Play@YSDC

Monday, the 4th of September, 1933, dawns clear and calm, ill-reflecting the states of mind of the denizens of Grant's Military Bookshop.

Harwood heads in early this Monday; he has a promise to try to keep. Once in he fires up the shop and prepares to spend the day poring over the wooden book.

OOC,That is the plan, spend occult to try to identify the ritual for capturing the essence and whether there is any defence or method of reversing the process. He will also await a return note from Verity for the letter he sent her last night asking if she would like to meet up for a drink in order to chat about occult society in London.

Rap, rap, RAP! An untidy face peers into the bookshop's window. Harwood hears a squawk.

"Pieces of eight!"

Reverend Poole, wearing the same suit as yesterday (but mercifully a clean shirt) walks along Charterhouse Street, a discarded copy of the Illustrated News under his arm, wrapped around a new cheap stenographer's pad, a new bottle of iodine bounces in his coat pocket, while careful examination of his cuticles would note its telltale brown stain persistent despite his best attempts to scrub it away. Old Virgil's wounds would no doubt heal faster than the gash atop Poole's left hand, his payment for ministering to the beasts injuries. Nevertheless, the cleric has a lively air about him... puzzles always awaken his spirits. He whistles, badly, a music hall tune, of a bawdier character than passerby would expect of a man of the cloth, threadbare as his cloth might be.

Before his rendez-vous with Harwood at Grants' (then hopefully the British Museum), the Reverend decides to pay a call on Little St Hugh. He's rarely dreamed of himself in his vestments, let alone of the soggy little fellow. Though not a superstitious man, he does not see any harm in visiting the crypts. Perhaps his subconscious is trying to tell him something. More likely, it was just a dream. Either way, there is a tea shop on the way from the crypts to the bookshop whose proprietress is a thoroughly pious woman who never troubles him for such trivialities as payment for her wares.

Harwood hears the rapping and strolls to the door.

Good morning sir, how are you? Do come in, not terribly warm yet, it always takes a bit for the heat to filter through. Cup of tea? Marvellous. Right, come through, don't mind the slightly...

He waves a hand at the baroque and esoteric trappings of the back room.

...yes. Ummm, do take a seat. I shall go and find the book.

Long John enters the shop and looks round, wide-eyed, at all the books. "Yes, it's cold out there. Tea?--yeah. I mean, yes please, sir." He follows Harwood, pausing to finger something stylish and ornate, "Beautiful. . . . Are you a wealthy man, Mr. Harwood?"

Mr Grant arrives 8 minutes late - a sign of dire mental distress in a man of his Victorian military habits. He nods to Harwood and abruptly slurps the tea Harwood had prepared for Long John. "Look here, Harwood" he states. "I'm afraid we're in a spot of bother,and it's rather up your street. It seems one of our clients has used a book to do something nasty and now the East End push want answers - and their money back." He is about to say more, then finally notices Long John. "Er, hello. (to Harwood) Who's this? Friend of Wellington's?"
As Andrew TBP has been low profile lately I am moving things along.

His detour to the crypt out of the way, Rev. Poole enjoys a few moments at the tea shop, making small talk with Mrs. Benedict, the proprietress, while stuffing his face with imperfectly formed sweet rolls and the like.

Now nearly an hour later and with a lingering sugary tackiness to the spaces between his fingers that somehow a quick rinse had failed to remove, Poole finds himself at Grant's again. There seems to be a small gathering inside; the Reverend lets himself quietly, curious as to who the ragged looking chap chatting with Harwood and Mr. Grant himself... are they interviewing tramps to track down the whereabouts of poor Luke?

Long John wonders if he dare ask for another cup of tea, and then, Rev. Poole enters the shop. Long John gets up from the chair he just sat upon. "Please, Reverend sir, sit yerself down." Despite only having one leg, a crutch, and balancing a parrot on his shoulder, he also manages to tug at his forelock.

The parrot "caws," and says to Revd. Poole : "Something sweet, have ye, something sweet?"

Rev. Poole fishes into a pocket in his coat and pulls out a creased packet of plum flavored wine jellies (recently given to him by the elderly Mrs. Dulcaron convinced it was 1893 and he was her six year old nephew Bernard). He holds the packet out towards the questioning bird.


You do forgive my asking, are these for you or your ragged perch?

Jory:

The former flyer staggers in, clutching his Times and looking a bit hungover.

Penhalligon groans a bit, ignores everyone, and heads straight to the back to brew up some chai.

Sometime later, he reappears with chai, collapses at Fullers, and leafs through said Titan of newspapers.

"Ragged, me?" says Long John, rubbing his chin with its rough beard, he laughs sardonically at himself. "Marmaduke, you cheeky blighter, say thanks to the kind gentleman." Long John takes a plum jelly on behalf of the parrot and pops the sweet into its beak. "Say thank you, Marmie," insists the tramp.

"Cawwww! Thankee, thankee, thankee, thankee--"

"That's enough, Marmie."

Long John hops over to another chair and sits down, a little apart from his social betters.


He watches Jory and feels tempted, despite the years since the Great War, to salute the officer; however, seeing his off-hand manner, Long John decides that this officer is no gentleman.

Jory:

One rapidly consumed chai tea later, Penhalligon seems to have returned to the land of the living. Putting his paper down, he wanders from Fuller's back to the others. It is apparent he is not so much hungover as just drained.

Focusing on his colleagues, Jory looks a bit askance at Long John.

"I say, Long John, and bird, I so rarely see you - ah - inside."

Shrugging off this diversion, Jory turns to the others.

"Listen Chaps, bad news what, Carse is on sick parade today. Can't tell you what happened but I found him caught in a sort of giant cobweb, trussed up like a fly, hanging what? In the attic in the Bar-n-Bear."

"I think there was something else in the attic, something big." Jory trails off in puzzled silence for a minute.

He looks suspiciously at the others. "You recall Luke Carse don't you? Catalogue agent and purveyor of gentleman's publications, sold that dratted book to the fool who's taken Sabini's money."

Harwood has been standing for a few moments now, contemplating between various questions. Caught wondering how to respond to Long John, he was thrown by Mr Grant's bringing the East End in. He had been just about to answer the Reverend when Jory dropped his bombshell. On top of last night's revelations and his new quest for golems this is just too much. He just about manages to pull himself together to stammer out,

Umm, Carse, yes, ummm, didn't he use to work here or something?

