The night air was uncharacteristically calm and silent. The moon had hidden her face behind a cloud, leaving the path through Kirk Park dimly lit. No trees rustled, not even a whisper was heard in the stillness. Not a soul was to be seen in the abandoned park. Every well-standing citizen with a sense of safety had long gone home and locked their doors, shuttered their windows, and stationed a night watch. The oppressive atmosphere made Brenton Mallory twice as nervous as he had been before he entered the park.

Brenton was not usually nervous like this. Darkness and shadow had never been a thing that he had been afraid of. Often at this hour, he ventured through Kirk Park to buy himself a shot of brandy from Brown’s. At least, that’s what the regulars called it. In reality, the upper-class nature of the place denied it the right to a name. Brenton knew the proprietor, Frederick Brown, as an acquaintance. The man usually was decent toward Brenton, despite his blackness, probably due to his radical, outspoken position on Brenton’s race.

However, tonight was different. With a killer on the loose, Brenton did not feel especially safe at this hour, a fact amplified by his race. Brenton hoped that all would be fine back at the mansion, for though he had no great love for his employer, it would certainly not be easy to find another job. The night guards had been doubled at home, and Brenton did not quarrel with this measure. The Earl would be a prime target for a second murder.

A chill worked its way up Brenton’s spine as a twig snapped nearby. Brenton paused five seconds before continuing at a brisk pace along the cobbled path. He glanced over his shoulder, and became suddenly aware that a dark figure was following him at an alarming gait. Brenton caught one glimpse of a balding head barely illuminated by moonlight before he turned and quickened his walk to a long and swift stride in order to outrun this shady person. He again looked back and saw that the figure clutched something shiny in its hand. His heart pounded violently with fear as he remembered the descriptions of the victim’s body.

Haverhill was on his way to Brown’s place, one of the two clubs in Lindebo that was frequented by the higher servants of the city’s elite. In keeping with the snobbish natures of the majority of the employers of the fine gentlemen that frequented the places, neither had an official name—but anyone who needed to know where they were would be told. All others, by definition, didn’t need to know. Haverhill had once sent all the footmen of the visiting Lord Margrave to the place, about fifteen loud men in all, who had absolutely no decorum after drink and were not of the class expected to visit the establishment, when he had been irritated at Brown; but other than that time the club exclusively catered to the upper servants of upper people.

Tonight, Haverhill was going there to attempt to winkle information from the other gentleman who would be there also. Drink loosened the tongues of all men, and some were loose to begin with, so he was assured of at least some success. He was slightly on edge from the events of the morning, but not enough to require one of the Baron’s footmen to escort him. John Doyle, his employer, was rather tight with his funds and preferred that his employees could play double parts; thus, all of his footmen were exactly the opposite of what he should have had as a peer of the realm. Footmen were supposed to be tall and handsome; in fact one could usually tell how affluent a man was by the height of his footmen. Doyle’s footmen were all short (in some cases squat), burly, and ugly—also cheaper because of these defects. They were, however, the sort of men who could break another man’s arm with the ease of snapping a twig.

Haverhill, however, was much too old to be overly concerned for his safety. He had a revolver in his pocket, and that was enough. If not, then it was his time to die. It was as simple as that. Thus, he was walking alone and rather confidently to Brown’s. He entered Kirk Park, thinking about the person he most hoped to find there; Brenton Mallory, the steward of Lord Lindeboshire. Haverhill had never met the man yet, not having occasioned across him in the two years that he had been in Lindebo, but had heard of him in the most glowing sort of terms. He was the only African that had ever risen to such a position in the city.

Rubbing his balding forehead and feeling glad he’d left his hat behind—he was not overfond of that particular piece of a gentleman’s dress—Haverhill hoped the man would be at Brown’s. It wouldn’t be a complete waste of time if he was not, but the hoped-for productivity of this night would be lost. A twin snapped in the distance, and Haverhill saw man on the path ahead of him stop to listen. He was vaguely amused; clearly the fellow was apprehensive of the dangers the night might hold. He noticed the fine dress about the man, and the particular darkness of the fellow’s skin when he turned his head to look to the side, and realised who it must be; the very man he sought, Brenton Mallory. An evil ideal wiggled its way to the forefront of Haverhill’s attention, and taking up his cane in one hand, the metal of the top gleaming softly, he began to walk in a shifty manner.

