From Hell: A Trip Through the Demimonde

Game Master GM Grimm

3 January, 1891

The great city of London has been bustling this holiday season with citizens buying, decorating and planning Christmas celebrations as a welcome distraction from the fear that is gripping the city since the Autumn of Terror, 1888.

Heinous murders, mutilations really, still unsolved occupy the front pages of every London publication. Trials and accusations monopolize world news as confessors and accusers of the gruesome crimes seem to come forth daily while inspectors and police officers quarrel under the pressure of solving these mysteries.

Folks look over their shoulders even during the daytime. Children play close to their parents. A cold dampness has invaded the city.

For about three weeks, you have noticed a strange bespectacled man, barely five feet tall and in a brown derby hat and overcoat, follow you occasionally throughout the city. A fanciful invitation, adorned in gold leaf arrived at your doorstep on 26 December, beckoning you to attend a grand ball at the home of Lord Simeon Walker at No. 9 Upper Belgrave Street.

Once inside, you are welcomed by a manservant from the Orient as he takes your coat and directs you into the main hall. It is full, near to capacity, with dancing lords, ladies and gentlemen from all of the high places of London society. The room is splattered with large paintings with golden frames, mostly portraits. There is one that catches your eye. While hard to make out, it appears to be a steamboat caught in a blizzard. It seems to stand out from the rest.

A maidsevant offers you a glass of champagne as you look across the room to a strikingly tall and handsome man about ten years beyond middle-aged. He stands next to a raven-haired woman whose youth and beauty are unmatched in the city. They seem to be in serious discussions with a man of station and his wife. The man, dressed in formal military garb adorned with medals, strokes his greying mustache as he hangs on every word of the host. Waltzes are played one right after the next to keep the crowd entertained with dancing.

Welcome to the ball, state your actions and we'll continue.

Thomas watches the two couples talking from the corner of his eye as he strokes the golden brocade cross stitched into the front of the black silk alb he is wearing.

I miss my crucifix. He thinks to himself. I don't suppose it would have fit in here though. At least I was able to borrow this alb and stole from the Rector at the college.

Thomas looks around the room uncomfortably. He knows that even if he is dressed in clerical finery, he still doesn't fit in with these people. To ease himself he sticks his hand in his pocket and grips his wooden rosary. He begins to pray under his breath "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name..."

As his nerves calm, Thomas attempts to listen in on the couples' conversation from a distance.

Perception: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (20) + 4 = 24

And apparently Thomas has keen ears tonight.

Altair's invitation had come as a surprise indeed. He'd made his tail early on, and he was fairly certain he'd ducked the man no end of times over the past week. The 26th of December had been the day when he'd stopped seeing the man at all, but the invite with his name on it that he'd found resting on the doorstep of his humble abode was most assuredly unexpected. He found the whole thing immensely intriguing and frightening in equal measure, as his real name was not much used on the London streets these days and he didn't know what this Lord wanted with him.

Still, curiosity and caution had warred to the point where Altair had indulged his old habit and flipped a coin into the air to choose, which is how he came to the decision that led him here tonight.

"May I take your coat, Mister Wright?"

Of course, that didn't mean Altair was going to go as himself. He'd pickpocketed the young man named Alistar Wright about half an hour ago, as they'd both been approaching the manor, and then obviously checked his own pockets in front of the man, causing Wright to check and realize his invitation had been missing. Convinced he'd left the paper at home, Alistar immediately set off for his abode to reclaim it. Altair seamlessly assumed the young noble's name and used it to enter the ball unmarked by whatever flag was attached to the name "Altair Nikos". He handed the Oriental manservant his grey coat, entering the party proper dressed in the matching shirt and trousers.

Once into the party, he slipped into the crowd, graciously accepting and sipping on a glass of champagne. If there was anything he was worried about, it wasn't poison, though on that note he'd have to be very careful to keep track of his own glass for the sake of anyone else. The Vishkanya found his way to the wall and surveyed the room, looking for their host in particular. Granted, he wasn't familiar with the man, but he could try and read the crowd for a few patterns of behavior that usually followed the host of a gathering like this around.

Paranoia, I knew, was an occupational hazard of two of my three professions - both magicians and investigators were ever prone to jumping at shadows. Though I was no alienist, my third profession contributed enough knowledge of neurology to know that indulging such urges was a road down which madness lay.
Thus when I first noticed the bestpectacled man one monday morning following me I determined to ignore him. It was not until I saw him following me through crowds the following tuesday that I determined that perhaps my paranoia was justified.
A few maneuvers revealed that he was, indeed, following me. I led him a merry chase that day, and arrived home quite late that evening. I extinguished my lights at a reasonable time and sent my dog out to track the blighter. Only once I sensed its presence departing did I - after taking reasonable precautions - follow after.

The invitation came as a surprise. It was all too possible that someone intended to ask my assistance - and as such my reputation as a detective might be in question. Though I despise the need to pretend to powers of deduction I do not have, only a fool would forego the opportunity to gather what information he may before called upon to perform.
I considered simply sending my apologies, but the truth is that I was intrigued. This seemed an elaborate mechanism to acquire my company, and the previous weeks had left me more than ready for a challenge not confined to the four walls of my library.