He gives up the unequal struggle and takes a decision.

I'm going to put on the kettle and hopefully things will make more sense then. I take it everyone's in?

"I say, Long John, and bird, I so rarely see you - ah - inside."

"That's 'cos of Marmaduke--incontinent you see--mess everywhere." On cue, the parrot shits on Harwood's carpet.

Long John listens to Jory, "Luke Carse, attic, Bar-n-Bear, giant cobweb, Sabini, gentleman's publications": he doesn't understand anything. He is starting to feel even further out of his depth--drowned, in fact.

I'm going to put on the kettle and hopefully things will make more sense then. I take it everyone's in?

"Yes please, Mr. Harwood, sir."

Mr Grant appears discombobulated by the sudden stream of arrivals, their odd banter and feculent wildlife. "Harwood - Harwood! Damn the man" he mutters as Harwood retreats towards the kettle. "And Luke's on sick drill? Too bad - he knows some of these circles."

Grant looks suspiciously at Long John and the carpet beneath him, then turns to the relative respectability of a conversation with Reverend Poole. "Ah, Reverend. Just the chap I was hoping to talk to", he says unconvincingly. "I must say, at this point I'm wishing I'd heeded the Church and not branched into this occult sideline. It seems a bit of black magic has caught us in its thrall - or possibly" (a thought visibly strikes him) "it's a swindle that's done up to look like black magic. Yes, that does seem more likely, doesn't it? What do you think, Penhalligon?"

Luke shambles along streets that seem somehow familiar to him, but how and why he cannot say as everything seems shrouded in fog; or is it his eyes. He get the feeling that people are looking askance at him as he passes them by and when he looks at his reflection in a shop window he is shocked at how bedraggled, pale and wide eyed he is. Eventually he arrives outside a bookshop that seems to have some place in his ... in his head. Somewhere called Grant's Military Bookshop ... he seems to remember this place as being something of a safe haven, staffed by friends. By all the Gods - his head - but it pounds so much, the mother of all hangovers seems inconsequential in comparison. He staggers slightly as he falls into the doorway of the shop thinking that there may well be someone or something more familiar in there than the streets he has passed through.

Pausing with his hand on the door handle Luke takes a deep breath with his eyes tightly shut. Steeling himself he braces himself slightly and looks around before opening the door. Noting nothing untoward he advances into the shop and as the doorbell rings out Luke closes the door quietly. Standing just inside the door he blinks as his eyes accustom themselves to the gloom.

"Hello everyone" he says, watching for signs of recognition on the faces assembled around the shop before him. He feels weak and leans onto the nearest substantial piece of furniture for support and wipes his forehead with his free hand, noting that is covered with perspiration.

"I .. would you mind terribly if I sit ... I don't feel so good." he manages to say in little more than a whisper as he lurches forward.

Reverend Poole surrenders his packet of wine gum to Long John, allowing him to divvy up the treasures within. He then surrenders a rather dodgy handkerchief long imprisoned within his vest (the tip of which still appeared passable but the remainder being rather Low Church) to clean up the Parrot's deposit upon the floor.

Seems we have quite the convocation at Old Grant's today, eh? I shall plant myself in a chair while this all is sorted out and would be most appreciative up a cup of tea. Spare some cream perhaps?

ooc,[quote]a rather dodgy handkerchief long imprisoned within his vest (the tip of which still appeared passable but the remainder being rather Low Church)[/quote] That's good--I like it.

Long John accepts the handkerchief from Reverend Poole, ignoring the dried stuff upon it, and mops with the crackly cloth at the parrot poo. "I take it you don't want this back?"

"I .. would you mind terribly if I sit ... I don't feel so good."

Long John looks up from where he is on the floor--in a rather awkward position, with one leg bent and his wooden peg-leg splayed to one side. He sighs. "Take my chair, sir, I'll fetch another when I'm done cleaning the carpet."

With a frown creasing his forehead Luke stammers a muted thank you as he collapses into the proffered chair. Sighing deeply he looks around and notes some faces that seem somewhat familiar there, though he struggles to put names to many of them.

"Jerry, I'd like to thank you for ... for looking after me so ... well you know." he says when his eyes meet Jorey's, before adding. "Deuced if it wasn't the strangest thing!" He shuts his eyes and shivers, rocking gently back and forth in the chair with his arms round his stomach.
Snapping his eyes open widely he says with a start "For God's sake get a grip man, this is not like you at all;" apologising as he glances towards the Reverend Poole.

Rev. Poole, despite his well-enumerated list of failings as a main of the cloth, feels a sympathetic pang for the bewildered Luke. He stands, gathers two cups and saucers, and approached the wounded bookmonger.


I say there, be a good fellow, join me in some tea. A strong brew (tapping a flask in his pocket) can do wonders to clear the head. Bend my ear a bit, son?


Poole then ushers Luke into the back office with a knowing nod to Mr. Grant.

(I'll spend two points Psychoanalysis with a hope of getting poor Luke back in his right mind.)

As the office door closes, the low murmur of voices can sometimes be heard. The time passes slowly and Luke's voice becomes clearer to those in the shop and the following can be heard;

"The roof see ........ coloured water going down the plug. ........ sucked ever closer into it's ........ central darkness. Then ........ book, an impossible book ........ imagine it Poole ........ shop a fabulous amount"

Carse's voice continues to increase and more can be heard Interspersed with the sound of occasional pacing feet.

"Then ........ flooding back ........ imagine the fear ........ shame that surrounds the many things we have ........ buried deep in our minds ........ laid bare in front of you over ........ gain!!! My God man have you the slightest concept of the ........ day???"

A period of quiet follows, somehow more unnerving than the sound of Luke Carse losing his cool with the good Reverend Poole.

After a few moments Reverend Poole cracks open the office door. He looks a little ashen.


I say chaps, we'll be a few more minutes. Might we have some fresh tea and something solid for poor Luke to sup upon? He's neglected to feed himself. Hopefully he'll be able to recount his tale for all of you. Rather fantastical, rather...

The tea having been deposited Harwood finds he has run out of neat escape options and in the unenviable position of having to do something. He pauses and turns to Long John.

