Bermondsey Square (Day 2)

[Taavi]

Every Friday, Bermondsey Square is the site of London's greatest thieves' market, protected by the ancient law of Marché ouvert. It's pretty quiet the rest of the week, but there are often a few stalls there, or stallholders from Friday celebrating big sales, or commiserating big losses, in the nearby pubs on Saturday and Sunday.
[img]http://i44.tinypic.com/nbdxck.jpg[/img]

[andyw666]

Jory:

The first thing Jory does is head straight back to his cosy little garret to grab his old leather satchel with the long shoulder strap, full of useful odds and ends. Jory also retrieves his trusty little Enfield No. 2 Mk1 snubnosed .38 revolver and shoves it into a jacket pocket. Probably little help against true weirdness but the stall-holders at Bermondsey might get out of hand in a back alley.

Then, suitably provisioned, Jory takes the tube to Bermondsey Square, feeling unusually introspective.

Jory starts by approaching the stall-holders still around on a Sunday morning (or in the pubs nearby). Known and presumed old soldiers will be engaged in a bit of chat about the Last Show, and any regular "suppliers" known to Jory will also be cheerfully chatted to about book business.

Jory politely asks everyone he talks to if they have recently seen old Wellington, regular supplier to and friend of Grant's, as he is very keen to catch up with the old boy. ("Got some good news for him, what!")

Attempting Some Skill Use,If he can, [b]Jory [/b]will spend a point of [i]Evidence Collection [/i]to ID clues relating to What Happened To Wellington at or near Bermondsey Sq. Alternatively, Jory will spend a point of [i]Reassurance[/i] to get the locals onside. He is particularly keen to know where Welli's cart is, and who he met who sold him the books.

[Taavi]

Jory pokes around the few Sunday stalls and the nearby pubs, exchanging a few words here, snapping up an underpriced Kipling first there. Near the Anchor Tap public house, where Dr Johnson worked upon his celebrated dictionary, Jory encounters John, a match-selling veteran, popularly known as Long John Copper. Long John is known as a "character", that is, he is poor, shell-shocked and has only one leg, but that is alright, because he is funny. Admittedly, he hams it up with the parrot - it's good for match sales.

John seems even more twitchy than usual. In between stuttering out "Ka.. la... ni.. lani..." and muttering about Baghdad, he confirms that he bumped into Wellington on Friday at the market, and that Wellington mentioned a doctor from King's College Hospital who had visited the market and sold a few books. After a bit of soothing (Reassurance), John also tells a curious story - apparently "a while back" he (John) was dragged off the street by a policeman, and thought he was for the clink, but instead he was hustled into "a posh joint" where a bunch of toffs pushed whiskey upon him until he passed out drunk. He swears it's true! "mm-match, old man?"

"Pieces of Eight!" comments the parrot.

[andyw666]

Jory:

Jory buys three packets of matches and discretely overpays Long John a shilling or two, and of course gives the parrot a reassuring smile.

"I say old boy, that's a bit rum, the whole whiskey business. Err, when you woke up, did you have any strange scars or anything? Odd marks on the skin even?"

"And I don't suppose you've seen old Wellington's cart anywhere about the place have you?"

Contact with The Office,After talking with [b]Long John[/b], [b]Jory [/b]will go find one of the new(ish) red public telephones to call in the Kings College Hospital info. I'm assuming that Grant's has a phone? If not, [b]Jory [/b]will call somewhere reliable near the bookshop from which perhaps another PC still at Grant's could be summoned to take the call.

[Taavi]

"Er, n-no. Bbbut since then, i've had the st-st-st the oddest dreams. I dream a lot, y'know, Captain. Yp.. Yp... Ypres. I can stil hear the shell that t-t-took my damn leg. But these dreams aren't like that. I've been dreaming about the ocean, and the far off islands, and the strange cities. And C-c-captain, you'll nnever credit it, bbut I woke up this morning and f-f-found I'd been writing! In mmmy sleep! D-did you s-see me, Ppolly?" "Pieces of eight!"
With an oddly shy look, Weelington unfolds an old bit of paper and hands it to Jory. It has some doggerel scrawled on it - as a literary man, Jory recognises a mangled version of Stevenson.
"Far from the ocean's starry sky,
Up from my grave where I did lie
Imp in a bottle, Gray out of hell
Thrall or Thrawn will not bend my will,
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter returned from Hell."
"P-promise me you w-won't tell anybody, Captain" says Wellington quietly. "You've always b-been decent to me, and I dont want to end up in B-b-b-bedlam."

[andyw666]

Jory:

Jory smiles placatingly despite inner alarms and holds up a reassuring hand. "Mum's the word Old Bean, wouldn't let an old soldier down, what." Keen to calm Long John down a tad, Jory pulls out two cigarettes, passes one over then lights them both up with a newly purchased match. Jory also digs out another ciggie for Long John to keep for later.

"Listen Old Man, if you do happen to see Old Wellington or his cart, or this doctor chap who was selling books to Wellington, or even these odd types who gave you the whiskey, come down to Grant's and let us know. Of course, we'll compensate your troubles. But I wouldn't talk to any of those people direct, not sure they're good sorts at all, what?!"

"I say, I think I recognise this poem you wrote. Would you mind if I kept it? I'll find the name of the poem and tell you all about it next time we meet. Promise not to show it to anyone else, what!"

With or without the poem, Jory says cheerio to Long John and heads off to find a red public telephone box. Jory makes a call to Grant's to pass on the intelligence that Wellington was buying from a doctor from King's College Hospital, Jory's next destination. Jory also mentions Long John's odd experience and the poem. (Addendum: To avoid any breach of honour and trust, Jory will not name the source of his information or in any way identify Long John except to refer to him as "my man".)