I thanked the manservant who took my coat, took a glass of preferred champagne, and set myself to doing the rounds. My mother was scandalised that I set myself to investigation, only the fact my first case was my father's murder buying her reluctant support. Should she to receive word from one of her friends that I was tarnishing the Fitzroy name in polite society and I would find myself summoned forthwith to the country estate for an extended lecture.

As I circulated amongst the room, I kept my eyes and ears open. The paintings provided a convenient conversational gambit in many cases, though while I had an excellent knowledge of the art, my mother had always despaired of my artistic appreciation. To pass the time I lay a silent bet with myself on how long I could circulate before I was approached by whoever had arranged for my presence here.

As Thomas is eavesdropping on the couples' conversation, a quick glance around reveals a man that seems oddly familiar. It takes him a moment to draw up his memory, but at last he has a moment of clarity.

Thomas walks up to the man in the matching shirt and trousers and says "Mr. Clarke! I did not expect to see you here tonight. How are the little ones? Not too wayward I hope?"

Reagan’s bright green eyes scan the line forming at the doors of #9 Upper Belgrave Street, narrowing as they move toward the entrance. English...English...English — and God’s green earth, how are those women breathing in those? Her hand strays to her corset’s ties behind her back before she forces it to relax. It’s not tight at all, really—just enough to pull her figure in a bit—but some of the ball-goers look positively wasp-shaped. The doorman asks for her invitation and she stops in her tracks, thinking about the whirlwind she’d been in since the 26th of December.

For her part, she hadn’t even wanted to go. If her father hadn’t insisted, and if she hadn’t been living in his house, she’d have just stayed on her job, or kept searching for her brother’s friends, but he’d insisted, sure. ”Reagan,” he’d said in his all-too-heavy first-generation Irish, ”If ye cannae be arsed tae go tae a wee party, Ah cannae be arsed tae have ye under mae roof. Besoides, ah think it’s hoigh toime ye learn tae get along, ‘fore ye be losin’ another tooth.” She’d smiled and held her tongue as her father had paid three month’s earnings for her dress, a pretty grey woolen thing with green trim and a bustle that protruded only a foot off her behind. She’d twirled in it, looking at herself in the shop’s mirror and fancying herself the prettiest girl in London, for a few short hours. ”Maybe ye’ll meet a lad who’ll settle ye down some and do roight by God and by me, and who won’t moind that hole in yer grin,” her father had said, laughing. ”Well, get on with it, lass, and be home in time to help yer poor father with the fire.”

The doorman clears his throat, looking at Reagan expectantly, and she starts from her memories before presenting the invitation. ”If it’s the same to ya, my father’d like to be havin’ that back, just t’ prove I was here.” She moves through the doors, eyes widening at the opulence inside the ballroom. To be sure, the Magistrate’s court was nicer, but someone owns this. She takes the offered drink, then heads into the room to mingle with the upper crust.

Or rather, to stare at them with some envy. Compared to the silk and gems the black-haired woman has, the dress Reagan’s father spent two months wages on looks and feels like rags. She finds a spot near a wall, near a young, well-dressed gentleman, and is just about to open her mouth to say something when a priest announces himself instead.

Lord love a duck!

Edgar Stone stood in a corner by the servant’s entrance to the ballroom in a dark navy tail coat and trousers with matching waistcoat, a white wing-collared shirt and white bow tie; whenever a tray of fresh drinks entered the room he was sure to grab one.

What are ye doin’ here, Edgar ol’ boy?

The invitation had downright baffled him until he remembered the odd gent that’d been cropping up all about his beat, at which point he’d become simply confused. He’d raised the issue with his sergeant – not that get Green, of course - who instantly deduced that the man he’d seen about was some sort of Inspector, oversight committee member, or other such agent evaluating him; they were all under tremendous pressure and scrutiny due to the ongoing murders. ”A watcher of the watchmen,” the sergeant had said. ”And he must’ve liked what he seen.” It was made clear to him that if he valued his continued employment he would attend the function and represent the Whitechapel Division well. To this end the sergeant had lent Stone his own formalwear; not only was the sergeant several inches shorter than Stone, but several inches wider about the waist, such that the overall effect was one more apt for a carnival ape than a gentleman.

He glanced furtively across the room from his post, half-nodding and half-bowing to anyone who met his eye. He stooped in an unconscious attempt to make himself smaller than the other guests; though he’d stood toe to toe against men that would make a rabid wolf seem a lapdog, he was brought low by the cumulative social strength of so many of his betters.

Well ye’re right in it now, aren’t ye?

He made a brief study of what looked to be the host, Lord Simeon Walker, and his wife, before tipping back his most recent drink, the fine crystal stemware seeming like to break in his rough, calloused hands. He turned his attention to the artwork on the walls, grateful for something that didn’t look back at him, and was briefly entranced by a painting of a boat caught in a snowstorm. Reminds me of me pop, that does. Setting his empty glass down on a nearby table, Stone went about straightening his jacket and tie as best he could.

Right. Introduce meself to the master there, thank him for his interest in the division, then bugger off afore I get too many drinks in me and make an arse of meself. Right.

As fit to be seen as he can make himself, Edgar sets out towards the presumptive Lord Walker.

