[CoC]Log: First CoC Session

[pyrephox]

Logfile from SamingaMU.

The park chosen as a meeting place is not far from Shoreditch Rd, itself, although /firmly/ in the more respectable neighborhoods. It's a small park, and the driving paths are narrow and unfashionable, providing too much privacy to do the see-and-be-seen socializing of Hyde Park. Still, it may be just exactly what is needed on a windy afternoon, for a private meeting between associates.

Imogen steps out of her hired carriage to wait at the appointed place in the park; and waves the carriage-driver on, a sufficient distance away that he cannot overhear the conversation. She settles herself on a bench to wait, smoothing the fabric of her modest, wine-colored dress over her legs to properly conceal her ankles.

The carriage-driver, a wizened old man, clucks his tongue disapprovingly at the order, and levels a stern gaze between his horse's ears. But a pound is a pound, and he pulls away, shaking his head at the foolishness of women.

Patience was never St. Hubert's strong suit. Hopping from his carriage, he makes his way towards the bench in long, ungainly strides. As he approaches, he lifts his hat to the lady, and waits on her for a moment.

Timothy stomps along behind at a proper distance, keeping an eye out for pickpockets and other such riff-raff.

The park seems nearly deserved, only the three, and the receeding carriage driver, can be noticed.

Imogen gets to her feet. "Lord St. Hubert." Standing, she is almost taller than he is. "How lovely to see you this afternoon."

"Lady Faville-Smith," Theodore responds. "What a delightful surprise, to run into you here today." He raises his voice just a tad. Coincidence! It's ALL COINCIDENCE! His voice returns to normal. "I trust you are well today?"

"Entirely so," Imogen responds. "And yourself?"

Timothy stands within easy earshot, endeavoring to look like he's not /really/ listening to the conversation, but only waiting for anything m'lord might wish to ask of him.

"Of course, of course." Theodore gestures towards her carriage. "It seems your hired man has ridden off," he says in defiance of the facts. "Perhaps I could offer you a ride? Mayhap we are going the same way," he says with a smile that's all warm innocence.

Composedly bland, Imogen follows his gesture. "So he has. How kind of you to offer," she mentions absently. "Perhaps we are. Might I inquire as to your destination?"

Keeper rolls 1d100 for 53

Theodore glances back towards his own carriage. "Why, I was headed to visit my dear friend, Lord Whitecrest. He is currently staying at a temporary lodging here in London, not far from here. He is freshly back from Africa, and it is good to pay visits on old friends, of course." The smile just keeps on.

You paged Timothy with 'When you return, Timothy can hear the sounds of what appears to be two trysters (judging by the low tones of the man's voice and the nervous giggles of the girl), approaching from behind you on the path.'.

Timothy straightens up, and has a brief, pointed coughing fit.

Imogen's eyes widen just the tiniest interested bit. "From Africa, you say? How marvelous. It would be far too much of an imposition to ask to be introduced to such a world traveler, of course."

Theodore nods his head, and his eyes flicker towards Timothy. "If the lady would be so kind?" He proffers his arm to escort her to the carriage.

Imogen very lightly places her hand on Theodore's arm.

A brief, high-pitched burst of laughter comes the path behind the carriage, followed by a woman's voice saying, playfully, "Oh, Eugene, you would /not/," before the tone falls back below hearing range.

Imogen wrinkles her nose, and ignores it.

Theodore's smile widens, just a touch, as he leads Imogen back towards the carriage with all due (but not unseemly) haste.

Timothy moves on ahead to get the carriage ready to move.

Imogen, once seated in the carriage, tilts her head toward Timothy and raises an eyebrow in silent 'is he trustworthy?' questioning.

Theodore nods, with a chuckle. "Very much so," he replies.

Timothy stares straight ahead, keeps the horses moving, and gives no indication that he's listening intently.

"Ah," Imogen says. "How convenient. What have you got for me, then, that was so urgent?"

"It's not what I have, my dear," Theodore replies. "It's what Lord Whitecrest has. He alleges it's some sort of bejeweled heathen African idol. It may be just some fakir's trick, or it may actually have some value." He nods towards Imogen.

