TURN TWO

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Garibaldi sits on the side of his bed inside a small rented room, a dismal bed sit in Bethnal Green, already dressed for the encounter two hours early. Sitting there dejected, such an early time of the day to be in such a state, wondering again how long will funds draw out before he is forced to seek employment, employment of any kind. The flying croquet incident at Lady Harrowgate's previous tea engagement had proven to be ruinous to his long-term career as servant. He should have done his duty, but somehow his unstoppable eagerness to stop the ball at any cost... In finality, the word of his unconscionable behaviour spread disastrously throughout her contacts and acquaintances. London would now tar him for what he was. A thief. A scoundrel. A never-do-well. Perhaps it was time to move one, upcountry, and forget about this wolf nonsense. Perhaps.

Walking to the Professor's house, he makes a few calculations to cheer his despondent soul as to the closest and easiest way to break into the flat. Only for emergencies, of course. The thought of breaking into houses for money disgusts him too much.

True to his word, Jim Buchanan is at Blakes, just as the place opens, a bit bleary-eyed; but standing upright, shaven, mustache sort-of brushed out, hair tied back in a ponytail, and washed. He checks his gold pocketwatch, figuring on needing a hansom to reach the Professor's place for tea, and hoping he won't kept too late by getting a new shirt, which is about all he has the money for, and not their finest shirt, either. He watches the clerk unlocking the doors, and grins wolfishly at the shocked look on the man's face, as he takes in the tattered clothes, the ghastly hat, and the rifle case....should be ntertaining, at least. He'll probably miss the intro chat, but that was never his strong point, chattering.

Tyler Kensington-Caine Joined James Buchanan, before Tea, at Blake's on Twelfth. He was spectacular in a Grey Morning Coat with Matching Vest, Striped Trousers, Grey Gloves and Spats, High Starched Collar, Necktie, Top Hat and Stick. The Lapel Flower was His Single Source of Colour, and It was a Deep Blue. "Mr. Buchanan," he said around a Long Smile, "Good Morning to You, Sir. I trust Your Evening was Restful? Shall We Go In?" Caine would Quietly Ensure that Buchanan was Completely Outfitted and Attired in The Exact Manner that Every English Gentleman Should Be. Any Cost Incurred would be Discretely added to Caine's own account. Caine wouldn't Hear of Any Other Arrangement. The Two would arrive to Tea Fashionable Late, but Not Before Purchasing a Modest Gift for their Most Generous Host. Caine was Happily Anticipating the Gripping Finale of this Grand Performance, and was Infinitely Pleased that Buchanan had Seen Fit to Bring His Elephant Gun along for the Festivities. It was a Most Promising Sign.

Buchanan shrugs."Good morning, Sir, to you as well. I got home all right, I guess, and I trust you did just the same. It's your sort of place." he says, "I'll follow your lead." With a surprising amount of patience, Jim Buchanan allows himself to be measured, fussed over, and clothed in a new shirt (any colour, just not blue), new trousers (grey, he does insist), and a fabric vest (any colour but blue). Under his leather vest of the many pockets, a leather weapons harness is revealed, with sidearms; Buchanan requests that the new vest be of sufficient cut to cover the weapons harness. His attention to weaponry may well be explained by the large, old-looking puckered scar on his left shoulder, or any one of the smaller, slashing-damage/or puncture wound scars on the rest of him; he's been on the receiving end of trouble, it seems, for a long time. "Have to keep the boots," he says, to Caine. "I've worn boots for thirty years, I can't handle regular shoes, ermm.....they make my feet hurt." His boots do seem to be in good repair, but isn't that a knife pommel protruding ever so slightly from the one boot top ? Hmm. Once the bill is settled (and Caine gets a very puzzled look from Jim Buchanan), the gold watch and chain finally looks as if it's in place.

"Mr. Buchanan, May I Enquire as to the History of Your Lovely Timepiece? It is, to be certain, a Most Unique and Handsome Article."

"I stole it off a Union officer." says Jim Buchanan. "Took his horse, too. He was dead, he didn't need it."

Caine was Delighted with That. You're very kind to me, Sir."

Continues Buchanan, as they hit the street and look for transport to the Professor's tea, "And I'm not exactly sure why, but I do endeavour to return a favour." He now carries the leather vest, and the rifle case, but did pause to shake some dust of the horribly mangled hat before putting it back on.

"Not at all, Sir. It was, I assure you, a Very Small Thing. As I might have mentioned previously, It was merely My Humblest Intention to Make Just Amends for any Offence I May have thoughtlessly and impolitely Given.And, may I say, the Stunning Results are a most Satisfactory Reward in, and of, themselves, far surpassing any Imaginable Returned Favour.Truly, the Dramatic Transformation I have Witnessed this morning shall cause Any that the 'Professor' had Intended to Provide, over Tea, to Pale by Comparison. The Dashing Confederate Gentleman still Resides within You, Sir.Pray, Do Not Forget Him again." Then, Caine added with a Smile: "Indeed, You Shall, I fear, soon be required to Bring Your Considerable Personal Arsenal to Bear, simply to keep The Ladies At Bay."

