Page 26 of The Viscount of Shadows

“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.”