Who: Bertie and Biddie (and NPC!ghosts) What: Biddie asks Bertie to interview “witnesses” to the fire. When: October 13th, 1888 Where: MPC London workshop (West) Rating: R Warning: Includes lying liars who lie, la!
~*~ Dear Mr. Bertram Eden;
In the wake of certain tragic events (of which I believe you and all of London are sadly aware), I ask your help in providing the same service you did previously to my colleague, Mr. St Crane. Your assistance would be appreciated greatly and compensated as such.
The ones I ask you to help have no one else to turn to.
With Honorable Regards, Mrs. Bedelia F. Linden ~*~
If Biddie had been of, as the the cheaper romantics said, a poetic bent, then perhaps she would’ve compared standing amidst the ruins of her workshop to being in a graveyard. Certainly there was something about the injured building, now cool as old ash, that inspired sepulchral notions. She was even wearing an adequate amount of black.
Biddie, however, was not a poet, and had never had any emotional complications with graveyards. She was a businesswoman. So when she stood where there should’ve been noise, movement, productivity, she simply thought: who will pay for this? She didn’t think this in anger or grief, but rather with the practical evaluation of a grocer weighing radishes or a butcher eyeing a steer.
Or a soldier counting bullets.
The tattling sound of debris under bootheel announced her guest’s arrival. “Good day, Mr. Eden.”
Bertie entered cautiously, nerves humming at seeing Mrs Linden again in so isolated a location, although that was almost certainly his imagination running away with him. She had asked for him in an official capacity, of sorts, and he was here as a member of the Night Watch. Although why he was here was uncertain, because the papers had been very clear that no one had perished in the warehouse fire.
"Good day, Mrs Linden," Bertie returned, picking his way as carefully as possible over the debris. Scotland Yard had already been over it, but Bertie hated the idea of contaminating a crime scene. He made his way to Mrs Linden, looking around him once he'd stopped, at the terrible, blackened corpse of a building choked by smoke and ash.
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said gravely, because it had been, clearly. Somewhat hesitantly, he added, "Am I here because you think it might have been more of a loss than was believed?"
“Thank you,” Biddie said. Her voice was colorless and slightly worn. There was something notably frayed about the whole of her, despite the elegant clothing and genteel posture. When she looked at Bertram her eyes were dry, but rimmed in raw pink.
“I’m afraid…” She cleared her throat and began again, looking away. “I’m afraid you are correct. We--I am not as certain of our fortune in escaping tragedy as the papers would make us seem.” Again, she hesitated and looked defeated by the pause. “There are at least two casualties that we are certain of. I fear that they may be at least another that’s yet undiscovered.”
She returned her eyes to him. “Would you help, Mr. Eden? I don’t know who else to ask.” She shook her blond head slightly. “I don’t know how to even begin looking for an alternative.”
It was quite apparent that Bertie should not have come alone, although it was too late now to return to the Night Watch. Even so: "With respect, Scotland Yard or..." She knew who he worked for--she had seen him on the Ravensworth barge, and sent for him. "...the Night Watch would have officers better-trained at discovering...ah, those lost in such a tragedy. I'm afraid I can only help if any spirits manifest, or if there were some here already who stood witness. Do you have reason to believe that might be the case?"
Even if it were, Bertie could not dig up remains alone, and transport them safely to the coroner with nothing save his two hands. Not of two people, and perhaps more. Chief Orwell would turn red as a tomato if Bertie even tried.
“Mr. Eden…” Biddie sighed, then seemed to gather herself. “We may both admit that what the paper reported was not incorrect by accident. The board voted nearly unanimously to, to amend the details.” Her voice had a bitter edge. “And they were not interested in alternative voices on the matter. If anyone of them had even an inkling of me, or you, being here...let us simply say that there are reasons as to why I’m speaking to you as a private citizen. Very private at that.”
Again, she sighed. “The opinion of the board and the company’s own investigation is that what happened here was, is a terrible accident. An experiment gone awry.” She spread her gloved hands. “Maybe it was, maybe they’re right. But I must know, Mr. Eden. These were my family’s people, sir, their welfare is on my conscience. I cannot let the matter stand uncertain.”
“There’s very few of the family left now. My cousin, myself, some scant connections back in Boston,” Biddie said. “If I cannot bring to bear the full influence our family once had, I wish to at least honor the intentions of the people who founded this company.”