He was excellent at walking in a shifty manner, having walked that way as part of his career in his younger years; a former footpad and general trouble-maker, he knew exactly how to appear suspicious. Soon the man noticed it too, and Haverhill chuckled to himself as Brenton sped up. The man was much taller than Haverhill, and he had to work a little to stay with the fellow and still walk in his purposefully alarming way. Haverhill sped up himself then, and drew abreast of the man, and said in a rough Geordie accent for effect, “Hoo ye gannin, marra?”

(OOC: For those that wondered, Haverhill said “How are you, mate?” For the extra-curious who don’t already know, the Geordie accent of English comes from the area in and around Newcastle-Upon-Tyne, and is stereotyped as being a lower class (and therefore in this situation, more dangerous) accent. It is somewhat comparable to the Redneck accent in America.)

Brenton’s panic increased as the stranger began to catch up with him. Brenton was about to break into a run, when he observed that the unknown character was not carrying a gun, but merely a silver-headed cane. Brenton also realized that the ominous air of the stranger became less and less threatening as he drew close. Brenton felt more confident with these discoveries, but resolved to keep up his pace and be ready in case the person suddenly decided to murder him.

The man finally caught up with Brenton, and said in a loud and obnoxious voice, “Hoo ye gannin, Marra?” Brenton’s alarm shot back up again at the person’s dialogue. Brenton abhorred this slurred and distorted dialect. Every word of it suggested that the speaker was in fact not the most scrupulous of people. More fuel was added to his already fearful attitude when he spotted that one of the man’s pockets was full with something. Brenton swore it bore semblance to a revolver.

Brenton considered his options. One, he could run. He put that notion out of his mind completely: the man could have a gun, and Brenton would only get shot. Two, he could knock the man out. A proper gentleman wouldn’t do that to a total stranger. Three, he could slow down, and talk to the man. Brenton realized that his third option was the only one available to him at this moment.

Though he disliked the situation extremely, he slowed his pace. Then, an idea occurred to him. He put his left hand inside his pocket, as if to grip his own revolver. It was a good bluff, but he wasn’t sure whether it had any effect on the stranger. His face was difficult to read, and Brenton could only guess whether his ruse had worked or not. Brenton recognized the man, though only distantly. He was one of the regulars at Browns. This gave Brenton a little comfort.

Brenton spoke with as much a firm and eloquent tone as he could muster, “Good evening, sir.”

Scuttling along beside Mallory, Haverhill was in a position to watch the expression change on the other man’s face. It was hilarious; first he seemed to be getting less suspicious, perhaps noting that Haverhill was far shorter than him, not overly muscular, and with a receding hairline that indicated age. But as soon as Haverhill opened his mouth and spoke with his thick accent, Mallory’s eyebrows almost left his face and he was clearly considering his options. Indecision, suspicion, and worry were writ large on the other man. He slowed down, however, and replied as a well-bred gentleman must.

Haverhill let out a giant laugh at Mallory’s discomfort. The man looked excessively anxious, and had clearly spotted the revolver in Haverhill’s pocket. He tried to bluff, but Haverhill had once been a criminal and had already assessed the more obvious places that Mallory might be carrying a gun—including his pockets—and had determined that the man didn’t have anything on him, or at least not so unconcealed. He kept up his accent and agreed with Mallory, “Aye, annah, champion tis. An hoo’s ya fettle?”

Then, because it wouldn’t do to make Mallory completely inimical to him, Haverhill laughed again, slapped his leg, resumed his normal gait and accent, and said, “I apologise, Mr. Mallory, but your face was priceless.” Haverhill had actually not played such a joke on anyone in quite some time, but it was good to know he still had the skill. Mallory did not seem so overjoyed, however, and Haverhill added, “Really, I am quite sorry for my behaviour, it was atrocious. I do hope you shall forgive me and we shall be able to begin our acquaintance on the most amiable terms.”