Imogen hmms, consideringly. "I'll look at it."

Theodore smiles. "I had hoped you would."

Imogen does not smile in return, much. "How could I pass up a bejeweled heathen idol?" she asks, entirely serious.

Theodore relaxes in his seat. "Of course, of course," is all he says.

It is a blustery early March evening as the carriage rattles its way through the dreary street off of Shoreditch Rd. The respectable homes and shops are almost immediately left behind, replaced by pawn shops and ramshackle boarding houses, several of which have a 'working girl' out front, calling to the weary male factory workers as they slouch their way home. A few, both workers and girls, turn to watch the smart carriage make its way down the dirty street, with equal parts wistfulness and resentment.

Imogen studiously does not look out the carriage window at the unpleasant surroundings.

Timothy glares at anyone moving too close to the carriage, and keeps the horses at a brisk pace.

Theodore waits calmly, occasionally glancing out the window as he hears the callers in the street.

Timothy recieves a few glares in return, and a couple of children run beside the carriage, begging. However, the manservant's frosty manner keeps the numbers small, and they soon fall behind. Mrs. Milton's Boarding House, one of the few that looks /almost/ respectable, has a small, weatherbeaten sign fastened above the door as it comes up on the right.

"Ah, this is the place," Theodore says. "Not the worst of establishments, I should think."

Imogen makes a noise which might be charitably interpreted as a polite cough.

Timothy pulls up at the door, and searches for a reasonably competent-looking urchin to pay to watch the carriage.

A study-looking lad, a small fourteen or a big twelve, pushes his way ahead of the other children who just seem to materialize around the carriage. He pushes another boy out the way and draws himself up, saluting Timothy. "'ey! Hey! Watch yer carriage? Only five quid for the service!"

Timothy frowns. "Two now, two when we return."

The boy nods so fast it looks like he's going to shake his head off. "Cor, you got a deal, mister!" To prove it, he hawks some spit into his right hand, and offers the moist palm up to the driver.

Timothy accepts the spitty hand, and passes over the deposit. "Mind the one with the white star on her face. She kicks."

The boy shakes firmly, and takes the money. It disappears into his filthy garments faster than the eye can follow, and he turns viciously on the other children. "Hands off, you blighters! Anybody touches the lordship's hack and I'll thrash him to next week!" He crosses his arms over his chest and takes up an important pose.

Timothy returns to his lordship's side, discreetly wiping his hand off on the way. "M'lord?"

Theodore nods to Timothy. "Of course." He dismounts from the carriage, awaiting Imogen as well.

Imogen steps down lightly, and waits to be escorted in to wherever they're going.

Theodore duly escorts, on up to the door of the establishment.

Leaving the carriage, and the boy goosestepping along side it, the three approach Mrs. Milton's. The front door hangs a fraction ajar, and a plain wood hall can be seen within. Unlike some of the other boarding houses, this building looks to be in reasonably good repair...shabby, but with pretensions of quality. Inside, there's a door to the left and one to the right, both closed. The hall turns to the left some distance past them, and the very corner of a banister can be seen peeking out, suggesting stairs to the second floor.

Theodore looks, meaningfully, to Timothy.

Timothy steps on in, and announces, to whoever might be listening, "The Viscount St. Hubert, and friend." He then bows slightly and steps aside. "M'lord."
Theodore nods again, the smile returning to his face. "Very good, Timothy," he says, and enters.

The door on the right has a tarnished plaque affixed at eye level, reading 'Milton'. The door on the left just has 'A'. The one at the left opens at the announcement, and a bright blue eye, in a round, feminine face, peeks out to stare at the visitors.

Imogen follows a small distance behind.

Theodore frowns a moment. "I believe he wrote he was on the second floor." He gestures towards the staircase. "Shall we?"

Imogen says "Certainly."

The attention of the woman behind the door follows them with hungry curiosity until they reach the narrow stairs to the second floor. Then, the door shuts with a bang. The second floor is just as plain as the first, although the two doors have multiplied to four. There's a window at the far end of the hall...apparently the maintenance has fallen down, here, for the window is broken, letting in a chill March draft. Each of the doors has another letter on the front, B to the near right, C to the near left, D to the far right, and E to the far left. All the doors are closed.

