morebooks (morebooks) wrote in shadowlands_ic, @ 2017-10-14 23:59:00 |
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Entry tags: | adrien green, bertie eden |
Who: Bertie Eden, Adrien Green
What: A fact-finding mission
Where: The Institute
When: 14 October, 1888, after this
Rating: G
It was with some embarrassment that Bertie presented himself at the Institute’s doors with the incredibly vague inquiry of, “Ah, could I speak with someone who knows about airships?” When that came out sounding as insignificant as Bertie felt in this hallowed scientific hall, he added to give himself some credibility, “Trainee Inspector Eden, I’m here on an investigation.”
Which was all true, even omitting the organization with whom Bertie was a trainee. It was always better if the other participant in the conversation assumed Scotland Yard, and left it at that. It prevented Bertie from having to directly lie about his affiliation, which was a minor thing, but always chafed at him when he couldn’t avoid it.
Adrien was fairly used to being trotted out when the Institute’s archives division needed someone who would play tour guide, translate (if the scholar spoke French or German), or answer questions others would find beneath them.
It didn’t help that of the archive staff, he was both the one who was very highly qualified (overqualified, really), and least able to justify spending his time doing better, more worthy tasks. His supervisor, Mr Winslow, seemed to very nearly enjoy re-directing Adrien from his personal research and day-to-day work, and then complaining about his lack of progress.
Adrien suspected that he needed a reason to be annoyed.
So when Robins came to the back with ‘some Trainee Inspector bloke who wants to know about airships,’ Winslow flicked a hand Adrien’s way (even though he was in the middle of a fiddly bit of transcription, and didn’t particularly want to leave off), just as Adrien knew he would, and Adrien bit back a sigh and put down his pencil, shooting a conspiratorially baleful glance Miss Lloyd’s way before going out to the reading room to meet this Trainee Inspector.
He looked barely old enough to be in long pants.
“Mr Adrien Green,” Adrien said, crisply, nodding his head. “I hear you’re wanting to know more of airships for purposes of an investigation, Mr…”
“Eden. Bertram Eden,” Bertie replied promptly, fumbling to offer his hand. Did one offer their hand to an African? Was that proper? It must be, surely, he couldn’t think why it wouldn’t be. Then again, he hadn’t introduced himself to one before this that he could remember, with the exception of the American, and he couldn’t remember whether they’d clasped hands or not.
“Yes. Thank you for seeing me. I’m afraid my questions are all rather, ah…” Bertie winced slightly, and decided against the word ‘ignorant’ in favor of, “...basic. I don’t really know anything, and I do have a few questions, but I thought you might be able to answer them?”
He wasn’t quick enough to stop his voice from rising into a question at the end, which only made him wince again at how foolish and inept he sounded. Hoping he could save himself with something more professional, he managed only, “Questions about, ah, parts? And things?”
Adrien managed to avoid raising an eyebrow at the young man’s hesitance in offering a hand, but he took it when offered.
He cleared his throat, and gestured to a set of chairs, and, once seated, brought out his notepad and pencil. “Right,” he said, crisply, “I may be able to answer some questions outright, but others, I may have to make inquiries about. I will, however, need a touch more specificity. What questions do you have regarding ‘parts’?” He asked, looking over at Mr Eden.
The eyebrow did raise just then.
Bertie took out his own notebook, which he'd scribbled notes on at intervals during his walk from the warehouse. "Cells," he prompted first, frowning a little as he sat down. "What are they? Gas cells," he clarified, further down in his notes. He flushed a little, and said, "I know it sounds obvious, but for the sake of thoroughness, please explain everything, no matter how evident it seems. I don't want to miss something important on an assumption. How do they operate, in a factory setting? And in the airship itself?"
“Airships are lifted through use of a gas known as helium,” Adrien replied, mildly, after jotting down a few notes. “The gas is colorless, odorless, non-flammable, and, as you might imagine, lighter than air. It is produced in one of two methods; the first, through natural means -- for lack of a better word, it is mined, distilled, and contained, most often as a byproduct of natural gas -- North America rather holds a monopoly on that end of things, as it is relatively rare in nature. The second method is to create it artificially, through a chemical combination, which is done at the Institute -- they consider that method proprietary. It is stored in tanks.”