Remembering that Mallory didn’t have any idea who he was, Haverhill said, “I am Haverhill, the house steward to Lord Wothersham, whom you must certainly know of. I have been wishing to speak with you for some time now, it is my good fortune to meet you here. I am heading to Brown’s; can I persuade you to join me for a quick glass?” It was likely that Mallory had been headed some place similar anyway, but now the offer was made, and Haverhill had introduced himself. The house steward stuck out his hand for Mallory to shake, then, as was acceptable between two gentlemen (although it was not a custom used with ladies).

And then, because he couldn’t resist, he added, “So, hoo’s ya fettle?”

(OOC: Haverhill said “Yeah, I know, it’s really nice. And how are you?” and then again, later, "How are you?")

Brenton involuntarily let out a small sigh of relief. The man’s menacing appearance faded away as his tone changed. The shorter man abruptly became much more gentlemanly. This was now a situation in which Brenton felt confident. Yes, he was a gentleman; a fellow regular of Brown’s, no less. Brenton relaxed his tensed arms, and his fear was further relieved when the gentleman stated his name, Haverhill.

Brenton had never met Haverhill, though he had heard from several other patrons of Brown’s that he was an honest, conversational, and quite charming gentleman. Brenton had gathered from separate sources that Haverhill was the baron’s house steward, vale, and butler. Brenton himself had a sneaking suspicion that Haverhill had gained these positions altogether, despite what the man said. Some of the clientele of Brown’s had also described Haverhill as having a “somewhat nasty and lower-class sense of mischievousness”. Brenton recalled the time when Brown and Haverhill had been at a disagreement. Later in that day, a group of footmen had stumbled into the bar, evidently unaware that their kind were unwelcome.

Brenton was more than a tad bit miffed by Haverhill’s joke. If it had happened at another time to another person, he would have smiled at Haverhill’s prank. At this time, this place, to Brenton, it did not seem all that funny. Brenton’s anxious expression morphed into distaste and annoyance. Still, something inside of him refused to keep so bland and humorless, for surely if it had been Brenton, he would have done the same thing. Part of Brenton’s frown slowly slid up, until he wore a half-smile, half-frown.

As Haverhill made clear his destination, Brenton realized that Haverhill’s appearance was for his advantage. Though Brenton was strong, he was not fast enough to dodge bullets. Haverhill clearly had a revolver in his pocket, and he did not seem too threatening toward Brenton, so he decided that he would enjoy Haverhill’s company at least until they arrived at Brown’s. If Brenton were lucky, he might make Haverhill pay for the drink, thus saving Brenton’s coin, though it was also possible that Haverhill enjoyed the Château Lafite that Brown’s was locally famous for actually being able to obtain -the wine was so expensive that usually it was not served in even so exclusive a club as Brown's. Brenton had never enjoyed Château Lafite; it was by far too weak for him.

So Brenton decided to forgive Haverhill. Taking his hand out of his pocket, he warmly shook Haverhill by the hand. Then he said, “Mr. Haverhill, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. I am, as you seem to know, Brenton Mallory. If you are headed to Brown’s, then our wishes are in accord. I myself am heading that way. I would greatly enjoy your company.”

Brenton added as an afterthought, “I am doing fine.”

(OOC: The Brenton-mod was discussed with his mun, and cleared.)

“Champion, champion,” cried Haverhill, forgetting to drop his Geordie accent for the moment. But the next, his voice was back to the socially acceptable English norm, and he said, “There is nothing so delightful as knowing that a person you have just met is actually quite fine and does not have numerous complaints they are willing to inform you of in excruciating detail, is there? I must apologise once again for the joke I have played upon you, Mr. Mallory, however. You must allow me to purchase our drinks, otherwise I should feel I have not suitably redressed you for the sport I have had at your expense.”