Clarke? The sudden approach of someone calling him by a name not his own, nor his false identity for the night, immediately put Altair on the defense. S@@+, what was I doing under the name Clarke? Something about children, so was it the orphanage scam? He took a sip of champagne as he turned, using the motion to create a natural delay so that he could look at the man who'd recognized him. The man's dressed like clergy; a man of the faith, then. That'd be the orphanage scam.

"Oh, they're doing just fine, Brother," the con artist lied through his teeth with the smooth tones inherent to his experience with his trade. "Little Susan had a spot of a cough a week ago but a bit of rest and some warm broth and she was right as rain just yesterday." Altair immediately picks up on the man who'd followed him around London for a number of weeks, and notes with some interest that he'd called for both himself and Brother Thomas. S&~&. If this guy called him by his real name this was about to get exceedingly awkward.

Still, it did provide an out. "I do believe that a representative of our host wishes to speak with us." He states this as much to divert the conversation as to make sure the clergyman next to him had seen the subtle signal. He drains the rest of his champagne and makes his way through the ball with a suitable amount of grace, retaining the empty glass the whole way, carelessly grasped in his left hand as though forgotten.

It has always been a troublesome habit of mine to peer around the room at a party. My mother decried it at every opportunity as the height of discourtesy. I endeavoured to appear just another polite guest, dressed in the uniform of the upper middle class gentleman at a formal event; a dark tail coat and trousers with a dark waistcoat, a white bow tie, and a shirt with a winged collar.
Still, my eye seldom left the conversation by the hearth, though I did my best to observe them through the reflections in silver, gold and glass. I had just found an excellent place to observe them in the reflection of a silver pitcher while talking to a banker from the city, when the conversation broke up. A moment later I was beckoned like a waiter - though I hoped it was intended as a nod to a conspirator, rather than a servant - by the man who had followed me.
A momentary urge to contrariness passed, strangled by curiosity. I excused myself politely and drifted through the crowd. I had noticed the man beckon to a few others, and I engaged in attempting to deduce what other guests were also joining our covert little meeting.

Sense Motive: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (11) + 7 = 18

Brother Thomas doesn't even come close to realizing Altair is pulling one over on him.

"Excellent Mr Clarke. I am glad to hear things are going well. Let's follow after these fellows and see what they want with us." Thomas begins to stride after Lord Walker and the bespectacled man. As he walks he notices several other people walking along. With a sincere smile he introduces himself "Hello friends, I am Brother Thomas, from St. John’s Seminary in south London. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. So, what do you think this is all about?"

Just a note. Even though Brother Thomas is Irish, he speaks with only a slight accent. He has been training at seminary to sound more British because the professors think it will make him more acceptable as a missionary. If he is flustered or in danger though his original accent will come out more.

George notices that Brother Thomas is a seminarian of the cloth who seems to be in conversation with a wealthy young gentleman, likely a banker from his appearance.

He too is given a nod from his pursuer to join them in the study.

The burly, awkward policeman receives a beckoning nod as well as the young lass with the piercing green eyes standing next to "Mr. Clarke."

The chosen slowly make their way into the quiet study.

The room is smaller than the great room, but could still host twenty souls comfortably. The gaslight globes illuminate the space lined with solid wood paneling three-quarters of the way up the wall. The remaining space is covered in patterned gold wallpaper as is the fashion.

Upon entering the room, you can see Lord Walker sitting on the edge of his desk bearing his weight down on his ornate cane. The beautiful woman stands at his side holding a glass of champagne sipping it slowly.

Once the guests are comfortably inside the room, he motions to them to have a seat in the semi-circular custom leather chesterfield lounge in front of the desk.

Lord Walker then speaks, I suppose that you are wondering why I have brought you here? He states assuredly and with slight pause before beginning again.

I know who you are...I know that you possess certain talents, some not altogether lawful, that could be valuable to my cause.

Looking at George, he continues, Mr. Fitzroy, I have discerned that you are a skilled surgeon and gifted investigator.

Brother Thomas, it is said that you are the wisest and most talented student at the seminary.

Mr. Stone, your brawn may be unmatched in all of London.

Mr. Clarke, you are said to be a shrewd businessman who has an uncanny knack for the procurement of things difficult to procure.

Lord Walker smiles softly as he stares into Reagan's green eyes. And you miss, you have talents of a more explosive nature. He smirks at this giving you a look of genuine understanding.

I have a proposition to make to each of you, collectively. I need your help and I would very much like to place you in my employ. I must be assured of discretion however. Given my station, it is of the utmost importance.

He scans his audience to see what can be gathered from their facial expressions.

You will have to forgive my intrusive nature into compiling your resumes. One can't be too careful these days.

He then introduces you to the short man. This is my friend, Albert Finch. He is also a very efficient procurer and owner of Finch's Silversmith.

Touching the shoulder of the dark-haired woman at his right, he adds, This is my niece, Lucretia. She smiles and nods to the guests and returns to the champagne.

Tell me, how can I be assured of your discretion? He sincerely inquires.

Do not be concerned with the multiple checks. That indicates to me that you are into the game.