“Please, Mr. Eden, speak to them. To whomever might be here to hear you and answer,” she said. “If nobody answers or if they do and say that this was just an accident…” Biddie nodded. “I will accept it. But I must know.”
That Bertie had been in a tizzy suspecting this woman of murder, espionage, and sabotage now seemed incongruous given the sad, worried air Mrs Linden had about her. Bertie felt like a cad, but he also couldn't completely shake off the wariness he felt around her after his conversation with Benson St. Crane, and that only made him feel more a cad while Mrs Linden was so clearly fretting over her lost workers.
Still. There was a part of him that couldn't silence the memory of Mrs Linden's tart, dry voice saying I'll even throw a bone in the coffin, and he couldn't reconcile that persona with this one. He would have understood her need to find lost employees, but he would have expected a brisker demeanor. Perhaps this loss really had shaken her into revealing what was usually under the surface. Or perhaps she felt that she had to show Bertie what she felt, in order to convince him to help.
Whatever the reason, he had an obligation. Someone had asked for his help, and even as a private citizen he had a duty to assist.
Nodding to Mrs Linden, he stepped forward into the thick air of the warehouse and looked around. "Hello," he called, raising his voice enough to be heard throughout the building. "Is anyone there?"
Normally, if he hung around for long enough, the ghosts came to him--either sensing he could speak with them, or simply manifesting naturally in a place that he could see them. For Mrs Linden's sake, however, to show he was in earnest, he thought he ought to make his intentions perfectly clear.
About ruddy time, Biddie thought. Her anxious expression didn’t budge, but remained fixed on Eden in uneasy anticipation.
A cool pressure unspooled behind her eyes and trickled down into her chest. It expanded and contracted, a gentle squeeze of power gathered and released. Just a little power, a light-handed touch, just enough to…
A soft voice, well-scrubbed if not quite genteel, pressed against the quiet.
“Well, I’ll be. Youcanhear us.” The voice sharpened from wonder into irritation. “And what do you call this, then? Letting a poor, sad woman meet you alone so in such a broken place. You think you needn’t be decent just because there’s none but the dead to see it?”
Oh, Kathy. Biddie could see her now, both in mind and from the corner of her eye. In her mind, she was a vivid young woman with marigold hair and the firm chin of a born fighter. The chin and stubbornness was still unchanged, but the vividness had thinned into near transparency. She wore the standard costume of most of the telegraph girls: leather hemmed skirt and long, tight cuffs. Neat as a stich even in death, that was the Kathleen O’Wells.
She’d been barely seventeen when Biddie hired her, but it had been a ferociously industrious seventeen. Biddie has envisioned a strong future for the girl.
It certainly hadn’t included being dead before twenty.
"I do beg your pardon," Bertie said politely, his attention focused on the manifested ghost. "I mean no disrespect. Mrs Linden judged it best to keep this matter private, and I have deferred to her wishes. I'm an inspector--trainee inspector--with the Night Watch, I'm afraid we don't have chaperones at hand."
As much as Bertie might wish for one, uncomfortably alone with the formidable Mrs Linden. Of course, a chaperone was meant to be for her comfort, not his.
"May I ask your name?" Bertie inquired, turning very slightly to include Mrs Linden now in the conversation. "Were you a witness to what happened here? Mrs Linden is looking for some employees who might have been lost in the fire."
“Kathleen O’Wells,” came the pert reply. “That’s Miss O’Wells, you’ll mind.”
The ghost raked a frank evaluation over Bertie’s form, before turning to nod politely to Biddie. “Good afternoon, Miss Liddy. It’s good of you to come, ma’am.”
“Who is it?” Biddie asked in a stage whisper. Her eyes ran over the room, passing over Kathy without a blink. “Is there, is anyone here?”
“Go on, then,” Kathy prompted. “Speak up. Can't you see you’re distressing the poor woman?”
"Miss Kathleen O'Wells," Bertie answered Biddie, mentally apologizing to the spirit but wanting to have her full name on the record for Mrs Linden and her company. "She says good afternoon, and it's good of you to come."
He looked back to the ghost, who seemed as present and whole as Jamie did--freshly-dead, Bertie wondered, or was there something else that gave certain spirits strength? "Mrs Linden fears that three of her company's workers were lost in the fire. I don't wish to distress you, but would you tell us if you know anything about the fire, or anyone else lost in it?"
