TURN ONE

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INTRODUCTION:
The sign over the door reads ' The Lawson-Tibbet Club for Gentlemen ', but its members have their own, unofficial name for it…The Outcast's Club.

Membership is open only to those people who have demonstrated a willingness to ignore the social laws of the age in order to promote honest and open communication between people of all walks of life. Formed in 1857 by Alastair Lawson-Tibbet, a social misfit who was barred from the best clubs in London as a result of his outspokenness in defence of the equality of man. He then, in the eyes of his peers, betrayed his class and family by setting up his own club and inviting the lower classes to apply for membership. Alastair passed away in 1879, leaving a considerable amount of his estate for the continuance of the club.

The current Chairman of the club is John Simpson, a legal clerk in the City, elected by a majority vote among the current members. Barring a vote of no confidence in him, he will remain as Chairman until his death, or his resignation. . Membership fees are £10 a year and the club is open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year. Over the years, the club has become a popular haven for people from all walks of life. It is not uncommon of an evening to find a self-educated dock worker chatting casually to a disaffected peer of the realm.

One of the main attractions of the club is it's tradition of inviting a guest speaker to address the members once a month. The speakers are selected carefully from a list of those who have been ridiculed ,or ostracised, for going against the common theories and ideals of the era.

THE INVITATION:
Honoured Member, It is my Duty, and my Pleasure, to invite you to our monthly lecture.

This Sunday the talk will be given by the respected Scholar and Traveller, Professor Arnold Hodgeson, who will be discussing his recent journeys in Eastern Europe and the propensity of Lycanthropic folk-lore in the region.

The Membership will assemble at Seven O'clock in the Evening of Sunday, First of February, for the Address which will be followed by Refreshments.

Yours sincerely,
John Simpson Esq.

THE SETTING:
The evening air, already cold and damp, makes vapour of your breath as you hasten along the street towards the Club. Huddled within your coat it is with some relief that you spy the fog-muted gaslights struggling to illuminate the sign.

You have knocked no more than twice when the door is opened by Jenkins, the club doorman. He politely ushers you in and helps you to remove your outer vestments, which he carefully hangs up in the cloakroom. Moving to one of the doors leading off the hallway, Jenkins opens it and says,
"If you would be so kind as to proceed this way, Sir, you will find that the Membership has begun to assemble in the next room.".

AND SO IT BEGINS:
The first striking fact about the room is the heat that radiates from the large fireplace in the opposite wall. The second is that the room is contains no more than seven or eight people, one of whom is the Club Chairman, John Simpson. He looks to see who has entered and then crosses the room to greet each new arrival warmly, giving them a vigorous handshake. "Bit thin on the ground tonight, I'm afraid," he murmurs apologetically, " Still, can't be helped. Come and have a little something to keep out the cold." He escorts each member to a table with a number of glasses and a large bowl containing warmed Rum Punch. He fills a glass and makes small talk for a minute or so and then excuses himself, explaining that he needs to attend to the Professor, who is preparing in one of the other rooms.

Over the next few minutes there are a few more arrivals until the grand total in the room is thirteen.

Into the room strides a gentleman clad in immaculately tailored khakis and highly polished brown boots, the picture of sartorial splendour. "Good evening gentlemen. Michelline O'Shaunessy, PhD, at your service." he says, in a precise, clipped British accent. He stands 5' 10", slightly greying reddish brown hair- recently barbered- and mutton-chop sideburns. He appears to be in his mid forties.

Tyler Kensington-Caine was Resplendent in a Long Black Coat, Tastefully Patterned Vest complete with a Watch Chain across it, Striped Grey Trousers, Spats, Gloves and Walking Stick. A Fresh Blossom bloomed upon His Lapel. A Smile Graced his Handsome, Elegant Face.A Top Hat rode on his Blond Crown and an Evening Cape rested upon his Broad Shoulders. He might have been a Fashionable Young Aristocrat on his way to The Opera.Caine gave his Hat, Stick and Cape to Jenkins, there's a Good Chap, and Greeted the other Club Members warmly. His Smile was the Correct Width, and His Bow the Proper Depth, precisely. His lovely Voice said:
"Tyler Kensington-Caine. If I may say, Sir, It is a Great Pleasure and a Singular Honour to Make Your Esteemed Acquaintance."

From a chair in the back, a grunt can be heard, with the creaking of a seat being used as a footrest. James Buchanan scratches some bristle on his chin, looking at Kensington-Caine with a quizzical expression, and then looks around at the rest of the group with a small amount of curiousity - but there isn't much friendliness in the dark blue eyes. He does not deign to rise from his chairs, but the mere sight of him is enough to garner attention - a rumpled, rangy tall fellow, shaggy haired, with a mustache, wearing a shirt that may once have been white, with a fresh chutney stain overlaying some older ones of varied origin, under a scruffy leather vest laden with pockets, patched grey trousers, and tall leather boots; a long rifle case of beadworked fringed buckskin rests against the wall, next to him. It is certainly not imagination to think that an aroma of cheap alcohol can be discerned on him, by those closest, but he seems fairly alert. In a drawl from the Southern United States, he announces his name, simply, without emotion.
"Ah ahm Jim.......James Christian..... Buchanan. It's a pleasure to be heah among such cultured gentlemen......" he glances around again, for the inevitable winces...as the rest realise a Yank has crept into the room !