I nodded at the compliment, then carefully evaluated the others as they were introduced, nodding to each in turn.
"An interesting question, Lord Walker. I realised discretion was critical - had it not been you could simply have had Mr Finch approach us, or simply invite us to his shop in Bond street. Should you seek to engage me as a Physician you may trust to doctor-patient confidentiality."

I smiled wryly here "Though you seek to engage me for my investigative, rather than surgical skills. Very well - I fancy myself a man of discretion, and of honour. I will not take a commission for an unknown task, but as your problem - though of questionable legality - is not immoral, I am content to give my word to keep secret if you explain why you require the help of such a diverse group as ourselves."

"I suggest everyone here state whether they will submit to the same circumstances. If we spend too long in conversation, the Admiral may begin to wonder aloud why we have gone off."

Edgar hadn't made it halfway to the hearth when the group was interrupted and dispersed by the man who he'd noticed observing him these past few weeks. The man gave a him a quick nod to follow and he did so, noticing that several other guests did as well as they all funneled down a hallway and into a well appointed office of sorts. He sat down alongside the others when bid to do so.

What's all this about then? He listens to the Lord Walker as he details his interest in each of them, leaning forward to look across at Mr. Fitzroy with a cocked eyebrow as the man gives his response.

"Beggin' yer pardon, Lord Walker, sir; if y' mean t' have us on the job, you'll find me discretion commensurate t' me recompense, as it were."

”Brother Thomas…” Reagan thinks for a moment, placing his accent, then shrugs it off for a moment, choosing instead to throw a quick curtsie. ”Miss Faolan will do for now" The last name comes out 'Fwaylan.' "and I imagine we’ll be finding out soon enough. Say, ya wouldn't be knowing Father Glynn over in Whitechapel?”

Reagan follows the party into the study, sitting as demurely as she can roughly across from the dark-haired woman, though she fidgets the whole time Lord Walker speaks in a vain bid to get comfortable. While she does, she also takes stock of her fellow guests, especially the big one. In fact, something about him seems a bit familiar, though it’s not until the introductions that she realizes what it is. Christ above, the guard? The very one that brought in Cahal the first time, when he got the fine? Conspiring, I think they called it. She spends most of the speech half-listening and half-watching to see if Guard Stone has any idea who she is.

As Lord Walker finishes up, she clears her throat, grins at Lucretia, and takes an overlong pull from her champagne flute, though she struggles with its shape a bit. Once she’s done, she listens to the man introduced as Mr. Fitzroy, and to Stone, rolling her eyes a little before saying her piece. ”Ya’ve got my curiosity piqued somethin’ fierce. I promise I won’t be tellin’ even my dear father your pitch, but if you're looking to hire me, the price might be somethin’ ya can’t pay. It's thinkin' I am that we can be talking about that a bit later—” She glances at Stone, then returns her eyes to Lord Walker’s. ”—between the two of us.”

Well then, let’s get to it, Lord Walker begins. It seems that my wayward son, John, has disappeared. You see, he lacks the focus to be a proper gentleman. Usually, I send out the servants to scour London and fetch his inebriated being out of some gutter or opium den. However, I believe that this time he has met a fate more sinister.
Lord Walker stops and turns to Lucretia who presents a small wooden chest upon the desk and opens it for the guests.
You see, he continues as he holds up a ring, John would never be without this ring that his mother gave to him. They were very close and it seems that her untimely demise has set him into year’s long abasement. He has developed quite a penchant for spirits and prostitutes among other things. Like I said before, it is usually just a matter of finding him and bringing him home to sober up. Last night, however, I received this parcel containing his ring and one other thing…this.
Lord Walker reaches into the velvet-lined wooden chest and retrieves an opaque black claw, the size of which has never been seen before. It is semi-circular with a radius of six inches had it been a circle.
I have not seen anything like this before, and I feel a sense of extreme dread when I hold it in my hands. I have made appointments with some of the city’s most prominent zoologists and anthropologists to discover what it is. I am very concerned. Normally, I would go after him myself, but I am climbing in years and with this lame leg of mine, I would be of little value in this endeavor. I am putting my niece, Lucretia, in charge of your progress. Please find him. Lucretia and he are the only family that I have left you see. I don’t want to go to my grave alone. As for recompense, I assure you that you will find your reward beyond generous. I can make you rich.

Uncle, you should return to your guests. Lucretia suggests.

If you accept, we have carriages waiting outside to take us to Westminster Abbey where we will interrogate the messenger who delivered this box of horrors. A simple "aye" will do on your part as contracts would just be damnable proof against us, should we be discovered. This "Ripper" business has Uncle extremely worried. This claw has us both perplexed. We will see what the odd monk has to tell us. Are you ready to leave?

Thomas smiles at Faolan. "Father Glynn and I have met, yes. One of his altar boys became my roommate at seminary before he was murdered. Father Flynn officiated his funeral." sadness echoes behind Thomas’s eyes as he walks. He continues walking to the study were he takes his seat as bidden. He stiffens slightly as Lord Walker compliments him. Thomas does not take well to flattery, having run into it often at school. He assumes that is what Lord Walker is doing and in his irritation he reverts to the brogue of his youth.

Thomas can't tell the difference between flattery and a real compliment. He gets too emotional to use sense motive. Bad memories from his freshman year when someone took advantage of his naivety.

