Who: Zipporah Bakst & Bertram Eden What: Bertie calls on a witch for assistance When: 23rd August, 1888 [backdated] Where: Zipporah's home Rating: PG
To say that Bertie was unsettled would not have exaggerated his state. He did not glance over his shoulder as he walked, because that would only have attracted attention in this neighborhood, and he already didn’t belong here. However, the prickling on his neck hadn’t ceased since he’d left the sharp-eyed, canny Mrs Linden in Kensington Gardens, along with the recently-deceased Benson St. Crane. Just because Bertie didn’t rationally believe that either of them were following him didn’t set his mind at ease.
He rapped smartly on the door, shifting weight betraying his nerves as he waited for an answer. When he saw Zipporah, he realized he hadn’t quite formulated a greeting and stammered one out. “Hello, Miss Bakst, I don’t know if you remember me, we went to, ah, that is, you assisted me with some work, and I wondered if you might be willing to do so again? Different work, this time. Well, similar, but not precisely the same. I can pay you.”
The question was more than a little ridiculous -- of course she would remember him -- but the man wouldn’t take a breath. When he finally did so, she rolled her eyes and pulled him in the door so he wouldn’t linger and be seen.
All she needed at the moment was word to get out that she provided assistance to the police.
“Mr Eden,” Zipporah replied sharply, clicking her tongue as she pulled the door shut behind him, “you draw too much attention.” She raised an eyebrow. “Well?” She said, crossing her arms. “Take a seat, and out with it, then.”
Bertie started to sit as directed - he was quite good at following directions - when he realized Miss Bakst did not intend to do so, and straightened back up again promptly so as not to sit while a woman was standing.
"I've met a ghost," Bertie explained, which was not news at all, so he continued, "one who roams, it seems, freely through the city, and has no notion of being tied to a particular place. I've never known the like. I've gone back and retraced its steps as well as I can, but it's moved on, or faded out. I was wondering if you knew of any way to find it again."
It was barely a breath before he leapt in to explain, "It's important. The spirit might have information for a case. I'm not just asking for Jamie. Thank you," he tacked on, bobbing his head, "again. For what you did for him."
Zipporah frowned in thought, and she nodded her head a touch absently. “I… hm,” she said, chewing her lip. “I would possibly be able for to bind it should I see it, but…” the frown deepened. “Hm,” she said, finally, sitting across from him.
“I am no necromancer,” she said, which was something she apparently had to say a great deal around Mr Eden. “Binding would most likely destroy it, were it unwillingly done. And tracking…” she shrugged. “It may be possible, but I have not done the like before. And I would not know what to look for.”
She looked at him, resting her chin on her hand. “Tell me more of it? Why do you need for to trace it?”
"It...he said a great many unsettling things," Bertie explained, starting to pace before reining himself in. "And of course, I wouldn't want you to mess about with...or to endanger him, I understand there's a risk, and he's done no harm." That Bertie knew of, anyway, which was not at all the same thing, but was essentially identical in the eyes of the law.
"He asked me to carry a private message to a lady, to which I agreed...he seemed confused when I expressed surprise that he could move about freely. He asked if I was a witch," Bertie remembered suddenly. He should have written that down--he should have written all of this down.
Pressing his eyes closed, Bertie focused on his memory of the conversation. "He said something about...about her having some of his remains, 'what was left of him'. He'd been in an accident, perhaps, something mechanical." That was the reasonable explanation, surely. Bertie hesitated, and decided not to elaborate on the rest of it, the Russian monarchy and Mrs Linden's dubious humanity. It would help him think through it, to say it all aloud, but none of it bore casually repeating.
"She said she'd throw a bone in the coffin," Bertie mused. "Is that...could that mean something, besides the literal? I think..." Bertie hesitated. "I think there may be more than one man dead, now, and something to this larger than I can see. That's why I need to find him again, to ask for more information."
Zipporah felt the goose pimples raise on her arm, and she shuddered a little, and stood, abruptly, going to the kitchen to fetch a bottle of vodka and some shot glasses.