Mallory agreed to this idea with only a token resistance, and the two of them set of once again toward Brown’s. They arrived at the establishment, a nice building located just on the street bordering the western end of Kirk Park. It was an ideal spot for such a club; the street was generally quiet, and not full of the noisome types that might decide to make trouble for the gentlemen that frequented Brown’s. Since those very gentlemen were not the sorts to become publicly drunk, if indeed they ever got drunk at all, Brown’s was always a quiet place as well, and did not disturb any of the neighboring businesses or residences.

The two of them doffed their over-coats in the cloak-room, although Haverhill opted to keep his cane with him, and then went upstairs and took over an empty table. Situated near the back of the second-floor room, it was covered with a white linen cloth, and was right next to another table where a group of four men were playing a game of bridge. An ash-tray was in the middle, in case either Haverhill or Mallory fancied a smoke; indeed the scent of fine tobacco was all over the place. Although not the sort of establishment with such poor ventilation as to allow a build up of smoke into great blue-grey clouds like some places, Brown’s did have the characteristic smoke-scent of a gentlemen’s club. The bar was off to the right, and one of Brown’s employees was behind it, attentively surveying the room.

Haverhill sat in one of the chairs and Mallory of course sat opposite. Haverhill changed the orientation of his chair so that he could lean one arm on the back of it and still face Mallory inquiring, “I will go and fetch our drinks, since I am to purchase them. I must confess that I am not fond of Brown’s claim to fame; Château Lafite is not my preference. I much prefer a good cherry brandy instead. But tell me, what shall I bring for you?”

Brenton sat at the oak table easily. The tenseness that had dominated his mind had by now quite vanished. He was in good company now, and Haverhill had proven to be an interesting conversationalist while the two gentlemen had walked to Brown’s. He had picked up an extensive knowledge of quite a few subjects that Brenton was himself interested in, including classical literature. Haverhill seemed to have a great interest in the plays of Shakespeare and Sophocles, as well as the philosophical outlooks of Plato and Darwin.

Haverhill said in an amiable tone after they had seated themselves, "I will go and fetch our drinks, since I am to purchase them. I must confess that I am not fond of Brown’s claim to fame; Château Lafite is not my preference. I much prefer a good cherry brandy instead. But tell me, what shall I bring for you?" Brenton was inwardly pleased by Haverhill’s taste in drinks; he did not enjoy the Château Lafite after all. Brenton replied to Haverhill with the greatest of ease, "I am somewhat partial to brandy myself, I would greatly enjoy one, thanks."

As Haverhill left, Brenton pulled a silver cigar case out of his breast pocket, and lighted a cigar with a match. After inhaling one breath of the thick smoke, he glanced around to see who was present. Tonight, there were a few new faces, though Brenton definitely recognized George Pritchard, one of the more obnoxious patrons. Pritchard himself felt that he was superior to Brenton, and could be really blatant about it sometimes, especially when he was inebriated, which happened frequently. Brenton did not feel like dealing with Pritchard tonight.

However, hope was not enough, as Pritchard started walking toward the table where Brenton sat. Brenton gave a quiet sigh. Brown usually got started talking to Pritchard before he reached Brenton’s table, and Brenton had many times thanked him quietly afterwards. Tonight, one of Brown’s servants was on duty. Brown himself was nowhere to be seen, likely because Haverhill was present. Brown was not overfond of Haverhill after their last disagreement, though he would not bar the man from his establishment.

Depending on just how soused Pritchard was this evening, this could get messy.

Haverhill left Mallory at his ease, the other man having decided to let the sport in the park pass over a drink. The fellow wasn’t bad company, Haverhill mused. He was well-read and quite interested in classical literature. Perhaps too well-read; Haverhill was well-versed in a number of subjects—he kept himself that way deliberately, so that he might not lack for a conversational topic no matter the situation—but Mallory’s depth of knowledge in ancient playwrights and philosophers clearly outstripped Haverhill’s own. It was only by luck that he had not yet asked a question that Haverhill could not answer in the affirmative, or mentioned some idea or passage that he was not familiar with or could not at least guess at.