"Flattery ill git yer naw wha wi' me. Oi'm not de smartest by 'alf an' that's a fact.” Thomas composes himself and continues. "By the holy rood, you'll have my discretion, provided it doesn't bring harm to holy mother church.”

Thomas's curiosity is peaked by the story of Lord Walker's son, especially when he pulls out the black claw. It gives him a similar feeling to the amulet his murdered roommate had found..

Knowledge Checks to see if he recognises it.
Knowledge(History): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (19) + 5 = 24
Knowledge(Religion): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6
Knowledge(Planes): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6

Thomas looks at both Mr. Finch and Lucretia with curiosity. He's not sure if he recognises either of them, so he jogs his memory to see.

Knowledge(Local) to see if he knows anything about Mr. Finch and his reputation.
Knowledge(Local): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (17) + 5 = 22

Knowledge(Nobility) to see if he knows anything about Lucretia and her reputation. Note, Cloistered Clerics can make knowledge checks untrained.
Knowledge(Nobility): 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (18) + 1 = 19

Reagan nods as Lord Walker finishes his pitch, closing her eyes for a moment to think on her answer while some of the others respond. Familial troubles, then? I can understand that, at least. Maybe he’ll be a bit more sympathetic than I’d imagined. She waits until the priest is done before clearing her throat. ”Riches are fine and dandy, I’m thinking, but you’ve got the right of it that family’s more precious. I’ve got aunts and uncles in Kinsale, south o’ Cork. If ya can get my brother out o’ Barwon and over t’ my family, we’d not be needing much o’ the riches.”

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (20) + 1 = 21 Asking a favor. It's a big one, but maybe I can get a yes.

She stands, offers another curtsy, and heads for the door, then stops in its frame. ”Be thinking about it, if ya don’t mind?” Then she turns to Lucretia, voice lowered. ”I, ehm, never really stopped when I got home. With the bomb-makin’, I mean. More sawdust, less powder, and a pinch o’ sodium from the factories. Can get a little explosion on impact, with a lovely orange flash. If you’re worried someone’s gotten your cousin, might be best to swing back through Whitechapel so I can be collectin’ my kit and changin’ into somethin’ a wee bit less formal. I wouldn’t mind, only my father paid three month’s wages for this.” She indicates her dress.

Thomas gives the proposal some thought before saying to Lucretia "You have my Aye. It is my Christian duty to aid those who are in need, especially if their soul is in mortal peril, as may well be the case here. Allow me to pick up my walking staff, my cloak, and my pack and I'll be ready to go. They should be near the entrance. I left them with the manservant."

Once Thomas retrieves his belongings, he trades out his borrowed silk alb. for a heavily reinforced armored coat folded into layers of a monk's robe, and pulls out his tarnished silver crucifix to hang around his neck on a chain. As he steadies himself with his walking staff, he straightens and smiles slightly; obviously more comfortable in much humbler attire. Ah, that does it he thinks to himself.

"I am ready to leave, whenever everyone else is." He says with a short nod. Under his breath he begins to sing to himself

"Qui templa coeli clauditis,
Serasque verbo solvitis,
Nos a reatu noxios
Solvi jubete, quaesumus."

Fitzroy gave a startled stare at Miss Faolan as she states her preferred payment, but remained quiet.

Dr Fitzroy gave a sympathetic expression to Lord Walker. "You have my Aye, then. It is a terrible thing to lose a child - even if simply to the depths of their own grief. Should we be successful I beg you to let me diagnose John. Melancholia is treatable by far better anaesthetics than alcohol, and you need have no fear I will consider sending him to some asylum."

"You say you received this parcel last night - yet you were considering engaging us before then. Come now, Lord Walker, there must be some part of the story you are not telling us that had you considering us beforehand."

A wayward son - is that all? Might be someone’s nicked the lad, but more likely the poor sot kidnapped hisself and sent this lot to put a fright in ‘is guv’nor! Knock a few heads ‘n he’ll turn up; still, I wager s’not an ‘alf bad chance t’ make a pretty penny… The woman and the man of the cloth both accept Walker’s offer and make for the door, and Stone is about to follow suit when Fitzroy speaks again…

This geezer likes t’ work ‘is bone box, he does, but he has a fair point. Might be Walker was plannin’ on havin’ us track down ‘is lad all along, or might be he had somethin’ else in mind when this sprung up on ‘im. At Fitzroy’s query, Stone turns an inquisitive look to Lord Walker and Mr. Finch. Might be good t' get a sense o' how deep yer gettin' yerself in, Edgar ol' boy.

Lord Walker turns and raises his eyebrows whilst bearing the smirk of one who has been had losing the battle, but not the war. He addresses Mr. Fitzroy's inquiry.

I see that I made a proper choice in seeking you for employment. You are a keen one. While I do agree that I owe you the truth, it is a tale much too long and we have other more urgent matters to address right now. Find my son. When we meet again I shall share the tale with you over dinner.

With that, Lord Walker leaves the study to return to the party leaving Lucretia in charge.

I implore you to depart in haste. The carriages are waiting outside. Stop by Whitechapel if you must, then meet me in front of the abbey as soon as is humanly possible. 20 Deans Yard. Your drivers know the way. I almost forgot, come armed.