The ghost's familiarity with Mrs Linden, as well as her bright outline, made Bertie suspect that she was one of those lost, but he couldn't jump to conclusions. She might have died earlier, and stood witness to the entire event.
“I know why she’s here, I don’t need you to spelling the obvious,” Kathy said. “It’s that lout George Duffield. He was listed on the day’s docket and they worry he’s gone up like me and Olly. Oliver Loving.” The ghost shook her head in mild disgust. “He’s an unreliable one, that Georgie. I said so to all the girls and none argued. Look at ‘im causing trouble here, as if there’s isn’t enough to worry about! Well, you can tell me Miss Liddy that he’s fine. Nevermind that he doesn’t deserve it, but he is. I saw him duck out early without signing out. Gone to a put his feet up at beer hall, bet you a safe penny on that. Likely he’s hiding and too scared to crawl back.”
A ghostly finger shook sternly in Biddie’s direction. “You hear me, Miss Liddy, and have the Capt’n give him a proper talking to. We don’t need lazy beggars around our works.”
“Kathleen?” Biddie said. She half raised a hand. “Oh, but I know--hello, Ms. O'Wells.”
The ghost bobbed her head again. “Afternoon, Miss Liddy.”
“Now lets have this settled and closed,” Kathy continued, hands on her hips. “You hearing me, Mister Helpful? I want to tell Miss Liddy plain and clear; this was an accident. I know exactly those Rusky rumors are festering, and I don’t want her to get sick with that nonsense. This was nothing but a bad day that had the misfortune to turn worse.” She waved a hand at Bertie. “Go on, tell her so. Otherwise she’s bound to go crawling all over, looking for explanations and making this hurt all the more.”
Bertie was still trying to get an apologetic word in edgewise when the ghost dropped a word into the conversation that he hadn't expected to hear. Rusky. When he'd agreed to speak with ghosts after a fire, he hadn't imagined the Russians coming back into it...and yet, here they were again.
It threw him for a moment, and went still and alert, aware all over again of Mrs Linden's relative proximity and their isolated location. He couldn't ask the ghost more without Mrs Linden becoming suspicious, and possibly guessing that Bertie had heard more than he was meant to, but he also didn't want to lose this chance for information.
"Where did you hear those? What did you hear, exactly, that you think would upset Mrs Linden?" Bertie asked, trying to keep his questions somewhat vague, and perhaps misleading to someone who was only listening to half of the conversation. Bertie recalled, however, the way Mrs Linden had snapped to attention several times during the conversation with Benson St. Crane, how she'd unerringly focused on him and cocked her head as if almost hearing him herself. This was a dangerous game to play in her presence.
Bertie knew he couldn't simply distract Mrs Linden into forgetting his questions, but he took the opportunity before she could interject to pass on the ghost's words. Oliver Loving, deceased. George Duffield, missing but presumed alive. Have the Captain - whomever that might be - say a few words. He held off saying anything, yet, about the fire being an accident. He wanted to know first why a ghost might assume that they would think it wasn't.
Biddied nodded attentively all throughout Bertie’s “translation”. Her expression puckered a bit at his questions, but it was an expression of increased anxiety. It was hard to read guilt anywhere in the worried, pale face.
Mostly because she was practically biting her tongue in two to keep the expression intact.
Blast the little, little - polyglot
Luckily Kathy was under no restriction to play coy. “What’d I just say ‘bout rumors, Mister Helpful? You’d need be deaf, dead, and dumb as a fish to avoid hearing all the stupid talk about how our ‘ships were gonna be spied on. It was only shop chatter, anyone with a speck of sense can realize that.” Indignation suffused the wan face with momentary brightness. “And don’t you go fanning those farts into an ill wind, Mister Helpful. Not when poor Miss Liddy is worn down to the bone like so. She came here to ask you for facts and I’ll thank you to deliver them. All of them.”
“Could you please ask about the...nature of the event?” Biddie’s voice was nearly apologetic, a marked counterpoint to Kathy’s piercing ire. “Ms. O'Wells? Ms. O'Wells, do you know if--”
Biddie broke off, looking conflicted. In turn, Kathleen looked more and more affronted on the woman’s behalf.