My apologies, would you excuse me for a moment?

He turns back to Mr Grant.

Terribly sorry Mr Grant, you were saying something about a spot of bother, what is it we are supposed to have supplied to whom? And what was it he managed to achieve?

Mr Grant directs Harwood to take the cups of tea and a packet of biscuits through to Luke and the Reverend. This done, he tersely explains the story of Luke's sale of the Investigation into the Oracle of Sidon to Henry Rickmansworth and Henry's apparent use of the book to rig two horse races to the tune of £50,000, leading to underworld figure Mr Sabini sending his thug Smith to demand Grant either produce the book or the price of a new racehorse.
"I was rather shaken at first, I admit" Grant finishes stolidly. "Black magic and whatnot, on the heels of poor old Wellington too. But now, thinking it over, it seems more likely that this Rickmansworth cove found some other way of rigging the race and has thrown this black magic thing in as a red herring, just to scare off men like Sabini. Italian and criminal, both notoriously superstitious types. Still, we'd better get the damn thing back, and teach Rickmansworth a lesson somehow - can't have some racing tout play us for fools, what? Once Luke is back on his feet he can tell us what he remembers of Rickmansworth and we'll work from there."

My apologies, would you excuse me for a moment?

"Certainly, sir," says Long John.

He listens to Mr. Grant. "I'll help, if I can, to get the 'Oracle' book back. I can be inconspikus, if need be."--Long John is being serious, despite looking like a tatty theatrical pirate.

"Who's Wellington, by the way?"

Apologies,sorry if I get anything wrong. I've only recently read it but not all of the threads in order so I'm sorry if I leave anything out or get the names mixed up.

"Wellington disappeared only the other day," said Grant gravely. "He literally vanished within his own clothing after mumbling about some sort of book and pointing at ... I think it was the desk. He had on him a book as well. Volume 4 of the subscriber-only 1885 first printing of Richard Burton's 'The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night'. Excellent condition, no less. It survived his ... bizarre ... disappearance." The whole conversation seems rather ridiculous but the only giveaway that Grant seems to think so are the slightly longer spaces between a few of his words as though he were looking for the right word or checking his memory.

Long John perks up. "As I recall, the lads in the trenches were avid readers of Burton's 'Eastern Instruction Manuals.' However, the sad thing is those books are but a tame example of the man's collection, his wife burnt the best ones after 'is death." *


* [ooc: That last sentence is true, by the way!]

"Maybe we have more of Burton's books?" asks Grant, resolving to check his lists and, if that doesn't work, likely spots on the bookshelves. "Perhaps there might lie a clue there...."

Long John smacks the table, stamps his stump upon the floor, and taps his head. "I do know Wellington!--the fella is one of us, I mean, he's a tramp like me. Kips under a cart that is full of books and nik-naks, that he sells for a living."

Laraqua wrote:"Maybe we have more of Burton's books?" asks Grant, resolving to check his lists and, if that doesn't work, likely spots on the bookshelves. "Perhaps there might lie a clue there...."

Grant's has many of Burton's books in stock. You may recall that the annotations on the 1885 Wellington was carrying can be perused here. Perhaps they might suggest some lines of inquiry?

While you all take time to think, a little mood music from the Four Shadows Trail Album - "Ruminations" by James Semple

[goear]c14de80[/goear]

Having restored his equilibrium with tea and Times, Jory joins the discussion. "A bit of progress on poor old Wellington, chaps. I found his cart - well, the wreckage of it - in a dumpyard outside Kings College hospital. Must be where the poor chap met his end. I got a list of doctors there from an office bean-counter. No-one named Cor, though. (To Harwood) You sure you got the name right, old boy?". Jory produces the typed list of medical men and a tattered page in French ("all that's left of old Wellington's stock, alas")

The door opens to admit the well dressed and debonair form of Anthony Llewellyn. He shoots a quick look around the assemblage, sparing a momentary, distasteful, glance for the badly dressed, one legged, parrot bearing, individual slurping tea noisily.

“What ho chaps. Who or what is that?”

He plainly expects no introduction and shows no interest in any answer.

“Grant, my dear, a little bird tells me that you are experiencing a small problem with a certain Mr Sabini, something to do with horses what?”

He awaits an answer one gloved hand poised as if awaiting a cup of tea.

Harwood has been muttering in the background.

Fixing races, hmmm, there's some negro stuff, High John the Conqueror, but that's more about getting luck, divining from dreams and making the horse you're on go faster. Roman tablets have been found with binding spells, stop people from crossing the start of line, I don't think there's anything to cause collapse but who knows. I'll have to check out the book. Of course, it is quite likely that whoever did this is bent and just trying to play on superstition. There must be half-a-dozen drugs a competent quack could use to drop a pony. OK, I suppose we should start from the book, check out the buyer and see if he has medical hooks...what does Sabini actually want us to do?

He breaks off when Llewellyn walks in. He looks at the tea he hadn't had a chance to start and, with a brief face, hands it over.

Good morning Mr Llewellyn, pleasure to see you again.

Llewellyn takes the proffered tea, sips, makes a face.

“ Many thanks Harwood old bean, but there is a distinct lack of sugar”

Undeterred he takes another sip of the tea.

“So this little spot of bother with this Sabini fellow. I hear he’s been taken for fity thousand quid by some fellow rumored to be using magic, what?”

Sips more tea and makes another face.

“I also hear, that this bookshop is thought to be involved. Hardly believable is it, what?”

He hands the, partially finished, cup of tea back to Harwood, and obviously expects a reply.

Long John says to Jory: "Let's have a gander at the tattered page from Wellington's stock, I know some of the froggy language."

Taavi,R.L.S. can read French.

“What ho chaps. Who or what is that?”

The tramp turns on his seat and looks over his shoulder, he mutters: "I don't know who he is referring to."

High John the Conqueror, but that's more about getting luck

"With the ladies as well," adds Long John, smirking. "Not that I'd know about them, unfortunately."

“So this little spot of bother with this Sabini fellow . . .

"Fifty thousand!"

"Cawwwww!" echoes the parrot.

