|
As Churchill and Quartermain prepared to leave the trawler, it occurred to Quartermain that maybe he should bring a sample of the dead fish in the hold, for analysis. He thought of that reeking, slippery, stinking mass in the darkness below, and shuddered. Tough as he was, the old hunter couldn't bring himself to go in there again.
Whatever the mystery of the unconsumed fish, it couldn't have any bearing on the Martians, could it?
As Churchill and Quartermain returned to the asylum, Holmes was coming to the end of his review of Captain Anson's files. He'd spent more time talking to the suffering man, and was fairly sure that the remnants of a normal personality survived beneath the shock, horror and the fearful reaction of a simple religious upbringing.
Conferring, the investigators agreed that they could not, in simple humanity, leave Anson where he was; and that he was at the least a material witness to the landing of a Martian cylinder - one previously undocumented to boot. It was resolved that they needed to get him transferred into better care within reach of their department.
 |
Reunited, the three headed back to the office and asked to speak once more to the Governor, Madam Gestalt. At first, she seemed satisfied that they had gained what they wanted from viewing one of her inmates, but once it emerged that they wished to take him away, she became cool and unco-operative.
Holmes eloquently argued in favour of his being cared for in better surroundings, and (possibly on the lines that he would be one less on her budget) she appeared convinced, but still refused to go along with the idea. "Even if better treatment can be found for him," she said, her voice showing clearly that she felt there was no improvment in his madness to be had, "I can't just release him. He has been committed here by the process of law, as a potential danger to himself and others."
"We're working for... the Government," said Quartermain importantly, and paused to see what effect that would have, which was nothing. Holmes glanced at him, then back to Madam Gestalt. "Who signed the committal papers?" he asked, though from the files he'd read, he already knew the answer. "Joseph Hargreaves, the local Magistrate," replied Gestalt. "He deals with all the homeless cases." Holmes nodded. "Maybe we should talk to him; where can we find him?" Gestalt thought a moment. "It's Friday, so he'll be at his club by now," she said, "Athenaeum Club, Wallworth Street." Her voice was disapproving.
 |
The three returned to speak to Anson once more, and attempted to raise his spirits by telling him that they were working to get him transferred to where he could get better care. His emotions exhausted by his reliving of his experiences, though, he seemed numb and hopeless. "I think we need to follow procedure," said Churchill aside to the others. "I think we're wasting time!" rejoined Quartermain hotly. "We should just get him out of here." Churchill frowned. "Just remember what happened last time," he said firmly, referring to their misadventures in the British Library. Quartermain subsided, muttering and unconvinced.
 |
Hailing a cab, they crossed the city to find Wallworth Street, and alighted outside the grand but rather severe building occupied by the Athenaeum Club. A little conversation with the staff, and Churchill's uniform, was enough to have them allowed into a large, musty room, filled with gentlemen taking their ease after a hard day's work - or nearest equivalent. Some chatted, played genteel cards, read newspapers or slept quietly beneath them. Regardless of activity, each and every member was, of course, faultlessly dressed. The air was thick with cigar smoke and the tang of brandy.
 |
Joseph Hargreaves turned out to be a slightly florid, bewhiskered gentleman in his early fifties, and he had obviously been relaxing at the club for some time. It took the party some time to explain what they were after, finally securing an appointment to visit him at his offices the next day despite his splutterings at the idea of working on a Saturday, damne! This agreed, they left the club and considered their next move.
 |
Accommodation was needed, so they chose Liverpool's best hotel, the Adelphi, and secured rooms. While Quartermain washed away the last olfactory memories of the Cilla, and Churchill wired Cavendish's office for the authority to get Captain Anson transferred, Holmes opened a notebook and reviewed his contacts in Liverpool.