"I'm so accustomed to having it around, I can't walk right without all of it." says Jim. "And my digs aren't the safest place to leave anything valuable around. As for the Ladies....." he snorts. "I don't think that's likely to be a problem for me." He shrugs again. "And I don't know, but if the Professor has some sort of proof to offer on this werewolf of his, I'd be happy to go along after it.....but you think he's shamming, don't you ?"

Unsure now as to whether The 'Cowboy' was a Participant or Spectator in the Impending and Unfolding Drama, Caine would only say: "Yes."

The Professor is waiting in his study as the doorman shows you through. Every available space is taken up with piles of paper, old manuscripts and a variety of books….including some penny dreadful horror novels.
Caine let Buchanan Enter first, so as Not to Interfere with his Dramatic Entrance. As He followed, He Took Notice of the Penny Dreadfuls and Smiled.

A quick but searching reconn takes in the room, and noting the books Arran stays quiet, waiting to see what the Professor has to say. The young American looks tired, stifles a yawn while also raising his hand to politely cover his mouth. Another virtually sleepless night, not a lack of interest in the topic. He nods to Buchanan as he notices the made-over cavalry man and manages a friendly grin for both him and the Englishman. "Morning gents," he acknowledges with a friendly tone, "Looking sharp," he adds approvingly. His own dress is casual but smart, a slightly crumpled white shirt and black trousers along with the ever present short, worn military boots.

"I Heartily Agree," said Caine, who last night, as usual, Slept the Sleep of The Righteous. "Sir, I wonder if I may kindly inform You of a Delightful Product, only recently made available to The English Public? Mr. C. B. Pickering's Wondrous and Reliable Elixir of Pleasant Dreams, Sir. It Soothes the Nervous, Calms the Anxious, and will, I am told, Cure whatever Ails One's Restless Brow. It is Nothing Short of a Miraculous Boon to Sufferers of Sleepless Nights. It is currently stocked by Every Chemist worthy of the Name. Pray, Don't Delay," said Caine helpfully.

With a gentle sigh, Arran's eyes met Caine's. The look encompassed a certain desperation backlit with a hunted expression and edged with tiredness. His words though were softly spoken and implied no disrespect. "Thanks," he answered, "but I'd rather have the chance at waking up if I needed to," he almost starts to say more, but stops and closes his mouth, still looking directly at Caine with mild surprise mixed in his eyes now, "Thanks for noticing though, advice always appreciated," he added, nodding in acknowledgment of the attention.

Michelline arrives at the Professor's for tea, on time. He listens respectfully through the the presentation of the story, paying attention to the others' comments. "Now, gentlemen, to business, " begins the Professor, turning to a table behind him. He picks up what appears to be a block of chalk. On closer examination you can see that it is an impression of a paw print. "This is a cast of a standard wolf paw, " he says, as he passes the cast around the group. "Notice the size of it…compared to this one." He holds up a substantially larger cast and hands it to the group "Pay careful attention to the size of the claws….this cast came from Hungary. It was made at the scene of a most hideous murder. The locals claim it was a werewolf attack." He picks up a third cast, "This is almost identical to the Hungarian werewolf cast…but this one was made in Limehouse, one month ago."

Caine, who had been Expecting a 'Werewolf' to leap from the Wardrobe, was Visible Disappointed in the Quite Mundane Nature of the Evidence.With Half-Hearted Interest, He Coldly Examined the Casts.

"If these are real," Arran asked in a low tone, not entirely sure he wanted to be in on this, but unable to leave it alone now, "do you think we're looking at two separate werewolves or the same one that travelled? Could he have followed you back here Professor?" His eyes sought the older man's, concerned for the Professor's safety. Caine looked at Arran and Arched an Eyebrow.

The professor starts slightly before he answers " I think that this will be the work of one beast in London…which one I cannot say." His eyes, however, tell a different story.

Arran gets the feeling that the Professor believes he is being followed. Holding the eye contact longer, Arran noted the nuance in the expression and offered back a slightly questioning gaze that perhaps implied he might persue that line of enquiry later, in less confrontational circumstances. There was something the Professor wasn't saying, but that he obviously didn't want to discuss either. Sympathy is present in the younger man's eyes then as if he knows the feeling and chooses not to say it out loud either. "Okay," he says quietly, "I guess we can work it out, huh? Main thing is to make sure you're safe."

Later on, Jim spends a good amount of time looking at the impressions, to gauge size and weight. "Shame nobody measured stride length." he mutters to himself. The presence of the unusual pawprint is enough to convince him that it bears looking into, absolutely.

Caine said: "Mister Buchanan, would Your Experience and Expertise Declare these Larger Wolf Prints to be Authentic in Nature? What, in Your Estimate, could be possibly included in a List of Likely Candidates to have Created such Prints as these?"

"Not much outside of Barnum's Freak Show." says Jim Buchanan. "It's longer than a wolf's track; about as big as you'd expect a man's foot to be, if just the ball of his foot and his toes were impressed; it's deep, and the claws are wider and longer than a wolf's would be - it doesn't look faked, in my humble opinion. This thing won't be clumsy or slow, though.....the print's precise, it's not shambling along on two legs. Wolves can jump; they have an excellent sense of smell, and they react very quickly to threats, by instinct."

Turning back to the table the Professor picks up a sheaf of what turns out to be newspaper clippings. "I have been collecting these since my return from Europe, for four months now. You will see that they are all clippings of violent deaths that have occurred in London. More specifically, they have all occurred in Limehouse…."