Grant muses on the issue with a thoughtful look. "This fellow who ran off with 50,000 pounds must have an urge to spend it. He may have gone to ground but gamblers are not known for their remarkable sense of self-restraint. They also have a tendency to talk about their wins. Perhaps if we were to locate his address there may be clues as to where he has gone? Or if someone were to ask around his social circles?"

"As for the upcoming auction, have we any further information on any supposed auctioneering rings, their members, and how to undermine them or deal with them so we can ensure we get what we need?"

Llewellyn smiles at Grant.

"Absolutely old chap, My man Smith plays the gee-gees's a bit and on occasion has placed the odd wager for me. I'll get him to mooch around a tad amongst his fellow gamblers and see what he can dig up, what.

He moves closer to Grant.

So what's with this auction buisness, and this odd cove? Friend of one of the scallywags ? Wellington I think is his name, or that girl whose name does escape me.

Anthony knows nothing about the auction,Copper or the fate of Wellington

Karloff has an excellent period description of The Ring and how to bust it, here. Of course, as Mr Grant is a professional bookseller, he could join the Ring instead with a well placed phone call and a 1 point spend of the shop's Credit Rating pool, or something else appropriate, e.g. Auction.

The page from the froggy novel appears to be a lurid but mundane fragment of a romance scene. Must have been a yellow-backed book.

"I think you'll find it rather difficult to approach Wellington," says Grant in an off-handed sort of way.

[ooc: I've posted a brief history of Long John Copper in "Cast of Characters."]

The page from the froggy novel appears to be a lurid but mundane fragment of a romance scene. Must have been a yellow-backed book.

Long John places the page upon the table and weights it down with a teacup.

"It's just a piece of smutty story, 'the Marquis had an extravagant collection of silk stockings'--you know the sort of thing."

Laraqua wrote:"I think you'll find it rather difficult to approach Wellington," says Grant in an off-handed sort of way.

Llewellyn raises an eyebrow.

"Really? Do tell"

Grant just smiled sadly. "Because he's dead, poor chap."

Laraqua wrote:Grant just smiled sadly. "Because he's dead, poor chap."

Llewellyn looks around the room and its occupants as seeking confirmation for Grant's statement.

"I say, accident or something to do with this horse thing?

Actually another little incident involving an ancient family recipe book for drinking ghosts and a high-heeled group of gravedancers who like nothing more than a tipple with their favourite authors. A very odd and long story. No, the SP on the horses seems as simple as it sounds, except that our punter has dropped our name as the architects of his good fortune.

He turns to Mr Grant,

As far as the runners and riders go for Christie's. We have Magg's fronting for a Spanish aristocrat and Ted Allen's chaps who may or may not just be playing for themselves. Knowing the Ring, they might just be in it for the knock out. They appear to be after the same things as our mysterious patron, which will make things more interesting. There is also a cove by the name of Berg, apparently from New York. I have a hunch he's after the pen but can't prove it. I am going to make some enquiries about him today, hopefully I could have more. Many thanks to the Captain, Carse and Laura for the round-up. I also suspect, knowing what we do about our literary doctors, that they will be in for Irving as well, it's the kind of thing that would excite them and they have money behind them. In terms of breaking them, the one thing that did spring to mind is trying to work out who is after what and driving bidding accordingly.

If they are all fronts then they will have deep pockets, but they are still going to want to keep prices down in the rooms to get any kind of profit from the second sitting. If they are just looking for the Ring they would be easier. If we drive them up they will think twice, but that means putting more of the Contessa's money in play. If we could be sure who is after what we might be able to drive prices up, then drop out, very risky though, and will cause some bad feeling. Get it right though and we can bid lower for the Contessa. We would lose the chance to get anything else off her list but if we get the one thing she wants - the Desk - she should be alright with that.

He pauses and thinks.

What order is everything in the catalogue? I think the Don wants the manuscript. He has cropped up with the translation, he seems to be linked to the Cor family. Oh yes, sorry Captain, I think that is the right name. I shall have another look. There's not a 'Raven' or something similar? Errrm, yes, the Cor family. They are linked to the Burton, that is linked to the Alhambra, et cetera. So I think he will run for that. Someone is after the pen, but they may well not go for the other items. So we have a reasonable run at the desk if, if, we can keep everyone else focused on other items. I wonder if there is any kind of deal we could run? Everyone selects an item for their patron and doesn't touch the others? Need to know what Allen's end is, and who Berg is. Could we bargain with the Cor book? Trade that to the Don, or the Collegium to get them to back off? That might help with the Ring and then we just have to worry about someone else in the room with a bank account to match the lady's.

He pauses, half-smiles and snorts gently before finishing almost to himself,

And watch out for golems of course.

Llewellyn listens to Harwood. shrugs.
Fine Harwood old chap. But I think the horse incident is a tad more serious than that. It seems this Sabini fellow is not one to cross. If someone has taken him for a large amount, and has dropped the name of this establishment in the wrong ears things could get rather nasty for Grant here, and anyone else concerned.

He turns and looks at Grant as if to gauge how seriously he took this problem.

You and the others can concentrate on this Christies thing, and I will attempt to uncover the whereabouts of this gambler and see if I can find a way to placate this Sabini chap

The office door opens and out steps Luke Carse and the Reverend Poole who share a look with each other, Luke smiling weakly at the ecclesiastical man. "I cannot thank you enough" he says quietly to the Reverend before joining the others. He leans against the bookshelves looking round at each of his friends in silence for a moment.

A few minutes after Luke and the Reverend Poole re-emerge, the door chime jangles, reminding the staff that the business of book-selling must go on. In the doorway stands a figure familiar to most of you.

Aston Drummell is a successful freelance Catalogue Agent. Tall, with a full head of hair and a manner that his friends call debonair and his enemies, probably a larger category, call oily. Whatever you call it, he smiles at the assembled throng in that way now.

"Sir Llewellyn. Father. Mr Grant. Gentlemen", he says to Llewellyn, the Reverend Poole, Mr Grant, Luke and Jory. "I do hope I find you all well this morning?"

Llewellyn makes a snorting noise that could be taken for a greeting and begins to study his fingernails in a disinterested manner.

Aston Drummell enters the shop; heads turn to see the visitor, and Long John takes the opportunity to slip several biscuits into his threadbare jacket pocket. He wonders if he can sell matches to the assembled gentlemen, but dare not ask.