It might be difficult, though, to steer the conversation around to people they both knew, though, and from thence to people that only Mallory knew so that Haverhill could pick his brain for information on them. But then again, that wasn’t strictly necessary at this juncture; the main point of striking up an acquaintance with Mallory was just that, to have the acquaintance. And there was only one person that Haverhill needed to know about, really. Miss Alice Alexander. Mallory would have been in charge of arranging rooms for her and would have been responsible for finding her a lady’s maid, or rooms for the one she had, if she already had one, and the like. He would know something about her. Haverhill had only to get it out of him.

Stepping up to the man tending bar, Haverhill requested two glasses of cherry brandy. They were handed over with rather sullen grace; it had been this fellow who had been on duty when the footmen had visited. Brown had told everyone in his employ exactly who had been responsible for that little incident, and as a result the staff at Brown’s had something of a cold shoulder towards Haverhill. He didn’t remark upon it, though, merely took the drinks and headed back towards his table. He saw another man heading towards Mallory, and figured it must be some acquaintance of his. Haverhill got to the table first, however, and pushed Mallory’s drink over before sitting himself, and sipping the brandy.

By that time, the other man had arrived, and Haverhill saw it was George Pritchard. The man was a disgrace to the establishment; he often got drunk, and when he did he revealed himself to be a hypocrite and a bigot. He was sotted tonight; one waft of his breath was enough to inform Haverhill of the fact. Haverhill mentally sighed. He was already only tenuously welcome at Brown’s, and if he got into fisticuffs with another, no matter how drunk or obnoxious, he could expect to be unwelcome the next time he came. As Brown’s was one of the best places to forge contacts among the servants of other peers, he didn’t really want to lose the privilege of entry. At the same time, though, it offended Haverhill’s sensibilities to have to put up with the man. Noting that Pritchard was scowling intensely at Mallory, Haverhill told him, in a calm, flat tone, “We don’t want any trouble.”

Pritchard scratched his nose and continued to focus his murderous stare on Mallory. “Nooooo, no shrouble. Coursh nahh.”
“You’re drunk, Pritchard. Best to leave while you can still walk.”
Pritchard ignored him, saying, “Buuuuu-t, whysh he with yoush em? Only shrouble from hish kine.”
“That will be all, Pritchard, thank you. Let me help you fetch your coat,” Haverhill said, trying one last time to politely turn away the coming conflict. He stood up, laying a non-threatening yet heavy hand on the man’s shoulder to turn him around. Pritchard shrugged it of, hitting Haverhill in the chest backhand as he did. Haverhill was the smaller man, but it did nothing to him; he possessed the greater musculature. It did, however, remove his hand from Pritchard’s shoulder. The man took advantage of the fact to lean both fists on the table and thrust his pugilistic features in Mallory’s face. “Blach dogs, thatsh wha’ they are. Mmmhhmmm, blach dogs.”

Now Mallory’s honour had been irrevocably impinged, and Haverhill could not simply walk Pritchard out of the place. Haverhill cocked an eyebrow at Mallory, silently asking him what he preferred to happen now. Haverhill could take care of the man for Mallory, but to do so without first giving the other steward the chance to defend his own honour—he was obviously physically capable of it—or however he preferred to deal with the situation, would be a different kind of insult.

Brenton’s hands clenched slightly under the table as Pritchard slurred, "Blach dogs, thatsh wha’ they are." Brenton’s ire had risen considerably, and his face barely kept from contorting into a grimace of hatred. This was not the first time that Brenton had heard his fellow men and women insulted as such, nor was it the first time that Brenton himself had been insulted, but still, with fellow company, it seemed to Brenton that he had endured long enough of Pritchard’s droning. Haverhill gave Brenton a questioning glance, as if asking whether to violently throw Pritchard out of the bar.

Brenton took a deep breath, and made a valiant attempt to keep his resentment in check. This was no place for fighting, and Brenton was not so uncivilized as to lower himself to Pritchard’s level. Besides, any fighting would immediately take away Brenton’s welcome in Brown’s, even if Pritchard deserved a lesson. No, there had to be a better way to tell Pritchard that Brenton was not a person to be trifled with.

