TURN FOUR (b)

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Already having checked over his handgun in the shoulder holster and the concealed knife, Arran lightly touches the hilt of a sword which is sheathed at his side. Beneath his light leather jacket at the back is a slight rise down the middle of the cloth so something is obviously stashed there too. His clothing, like Jim's, has not been changed since he has spent almost the entire afternoon at the Professor's house anyway. The man's inherent fear had kept him anchored in his company, wanting to ensure his safety as best he could, and now they were splitting up to take on the streets, a feeling of slight nausea rippled in his stomach. His gaze took in Jim Buchanan's as he was referred to and he sighed. There was little to be gained from starting the argument here, but he winced at the reference and fired off a quick, smart salute. "Sir, yes sir," he muttered quietly with the slightest of sarasm, falling in behind Jim with a last concerned look back at Professor Hodgeson. "Good luck, gentlemen."
"And to You, Sirs," Caine said spiritedly.

Jim Buchanan favours Arran with one of those sour looks; but lets it slide. Which may well be the closest he'll come to being nice...to a Yankee. He is well assured his firearms are in perfect order and loaded; he will proceed as planned, to an area of the slums agreed upon by the group. "You ever shot a man, boy ?" Jim asks, in a low voice, on the way.

Stepping into stride beside and slightly to the left of Jim in a habitual two team position, Arran stifles a smile at the look from the older man. From here on in, it would be a lot simpler to think of this as a military operation, with Jim being the more experienced it made sense to listen to his advice and act on his say so. It just bit a little at being addressed as 'boy' all the time. Still, he'd been called worse and despite their apparent differences, the young man already had a considerable respect for the other American. The war had been tough all round, and he'd heard a lot about it during his military upbringing. With a sigh, masked by a deep breath as if preparatory, he too lowered his voice in response. "Yes," he states simply, his gaze reconning the area quickly before resting for a short minute on Jim's, "unfortunately. I've not got your combat experience though," he continued humbly, "I admit that. And I left before I graduated, though I didn't want to," his expression turns sad but he bites it back and pushes the emotion below surface, "I'm competent and I won't shoot you in a blind panic, but I accept your leadership in this one, sir. And I know how to follow orders," he added with a more neutral gaze, "if that's the way you want to play this."

"I've led a lot of safaris." said Jim Buchanan, looking at Arran with a level gaze, as if weighing his value. "But I wasn't an officer in the war. And we all have our loads to bear; death has been my handiwork for most of my life." he says the last in a softer voice. "Treat my orders as suggestions, intended to prolong your life."

Arran looks slightly surprised at the admission, having expected Jim to claim more battle experience that he had just. He didn't ask though, and there was no way he would without prompting; a man's past was his own until he decided to share it with you, especially in this case. There was no sense in fuelling a potential North/South dispute until they needed to stage one. "I would have been an officer," he stated, a little wistfully, voice obviously tinged with regret, "if I'd stayed to graduate West Point, but it seems the universe and my father had other ideas," he changed tone then, back to the matter in hand, "Thanks," he added, "I will. So, should I address you as Jim, Mr Buchanan, sir...?" he queried, wary after the Caine confrontation on etiquette.

Jim Buchanan regarded Arran with a long, unreadable look, as if considering deeply before replying, "You may call me Jim." he allowed, a bit grudgingly. "I don't think I can stand being called 'sir' for very long, and it takes too long for you to say Mr. Buchanan, so Jim will have to do."

He waited, reasonably patiently, while the look was metered out and then nodded. The tone hadn't gone unnoticed, but Arran offered a grateful smile. Perhaps it would go okay. Normally hands would be shaken, but he wasn't going to push luck that was already on thin ice. "Thanks," he acknowledged, his own return gaze saying more than the word did to show that he at least tried to understand the consideration behind the decision. He shrugged then, figuring 'boy' was going to stick, so not bothering to reinforce the use of his own first name. If the man had wanted to know he'd have asked.