Lucretia rushes out of the room and down the hall past the ballroom, presumably to change and grab the necessary gear for the outing.

The carriages speed off through the near desolate streets of London towards Westminster after having made their prerequisite stops. All three carriages converge onto Deans Yard where the occupants disembark and are quickly shuttled to a hidden portico to the left of the facade.

Lucretia opens the door with a strange key that resembles a hexagonal prism and the party quickly descends a long and winding flight of stairs to an underground room beneath the abbey.

Seated at a large polished wooden table is a rather tall and odd looking fellow clothed in simple peasant clothes, but with strong leather boots and a black cloak and tunic. Around his neck rests a large silver necklace bearing a cross unlike the ones worn by Roman Catholic clergy. Long wiry dark hair and a scruff of a beard are his most striking features.

As you enter, he pauses from his bread and borscht to await what he believes will be an evening filled with questions.

This young holy man has introduced himself as Grigori Rasputin, a monk from Russia. He brought the box to our residence last night. To ensure discretion, my uncle made arrangements to meet here. I have gleaned precious little from him. Perhaps any of you have better interrogation techniques?

With that, Lucretia moves aside to let the group gain access to the fellow.

Altair easily agrees, as the claw unnerves him just as much as Lord Walker, though for different reasons. It doesn't appear to be any normal animal, and while many might write it off as a hoax, the vishkanya knows that the things people don't know about are far more deadly than the things they do. "If the young Miss here is making a stop I'll drop by my flat and grab a bit of protection for myself as well." It doesn't take him long to collect his chain mail and change into a far more form-fitting set of clothes, throwing the mail on before covering it with a cloak.

The ride over provides him an opportunity to hide his kukri in his new outfit's sleeves. When they arrive and Lucretia opens the door, he tosses a coin in the air, making some decision to himself.

Catching the coin and seeing that it is, in fact, Heads, Altair strides into the room with a broad smile. "Ah, hello, Brother... Rasputin, was it?" The Greek man gives a broad smile. "I am Stowen Clarke, a businessman with some small measure of side hobbies, including investigating the occult. I was wondering if you could tell us anything about an object which you delivered to an acquaintance of mine, this claw." He gestures to the party, but his signal is apparently meaningless.

Doctor Fitzroy - burdened now by a comprehensive doctor's valise - stops at Lucretia as the others enter.
"Excuse me miss Wyld. Please tell me you have preserved the packing materials as they were on arrival. It may be that it contains some clue that may help with the interrogation."

Upon disembarking at Westminster Abbey, Edgar looks up at the church and makes a quick sign of the cross before following through the hidden door and down the staircase. Once in the room with the Russian messenger he lurks behind his new associates and lets "Clarke", the legitimate businessman, take the lead in questioning the man. Under his breath he remarks "Spooky-lookin' bumpkin, innit?" Stone remains impassive and oblivious as his new associate gestures in his general direction.

Thomas sits quietly in the coach on their ride to Westminster Abbey, deep in thought. What is the meaning of all this I wonder? As they arrive and disembark he hangs back for a second to pray. ”Oh Lord, you alone know the hearts of men. In this hour I ask that you would grant me your wisdom and discernment. “

Thomas activates his detect evil aura.

He follows the rest of the group down into the bowels of the abbey where they meet the odd Orthodox monk Rasputin. Examine Rasmutin with detect evil Hmm, I wonder if I've heard of him before? Thomas thinks to himself, jogging his memory of his studies into Eastern Orthodoxy.

Knowledge(Religion): 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (10) + 5 = 15

As Mr. Clarke steps forward to address the Russian Monk Thomas decides to back him up. ”You should listen to him. Not only is he a shrewd business man, he also has a good heart. This man is a defender and supporter of Orphans!”

Diplomacy: Aid Another: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (17) + 5 = 22

Once she’s home, Reagan heads up to her room, rummages through her dresser, and finds a factory-worker’s dress, loose around the legs and with plenty of pockets. Over the top, she pulls one of her brother’s jackets, then tucks her hair under a simple grey newsboy’s cap. She stops for a moment to look herself over in the mirror, looking wistfully at the dress in the corner, and pulls a satchel with the words ‘King James Mine’ dyed into the canvas cloth over her shoulder before heading back to the carriage.

By the time the carriage arrives at Westminster, Reagan’s hands are covered in dark powder and grime, and so is the back of the carriage. Four metal tubes stick out of the top of her bag as she joins the party. ”Sorry I’m late. The carriage driver had to be goin’ slow; I insisted. Can’t be too careful, ya know? Will we be headin’ down, then?”

As the party is introduced to the Russian, she opens her mouth to speak, only to slowly shut it as Mr. Clarke takes a different tack than she’d have. ”Right, have at him, then. I’ll be havin’ a look at my kit.” Without another word, she sits down and pulls the metal tubes out, then a handful of little glass vials and some dirty cloth bandages. An old military pistol follows, complete with officer’s bandolier, and then a few chipped glass flasks. She begins mixing chemicals together, tying the glass vials to gaps in the metal tubes with the bandages, and humming Skibbereen (Youtube Link) to herself.

The monk sits stoically chewing the last bite of his supper before taking a gulp of red wine from his glass.