"Well, I can see you're busy", notes Aston, "So I'll cut to the chase. A client believes that a book belonging to him may have - entirely innocently, I hasten to add - ended up among your stock. Some sort of family heirloom or diary, I understand. Handmade wooden covers, a few badly marked up plates, and a lot of handwritten latin. He's prepared to offer 50 pounds for it - sentimental value. Have you gents seen anything like that?"

"Well Drummell, perhaps if you could be a bit more specific about the tome then we may be able to help a bit more. Personally, and I cannot speak for the others present, but I have seen no such book here or hereabouts. Perhaps if you would be so kind as to leave your client's name and address, we shall make contact should the situation change."

Luke struggles to keep the distaste for this man from his visage and the fact that this could indeed be the Cor cookbook. His mind races frantically. If this low life is after the book, then it must have some meaning, some value that is lost on him at present. Then it hits him that Aston Drummell and he are very much the same, though he hopes that others can see that he is not as greasy as the spiv in front of them. His shame for his past misdeeds comes back to him once more, but since his talk with the Reverend Poole, this affects him somewhat less than it had hit him before, which is a pleasant surprise for him. Perhaps the horrible dreams will fade as well - time alone will tell.

Aston narrows his eyes slightly. "My client prefers to remain anonymous, I'm sure you understand. Are you quite sure you haven't seen it? My client was most specific. He seemed to think it had been stolen by a tramp, one of your regular book scouts. Personally, I rarely do business with such people" he adds, looking Long John up and down with distaste.

Grant smiles at him pleasantly. "Certainly, we can have a look for it but you must understand that we do have a variety of books that match that description and none of them well-filed at present. If you could leave us your details and a bit more information than I'm sure we can root it out and sell it to him should we find it."

Rev. Poole takes note that Grant and company are seeking to drive off this oleaginous interloper. He sidles up to Drummell and, spending a point of flattery, begins his patter...


Mr. Drummell, just the sort of man I was hoping to find when I came by the shop here only... He motions for him to walk out of earshot of Grant and associates, though only somewhat lowers his voice.
As you can see, I was rather disappointed. Consider my good fortune at your arrival. We may be able to help each other good fellow. I have a reputation for having some experience in rarer old religious texts, and I have recently received a query regarding a similar work to the one you describe. The person asking these questions... no names of course, but I can say he is a gentleman of my acquaintance... may very well either be in possession of this oddly bound book or knows where it may be found. Obviously I'd rather not discuss things further... here... but perhaps we might rendezvous later? Over dinner perhaps? I know an excellent chop house...

Luke's eyes narrow at the Reverend taking the reprehensible Drummell to one side and speaks privately to him. When a break in their conversation presents itself Luke impatiently offers the following observation.

"Tramp you say ... the poor unfortunates that inhabitant of the same city as ..." Luke controls himself with difficulty before continuing "Again, if you were to provide more information about this poor unfortunate we may be able to comment more fully."

Aston smiles pleasantly at the Reverend, mutters a few words (to confirm the dinner date, for those rude enough to eavesdrop) and passes him a card. He then turns back to the larger group.

"Why, Carse, I never knew you were so sentimental. And you (gesturing to Luke) haven't seen anything of the sort, but you (gesturing to Grant) have a variety of similar books in stock. Not a falling out among old comrades, I hope? I shall tell my client that your memories may require a more generous jogging, shall I? Not sure how he'll take it, to be honest. Here's my card, Mr Grant, do let me know when you've finished filing your... acquisitions. As for the tramp, his name was Wellesley, or something of the sort, I think. According to my client."

With a small smile Llewellyn looks up from the study of his fingernails.

"I say Drummel, careful how you close the door behind you, after all I would hate to see it catch you mid slam".

With something more than a nod and less than a bow, Aston Drummell takes his leave.

Llewelyn watches as Drummell leaves, then, thoughtfully, scratches his chin. Still retaining a half smile he slowly surveys the assembled group.

"Well that was fun. Why do I get the feeling a threat was being made there?"

He glances over to Poole and shakes his head.

You know the way you toadied up to that oike Drummel reminded me of a nasty spotty we had at school. Hardly cricket old son"

"First does anyone care to share what is going on? Second, plan of action?

Once a moment has passed, Rev. Poole sidles up to the gathered throng, whom he gives a conspiratorial tap to the nose and a quick sideways look.


What a charming fellow. Now then Harwood, I believe we have plans to pay a visit to the Reading Room?

I should add, if there is any concern, Llewelyn, that I have no intention of providing that greasy handshake anything save for the bill for my meal. Perhaps we might arrange for someone to follow him and she where he goes afterwards? I hesitate to say this but I can probably string him along for at least another meal, I mean meeting... if fortune favors me I may also have the chance to have a look-see at the contents of his jacket. Suggestions, of course, are welcome. I do not wish to force anyone's hand here but I thought we might better plan our future course of action if we did not have a stranger in our midst. What say you chaps?

"Very true," said Grant, smiling at him. "Thank you for taking care of our little problem. We have other things on our mind."

Perhaps we might arrange for someone to follow him and see where he goes afterwards?

Long John hasn't managed to follow the "ins and outs" of their predicament. He looks up, mighty cheerful, at Rev. Poole's suggestion. "Now, I can help youse all with chasing and what not. In fact, I could follow the fella right now . . . ?"



[ooc: Presuming Long John does follow Drummell he'll spend a point in "Streetwise"--is this appropriate?]

Luke steps forward. "Sorry we have not met yet." he says extending his hand "Name is Carse, Luke Carse. If you could follow that damnable fellow it would be appreciated, but be wary, he is cunning and conniving. Follow but do so cautiously if you would be so kind, like I say, it would be appreciated."

Long John tugs his forelock, as he does do to all gentry--anyone who isn't living on the street, like himself. "Sir! Mr. Carse, sir. Warning to be careful taken aboard." He'll nip, despite his peg-leg, out of the shop.

Llewellyn smiles and shakes hi s head as the comical pirate disapears through the doorway.

"Carse old chap, I always thought the idea when following someone was to appear as inconspicuous as possible"

Still shaking his head, in a disbelieving manner, he adds,

"Hardly possible when one is sporting a peg-leg and a parrot, wouldn't you say, what?"