Caine stopped Smiling. His Pale Eyes Focussed suddenly on Something far away. Then He turned His Gaze upon the 'Professor'. Caine said softly: "This Part of The Joke, Sir, is in Rather Poor Taste, I must say." "Do you still believe all this to be an elaborate joke for your benefit, sir" ased the Professor, in a sombre tone.

"Four young ladies have met their end in horrific fashion, I see nothing amusing about this."

"Nor I, Sir. Nor I," said Caine rather flatly.

The Professor continues " Each death took place on a very special night. Would anyone care to hazard a guess?" He looks at the group, waiting for a response.

Caine Stared in a Direct and Impolite Manner at his Host.

With a slightly tortured look in his eyes Arran coughs, not relishing the attention, but knowing full well what day the man is hinting at. Notes in his father's library spoke of werewolves, but he hadn't really thought about them until now. Before he had merely concentrated on skim reading whatever he could to find out where the man had gone. "Night of the full moon," he noted softly, eyes lowered, "or the days to either side of it," he didn't ask for confirmation, knowing that it had to be. Tonight would be the same, he knew from the calendars. His father had noted such matters as a routine and whether he liked it or not, the information was starting to filter through into his everyday life.

"I have offered my services to the police in helping them to put a stop to these attacks, but they have naturally scoffed at me. However, they are no nearer to solving these crimes and may yet turn to me for help."

Caine continued Staring and Lowered the Center of His Brow.

He said, distantly: "Have You had Occasion to Make the Acquaintance of One Sergeant Hodgkiss of The Yard? What did the Police say when You Told them Your Story of The Events that Transpired during Your Stay in Hungary? I would Hazard a Guess, Sir, that You did Not tell them Everything, Did You?"

"I have indeed met Sergeant Hodgkiss, a most capable man, but one not prepared to believe in that which he himself has not seen." replies the Professor, then his face sags and his voice, when he continues is heartbreakingly sad ," You are quite correct, Sir, I told them nothing of the horror that I witnessed in Szagravia. How could I? At best they would have thought me mad, at worst they might have thought me responsible. I have offered the opinion that it is a large dog, or an escaped wolf, that is responsible for these attacks in Limehouse."

"Even if he had they wouldn't believe him." Arran's words were neutrally spoken, not intended as a scathing comment in response to Caine, but merely as a statement of fact. The Yard never listened and even Hodgkiss, a man he had been to see on recommendation such as this, was snowed under with tales which may or may not be true, wild allegations and drunken stories. "They don't wanna to believe," he continued, looking sheepishly at Caine, who himself had voiced similar sentiments only yesterday, " or they don't have time to, but that don't mean it ain't true."

Caine involuntarily shuddered at the American's Callous Disregard for the English Tongue. Or perhaps His Reaction was caused by the Creeping Realization that the 'Professor' was Not an Actor in a Play, but Something Else Entirely. Caine's Eyes Looked Closer still at the 'Professor', but his Voice was Far Away as it said:
"No, Sergeant Hodgkiss Is Not Particularly Inclined to believe in Ridiculous Flights of Fancy, especially Without a Shred of Evidence. Pray Sir, What Kind of Man Is? And Yes, I do rather Imagine that Scotland Yard would be Quite Inclined to believe that You, Sir, Are Responsible for the Deaths of Those Poor Girls. And That is Before They have even Witnessed Firsthand Your Obsessive Nature on This Subject, or Viewed the Bizarre Reading Material you have Surrounded Yourself with, or Seen the Intimate Familiarity You Possess with these Ghastly Crimes, or Held the very Casts whose Negatives Could be Used to Create 'Werewolf' Prints, or Read Your Detailed Maps of Limehouse, or," Caine said, "Heard the Telling Words a 'Werewolf' once Said to You. You are, Sir, No Doubt Aware that the Wagging Tongues of Limehouse say, and The Papers Omit, that each Body was Found with a Note that read: 'RESEARCH'."

Caine paused. His voice was No Longer Distant when he said:
"What a Fortunate Coincidence that You had Elected Not to Tell Sergeant Hodgkiss Your Little Tale. Had You done so, I dare say that He, or Any Sane Man for that matter, Could Not have Failed to Deduce, quite erroneously to be sure, that the Killer is Not a Werewolf, but a Deranged and Obsessed Man who believes Himself to be a Werewolf; that, in fact, You, Sir, Are the Murderer. What a Stroke of Luck. Thankfully, You, of course, have Alibis for the Four Nights in Question, which Coincidentally Again, I am sure, all Just Happened to fall Since Your Return to London. Or were You Out 'Hunting Werewolves' on those Evenings?"

"You poor man," is the surprisingly gentle response from the Professor, " Even now, on the brink of disaster you still try to rationalise the impossible" His gaze is sad as he looks at Caine.

"Coming, as it does, from One who asks me to Believe in the Impossible, You'll kindly forgive me, Sir, if I confess to finding That Statement dreadfully Amusing," Caine said quietly and without any trace of amusement.

"If you doubt my word, please ask my doorman as to my whereabouts on the murder nights. Each night I was here at home with one or two close friends. If you wish to contact them, I would be glad to furnish you with their details. They will be able to corroborate my story and testify to the fact that I was in no fit state to be murdering people on any of the nights." As he talks the Professor absentmindedly rubs his left forearm with his right hand.

