Editing A Meeting with the Beak

<br>
An excerpt of ''Shadow Game'', by J. G. Arceneaux, still at large<br><br><br>


''August 14, 1867, Wednesday''<br>
''Bow Street, London''<br>
''2300 hrs''<br>
 

I alighted from the cab and wobbled on my feet but managed to stay on them.  We were soon met by an ogre much like the one I fought earlier that evening, bruises from which I was certain were fairly purpling apace.  Unlike the ogre from earlier that evening, this one was dressed in what I would later come to know as the official uniform of the Bow Street Runners, akin to the Metropolitan Police save for the scarlet cape of the Runners which covered the ogre’s decidedly broad shoulders.  However, at the time I saw only what my knowledge allowed me to see—a policeman’s uniform—and a representative of the authority that had ordered me to this place.<br><br>

He escorted us inside.  We complied.  He took me aside once we were safely indoors and looked at me, eyeing the blood from my scalp wound dripping somewhat liberally from my head.  My tattered dress was fairly soaked with it.  His expression crinkled and he spoke with gruff sympathy.  His voice was a little odd to my ear, being not much tinged with Britain’s distinctive accent but he was perfectly intelligible despite. <br><br>

“You want something for that?” <br><br>

“A compress would be wonderful, thank you,” I said quietly.  Any louder and my head would never survive it.  It was throbbing quite forcefully now and my injury felt hot and tight.  To say nothing of wet.  My fingers came away as if dipped in red paint and I wiped them absently on my dress.  As I was apparently not in immediate danger of expiring, my ogre escort led me upstairs to a closed door, talking as we went. <br><br>  

“You ever met the Beak before?”<br><br>

“I don’t believe I have.” ''Odd name.  The Beak. Code. Code for what?''<br><br>

“Sir John?” the ogre prompted helpfully.<br><br>

I shook my head minutely rather than speak, tried to ignore the pain that shot through me from the action.<br><br>

“Well… just don’t mention the cloth,” the ogre advised me, drawing a vague gesture around his face as he spoke.  He opened the door, cutting off any further conversation, and ushered me inside.  The room beyond was an office, but one more suited to the previous century than the current one, being graced with relatively few concessions to the mechanical advances of our era. Directly opposite the entrance was a broad bank of windows covering the entire wall to streetside and the adjoining walls were paneled in wood and held a pair of doors in each.  All four were closed.  The floor was wood as well and gas lights flickered dimly in wall sconces and in lamps overhead.  Before the wall of windows was a desk and I spied a brass speaking tube, strongly reminiscent of those found on naval vessels, centered in it. Behind the desk sat a remarkable gentleman.<br><br>  

And I say remarkable for three reasons.  First, he had a narrow band of black cloth across his face—over his eyes, in point of fact, keeping his eyelids permanently closed. This was what the ogre must have meant by his gesture outside.  Second, the gentleman was extremely old.  Spidered by veins and peppered with liver spots, his skin had that translucent parchment quality that bespoke great age, certainly approaching the century mark though he seemed quite well preserved, and was very finely wrinkled.   Third, he was of rather impressive girth and had the scale of the desk he commanded been less large, he would have easily overpowered the entire room, such was his presence. Despite the dimness of the gaslights, these three things I had no difficulty noticing and for a second I wondered what his voice would sound like.  As dry and papery as his skin, perhaps, or booming as befitted a man with a barrel chest such as his?<br><br>

More than this I had no time to note, for the ogre announced my arrival.<br><br>

“It’s Spectacle’s kid.” <br><br>

''Spectacle?  Father?''  I filed that away for future introspection. For now I straightened my posture and tugged at my dress from habit, though I knew as I did so the man before me could not see it.  Appearances and respect were the glue that held polite society together and I had the distinct feeling that the society I presently stood in was quite above my own.<br><br>
  
