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.