Rather than Wince, I assure you, Tyler Kensington-Caine positively Beamed. Indeed, no English Social Gathering would be Complete without a Mumbling and Abashed Colonial, for the Amusement of the more Refined Guests. Additional Pleasure was relished from the Outlandish Garments and Overall Appearance of the Rugged Outdoorsman from the American Frontiers, not to Mention his Quaint Mangling of the Queen's English. Imagine! A Cowboy in The Club. It was Simply Smashing.

Passing a informal greeting with Jenkins, gulping down a mouthful of punch, a lithe young man with a shock of short scruffy blond hair wandered in and moved over to stand by the fireplace, watching the others quietly with a slightly haunted hazel gaze. Dressed casually, shirt and plain trousers with sturdy looking military boots. He sighed, listening to the voices exchange greetings and small talk and wondered what he was doing here. This invite should have been meant for his father, but this place was the only one in London he'd found tolerable as yet. The sound of a Southern US accent caught and centred his attention though, bringing a wave of slight homesickness as the young man managed a slight smile. He took a short deep breath and wandered over to Jim's position. When he spoke his voice was a softer New York drawl, and his grin was genuine.
"Arran Lewis," he advised, offering a hand to be shaken, "S'good to hear a American accent among all these Brits," he admitted, trying not to stare as he took in the man before him, "What brings you here, friend?"

James Buchanan looks at the proferred hand as if it were a particularly nasty plate of worms, not budging a hand of his own. Upon closer inspection, he's greying heavily in his unkempt wavy hair, and the lines on his face show that he's put about 40 years behind him.
"What do yew want, DamYankee ?"
It is no mystery to the other American, this uncivil behaviour; Buchanan wears a brass CSA buckle on his belt, a relic of the US Civil War. Clearly, any American born above the Mason-Dixon line will have to work hard at befriending Jim Buchanan.
Taking his hand back quietly, Arran nodded, seeing the belt. He'd been a toddler when the bloody war had ended, but the reaction was not a new one to him. Feelings ran deep and he had learnt to appreciate that in school and Academy where bias one way or another was by no means uncommon. His face adopted a 'should have seen that one coming' expression and he took a step back.
"My mistake," he answered softly, "Sorry," he added, retreating a little behind a well-used, purely emotional, armour plating. He bit back the usual retort for now, this was not the place for it. Within he felt just a bit more alone than he had before, and it rankled, the words finding a way out despite his best effort to stop them, "Sorry you lost the damn war."

"Gentlemen, Gentlemen. As surely as There Shall always Be an England, Your fledgling Little Nation shall scarcely ever amount to Anything if Town and Country cannot Learn to Peacefully Co-Exist. Let Our Grand and Harmonious Empire serve as a Helpful Example. Promise to put aside Your Differences, won't you, for as long as You Reside within the very Heart of Civilization."

Jim Buchanan favours the Englishman with a very sour look, worse than the one he directed at the young American.
"That mean India, Africa, and China as examples, for your lordship ?" he says, in the slow drawl, folding his arms.

Yes, Precisely," smiled Caine. "Now You've Got It, my Good Man. While Every Loving Family certainly has it's Tiresome Little Spats from time to time, Beloved England Has Not Endured All Out Civil War in Generations. It is The Nature, Mister Buchanan, of a Mature Nation, and of the Love One can Only Have for a Sovereign Monarch."

"Why'n't you mind your own damn business........Sah." he adds, with an insolently long pause. "Since ya livin' in a glass house, that is."

Caine Arched an Elegant Brow and wondered to Himself whether Buchanan Lived in a Tree House Caine's Smile was Unaffected by this Boorish and Unfortunate Display. The Price to Pay for Having some Colour at the Club, eh? Caine wouldn't have it any other way.
"That You Insist on Continuing Your Domestic Squabbles Here, in My Club, I'm Afraid, Makes it My Business. And, May I say, Sir, a Waspish Tongue is, to My Mind, sadly, but One of the Many Unattractive Features of the Typical Foreign Visitor to The Capitol of The World. As a Representative of Your Country, It would Behoove You to Behave in a Manner more in Keeping with Your Role as a Guest of England's Hospitality, which You are, may I remind You?"

Jim flicks his gaze back at the New York man, obviously too young to have been part of the conflict that must have cost Jim Buchanan dearly, for him to hold such a grudge after more than a decade. Buchanan shrugs, suddenly noncommital, and looking somewhat sad and old.
"I promise to be civil within these walls." he says, nodding to the other American. "If I'm not provoked, that is...."

Unable to resist a muffled grin at Jim's treatment of Caine, Arran nods agreement back at the cavalry vet.
"I'll accept those rules," he decides, quickly, grateful for a peaceful settlement, "for sure," he then adds respectfully, "I could no doubt learn a lot from yourself, sir. I don't mind admitting that." He meant it sincerely, his own military career unfortunately cut shorter than he planned and the regret evident in his face. He wondered what Jim Buchanan had seen in his years of service, what action had shaped the man before him, but for now he didn't dare ask.

"Splendid, then," said Caine happily. "It's Settled."

Happening to be standing next to Tyler, Gerald (an elegant, unassuming man of obvious Mediterranean extraction) introduces himself discreetly to him, while wearing what could possibly be servant's clothes (black pants, white spotless shirt done to the top, a grey black waistcoat, steel capped ordinary boots buffed to perfection, underneath a sailor's long black weatherproof overcoat).

