Tristan, Carl and Rasheed return to London and their Lodge. They find themselves at the Dinner table with several other Rippers for the evening meal.
Andrej greets the returning travelers with bear hugs. "Welcome back to glorious gloom of London! We are calling in many favors and obtaining important information from house of solicitor Watts. Author of Strand tales is poet Algernon Swinburne. We did not talk to Gospodin Swinburne--we were in hurry to depart house before encounter with police. Here are letters."
"Fantastic," Tristan says, grinning as he feeds a morsel to Ajax. "We met with Mister Watts, and while he's fascinated by old stories of legend and folktale, he seemed very much unlikely to be our mystery writer. Glad to hear you were able to confirm the true identity of our man." He scratches the hound behind the ears and takes a sip of wine. "So then, I imagine tomorrow we're off to visit Master Swinburne?"
"At least we got somewhere with this whole investigation. And hopefully we'll be able to wrap things up tomorrow."
Mei nods her head, "Yes, that would be welcomed. You truly were unable to gather worthy information during your travels?"
"Well, we confirmed that Mr. Watts is not our author. Ruling out false assumptions is an important part of any investigation, so I suppose that was worth our time. He is rather interested in gypsy folklore as well, so perhaps we should remember his name. He might be able to help us with research in the future if we cross paths again."
She flinches, My apologies Mr. Jung, I did not mean it like that. Yes, I suppose we should indeed keep him in mind during future investigations."
"Oh, no offense taken at all. I'm a scientist. I'm used to having my theories disproven before coming to a proper conclusion."
"And I am an engineer, with my theories and inovations being disproved by uncontrolled fires and electrical discharges. One hopes that our theories in this case take your approach." She says with a smile.
"Other point to remember is that now you have formally met solicitor Watts--can now call on him at home without fear of disapproving manservant."
"That's true, it'll be easier to contact him. We can also say he mentioned Swineburne to us, so getting into the home might be easier now as well... we just figured it'd be a better idea t'wait until you lot came home t'do it." Victoria picks at her food absentmindedly, only eating small bites in between her talking. "It seems the two of them are in a relationship of sorts as well; we found some letters they wrote to each other, when we broke into the house. We stole a few things t'make it look like a robbery, but I figure we can report the 'missing' goods stashed somewhere in London that we happened t'stumble upon 'em once we're done."
"So, do we just want t'head to the manor tomorrow and wrap this up? Assumin' it's actually that easy, anyway? I... I dunno, I've got a feelin' about that butler. Could be nothin'."
Andrej nods at Victoria's speculation. "It is easy for us who deal in shadows to suspect all others of doing same. Sometimes we are being right, though."
The Rippers gather their belongings and head to the house in Chelsea. The same Butler as before answers the door with all the solemnity of a man at a funeral.
Yes. Might I help you? Again.
Andrej leaves the talking to Tristan.
Sir, we understand there was some confusion last time we spoke with you. However, we've since spoken with Master Watts, and we've come to learn the man we seek is one Algernon Swineburne, who's staying at this address. We don't mean t'pry, but it really is urgent that we speak with 'im." She looks to Tristan, hoping the old man will pick up where she left off--she didn't go meet Watts, after all--and then looks back to the butler with a friendly smile.
"Indeed, my companion speaks true," Tristan says with a nod and a clack of his cane. At his side, and slightly behind, Ajax pants and drops down to sit on his haunches, tongue lolling. "I took the liberty of seeking out your master, as you'd suggested, and spoke with him about his business with the Roma people. While his tales were fascinating, they were not the ones I sought, and in the meanwhile my companions discovered the identity of their true author."
The old man heaves a sigh and gives the butler a doleful look. "My good man, I've now spent a great deal of time and effort seeking out this fellow, Swineburne, and I should be most grateful if you could assist us in concluding our search. I am a patron of the arts and an admirer of fine writing, and nothing more. I seek only support and admiration, not trouble of any kind."
The Butler nervously asks You know Master Watts' arrangement M'lord?
"We're aware that Masters Swineburne and Watts have quite a close friendship," Victoria says, leaning in close so her voice can become a bit quieter. "That's not what we're here about, you needn't worry."
The Butler sighs and then escorts the Rippers to a bedroom. Inside, a sickly looking man in his late 50's sits in a reclined position on a sofa.
Vistors Sir. the butler intones as the Rippers are ushered in
I've said I'm not to be bothered. the man begins...and then
Well. I can see my wishes are not being fulfilled here. What is it that you want then? Come to collect on debts? the man says somewhat sharply.
Andrej gives a somewhat forced smile. Degenerate. "Not for debt collection. You are being poet Algernon Swinburne, also Strand author Algernon Rose? We are having few small questions for you."
