The Hellfire Conspiracy

I recognized the sound, though I had never heard it before. I was in the middle of the agency's account books, totaling figures, when it came. The window was open because it was warm in our chambers, and outside, the horse traffic in Whitehall Street was heavy. Inside, Cyrus Barker was at his desk answering correspondence, while Jenkins, our clerk was having a low conversation with a prospective client in the outer office. The agency had been doing well; we were busy and would no doubt be busier still. It was shortly after one o'clock on Friday, the twenty-sixth of June, 1885, and when I heard it, I thought to myself, That's the sound of a saber being drawn.

Barker's pen rolled off the edge of his desk and fell to the floor, and I heard the whisper of the revolver, holstered beneath his chair, clearing leather. I was not as well prepared. For one thing, the account book was in my lap, and for another, my pistol was tucked away in one of the drawers of my roll-topped desk. By the time I'd dropped the book to the floor and had my hand on the pull of the drawer, Jenkins wa ... read full excerpt from: The Hellfire Conspiracy: A Novel ebook