"Agreed," replies Luke brushing his hair back by raking his fingers through it front to back. "But it does mean that we can make our plans, like the good Reverend says without a stranger in our midst, and there is every chance that he can pull the irons out of the fire for us and follow him successfully. If not, we have lost little."

Whilst Drummell made his little presentation Harwood moved unobtrusively backwards, taking his pile of notes on the Burton and the Cor book. Once he is safely out of the door he steps forward again.

Well that was...interesting. They obviously know something but not enough. I guess they interrogated Wellington...spiritually. What they can't know is where it currently is.

He sniffs with vague laughter.

Or of course directly accuse us, they would have to admit how they came by the knowledge.

He snorts again and continues, quieter and faster, half to himself as if he is running ideas round and round.

Sorry, anyway, we need some sort of bargaining chips to deal with all these people. Looking at the various annotations and so on, it almost seems that they think the Cor book is that taken from the cave by the Arabian Philosopher. Now the Philosopher says something about finding it in a pyramid I think. Here they suggest it goes the other way round to reach our Hidden Popes. So it seems like whatever recipes they want are only preserved in the book they seek. It passed to the Hidden Popes and may have been taken from the tower. I cannot believe this is the actual book so perhaps Cor copied from the original? Maybe when the monastery was destroyed the original book was destroyed? Whatever the reality of this all, we do at least know why they want Irving memorabilia. They hope to create an eidolon from impressions. Presumably they want Irving from this period because the eidolon would be linked intrinsically to the writing of the Alhambra. Hmmm, that makes sense actually. If they could get the man himself, they could be sure of all his knowledge but they can't with an impression. They need things from this era to get the best chance of capturing the spirit of the Alhambra. Maybe.

Ok. So. Notes on the manuscript seem to confirm that some of the information to write the tale of the Philosopher at least came from a pendulum source. It seems that Irving got some of his information in a similar fashion. Or could he have done? Hmm. The Don seems linked. Could it be him who did the translation they all seem driven by? He completes the inversion. So the book goes from the tower to the place it was found? Spain to Pyramid. So the pyramid of the Philosopher? The book goes from the Tower to the Pyramid and somehow to the Popes. Thence to Cor? He is their servant. This is the only place the recipes are saved. So why do they want access to the Tower? Or what else is it they want from Irving.

The Don...the Don wants to do something about the brewing civil war. What is the information he needs or wants? OK, so the Contessa wants the desk. The Collegium would probably make do with the pen that wrote the mansucript. They don't necessarily need the manuscript if they can ask Irving personally. So that leaves the Don. He may well just need the manuscript. What does he want? What might be in the Tower, or the Pyramid, or Spain, or Scotland? Or Hungary of course!

He throws his hands up.

Dah. Circles. Circles. Circles. I have all the pieces, I cannot quite connect them.

He sighs and relaxes.

I'll lay you money the Scott in the Irving notes is the first Baronet Scott. He was good friends with Irving, helped him out a lot. Quite a big influence in Spain as well. Quel suprise. Another aristocratic Scot with Spanish links who connects to Irving's work. You know Scott got his baronetcy for finding treasure. The missing Crown Jewels of Scotland to be precise. Wonder if he used a confidential annexe?

"Hardly possible when one is sporting a peg-leg and a parrot, wouldn't you say, what?"

Once the book shop door shuts, Long John comes to his senses, he quickly nips back inside, same as he nipped outside.

"Hope no one minds." He perches Marmaduke, the parrot, on to a chair-back. "She'll want a saucer of water and one of those luvlee biscuits." Again, Long John nips outside to pursue Drummell.

Llewellyn is about to say something to Harwood when the door reopens to readmit the wooden legged one, who simply deposits the parrott mutters something about saucers, water and biscuits and promptly leaves again.

"Well Harwood, as I have no idea what your talking about I'll be off to see a man about a horse, what".

With a brief touch of his fedoras brim to the occupants of the shop, Llewellyn follows the peg-legged fellow out into the street pausing momentarily to pull his kid-leather gloves over his neatly manicured hands.

[Spoiler-Button]Llewellyn sets off to visit a local bookies to make enquiries about any gambler flashing huge winnings lately.[/Spoiler-Button]

Rev. Poole cranes his neck looking for a clock.


I say, Harwood. Perhaps we should table such musings for after we have had a chance to review the collection at the Museum? Perhaps some answers we find there will clear up at least some of that Gordian Knot, my friend? With my tête-à-tête this evening with our dear new friend perhaps we might want to depart separately and rendezvous at the Reading Room? Who knows what eyes may be upon us? Time, as well as a segment of the criminal fraternity and an untold number of Spaniards, are not on our side.

"Look here, Harwood" interjects Jory "know your enemy first, then find his motivations. He must be someone at Kings", tapping the list of medical staff. "Once we've got a name we can get an address, then carry the fight to him, before we end up in the wine rack next to old Wellington. Or hanging from the ceiling like Luke here nearly went. By all means find this Glencoe inversion or whatnot, but we must keep our eyes on the threat."

Luke looked down with a frown on his forehead. "You know Laura said something yesterday about the movements of that cove Don Alejandro she followed to Seven Dials. Something about him constantly spiralling round and doubling back on himself like a kind of game ... what was it she called it dammit!" After a few moments he remembered; "A Troy game ... something based on a maze or some kind of labyrinth. Now I am sure I read somewhere that these things are useful for helping people to meditate and have symbolic significance or somesuch rot connected to magic squares. Bear with me a moment ... What if the Don has somehow managed to tap into this to cover his tracks. Let's see if we have anything on the shelves that may shed some light on this." Luke turns to the shelves and starts to rummage through the stacks mumbling under his breath. "All I know for sure is that I will not be beaten not by anyone nor any thing"

Luke's scan of the shelves turns up a few volumes of relevance, including a shelf-worn copy of W.H. Matthews' Mazes and Labyrinths, which devotes a chapter to The Dance or Game of Troy, and a bound volume of History of Religions with an article on
The Hidden Significance of the Cretan Labyrinth, which elucidates the link with magic squares. Both seem to indicate that the Troy dance or similar labyrinthine turnings have a sacred and initiatory function, linked to shamanic states, descent to and rebirth from the underworld, and other such Golden Bough-like themes.