Theodore moves towards door E, and raps sharply on it. Three knocks, a pause, then two, a pause, then one.

There is no answer to his clear raps on the door.

"Are you sure you have the right door?" Imogen asks quietly.

[OOC] Keeper asks all three of you to make Spot Hidden checks.

Theodore rolls 1d100 for 14

[OOC] Theodore says, "Holy cow, I made it!"

Imogen rolls 1d100 for 21

[OOC] Imogen says, "Remarkable! I did too."

Timothy rolls 1d100 for 25

[OOC] Timothy says, "I want under, right? Because if so, I made it."

There is a peculiar scent at this end of the hall. Something like sewage, and underneath, an acrid, coppery scent that catches in the back of the three's throats. Those with fighting experience may recognize it as blood.

Imogen sniffs, delicately. "... do you smell that?"

Timothy frowns. "I do. M'lord, would you like me to look into this while you and the lady wait elsewhere? Wouldn't want to upset anyone, begging your pardon."

Theodore's nostrils flare. "I say," he murmurs, the smile disappearing. "Timothy, help me with this door." He reaches to open the handle; if it fails to open, to give it his shoulder.

The door is, indeed locked, and fairly sturdy.

Timothy moves over to assist his lordship.

Imogen gets out of the way.

[OOC] Keeper says, "Whoever is trying to open the door should roll me Strength x 5."

Timothy rolls 1d100 for 85

"My lady," Theodore says, "You may wish to remain in the hallway for the moment." And then he shoves.

Theodore rolls 1d100 for 31

Timothy lends a shoulder to the effort.

With the two of them, the door to Edward's room swings open with a protesting spang! of the lock giving way. The small bedsitter is drenched with a foul, coppery scent...those more used to the rigors of battle will immediately identify it as the combination of blood and waste that accompanies human death. Those not as familiar with the harsh side of life will still notice the splayed, desecrated body of a young man on the floor, his shattered ribs pulled up and away, like a grotesque crown placed on his torso. Beneath and between them, ruined organs and other bits, red, pink, white, and green, can be seen in terrible detail. Edward's face is distorted by his rag-gag, but the rictus of horror is still plain in his bulging eyes. The rest of the room is in chaotic disarray, with clothes, sheets, papers, and other things thrown all over the place.

Imogen makes a muffled noise of revulsion, her hand pressed to her mouth.

[OOC] Theodore says, "Wow. That one gave ME an 0/1. I presume a SAN check here, Keeper?"

[OOC] Keeper says, "Yup! Everyone roll 1d100, and try to get under your current Sanity Points."

Theodore rolls 1d100 for 75

[OOC] Theodore says, "Bwahahahahah! No."

Imogen rolls 1d100 for 65
Timothy rolls 1d100 for 6

[OOC] Timothy says, "...okay, at least I'm unflappable."

[OOC] Imogen says, "Nope! Not here either."

[OOC] Theodore says, "Of course you are! You're the Quintessential British Manservant. It's in the Job Description!"

[OOC] S.D. _admires_ the description. o.o And cackles at the SAN rolls. Of course the servant is the unflappable one! --yes!

[OOC] Keeper says, "Theo and Imogen, please roll 1d3, and take that off your current Sanity Points."

Theodore rolls 1d3 for 1

[OOC] Theodore whews.

Timothy wrinkles his face in disgust. "Bloody outrage, begging your pardon, m'lady."

Imogen rolls 1d3 for 3

[OOC] Imogen says, "Ooh, going insane I am!"

[OOC] Keeper says, "Imogen is /very/ affected. Poor girl. Still doesn't go temporarily insane, but this is Not The Thing a Lady Should See!"

Imogen whimpers quietly behind her hand, eyes wide and shocked.

Timothy steps further into the doorway, trying to block the view from the lady. "M'lord?"

Theodore also moves to block the view. "By G... Gad. Edward. What... what DID this to him?" He casts his eyes about. "Was this some sort of particularily gruesome robbery?"