Bertie was only half-listening to the continued vulgar torrent of abuse. Russians here, to spy on the Modern Prometheus Company's airships. Russians who had no...what was it...ruler? monarch? head of state? of their own, who had taken suddenly ill, who had been involved somehow with Benson St. Crane's death...or had they? He hadn't accused them. Merely shared the information. Kathleen O'Wells seemed to believe they had nothing to do with this, merely that there had been rumours frightening the workers. Perhaps it was all innocent--or at the most, unconnected to this tragedy and Benson St. Crane's death.
"I see," Bertie answered, once Miss O'Wells had temporarily run out of vitriol. "Mrs Linden, Miss O'Wells would like you to know that the fire was entirely an accident, that the workers have all heard rumours about foreign spies, but she saw none the day of the fire. Could you tell us how the fire began, and where, Miss O'Wells?"
If her account matched the inspectors at the crime scene, it would be a positive sign. If it could be corroborated, that would be even better. "And Mr Loving, has he...lingered, as well? Have you seen or heard him since the accident?" Bertie was careful to call it an accident in his blandest tone--the way she'd erupted at his inquiries, he didn't want to set her off again.
“Those blasted rumors,” Biddie said wretchedly. She rested one gloved hand over her eyes. “It’s like battling the pox. No matter how we talk to people or what we try, there’s always another case going around. It’s crazy.” She gave a dry choke of laughter, eyes still covered. “Or I’m going crazy.”
Kathleen’s glare at Bertie was eloquent: look what you did.
“It was the cells,” the ghost said. “Some of the untreated fibers caught spark and, well, the rest is obvious enough.” The stress on obvious was unapologetically directed at Bertie. “We were due to start storing the materials in the dock warehouse next week. It was nothing but black luck that broke us.”
There were undoubtedly flammable materials in the factory at the time. But Biddie, and Kathy, knew damn well that those risks were kept locked in lead-lined cellars. Even if they hadn’t, their combustion wouldn't’ explain how the fire spread as wide and fast as it had. Nothing mundane could explain that.
So it was a fine thing indeed to have been paid to insert an more obliging inspection report into evidence. London civil servants were stretched fit to snap; Biddie saw no reason to overtax them further with...inconvenient truths.
“Olly didn’t linger,” Kathleen continued in a slightly milder tone. “Didn’t think it was decent, him being the proper church-y sort. I promised to talk to Miss Liddy if the chance came up, and he knows my word is good.”
And then, the final measure. “He and Benny went on their way once I well and promised. I won’t be made a liar on account of some people.”
Bertie looked curiously at the spirit of Miss O'Wells. "Benson St. Crane was here? After the fire? He spoke to you?"
Bertie didn't want to upset the ghost or the lady further, when both were so emotionally overwrought, but that name wasn't one he'd expected. He'd thought that Benson St. Crane must have been gone after their conversation, with Mrs Linden promising to lay him...or some of him...to rest. Instead, it seemed he'd hung around--and not only that, but he'd visited the warehouse after the fire.
Or, perhaps, just before the fire? Could a spirit have done this?
It wasn't a theory Bertie cared to examine aloud in front of Mrs Linden, so he simply relayed, "Mr Loving and Mr St. Crane have both gone on, according to Miss O'Wells. I believe it sounds as though she intends to do the same, but she promised their...souls...to speak with you before she departs." He paused to be sure he had the correct information in his mind, and relayed with more feigned cluelessness than he felt, "She says the cells and the untreated fibers caught the spark, I believe. Is that correct, Miss O'Wells? A black luck accident."
“That’s right,” Kathleen nodded.
“St. Crane--Benny?” Biddie dropped her hand to stare at Bertie in surprise. “What in the world is he still doing here? I’ve fulfilled my bargain to him to the letter. Is he--no, you said he passed on. She said, I mean. I mean, oh God and all the little fishes, this is tiring.”
“Tsk, it’s terrible what stress does to a good mind,” Kathy observed. “She’s going to turn sharp as lard if this business keeps up.”
Biddie made a note to discuss that comment later. For now, she focused on looking anemic and sincere.
“The gas cells? And you’re, I mean, she’s sure that--” She paused, collecting her thoughts with a visible effort. “Miss O'Wells, are you certain that nobody notice any matter of interference in the area? Your post is near that area, I believe.” A flicker of hesitation. “Was near.”