"Ah, an Italian too, how Marvelous! I simply Adore Your lovely Little Peninsula. The Heavenly Cuisine, the Wonderful Climate, the Breathtaking Ladies. How long have You been Here in Dear Ol' Blighty? We Must, I insist, have Tea tomorrow, My Card," Caine said, Offering it along with a small Flourish and a large Smile.

Gerald then recognizes the queer fellow as being none other than the famous "Mr. Impossible" of Limehouse notoriety. All this while he speaks in slow, accented tone, totally unaware of the phonetic complications of the Queen's English, giving away his Italian origins more than false names could ever supposedly hope to hide.
"I like your last trick, suspended on a chain to the roof while held together, no, no, held fast in a straitjacket, with dancing, no, wait, twirling knives below. It sent coldness up my spine, yes, indeed. Good. Very good. But excuse me, dear sir, what is the trick? Dislocatory arms?"

Caine lowered his Eyes. "You are, to be certain, Far Too Generous, Sir. Such a Base, Cheap and Mild Feat is, no doubt, Far Beneath the Notice of Your Kind Attention and Discerning Eye."

Looking in on the interesting exchange of praise and modesty, Arran introduced himself to the two gentlemen with a simple statement of his name.
"Arran Lewis, evening to you both." He hesitated before offering his hand this time. In the circles his parents had obviously travelled within the city, he had encountered mostly tight-lipped Englishmen and smiling ladies, but these people had personality. It was good to see free will alive and well in London, he'd missed it on his arrival here.

After approximately half an hour, Jenkins enters the room and ushers the Membership through to the Lecture Room. Judging by the number of chairs that face a small podium, the Chairman was expecting a better turnout for the event. As each member takes his seat, the Chairman enters through another door accompanied by a tall, thin man with unkempt medium length hair. Even from a distance the intensity of his gaze seems to burn as it sweeps over the gathering.
"Gentlemen, " begins the Chairman, " It is my privilege to introduce to you…. Professor Arnold Hodgeson"
There is polite applause as the Chairman takes a seat towards the rear of the room and the Professor begins his lecture.

After greeting the small crowd Michelline heads for a chair to enjoy the lecture. He sits rapt throughout the Professor's tale.

Moving through into the lecture room, Arran discreetly turns his chair round, sitting down then and leaning his crossed hands on the chair's back which is now facing front. He trades eye contact with the Professor as the man speaks, as if trying to lend support to the speaker while the traumatic tale unfolds. Whether he believes every word is unclear, but the belief in the other man's words is obvious and Arran's own eyes mirror the sense of fear as the story concludes. He doesn't share the personal experience, but the underlying emotion is clear and understood.

As the applause dies away, Professor Hodgeson, until now nervously arranging, and rearranging, his lecture material, looks up, straightens and, in a voice surprisingly resonant and rich in tone, begins his lecture.
"On the Incidence of Lycanthropy in Europe, A Study by Professor Arnold Hodgeson.

Ladies and Gentlemen, this study, due to the nature of the material, may require a temporary suspension of disbelief among sceptics, or the consideration of it as anthropological in nature and taken in that context.
Lycanthropy, derived from the Greek "lykos" or wolf and "anthropos", man is differentiated into two categories, voluntary and involuntary. It is my intention in this lecture to examine primarily the latter, as the stories of the former are both less common and more obtuse than those of the latter.

Werewolves, from the Anglo-Saxon "wer" or man and "wulf", wolf, occurs in all regions where wolves may be found, particularly in the Slavic countries. It is for this reason that I ventured to these countries, and some of this information has been used to prepare this lecture. A werewolf can adopt the forms of a human and a wolf, although some scholars have suggested a varying number of wolf-man forms as well.

Opinions also differ as how to kill, or dissuade from attacking, such an entity. That silver has a harmful, possibly venomous, effect is universally held, but I have encountered theories as divergent as losing three drops of blood, kneeling in the same spot for one hundred years, to leave on the body of the suspected lycanthrope the sign of the cross, to be hailed as a werewolf, to be thrice addressed by his or her baptismal names or to be struck three times in the forehead with a knife, the latter rituals apparently dispelling the lycanthropic component of the poor person's being."

The lecture continues for perhaps forty-five minutes longer, much of which is taken up by the Professor recounting tales of his travels in Europe. One tale stands out from the rest, mainly due to the effect that the telling has on the Professor.

"On All Hallow's Eve last year I had the misfortune to be stuck in a small village in Central Romania by the name of Szagravia. The weather was bleak, snow lay on the ground to a depth of three feet and people went out of doors only when absolutely necessary. At the time I was staying in the only inn that was available and I was, I might add, feeling particularly depressed and alone at the time. I had an early supper and decided to take short walk before retiring for the evening. Madness, you might think, but even hypothermia was preferable to listening to that half-wit innkeeper massacring the Queen's English for hours on end. A most tiresome fellow!

I must have been walking for no more than ten minutes when I saw a figure slipping down a side alley, a few yards ahead of me. With no other thought than a mild curiosity as to who else would be out on such a night, I followed the figure. No sooner had I turned the corner than there was a short scream and a sound that I will never forget! It was like someone swinging a bag of raw meat into the side of a building!! In the twilight gloom of the alley I could just make out two figures, one standing and one lying in a heap that could only be attained by someone who had had the life ripped from them. As I stared in horror, the standing figure turned and chuckled , "Well, Englishman, is your research now complete?" The voice was heavily accented in the dialect of the region , but was completely understandable…….but the figure that spoke those words almost defies description. Suffice it to say that it resembled nothing so much as a bear, or a wolf that could walk on it's hind legs! May God forgive me, I could not move, let alone speak as the creature picked up it's victim and walked deeper into the alley.