Sir John tilted his head as if spying something near the ceiling and spoke to the air like one remembering a distant acquaintance. His voice was strong though quiet and not at all reedy as one would expect.<br><br>

“Five foot nine.  Wearing shoes that don’t quite fit.  Dripping. Are you wet? No.  Too slow.  Bleeding?” His entire demeanor sharpened, like a hound at the hunt.  He waved a hand at the ogre at my side.  “Phillip. Go get her something for that.”  He sniffed and his nose twitched.  “Oh, and you’ve been in the sewers.”<br><br>

“I am sorry, sir, but it was where my quarry led me,” I managed to say past my surprise.  Blind he may have been, but unobservant he most definitely was not.  He waved me closer.<br><br>

“Come in. Sit down.”<br><br>

There were a couple of chairs drawn close to the massive desk and I was relieved to see they were of plain polished wood.  I doubted any chair would suffer kindly my filthy state but at least the wood could be wiped clean afterward.  I sat on the edge and braced my hands in my lap, the better to stay upright and conscious.  If there was time, I could collapse later.  For the moment I had a report to deliver, galling though it might be to admit my failure, and to do that I had to remain awake and coherent. Sir John listened intently throughout my approach and when I’d settled he spoke again.<br><br>

“I knew of your father,” he said and though it could have been my imagination, I thought I caught a slight emphasis on the preposition.  Less ambiguous was the use of the past tense.  I refused to believe it meant my father was no longer alive, however, and I focused on what Sir John said next. “And I knew Drum and Zig Zag and that whole lot. I’m familiar with, well, a number of them. You’re here—,” he sighed and continued. “My auguries tell me that you and the group of people you are with right now are important for a mission of some … delicacy.”<br><br>

Sir John paused to pull out a long clay pipe, pack it with tobacco, light and draw it to life.  He got it going to his liking and then looked at me—in truth there is no other way to describe it.  It was if the band across his eyes did not exist and in a fashion, it truly did not.  Not if his other senses compensated for his lost sight so keenly as already demonstrated.  Such bearing made it easy to overlook the band and I wondered just how long he’d worn it.  I was willing to wager a decade or more, so little attention did he pay it.  The pleasant aroma of cherry scented the room as the pipe puffed on and it reminded me of my father’s study in Strasbourg, redolent of tobacco, old books, and his cologne.  Despite the pang it cost my heart, I took a deep appreciative whiff through my nose and waited for Sir John to continue.<br><br>

“Now, from Billings I understand that things did not go as planned,” he sighed, and sighed again.  “The targets were kidnapped.”<br><br>

“Yes, sir, I am deeply sorry,” I explained.  “I wasn’t aware that—.”<br><br>

“You weren’t told they were going to be kidnapped. You were just there to observe.  I did not know that was going to happen. Otherwise I frankly would have sent someone else. But as I said, I have augurs and they say that you are important for this as are your compatriots.”<br><br>

It was as good an absolution as I would get and I gratefully accepted it without protest. I wondered just what the augurs had seen and what they’d meant or how my new friends would be involved, but didn’t allow myself to get distracted by speculation. I paid attention and committed as much as I could of Sir John’s words and nuances to memory for study later.  He sighed again, pipe smoke snaking from his mouth toward the ceiling, and spoke in a voice tinged with reminiscence.<br><br>

“You know, I knew the father.  Well, the grandfather mainly.  I always promised I would take care of them.”  A pause and a sigh and genuine regret. “And, well.  I’ve let him down.”<br><br>

Sir John arched, stretched in his chair with a grunt and a creak of his bones, and settled once again.<br><br>

“Do you know how old I am?” he asked me then.<br><br>

“I don’t wish to be indelicate, sir, but at least ….” Obedience required I answer my superior truthfully even as etiquette insisted I temper my response. <br><br>