There were two people he knew reasonably well, socially poles apart. Dr Colin Barnes was a forensic chemist, and an absolute master at the analysis of traces and materials. Holmes had learned all of what he knew of the science from Barnes. His other contact was one Davy Gilligan, a wharf rat who'd climbed higher in his own field by native intelligence, cunning and an ability to think beyond what was regarded as "normal". Much of the smuggling of liquor that passed through Liverpool was controlled by Gilligan. Holmes snapped his notebook closed, picked up his hat and stick, and headed back down to the docks.
 |
Holmes' notes turned out to be accurate, and after some slightly tense conversations with his employees the detective found himself sitting in front of Gilligan himself. Davy Gilligan was just out of his twenties, with a face in which the harsh roughness of his youth was just starting to be leavened by the more measured approach of experience. He was still an extremely dangerous man, and Holmes relaxed none of his caution, despite the shared experience and gained respect each had for the other after the affair of the Colonel's Cufflinks four years before.
Holmes explained about the asylum, and that he wanted it watched for signs of someone being surreptitiously removed in the night. Gilligan considered. "Two bob a night?" he hazarded, clearly expecting to be beaten down; the price was outrageous. "Here's five," said Holmes, "and my card. If it goes to longer than a night, I'll send more money. If anything happens, follow those responsible and send word to the Adelphi." A thought struck him. "Can you watch a boat for me as well?" her asked.
Gilligan was familiar with the Cilla, and quite happy to arrange for someone to watch it. The man's weaselly little face cleared as a penny dropped. "That's who's in the nut-house, ain't it?" he said, "I heard he'd been put away." Holmes paused. "Who owns the boat now?" he asked. Gilligan's eyes narrowed. "No relatives," he said slowly. "Guess it belongs to the King now then, aye?" Holmes chuckled. "For the moment, just let me know if anyone shows interest?" he said, handing over another 5s.
 |
Churchill's telegram to Kensington brought results, though not as fast as it would have had Horton still been in charge of matters. A place had been arranged at the Beaufort Hospital, Kensington for the unfortunate captain. Instructions had been wired to The Grace L Fergusson for the transfer to be processed, counter-signed by a Dr Willis of that establishment. Satisfied, he tucked the telegram form into his pocket, and headed off to procure a suitable bottle for a courtesy gift to the Magistrate.
Gathering in the foyer in preparation to visit the Magistrate, the party examined Churchill's bottle. While a noted authority on brandy and cigars, Churchill wasn't much on wines (his people had butlers for that sort of thing), and the wine he had selected was distinctly poor. The usually diffident Smith leaned across and suggested, just possibly, that the Adelphi's excellent wine waiter Jules might be able to suggest or even supply a better bottle; and so it proved.
Thus equipped, they took another cab to Bold Street and located Hargreaves' office. A thin, pinched-looking footman showed them in, and into the office of the Magistrate. That worthy was slumped in his chair, grey hair disarranged and eyes bloodshot, and when Quartermain accepted the offer of a drink with "Whiskey," Hargreaves shuddered noticeably. Quartermain retained eye contact and necked the drink. "We're working for... the government," he said impressively. Hargreaves glanecd at him, but appeared not to feel this required any form of comment.
Churchill offered the bottle with exquisite manners, and Hargreaves brightened a little, though Holmes' vigorous handshake was enough to disorientate him once more. With their opponent on the mental ropes and the evidence of Cavendish's telegram, the three pressed their request, and any reluctance to comply faded as Hargreaves concentrated on the easiest way to be rid of them. A sinple letter written and signed, and it was done.
 |
Madam Gestalt looked up from the letter and compressed her lips; she seemed upset at having to give up her patient, whether because she saw it as a slight on her institution (not that it could have been the first time!) or because of some ulterior motive, even Holmes wasn't sure. "Very well," she said, "the conveyance will be here at 2pm Monday - no, Tuesday - to take him to the station; I have an arrangement with the railway company for transportation of lunatics."
 DM Note: Zac was determined to use Quartermain's Persuade skill, basic as it was, to establish the party's official status, and time and again the fail-safe phrase simply slid off whatever obdurate NPC he tried it on. |
Quartermain leaned forwards. "You have the papers there," he said, "we'll take him now, please. After all," he paused, "We're working for... the government!" Madam Gestalt lifted an eyebrow at him. "No," she said. "As I said, I can't pass a certified lunatic into the hands of any unqualified citizen. He will be transferred to this," she glanced at the telegram, "Beaufort Hospital, by proper means." Defeated, the party left the asylum.