Brenton recalled Haverhill’s prank, and decided that intimidation might ensure that Pritchard kept from insulting him again. Indeed, Brenton was unsure whether Pritchard was sober enough to understand that Brenton would be giving him a not-so-subtle signal to go away, but the only other option was to break Pritchard’s nose, and Brenton did not want to resort to that yet. Brenton stood up to his full height, and looked down at Pritchard.

The room suddenly fell silent. Nervous patrons gave fleeting looks to the pair. Brenton towered over Pritchard, glaring down at him while his muscles strained to keep from knocking the man down then and there. Beneath him, Pritchard’s expression switched to one of slight fear. Brenton waited several tense seconds before he began to speak to the inebriated Pritchard that now cowered slightly away from Brenton’s magnified shadow.

In the menacing tone of the black panther, ready to spring at any moment, Brenton’s voice sounded, not loud enough to be overheard, but certainly loud enough to be understood by the pitiful Pritchard. "Mr. Pritchard. I believe that my very kind and generous friend Haverhill has made it quite clear to you that you are obviously, and very deeply, drunk. If you would follow his very kind lead to the door, I would be most appreciative. I am sure that you will be most appreciative too, as perhaps you have realized."

((OOC:I hope you guys don't mind me joining Evan in. If you do, let me know :) ))

It had been a rather plain day for Evan Stewart. Not that anything bad had happened. He would rather have had it happen, though, than spend the entire day in such a boring manner as he had this one. Nothing had happened, bad or good. Except some usual things, naturally, like clients bringing him money and asking him to perform some atrociously boring tasks; his elderly maid falling of the chair while attempting to swipe off the dust from the curtains, and suchlike. But nothing to break the monotony of the day. Not even a letter from one of his friends, or a call for dinner-nothing. It made him feel as if everybody except him was having fun. Leading actual lives. And by lives he didn't mean having fun with pretty women at some pub with a bad reputation. He meant actual lives. Like, his good friend Alfred passed by his office to tell him he was getting married to a lady from London. Despite the fact Alfred was 26, which was four years older than Evan's age, it made him feel worried and old. Was he ever going to find a wife?

Not that ladies didn't like him. They liked him a lot more than they could possibly like Alfred. He knew that very well, because he had visited numerous places of questionable reputation with him, and there was no woman who wouldn't have chosen Evan rather than Alfred. Yet Alfred got to marry first. Why? Perhaps it was because, as many girls as Evan had had, none of them lasted for more than a week. The longest he had courted a woman was for eight days, and then she caught him with her maid, in a rather...unique position. And the longest Alfred had courted a girl was nine months...before her parents decided she was to marry a nobleman of one kind or another. And at that time, Alfred had been only 18. With 18, Evan's longest relationship had lasted for five hours. To clarify, Alfred had a reputation of a respectable, responsible, middle class trader ready to take a wife under his roof and start off a decent family. Evan was followed by the reputation of a spoiled son of a rich banker, smooth and tactful, his only hobby being flirting with as many women as possible. Plus he got his job thanks to his father. Nobody could deny he was good at it, though.

As, for example, earlier today a grateful lady came to pay him out for discovering her husband had been visiting a doctor, not a mistress. She paid him a couple of sovereigns, which he considered a very fine payment indeed. Of course, before the lady came, he carefully stored all evidence concerning her case. And, naturally, he neglected to mention what exactly had her husband been doing with the doctor. For if he had mentioned it, he was willing to bet his life she wouldn't pay him out the agreed sum of money. She'd pay him more even if he had found out he had a mistress. It would be much less embarrassing compared to what Evan really found out. Besides, why to break such a beautiful woman's heart? He was sure her loving husband was attempting to prevent her from finding out the truth the best he could. When he gave it a better look, Evan had plenty of material to blackmail people. Plus the way he gained it was perfectly legal, so nobody could sue him for it. One day, he noted, some of that material was going to be of use to him.

