The sky was more dark grey than blue, with just a thin gold band clinging to the horizon. The wind ruffled Dante’s hair. The sharp nip in the air pinched his cheeks. A quick look over the railings was enough to test a man’s sea legs.
Bower was on his feet below, Sloane beside him, calling and pointing to a spot out of Dante’s view.
“I know you’re there, you murdering bastard,” Dante shouted. “Only one of us will make it down alive. I suggest you show yourself so we can get this over with.”
Dante saw a mud-splattered boot first, then a leg and a body as John Sands edged his way around the balcony, his back flush with the pointed roof.
“It wasn’t me!”
the blackguard cried, clutching his injured shoulder with one hand, holding his pistol in the other. “I didn’t shoot your parents. Manning did.”
Manning? The comment struck Dante like a blow to the back, taking him by surprise, knocking the air from his lungs. It took a few seconds for him to gather his wits. And then the scene appeared in a vision before him: John Sands and Manning, two mismatched men astride mismatched beasts.
A host of questions bombarded his mind, along with the sudden realisation that he cared about one thing, one thing only.
“I’m not here to avenge my parents. I’m here to avenge my wife.”
Sands looked confused. “Wife?”
“Where’s Beatrice?”
“Wife!”
“Damn you! Where is she!” Panic, black and blinding, pushed to the surface. “If you’ve hurt her, I shall gut you like a fish. Ensure it’s a slow, painful death.”
But John Sands was just as alarmed. “Wife! You’ve sullied my little Bea?” He raised a shaky hand and aimed his pistol. “No. You can’t be married. No. You’ll not take her from me, do you hear?”
The twisted degenerate cocked his weapon. Based on his flared nostrils and bulging eyes, it was more than a threat. He meant to shoot.
But Dante had dealt with more terrifying men than this miscreant. They did not follow Ring Rules at the White Boar. A man might take a kick to the teeth if he took his eye off the game. And so one learnt to fight like the rogues on the street.
Indeed, with a perfectly timed flick of the leg, Dante knocked the pistol from John Sands’ hand, watched it fly over the wooden railings and land on the ground.
“Now I’ve evened the odds, I’ll let you have the first hit.”
John Sands lunged, threw a weak punch Dante caught in his fist.
“I shall break every one of your fingers,” Dante said, crunching the man’s bones. “What have you done with her? Tell me where she is.”
“I don’t know.” He wailed in pain and crumpled to his knees. “She ran inside the mill, but I’ve not seen her since.”
“Get up!” Dante grabbed Sands’ cravat and hauled him to his feet. He had to find Beatrice and would hand this devil over to Daventry. “I’m taking you into custody for the murders of Henry Watson and Daphne and Alessandro D’Angelo.”
“No! It was Manning, Manning who shot them!”
“You can discuss it with Manning when you share a cell with him in Newgate.” John Sands would be dead long before his appointment with the scaffold.
“Newgate! No! The man will throttle me in my sleep.” Agitated, Sands thrashed about violently, fought and struggled to break free. “No! You can’t. Not with Manning. No!” He pounded Dante’s back with his fist, forcing Dante to release him.
The man was possessed by such a frenzy, he could barely keep still. He went to take another swipe at Dante, but swung too quickly, lost his footing and tumbled backwards. The crack of the wooden rail splintering preceded the harrowing cries as John Sands fell to the ground.
Bower and Sloane hurried to the body. But darkness was descending, and Dante’s only thought was finding Beatrice.
“Beatrice!” he cried as he hurried down the rickety staircase. “Beatrice!”
Daventry met him on the ground floor near the grain sacks. “Quick, help me move them.” Daventry grabbed a sack and dragged it away from the wall. “Miss Sands came in here asking for help. The miller hid her in a small cupboard and then took his family to the cottage.”
“A cupboard?”