Page 14 of The Viscount of Shadows

Chapter 5

In a crouched position, Oliver waited on a rooftop overlooking the corner of Pottery Lane and Portland Road in Notting Dale. It is not that he lacked faith in Claudia Ellingford’s investigative skills. Still, he spent the past few days pouring over maps of the area, familiarizing himself with the streets and back alleys of Notting Dale. Oliver wanted to see for himself what his brother was up to.

The slum had seen its worst days mid-century, when sewage and pig slurry ran in rivulets along the streets and fed into old clay pits, turning into a lagoon called The Ocean. The noxious hole was filled in some years ago, but the filth and stench of the area remained. The pig owners, along with most of the criminal element, were also driven out in the past two decades, but poverty and crime persisted in a tightly packed neighborhood of five streets.

When at Parliament yesterday, he asked the other members of the Hawkestone Progressive Caucus (as they were now calling themselves) about Notting Dale. Oliver was informed clearances were already underway and that by 1910, a mix of public and private housing would be in place. It was an ambitious plan, and after inspecting the site, he was skeptical it could be achieved.

Although some of the makeshift shacks had already been pulled down in some sections, all that remained were empty lots with piles of rubble or wood. Irish travelers had moved in on those vacant blocks of land with their colorful caravans. They were next on the list to be cleared, or so Oliver had been told.

Oliver watched Claudia—yes, he was thinking of her by her first name—stroll along Pottery Lane. She wore a brassy gold wig and the same outfit she had worn when he encountered her in the East End. Every one of his nerve endings pinged with awareness at the sight of her. Even in disguise, her very presence had his insides in a whirl.

A man, staggering down the street, stopped and leered, no doubt suggesting all sorts. He roughly grabbed Claudia’s arm, and Oliver stood and ran along the edge of the crumbling roof toward them. But Claudia raised her skirt, pulled out her knife, and held it to the man’s throat. The startled drunk stumbled away as fast as his short legs could take him. Oliver halted and smiled. She didn’t need his help at all. At least not tonight. But he knew that anyway. He had complete confidence in Claudia’s abilities. She was bold and fierce. Perhaps that caught his attention more than her beauty. Although she tried to hide her emotions, they slipped out, mainly when she made no bones about her low opinion of the upper class.

He turned and headed from whence he came. The buildings were so close that he could travel from roof to roof in most circumstances. Most buildings were two or three stories, hopefully not too dangerous if he had to jump to the ground. Glancing at the sky, Oliver scowled. It looked like rain, so he would make this an early night. Not too far away, in an abandoned building, he had hidden a sack containing his street clothes.

A scream and a torrent of curses reached Oliver’s hearing. He halted and observed a rickety set of stairs hugging the side of the building heading right to the street. Grabbing the roof’s edge, he swung downward, silently resting in a crouch position on the landing, his hand splayed in front of him.

“Gimmie the money, you hag!” the man growled, jostling the woman so hard her head bobbed back and forth.

“I earned it, ’tis mine, you daft gobshite!” the woman screamed.

The man hauled off and slapped her hard, then punched her midsection, causing her to drop to the ground. That was more than enough. Oliver took the stairs two at a time, then jumped in front of them. With a swift motion, he grabbed the truncheon from his belt and shoved it into the man’s soft belly, bringing him to his knees.

He groaned. “Ya feckin’ shite!”

With a lightning-swift motion, Oliver gave him a bash on the temple with the cudgel, hard enough to knock him out. The man lay unconscious on the broken, dirty cobbles.

Oliver held out his hand to the woman to assist her with standing. “I’d leave him there. He will awake soon enough.”

Once on her feet, the woman spat in the insentient man’s direction. “Aye, he deserved it and all. He tried to take me laundry earnings. I don’t work bloody fourteen-hour shifts as an ironer to have this layabout snatch me money. Aye, he’s me husband. Doesn’t do a stitch of work and lets the kiddies run wild; he does. Anyways, thanks and all.”

Oliver touched the brim of his floppy hat. “The Sentinel, at your service.”

“Well, ta. Too bad you won’t be around the next time I get paid. I’d best hurry off, settle the rent, and buy food afore he steals it all to purchase gin. Obliged to you.”

“Are you well?” Even in the dark alley, he could see the red welt on her cheek from the slap.

“Kind of you to inquire, but ’tis typical of the men ’round here. I manage, as do others.” The woman smiled at him, showing broken teeth. Then she turned and hurried down the street.

If only those snobs in The House of Lords could see how others live, perhaps they would be moved enough to do more—wishful thinking, as most of the upper crust could not give a hang for anyone less fortunate.

“Well, if it isn’t Tall Leather Man, once again. You’re called The Sentinel, right? What are you doing in this slum section of the city? Following me, perhaps?”

Oliver swung about in the direction of the feminine voice.

Claudia Ellingford.

Well, damn.

* * *

Claudia had heard the commotion and arrived in the alley in time enough to see The Sentinel put the boots to a drunk and hear his conversation with the washerwoman.

The changes in The Piggeries since she had lived here almost ten years ago astounded Claudia. While still a slum, it was not nearly as horrifying as her reminisces. There was more industry, like numerous steam laundries, which the woman The Sentinel had rescued no doubt worked.

“No, I am not following you.”

Claudia raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “So, it’s a coincidence?”