When I could move again I returned to the Inn, packed my bags and managed to have a farmer transport me to the nearest town with a railway station by paying him a small fortune in gold. Once there I caught train for the coast and then returned to England, never more to leave her beloved shores. As to what the beast was.…? What else could it have been but a lycanthrope, more specifically a werewolf."

He looks up at the audience and, just for a moment, the horror of what he has witnessed is evident in his eyes. "Are there any questions? ", he asks.

Caine Stood and Applauded. "Rather Good, Rather Good Indeed! You really Had Me Going there, I must Say. A most Excellent Jest! Such Lurid and Vulgar, Penny-Dreadful Entertainment has Always Stirred My Heart, Good Sir, But to Have Presented It in This Fashion, as if It were Part of a Factual Lecture Series, is, I Assure You, a Stroke of Utter Genius! Doubly Effective! As One Stage Performer to Another, My Hat is Off to You, Sir!"

The Professor gives a start of surprise, which is quickly followed by a look of resignation.
" Sir, I pray you, please do not dismiss this as fantasy or worse, as a performance!!"

"How big was it ? Did it stand fully on two legs? Can you estimate height and weight ? What did the tracks look like, more wolflike or manlike ?" asked Buchanan, in a slow, easy drawl, in complete seriousness.

Arran watches Caine, shaking his head slightly and trying to find a smile to mask his lack of surprise at the man's words. That reaction he had encountered many times since he'd arrived in this country and he had no doubt it would be the same at home too. He turned his gaze on Caine, diverting attention from the Professor as Jim asked his question.
"You think he made all that up?" he asked the Englishman Without Removing His Gaze from the Unfolding Performance,

Caine replied:"Oh Yes, and He's Rather Good at It, too. Of course, Some Aspects of His Delivery Could be Enhanced to be Made More Believable, a More Haggard Cast to the Eye perhaps, but, I Dare Say, he has Shown Excellent Potential and Fine Style this Evening. Observe, Sir, How, even now He still refuses to 'Break Character', as We say, Imploring Most Passionately that belief in His Fantastic Tale be given, Expertly Portraying a sort of Modern Day Cassandra. Wonderful." Caine Laughed with obvious pleasure and admiration. "Why ever do You Ask? Do You believe He's Working from a Script?"

Arran rolled his eyes and looked out at Caine from beneath the slight cover of blond hair. "A script?" he asked, "No, I don't think so," he watched Caine, wondering if this man was for real or if he himself was just a front for an act of his own. "You're a performer yourself right?" he added, trying to find a level on the same wavelength here, "The whole world's a stage and all that, huh?"

"True on Both Counts," Caine said with a Smile.

"It stood at man height, on its hindlegs," continues the Professor "As to the weight, I am afraid I cannot even hazard a guess as my senses were terror struck at the time." The look of horror returns to his eyes and it is a number of seconds before it fades away. "I know nothing of the tracks, when I could move I ran from the alley as fast as was possible. I presume that the snow fall would have covered the tracks by morning." He looks distressed, " I fear that I failed in my duty as a researcher…"

Gerald waits for the slight commotion to die down then stands up slowly and with deliberation. "Excuse me sir, you must know, I believe totally in your story. The words you choose are real. You must excuse me, I am a Catholic, my country I heard many tales like this. But please, tell me, from your much research, how does one become a werewolf? By being bitten? Or more subtle means?"

The Professor starts slightly as Gerald states his belief but answers almost immediately, " The most common transferral of lycanthropy is through the bite, but there have been stories of curses brought to fruition by the use of black magic…unfortunately there are no solid facts to support this." "And that, my friends, is all that I can tell you at present. Except that I believe there may be……" He lets his voice tail off and then he stops, looking at his hands. "….just enough time for one or two more questions " he continues, obviously not what he was originally going to say.

"So they are mankillers, Professor ?" and Jim smiles a very wicked smile.

Though Difficult to Penetrate the Indecipherable Accent, Realization slowly Dawned on Caine's Beautiful Face. This Cowboy was Part of The Show! It should have been Most Obvious from the Start. As One's Appearance is the Face One Shows the World, how else could Such a Man find Employ in London, what with Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show having just recently Departed for Paris?

"Good God, Sir!! They are the most vicious and cunning killers that the world has ever seen."

"Bravo! Author! Good Show! That Last Touch was Rather Good, don't you think? The Strange Mannerisms of a Man Possessed, as if He Himself might Transform into a Dreadful Beast right before Our Very Eyes! It adds a Whole New Dimension, doesn't it? I feel myself Reaching for the Silver as We speak. I say, Well Done! Sir, Have You Representation?"
"Sir, I must again ask you to treat this with the utmost seriousness, for your own safety and sanity!!" The Professor is obviously upset and worried.

Waiting patiently until the others had asked their own questions, Arran added, quietly at the end. "Do you have any idea who it was, why they didn't attack and kill you too?" His accent lilted the words, drew them out into a nonchalant sounding question, but his eyes were serious, offering understanding and an open mind. Barely a month ago they might have echoed Caine's frame of mind, joking and light, but Arran had received a little bit more information than he cared to know recently. His hand reached for a talisman beneath his shirt as if checking it was still there. A habitual motion he'd only recently begun to notice.