Sandow, happy to comply to both his fellow hunters' wishes, steps into marching line on the other unoccupied side of Buchanan, smiling genially as if off on a picnic or sunday jaunt, saying: "Off to an smasher of an adventure, dear gentlemen! I totally agree with Mr. Lewis, you have seen action, hell and troubles, Mr.Buchanan, so you will lead us both. Tactics, a final prepare, a master plan of wonderful complexity! Your experience in such gruesome endeavours will lead us to victory, I can sense it in my backbones! The seat of my pants! I for one have shot a man or two, never fatally, of course, but only for the noblest intentions. Duels, you see, a man's honour. Shooting wild things, of the feathery kind, of course, and a bit of target shooting as well. Well, there's my limited experience, that's all of it. A forty-five will test it out, not for the first time, or the last one!", patting his carrying bag alongside his strides. "But dear sir, how can I put it? It's a matter of bullets, silvery ones at that. Would you be considerate as to lend me and Mr. Lewis some? We will repay you, of course. Maybe one or two for each of us will do smasher. Is that what they say, 'smasher'?"

Jim Buchanan merely looks at Sandow, and shakes his head. "This is not a trip in the park, or a foppish duel for honour." he says, in a calm and level voice. "We're hunting a dangerous monster, as far as we know. My ammunition is carefully calibrated for my Martini-Henry and my pistols, in grain load - but I will spare you three silver bullets for your .45. I cannot assure their accuracy. If I had more time this expedition would be properly outfitted. But in hunting, I have some small experience....so keep quiet and pay attention." He looks from Arran to Sandow. "I'll be the one up front, and the most open to attack; you both have to remain alert, in case we get a flank or rear attack. Pistols are only accurate to a certain distance. Don't fire until you are sure -- I mean, damned sure, of a target; these bullets are hellishly expensive. Be aware of the conditions we move through; look, and listen. Shadows can conceal a lot, and the alleyways...mews... get very tight in spots. Converse in a low voice; no stories, no chatter, no conversation, just business. We move to the spot O'Shaunessy suggested, and see what the territory looks like; then we will be posted on lookout, and I will be roaming around out there. I would bet the thing's going to go for a woman alone, maybe as she leaves the gin mill."

While trained in such matters, though not to any extent in a city environment, Arran listens dutifully to Jim's words and smiles as he addresses Sandow. He had a hunch that the Professor's party would be in more danger than theirs, but that wasn't an excuse for complacency. Danger was out here and it struck on opportunity as well as forethought. "I have a couple of silver rounds for my .45," he interjected when Buchanan mentioned them, looking at the older man to see if there was a reaction. There usually was when he said things like that in conversation, but in this company, he wasn't sure the usual rules applied. The group heads off towards the heart of Limehouse, the sides of the streets already beginning to clear as the honest citizens head for their homes and the unfortunate ones begin their night's work.

Jim will look around for the prostitutes, and observe their general condition (desperate, drunken, the one that lives upstairs from him, whatever) before going to chat with anyone. But he does make note of their locations, especially the ones a little too close to a dark alleyway or other ill-lit area that might conceal a killer. The hour still being early, the visible people are still in a fairly sober state, although there is not doubt that this will change before the end of the evening. The bolder of the prostitues meet Jim's eyes as he looks at his surroundings, but none of them seem familiar.

Flanking Jim to his left, Arran keeps a fairly constant reconn on his arc of sight, checking for anything or anyone that might be a threat or a potential victim. This part of London, as most of the city, is not known to him so he relies on Jim's knowledge for a specific direction and aims to keep an idea of the general sense of compass direction, noting any landmarks, no matter how insignificant in the term of the word, as they walk. Under the hunter's advice, he keeps a relatively low profile noise wise, letting Jim decide, at least initially, who to talk to. His gaze tracks back and forth with the surroundings, checking in visually with Jim's eye contact from time to time.

Sandow will flank Jim to his right, seizing any opportunity to lag behind for a minute. He will then step into the shadows while making sure no one can spot him from anywhere, and quickly load the three silver bullets into his gun lifted from the bag, leaving the rest of the normal bullets in the gun's barrel. He will then place the gun in his coat's pocket, besides the whistle, and quickly catch up with the rest of the party. Once to the right and behind of Buchanan, he will walk without any comment, making sure to scan the streets all around him for anything unusual, be it person or sound or movement. He will especially take notice of the rooftops above, for any shadow that might betray a presence. Sandow is tense, but calm and collected, if not focused, secretly taking a slight degree of pleasure from the possibility of danger ahead.

