Page 83 of The Viscount of Shadows

“Be patient. I have two men bringing the sniveling gobshite here. I kept him in a dark hidey-hole I recently discovered. Ever hear of Sergeant Simpson?” Danaher asked.

Asking about Mitchell again, why? And a dark hole? Dear God, he hadn’t kept Bryan in the cache? His younger brother harbored a genuine fear of enclosed places, and he wasn’t all that fond of the dark, either.

“Why would I know of a soldier?” Rett replied.

“He’s a copper, and maybe more besides. Like a masked bastard who won’t keep his nose out of my business,” Danaher snapped.

Wait. Danaher thinks Mitchell is The Sentinel?

The front entrance opened, and Oliver could barely dive behind the counter before the men entered. He waited until they passed by before he chanced a glance. Two men held Bryan’s arms, and his brother had a burlap sack over his head.

“How do I know that is my brother?” Oliver heard Rett say. “Remove that hood at once!”

While Oliver planned his next move, someone must have entered through the rear door, for he yelled to Danaher, “There are coppers near the park!”

So much for any element of surprise.

Oliver retrieved the Webley revolver from his belt, pointed it to the ceiling, and fired twice, waited a few beats, then fired twice more. Slipping the pistol in his belt, he swiftly kicked the door in and entered the room.

“You!” Danaher hissed through clenched teeth as he tore off his cloak and tossed it aside.

Rett pulled the slim sword from his walking stick, and Claudia reached into her boot to retrieve her knife. They stood back-to-back, ready to take all comers. Oliver grabbed Bryan’s arm and pushed him through the door, slamming it shut.

Then, all hell broke loose.

Danaher’s four men were on the attack, while Danaher pulled out his revolver. He fired, missing Oliver by mere inches.

It was then Mitchell and seven constables burst through the door. The police officers held their truncheons aloft and quickly subdued the four sycophants. The men were marched from the room.

Danaher looked from Mitchell to Oliver. “This is not possible.” He pointed at Mitchell. “You are The Sentinel.”

“No,” Oliver replied. “He is not. He never was. Lay down your weapon and surrender peaceably.”

Danaher lowered it partway, but in a rapid movement only Mitchell saw, or so Oliver surmised, Danaher brought it upward and aimed straight at Oliver.

“No!’ Mitchell yelled as he knocked Oliver aside. The gun boomed, and Rett and Claudia rushed Danaher, knocking him to his feet as the gun skittered across the floor. The oil lamp also crashed to the ground, and flame licked across the rotting wood floor, engulfing it. The rapidly spreading fire drove Rett and Claudia back. A wall of flame separated them from Danaher, who quickly scrambled to his feet.

Oliver glanced down. Mitchell lay, not moving, blood pouring from his leg. Rage overtook him, and he leaped on the desk. The fire spread to the surrounding walls, and Rett and Claudia took hold of Mitchell’s coat and started dragging him from the room.

Danaher crawled along the floor, retrieved his revolver, and fired. Oliver quickly crouched down. The bullet whizzed over his head. Luckily, the smoke filling the room partially obscured Danaher’s accuracy. Seething, Oliver looked above him. He located a steel beam attached to the ceiling, undoubtedly used to hang sides of beef and the like. Would it hold his weight? He would soon find out, for he wasn’t waiting for Danaher to shoot him. Oliver wished to avoid using his gun, and only as a last resort.

Grabbing the bar, Oliver swung forward with his legs outstretched and kicked Danaher square in the chest, sending the man reeling across the room toward the worst of the fire. The floor gave away with an almighty crash, and Danaher fell through the hole into the cellar below, with the flaming rotten floor boards falling on top of him.

Moments later, there was a bloodcurdling scream—then nothing.

Oliver couldn’t get close enough to check if Danaher was dead because the fire intensified. Instead, he grabbed the leather valise filled with money and fled the room just as pillars of flame ignited the ceiling.

Once outside, he found Rett speaking with one of the policemen. Oliver ran up to them and handed Rett the valise. “We will take Sergeant Simpson to a doctor. We have a carriage on the next street.”

“Claudia has already gone to fetch it,” Rett interjected.

The constable frowned. “I should head to the station and call the ambulance wagon.”

“We can get the sergeant to a competent doctor in twice the time. We will send word to Lancaster Station as soon as he is treated. You might want to call in the fire brigade instead.”

The constable nodded, touched his forelock, then raced toward the police station.

“Where is Bryan?” Oliver asked as it was hard to see from the billowing smoke and the dark sky.