"That, I am certain, Shan't be Necessary, My Good Professor," said Caine with a Smile.

Noting the movement, Arran frowns lightly, paying a little more attention to the Professor, looking for any visible markings on the man's arms. He knew when the attacks were going to happen, Arran realised, the pressure must be getting to him by now if nothing else. And, if it was the same creature as encountered overseas....

Garibaldi looked askance at Caine, totally surprised and a little bit worried. "Dear Sir, you wriggle out of one idea and into another with more speed and audacity than in one of your amusing spectacles. Under your ingenious deductions, to which I can place full credit and belief, this wolf man could be applied to anyone in this room, give or take a few assumptions."

"I'm sure he didn't mean to accuse you so harshly," Arran advises, glancing over to Caine, "he's just working through all the possibilities his mind can come up with to avoid believing what he sees as impossible, right?"

Garibaldi's tone changes as he peers at Caine's eyes, seemingly trying to see within them, "But please, I mean no offence, for I am just a servant, no, an ex servant at at that; but please, by your wild and extreme elucidation, haven't you been indulging a little bit too much in Mr. Pickering's solution yourself? "

Caine laughed politely. "Until the time comes, My Good Man, that I profess Such Wild and Extreme Elucidations As the Existence of Werewolves, and other similar Fairy Tales, You may Safely Assume, Sir, the Answer to be 'No'."

"Or something similar? it is not my place to ask, I know, it is barely supportable for a man of my position, or rather lack of any distinguishable position - you are not my peer, someone to view on an equal footing, no, certainly not, but rather a gentleman of high standing, so I shall ask it as an approximation of an acquaintance, or perhaps as a newly found friend. Somebody who barely know his place in this world but wants a place within it." With this his voice trails off, and he takes a big breath. "So there you have it. At least please consider to stop torturing this poor man unnecessarily..."

Without moving his Gaze from the 'Professor', Caine said: "I believe, My Dear Fellow, that You have quite possibly Misheard or Misinterpreted My Remarks. I said Most Clearly that such an Assumption would be Erroneous."

"I have made it my duty to put and end to the horror that is stalking this great city, if only to prove to the world that such creatures really exist. If you gentlemen are of stout enough heart we may yet have a chance and ," the Professor adds, with a glance at Caine, " it may be all the proof that you need to confirm that all in this world is not what it seems."

"I would Warmly Welcome Such Proof, assuming, of course, it could Ever be provided," Caine said as he dismissively returned the Casts.

"Unfortunately, I am a man of words and research, not action. I have never hunted anything with a view to killing it before and do not have the slightest idea how to go about it. Have any of you any experience in these matters?"

"My suggestion is this, "he continues, "That we equip ourselves accordingly and take to the streets of Limehouse in an effort to catch , or kill, the beast…tonight!! Failing that we may be the first on the scene if it does kill tonight and, with God's help, be able to track the fell creature to it's lair." The Professor's eyes gleam with the light of fanaticism as he talks.

Caine finally broke his Contact with the Fanatic's Eyes and slowly Looked around at The Manner in which the 'Professor' was Living.

There's no mistaking the rolling eyes and the grim look on Jim Buchanan's face, as he shakes his head. "You've done a lot of tracking, have you ?" he says, sourly, to the Professor. "You think it's just a matter of showing up and going after some kind of super powerful, smart-as-a-man creature of the supernatural........Good Gawd.... Got yer will written out yet ? I think that there has got to be some more information gathered on this damned thing, before we go hootin' and hollerin' off into the night after it - as likely to kill each other as not from stray bullets, but then it may just die laughin' at us. But more likely pick us off, one by one, cos we're just too stupid to pay attention and use our brains. Look, Professor, I understand ---more than you know----what it feels like to want revenge for something. And I know that when you let your feelings control your actions, you're a dead man walking. We're hunting something much stronger than any of us, and as smart as us, and a natural predator; all we have on it is the fact that it doesn't know we're after it yet."

After hearing Jim Buchanan's recommendations O'Shaunessy comments, "I tend to agree with our American friend. To go charging off without proper planning is foolish. I think we must get a better idea of this creature we face." He goes through the newspaper accounts and intently studies the map.

Caine joined O'Shaunessy, Focussing entirely upon the Newspaper Clippings.

The light fades from the Professor's eyes as he hears Jim's words and suddnly he looks like an ordinary, tired man…albeit one teetering on the edge of insanity. "How right you are,sir" he sighs, "You are obviously a man of action, " he gestures at Jim's rifle case, "How do you suggest we proceed?"

Seeing the merit in listening to Jim's opinion, Arran too looks to the man. "Surely it's worth at least staking out the area, maybe we can stop it if we plan this thing right?" he asks, "Or at least see what we're dealing with? We can take precautions, right? There are ways of killing..." he paused, looking uncomfortable, "such creatures. We could try to track it, maybe find where it lives the rest of the time, like the Professor says. If he's right we don't want to try and fight it on a full moon if we can avoid it anyway."