"To be more to the point, where are you getting the ideas for these stories?" Victoria steps forward beside Andrej, crossing her arms. "We aren't here to collect debts, although it wouldn't be a far stretch that we could go tell the collectors where you've shacked up."
Algernon Charles Swinburne, or just Charles, or if you are reading the Strand, Algernon Rose, sighs heavily.
What are you here for then? If not to torment me with my own failings. he says to Andrej and then
Where do I get the ideas? I bloody make them up. The Strand pays 2p per line, so I stretch them out, add details, a little blood a little violence and everyone's happy. Why the hell do you care?
"Now now, there's no need to make threats," Carl says, putting a hand on Victoria's shoulder. "We're here to try to talk things out with the man, not to bully him." He frowns. "Make them up? All of them? You certainly have a vivid imagination. Can you give us just a moment?"
Carl pulls everyone who's not currently talking with the writer back to the door. "It seems that this might be the strangest of coincidences," he mutters under his breath. "So... what do we say to get him to stop? Do we tell him and hope he doesn't think we're crazy?"
Tristan stands by while Victoria sets right to the point, and when Carl surreptitiously asks how to go about things, Tristan shrugs. "With these struggling artist types, Bohemian sorts, I find monetary measures are usually the most effective." He gives a thin smile and then steps forward to address Algernon, however else he might be called.
"My good man, it is of my interest to know just where you find the basis for these tales. They seem to go well beyond the sort of childish dalliances of the youth, ghost stories around the fire, what?" He chuckles with good nature and gives the man a warm look. "Now, perhaps you do truly make these up entirely of your own imagination. But my understanding of the writer's art is that it follows from what comes before, in some measure or another. Your stories are certainly original, and I don't seek to stop you from publishing them--quite the opposite, in fact. But before we talk about investment, I'd like to know everything I can about your... process. Can't have surprises cropping up down the line, you know."
Swinburne relaxes a bit, perhaps Tristan's assurance that they are indeed interested in his artistic process and not in some scheme to entrap him and steal his lover's money persuades him to open up a bit.
Well. Some times I have the most vivid dreams. Ideas just spring forth. The Strand pays well for such titillating stories. Are you talking of sponsoring such work? Swinburne seems a bit baffled by this nobleman's statement.
"Vivid dreams, is it?" Andrej glances over at Carl Jung. "This is being your area, da?"
"Dreams can mean a number of things. For an artist, it can be as simple as the mind trying to express their creative ideas while it's wandering free. I can't say much more unless I know more about the dreams."
Intrigued despite his reluctance to talk to the poet, Andrej asks, "Is there anything you do that seems to bring on these dreams? Is it only since you are staying here that they are coming to you?"
"Indeed, sir, I have an inkling of becoming a patron of your work. But I should like to know more about your creative process, the misty source of your literary genius, so to speak, before contracting myself to such a relationship." Tristan gestures to Carl. "My associate, Doctor Jung, is one of the foremost minds in the theory of psyche and dreams. Please, share what you recall with him."
Swinburne looks at all of you very strangely.
And unfortunately for Tristan, he thinks something is afoot.
My dreams are my own Sir. And if you aren't here for anything else I bid you Good Day.
"Right,"" Victoria says, moving from her position behind the others. She walks forward toward Swinburne and grabs the man by the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet with a bit of effort. As she throws him up against the nearest wall she clenches one of her fists and the blades of her Ripper claw extend out from beneath the sleeve of her coat. "Listen up, ya li'l gobsh*te," she growls, her accent becoming more pronounced. "They tried playin' nice, now it's my turn. You best listen up, because I'm only gonna tell you once. You're gonna tell my friend here about those dreams and you're gonna tell 'im every damned thing you can. If you don't, not only will I hand deliver your sorry arse to pay up on your debts, but I'll make sure word spreads about your 'special friendship' with Master Watts." Victoria moves the claw blades closer to the man's throat, and snarls. "I'll make your live a livin' hell, Swinburne, and we'll make sure it never lets up."
"That, and maybe you'll take a tumble or two before I leave, crack your head off the table, like? Y'understand me?"
"Victoria," Carl says gently, putting a hand on her shoulder. He looks remarkably calm considering his colleague is threatening someone with a large bladed claw. "Victoria, we've talked about this in your sessions. It's not healthy to threaten other people when they upset you. Especially other people who we're trying to have a conversation with. You're merely projecting your subconscious anger onto our acquaintance here. Please, step back to take a few breaths and rein in your impulses. This can be resolved peacefully."