“I am a hundred and ninety-eight years old,” he answered for me, drawing himself straighter in his chair. “Now you ask my doctor and he’ll say that there’s no way I can be a hundred ninety-eight years old, but my older brother is seventy years in the grave.”  He looked aside, remembering, and sniffed reflectively.  “No.  Ninety years in the grave now.”  A pause.  “I miss him.” A sigh.  “That’s not important.  The Rembecki woman.  How did she leave?”<br><br>

Sir John fastened his sightless gaze on me and I answered promptly, seeing again in my mind’s eye what happened.<br><br>

“Out the window.  Flew, sir. Towards the Thames. I tracked her down to the Embankment.”<br><br>

“How did she fly? Did she fly with wings? Did she just leap off the ground?”<br><br>

An odd question, one might suppose, but for the fact that we lived in an era of mechanical and scientific wonders.  Mankind flew by various means, whether by airship or dirigible, man-made wings or magical ones.<br><br>

“She flew without any visible mechanical or ornithoptic meas—pardon me,” I faltered, unsure of my reception.<br><br>

“Ornithoptic wings, yes.”<br><br>

We both sighed.<br><br>

“As if she floated,” I continued. “Of her own accord.”<br><br>

“Yes,” he said as if to himself.  “''Not'' wings.”<br><br>

“If I could hazard a guess,” I added, wishing to be helpful.  “Magic.”<br><br>

Sir John snorted.<br><br>

“Of course, magic,” he said with the patience one exhibited toward the supremely dense.  Given the state of my pounding head and my increasing difficulty in ignoring my discomfort, I had to admit I wasn’t quite able to perform at my usual standard of competency. “It’s Rembecki.  That whole group.  Of course, it’s magic.”<br><br>

He sighed and his voice took on an urgent tone.<br><br>

“It is ''imperative'' that you track them down, that you rescue them. It’s imperative that Rembecki is stopped.  That anyone she is with is either captured or killed.”<br><br>

“Is she to be captured or killed as well, sir?” His words galvanized my spine as well as my tone and I’m afraid my words were rather clipped.  “When you say stopped, exactly how do you mean?”<br><br>

“She can’t be trusted,” Sir John said simply and quietly, apparently unperturbed by my abrupt change in manner.  “People have trusted her in the past.  So … England expects you to do your duty.  I will arrange—actually I have arranged—for you to have a Warrant Card.  Phillip will get it for you.  And you have … well. You will have funds available to you to make a trip to the Continent to wherever it is necessary. Now, Rembecki, she’s headed back to Germany.  Well, Bohemia. Perhaps Hungary.” Again his sightless gaze sharpened on me. “Now, when you get there, if you need to, track down Clockwork.”<br><br>

“Clockwork, sir?”<br><br>

“Yes, Clockwork.”<br><br>

“Very well.”  ''Clockwork'' was a term I’d never heard used in that manner before.  For that matter, I’d never heard ''Spectacle'' used in such a manner before either, and yet I’d been announced as ''‘Spectacle’s kid’''.  Spectacle must mean my father.  That Clockwork and Spectacle were code names was glaringly obvious, just as obvious was Sir John’s familiarity with whomever these appellations identified.  Did he expect me to know the same? Sometimes one had only a few of the puzzle pieces and must fit them together with little or nothing to go on. Such was the case here. I bowed to the inevitable and waited for further instruction.<br><br>

“Clockwork will probably know. Clockwork was always your father’s best agent.”  He paused and had he been a sighted man, I would swear he was watching me for my reaction to his statement.  I said nothing, even as I absorbed the fact that my father was not merely a spy in Sir John’s network but a minder of spies himself.  In a split-second all the little incongruities I’d witnessed throughout my childhood—the sentences cut short when I came within earshot, his numerous trips for scholarly pursuits in odd times and weathers, his unexpected disappearance in ’56 and my subsequent tracking him down, and all the little stops we’d made that summer in beer halls and taverns—they acquired a new-found significance and far from shedding light on the mystery that was my father, they only served to further conceal the truth.  Would I ever understand the man who meant the world to me?  Would I ever see him again and armed with the information Sir John had just given me, exact the answers I’d sought for so long:  ''Who are you? Why did you leave me? Where did you go?''<br><br>