The Professor unrolls a large map of London and points out the murder sites. "The first victim, Sarah, was found in a small side alley here, off Conyers Way. She had been disembowelled. The second, Amy, here," he points to the map," on Anders Lane..she too was disembowelled. The third and fourth, Susan and Penelope respectively, were at these points here, and here! The only connection between the vicitims was, apart from the gruesome death, that they were all members of the oldest profession."

Gerald speaks: "Don't want to put out the fire with ah... ah... large bucket, but, let me get this straight. A plaster cast of a big foot, ladies-of-the night dying all over Limehouse in disagreeable circumlocutions, is that all you got? Surely something else, something, what's the word, waitaminute, plausible, least?" He looks straight at the Professor, rasing his voice beyond acceptable social dictum. "Something more, dear sir?" . Visions of high-ranking priests laughing uprariously at his plaster-cast of a plaster-cast...

Caine slowly raised His Serene and Beautiful Face from the Clippings to softly say: "Hear, Hear." "

'Proof is nothing. Faith, everything' " quotes the Professor, in a flat, tonelesss voice. "Do these words sound familiar to you, Sir? They should, you yourself uttered them to me less than twenty-four hours ago. Have you really changed since then?"

"Faith?" asked Caine evenly. "Do you Really expect Me, Sir, like Alice, to Believe Three Impossible Things before my Breakfast?"

"No, just one improbable thing before moonrise," is the Professor's despairing reply. His eyes intent as if he is trying to will Caine to believe him.

"If we could be in the area, perhaps set up some kind of reconn," Arran mentions quietly, "maybe we could see enough to make all of you believe. Certainly something is stalking these women and unless we do something about it, then maybe no one will ever stop that. If we don't find anything tonight, we'll have to wait another month."

Caine addressed Arran. "Well Said, Sir. That much, at least, is True, Sensible and, I dare say, Acceptable."
Arran smiled, not needing, but appreciating Caine's approval. The killing was what they needed to focus on to get this sorted, no matter what they all thought it was, people were dying and that had to be stopped. If they could at least agree on that point then they just might get this worked out and handled properly. He didn't speak, simply nodding.

"All right then." says Jim Buchanan, "If I may have a look at that there map, Professor O'Shaunessy.....the red-light district extends along this road here, and here, I reckon, but there's dolls here and there too, and the lights aren't too good, and the policemen...constables ? you call 'em, they stay out of the area mostly, or they don't look too close for trouble. Professor O'Shaunessy, do you notice any likely spots for this creature to be hunting in ?"

Looking at the grizzled American Michelline nods "Watches in possible hunting areas sound like a good idea. Caution should be practiced though as the Yard tends to frown on vigilantes. Another question about these attacks Professor, do they seem to occur around the time of the full moon?"

"It doesn't seem to strike in the same place twice, so maybe we can set up watches in the possible areas. A man on a rooftop with a rifle can make a good accounting of his watch area, if that damn fog don't drift in off the river. I don't think we want to fight it; we want to track it back to its lair. I'd bet it knows the city streets well enough, so we'll have to be careful not to get jammed into an alleyway or a mews. Now what kind of ways are there to kill a werewolf ? Cos I don't think it's going to want to have a nice chat with us, when it realises we know what it is, and mean to harm it. But I think it's going to boil down to a lucky guess, or when we hear some poor woman scream in the night." Jim looks down at the carpet for an instant, possibly thinking of the face of a young woman, in gaslight, maybe one of the many he sees almost everyday, in his neighbourhood--just women, working for whatever they can get, to survive. "This is not a game, it's not a fun safari - it's a dangerous, serious task. Once we determine what areas are best to watch, and what equipment is useful, we determine who's going, with whom." He pauses. "I have the benefit of experience, when it comes to hunting; I don't mean to run rough over you gentlemen, but it's my trade, and I know it---though I never hunted a werewolf before. Ain't there a gunsmithy on Bond Street -- d'y'reckon he can cook up some silver bullets ?"

"Done a bit of hunting myself when I was in India. Never werewolf though. The silver bullets sound a good thought and perhaps some wolfsbane." agrees O'Shaunessy.

"I would heartily recommend Stanford & Sons, the Bond Street gunsmiths. I think you will find that they are quite capable of producing silver bullets at very short notice." The Professor smiles for the first time in a long while, "I can vouch for the quality of their work." Crossing to his desk he opens the top drawer and produces a large revolver. Opening the chamber he removes one of the bullets revealing it to be made of silver.

Smothering a grin, Arran nodded, his gaze drawn to the opened drawer. It was strangely comforting to know that his father wasn't the only person in this country who kept such bizarre forms of ammunition. He wasn't sure about the wolfsbane, but no doubt that was in the study and adjoining rooms somewhere in that old house.

As Legitimate Topics of Conversation Rapidly Expanded to Include Wolfsbane and Silver Bullets, it struck Caine that he was, indeed, very much like Alice, after all. He was attending the Mad Hatter's Tea Party at this very moment.

"Well, I don't have much else to do, so why not chase a werewolf." Says Jim Buchanan. "It surely beats scrounging up another safari job. And Lord knows I've looked a mighty fool before, for lesser things. Gentlemen, there's something out there, someone or something, that's killing off working girls --that's plain. Bond Street, eh ? Think they're open now for business ?" He eyes Caine. "Surely, you'd want to see what happens tonight - there's nothing more satisfying than seeing you were exactly right about something, is there ?"