He paused, looking over at the Trainee Detective. “I may need some greater specificity regarding queries for ‘how they operate,’” he said, frowning a little, “And process may differ depending on organization. What, exactly, are you investigating?”
"Non-flammable," Bertie repeated, wondering. Mr Green's question gave him only a moment of pause before he gave his superiors' preferred answer in situations where they didn't wish to disclose information: "It's an open investigation, I'm afraid." He hesitated, then asked, "Would it be too broad to ask you to consider British and American models?"
That was a wide field, he knew, but already too specific, considering how few companies had taken successfully to the air. Bertie didn't dare include 'Russian', although the temptation was there. Even if they were mixed up with this, it wouldn't have been their gas cells in the warehouse. "British because of where we are, of course, but you say the Americans have a monopoly, so it's best not to rule them out."
And that neatly covered Mrs Linden, which Bertie had been worried about. He'd gotten lucky there.
"If this gas is non-flammable," Bertie asked, knowing now that he risked Mr Green surmising far too much about his investigation, but unable to avoid the risk, "what might happen if one of the storage tanks had sprung a leak, and there was a flame nearby? Anything at all? How would they transfer the gas into a waiting airship?"
“Ah,” Adrien replied, jotting down a few more notes. “I may have to make inquiries, if you’ve specific questions about how the Americans might differ from the British in certain safety and storage protocols, but generally speaking, helium is lighter than air, so it would most likely dissipate rather rapidly into the atmosphere -- an expensive loss, and the canister might react with some powerful counter-force depending on the suddenness of the leak -- shooting across the room, say. The helium is most often stored in pressurised canisters which can explode due to overfilling, or under sudden changes in air pressure, which might occur in a fire. A firearm discharging could likewise cause an explosive reaction. But not one that would cause fire -- simply a rather enormous hole in the wall, and perhaps shrapnel.”
He cleared his throat, tapping his pencil against the notepad. “Helium is, actually, somewhat of a fire retardant,” he added crisply.
“I am afraid I don’t know the precise method of transferring the gas,” he ended, making a brief note. “I can certainly look it up, though.”
He’d ask Biddie. She was an engineer, after all -- he’d been meaning to add an inquiry as to her family’s well-being after news of the fire at Modern Prometheus -- he knew they worked for the company, she’d mentioned it offhandedly once or twice, and he made a mental note to write sooner rather than later, and allude to the sorts of questions he was being asked by way of giving her a bit of a courtesy heads-up.
If the fire was accidental, or sabotage by a competitor, it’d be in her family’s best interests to have that confirmed regardless, so he didn’t see harm in answering honestly.
Bertie frowned at that answer, and made a note himself. "That's all right, thank you. That's enough for me to go on, for now. Safety protocols, in this case, might not be the most helpful." They might not have been followed, and even if they had, the ghost of a worker who might have been responsible for causing the fire through carelessness would certainly claim that was the case.
"I have a statement that 'untreated fibers' were present--are those for the...balloons, do you think? Are there other fibers? Do you know if they're treated for specific purposes?" Bertie supposed he should be embarrassed again at sounding so foolish, but it was a better alternative than pretending to more wisdom than he had and foiling an investigation.
Even if this wasn't, technically, an actual investigation.
“It’s not quite a balloon,” Adrien replied, “more a fabric covered frame. And the fabric is often treated with a lacquer to make it airtight -- some lacquer is more flammable than others, but it’s all certainly potential fuel in a fire.” He tapped the pencil on the pad. “I believe they refer to the lacquer as ‘dope’ in those circles,” he added.
"Dope," Bertie repeated, and wrote it down. He hesitated before asking the next question, but since he'd been this obvious, he might as well take it the final step. "I would prefer that you not share this next question with anyone except Scotland Yard, as the investigation is still open. To your mind, however..." There was no discreet way to ask, really. "Is there anything - aside from a firearm - which you believe might create a 'spark' in the context of an airship? Some part of the...engineering system? Propulsion, perhaps?"
