and, once on the cobbles, made his way along the road.

After turning the corner, he discovered four rough-looking thugs had surrounded a man. They tried to lay punches, but most were not landing as the tall man was swift and light on his feet. The victim of the attack, wearing a suit and a long wool coat, held his own but was clearly growing exhausted. The ruffians were gaining the upper hand. 

Oliver thrust himself into the chaotic brawl, using his truncheon to ward off the attackers. His joining the fight only urged the ruffians to fight harder. He and the man being attacked managed to lay two of them low after spectacular roundhouse blows, but the others pushed forward, shouting expletives that would curl anyone’s hair. One of the louts grabbed a hold of Oliver’s mask, pulling it partway from his face. Oliver shoved the truncheon into the bully’s middle, then swung upward with the stick to the man’s chin. He dropped unconscious. The last man standing ran off, disappearing into one of the courtyards to points unknown.

“Viscount Tensbridge?” the man he had rescued whispered.

Damn it to hell.

Frustrated, Oliver pulled the mask back in place. He turned and glared at the man who looked vaguely familiar. Irritated, he grabbed the man’s arm, pulling him away from the unconscious louts. Oliver stepped into a private alley in case the escaped thug still lurked about. He did not want the man to see him speak to this policeman. And the rescued fellow was indeed a copper.

“The man who ran off is wearing my hat,” he observed wryly. “Detective Mitchell Simpson. We met at Damon Cranston, the Duke of Chellenham’s engagement dinner. I recently transferred to the Lancaster Road station.”

Damon’s newly discovered older half-brother had just changed his name from Mitchell Evercreech. The man had attended the semi-formal dinner, looking somewhat uncomfortable and out of place, though Damon and Althea had greeted him warmly and went out of their way to introduce him to everyone. Standing here in the moonlight, he could see the slight resemblance to Damon. Oliver judged his height to be six feet and his hair more of a sandy shade than Damon’s golden hue.

Oliver extended his hand, and the detective took it and shook it. “Simpson. I would appreciate your discretion in this matter.”

“Of course, my lord, but I want to hear more. Let us get off the streets. Do you know of someplace private we can talk?”

Oliver released Simpson’s hand and weighed his options. He could turn on his heel, disappear into the night, or trust this detective. Having a copper on his side would be beneficial. A detective who was situated at the nearby precinct. “Very well. Follow me, but this location must also stay secret.”

He led Detective Simpson to an abandoned and condemned building scheduled for demolition on the first of next year. In the meantime, Oliver used it as a secret hideaway. By chance, he had discovered a concealed trap door on the floor of the large stone fireplace’s hearth. In decades past, the space below ground must have been used to store illegal goods. He had found numerous smashed gin and French brandy bottles. From what Oliver could ascertain, it had not been used in many years.

The fireplace took up nearly one side of the room, and Oliver could almost stand upright in the hearth. Using a nearby iron rod, he propped open the ash-covered door and motioned for Simpson to climb down the narrow stone steps.

The policeman hesitated.

“This is not a trap, I assure you. We can trust each other,” Oliver murmured.

Once below the stairs, Oliver lit the small gas lamp he had recently brought here, and muted lighting illuminated part of the cellar space. Then he secured the door. There was barely enough room for men of six feet in height to stand upright, but it would serve his purpose. The stone walls were sturdy enough and kept out most of the damp.

“My God,” Simpson exclaimed. “You have quite the hideaway here, my lord.”

It was not much to speak of, but he could come here for safety, take a break, or change his clothes. In another abandoned building situated nearby, he had located a few sticks of battered furniture and a pallet and brought them below. There was nothing here, however, that would reveal his identity.

He motioned to the rickety table and chairs. “Please sit.” Oliver sat opposite and pulled off his mask, scarf, and floppy hat, sitting them in front of him.

Simpson continued to look about the area. “Damon told me of your recent bereavement. My condolences, my lord.”

Ah. That’s how the detective knew to call Oliver by his courtesy title. “Thank you. And call me Tensbridge.”