“Now, the … I’m told there’s a Halfling.  A Hobbit.  Whatever he chooses to call himself. A ''Belgian''.”<br><br>

“That about describes it, sir,” I said, only halfway attempting humor.  Dionysius Beignet was exceedingly touchy about his ancestry and ‘Belgian’ was the standard of excellence he mercilessly applied to everything. <br><br>

“Yes. He is a magician of sorts?  I will need to talk to him.”<br><br>

“The surest way to get him in here is to bring in Lady Katherine. He will follow.” If there was anything that little man guarded more adamantly than his honor, it was her.<br><br>

“I will simply order him in here,” Sir John said shortly. “He’s downstairs. I’ve spoken with him already this evening.” Sir John sighed and this time there was no mistaking the annoyance in it. “He’s a Belgian.  As much as I have a dislike for Hobbits, and Belgians, he is what’s available.” <br><br>

Sir John had spoken to Beignet already? When? Surely the pursuit of that Rembecki woman hadn’t taken that long. Had it? He turned his face toward the window, lost in reverie, and for that moment he truly seemed the oldest person on Earth.<br><br>

“You know … Fanny never intended any of this to happen.”<br><br>

“Fanny, sir?” I could not be sure if he’d said ''‘Fanny’'' or ''‘Fanning’'', but given the nature of the other codenames he’d let drop, I judged the former more ambiguous and therefore more useful to the purpose than the latter.<br><br>
	
“He went in over his head. He was a man who enjoyed his fun as any man in his youth would, just never understood.”  Sir John sighed and drew the interview toward its close.  “You have your mission. Track down Rembecki.  Get them back.  That’s all.  Speak to Phillip. He’ll get you the card.  Send the Hobbit in.  Do you have anything that was in Rembecki’s possession this evening?”<br><br>

“This napkin, sir.”  It was the one Rembecki had at Lady Katherine’s.  I pulled it from my dress and held it out to him, completely forgetting the man before me could not in fact see it.<br><br>

“Don’t touch it.  Don’t touch it any ''more''.  Give it to the Hobbit.  He’ll know what to do with it after I speak to him.”<br><br>

“Yes, sir.”  I started to rise and Sir John’s exasperated sigh made me go still.<br><br>

“Mmmph. When I was a younger man, I would have clothing for you to change into, but those days are long past. You would do well to, ah …  Speak to the Property Clerk.  Tell them I sent you and that you need a change of clothes. It’s obvious that you’re in need of such.”<br><br>

And on that note, he shooed me out.  I rose from my chair and had to sit down again as I waited for the room to stop spinning, as the blood in my head decided where it would go.  I studied Sir John as I steadied, and thought he looked depressed.  He’d let his friend down.  He missed his brother.  And if what Ezekiel told me in the carriage was a true vision of the future …<br><br>

“I … it …ah,” I faltered, unsure how to broach the subject when I had so clearly been dismissed. However, the words Sir John had spoken ''‘England expects you to do your duty’'', the same words my father had drilled into me during our long walks in the evening, would accept no other outcome than I persevere and tell the man what I knew.<br><br>

“What?” Sir John asked, not ungently.<br><br>

“Sir, it has come to my attention that … How do I say this? I have a resource that I consider to be reliable that there has been a vision of Russia’s flag flying over England. Perhaps this could be—.”<br><br>

“Where? Where was the vision?”<br><br>

“I—.”<br><br>

“It’s that Chartist fellow, isn’t it? We’ve been tracking him for a while.”<br><br>

“Yes.” ''Tracking him for a while? How long? Why?'' <br><br>
 
“Where was the vision? What was the vision? Can you be more specific?”<br><br>

And here, words failed me.  Ezekiel had not the time nor I the presence of mind to ask for the details on the carriage ride over.<br><br>

