Verity sits up straighter and practically beams. True, this man doesn't quite seem to be altogether upstairs, as it were, but then everyone in Fallen London is a little peculiar. It's the lack of proper sunlight, probably.
"It's no trouble at all, sir." She puts down her mug. "What may I advise you on?"
Technically, of course, she's a policewoman, not a lawyer, but this is her first visitor and Verity's excited. Forgive her for going a little outside her brief.
"Ah, I suppose this cottage is on Watchmaker's Hill?" Verity doesn't wait for a reply- that's the only place she knows with regular rat infestations. "You may deal with the L.Bs with impunity, sir. After all, they're not really people, even if they do have a sort of low cunning."
She pauses.
"Though nailing a corpse of one to your front door might not be the best solution. Fresh meat tends to attract the fungus colonies."
A trio of men make their way in, two of them supporting the third member, who looks and smells drunk.
"Constable? Constable! We could use somewhere to put 'im for the night. Don't know who he is or where he lives, but he's being a right bloody nuisance," calls one of the harried-looking men.
"Don't have much worth appropriatin' either," the other notes sagely.
Verity's up immediately, the cell keys jangling in her hand.
"Come on, I think number 3's free." She leads the way out of the entrance area and down to the cells. "I don't suppose you could tell me where you found him? I need something for the records."
The cell block is small, dank and, once upon a time, had been whitewashed. Now it's more a sort of grey-greenwash. The general effect is of a cave that's been used as a toilet in the recent past.
The drunkard is placed on the far side of the cell.
Then, before one of the sober men can respond, the other claps him on the shoulder with a muttered "Cheers," and hurries off.
Leslie can do nothing but shoot a brief glare at the other before he gives the constable an answer. "A li'tle pass the Singing Mandrake - near Hernsford," he gives the name of one of the flophouses in the area. "Didn't seem to know where he was going - kept walking into one of the lower doors, and making a racket."
"Veilgarden has a lot to answer for. Half of the admissions we get are from around there- the place practically makes a virtue out of licentiousness. I'll guess he was trying to find his way home."
She turns to lock the cell door behind them.
"Well, I'll see he doesn't come to any harm while he sleeps it off. Thank you for being so public-spirited, sir."
It tends to be a safe (and therefore infrequently placed) bet that out of Concord Square's nightly clientele there'll be at least a half-dozen of the inebriated sort; and these in turn composed of a reasonably mixed sample from the general classification of Spirited Behaviours, ranging from the excessively jolly to the tiresomely melodramatic, with a liberal helping of belligerence to top things off.
So the one shuffling in between two burly members of the night patrol is a bit of an oddity, given his silence and apparent docility. Though it's not difficult to read what he's in for; there's the sway in his step, the reek of cheaper vintages on his breath. And the impressive shiner his remaining eye's become.
"Another one for tonight's lodgings, Constable," one of the officers calls out wearily.
"Aye... and thanks for th' carriage." A low murmur from the man, before peering up at his captor with a hint of a grin. "Shame y'can't stay the night. 'll be a sight lonely without yer comp'ny, sirs."
Verity nods and takes down the keys again. It's going to be a busy night by the looks of things- she hopes the cells don't fill with drunkards too quickly. At least before some of the earlier admissions can sober up.
"I'll take you to the cells." She stands up and leads the way. "A name wouldn't be too much to ask, would it? Providing he still remembers his."
"Hasn't said a word since we picked him up," the second officer mutters, shoving their charge forward-- who staggers briefly before catching himself and shuffling on, unaided. "And the man whose jaw he broke wasn't in a state to answer, as you might expect."
The drunk eyes Verity for a few moments, as though fascinated by the patterns of that rather prim bun attached to the rest of her head.
"Bern'rd Shanks, 'squire." Another murmur in the same bemused tone. "An' it weren't me who broke it, miss, so much as 'im who smashed it into m'hands."
"I'm sure." Verity's lips press together disapprovingly. "And I suppose all that beer just tipped itself into your mouth as well. How terrible to be such a victim of circumstance."
She steps out of the cell briskly and locks the door behind her.
"I'd advise you sleep the effects off and I'll let you out in the morning, provided the injured party doesn't press charges. Goodnight, Mister Shanks."
George flings open the door of the station and enters, looking alarmed. "Constable!" He cries, "I have been robbed! Yes, robbed!"
He seems a little tipsy, judging from the way he sways slightly on his feet, but he's not drunk yet. He's wearing an honest-looking workingman's suit, finely dotted with mud. His hair is in slight disarray, as though he'd rushed to arrive.
In reality, of course, he's not distressed in the slightest, but it just wouldn't do to let on.
Verity looks up sharply. The man looks like he's a little bit merry (honestly, is everyone in the Neath drinking tonight?) but that doesn't mean that he's lying. On the contrary, many thieves and pickpockets favour drunken marks for, well, obvious reasons.
"That's a serious allegation." She waves him over to the front of the desk and picks up a pencil. "Can you describe the incident, sir? When and where were you robbed, and what did the thieves take?"
George assumes a pitiful air as he approaches the desk, his movements carefully jerky and slightly uncoordinated. Well, alright. Perhaps it's not all an act, he has had a glass or two.