“What’s in the trunk, Tensbridge?”

“Clothes, a blanket, medical supplies, preserved meats, and other edibles. Water. Some coin. I plan for every situation. I have an area similar to this in the East End.”

Simpson gave him a skeptical look. “You are a vigilante. You’re an heir to an earl, correct? Why in hell would you be doing this? I am completely gobsmacked.”

How to explain when he was not sure himself? 

“I haven’t examined it that closely. Do I have a self-absorbed fixation with hero worship? Does my ego need stroking by grateful strangers when I act the hero? Is my life so empty I need a constant diet of danger and excitement to feel anything at all?” Oliver paused, drumming his fingers on the table.

“Or maybe I see injustice in my worldview and want to do my part beyond sitting on committees and crafting laws that will take decades to pass. Perhaps I come from a family where service and duty are paramount attributes. My great-uncle was a teacher to underprivileged children and founded schools for those less fortunate. One of my cousins initiated a home for those with special needs, either physical or mental. Our family helped develop medical clinics in disadvantaged areas—also law clinics. My grandmother’s family founded a sanitorium in Hertfordshire for those with various addictions. My grandfather went undercover in a cotton mill decades ago. His report helped change certain working conditions for women and children.”

“If you don’t mind me saying, Tensbridge, it appears you have given this much thought, and maybe your reasons are some of everything you mentioned,” Simpson observed, his voice subdued. “As far as your family, they are storied and well-respected, to be certain. I have seen the places you have spoken of. The clinics and whatnot. But why this? To prevent crime? That is the job of the police.”

Oliver grunted. “Right. In the nights I have been in Notting Dale, you are the first copper I have come across. And it is the same in the worst districts in the East End. You are aware there are parts of London the police will not enter. It has been that way for decades, possibly centuries.”

Simpson shrugged. “I can’t deny that, for it is a fact. That’s why I ventured to this area, to see what it is about. My fellow officers said to stay away. I wanted to know why.”

“It appears that you found out why. Who were those men?”

“The officers told me the man running this rookery is Jedidiah ‘Jedi’ Danaher. I’ve heard of him before—a low-level Irish thug who, through violent means, rose through the ranks to become the boss. Mind you, The Potteries are not what they were thirty years ago. Danaher has lost some of his power. But there are still enough people crammed into these streets, blind alleys, and courts to bend to his will. I assume those men are his; who is to know? This place also attracts vagrants. The way I walk and dress, they had me pegged for a copper or someone well off enough to rob. They were on me before I could walk the length of the street.”

Oliver ran his fingers through his tangled hair. “I guess that is why the police do not venture forth in these areas. The Potteries are going to be cleared, and it has already started. Or so I have been told by men in the know. What will happen to Danaher then?”

“Like others of his ilk, he will slither away to some other dark expanse and continue with his thieving and violent ways. Like rookery bosses in St. Giles and other slums, they turn up like a bad penny elsewhere.” Simpson exhaled. “You are aware this attack may be reported to Danaher. If he wasn’t aware of your presence before, he will soon. And one of the men pulled aside your mask. He could identify you.”

“All true. But it was dark, and there were no street lamps on that street. And I knocked him insensible seconds later. I doubt the ruffian got a good look. And the hoodlum that escaped? He wasn’t even facing my way. He saw nothing. And where would anyone ever see me in the light of day? But I will remain vigilant and stay in the shadows.”

“I made certain no one could see or hear when I quietly mentioned your name,” Simpson stated. “I would never place you in harm’s way.”

“I appreciate that.”

The men stared at each other briefly, taking in all they had said.

“Where do we go from here?” Oliver asked.

“I could demand that you stop this folly. But I can see by your tense and determined look that any warning from me would be fruitless. I propose we work together. There is a reason you’re in this area. What is it?” Simpson asked, his gaze intense.

Simpson was astute. Oliver would give him that. “Before I answer, I want us to form a pact. We keep each other’s secrets; we reveal any information we gather. We will be a team. Forget class and rank and all that nonsense. I am Oliver, and you are Mitchell. We work—together. However long it lasts. I call myself The Sentinel.”

