Resurrection City 2: The Adventure of the Iron Knives

[Old Fezziwig]

Diggory follows Andrew, saying loudly to anyone that gets in their way, "Metropolitan Police." Diggory then proceeds to search the area.

[Spot check, roll of 11 on d20, +6 skilled, total 17]
[Search check, roll of 9 on d20, +5 skilled, total 14]

 

[Andrew D. Gable]

You hear a shrill whistle ring out as the railway policeman calls for a constable. On the other side of the two corpses sit a man and a woman. The woman has fainted dead away while the man slaps her lightly on the face, trying to wake her.

Miller and Diggory make their way to the compartment, standing over Dr. Hewitt, who is examining the bodies. Upon arrival, both Miller and Diggory note that Cartwright's briefcase has fallen, and lies slightly ajar. Diggory also notes a small portion of an envelope in Cartwright's pocket.

Pulling the envelope from the pocket, Diggory finds a sealed letter. The address on its front reads, in painstakingly printed capitals, J. OLDACRE ESQ., 23 JERMYN STREET, WESTMINSTER. In the return address area is printed BY HAND.

From where he stands, Aiolos hears the sounds of another man jogging through the gravel to the side of the tracks, and sees outside a man dressed in a policeman's uniform. There's a brief conversation with the railway guard, and then the policeman takes off again, towards the other end of the tunnel this time.

 

[Andrew D. Gable]

Sgt. William Robinson

Sergeant William Robinson half-sat, half-slouched in a back corner of a dingy pub with grimy windows somewhere in some dingy thoroughfare in the East End. He thought he was in Whitechapel... but he couldn't remember. He'd spent too many nights drinking and whoring to have much of a memory left at all. His last job having dried up, he used his last few pence to buy another pint of watery ale.

A man walks in. He's short, stocky, with light brown hair and kind of a sweaty, greasy look about him. But in his way, he looks more respectable than most of the unwashed masses in this place. The man walks up to the bar and orders himself a beer. While drinking it, he wanders over towards Robinson's table.

"Mind if'n I sit?" Without waiting for an answer, he seats himself, drinking deep from his glass, froth flecking his lips. "Lookin' fer work?" He has some sort of accent - Irish? Welsh?

 

[ShortAssassin]

Sgt. Robinson

Sergeant William Robinson half-sat...

Will looked up at the man with sore, red eyes. It took him a minute to properly focus on him and give him a good look over. "Sure, 'ave a seat..." he grunted with a small frown.

"Now. You've come and sat and offered me a job without even knowing who I be. I've learned that the people who do this sort of thing 'ave a problem they can't or won't be doing therselves. Who are ye and what are you about?"

Will glared at the man and took a swig of his rum. He looked around the pub to see if this man was by himself or if he brought friends with him.

[Spot roll 20+0]

 

[Andrew D. Gable]

Sgt. Robinson

"Who are ye and what are you about?"

Will glared at the man and took a swig of his rum. He looked around the pub to see if this man was by himself or if he brought friends with him.

The man certainly appears to have been by himself. At least, you can't see anyone else who seems to be even particularly paying attention to him.

"Name's McCarthy. John McCarthy. Live just up the road there a bit. At any rate, this job, or jobs I should say, well it's not that I can't do it myself. I just... well, I'm moderately successful, I suppose you'd say wealthy for this area. I believe in sharin' the wealth as it were, givin' somebody a bit less fortunate than I the chance to make some money.

"As for what I do? Well, I've made most of my scratch in the chandlery business, but I shan't bore you with the details of that. I have a bit of interest in other things. Real estate and such. I lease a building from a man, Mr. Franks 'is name is. The job I'm 'ere talkin' about, 'twould be for Mr. Franks, actually."

 

[ShortAssassin]

Sgt. Robinson

The man certainly appears...

Will gave the man a closer look. "Well, a kind soul." he said with a touch of sarcasm. "Been a while since I seen yer like. I don't take charity, but if ye 'ave a job to do and are looking for 'onest folk to do it, then fine. Ye still 'aven't said why ye sat at me table and not another though."

Will finished his drink and waited for the man to answer. He looked around the pub at the other patrons. They didn't strike him as the types people would bother with, unless it was to take them to jail or press them into service. He smiled at the thought of a recruiter coming through the door and making these sots sign their lives away for the price of a shot of rum.

 

[Andrew D. Gable]

Sgt. Robinson

"Been a while since I seen yer like. I don't take charity, but if ye 'ave a job to do and are looking for 'onest folk to do it, then fine. Ye still 'aven't said why ye sat at me table and not another though."

McCarthy grins and swigs back a second ale. "I recognize my fellow army fellers when I sees 'em. I was drafted into the jolly ol' Army of England back in '65. Back when I was a young man."

He shakes his head disgustedly. "We Irish, we can't rule our own country, but we can serve in the British army, can't we? I can't complain, pension was good. That's why I picked you, m'good man. Rather give some work to a fellow soldier than one of this lot. They prob'ly wouldn't 'preciate it, nohow." He gestures towards the other folk in the pub. "When yer ready, we'll go up to my shop there and I'll show you what's required."

 

[ShortAssassin]

Sgt. Robinson

McCarthy grins and swigs...

Will grinned at McCarthy. "Well, why didn't ye say ye was army! I always liked the Irish, they be good fighters and better drinkers." He finished his drink in one gulp, stood and wiped his mouth across the back of his sleeve.

"Let's be off then. You sir, 'ave piqued me curiousity."

 

[Jarval]

Turning from the dead to the living, Richard moves towards the man and woman.

"I'm Dr. Hewett. Can I be of any assistance?" He asks the man. If given permission, he'll quickly examine the woman for any signs of injury, and (assuming he finds none) will do his best to bring her out of her swoon.

 

[Andrew D. Gable]

Sgt. Robinson

"Excellent." McCarthy slams his ale down on the table and pushes himself out of his chair. He casts open the door and steps out into the street. Sgt. Robinson squints his eyes shut against the light - when did it become day? Then he looks back at the pub he just left. The Queen's Head. So he was in Spitalfields.

McCarthy led the rather tipsy soldier up Commercial Street, passing by the benches of Spitalfields Gardens, where the homeless, the least fortunate of all unfortunates in the East End, slept in great piles. The shadow of Christchurch loomed over him.

The Irishman turns into a dingy little thoroughfare, scarcely more than an alley really, called Dorset Street. They go a short way up the street, past another pub, stopping at a nondescript little house. An archway, which is labelled 'Miller's Court' in large brass letters, seperates this house from another building, to which McCarthy points. "Thar's my shop. But you'll not need go there." He steps up to the house and fumbles with the key a bit.

"So when'd you serve?" McCarthy asks Robinson as he walks into the next room. The room is a mess, and he wades his way across it to an old writing table. He rifles through some evelopes and other papers tossed about it haphazardly, and draws one out. He looks at it and nods to himself.

Make an Intelligence check, DC 15. And Spot check, likewise DC 15. Picture time: the first is the little street you're in now. McCarthy's house is just past the third lantern on the left side of the road. The second picture is Spitalfields Gardens (which, if you notice, is really just the graveyard for Christchurch).