Timothy says "Wouldn't think so, m'lord. Thieves aren't like to stand around and play with a man's insides once he's down."

Timothy eyes Imogen, and coughs. "Begging your pardon for the language."

"Was anything stolen?" Imogen says in a high, tense, entirely faux calm tone.

It certainly looks as if the room was tossed...although Theodore would remember that Edward's barracks tent often looked like that, just as a matter of course. The body itself appears to have been tied down with red, silk cords, to the legs of the sparse furniture: a bed, a vanity, and a dresser.

"It'd be hard to tell, the way things are torn about... though I imagine the idol must be here somewhere." He takes a wary step into the room, as if he expects a horde of heathen pygmy Africans to be hiding under the bed, or somesuch.

Imogen nods, still staring blankly at what remains of Edward.

Timothy follows his lordship, then pauses, and turns. "M'lady, if you'd like to step outside for a moment, we could look for anything missing. Wouldn't want to catch the vapors from a place like this."

Imogen swallows. "Do -- do bring out anything useful. Like that idol." And retreats outside the door.

Theodore gives a look towards Timothy. "Keep an ear out for her, hm?" And he begins to poke about, gingerly, with his cane, trying to poke about for anything bejeweled and African looking.

Timothy nods, and begins searching the area as best he can without actually touching anything.

The rented room is small and cramped. A couple of inches from the crown of Edward's head, there's a bed longside against the back wall...the sheets are folded military style, with a single flat pillow at the head. It's the neatest part of the room. An army chest rests at the foot (open and with the contents heaped around it), and a wardrobe beyond that. To the side of the wardrobe, near the door, is a vanity. A quick look into the washing bowl will see that it has been filled with blood instead of water. On the other side of the room, across from the vanity, is a writing desk. It's been opened, and there are letters and stationary scattered all over the place. There is nothing on initial examination which appears to be idol-like.

Timothy shakes his head. "I don't see any heathen idol in here, m'lord. Might've been taken by whoever did this."

Imogen calls from outside, "Might they have -- done that to him -- to get it?"

[OOC] Theodore says, "Did Edward strike me as the sort of Do-or-Die fellow who'd hold out to the bitter end against people asking him questions?"

[OOC] Keeper says, "He was stubborn and hotheaded, and had a very clear sense of privilege. He very well might have held silent out of sheer outrage."

[OOC] Keeper says, "Although the gag stuffed in his mouth might suggest that if the assailants were asking questions, they weren't waiting for the answers."

[OOC] Theodore says, "Good point."

Theodore leans down to look under the bed. In case of African Pygmy Heathens. Or, at least, because the fact that the bed is so well made, it seems to suggest a place the murderers hadn't checked.

There seems to be a small box of some dark wood under the bed. From its skewed position up against the far leg and the trail of dustless wood before it, it seems to have been thrown, or perhaps kicked, under there.

"I say!" Theodore pushes the box clear with his cane.

Emerging into the light of day, however weak it is through the dirty window, the box appears to be made of ebony, with a silver catch, currently unlatched. One corner shows a definate crack traveling up the grain of the wood. It has Edward's monogram in gold leaf.

Timothy crouches down to take a look. "Think that's what they were looking for, m'lord?"

Outside, the door across the hall from Edward's room cracks open, and a portly man, possibly in his fifties, peers nearsightedly out into the hall. "Hey, now. What's going on out here?"

"Nothing, sir," Imogen says quickly. "My friends are just helping an aquaintance pack his belongings for a journey."

"Young Lord Whitecrest? Well, I'll be demmed, guess the pup was right all along." The man bestows a wide (if uneven) smile on the young lady. "Wish him well, I do."

Imogen smiles back politely. "Right about what, sir?"

"Eh. Said he was due for some good fortune. Just a moment, young miss." The head disappears back into the room, and returns a short moment later wearing a pair of spectacles. He examines Imogen more closely, then peers beyond her towards the room. "I say, surely a vision of loveliness such as yourself shouldn't be out in a hall all alone?"

"Oh, I'm not alone," Imogen replies, just a bit more loudly. "The Viscount St. Hubert is just inside."