Adrien put his pencil down and folded his fingers thoughtfully -- more out of a courtesy than anything.
“Airships do have propeller systems that run on combustible fuel -- if there was a catastrophic failure of such an engine, a thrown rod, perhaps, I could see that causing friction and igniting.” He shrugged. “The fire you’re investigating was in a workshop,” he said, pitching his voice a little lower so as to remain discreet. “Presumably, there could be welding torches and the like, a stray spark from a cigarette, heaven knows.”
Bertie nodded, privately grateful at not having to keep up the pretense. The airship company's fire had made the papers--there was no other reason he would be here, asking these questions. "You're quite sure, though, about the helium," he asked, just to be sure. "Forgive me, I'm not doubting you, I just want to be certain. A tank with a leak--it wouldn't have ignited and created an explosion."
Adrien frowned in thought, tapping his pencil once again against the pad, staring intently at a spot on the wall as he spoke very nearly to himself. “If the tank used propellants -- but none of the typical gasses are flammable either. The tank itself and pieces are usually made of metal…” the frown shifted to one side as he pondered, and his eyes focused once again on Bertie. “Should the tank have been punctured in a way that caused metal shrapnel, and there was tinder nearby, the resultant friction of the metal against concrete or other metal could cause a spark…” he shrugged a little. “That’s all rather rampant speculation, however, and I’m afraid I am no expert in engineering -- should you care to talk to one of ours, I may be able to schedule an interview.”
It was both a disappointing answer, for not providing a tidy solution to the puzzle, and a worrying one, because why should such a story be invented? And why would a ghost wish to lie to her employer about it?
Well, actually, the answer to that one was painfully obvious. Because the ghost - not a ghost, then - had been the one to start the fire, and was covering her tracks.
Bertie slumped a little, now disappointed again in spite of having solved the puzzle, and shook his head. "No, that's quite all right. Thank you for your offer, and for the information. I'm only a trainee doing the legwork--Scotland Yard can send someone later if they'd like to consult an expert." As they no doubt had, or would, but Bertie and the Night Watch were out of it, so he didn't know. He ought to give Thomas a call, he thought, and then blinked himself back to the present and Mr Green.
"I thank you for your time, Mr Green," Bertie told him, gathering himself to stand. "I'm sure you have more important things to do than answer ignorant questions about airships."
Adrien stood as he did, pocketing the notepad. “The Institute will always be more than happy to provide its expertise to help Scotland Yard,” he said, nodding, noting the young man’s disappointed slump to his shoulders. “I do hope what crumbs I was able to gather were useful for your purposes, at least for a start. And we all must start somewhere, Mr Eden. Best of luck to you with your investigation.”
"Thank you." Bertie nodded and was already turned away by the time a thought occurred to him, and he turned back. "Ah, Mr Green?"
It would sound queer no matter how he said it, so Bertie tried to match Benson St Crane word-for-word as best he could. "Do you happen to know if...or why...someone might claim that Russians didn't have a monarch? They do, do they not? I..." Bertie flushed, embarrassed. "I may be out of date with my history."
“Hm,” Adrien replied, frowning a little at the sudden change in topic, and the resultant pause in his thinking while he scrambled a bit to adjust. “They do, but there are some who may still not particularly care for the Romanovs -- they’ve only been in power since the 1600s, and the previous dynasty had a messy end, with all sorts of false claims to the throne. But more recently, the anarchists did assassinate someone about a decade back -- one of the Alexanders, I believe, and they would have a rather unique perspective on whether there ought to be a monarchy, politically speaking. Marx and Bakunin and so on.”
The 1600s hardly seemed recent to Bertie, even counting in generations, but he knew many others who would think differently. That did give him pause to consider Mr Green, but only for a moment--the man was an archivist, a historian...it wasn't surprising that he thought about history differently than Bertie might.
"Ah," Bertie said, smiling gratefully at having that piece of the puzzle finally in place. He'd consider what it meant later on, when he was at home again among his case notes. "I see. Thank you, Mr Green." He bowed his head slightly in a nod of gratitude, and this time, by the time he'd turned around and away from Mr Green, his thoughts were already miles away.