Holmes increased his payment to Gilligan to sufficient for a month's observation, as all four were worried that some shadowy agency was trying to suppress any evidence Captain Anson was able to produce, and that something would ...happen... to him before his departure.
 |
On the second day of the New Year, the party returned to the Asylum, where they discovered Captain Anson, heavilly secured in a thick straight-jacket, being loaded into a carrriage that resembled nothing so much as a prison wagon by two burly asylum attendants.
As it set off towards Lime Street station, Holmes turned back and ushered his companions back into the cab they'd just exited. Leaping to the step, he called up to the driver, passing up a coin as he did so.
"Follow that loony!" he barked.
Twenty minutes later, the wagon pulled up at the station, and the attendants unloaded the half-frozen and rather battered patient from the wagon, and walked him along the platform to near the back of a London-bound train that stood waiting to depart. The door of truck stood open, and Anson was hustled inside; the party followed close on his heels.
Inside, the truck turned out to be one designed for the transport of animals; probably horses rather than farm animals, as there were four barred pens built into it. The attendants frogmarched Anson into one, left him standing on the straw, and carefully locked the cage with a heavy padlock. That done, they glanced disinterestedly at the party, turned, and left.
Holmes stuck his head out through the door, and located a guard in the uniform of the LNER railway company. "Hey, fellow!" he called. "We require some supplies in here. Fetch us some chairs, hot drinks, sandwiches if you please?" The man eyed him uncooperatively, until Holmes brandished a glittering sovereign in his direction, after which the requested supplies materialized with gratifying promptness.
 |
| DM Note: A critical Psychology roll from Zac as he attempted this. Through fire, war, disaster, grief and chaos, the ritual of the Cup of Tea has sustained the indomitable English. |
Meanwhile, Churchill and Smith had been trying to rouse Anson and convey to him that he was rescued from the asylum and on his way to somewhere better. Perhaps unsurprisingly given his surroundings, he hadn't responded. This changed, however, when the supplies arrived. Pouring a cup of tea, and stirring it in the timeless English ritual, Quartermain brought it over and held it through the bars to the captain. "Here you are, old chap," he said, "a nice cup of tea."
Anson's eyes cleared gradually, and he leaned forward to sip the brown fluid. A slow smile spread over his careworn, craggy face. "Ohh," he said softly, "I've not had a nice cup of tea for so long...."
 |
As soon as the train arrived at Euston, three brisk nurses in starched white appeared as if by magic, and took charge of Captain Anson. Clucking disapprovingly, they detached the straight-jacket from him in short order and dropped it distastefully into the straw. "You poor man," one said to Anson, "we'll soon have you somewhere more comfortable." So it turned out; the Beaufort was a world away from the dark hole in Liverpool. Large airy wards with clean soft beds were home to a variety of patients, some deeply insane, but all being cared for with compassion and skill.
 |
Satisfied that Anson was properly bestowed, the party split up, attending to their own business for the rest of the day, having agreed to meet up once more at base the next day.
Holmes made contact with his brother. Mycroft was interested to find that they had tracked down a witness, and warned the detective that Cavendish was not at all himself. He himself was making progress in locating Moriarty - if only negative; either the mastermind was completely inactive (not likely) or he was out of the country.
 |
As they settled into seats in Cavendish's office, the party exchanged significant glances. Sir George Cavendish was very much not his normal ebullient, bouyant, optimistic self. He looked weary, care-worn and slightly thinner, and he kept glancing around from time to time, as well as occasionally touching his jacket over where the inside pocket was. "No sign of it," he muttered, half to himself. "Searched, everywhere, no trace, no clues, nothing... Gone." He blinked, and appeared to pull his attention back to them with an effort.
"So," he said, "tell me about this Captain Anson..."
 |
Session Date: 3rd September 2015 |
 |