As you walk down the street, a young lady walks out of the Duke of Marlborough public house as you are passing. " 'Ello, Jim, "she says, in a broad Cockney accent, "Ain't seen yew for a bit. What're yew doin' ternight?" She is a lovely girl of about twenty years of age with shoulder length brown hair and a pretty smile. It is only when you look into her eyes that you see she has witnessed too much for the world for such a young girl. As you recall her name is Molly…..

"Molly, go home." growls Jim, "Aincha heard about the killins ?" he shakes his head. "Look, this is not the night to be out, can you get by tonight without hooking ?"

" Oi ain't worried 'bout no killins, " she retorts, a slightly patronising expression on her face, "Oi've got Black John to look arter me." She nods at a large man with a dark black beard leaning against a lamppost a few yards down the street. He is watching you with careful gaze, his eyes seemingly missing nothing.

Arran looks at Jim, then Sandow and smiles grimly. Somehow he doubts the minder has the right kind of ammunition for this threat. With a slightly soulful expression, the young man turns his gaze on Molly. "He might not be able to help you if what we're looking for finds you," he told her softly, "But," he adds, "I'm sure he'll be a bit of a deterrent. Do you all have guys to watch over you now?" there is a hint of hopefullness in his words as he watches her pretty face, ignoring the warnings screaming loudly in his head. Intuition. And mental imagery. Events that may never happen.

"Only those of us what have steady jobs, " she grins, "most others jus' work for a night's doss money."

Sandow has a quick look up and down the street, then turns back to the poor girl: "S'not safe tonight, sweetie. If you see anything that scares you in the smallest, just run to your man, you hear? S'not safe at all. Did you hear things about the killer from your gals? Something that the coppers didn't hear about? We'd be...", rubbing his thumb and finger together and giving a sly smile, "...very interested."

"Wot yew fink Oi am? 'F Oi heard anyfing 'bout this killer, Oi'd 'ave Black John and 'is mates onto him 'fore yew could spit!!" she exclaims indignantly, in a voice loud enough to bring Black John upright and moving towards you. His gaze and his stride are anything but passive and reassuring to you...

Backing away to a more respectable distance and gently pushing Sandow's chest with an outstretched arm so he moved back too, Arran looked over to the incoming minder. His expression a mixture of anticipation and apology, low profile as he expected Jim's words to be more convincing than any he might utter, he addresses the sturdy local man. "Sorry," he offers, gaze sincere and confident, "we was just concerned, but I think you've got it covered. We're trying to find this guy, y'know, being dumb, curious and likely asking too many questions. Sorry to disturb you," his hazel eyes track quickly back to Molly then, his accent lilting the soft tone as he adds, "Take care, alright ma'am?"

"Yeah, and be careful." says Jim Buchanan, nodding to her. "See ya tomorrow night, Molly." he winks, and moves off before John gets too stroppy. He looks up and along the streets, observing the shadows, the buildings, the people, scanning for trouble, paying attention to what he sees, once again silent.

Black John glares at you as you move off, but makes no move to hinder you.

Sandow continues with the rest of the group, making no eye contact with the girl or her minder. Glad that the incident didn't develop into something hazardous to his health, Sandow whispers to Arran: "Thanks for that. That was very, very indubitably stupid of me. Should know to learn my place, or something. Not many people act in a cordially way, but you do, certainly so, too much."

A little taken aback, Arran's expression shows the slight surprise at Sandow's words. "Don't worry about it," he consoles him gently, "I'm sure to screw up sooner or later," he smiles, "we're all allowed a mistake, right? Just so long as no one gets killed and I don't think the minder would have gone that far."

With that he retreats to his marching orders, humbled and embarrassed, at the right and back of Buchanan, resuming to scan all around him and above.