“No, I cannot. You will have to get him in here.”<br><br>

Sir John was a man given to sighs, and command, and he issued both in short order.<br><br>

“Very well. Tell him I will speak to him after the Belgian.”<br><br>

“Thank you, sir.”<br><br>

I rose again and this time I made myself move despite being dodgy on my feet. I’d imposed on Sir John enough, he’d given me my orders, and there were people that needed to see him.  I made it to the door and thence the hallway.  Thank God, Phillip was there with a largish bath towel in hand.<br><br>

“Yeah. Here,” Phillip said and dropped the towel over my head.  It was fine quality Turkish, absorbent and unfortunately, it was also heavy.  A fact that my head did not appreciate and it let me know it.  I saw stars and staggered against the wall, and then stiff-armed myself upright again.  I had messages to deliver and I was not going to faint until I’d delivered them.  Or even afterward, if I could manage it.  I quickly made a compress of the towel and held it to my injury, staunching the blood at last.<br><br>
 
“Did John give you the Oath?”<br><br>

“No.”<br><br>

“Do you swear to uphold the laws of England, to arrest the enemies of the Crown, and to perform your duties to the best of your ability, et cetera et cetera and all that other crap I forgot?”<br><br>

“Yes.”<br><br>

“Yeah. Here’s your card.”<br><br>

He gave me my Warrant Card.  So much for ceremony.  Had my head not been killing me, I would have found the entire little exchange rather amusing.<br><br>

“Thank you,” I whispered. I pressed the towel harder against my head and breathed against the pain, and eyed the ogre towering over me.  He eyed me back and in that appreciative way men eyed women, making me all too aware of the state of my clothing.  If I’d been practically attired for the  mission—that is to say, attired in male clothing—I would not now be ogled by a constable-ogre whilst half-naked and bleeding. Again, the incongruity of it all was downright farcsical and had the situation not been so serious I would have laughed.  It was not the last of the surprise twists the evening, however.<br><br>

“You know, your dad's something of a legend,” I heard Phillip say.<br><br>

''Legend? My father?  Truly?''<br><br>

“That’s wonderful,” I replied, thoroughly exhausted by the rapid succession of gut punches the evening’s events had dealt me. “Perhaps you can tell me later. I have—.”<br><br>

“Nah. Can’t.  Special secrets and all that.”<br><br>
	
''Of course. Onward.''<br><br>

“I have a message for several … um ….” The pounding in my head was drowning out my words.  I tried again. “Sir John would like to see, in order, the Belgian Beignet and the Chartist …Drake.”<br><br>

“The Hobbit?” Phillip shrugged. “Hell, I’ll heave him in through the window.”<br><br>

“Not before Sir John manages to talk to him.” I held out the napkin I’d cadged from Rembecki.  “This needs to go in with the Belgian, if you would give it to him. And I need to see the quartermaster.”<br><br>

“Oh  my.  Quartermaster?”<br><br>

“A supply clerk,” I amended.  “For a change of clothing.”<br><br>

“Yeah, yeah. Quartermaster.  Quartermaster’s like, ah… first floor in the back—ah! I’ll get you somebody.”  So saying Phillip turned right around and hunted down someone to escort me to the person I needed to see.  I breathed him my thanks but it was lost in the bellow he let loose.  “Yo! Ratso!”<br><br>

It wasn’t long before the aforementioned ‘Ratso’ appeared and I saw his name was less pejorative and more unvarnished truth.  A rat man arrived, outfitted in a uniform the twin of Phillip’s in cut and detail if not in size.  Ratso was shorter than Phillip, a fact I was grateful for as I recalled Phillip’s ogling of me earlier.  At least what met Ratso’s eye was decently covered.  He looked up at me as he came to a halt at my side.<br><br>

“Yeah, what?”<br><br>

“I need to see the supplies officer, quartermaster, whatever you call him here.”<br><br>