"A fellow I was drinking with in the Mandrake," he begins, his dark eyes seeking out the policewoman's. "Took every penny I had, a sum of four echoes." He sighs mournfully, and perhaps a touch melodramatically.
"I can give you the name he gave me," he continues, leaning in slightly and gazing imploringly at her, "if it would help. And a description. Yes, I think I can recall that."
The pencil scratches across the form as Verity takes down everything the man tells her in her neat copperplate handwriting.
"A name and description would be very useful indeed." she replies, her eyes still on the paper. "And your name and address too, sir, for when we apprehend the rascal."
"Alright, I believe you. Unfortunately I'm only an Acting Constable- everyone else is out at the docks- so I can't do much to help. However, if you give me your name and address I will be sure to tell the others when they come back."
She pauses. There's got to be something else she can do.
"You can stay here if you feel unsafe, I suppose. There's some chairs. and I could make you a cup of tea."
Comments 55
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"It's no trouble at all, sir." She puts down her mug. "What may I advise you on?"
Technically, of course, she's a policewoman, not a lawyer, but this is her first visitor and Verity's excited. Forgive her for going a little outside her brief.
Reply
(The comment has been removed)
She pauses.
"Though nailing a corpse of one to your front door might not be the best solution. Fresh meat tends to attract the fungus colonies."
Reply
"Constable? Constable! We could use somewhere to put 'im for the night. Don't know who he is or where he lives, but he's being a right bloody nuisance," calls one of the harried-looking men.
"Don't have much worth appropriatin' either," the other notes sagely.
The drunkard lolls his head happily.
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"Come on, I think number 3's free." She leads the way out of the entrance area and down to the cells. "I don't suppose you could tell me where you found him? I need something for the records."
The cell block is small, dank and, once upon a time, had been whitewashed. Now it's more a sort of grey-greenwash. The general effect is of a cave that's been used as a toilet in the recent past.
Reply
Then, before one of the sober men can respond, the other claps him on the shoulder with a muttered "Cheers," and hurries off.
Leslie can do nothing but shoot a brief glare at the other before he gives the constable an answer. "A li'tle pass the Singing Mandrake - near Hernsford," he gives the name of one of the flophouses in the area. "Didn't seem to know where he was going - kept walking into one of the lower doors, and making a racket."
Reply
"Veilgarden has a lot to answer for. Half of the admissions we get are from around there- the place practically makes a virtue out of licentiousness. I'll guess he was trying to find his way home."
She turns to lock the cell door behind them.
"Well, I'll see he doesn't come to any harm while he sleeps it off. Thank you for being so public-spirited, sir."
Reply
So the one shuffling in between two burly members of the night patrol is a bit of an oddity, given his silence and apparent docility. Though it's not difficult to read what he's in for; there's the sway in his step, the reek of cheaper vintages on his breath. And the impressive shiner his remaining eye's become.
"Another one for tonight's lodgings, Constable," one of the officers calls out wearily.
"Aye... and thanks for th' carriage." A low murmur from the man, before peering up at his captor with a hint of a grin. "Shame y'can't stay the night. 'll be a sight lonely without yer comp'ny, sirs."
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"I'll take you to the cells." She stands up and leads the way. "A name wouldn't be too much to ask, would it? Providing he still remembers his."
Reply
The drunk eyes Verity for a few moments, as though fascinated by the patterns of that rather prim bun attached to the rest of her head.
"Bern'rd Shanks, 'squire." Another murmur in the same bemused tone. "An' it weren't me who broke it, miss, so much as 'im who smashed it into m'hands."
Reply
She steps out of the cell briskly and locks the door behind her.
"I'd advise you sleep the effects off and I'll let you out in the morning, provided the injured party doesn't press charges. Goodnight, Mister Shanks."
Reply
He seems a little tipsy, judging from the way he sways slightly on his feet, but he's not drunk yet. He's wearing an honest-looking workingman's suit, finely dotted with mud. His hair is in slight disarray, as though he'd rushed to arrive.
In reality, of course, he's not distressed in the slightest, but it just wouldn't do to let on.
Reply
"That's a serious allegation." She waves him over to the front of the desk and picks up a pencil. "Can you describe the incident, sir? When and where were you robbed, and what did the thieves take?"
Reply
"A fellow I was drinking with in the Mandrake," he begins, his dark eyes seeking out the policewoman's. "Took every penny I had, a sum of four echoes." He sighs mournfully, and perhaps a touch melodramatically.
"I can give you the name he gave me," he continues, leaning in slightly and gazing imploringly at her, "if it would help. And a description. Yes, I think I can recall that."
Reply
"A name and description would be very useful indeed." she replies, her eyes still on the paper. "And your name and address too, sir, for when we apprehend the rascal."
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"A devil, miss?" she repeats. "And why do you think that?"
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"Alright, I believe you. Unfortunately I'm only an Acting Constable- everyone else is out at the docks- so I can't do much to help. However, if you give me your name and address I will be sure to tell the others when they come back."
She pauses. There's got to be something else she can do.
"You can stay here if you feel unsafe, I suppose. There's some chairs. and I could make you a cup of tea."
Reply
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