RIght yes, ok. You're absolutely right Captain. Ok.

He turns to Reverend Poole.

Give me a few moments, I just need to gather my things. First though I shall have a quick confab with the Captain. See if we can find any names on the list of quacks which might be our mystery man. That way he can be looking into that whilst we pursue Andalusian towers and Scottish Baronets.

He walks over to where Jory is standing.

Mind if I have a quick look at that list? Oh, and Luke, Chartres has quite a famous labyrinth, we're bound to have something on cathedrals of France and that neo-druidism rubbish the Victorians were so into.

"Hmmm What's that you say Harwood? Chartres has a labyrinth as well - ok I'll look into that as well. I'll see if it cross references anything I find in these books I have here. This one for instance..." indicating The Hidden Significance of the Cretan Labyrinth "...goes straight into a link to magic squares from Crete and even China then onto astronomy. It ll seems to have more importance if there is either a 5 or 8 in the centre of the square."

edit - typo corrected

Looking over the list of Doctors, the name "Dr P. Caslett" jumps out at Harwood. What was it Reverend Poole said yesterday?

Some time later, welcomingly sipping on Harwood's Madeira, Poole reports a little progress:

Unfortunately, after our Friar Cor, the writers do not refer to themselves by name. They do sometimes initial their work, or refer to earlier generations. The most recent writer seems to have the initials 'P.C.'

Looking in Forsythe's Bibliographical Dictionary of Great Britain - that edition is a bit foxy, just so you know - I see the name Cor and its variants Cors, Coe... yes, as in 'Glen Coe'. It means 'Marshy Valley'... where was I? Oh yes... It is old welsh for 'bog or swamp or marsh' and since the seventeenth century, has usually been modernised, either Anglicised as "Marsh" or "Moor", or Frankified as "Coslett" or some variant thereof.

.

It may also occur to many of those present that according to legend London, like Rome, was founded by refugees from the fall of Troy as a "Novum Illium", a new Troy.

Luke exclaims "Ah, this is more akin to what happened yesterday with Laura when she followed that cove to Seven Dials. Here's another clue, this time in part of the Aeneid by Virgil. As we know the poet immortalised the legends from his time for us, in this case, over the wanderings of Aeneas, supposed son of Anchises and Venus, after the fall of the city of Troy, which he had fought hard to defend.

"It appears that Aeneas, who escaped from the city carrying his father on his shoulders, led forth also his little son Iulus. It is this boy whom, in the fifth book of the poem, Virgil pictures as taking part with his companions in a sport called the Ludus Trojae or Lusus Trojae (Game of Troy), sometimes simply Troja. According to the Roman tradition it was introduced into Italy by Aeneas, and his son Ascanius imparted it to the Alban kings and through them to the Romans.

"Oh! and listen to this everyone ... from a translation from Trapp in the early 18th century, 1718 or thereabouts

"As when in lofty Crete (so fame reports)
The Labyrinth of old, in winding walls
A mazy way inclos’d, a thousand paths
Ambiguous and perplexed, by which the steps
Should by an error intricate, untrac’d
Be still deluded."

Luke rubs his chin between his forefinger and thumb. seemingly resolved to take some form of action he stands and says;

"So perhaps there is something to this after all. Can someone help me with the map me and Laura had yesterday ... see if I can reproduce the path she followed, or rather that her quarry had followed. Perhaps if I can get back there without getting ensnared ..." Luke shudders involuntarily despite himself "... then we may find out where he went to"

Bingo, there we are Captain, Caslett. Sure of it, the good Reverend gave us the clue with his bibliographical musings. The Cor name becomes Caslett, and he spotted that the most recent annotator was a 'PC'. Nicely done Father, that's your man.

He turns back to Luke,

We can have a swift look before we depart. Y'know the Troy myth is a fascinating one in terms of medieval perception. Everyone claimed a part of it, there's a French manuscript with a picture of four ships heading off in different directions to found everywhere that claimed it. One of those being Geoffrey of Monmouth's Brutus, who is our winner today. One of the accusations against Sir Nicholas Bembre was that he wanted to change the name of London to Troynovaunt. People wanted Troy to be a symbol of ancient wisdom, but it was always brought down by a background of sexual immorality and political treachery. Read Chaucer's take on Troilus and Crysede, he may be writing about Troy, but he's talking about his London. Same with Shakespeare really. Interesting really, by allowing all the different nations' and groups' claims you set up opposing options for the perfect Troy, allowing what appears a symbol of unity to conceal antagonistic and conflic...

He stops, waves his hands, visibly reigning himself back in, and breaks off from lecture mode.

Sorry, back to London and the Labyrinth. Part of the significance is representing the wandering which Aeneas undertook before reaching his final destination. He travels to the Underworld as well, with the aid of the Sybil, using the Golden Bough.

He thinks for a moment,

portitor has horrendus aquas et flumina servat terribili squalore Charon, cui plurima mento canities inculta iacet, stant lumina flamma, sordidus ex umeris nodo dependet amictus.

Ah, the benefits of a classical education.

Perhaps a similar token is needed? Or a guide? Apparently the Forgotten know how to tattoo a man so that he can walk the labyrinth and still remember himself, but good luck finding a priestess without some bloody good connections.

Hmmm, the labyrinth in initiation is a metaphysical thing, representing the searching after wisdom. In terms of the Chatres one, and other ones similar theologically, it is about replacing a different journey. Walk the labyrinth and you don't need to go to Jerusalem. So it might also be less about knowing the turns and more about how to take them. Anthony Barkley was supposedly trying to re-draw London with his Taroticum experiment, don't what happened to that after Sandburn burned though.

The game as transmitted wisdom is a classic idea. The survival of an old ritual through a debased form. See also the Morris Men or the Mummers. An old English teacher of mine had a very convincing argument that the Hokey Cokey was a remembrance of the Catholic Mass. Perhaps it is something similar here, a set of ritualistic steps, perhaps copied over a metaphysical understanding of the route, and with the way opened by a symbolic key or token. Hmmm, Laura mentioned a sign of a blind man with an unlit lantern. That positively reeks of Tiresias.