“Quite a knock you got there,” he observed matter of factly.<br><br>

“Yes.”<br><br>

“Uhm, maybe you might want to see the surgeon first. Yeah. Sir John always keeps a surgeon on site, just in—You know.  People come in, they need—what?” he asked me, interrupting himself. He was a twitchy fellow, not so much nervous as filled with an abundance of energy that he was hard pressed to remain focused on any task for long. I wondered what unique qualities he brought to the constabulary force that made him useful.  Perhaps I’d find out later.  For now, I had more pressing matters to attend to.<br><br>

“All right.  Surgeon?” I prompted him.<br><br>

“Yeah. Let’s go down there.”<br><br>

I won’t bore you with excessive details of the next half hour. Suffice it to say, I was shown in to the surgeon and made to sit in a chair as he put five stitches into my abused scalp.  He was quick and efficient and I was so weary that I barely flinched from the pain of the needle and thread.   I was spared the ignominy of having my head shaved, for which I was more grateful than I could possibly express.  From there I was shown in to the Supplies Clerk who gave me attire as befitting a tradeswoman: shirtwaist, skirt, no corset.  I arranged whatever was salvageable of my discarded clothing to go to charity, but in truth I doubted they were good for anything but cleaning rags.  Still, one wasted as little as possible, even in these times of marvel and plenty. Economy was not only a good habit, it was a virtue. I was shown to a private room in which to change and freed of the damned corset and evening gown, I was able to move much more freely and breathe properly for the first time in what felt like days.  I made myself presentable and rejoined my escort outside as quickly as my head would allow, wondering what I would encounter next. <br><br><br>


<span style="color:#8B0000"> '''''You are reading Josephine's journal.  Since any campaign is a collaborative effort, Journal and RP entries by our other players can be read'''''</span> [[The Dark Corners of the Earth: The Story So Far ... | '''here.''']]<br><br>

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	“Yeah. Let’s go down there.”<br><br>		“Yeah. Let’s go down there.”<br><br>

−	I won’t bore you with excessive details of the next half hour. Suffice it to say, I was shown in to the surgeon and made to sit in a chair as he put five stitches into my abused scalp. He was quick and efficient and I was so weary that I barely flinched from the pain of the needle and thread. I was spared the ignominy of having my head shaved, for which I was more grateful than I could possibly express. From there I was shown in to the Supplies Clerk who gave me attire as befitting a tradeswoman: shirtwaist, skirt, no corset. I arranged ~~to have~~ whatever was salvageable of my discarded clothing to go to charity, but in truth I doubted they were good for anything but cleaning rags. Still, one wasted as little as possible, even in these times of marvel and plenty. Economy was not only a good habit, it was a virtue. I was shown to a private room in which to change and freed of the damned corset and evening gown, I was able to move and breathe properly for the first time in what felt like days. I made myself presentable and rejoined my escort outside as quickly as my head would allow, wondering what I would encounter next. <br><br><br>	+	I won’t bore you with excessive details of the next half hour. Suffice it to say, I was shown in to the surgeon and made to sit in a chair as he put five stitches into my abused scalp. He was quick and efficient and I was so weary that I barely flinched from the pain of the needle and thread. I was spared the ignominy of having my head shaved, for which I was more grateful than I could possibly express. From there I was shown in to the Supplies Clerk who gave me attire as befitting a tradeswoman: shirtwaist, skirt, no corset. I arranged whatever was salvageable of my discarded clothing to go to charity, but in truth I doubted they were good for anything but cleaning rags. Still, one wasted as little as possible, even in these times of marvel and plenty. Economy was not only a good habit, it was a virtue. I was shown to a private room in which to change and freed of the damned corset and evening gown, I was able to move much more freely and breathe properly for the first time in what felt like days. I made myself presentable and rejoined my escort outside as quickly as my head would allow, wondering what I would encounter next. <br><br><br>