Caine saw the Italian and the Other American getting into The Spirit of the Jolly Good Show and couldn't Wait to Join in with His Own 'Question': "I say, Could it be, old chap, that You Were You wearing a Necklace of Garlic at the Time? That a Wise Old Foreigner had Mysteriously Bid you to Wear, only Moments Before?" He said it with Genuine Concern.

Ignoring Caine for the moment, the Professor looks Arran straight in the eyes " I have no idea who it could have been or why it let me go. " Then, in a voice no louder than a whisper he mutters, "Maybe it would have been better if I had died that night….." Looking over at Caine he fixes him with an stern gaze, " The wise old foreigners no longer live in that village, only the foolish ones…"

The Professor steps back from his podium and the Chairman is quick to hurry forward to shake him by the hand and to call for another round of applause for the Professor. As the clapping dies away, the Chairman consults his watch and announces that Brandy and Cigars will be served in the Sitting Room. He steps back to allow the Professor to lead the way and then waits until the last member has left before following, closing the door behind him.

Back in the Sitting Room Jenkins is dispensing large Brandies and there is an open humidor on the mantlepiece. The conversation is for the most part about the lecture, with each member giving their impressions and recounting numerous tales of the supernatural. The Professor seems to be uneasy and is sipping has brandy frequently.

Afterwards, in the drawing room, brandy and a cigar in hand, Michelline approaches Professor Hodgeson. "I've read your work, Professor, most interesting. I've encountered many legends of lycanthropy in my own work...some of the tales appear to be most ancient. I'd always assumed they were just that though, tales, but to meet someone who has actually encountered such a beast, astounding!"

"Thank you, sir. May I enquire as to what field your own work is conducted?" replies Professor Hodgeson.

"Archaeology sir, though I do dabble a bit in anthropology as well. I am also a collector of tales of the occult or supernatural, a most intriguing subject. There are more things that man doesn't understand, then what he does." states O'Shaunessy.

"Too true, Sir, too true" is the response, given in a rueful tone.

Caine Raised an Eyebrow and His Voice. "I say, Doctor O'Shaunessy, In Your Work, have You had the Fortunate Opportunity for Much Involvement with the History and Culture of the Ancient Egyptians? Now, There were an Interesting Lot, eh?"

Jim is right at the brandy, without a hesitation, and knocks back a quick one before settling down near Professor Hodgeson, to listen. And maybe ask some more questions, depending on what he got by way of answers. He will pass on the tobacco; one vice is enough.

Caine joins the Professor. "Excellent! Still at It, eh? You've a Fine Career ahead of You, Sir! May I be amoung the First to Shake Your Hand?"

The Professor shakes Caine's hand with obvious reluctance. "For the last time, Sir, what must I do to prove to you that such creatures exist and that what I experienced was real?"

Waiving the opportunity to smoke, Arran accepts a brandy and, leaving it untouched for the moment, joins the small group around the Professor. He waits until the man's glass is empty, then offers his own full in exchange, eyes meeting the other man's for a second. The man had been about to say he believed something was over here, Arran was almost sure of it, but he held back the question, giving Professor Hodgeson a chance to calm down.

"Yer were spooked, looking at that thing." says Jim Buchanan, to the Professor, in an almost gentle tone, sipping his brandy, later on. "And you got away from it alive, there's no shame in that. So, did you do any more research on these things.....anybody you know of, ever gone and hunted one ?"

"If anyone has, they did not tell a soul of their deed…or they did not survive the attempt. " is the answer given by the Professor.

Jim blatantly ignores the derisive remarks of the other club members......because the account sounds too truthful to him, and he's intrigued by the killer aspect of the monster. And one of the few things that Jim is good at, is killing....and he'd rather be killing a maneating monster than taking a pompous, overfed 'hunter' on safari, to shoot tame lions in a park.

Sandow ignores the cigars and brandy, although the temptation is seductive enough. He seems more bent on satisfying his curiosity whatever the price or circumstance. Tales of werewolves, if it is even remotely true... The Church would certainly be satisfied in knowing more. The possibility still exists for a return, if only the right kind of suspect situation might arise for the Office's suitable "intervention". The thought of returning south away from miserable weather and perpetually muddy streets.

"There's something else, isn't there?" Arran's soft tone finally queries, "That you maybe think we won't believe either, right?"

Sandow approaches the professor at this very moment. " The young man is right. Proof is nothing. Faith, everything. If you believe, then that's all that matter". He hands him his card and introduces himself. "Sandow. Gerald Sandow. You may call me Garibaldi. Myself and this youg man obviously believe your tale. Please, sir, has any very strange happened to you recently since seeing the wolf? Something unexplainable? I know it is of no place of me to ask such things, I work with my hands and know nothing, 'sono un imbecille', but something I do know: here you are with some, what you might call sometimes friends. Yes, friends. You telling us, you understand, will help. I have been a servant for the best peoples, I have lots reference from many a person, travelled all over the world and seen many things, sometime good and sometime horrible. Telling no one will not help."