Lucretia sets the small chest down on the table in front of Altair and states that his command of the Queen's English is not so good.

She looks at George and states that everything is packed just as it arrived.

The foreigner speaks, Yes, Grigori Rasputin, I am he.

Grigori responds to Mr. "Clarke", Man gave me box. Outside Mariner's Inn by docks. Went inside drain pipe after.

He grins subtly and returns to his wine.

With a look of astonishment, Lucretia whispers as if thinking out loud, That is more than I could get him to say.

Lucretia then takes charge, looking at Mr. Clarke. You take the others and head for that drain pipe, if you can find it. Finch and I will investigate that denizen of filth they call The Mariner's Inn. Meet us there when you have the information we need to find my cousin.

She glances at Reagan and comments about the readiness of the group.
I assume that all of you have the means to protect yourself. she says in a manner that is sort of half-question, half-statement.

Before they rush from the bunker, the mysterious Russian monk's eyes roll back into his head and he starts to seize briefly. He stops, then begins to speak in perfectly comprehensible English, but with a demonic voice, a darkness is coming from which the world cannot escape.
With that, he collapses onto the floor and Mr. Finch bends down to help him up, but is struggling with the weight of the man.

After the monk is settled, the group disperses from the abbey in two separate carriages that speed off towards the docks ,finally coming to a stop outside of the decrepit and rotting, wooden Mariner's Inn. The inn is alive with raucous merriment despite the hour rapidly approaching midnight.

Look for the sewer pipe, we'll take the inn. Lucretia commands.

Brother Thomas is a little shaken by Rasputin's fit. Although he is well aware that the world is filled with good that is active, and he believes there is evil that is also active in the world, it is quite another thing to see it in action. He gives some thought to Rasputin's words. Darkness is coming? Has that always been the case that darkness is ever present? What makes this different?

As they arrive outside the inn, Thomas nods at Lucretia as she gives orders, and begins to search for the sewer pipe they are supposed to be looking for. Before doing so he slips into an empty corner alley for a second. "Begin without me friends, I need to take a moment to pray alone." He says, as he stops to ask God for guidance.

As he searches for the pipe, he accidentally walks into a wall, and falls over. "I guess I must not be too awful perceptive tonight. I suppose I'll have to leave the search to others who have keener eyes." He says as he gets up and dusts himself off with a grimace.

(If he can be alone, he will cast the spell guidance, which grants a +1 bonus on a single skill check, attack roll, or ability check. If not he will just ask God to help him without casting guidance.)

"Madame! I forbid it! The drain almost certainly connects to the sewer system of London. It would be folly to enter such - let alone assume one could track a quarry - without preparation. A flameless torch. Compass. What one can piece together of a map. Waders - to prevent the frigid water of underground london from causing hypothermia. I have all the necessary precautions save waders at my house. If you can arrange for waders - or at least Wellingtons - for the others then I will meet you all near this Inn."
"Most crucially, if there is a trail, we'll need a well trained scenthound to pursue it. My pup Charles would be ideal, but as I had not thought to bring him to a party or an interrogation I will also need to collect him from home."
He adds quickly "For Jove's sake, don't let anyone go tromping in there like some two-bit-bobby and ruining the trail until I arrive."

Reagan nods to Mr. Fitzroy. "Aye, you head back to your place, but I'll nae be waitin' to be findin' find the drain, at least." She cracks her knuckles and grins a missing-toothed grin. "I might be scouting around down there a bit, once I find it. It can't be worse than King James was, at its worst."

As she turns away from the party, she mentally prepares herself to be in her element underground again. At the same time, she keeps her eyes open for any openings that might be accessible by everyone.

Altair looks rather concerned with the monk's... fit. This is swiftly moving into territory that he is not entirely comfortable with; the supernatural. He came to London to get away from freaky things like his heritage. Still, he continued along, rolling his eyes at George's obsession with gear.

"I'm with Miss Faolan here; we'll wait for you, but that's not going to stop us looking."

Knowledge (engineering): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (10) + 4 = 14 What do I know about drainage systems?

"Two heads are better than one." Thomas says. "There are plenty of library books on the sewers at the Seminary. Let me rack my memory and see if I can help."

Dr Fitzroy commandeers the first cab outside, desperately studying his journal by candlelight.
"Be here when I come back in a few minutes and there's a crown in it for you!" he calls, fleeing up the stairs with alacrity, if not dignity. His fingers are already undoing the buttons on his shirt as he crashes through his door.
Clothes are strewn, left to fall where they may. Quickly he changes into hunting clothes - a herringbone deerstalker, Norfolk jacket, tweed breaches and solid boots. He quickly stuffs his valise with auxiliary gear, grabs his puppy Charles - who is jumping up to be carried, barking excitedly at the frenetic activity.
A few minutes later he swings back into the cab, calling "To the Mariner's inn!" and once again turns his head to studying.
As the can slows he braces himself, and quickly spits out word in the archaic tongue of magic. Four spells he casts, in quick succession. The first, a simple expansion of his mystic powers. The second a complex warding that renders his hunting clothes proof against anything short of a bullet. The third, a Wytchlight into an old bronze tube once part of a kaliedoscope, and the last a spell to heighten his mind.
He gasps as the shock from the last spell hits him, like falling out of bed and into an icy lake. Everything clears. His pulse pounds in his ears. The cold of the London night becomes almost unbearable. The scent of the previous passengers becomes cloying. The bitterness of the coffee bean in his mouth almost stopping him from choking it down.
He struggles to regain his composure, then steps out, handing the Cabby a pound note.