“It was,” the ghost said quietly. “And if there was something to be said about it, I’d have done so. I promise you, Miss Liddy, I’m not lying to you.”
Bertie relayed the ghost's testimony faithfully, and then looked with some concern at Mrs Linden. "Is there anything else you'd like to know? Or to say," he added, with a nod to Miss O'Wells. "I applaud your care and concern, Mrs Linden, but perhaps, if you're satisfied, I should see you safely home. Or to your office, if you prefer."
She might well want to go back to work, although Bertie wasn't certain whether she'd want him traipsing after her there or not. This entire business had him off-balance and seeing shadows at every turn.
“No. No, thank you, Mr. Eden.” She looked up, eyes roving over the concerns of the room. “Thank you, Miss O'Wells. You were--are a credit to the profession. I am sorry to have lost you. I am sorry to have--I am sorry.”
The ghost turned away, translucent hair sliding over her expression.
Biddie clasped her hands at her waist, gathering her dignity with a brisk inhale. “Likewise I thank you for the concern, Mr. Eden. My driver, however, is parked near. I can certainly reach him without the benefit of a guide.” Her mouth pinched again: hurt. “I would like some moments alone here. If Miss O'Wells would allow the company.”
“I must thank you again, Mr. Eden. This task was an imposition, I know, and you were very obliging in granting it. Would you allow me to repay you in some way” She said with a touch of delicacy, “I don’t believe you ever presented a bill for your services last time, but perhaps…”
Briefly, Biddie considered how much more palatable she’d find Bertam Eden if he would simply ask for money.
Bertie shook his head. "It's my duty, Mrs Linden. I would have come earlier, if we'd known anyone had been lost. I'm glad to be of service."
If it was slightly insincere, that was only because while Bertie had more information now, it felt as though he'd only dug in deeper, perhaps into somewhere he never should have been in the first place. He'd nearly convinced himself to let this go, and now he was more befuddled than ever.
"If you're sure that you can manage, I will leave you to say your farewells. Miss O'Wells." Bertie gave her a brief, slight bow, deference to a ghost that might not have been due to the woman's station in life, but which felt correct now. "Mrs Linden. My condolences, again, and please call on me again if you have need."
Bertie left the warehouse's burnt-out skeleton without looking back, although the nape of his neck prickled with nerves. There was something about this that felt strange, although that could easily be his own paranoia at work. It had been a trying month. Part of him was still waiting to be pulled into another alley and threatened with a knife of ice.
He began walking back toward the Night Watch office out of habit, but his thoughts wandered as his feet stayed steadily on course. Cells, sparks...all of it was beyond him. Where did one go, to find out about airships?
There had been a lecture, nearly two months past, on airships at one of the library societies. Bertie couldn't remember which one, but Jamie might, or there might be a paper still lying around. Or perhaps the Institute would know. They surely kept track of scientific events.
Without conscious decision, Bertie veered right along the street, to do some investigation of his own.
~*~
“He’s a serious one, ain’t he?”
“He’s young. It’s an unfortunate side effect of the condition.”
“Don’t be like that now, Miss Liddy. He’s got a good heart, that’s worth a little appreciating.”
“I’d be a lot more appreciative of Mr. Eden’s heart if his hearing was less acute. That boy is begging to lose an ear. Or two.”
“...think he believed what he heard?”
“If he didn’t, it’d be no fault of your performance, Kathy. Although - ‘sharp as lard’? Really.”
“Almost made you twitch with that one, didn’t I? Besides it’s no worse than the wet hen routine. I nearly thought you were going to pull out a hanky and start dabbing at some tears. That’d be a right sight.”
“Save it for an encore, shall I.”
“Why, you think he’ll warrant another performance? Felt like a done deal to me.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. He showed a marked interest in Benny’s name. That may prove...disobliging.”
“He really did speak with the big lug then?”
“Indeed.”
“Do you...do you think he’ll try finding some of the others to speak with?”
“He’d have to come here to try it. There are ways to secure the site from the likes of Mr. Eden.”
“You’d know I suppose.”
“Yes.”
“They wouldn’t, you know. Speak with him. Not any of our lot, at least. Especially not after--considering.”
“Not after what happened with Oliver, you mean.”
“...right. Not after Oliver.”
“Hm, yes. That was regrettable. But also rather the point of the exercise.”