Caine thought it Most Queer that A Roomful of Strangers was Readily Accepting the Bizarre Notion that Werewolves and Such Existed. What were the Odds, even at The Outcasts' Club? Then It was Clear as Crystal. This was All some kind of Deliciously Experimental Avant-Garde Theatrical Event. "All The World's A Stage," the American had hinted. The Cowboy wasn't the Only One in on the Show. How Delightful. What a Unique and Most Distracting Evening's Entertainment. After all, How Often can One attend the Opera? Leave it to Those Rascally Bounders at The Outcasts' Club to Come up with This. Caine Smiled and Watched over his Brandy for the Response from 'The Professor', not Wanting to Miss even a Moment of this Fun Little Play.

"I fear that certain of your colleagues require solid evidence before they will believe. Perhaps it would be best if you and any other interested individuals joined me for morning tea tomorrow. I believe that I can convince the sceptics amongst you and, if God wills it, you may be able to deliver me from my personal hell." For the first time there is a glimmer of hope in the Professor's eyes.

"I should be Delighted, 'Professor'," said Caine.

At the offer of a tea, Mick O'Shaunessy is more than happy to go along. "It would be pleasant indeed to join you for tea, Professor; I thank you for the kind offer, and will be glad to attend."

Once again, Arran met the Professor's eyes when he could, merely nodding. Much as he wanted to pretend none of this was happening, that the world was populated by nothing more terrifying than humans and Englishmen, he had glimpsed something in the shadowy edges of that reality and there was no turning back. Like the man before him with the shaky hands and the desperate tone, Arran knew just a tiny bit more than he should, or at least a dreamfear hint at it. He reached for the talisman again and sighed. Morning tea. Such a British tradition. Didn't anyone drink coffee over here? "I'll be there," he noted, "just tell me where and when, okay?"

Jim Buchanan also nods, "Ah will be there, just tell me the particulars." The comment of "personal hell" does earn the Professor a searching look, as Jim Buchanan takes the measure of the man, and weighs the words spoken earlier, almost by a man possessed...... Maybe the Professor has some proof of an unusual kind. "Professah......do you have any maps to get to this village, and can you bring them along tomorrow ?"

"All that I have on the subject of lycanthropy, and my experience with it, are in my study", replies the Professor.

"I wish to please come too, dear sir, and meet better your acquaintance." says Gerald vigorously shaking the Professor's hand. "Werewolves are not invincible, no? A bit of muscle, a bit of brains," pointing at the group gathered around the Professor, "and we will defeat this wolf, together! Why, you might choose to question? Because a wolf, even a werewolf, is only fur, after all. An animal, una bestia. Nothing else. Pah! Hell, your hell, could be only purgatory. Ha, ha! Purgatory, yes?" says Sandow, gently patting the Professor's back and wondering to himself if he's pushing his idiot-of-a-foreigner spiel a tad too strenuously...

"An animal!!" the Professor almost shouts, before lowering his voice, "Before the end of the day tomorrow, I think you will change your mind about it being only an animal."

Jim Buchanan sits back in his chair, shaking his head, and glances over at Caine, waiting to hear this one from the British busybody. Ought to be good, he's thinking...better than the theatre, with brandy besides ! He casts an eye to the rifle, in case, leaning up against the wall...it's never very far away from him, and he only parts with it under duress. But he then watches the Professor, observing how upset the man is....he's clearly seen something unusual, something he's attempted to explain with the best studies he could provide.

Caine could scarcely contain Himself. "Good 'Professor', Please Accept My Sincerest Assurances that it is My Furthest Intention to Be Off-Putting, or in the least way Confrontational, But are You actually Saying that Tomorrow, over tea, You are Prepared to Present Convincing Evidence, to Us, of the Existence of a..." Caine's Smile interrupted His Words momentarily. "...a Werewolf?"

"That is exactly what I am saying" The Professor stares hard into Caine's eyes as he replies. He holds the younger man's gaze for a few seconds and then presents his greeting cards, " Here is my address, I shall expect you mid-morning."

Caine Returned the Gaze with a Smile. Holding the Card in his Hand, he said: "Magnificent. Then, If I am to be Sporting, I should, at this point, kindly Inform You, 'Professor', that I have had some Small Experience, and Humble Success, as a Debunker of the Charlatans of Spiritualism, and that Any Conclusive Proof you intend to Proffer on the morrow, shall be met with something More than just Idle Curiosity, a Passing Interest, or a Casual Level of Scrutiny.I thought it only Fair to Warn You, Sir. However, in the Light of This, I Do Sincerely Hope your Gracious Invitation still Stands."

"Naturally, I too was sceptical some years back, but events caused my to change my beliefs." The Professor shrugs slightly and gives a nervous and slightly sad smile.

Jim Buchanan did not attempt to suppress a guffaw at the scoffing Limey's tirade....after all, the Brit had rudely interrupted Jim's slow drawl a short time before, so he fully expected a high-handed, flowery statement to sprout from Caine's lips, and he hadn't been disappointed. The next best thing would be to see a closed mind being opened....something worth waiting for, in Jim's personal experience. He folded his arms, waiting for the next installment of the battle with amused interest, but then decided that comment needed to be made.
"For a man hell-bent on manners and acting proper-like, you don't follow what you preach." says Jim Buchanan, to Caine. "You're set on making friends all over the place today, aren't ya ? You just said you thought he was a fake, and that you'd take his every word to task and try to wreck him, if you could. I've seen men get shot, over less than that."

Caine politely addressed the 'Cowboy'. "I said Nothing of the Sort. "Wreck", indeed! Rather, it is You, Sir, who, quite strangely, is Taking My Every Word to Task and Trying to "Wreck" My Person. Thankfully, Here in Beloved England, You may Rest Assured that No One shall Be Coming to Shoot You."