Simpson stared at Oliver for the longest time, mulling over the offer. It made Oliver respect the man even more.

“Pact it is—Oliver.”

“My younger brother has fallen in with reprobate men of means. They have a flat in nearby Notting Hill. I hired The Galway Agency to keep track of him, and I observe his comings and goings occasionally. I also do what I can to assist those in need while here.”

“Ah, Eleanora and Althea’s agency. A good choice.”

“I thought so. I will tell you something else I recently learned about The Piggeries. One London County Council’s medical officer is drawing up a report on sanitary and health conditions. It will be the final nail in the coffin for a full-blown clearance.”

Simpson nodded. “Good to know. This place has common lodging houses, some with two families in a room. The overcrowding is not sustainable. The infant mortality rate is horrendous. This place is crammed with loafers, beggars, tramps, thieves, and prostitutes. And murderers like Danaher. Ever read Oliver Twist?”

“Dickens? Of course.”

“Well, Danaher is Bill Sikes—in the worst ways.”

“As you say, good to know.” Oliver must figure out how to pass this information to Claudia and keep his reckless younger brother out of the criminal’s path.

“How do we keep in contact?”

Oliver rose and rifled through the trunk, locating a pencil and paper. After he sat, he scribbled out his address and handed it to Simpson. “My residence. Also, the address of The Rakes club I am in with your half-brother.”

Simpson took the paper and stared at it. “And I am just to show up at your house?”

“Why not? We recently met at Chellenham’s engagement dinner and struck up a friendship. No one in society will bat an eye, for the Wollstonecrafts are known to be eccentric.”

“Yes, God forbid you become friends with a lowly police detective,” Simpson replied drolly.

“It is how society would look at it, but not me or anyone I care about.” Oliver shoved another piece of paper and the pencil toward the copper. “Give me your address—Mitchell.”

The police scratched out the information. “I prefer Mitch.” He handed the paper to Oliver. “But call me whatever you like.”

“Westgate Terrance, Kensington? That is an impressive address.”

Mitchell snorted. “Hardly. I am renting two rooms from a baronet’s widow.”

Oliver smiled. “A widow, you say?”

“She’s 71 years old,” Mitch barked.

Oliver laughed. “This may be the start of a fascinating friendship.” 

Mitchell chuckled. “Yes, so it seems. Again, I take it any appeal on my part to encourage you to give this up will fall on deaf ears?”

“I cannot. Not while my brother is in harm’s way.”

“Very well. I had best be off.”

“You should leave the way we came in. Stay to the rear alley and off the main streets.”

Mitchell Simpson nodded, shoved the paper in his pocket, and then took the stairs. Hesitating, he slowly lifted the trap door and silently ascended. Oliver waited several minutes, then changed his clothes. He kept appropriate working-class garments so he could blend in. Stuffing his Sentinel outfit in a burlap sack, he hoisted the bag over his shoulder, blew out the lantern, and took the stairs above.

Once out on the street, he casually strolled toward the outskirts of Notting Dale, where he could catch a hansom cab. 

Standing at the head of an alley and about to cross the street, he heard a noise. A rustling sound behind stacked crates. It was probably a rat. They were everywhere in the city, so much so there were thousands of ratcatchers employed, even in the palace.

Then Oliver heard a pitiful meow. Moving aside one of the crates, a cat stared up at him. The sorrow-filled golden-green eyes pierced Oliver’s heart. 

He reached down and scooped up the cat, still a kitten, though an older one—and all fur and bones. From under the illumination of the street lamp, he could see the cat had longish hair, a fluffy tail, and a unique fur coloring mixture of tabby and calico.

Another mew, then a low trilling, as the cat rubbed against his face and started purring.

Well, that did it.

“It appears you are coming home with me.”

Two solid and lasting friendships formed in Notting Dale that night, and Oliver welcomed them gladly.