He pauses, and dramatically declaims:

I stand a shadow across the door of doom,
Athwart the lintel of death’s house, and wait;
Nor quick nor dead, nor flexible by fate,
Nor quite of earth nor wholly of the tomb;
A voice, a vision, light as fire or air,
Driven between days that shall be and that were.

Yes, anyway, the labyrinth must be walked almost unknowing, following the footsteps by instinct, not by sight. Or perhaps you do need an unlit lantern? As the blind have no need of a lantern by which they cannot see, the walker of the labyrinth needs a similarly paradoxical sign to navigate its symbolic pathways. Maybe I'm thinking about this too literally. Maybe it is about a state of mind, or a piece of knowledge seemingly useless.

Heh, whatever we find do watch out though. Any good labyrinth has at its centre a beast. There's a strange rumour amongst the denizens of the night that's there's a Great Beast under London but I wouldn't put too much credence in that, gravediggers see some odd things...

Right, let's have a look at that map.

Long John re-enters Grant's.

"That Drummell fellow drove off in a Rover--I got the registration, that was after he visited another book shop." He looks round for his parrot.

Taavi wrote:GM summary: the task at hand is to reconstruct on the map, the route that Don Alejandro Glencoe and Laura followed from Grant's to Seven Dials - a path that "spiralled around and around without ever crossing his own tracks" (a succinct definition of a classical labyrinth), and "when put on the map, resembled the Troy Game" - see "Any Given Sunday" thread, page 4.

You can have a go at this by yourselves with a street map of London (that's what I did ) or you can spend 1 point of The Knowledge or 2 points of Outdoorsman or Library Use (or 1 of each) to abstract the process and have me give you a solution.

OOC,[color=#FF4000]I tried this twice myself and got nowhere fast Unfortunately the person who initially made my character did so without much thought about how successful a Catalogue Agent could be with limited skills in library use. Nor do I have anything at all in regard to the knowledge or outdoorsman to fall back upon. So the best I can offer is my 1 point of library use - the fruits of an unfinished education you see old boy![/color]

Harwood takes a pencil and starts plotting on the map, periodically cursing and rubbing out furiously. Finally he starts drawing, becoming more assured as he goes. And with an exclamation throws down his pencil. He pauses and looks at the map. His face darkens and he mutters angrily at his diagram.

“The nine man’s morris is filled up with mud
And the quaint mazes in the wanton green
For lack of tread, are undistinguishable”.

He gestures at the map. http://goo.gl/maps/U4NZ4

Rubbish! Oh it follows the rules but I refuse to believe a scholar of the Don's calibre has used such a meandering route or taken so long to walk it.

Well, it is a spiral dance, it does not cross itself and it does go from the shop to the heart of Seven Dials but it takes its own sweet time about it. If you do follow this abomination be careful to keep to the sides of the road in certain places. The steps dance down one side and later up the other. Doesn't cross, although that may be a technicality.

"'Nine man's morris'" repeats Long John, "that's a pub game, ain't it?"

Long John's jaw drops. "Mr. Harwood, that was some spektecular map-plotting." He raises a hand, schoolboy-fashion: "I'll volunteer to follow the map."

"It's not as easy as simply following a set course ... I followed the cove and got myself all in a tizz, and I am used to following the likes of him." I interject with a deliberate nod towards Long John. "Not doubtin' your abilities for one second my good man, but it may not be so easy as you think it should be."

Well I shall leave that to you fine gentlemen. I have a date with destiny. Or at least the Reverend and the world-famous echo of the reading room of the British Museum.

With that, Harwood disappears into the back for a few moments and returns with hat, coat and drooping roll-up. He strides towards the door and pauses. He walks back to the counter and fiddles around for a moment. When he comes back up he throws something towards Luke with a wry smile.

You never know when it might come in handy for finding your way back home.

Luke looks down to see a ball of twine. Harwood smiles for a moment, then his grin disappears.

Be careful though, there's something off with this one. Watch yourselves.

With that he walks towards the door. He pauses there, turns back, and tips a finger from the brim of his trilby towards Luke and Long John and steps out with the Reverend.

"Well then let us be about this task then." Luke says to Long John hefting the ball of twine in his hand. "And try to keep that bloody parrot under control, we need to concentrate. Hardly Ariadne's thread now is it?" Luke considers it for a moment before putting it into his pocket and heads for the door.

Jory:

Restored by the twinned strengths of chai and The Times, the Captain decides it is high time he started chipping in again, what?!

Dr P Caslett, what can we find out about you?

The Captain's opening salvo is to check the bookstore's phone directory for a home address for the (not so) good doctor.

A few minutes perusal of the phone directory turns up an address for a Dr P. Caslett off Denmark Hill Road in the Southbank middle-class area of Camberwell. A bit low-status for a member of the medical fraternity, though it is handy for King's College hospital.

Jory:

Jory quickly writes down the doctor's address on a notepad twice, tearing off the first note and pocketing it but leaving the second for the other denizens of the bookshop.

"Grant old boy, I'm off to the big library to see if I can find any useful intelligence on this doctor bod. I've written down what looks to be his address from the telephone book. Cheerio old son!"

Jory will make for the British Library in the hope of doing some newspaper research on the doctor.

Grant nods and sits down in his chair behind the counter, a bit perplexed by the day's rather strange activities. He decides that it might be worth taking a look at this Morris game considering the insight it provided their mapmaker. Perhaps there might be something in the history books about it? Or the occult collection?

Nothing he can find about Nine Men's Morris strikes Mr Grant as particularly relevant. Besides, he recalls he needs a plan for the upcoming auction.

The postman's knock announces the delivery of a letter to the shop.

The letter is addressed to Mr Harwood c/o Grant's Military bookshop, in a feminine hand. The envelope is a soft, thick paper, suggesting money. There is no return address, but the envelope is closed with a wax seal with some sort of heraldic device - it looks like a ram's head surmounting three coiled objects, possibly ram's horns, shells or snakes.

It seems to Grant that the best idea would be to play it safe and join an Auction Ring. As he is about to consider whom to contact to make it so, he hears the knock at the door and wanders over to collect the envelope. Well, this looks interesting....

What Grant does,He gently takes up a letter opener and carefully prises open the lip so that he can read the contents without overly spoiling such an elaborate and lovely letter.