Jim Buchanan snorts out a laugh, finding this utterly amusing.

"But, If I Understand Your Greater Meaning, Mister Buchanan, it Appears that I Have Hurt Your Feelings. Somehow, In Ending a Dispute in My Club, I have Inadvertently Given Considerable Cause for Offense. If This Is, in fact, The Case, then, in the Spirit of Good Hospitality, I Tender My Humblest Apologies. In fact, Would You be So Kind as to Permit Me to Make It Up to You? Really, I Do Rather Insist." Caine continued helpfully: "It is quite possible that I May be of Some Assistance to You, yes, in Locating the Nearest and Most Convenient Men's Haberdashery. If you are to Attend a Proper British Tea in the morning, You will, of course, not desire to Appear as if You have Come Directly from a Canal Barge. No. You will, I am certain, want Suitable Rainments. I need not Waste my Breath in reminding You, Sir, that One's Personal Appearance Speaks Volumes about Him, before He has Ever Uttered a Word. If You are to Continue to Put your Best Foot Forward during Your Stay in London, You could do no better than to Avail Yourself, first thing tomorrow, of the Invaluable Services and Goods offered at Blake's on Twelfth. After all, No One Wants to be Mistaken for a Chimney Sweep, Do They?" And, with Those Well-Intentioned Words, Caine Smiled pleasantly.

"I'm wearing clothes....that's just about the best you can expect of me." says Jim Buchanan, obviously tickled pink (amused) by the offer. "And I guess it must've escaped your attention, but I could care less what people think about me, or my appearance. But if it'll quiet you down, I'll go along with your little plan, you seem to have your heart set on it.

Arran, who had been keeping a relatively low profile as soon as clothing and shops were mentioned, shot Buchanan an incredulous look as the American agreed to Caine's idea. To be 'dragged' around clothing outfitters and fussed over by tailors was something he preferred to avoid at almost all costs. Besides, this idea of dressing up for tea smacked too much of the officers' club and such like. He wondered wistfully what he'd be doing now if he had made it that far in his career progression.

Caine kept smiling at Buchanan. "Good Show, Sir! That's the Spirit. I dare say, You'll soon be Ready for a Box at Ascot."

"Let me just say one thing, though - the hat stays, or blood _will_ be spilled." said Jim.

Caine considered the Hat in Pure Delight. "Rid You of It? My Dear Man, I'd Sooner Remove the Crown from Atop Our Noble Queen than take away a Cowboy's Hat. Like a Gentleman in a Turban or Fez, This Unspeakably Beastly Thing shall Lend You an Air of Exotic Mystery, not unlike a Noble Savage, that shall, I assure You, only succeed in putting you Over the Top."

Quietly watching the Professor as the two men continued their crazy discussion, Arran rolled his eyes and shook his head. If they'd been more than acquaintances he might have felt the need to apologise for them, but they seemed to be working a decent distraction from the problems in hand. That wasn't necessarily a bad thing given the Professor's discomfort. He exchanged an enigmatic smile with Professor Hodgeson as the hat discussion escalated around them. "Don't worry Professor," he spoke softly, "if we can help you we will. I don't pretend to know exactly what we're dealing with here," he added, "my father would have been a better asset to you than myself, but we're on your side and we'll do our best, right guys?" His hazel gaze tracked round the assembled group.

'Right Guise'? 'Right Guise'? What the Devil did that mean?" Caine thought to Himself. In any event, He said to the 'Professor': "Quite Right. It May Console You, Sir, to Learn that We are, most assuredly, 'On Your Side', so to speak, and We Shall Most Definitely Endeavour to Do Nothing Less than Our Very Best. So, Stiff Upper Lip, Sir. Things are Well in Hand." It seemed that This Avant-Garde Production was actually Spilling Out into the Street, with apparent intentions for it's Continuation to be held Tomorrow Morning! How surprising Unique. How refreshingly Intriguing. Caine wouldn't miss This Play's Final Act for The World.

Jim tilts his head, indicating the Professor. "And I don't require an apology, so I'd prefer if you offered it to the Professor, there. It was his research and experience you were chatting about just now."

"It will be My Pleasure." Caine Turned back to 'The Professor', and bowed deeply. "Sir, If I have Said Anything I Ought'nt, Anything Untoward, to Your Most Learned and Erudite Self, I would now Wish to Offer My Most Sincere and Humble Apologies with the Fervent Hope that You would Deign to Further Extend Your Most Excellent and Kind Graces, and Magnanimously Forgive Me."

"Think nothing of it, Sir, there was no offence taken, " replies Professor Hodgeson, "However, I must now depart, it has been a most tiring evening. God willing, we shall meet in the morning. Good night to you, gentlemen."

With soft tones and a certain supportive directness, Arran waited for the Professor to respond to Caine's polite apology and then spoke himself. "Do you have a secure escort for the journey home, sir?" he asked Hodgeson, "If you are, as you say, concerned with your safety in this city I gladly offer you what protection I can to ensure you reach home alright." The research and information that might be lost if anything happened to the Professor didn't bear thinking about, the young man had decided, it seemed a rare find to come across someone who openly offered such a resource. Most of those he had questioned denied all knowledge of anything even vaguely unexplainable. "I have some military experience," Arran offered modestly, "and no one is waiting up for me back home. It would be an honour to escort you if you would have me." The longer he stayed awake the better anyway, he thought, no dreams in the waking hours. Yet.

