Investigator of the Supernatural, Brewer of Tea (sedulus) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-07-13 11:24:00 |
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Entry tags: | bertie eden |
Who: Bertram Eden & NPC James Percy
What: Discussing investigations
When: July 13, 1888
Where: The offices of the Night Watch
Rating: G
Shift change at the Night Watch involved a chorus of greetings and farewells, "Good mornings," from those on their way in returned by friendly "Go to hells" from those stumbling blearily into the daylight after a long night. Bertie himself was the subject of several baleful eyes at his chirped greetings, which were perhaps more cheerful than some of the yawning night shift staff appreciated.
"Good morning, sir. Good morning, William. Good morning. Morning, sir. Good morning, Jamie."
That last was a greeting no one else made. The ghost of James Percy shimmered into brighter life at Bertie's acknowledgement, becoming sharper and more present as Bertie slowed to a halt beside him for the morning news.
There were the morning reports, which they all read, and the morning tea gossip, which they all listened to; and then, for Bertie, there was Jamie.
"Nothing new," Jamie said, wistful. "I'd have expected a message from France by now, but there's nothing. Oh, there was an attempted stabbing last night which involved a vampire, but after interviewing all concerned, it seems there was nothing malicious in it. A drunk human caught up in a brawl, nothing more. He was not aiming for the heart, precisely, and did not even have a very sharp instrument. I believe it was a chair leg."
That was alarming news, and likely the vampire in question would not be pleased, but this was London, and one couldn't entirely avoid street violence if one chose to drink in those sorts of taverns. "He is lucky he did not end up a meal," Bertie replied. "The drunk, I mean."
"Oh, he may yet," Jamie answered cheerfully. "But not while we are still watching, I think." He paused, and then offered, "I read your new poem. One of the investigators left the paper open to the correct page."
As always when his poetry was mentioned, Bertie felt a little swoop of mingled excitement and dread. "Did you? What did you think?"
He published under the name B.F. Eden, often in the supernatural paper, as he had this week, to avoid having to censor his own subject matter. He could cloak his meaning enough for the regular papers, and often did, but sometimes he felt them the wrong audience for what he intended to convey.
Jamie was silent for a moment, fading slightly as if made transparent by a beam of sunlight, though there was none to fall across him. "It made me sad. It was very good, though. Poetry is supposed to make you feel something."
Jamie was one of the few ghosts Bertie had ever encountered who could still use the word 'feel' and seem to mean it. He hoped that would never change; hoped that Jamie wouldn't fade in presence as well as form, until he was only an echo, like the one Bertie had met in the graveyard, who had been eternally caught in a prediction of rain. Bertie didn't think he could bear that.
The poem had been about that ghost, indirectly; it had been a melancholy study on dwelling within a moment in time, unable to escape it. Bertie felt that way about some moments, that he moved forward with his life and yet a part of his mind - or his heart - was still caught in that singular moment and could not entirely break free. That his thoughts might dwell on something even when he did mean them to, quite without his conscious permission for that moment to have hold of him. He had ended the poem wistfully, with the wish that if he were so trapped within one time, it should be a moment of true joy in the remembrance of happiness, and not loss.
He could understand why it had made Jamie sad. Even those ghosts not doomed to relive a single moment were, by their nature, trapped in the eternal moment of their death.
"Thank you for reading it," Bertie said gently, and Jamie's outline solidified again.
"Of course. I'm always pleased when you have something published. What will you do about the case in France, if they do not write?"
Bertie sighed, the thought he had been diverted from now returning to hang like a storm cloud over his head. "I don't know. I have not made any progress, and Lord Black has been patient, but I would like to have something for him when next he asks. I suppose I could...go to France, but that would not be an insignificant venture."
"No," Jamie agreed. "And your French is terrible."
"It is not that bad," Bertie argued, affronted. "I would make do quite well, I think."
"If you say so," Jamie sighed. "What else can you do, though?"
Bertie fidgeted a bit, but there was no one he trusted more than Jamie, and not only because no one else could speak with him as Bertie did. He lowered his voice, edging in slightly closer to Jamie's hazy form. "I have been looking into the death of Fitzwilliam Swinton, Lord Black. The coroner's report looks very well done, but as his death was considered to be of natural cause, there was no autopsy done that might only bring further grief to the family. It was not until the death of Lord Denby that the event was reconsidered, and by then Lord Black had been interred. If there were suspicious circumstances, we do not have enough evidence to prove them, nor to investigate further."
"Could you not gather it now?" Jamie asked. His volume was much greater than Bertie's, and Bertie nearly hissed at him to lower his voice before recalling that no one else could hear that side of the conversation.
"Not without an exhumation, and that would bring unlooked-for attention," Bertie breathed, even more quiet now. "Public attention. No, the best way would be to somehow...well, to gather evidence in secret, somehow? Only I am not sure how. I cannot very well sneak into a man's coffin."
"I could," Jamie replied without a hesitation. "If it were here. I look inside everyone's cases, you know."
"Do you?" Bertie asked, alight with the delicious scandal of it. "What have you seen? Do you look in mine as well?"
"Of course I do, though I never need to, as you always show me when I ask. Don't be distracted."
"No, of course," Bertie agreed, chastened. He thought on Jamie's proposal for a moment. "Only there is no way to bring the coffin to you, or another ghost to the coffin...and there are so few ghosts hanging about graveyards, really. Most remain where they have died, or perhaps lived, and that is rarely a grave..."
He trailed off, suddenly acutely aware of Jamie's misery. "I am sorry," Bertie blurted, horrified at his own callousness. "Jamie, I did not think..."
"No, I was the one who brought it up," Jamie replied, visibly rallying. "It is all right."
Bertie stayed awkwardly silent for a moment, but he was thinking now, and could not stay silent for long. "If we cannot bring a coffin to you...could we bring you to a coffin? Or not you, perhaps, as you are not tied to anything we know, but perhaps another, if there were a way...a pot of dirt, perhaps? A memento?"
Jamie shrugged, his interest in the subject seeming to have waned considerably at the reminder of his own state. "I don't know. I have never tried it."
"Nor I, but I shall look into..."
"Eden!" Orwell boomed across the floor, making Bertie jerk back, flail his arms for balance, and smack his elbow hard into the stone wall. "Stop talking to invisible people and do your job! Like bringing me a cup of tea, it's damned cold and early!"
"Yes sir," Bertie called promptly, and rubbed at his elbow. "I'll speak to you later," he told Jamie. "Thank you."
"Of course," Jamie answered, already fading, as he often did when Bertie's attention left him. He was half-transparent when he said, "You are the only one who wishes me a good morning, you know."
Bertie blinked and turned back to him. "I am the only one who can see you," he pointed out.
Jamie was nothing more than a disembodied voice and imagined breath when he said, "Yes. But they all know I am here."
Bertie opened his mouth and closed it again, lost for words.
"Eden!" Orwell shouted again, and Bertie hurriedly turned away.