Play@YSDC

I can do that, in light of what I have learned from you and my examination of your 'Wooden Book'. I will have a look-see at the Little Saint Hugh collection and see if we can find anything more about Friar Cor, his descendants, or those of a similar bent. You can join me if you wish... bring a sweater as the vaults can get a bit chilly, especially when they've been closed up. Also, we might want to pack some sandwiches as, while I have a little kettle, I have always found a full stomach makes for a clear head. Tomorrow, when the Reading Room is open, I can begin to examine their collection better prepared, since hopefully we or your adventurous companions shall turn up some new information on this Friar, that American writer, the Spaniards, or mysterious Doctor.


He claps his hands and gives a little smile, seeming to have at last put off his earlier moment of panic. Pointing to the Wooden Book he says,


If there are dangerous men after this work, is Grant's the safest place for it? I know better than to cross Mrs. Grant, but I wonder if others share my reasoned deference?

“Well, Reverend Poole, I can certainly conceal it in the shop instead of putting it back in Major Filby’s box. Did you have another location in mind?”

Left to his own devices, Grant makes sure the doors are locked again, and takes the Wooden Book away and conceals it in one of the many hiding places in the shop, redistributing the material already there to other places. Then he tidies the shop, folding Willoughby’s clothes and putting them with Major Filby’s box in the basement.

Time passes in the shop while Grant ponders the mysterious events of the day. Mrs Grant returns, and, seeing Grant preoccupied, kisses him on the cheek and bustles upstairs to make a cup of tea and check that cousin Malcolm isn't up to mischief.

As the light is fading, there is a preemptory banging on the door.

Startled from his reverie, Grant stares at the door for a moment. “I hope that’s not another weird thing like poor Wellington.” Grant selects his heavy umbrella, the present from Spinks, and hangs it on his left wrist ready for use while he walks to the door and peers out.

Outside the door, Grant sees a heavy-set fellow in a suit, with his hat pulled low over brillatined hair. Something about his stance and his hands (scarred) suggests the kind of rough elements that hang around Spinks, although Grant doesn't recognise this chap. The man sees Grant's shape behind the door, and jerks his chin meaningfully towards the lock.

Grant unlocks the door. “Good evening, Sir. We’re closed for business, what with the Sunday trading laws and all. I am Mr Grant, the proprietor, and you would be?”

"I'm Smif", says Smif. "An I'm from Mr Sabini. 'E wants a word wiv you about muckin' wiv 'is 'orses. Mr Sabini is very un'appy about them 'orses." Smif cracks his knuckles and leers gap-toothedly.

“Well, Mr Smif, I don’t know Mr Sabini from Adam, though I’m sorry he’s unhappy about his horses. I haven’t been near a horse in years, there’s not much call for them in a bookshop. So it wasn’t me mucking with them, and I don’t know why Mr Sabini thinks it was. How very odd.”

Smith hesitates. He may not be smart, but one doesn't last long in his line of work without picking up a good sense of whether or not someone is telling the truth. He is also accustomed to intimidating those he talks to, and seems a bit flummoxed by Grant's calm, flat denial. "You ain't runnin' a book, then? You din't put that 'ex on them 'orses?" he asks suspiciously.

Grant relaxes a little. Mr Smith seems less threatening now.

“No, Mr Smith, I’m not running a book. I don’t bet on the horses, or anything else. Mrs Grant would be very unhappy with me if I did that. I didn’t hex Mr Sabini’s horses either. Some of my customers have an interest in such things, but I don’t. It’s just business—they want the books, I sell the books.”

"Well, that's the fing. Y'see, we got this cove, 'e wins fifty fousand pounds when all the lead 'orses fall arse over tit. An one of those 'orses belongs to Mr Sabini. So we asks this cove wot 'is game is. An 'e says, this book 'e buys from you tells 'im all about it. An' 'e says 'e ain't got the book neither. So wot Mr Sabini wants to know is, where's this book? An' is this Grant cove, is 'e plannin' on sellin' any more books on t' 'orses? An' 'e wants to know, 'oos gonna buy 'im a new 'orse? Can Mr Grant answer 'is questions, or does Mr Grant want more breaks in 'is legs than Mr Sabini's 'orse 'as?" Smith warms to his theme, moving his hands as if breaking a stick.

Jory:

Jory spies Mr Grant and Smith, and accelerates a tad. As he comes closer into view he cries out loudly and cheerfully, "What ho, Old Bean! The prodigal returns. And who do we have here, a keen student of literature, desperate for a Sunday afternoon read?"

"And I think I need the rejuvenation of tobacco after that long journey about the city." Jory's hand innocently reaches into his jacket.

Can Jory Place Smith?,Can [b]Jory [/b]spend a point of [i]Knowledge [/i]to ID [b]Smith[/b]?

Jory's Knowledge of London's highways and lowlives helps him to recall Smith's ugly mug (no point spend needed). The man is a fair-to-middling, middleweight fixture of the illegal-but-rampant bare-knuckle boxing circuit, and an enforcer for the Sabini Mob.

Jory:

Jory's eyes light up with recognition and he strides towards Smith with a look of apparent happiness.

"Wait, it's Smith, I'd know you anywhere! Pardon me for not recognising you immediately. I saw you fight three rounds at Allison's rooms on the night of - ah - somebody's benefit, what, four years back? I bet on you and won a guinea!"

"How are you old son? Still doing any prize fighting? Rare talent if I do say so. And what can Grant's do for you this fine evening? I trust Mr Sabatini is well?"

Jory pulls out his packet of Gauloises and offers one to Smith. "Tempt you to a froggy cigarette Old Bean? Nice and strong and unfiltered."

OOC,I love the Sherlock Holmes canon so had to horribly plaigarise from [i]The Sign of Four[/i] when the opportunity presented. Jory, of course, has no idea if any of the above details are right, he's just taking a shot in the dark but hoping it's close to the mark.

Grant’s eyes go wide at the mention of £50,000 and the perfidy of a customer fixing a horse race and then pointing the finger at him. Mrs Grant will not be pleased to hear this.

“Now, Mr Smith, let’s not get too excited. Ah! Here’s Captain Penhalligon back again. Perhaps he can help with Mr Sabini’s questions.”