As the hour approaches eight o'clock you arrive at the area recommended by Professor O'Shaunessy. The area is fairly quiet with people passing briefly through and then moving on about their business. A narrow street, it is off the main thoroughfare and appears perfect for any nefarious deeds that demand privacy. A block away you can hear the prostitutes calling out to prospective clients and the occasional burst of coarse laughter. Two or three of them have gathered outside the King's Head Public House, which is situated on the corner of the road. Looking down the quiet street you can see one or two small alleyways leading off the street.

A little distracted by some thought pattern going round his head, Arran pulls out Caine's business card and flicks it back and forth between thumb and forefinger. The man will still be at home now, dressing up for the part and there is a nagging hunch in the young American's mind as he considers the night ahead. It might be nothing, it probably is nothing, but he can't keep it to himself for much longer without risking the guilt factor. For now, after the initial vrey quick reconn of their surroundings, he is not really paying much attention to the geography. "Guys," he starts, following the word with a long pause as he tries to decide whether to say it out loud, "Either of you notice the way Professor Hodgeson kept scratching his left arm? It's just been bugging me, he wouldn't give me a straight answer when I asked him about it. Said something about an accident, but I dunno..." His expression when he looks up at each man is one of uncertainty and apologetic indecision. He'll see what their reaction is before he goes any deeper into potential suspicions.

Sandow thinks about this for a while, scratching his back. "I've got something that might help solve a lot of questions and give needed answers about the dear Professor, if you gentlemen care to have a look at it...", with that he smiles slyly but with some slight wariness, if not weariness. "But we need a good light, and some privacy. Gaslight, pah, you can barely see your shoelaces from your toe...", with that he scratches his back one more time, repositioning something underneath. Then motioning towards the King's Head, he says calmly: "What if we sit down inside that pub and partake of the local bitter? If what I have doesn't interest you, we can always ask the locals for some information, or rather, you lot can. I've had enough worry of tonight's troubles and strife. Ha! Troubles and strife is all I get for my worries..."

You never have to ask Jim twice if he wants a drink. "Absolutely." says Buchanan. "Let's go to the pub before I die of thirst." "Oh, yes, I did notice the Professor dodgin' questions." says Jim Buchanan. "And it did occur to me that the Prof himself may be the beast, which could explain his gettin' mighty upset. I'm just hoping O'Shaunessy gets them to where he said he was going to try to get them.....it's not that far from here, if you move fast; I took a good look at the map. How about if you two men wait around here, and I slink on over there and have a look-see ? Or, if you want to double back to O'Shaunessy's position, I recommend you two stay on well-lit streets, and proceed cautiously - I'll shadow you, in the darkness, you could say that you left me drunk in some bar..pub..whatever. If it is the Professor, I think the only one he'll be worried about is me, when it comes to the shootin'." Jim lowers his voice and looks down at his beer. I have a reputation for killin'."

Arran listens intently to both his companions as they enter the pub and order a round of drinks. Seems his suspicions are not alone in the company, which is somewhat of a relief. Taking a seat to Jim's left, he pushes his own glass away across the table and looks slowly upward at Jim. There is obviously a lot going unsaid here, and he isn't sure now is the best time to explore the past too deeply. "Occupational hazard," he adds, soft tone lilting, "Being a soldier and all," his face is curious but not questionning, leaving the man his privacy unchallenged. "As to checking out our suspicions," he continues, "I think we should stick together. If the Professor is involved, there might well be two wolves out tonight. I think we have to consider that a possibility at least, and we have to try and warn the others if we're all agreed that there might be more to the Professor..." Arran lets his voice trail as the unpleasant thought made it out into the open. "Just be careful you're not the only one hiding in the shadows, okay?" he asks the other American, genuinely worried. After all, Professor Hodgeson had sent them here. "What did you have to show us, er Mr Sandow?" he asked then, changing the tilt of the conversation.