Caine calmly replied: "Sir, I believe You Mistake Me.I am Not One of those Sorry, Thankless and Heartless Brutes who Love Nothing Better than to Take Pleasure in the Failure of Others, especially when they are as Earnest and Well-Intentioned as My Present Company.However, I Do Despise an Unsolved Mystery.Therefore, Tonight, if You Fine Gentlemen would still Accept a Man who has foolishly Put His Faith in Rational Thought, I would Endeavour to Discover, For Myself, and With My Own Eyes, Who, exactly, is behind These Unspeakable Acts, and to Put an End to Them."

"My apologies," says Jim Buchanan, to Caine, with a grin. "And that's the spirit...now, who's up for a trip to the gunsmith's?"

"I beleve that I would like to accompany you to the gunsmith." Michelline says to Buchanan.

As the conversation developed quickly around him, Arran wondered how exactly to say that he already had some without totally alienating himself. There was no way he was going to mention his father's account either, since he still refused to believe that the man had done business with the smiths. It just seemed too strange. At Jim's suggestion those who felt the need for munitions gathered their belongings and, making their goodbyes, left to begin the journey to Bond Street.

"Perhaps you gentlemen would consider returning here after you have procured the necessary?" asks Professor Hodgeson, looking slightly worried.

"Would you mind if I stayed a while longer?" Arran asked Professor Hodgeson, "Perhaps we could sort out this wolfsbane?"

"By all means, my dear young man, please treat my home as if it was your own." The Professor seems glad to know that he will not be left alone, although it is a bright and sunny day outside of the house. Indeed, the day is so bright that it makes the interior of the house seem gloomy and sinister by comparison…..

"Thanks," notes Arran politely, grateful for the ease of acceptance. All the signs had pointed towards the Professor preferring company today and he intended to at least provide that. Perhaps there was a chance of the man speaking a little more about his concerns in a smaller group even, but he didn't push his luck straight away. "I sure hope you don't mind me staying, dear Professor, to keep company, of sorts. Please, enlighten me, why would a werewolf prefer women above anyone else? Does your research indicate why?"

"Who can say? Maybe because they are weak and defenceless. Above all, they are alone when they are attacked. Wolves always attack the weak, young or elderly when they hun, why should a werewolf be any different."

Garibaldi wonders for a second longer, then it dawns on him. "The perfect stratagem to catch the killer would be for someone to dress as a woman, tonight, and walk the streets, with the rest of our foolhardy group somewhere around. Ready with a gun to do the ill deed. Hidden in the corset? No, too tight... If no one feels keen to do it, why, I'm prepared to give it a shot. Shot, eh, eh, funny, no? Shave my moustache, whatever. Things like that grow back, no? And then Caine would know all about make-up, being in the theatre business, enough to fool anyone, especially in the dark. What do you think, Arran. You would make a fine handsome lady yourself, being young and all!" With that he lets out a chuckle, and says "We'll fool this monster tonight! Monster soup! Ha! Ha!"

"An Excellent Idea, My Good Man," Caine said. He lowered His Elegant Face to Read the Silver Pocketwatch in His Hand. "I Shall return This Evening with Costumes, Theatrical Make-up and Ladies' Wigs, but, to my sorrow, I must Now regretfully Depart due to a Previous Engagement. I am to be Welded into a Water-filled Milkcan and Dropped into The Thames today at the stroke of Three. Shall We Agree then, Gentlemen, to Meet again, right here, at Six this Evening?"

"That will be perfect," agrees the Professor.

Opening and closing his mouth as the dialogue continues, Arran isn't entirely sure he likes this new turn of events. His expression mirrors this as he looks, almost helplessly, between those present. Before he protests verbally, though, his mind mercilessly replays the images of the young ladies' corpses, ripped and torn and bloodied. No one should have to die like that, regardless of upbringing, station or profession. Closing his eyes for a moment, the young man takes a short breath before opening them again to regard Gerald and then Caine. "If you think it'll work," he opened, "I'll do it." There is a backlit sensation of fear in those hazel eyes, but the determination overrules it, willing to risk his own life if it will save others. Besides, Arran comforts himself, he'll be better armed and protected than the other street life. The thought pattern totally diverts him from the second half of Caine's speech until he realises, a moment later, what was said. Frowning, he regards the Englishman and sighs. "If he can do that, I'm sure I can act as bait for you guys," he adds ruefully, smiling wryly at the way things are going, "Let's get this thing off the streets, right?"

"Quite Right," said Caine. "However, Sir, We are Gentlemen, Not "Guys". You would Do Well to Remember that. Unless, that is, In Preparation for this Evening's Performance, you have Intentionally Adopted the Appalling Speech Habits and Mannerisms of a Common Gutter Whore. In which case, I can only Apologize for My Obtuseness, and Warmly Commend you, Sir, for Your Fine, Accurate and Skillful Display in the Art of Mimicry and Vocal Imitation. Until Six Then.... Gentlemen. Professor."