Theodore looks to Timothy, then shoves the box at him. Grabbing his hat, he makes his way rapidly towards the door. "I think that should be the last of it, Edward old boy," he calls over his shoulder into the room. "We can come back for the rest next time, you're paid through the end of the month, eh?" He comes out, a broad smile on his face. "My dear," he says, exuding warmth and possessiveness as he holds his hand out to Imogen.

Timothy follows along behind, and makes sure to close the door firmly behind him. With a brief tip of his hat to the body in the room.

The man hmms. "Well, I say. Bloody rude to leave you outside, still. Ah, well," he pulls back as Theodore comes out, sizing the other man up. "Here's your gentlemen now, so that's all right, then. I suppose the young lord is to be leaving our exclusive company?" he asks, his dark eyes twinkling with good-natured humor.

Imogen takes Theodore's hand, with more effusive femininity than he's ever seen from her, positively /fluttering/. "Theodore," she says happily.

Theodore is all smiles. "My dear, dear Camilla," he says, patting her hand. "Yes, I do believe Lord Whitehurst will soon be departing this fine establishment," he says with a nod to the gentleman.

The man chuckles. "Well and good, then. Didn't quite fit in here, y'understand. Tell him the 'gin-soaked sawbones' will miss him, nonetheless, if you would, good m'lord." He tips an imaginary hat, and then the head retreats back into the flat.

Imogen looks at Theodore, all traces of besottedness vanished. "What did you find?"

The momentary pout on Theodore's face suggests he already misses the besottedness. "In the carriage," is all he says, and gestures. "Timothy?"

Imogen nods, and seems eminently willing to leave the room behind.
Timothy tucks the box under his arm. "Certainly, m'lord." He tromps on downstairs to recover carriage from urchin.

No other doors open as they make their way downstairs, and outside, the urchin is still self-importantly pacing back and forth beside the carriage. When he sees Timothy, he crows, "Right as ye left it, sir!" and with no shame whatsoever, sticks his hand out.

Timothy drops two more quid in the boy's hand. "Good work." He pauses, and after a very slow thought process manages to infiltrate his head, adds, "You run about this street often?"

The boy bites one of the coins, nods, and the money disappears to wherever the first two ended up. "Sure do. 's my patch, mine and a few other lads. Stay up at the workhouse on Nelson when it gets too cold."

Timothy nods slowly. "Good lad." He considers saying more, but finally only nods briskly, and climbs up to the driver's seat.

The boy shrugs philosophically at Timothy's dismissal, and starts to fade back into a nearby alleyway.

Theodore assists Imogen up into the carriage before climbing up himself. "I say... we ought to inform the authorities, I imagine..."

Imogen nods. "You ought to, certainly."

Theodore rolls 1d100 for 67

Imogen says "What did you find...? Is it the idol?"

"Indeed." Theodore looks through the window. "Timothy, take us to Scotland Yard. We ought to report this, I would think. Pass the box in here, though."

Timothy urges the horses forward, and once they're moving, passes the box through the window. "Yes, m'lord."

Theodore opens the latch, and then the box. Even as he does so, he's speaking: "Of course, part of the trouble will be keeping YOUR name out of this, my dear..."

The latch opens easily, and the box is quickly opened. There's heaps of poor quality silk in there, evidently used as padding for whatever was once in the box. Now, however, it appears empty.

[OOC] Keeper says, "All three of you make Spot Hidden checks again, please?"

Imogen sighs. "It's your fault for keeping company with the sort that gets murdered. Besides, I'm 'Camilla'. /Camilla/ was out on a tryst with you." She looks down at the box.

Imogen rolls 1d100 for 91

Theodore rolls 1d100 for 67

Timothy rolls 1d100 for 75

You paged Timothy with 'Timothy, when you were handing the box over, your fingers slid across something that could have been a seam on the bottom of the box, although it's taken you a few minutes to ponder over the sensation and decide that that really /is/ what you felt.'.