"That is very kind of you, young man. However, I could not allow you to inconvenience yourself so. I shall be perfectly safe. I have a carriage waiting outside for me." After making his farewells the Professor leaves the club to begin his journey home.

Nodding politely, Arran watched the man walk from the room and turned to the others. "Well, I guess this is it for tonight, then you guys," he announced softly, smiling wryly, "I'm gonna make a move now too, but I'll see you tomorrow for this tea thing, okay? G'night." With a casual stride, he took his leave, grinning at Jenkins as he retrieved his long woollen coat and the weapons it contained. "Thanks, Jinks," Arran acknowledged, patting the man lightly on the shoulder, "Take care, alright, I'll see ya next time."

Tyler Kensington-Caine Winced at the American's Ghastly Misuse of the English Language and said: "I Fear I, too, Must be Departing. It has Been a Most Fascinating Evening, and a Unrivalled Pleasure Having Made Your Acquaintances. I must say that I am Looking Forward with Much Anticipation to Our Tea. Until Then....Gentlemen. 'Professor'." Caine Whispered to Buchanan. "Don't Forget. Blake's on Twelfth," he said with a Wink. Then Caine Congratulated His Host on a Smashing Success, retrieved his Hat, Cape and Stick from Jenkins and Left, wondering What the Proper Thing would be To Wear to a Theatrically Staged Morning Tea where the Guest of Honour might very well be a Werewolf. One could Never Go Wrong in the morning with Grey, He supposed.

"Yes, all right, I'll be there." says Buchanan, with a shrug, to Caine. to the Professor; "Good evenin' Professah." He then saunters over to the rifle case and slings the strap onto his left shoulder, strolls on toward the door, to fetch his dreadful hat and his coat...also tattery and grey, and then proceeds out into the dark world, heading for the seedy part of town, to his lodgings. He's of a size to deter most of the muggers, sneakthieves, and assorted villians, and there's no mistaking what's on his shoulder to be anything less than a rifle, and he clearly knows the way. So much so that he knows some of the prostitutes by name, once he turns onto the dark little mews that leads to his boarding-house, threading his way past a low dive that reeks of cheap gin....but not before he has a couple blasts of the foul stuff. Then he continues on his way, homeward, pondering the speech, the whole ideas of werewolves....men who can become wolves, in some way, that attack humans.....and finds that it intrigues him, very much. To ensure that he will awaken in time to get to the fancy-clothes shop, he plans on drinking several glasses of water (with some whiskey added......) upon his arrival.....if he gets home safely.

Stepping out into the cold air of the city evening, Arran watched his breath mist before him. Cities were all supposed to be fairly similar but there was something about London. Something sinister and historic that implied the layers of history were stacked deeper than most places here, as if there was too much character to fill up the geography and so it spilled over into the atmosphere. Soaked into the fog, barely touched by lantern light, it lay out there waiting.

Looking for the carriage, noting the address on the Professor's card, Arran waited a moment, looking to see if Hodgeson had already left, or whether his carriage was still by the roadside. A chance to gain vague directional assistance of the end location might help, but he had an idea which general area he was headed towards. As Arran looked about he caught a glimpse of Professor Hodgeson's face as his carriage passed by. He was determined to at least try and follow, gaze tracking to look for other means of transport; a horse, a taxi. If no opportunity presented itself, he would walk, run even, but he didn't want to leave the man alone tonight for some reason. Perhaps it was already too much that he had not been there to save his father from whatever had taken him, or maybe it was just paranoia plain and simple. He convinced himself that if he went home, to the empty town house, he wouldn't get much sleep anyway.

Hailing a hansom cab he bade the driver to follow the carriage ahead of them and sat back as the vehicle rattled over the cobbles. After a journey of about twenty-five minutes the driver pulled his horses to a halt. "T'other carriage 'as stopped, Sir" the driver explains, indicating the Professor's carriage a few yards ahead. As Arran watches the Professor climbs out of the carriage, pays the driver and makes his way up the steps towards his front door. There is a jangle of keys and then he is inside, closing the door behind him.

"Thanks," Arran sighs softly, watching and waiting for a few moments longer, staring at the closed door. Unsure exactly what he is expecting to see, the young man merely loses himself in the task until he realises he's been sitting here way too long. Taking careful note of the house and its immediate surroundings, Arran looks for any sign of anyone watching the place, though the lighting makes it impossible to be absolutely sure. Once he is satisfied that he has done all he can short of staying overnight, he sighs again and leans forward to speak to the driver. Giving his own address, Arran asks the other man to take the long way round. "I just," he sighed, "I spose I don't want to go back home just yet, y'know?" he adds, feeling that the word 'home' doesn't really cut describing the house he has to sleep in here. "Can't sleep," he mutters softly. "Any news from the city tonight then?" he asks lazily, content to engage in any light conversation the driver might want to offer. To be new in London seemed lonely all of a sudden.

"Nothin' of interest, sir" replies the cabbie in a surly tone, indicating that he is paid to drive and would quite like to be getting back to his home. The drive back to Arran's cheap, but comfortable lodgings is without incident. The moon's pale light shines down on a city preparing for sleep and the streets are still……apart from shadowy figures that flit through the streets about their own business. Some on two legs….and some on more.....