“Here,” she said, thrusting one his way after she’d poured it. “You look like you could use it.”
She tossed back hers with a wince and sat again.
“Why do you believe there is more than one dead? Do you suspect the woman?” She said. “It sounds as if there is some ritual at work -- one I am unfamiliar with.” It sounded highly unnatural, whatever it was. “Perhaps she means to quiet his unrest, to settle him? It is…” she made a face. “It is not something I know much of.”
The concept was highly violating -- to disrupt a body in such a way. No wonder the poor soul was seeking her out.
Bertie sat as well, frowning. "I don't think so. She seemed...it's difficult to explain. He wasn't afraid of her, exactly, but i think he might have been? Or was and wasn't showing it? But they bantered like...partnered constables, almost. They were very familiar. He took outrageous liberties in his speech with her, but then again, he is dead, I suppose he's beyond worrying."
Although not entirely. Mrs Linden had still managed to make a threat, albeit one pleasantly-voiced. Bertie shuddered at the thought. Then he tossed back the vodka he'd been offered and coughed a little before addressing her question, low-voiced even though they seemed to be alone.
"I think she wants him quiet. I don't think she wanted him talking to me, especially when she couldn't hear what he was saying. That was part of their bargain, that he be laid to rest. But if she had his remains, I don't know why he hadn't been yet. Perhaps...money for a coffin?"
That was a weak guess, and Bertie didn't truly believe it. He grimaced. "The ghost mentioned some ill luck had befallen another gentleman, and after he said it, he got this peculiar look, as though he'd just put some things together and didn't like what he'd found. I don't know whether..." Bertie sighed. "I just don't know enough."
Zipporah shrugged. “No. It does not seem so.” She looked at him. “The spirit wanders -- should it wish to tell you what it knows before it is laid to rest, it shall. It found you once, after all. Perhaps if you show up occasionally to where you saw it before? Or find its identity, and see where the gravesite is? Follow up on the woman instead? And…” she frowned. “It does not seem as though the man himself was accusing her of murder, was he? Only…” she made another face. “Only keeping his remains?”
She spread her hands. “I protect. I heal. I could provide protections for you, should you ever need it…” she raised an eyebrow -- he did seem to get into scrapes -- “...but there is not much I can do. When it comes to some things, you are more in tune with the spirits than I am.”
Bertie's smile was complicated enough that it took a moment for his face to settle into the expression, his mouth and eyebrows uncertain quite what they wanted to do in the end. "I don't think that's true," he said at last, once he'd achieved the smile, which was something like rueful gratitude and optimistic disappointment. "But thank you for your assistance, even if you can't do more. I knew it was a slim chance, coming here. Thank you for seeing me."
He didn't stand up quite yet, still thinking over the encounter and searching for any clue that might help them. "I'll check back at the docks. I think..." He hesitated, then admitted, "I don't think I should get too close, to the woman or to the ghost's physical remains. Not until I know more. I don't think it would be wise."
Or good for his long-term health, more to the point. Mrs Linden did not seem like a woman to cross--or even to give the appearance of crossing.
“Hm,” Zipporah replied. “I would say that would be best.”
The young man looked, for lack of a better word, decidedly in over his head, and she could sympathize some. She reached over and patted his arm.
“This business with using human parts? It could be highly unpleasant. Dangerous. Keep yourself safe, yes?” She paused, chewing her lip a little. “I am not…” she frowned. “Getting… involved in such a thing…” she shrugged a shoulder.
She’d already stumbled into a hornet’s nest over the weekend, and wasn’t eager to do so again.
“There are challenges,” she settled with. “Politics. I would not want to step on toes without very good reason. And you might consider the same,” she added.
Bertie nodded, and tipped an implied bow to Zipporah as he stood to take his leave. "I will. Thank you."
“Good luck,” she said. “And my best to your friend.”
There was something ominous and unsettling in the way Miss Bakst said this business with using human parts. Leaving her home, the prickling on the back of Bertie's neck hadn't eased in the slightest from when he'd arrived. If anything, he felt even less at ease than before, and without any plan for how to proceed from here.