He tries to smile apologetically at Swineburne. "I apologize Mr. Swineburne. We have a bit of a personal interest in your stories, both in their source and their content. As such our friend here is a bit on edge and she can get... testy. Please, let's simply talk this out rather than making a scene."
Victoria spins her head around to look at Carl, her face still twisted with anger. "I'm not projectin' a damn thing," she says, breathing heavily. "We're not leavin' here without figurin' out what the hell's goin' on, and it sure didn't seem t'me like he was about to tell us. You wanna go back to Johann and tell him we didn't find anything?" Her face twitches and she turns back to Swinburne, pushing him against the wall with a bit more force. "He's gonna tell us how he knows all this stuff, and I'm not leavin' 'til he does."
Mei bites her lip, remaining silent and indecisive in this unexpected development. Hopefully Tristan would be capable of putting a cap on this before it got even further out of hand.
"And we can get him to open up without opening up his skin," Carl says. "You're not going to feel any better by attacking an innocent man. You're just going to add more weight to you mind by harming someone who's done nothing to wrong you. Please, for your own sake as much as his, calm down."
Victoria huffs again before shoving Swinburne back onto the couch, and looks at the claw blades before scowling at Carl. "I hate it when you do that," she says, withdrawing the blades back into the gauntlet. "You're right, but I still hate it." She pounds one fist heavily against the wall where Swinburne was moments ago, and then stands with her arms crossed against her chest. Her breathing settles but still seems ragged, although it doesn't look like she's about to threaten the man again. She looks at Carl with half a scowl, and her eyes flick to where she pounded the wall before she gives a final huff and leans against the wall.
"If you tell me anger isn't cathartic, I'm going to punch you."
"It is cathartic, but when directed properly," Carl says. "Instead of at whoever happens to be most convenient at the time."
Charles Swinburne looks at Victoria with a terrified expression. The Butler seems nonplussed and says
Shall I summon the Watch sir? however, the man gives a nervous glance at the Rippers. Now deciding that perhaps inviting them into the home wasn't that good of an idea.
Swinburne waves him away with a shaking hand. K.Keep her away from me! he stammers at Carl and the others.
It's obvious to Carl that the man is terrified, and that psychoanalysis is best done with a calm patient.
The Butler retreats a several paces into the hallway and closes the door behind him.
"Should someone make sure the butler doesn't call the Watch?" Victoria asks, still seeming irritated with Swinburne. Her eyes pass over the others and she sighs, pushing herself off the wall. "I'll go make sure we don't all go to jail," she says as she heads for the door, giving Swinburne one more angry glare before she leaves. She closes the door behind her and stands in the hallway with the butler (assuming he hasn't already left to go and call the Watch), keeping an eye on him but not saying anything more.
If the butler's already left, she curses and goes searching for him. She flexes one of her hands nervously--as she said before, she's still not sure she trusts this butler--and palms one of her silver knives in the other hand as she looks about.
Tristan only sighs as Victoria explodes into near-violence, and he waits for the commotion to settle down before trying again. "Mister Swinburne, my apologies. I hope this outburst does show you the gravity of the situation, however." He takes a seat and gives the man a look that borders on forlorn.
"If you could please just tell us about your dreams, whatever you can recall of them. Any other source of your stories you might think of. I am still prepared to present you with an opportunity for safety and enterprise, should you be interested."
Victoria exits the room and the hallway is empty. To the left is the way she entered from, that leads to the main entrance of the manor. To the right, she has no idea.
Swinburne stares blankly at Tristan. He's just been threatened with death, and worse, and now the same party is saying that they might pay him.
They are just dreams. Just silly stories I've written for a silly magazine. What is wrong with you?! he manages to stammer out
"Perhaps this isn't a particularly useful line of inquiry. We're clearly simply adding more stress to Mr. Swineburne when he's already a bit shaken up. I believe it would be best to discuss other things for a bit until we've all calmed down."
"Oh, sh*t," she mutters, heading off to the left. She stalks off down the hallway looking for the butler, trying to stay quiet while she hunts for him. "I'll be damned if that old bastard gets me tossed in jail after I got out of here scot-free the first time..." she mutters, flipping the knife in her hand while she looks around.
Victoria heads left back to the entrance. Once there, she spies the Butler hastily writing a note at a desk nearby.
Back in the room, Swinburne eyes Carl askance
I'd like it very much if you would leave. Or else tell me what you want.
Andrej sighs. "Mister Swinburne, you are telling story of <insert name here>. This person is being real. Events you write of are very close to things that have happened to <insert name here>. We are wanting very much to know how you know."
Swinburne understands what you are saying
Wait. I write fantastical rubbish. Goblins and ghouls and whatnot. You cannot possibly be telling me the truth. Why the falsehood?