Of Balloons And Colonials... In the absence of any other sound, the gradual rhythm of a grandfather clock's pendulum could be soothing. In the HMS Whitechapel's ship library, it had a way of keeping time with the words on a page, to Michael's ears. He was standing, a volume devoted to the subject of werewolves laying open in hands, as he slowly turned the pages; reading, but scanning through for refamiliarity's sake. The other night had given him a reason to brush up on the beasts, once more, for it had been a rather close encounter, to say the least.
Upon hearing another open the door, he turned, smiling pleasantly. The book being slid back into place.
"Ms Frye," he greeted, giving a perfunctory half-bow out of friendly politeness. "Glad you could make it... Your own patrol fared well, I trust?"
Elspeth stalked in the library. She unfastened her cloak and draped it on a hook. "If by faring well, you mean encountering an enormous werewolf in front of a man and having to put it down with his assistance, then yes. It was a total success." When she breathed out, a strand of brown hair fluffed against her forehead. For a moment, she stood with hands on her hips, allowing the calm of the room to soothe the bustle with which she always went about things. The clock ticked.
Then she peeled off her gloves and sat on a stiff chair. "What of your hunt?" She swept the piece of hair aside.
"Oh, much the same," he replied, retaining that same aloof, almost comical brand of calmness, as before. "With the added bonus of property destruction... And an oddity in the shape of a Mister Jack Doyle - someone not too unlike ourselves: Readied and laying in wait for the damned. Proved quite the assistance, all things considered."
"Jack Doyle?" Elspeth's fine eyebrows furrowed, and a tiny line formed between. "I believe I have met him," she said, thinking of her trip to the library for the book on lycanthropes. There was a rather gruff gentleman there. "We spoke briefly on the subject of werewolves," she added. Well... Once they stopped jabbing elbows over the book.
Michael fished something out from pocket and strolled his way over. It was palm-sized, not too unlike an American Sheriff's badge, but round. Clearly metal, all the same, although certainly thicker. "It seems at least one of our logistical problems might be over... Namely, the rather unpleasant business of body disposal."
"What are you talking about?" Straightening in her chair, Elspeth leaned closer to inspect the disc. Her gloves rested on her skirt like a pale second set of hands. She touched the device with a single fingertip. So many pieces of their weaponry had hidden mechanisms and hair triggers; it paid to be careful not to disturb them. "Well, it isn't large enough to stuff a werewolf in, I'm afraid." Elspeth raised an eyebrow and waited for her comrade to explain.
Michael's expression rang clear with amusement at her postulated query. A mental picture of trying to force a werewolf into a suitcase came to mind and it was a lot more comical than the real thing. It was almost enough to make him want to try it.
"Not quite," he answered and pointed to a catch on the upper side. "You wind this to initiate the 'fuse', as it were. Once placed upon a body, it ignites whatever residue of 'ectoplasmic field' still surrounds the dearly departed - or so I'm told. In effect, it should work on the living and reanimated, alike... A remarkable contraption, really. It's akin to the flash bulb in a photographic portrait: Quick, violent and... Encompassing. I saw it tried on remains from a local butcher's. The fresher and, therefore, closer to death, the better the effect."
Passing it over for her perusal, Michael encapsulated the mechanism with a simple, "Immolation in the palm of one's hand. Ashes, of course, will still need dealing with."
Elspeth took the brass contraption and carefully inspected it. "I haven't the faintest idea what an ectoplasmic field could be. I take it you're quoting one of the inventors in the laboratory?" She glanced up to confirm that. Then she overturned the round object. She heard something shift inside it. Could it be powder? A liquid? Something mystical? Elspeth had the urge to pry it open and inspect the contents. She might have done it, only she didn't want to be set on fire.
"Can it be used more than once?" Elspeth touched the trigger and snatched her finger back, scared of accidentally engulfing herself.
"Observant as ever... Not that I'd expect anything less," he voiced, smiling in confirmation of her suspicion. "As per my understanding, it's something to do with life, itself... And no, just the once, I'm afraid. Fortunately, they're small enough to carry several of."
Of course, there was a certain weight to them... Wearing one as some sort of medallion might work, but placing two around one's neck would be a burden. It would be better, on the whole, to place them securely within pockets - providing a thief would be unable to retrieve them from the same. "As for Mister Doyle, if what you say is any indication, it would seem we've a local with potential... He was using silver."
"Hmm." Elspeth placed the gadget in Mister West's palm. "Perhaps, though I wonder if he's single-minded when it comes to such things. He mentioned that his family was killed by werewolves, which means he's looking for vengeance. It would be best if he worked through that before joining our ranks." She put her hands on the chair arms. The fabric underneath was a rich, burgundy colour. Elspeth scratched it with a thumbnail. "What if we found ourselves in a troublesome spot on a hunt? I don't fancy being left to fend for myself while another Inquisitor chases windmills."
