Play@YSDC

One of London's most modern houses of healing. Established in the current site in 1909, the hospital pioneered aseptic surgery and the internal phone system. Yet perhaps it has ties to older, darker things...
[img]http://www.kch.nhs.uk/Images/Get/1yaObr/Lord%20Lister[/img]

Jory's plan now is to public transport his way to Kings College Hospital by the fastest possible route. Jory will, if possible, use The Knowledge to gain an insight into the layout and various entrances to said hospital, back doors, unusual geographical or architectural features etc. If he can, Jory will spend a pt of The Knowledge on this. Jory does not want to go into the hospital yet, he wants to have a bit of a scout about outside first.

A quick hop from Bermondsey to Southwark later, Jory is at KCH. Massive institutions always have their nooks and crannies, doors used only by garbagemen and cleaners, and Jory pokes unobtrusively around the institution's porous borders, getting a feel for the place.

Rounding a corner into a small yard which appears to be used as a dump for broken and discarded furniture, Jory comes across what look like the charred remains of Wellington's hand-cart...

Jory:

Penhalligon stops dead and raises an eyebrow when he spies the charred remains of the hand-cart. "Hmmm."

Jory casually pulls out a packet of Gauloises with its distinctive pale blue wrapping ("Picked up a taste for them in France, what!"), pulls out a cigarette and lights it with part of his current plethora of matches. While doing this, Jory oh so casually has a good look around to see if anyone is watching.

Hopefully satisfied there is no immediate risk, Jory ambles over to the burnt remains and inspects them closely, with the aid of a pencil and a magnifying glass from his satchel.

Points to Spend,[b]Jory [/b]will start by attempting a [i]Sense Trouble [/i]check or spending a point thereof to make sure he's not in danger. Then he will attempt to spend a point of [i]Evidence Collection [/i]on the cart, looking for clues it may reveal, beyond the fact it is here.

Jory cautiously creeps forward towards the cart, alert for any danger, but feels none of the tingling between the shoulder blades that once warned him of German Fokker bursting through the clouds behind his tail.

He pokes around the wreckage of the cart, finding what looks like a loose page from a French novel. Jory recalls that Wellington had some tattered french novels when he last came into Grants. This must be his cart!

No need to spend points.

Jory:

Jory straightens up and thoughtfully pockets the piece of Froggy novel before dusting off his hands. And finishing his Gauloises.

Jory then unobtrusively ambles around the hospital to its main public entrance and walks on in. Jory is on the alert for any lists of doctors working at the hospital. In any event, he casually heads for whatever appears to pass as a reception desk or at least someone who seems to be the first port of call for members of the public to speak to.

The autumn evening is drawing in as Jory ambles around to the front of the hospital, which means that the paper boys are crying the evening edition's headlines. "Readawlaboutit! Carnage at the racetrack! Four 'orses fall!" one near the hospital entrance yells in Jory's ear.

To Jory's eye, the front desk of the hospital bears a certain resemblance to a pillarbox undergoing a sustained infantry assault, except that the assaulting troops are injured before they appear in the firing line of the box's slots, and are dispatched with rapidfire bursts of prescriptions, pills, dismissal for wasting the nurse's time, or, occasionally, referral to the artillery, or rather the doctors on duty. Jory waits his turn and eventually arrives at the head of the queue, where the nickel-plated duty nurse turns her best ersatz smile upon him.

Jory:

Jory raises his hat politely and smiles innocently.

"Capt Penhalligon, late of HM's Royal Flying Corps. No injuries today, dear lady, and I shan't waste a moment of your time. My employer has asked me to prepare a list, for various commercial reasons, of doctors practising in London. What I would like to obtain is a list of the doctors who work here at the hospital. As I'm sure you know, this is publicly available information when held by majestic public entities such's this great establishment..."

Jory is hoping the impatient patients behind him will help pressure agreement out of the nurse.

Point Spend,[b]Jory[/b] will try to spend a point of [i]Bureaucracy[/i] to convince the nurse to cooperate. All those years of dealing with military bureaucracy, what...

Jory's polite approach pays off, and the nurse scribbles a note of permission and gives him rapid-fire directions to the administration office, where a clerk takes the note and begins the task of typing out a list of names and positions.

Jory:

A study of patient politeness, Jory sits amiably waiting for the clerk to complete his list. Jory will, of course, offer the poor hardworking clerk a gauloises cigarette at the end of proceedings.

Jory's plan, once he gets the list, is to casually but efficiently leave the hospital.

Consider the list gotten. On a quick scan, Jory doesn't see the name "Cor" anywhere, however.

Jory:

Jory will indeed give the clerk a cigarette then head on out. Deciding it might be time to see how the others are getting on, he will then find his way back to the bookshop, by speediest public transport.

While on the train or bus, Jory will take the list out and study it a bit more carefully, in case any names strike a chord.

Riding the tubes to Charing Cross station, Jory peruses the list thoughtfully, looking for J.C. There is a Dr John Cooper, and a Dr James Chandler, and a number of others with surnames beginning with C, or an initial J.

The streets are dark now and Jory reckons it's high time for dinner. As he nears Grants, however, he sees someone, a customer?, standing in the doorway, speaking loudly. Something in the man's stance and build puts Jory on alert. A fighter, possibly a footpad. A blackguard. Not the sort of person Grants' usually attracts, even when the shop is open, which, being Sunday, it isn't. It looks like Mr Grant is standing further in, blocking the man's entrance.

Rejoin the "Any Given Sunday" thread to respond to the situation.

Copy that.