Stifling a smile and ending up with an expression somewhere between humour and chagrin, Arran regarded Caine. He couldn't figure him out since every time he thought he had a bead on him, the man seemed to change. Settling for a laidback response, he fired off a salute and wondered what he'd find wrong with that. "No offence meant and none taken," Arran told him, "and, no I wasn't practising. I guess we're just a little less particular about the way the words are spoken back home and more interested in what's being said," he frowned slightly then, resenting the 'whore' comment, but seeing no point in starting an argument, "I don't intend to fight over language with you, sir," he added, keeping sarcasm out of his voice, "but I'd thank you not to instruct me. We obviously have our differences and I bear no grudge to you for those. I hope you can offer me the same courtesy. Travel safely and be well, see you at six." Arran was used to taking orders, but this wasn't the army and he saw no need to be treated as if he were still in it.

Caine raised his Brow as he slid a Gloved Hand into His Top-Coat. He said softly: "Grudge? Sir, the Spirit inwhich my Statement was Intended was Not Instruction at all, I assure You, but merely Genuine Helpfulness. My Good Man, A Gentleman's way of Speaking absolutely Defines Him. For Heaven's Sake, Have You considered the Disastrous Consequences should You apply for a Job in Person? Would not your Prospective Employer Hear your def..." Caine stopped Mid-word and lowered His Blue Eyes. His voice grew softer still. "Forgive me, Sir. In continuing to Offer my Assistance, I am Succeeding only in Offending You further. Please accept My Apologies, Mr. Lewis, and warmest wishes for a Reasonably Pleasant Afternoon, considering Our Circumstances," Caine said Sincerely with a Small Hopeful Smile.

Looking at his boots for a moment, Arran lifted his gaze and gave a soft sigh, before aiming a wider smile up at Caine. "No apology necessary, sir," he offered, tone friendly and open, "Forgive my bluntness, but I am new to your country, and your ways. While I appreciate your assistance is well intentioned, I have loyalties to my own homeland. I have no wish to annoy you, but I am not about to be groomed into an English gentleman. However, I'll do my best not to offend your sensibilities either, deal?" He added, with a wry smile, "After tonight, it may be that you won't have to put up with me at all..."

""Deal"," repeated Caine. "Though Surely It Shan't Come to That. Good Day, Gentlemen."
Caine departed. Donning his Top Hat against the Warm and Glorious Sun, he Smiled. Conditions seemed Favourable enough to Avoid the Dreadful Bother of Having to Cut a Hole in the Ice for the Milkcan.

After Caine departs, the Professor returns his revolver to the top drawer and, before closing the drawer, turns to a bookshelf behind him and takes down a large tome. As he does so, you catch a glimpse of a book that could only be a journal of sorts in the drawer. Turning back, he closes the drawer and shows the title of the book…'Chyldrenne offe Thee Nyte'. Laying it on the desk he makes for the door, saying "I will be gone for a short while, I must collect the Wolfsbane from around the house and make a few preparations in my laboratory."

Standing to go after him, Arran stops and reconsiders. If he'd wanted company he would have asked, or hinted at it. The tome calls to him silently as if magnetic and he casts a gaze sideways at Gerald before crossing the room to stroke the cover. Almost hearing the shouts of the 'forbidden' journal, Arran's hand skims over the drawer, tempted and he looks again to Gerald. To look and violate a trust, or to wait and ask? "Professor?" the young American aims to stop Hodgeson before he leaves, "What is it that you aren't telling us? What is it that you really think happened?" he can feel his own pulse rate quicken as he asks aloud, the echo of the questions he wants to ask his father so badly and perhaps never will. With a soft sigh, he prompts, tone still quiet, "I don't think that you would be so...." he struggles for a suitable word, "that you would be likely to encounter two such creatures in such a short space of time. I'm concerned that you may be in very real danger and I think you know that too. I want to help, as do my colleagues here and we'll want to know as much as we can about what we're likely to get into. Is there any reason this creature might want to get to you personally?"

" As your colleague Professor O'Shaunessy will no doubt be able to tell you, there is an old Irish saying 'Touch the Devil and you can't let go'. Perhaps a more accurate saying would be ' If you are touched by the Devil, he will never let go.' .With those cryptic words, the Professor leaves the room and his footsteps can be heard groing fainter as he goes further into the house.

"Yeah, tell me about it," mutters Arran, renewing his interest in the book the Professor obviously invited them to read. Opening it, he begins to read the introductory pages, the journal in the closed drawer still hinting at its presence via a nagging in his mind. For now, he sticks with the intended tome, "Want me to read out loud so we can both go through this together?" he offers Gerald in a friendly tone, turning to look at the other man.

"Very well, you can read it, since you are obviously quite brave enough", sitting down on a nearby chair to listen. "Perhaps you should just skim the pages until something particular strikes you of interest. Werewolves, preferably, since that is what we are hunting tonight." He'd seen books of that sort before, when breaking into suspect priests' houses for the Church's bidding, and of course when the jesuit priest read passages as his private tutor. He had never actually dared handle one, let alone read it; the schooling he had recieved in the occult in preparation for his tasks always having been somewhat cursory. Superstition and a nagging desire for the protection of his good soul felt somewhat infantile at this point. Nevertherless, he felt somewhat safer just listening.

Reading from the book only enhaces the nightmarish qualities of the werewolf, but one or two points seem to leap from the book as the pages are turned. A person bitten by a werewold does not immediately succumb to lycanthropy, but is slowly infected over a period of about two lunar months. The most interesting bit of information gleaned from the book is a reference to an alchemical preparation that is said to retard the onset of lycanthropy for a period of time. All that is missing from the book is the actual formula for making the solution…..