In the carriage, Stone removes his tie and unbuttons his collar, shoving the former into a coat pocket. After disembarking at the Mariner’s Inn he looks over the young Greek fellow and Irish lass while the monk goes off to pray. ”Please tell me one of ye has got a light, else we’ll look right gets when that Fitzroy geezer gets ‘ere.”

Altair rolls his eyes at Edgar. "Right. I've always a use for a flaming torch in the middle of bloody London. Forgive me for not being in the habit of traipsing through sewers, Mr. Stone, but seeing as I can't just wave my magic wand and make a light, and how he's bringing one with him, I'd just as soon wait for the man to return with the aforementioned torch. Given the tone of the night, I daresay I'd rather have my hands free rather than bound with a light." He takes a deep breath; he hadn't meant to dip that far into the sarcasm, but Rasputin's fit, that claw, and the feeling that he was coming very close to having to explain to someone what he was... well, he wasn't looking forward to that last eventuality, in particular.

"Sorry. I'm not usually this short-tempered, but I'm not usually in the business of mounting rescues, nor of bodyguarding scholars and clergymen on the same. No offense to you, Brother Thomas, but I doubt a man of the cloth is a decent fighter." He continued to search for the pipe, but also continued to speak, flicking his wrist to draw his kukri from his sleeve. "No point hiding this now. Had the thing all night in case the ball was a trap, and I'm damn good with it if I say so myself. What's everyone else's specialty when things get all hectic?"

"Sorry. I'm not usually this short-tempered, but I'm not usually in the business of mounting rescues, nor of bodyguarding scholars and clergymen on the same. No offense to you, Brother Thomas, but I doubt a man of the cloth is a decent fighter." He continued to search for the pipe, but also continued to speak, flicking his wrist to draw his kukri from his sleeve. "No point hiding this now. Had the thing all night in case the ball was a trap, and I'm damn good with it if I say so myself. What's everyone else's specialty when things get all hectic?"

Brother Thomas is slightly unnerved when Mr. Clarke jokes about using magic to create light, since he actually can. It doesn't help either when Clarke pulls a strange looking knife from his sleeve. For a second he considers telling them the truth, but decides against it. Few people would respond well to claims that God talks to me and works through me directly he thinks sourly to himself, and who knows how they'd react if I actually proved it.

Brother Thomas grunts. "I'm just an ordinary monk." he lies. "I'm pretty handy with my staff, and I have an old sling that is a better weapon than you'd think, so I'm not quite defenseless."

"It's fine. I borrowed a mining lantern from King James. It's a bit rusty, but I'm thinkin' it'll work just fine." Reagan rummages through her satchel, pushing her metal tubes out of the way carelessly and eventually coming up with an old, beat-up lantern. "And it's fine. I can be goin' first, if ya like."

She makes as if to leave, pausing to consider Mr. Clarke's comment about fighting. "I held my own in a few scraps, before I got out of Brixton. They let me out for good behavior. Oh!" She once again digs in her bags, coming up with an old military pistol. Turning around so as not to face the men, she pulls off her jacket, straps it around her chest, and pulls the jacket on, leaving all but one button undone. Finally, she pulls out a flask and swiftly drinks the contents, tossing it carelessly into her satchel and shivering as the mixture goes down.

"There, all ready." She turns back to the group, a bit of a blush on her cheeks. "Now are we goin' down the drainpipe, or am I goin' back to my dear father to explain why I'm out so late for nothin'?"

Now out from under the scrutiny of high society, Edgar stands straight with his shoulders set, cutting a much more confident and impressive figure. As the others talk he removes his formal jacket and ties it around his waist, then unbuttons his vest and rolls up his sleeves.

"Constable Edgar Stone, Metropolitan Police Force, Whitechapel Division." He gives gives the trio a nod. "Me specialty is dealin' with shifty blighters what hide knives up their sleeves, among other things; no offense t' you, Mr. Clarke." He nods appreciatively when Reagan produces her mining lantern. Least this bit o' jam's got her head on straight.

"I'll take the lead, if'n Fitz isn't here by the time we find this tunnel."

The seminary student’s powers are still unknown to the group as is the shifty businessman who keeps knives up his sleeves. The four find the service entrance to and underground tunnel system by walking just a bit down the dock and then underneath it. The large, iron gate that would normally seal of the pipe to keep larger creatures from entering it is broken and rolled off to the right of the opening. There are noticeable tracks outside of the tunnel. The tunnel itself measures six feet in diameter, leaving the group no choice but to enter single file. Just before they decide to enter, George shows up with his pup and his gear. The hair on the pup’s back stands up as four wolves slowly process out of the tunnel’s mouth to greet the intruders in the small yard in front of it. Bordered by the Thames behind then the party has little chance of escaping unscathed as they circle the group, snarling and gnashing before finally closing in.
You are all encircled by four wolves. An oddity along the Thames in this era.