Timothy clears his throat. "M'lord? I believe I noticed a seam of some sort on the bottom of the box. Might be a compartment or latch or some such."
Theodore blinks. "Why, yes. Excellent eyes, Timothy," he says with a smile. "Whitecrest was always the clever one. I was about to suggest a hidden compartment." He turns the box over.

Now that it's been pointed out, a little searching can find a seam that runs sufficient to indicate a shallow drawer hidden on the underside of the box. The catch, once found, seems fairly simple to work.

Theodore works the aforementioned catch, eyes wide and curious.

Imogen watches, fascinated.

The catch catches, and a drawer pops out with a snickt! The drawer is lined in red velvet, and smells faintly of a lady's perfume. What rests on the padding now, however, is no love letter. Attached to a crude, black, stone hand is one of the fabled diamonds of Africa, rough cut, and easily the size of a man's thumb. The carved hand holding it is only half that size, and broken off at the wrist...the break has the raw look of freshly exposed stone.

Imogen exhales. "God in Heaven."

Theodore tsks at Imogen's language, reflexively, as he looks at the stone hand. "What... what did it /come/ from?"

[OOC] Imogen says, "This the sort of thing I can attempt to identify?"

[OOC] Keeper says, "Archeology rolls from Theodore and Imogen, please. I don't think Timothy can get a good luck at it from his position."

Theodore rolls 1d100 for 19

[OOC] Theodore says, "I'll be damned."

Imogen rolls 1d100 for 9

[OOC] Keeper grins. Both of you go ahead and check that skill.

Both of the nobles, looking at the hand, are struck by recognition, albeit from different places. Imogen recognizes the handicraft as being done by primative hand tools, and judging by the hardness of the stone, the craftsman must have been exceptional to even get /this/ level of delicacy, faint though it is. Theodore has actually seen artifacts of the same kind of stone, bandied about by a few soldiers back on tour, soldiers that had done African duty. They're from some tribe or another in the interior. One of the more violent ones that refused to be civilized, and had a nasty habit of cutting the hearts out of missionaries.

"The maker was /skilled/. To do that with the tools he had..." Imogen sounds far less upset than she had even a moment previously.

"From some tribe in the African interior," Theodore mutters. "One of the barbaric sorts."

Imogen says "Do you know the name of it?"

[OOC] Keeper says, "You didn't catch it, Theodore. Most of the soldiers didn't care, and the tribespeople, as far as you know, were not terribly interested in an exchange of culture. Unless you count the heart-stealing part."

[OOC] Theodore says, "Oh, very cultured. Getting to the very heart of English civilization, they were."

[OOC] Keeper groans.

[OOC] Timothy says, "Oh, it's all fun and games until someone loses an aorta."

[OOC] Keeper groans more!

[OOC] Imogen laughing!

[OOC] S.D. says, "...then, it's a scavenger hunt?"

[OOC] Imogen facepalms.

[OOC] S.D. ^_^

Theodore shakes his head. "I don't recall it," he admits. "I saw similar sorts of artifacts back when I served in Africa. Never did catch the name... but they had a rather disconcerting habit of cutting people's hearts out..."

Imogen winces. "... that, ah. Might. Ah. Explain...? If the tribesmen wanted their idol /back/..."

Timothy politely refrains from adding to the conversation with a description of the process.

"Well, that WOULD make looking for suspects easier," Theodore points out. "How many damned Kaffirs can there be in London?"

Imogen says "Hopefully not many."

Imogen knits her eyebrows. "I don't think we should turn this over to Scotland Yard. It's obviously of valuable archaeological importance and should be studied, not locked away in some evidence drawer."

Theodore nods in reply. "I would have to agree. I'll simply leave this bit out when I explain the situation, then."

Imogen looks fairly satisfied at that. "I'll take it with me. I was no where near the scene."

"Excellent," Theodore says, and hands the box and its odd little contents over.
Imogen tucks it securely under her arm.

Night has fallen over the Queen's city, and the gas lamps of hansoms and streetlamps gutter into life as the Viscount's carriage rattles over the cobbles. Scotland Yard, blazing with gaslight, is like a beacon in the street. Bobbys in their uniforms scurry in and out, some carrying protesting, struggling criminals on their way.