"No, no - quite right," contemplated West, his gaze locked on the palm-sized sophistication. Not that he planned on using it on a live target, as it were... He had no idea how, say, clothing might affect its efficiency, for one thing. "Still," he continued, glancing up, pocketing the device, "perhaps it mightn't be out of bounds to infer a like-minded group of fellows exist, who could do with his assistance, every now and then. I'm sure he's a veritable fount of research, if nothing else."
Michael often had to shift his usual pattern of regard for the fairer sex, when it came to Elspeth Fry. Although feminine, she bucked the proverbial trend with a razor-edged wit, at times. A damsel, perhaps, but rarely in distress. Not of a level which could not be solved with a kick to shin, at any rate. Nevertheless, there was enjoyment he found in teasing her and, with a grin, spoke, "I'd say anger used against our canine adversaries is often a prelude for more useful traits, but reminding you of that seems a mite superfluous..."
"I-!" For a moment, Elspeth thought he was being lewd, which was a window into her mindset, wasn't it? Her proximity to his groin was to blame, she decided; she was seated while he remained standing... Entirely his fault. Her eyes flickered to Mister West's trousers and then looked away, to less perilous territory: a globe. Mercifully, she caught onto his meaning. "Was not angry at my husband." Peeved... Occasionally exasperated... "He had a condition and I had to rectify it. That is all."
Her fingernails dug into the plush armrests. Curse him for making her feel that twinge of guilt. Sometimes, Elspeth wondered if her quick preparations to 'rectify' her husband's ailment smacked of eagerness. She did not regret putting Carl out of his misery. He was a danger to all, not just the livestock he mutilated. What she regretted was that it only took one lunar cycle for her to decide upon it, without exploring other options. During her apprenticeship with the Inquisition, her advocate mentioned a controversial expert on werewolves who lived in Ireland and kept himself in chains during the full moon to prevent harming anyone. Her response to that had been a belated, 'Oh...' Well, no matter. That would have been impractical.
Oh dear... He hadn't expected that. Her inner mental workings were for her, alone, to know, but Michael could see there was a considerable emotional gauntlet being run, if her body language was anything to go by, much less the tension in her voice.
"I hadn't meant to imply..." He began, but then thought better of it, exhaled, wet lips and clasped hands almost vicar-like, in front of his person. "My apologies," he phrased, simply. "My meaning was one of admiration, not prejudice: Issues of gender, aside, you've accomplished much from a position of anguish. Dare I say it, but from such beginnings can a phoenix be reborn. An irony, though it is, but I suspect that, if he still drew breath, your late husband would have many a reason to find pride in your achievements, thus far."
"Oh, I don't know." Elspeth let go the chair arm to wave him off. She angled her head towards the globe. "Carl was many things, but broad-minded was not amongst them. I think he would've been happy, had I relegated myself to embroidery and child-rearing. But he was a soft-hearted man. Always sort of..." Her brow furrowed. "Cowed." She remembered his rounded shoulders, a look of placidity on his features. At times, she thought him slow; at others, merely content. She often felt like a pretty bobble he was afraid to touch.
She rounded on him. "Why have you never married?"
"Shame," Michael replied, brow furrowed, although not quite verging into the realm of over-sensitive concern. Not that she would be the first woman to have fallen into such a match. Still, though, a terrible waste of one's life...
"Never really felt the need," he answered, truthfully. "Or at least, not inspired. The rest of one's natural-born days seems like an awfully long time, if you ask me... And if business has taught me one thing, it's that finding the right partner should be considered vital. For a long-term arrangement, at any rate..."
At that, eyebrows lifted and he was almost tempted to give a little bouncing rise on feet, just to see her reaction. Reminded him about a certain conversation they once had about one's choice of knives. The lady Inquisitor could be so snippish, that presenting her with something unpredictable, in a perfectly relaxed manner, could sometimes be a game of its own.
"On the whole, it's generally a choice between alley cat or lifelessly dull Persian. Is it so wrong for a man to be hunting for a tigress, instead?"
Elspeth's brow quirked. With the assistance of metaphor, he had reduced women to nothing more than felines in three basic types. "Oh, it isn't wrong," she said, turning attention to her hands. They were slender and pale, her careful use of gloves keeping them pristine. "As long as a man remembers what a tigress is good for." She breathed out and smiled at him. "Clawing out your eyes. It's an interesting choice, Mister West. The monsters we hunt are not far removed from this creature you want to marry."
West only grinned. Grinned, looked down and chuckled. Her accusation tickled him and produced a wide array of rather... Surreal mental images. "I, uh... Yes," he smiled, right hand lightly caressing forehead. "I'll be sure to have a proposal to hand, the next time we're sent on a Midnight field trip...! And perhaps a pot of tea waiting in a cage. A church wedding would, of course, be quite out of the question..."