Sandow looks at his two companions briefly, as if making up his mind. "I had no choice to do what I did. You must understand. I might have been a thief once, but that was long ago and long, long past. Another country, in fact. The Professor might be some kind of monster, who knows really, but I still prefer to do him no malice or ill. But we need to know more, anything at all that is being retained by the Professor, we need to know why and therefore and all of that. Like this night's faring, we are putting our lives at risk, not only the kind Professor's. But, you see, above all else, I intend to replace it tonight or tomorrow, so that it's almost like it was never taken at all. It is not theft, just borrowing. See? Well, anyway, here it is..." With that Sandow lifts a journal out of the back of his trousers, and places it on the table. "If you care to read it for any interesting, otherwise I'll have a look". With that he looks, with a hint of unqualified guilt and embarrassment at whatever they might be thinking of him now.

Like a rabbit staring at a torch, and mesmerised by it, Arran stares at the journal. The one the Professor had kept hidden in the drawer, the diary he'd not wanted anyone to read until his death. And the book that had to hold all the answers to the questions the man refused to answer. Private words. "I can't believe you took that," he finally whispers, as if the horror of the act is far too great to speak out loud about, "I just...." Words apparently fail him at that point, his gaze managing to tear itself away from the journal to look at Jim.

Jim looks at Sandow, a slow grin spreading over his weatherbeaten face. "Well done, man." he says to Sandow, saluting with his glass, and gestures for him to open the journal and divulge the contents. He then notices Arran's shocked look and the grin widens. "Sorry, boy....." he drawls, "You've fallen in with murderers and thieves." The level gaze rests on Arran a moment, to judge his reaction, then flicks back to the journal.

Sandow looks down, suddenly not wanting to look at both of them. "Thief? I do my duty, that's all. Never for money. I remember one time my mother, dear bless her soul, took a knife off me that I had found on the streets. I must have been ten or so at the time. She held my hand, like so...", Sandow reaches for Arran's hand, gently opens it palm up, then traces a line across it with his index finger, "...then cut me with the blade, just once. I still have a slight scar, see? She told me the pain was good for me. That's all. So taking this...", pointing to the book, "is both bad and good for the Professor. I suspect mostly good." Sandow leans back, looking resigned and weary. "But if you, Mr. Lewis, want to return this journal untouched, well, so be it. Take it and you decide what to do with it. Just remember my mother, and her goodwill." Sandow pushes the journal towards Lewis.

Jim shrugs. "I meant no offence." he says, to Sandow. "I AM a murderer. I've killed for money and I've killed for drink - you ought to know what sort of person I've been, and what I'd like to become. I want to get an idea of who the Professor really is, and this looks like the best way to do it fast, right now, before another girl dies. That's my redemption.....service to atone for my many, very many sins. Let me see that journal." he reaches for the book, and will take it, open it, and start reading at the last few entries, then skip 25-30 days back, if not stopped.

Watching them both, Arran sighs. The look on his face, echoed in the soulful gaze, shows clearly that he doesn't care for the violation of privacy at all. Whatever happens now, the Professor will never believe they didn't all read it, should he find out it's been taken. With an expression somewhere between uncomfortable guilt and resignation, Arran meets Jim's gaze. Whether he likes it or not, they both have a point. And this will at least tell them what they need to know quickly. Another sigh and he reluctantly hands the book to Jim without further argument. "I can't honestly say I didn't think of reading it when I saw the journal in the desk drawer," he admits, "you guys probably think it's stupid, but I just couldn't," then looking down at his still outstretched palm, he lets his gaze pan up to look at Sandow. His talk of parents threatens to send Arran off on the ever present tangent involving another journal, a different dilemma. "It _was_ almost as if he wanted you to take it," he offered by way of compromise, "perhaps the Professor's seeking some kind of redemption too huh?" Finally, after a long thoughtful pause, he turns back to Jim and the book itself, wincing at his own question as he asks it. "Anything?" "Hmm...."

Jim says, halting every few words, as he reads the journal. "I WISH I'd gotten more schoolin', some of these words are real head-breakers. Nothin' yet. You'll know soon as I know."

Still looking decidedly uncomfortable with the idea, Arran shifts, drink forgotten for now, to where he can read over Jim's shoulder. He closes his eyes for a moment, steelinng himself and then opens them to look at the man and the book. "I got given way too much schooling," he mutters a little unhappily, "Which words?"