"Gerald..." Arran finally addresses the other man, after some time spent reading through the book, sharing the information he gleaned. He never exactly relished gaining information from tomes such as this, but since he arrived in this country it seemed he was fated to. Stories and facts he had never considered outside of fiction before have begun to nag at his dreams, filter into his subconscious and become, much as he reluctantly admits it, part of his life. The knowledge, however doesn't sit easily with him, forming a heavy burden in his mind as if the combined weight of each book is carried there. "Didn't the Professor say he was going to his laboratory?" At this stage in his voyage of reluctant and unwanted discovery, he would pretty much believe anything was possible, but the hope of youth still infected him. Perhaps, Arran considered, it was just paranoia taking a firm hold; that would at least be understandable. "You think I should go find him and ask?" he offered, torn.

"If you mean go and see whatever he might be doing, yes. A laboratory, of all things... I, in the meantime will continue reading the book, perhaps.". With that Garibaldi stands and approaches the young man. "Go and see what the Professor might be doing, if you want to, that is. You seem the closest to him at the present moment. I suspect he trusts you. More than can be said for the rest of us." He pauses and rubs his chin. "An odd assortment of peoples, our little complicatory group...". With that he asks for the book. "May I?"

"Okay," Arran decided, still a little wary of wandering around, but the Professor had implied it was alright to treat the house as his own. Somehow he wasn't sure he meant this though. "And yeah, course you may," he handed the book over to the Italian gentleman, finger marking the last section he read for ease of checking. "I don't know about trusting me, I'm not sure he trusts anyone, but I think perhaps we share a common knowledge of the fear of pursuit," he added cryptically, a sideways tilt of his head as he regarded the other man showing his lack of ease at mentioning such things. He smiled then, dismissing it. "Yeah, we certainly are a decent mixture of personalities and cultures, huh? Think we can pull this off?" He asks, hoping for affirmation as he walks to the door, checking beyond to gain some idea of which way the Professor might have headed.

A visit to the Gunsmith…

The journey to Bond Street takes no more than 20 minutes by hansom cab. The shop of Stanford & Sons is easy to find and the proprietor himself greets you at the door, dressed in a suit of sombre black.
"Good morning, gentlemen, or rather, " he corrects himself as he looks at his pocket watch, "good afternoon. May I be of assistance in any way? As you can see we have a fine range of weapons and accessories…"

Jim Buchanan rakes an approving eye over the items on display. "Sir, it's a pleasure to see such a fine establishment. Upon a friend's recommendation, I am here to obtain some specialty items. I require a few .45 calibre rounds for a Martini-Henry, made with pure silver; I also require some pistol rounds, of the same species. I imagine that the grain load would have to be adjusted from my typical grain, to compensate for the weight difference between the lead and the silver, but I am sure that you are the best one to be the judge of that."

"Silver bullets, eh" muses the proprietor, "and I'm guessing that you need them before the end of today, sir. Am I right? "

While the staff are involved in the making of the bullets you are shown around the shop and offered a cup of tea while you wait. At one point Mr Stanford clears his throat and asks," I hope you don't mind me inquiring, sir, but would you be involved in the Limehouse Murders at all? Those poor young girls, a life of hell and then a death beyond imagining." He pats his forehead with his kerchief and takes a nervous sip of tea.

At that, Jim Buchanan's face darkens. "I live on a street, alongsides, with a lot of those women." he says, "And they're just trying to survive, same as us all. Lord knows I've taken some comfort there...and I mean to stop a murderer, even if it takes a silver bullet to do it." There is no anger in his voice, just grim death. "So, Sir, you've taken some time to look over the Limehouse murders ? May I ask your perspective on the matter ?"

"Some of the stories I have heard leave me trembling, Sir. There is talk of a supernatural creature….as you are no doubt aware. Silver bullets to stop a werewolf…..is that not the myth?" The poor man's face is pale and glistens with a fine sheen of perspiration. "You are not the only man to ask me for silver bullets this week." With an effort he pulls himself together and continues, "Whoever, or whatever, is responsible for the killings must be stopped and I wish you good fortune with your endeavours, for your sake and for the sake of every man, woman and child in this city!"

With a sense of foreboding, Jim Buchanan asks, "Exactly HOW many people have come in here, looking for silver bullets ?" The last thing he wants to do is be in a hail of very expensive bullets !

"Well, it's hard to say, Sir, let's see…there was Professor Hodgeson, a fine gentleman, one or two of his close friends and even a policeman, but I swore that I would not reveal his name to a soul.", replies the proprietor.

Eventually the bullets are ready and, after paying for them, and bidding the proprietor a good afternoon, you are ready to return to the professor's house for the six o'clock meeting.

Jim Buchanan thanks the gunsmith.
"It's been a pleasure, Sir." he says. As O'Shaunessy and he are waiting on the kerb for the hansom, he shakes his head. "FOUR other people out there hunting this thing, too ? At least four, never mind the Great White Hunters using real lead. Dammit......" Then Jim grins. "This better work tonight.....I just spent my rent for the next month on bullets !" And he does mention, "I wonder who else went to that village with the Professor....."