Had he been possessed of a hat, it would be raised in a figurative 'salute' of Elspeth's observational skills. To hear the woman speak of her departed husband, West found it increasingly hard to imagine such a gentleman even able to survive the carefully-sculpted barbs she seemed to have ready for just about any conversational partner.
"Well," he mentioned, looking up at the chime of library's clock, "as random as this is, I should perhaps ask your view on journey by air... Specifically, balloon. It struck me how little co-ordination we enjoyed, the other night. Something tethered to the ship, with an overview of London, during a full moon... I'm at a loss only for how best to signal directions to those on patrol."
She looked at the opposite wall, mouth slightly ajar. "Well, that's an idea. Why shouldn't our ship have its version of a crow's nest?" She played with the fingers of her gloves and thought about it. As to how they'd signal Inquisitors in the field, she had no idea, though getting the word to those down below on the ship would be quick work. In turn, they could be dispatched on horseback to strategic places in London where Inquisitors awaited directives. But that would take time.
"Perhaps we shouldn't look to tether the balloon. What if it floated over the city and hunters were carried along as passengers? Could they be lowered where needed?" Elspeth frowned, afraid she had asked a stupid question. "I do not know enough about balloons to comprehend their workings."
"Me, neither," he admitted, scratching head. "Although I'm unsure if there exists a way to steer the blasted things... The mechanics of flight are rather a mystery to me. Still, there's no harm in mentioning it to our resident engineers and seeing what they come up with."
He imagined it would also need some sort of propulsion, too. In either case, he was not best suited to the practical creation of such marvels. Only wagering that there might be some kind of use for them. "But speaking of travel... Tell me, have you ever visited abroad?"
Privately relieved that Mister West knew little more than she, Elspeth picked up a leather-bound book, abandoned on a little table. She frowned at the title, Human Sacrifice During the Yin Shang Period, but could not stop herself from flipping the pages. "I never have," she said. "I should like to. The man who aided me with the werewolf, Mister Joachim Zahavi, suggested I go to India." There was an engraving of a body with its entrails strung about. Elspeth muttered, "I think I shall avoid China."
She slipped her finger into the book, holding the page. "He is interesting." Elspeth crossed a foot over the other and pivoted a bit, becoming entirely too comfortable on the chair. "Mister Zahavi is a military man. He claims to have encountered werewolves on a battlefield. Nearly all the men were lost. He escaped with a crippling injury to his leg. I suppose we did not hear of the incident because it happened abroad."
"India?" Michael frowned, removing pipe in preparation to smoke, as he did at such times. "Hmm," he agreed of her other Far Eastern observation. "It would be quite the trek... And, besides which, I hear of these even wilder beasties, out there."
With the object now readied, a match was struck and the gentle burn of tobacco created its tell-tale whiff in the air. "I've known military men," he commented, bringing it to mouth. "By and large, they're in agreement when asked of the Empire: We run it to escape the God awful weather, here at home... That and the wife, usually. No offence intended, Ms Fry."
"None taken, I suppose." Elspeth thumbed the corner of her book. "He is of Indian name and descent, and yet he is an officer in our military. A Major, according to my brother." Her tone suggested bewilderment. "Sorry, I met him previously, when he bought one of our horses. When we met, again - with the werewolf, I mean - it was a compromising situation. I am lucky. He was too startled to ask why on Earth Elspeth Fry had all those weapons."
She set the book aside. "I think perhaps I shall wear a blonde wig from here on." Elspeth folded her gloves and got up. She assessed Mister West. Well, they ought to be quite proud, she thought. That conversation had nearly gone without incident. "Is there anything else you wanted to talk about? If not, I'll retire to my cabin.
Yes... Elspeth was something of a thorny rose, when it came to a nominal discretion of killing devices, wasn't she? Or at least, that was how Michael took her to be. Where many gentlemen might fancy the vision of her removing skirt and more, any attempts West might make to such an end were almost always accompanied by flashes of her having to drop a pickaxe, hidden belt of throwing knives and miniature crossbow.
And that was with her wearing a smile.
"Should they work their way into our armoury, I trust you'll place a couple of our new little friends on your person," he said of their newest acquisition. Having to wind them up for activation vastly diminished the chances of an accidental firing, but, unfortunately, also of their success. These were still early days for the Inquisition. "And, uh... Try red. Good evening, Ms Fry..."
Already gathering her cloak, she nodded. The incendiary devices could be quite useful and she intended to try one. When an Inquisitor had as little natural strength as she, mechanical assistance was a blessing. It wasn't as if she could haul a werewolf out of public view on her back! "Good evening, Mister West." As she let herself out of the library, her skirts swished against the door. Only in the corridor, did Elspeth allow her puzzlement to show.