Kirk Park was silent, not even an owl could be heard. It wasn't pleasant, but it didn't make Evan feel particularly scared. He deemed himself to be on good terms with the homeless and the poor. At least with one poor woman he was...but she wouldn't hold him breaking her heart against him, would she? She couldn't have expected him to marry her, it would ruin his reputation completely. Oh, and yes, Evan was not afraid because he carried a revolver under his coat, at his belt. Not that he expected an attack, but it was best to be safe. It was easy to see Evan expected to pass through this part of the town, because as relaxed as he seemed, his right arm was stiff and ready to grab the well-secluded gun.

The young man didn't know where exactly was he heading. He just wanted to find a nice place, have a nice drink, and look for some nice excitement. Well, not necessarily nice. It could be ugly as well, as long as it fit the term 'excitement'. He could get into a simple bar brawl all he cared. He didn't really think about the reaction of his parents if he was to be brought home into pieces, because he was sure that was never to happen. He was young, elegant, strong...who could possibly stand up against him and kill him? Hurt him, yes, but really kill him? Nobody, he thought.

Finally, he found a relatively passable place. Not that he cared about the outlooks of something. He didn't care about reputation either, but he would not enter a dissolving shack. Opening the door, he reassured himself of the reputation of the place-passable. He entered, heading toward the room which consisted tables and the bar. Evan was wearing high, top-quality boots-that was where his most recent payment had disappeared. When it came to boots, he'd take the best only. His clothing consisted of a brown overcoat, white trousers obviously made by a private tailor, and under the coat a clean shirt. When it came to clothing, it was easy to see he was not thrifty. On his head rested a hat, with a feather stuck in it. Overall, he looked as if he'd been riding or hunting, and came by for a drink before he went home.

Everything was unusually silent, he noticed, and then his eyes flew to the three man standing at the bar. One of them was rather short, elderly and immaculately dressed-middle or upper class, Evan guessed. But it was the other two he eyed more carefully, for they seemed to be in a kind of a dispute. One was a white man, obviously drunk and by the looks of it a waiter. The other was a black man, tall, muscular and with a very angry look on his face. It was easy to suppose what the fight had been about, especially when the last part of the waiter's words reached his ears.

"Blach dogs, thatsh wha’ they are."

Silently ordering a drink, Evan kept his gaze on the two, wondering what was to happen next. He was already planning to get involved in this argument, especially if it was to become more serious. Personally, Evan had no problems with blacks. In London, he'd had plenty of dark skinned friends, and they were just as good as the white ones. His parents didn't mind the blacks, but they'd probably never let him invite them to parties, balls or suchlike. Once, he remembered sneaking Jonathan, one of his black friends, into his party. His parents never noticed. Sipping his drink, he tried his best to hear what Brenton was saying, but only a part of it reached his ears. The man was speaking really quietly.

".... drunk. If you would follow his very kind lead to the door, I would be..."

Evan hoped Pritchard would argue, and he hoped there would be a quarrel. Still, he didn't want to wait any longer. Finishing his drink, he nonchalantly headed toward the trio, his arm ready to reach for his revolver.

"I would suggest the same, sir." He appeared behind Pritchard, his voice equally silent as Brenton's had been before.

(OOC: I don’t mind. :))

Some pipsqueak came up to the situation at the two stewards’ table and inserted himself into it, and Haverhill very calmly and very firmly interposed himself between the newcomer and Pritchard. He was quite certain that, if it should come to it, he could deck both the drunkard and the youngling with ease, since one was drunk and the other did not appear used to bodily fighting; he could even, he would wager, drop Mallory if necessary, though that would be in more doubt as the other steward was quite a lot larger and proportionately muscled. However, he wished to harm neither Pritchard nor the boy if possible, something that the newcomer had just made quite a lot more difficult. If the youth had not barged in on the argument, Pritchard could have snarled a bit more and then left in the face of Mallory’s superior threat.

But now, there was a weak target behind him, or there had been until Haverhill got between the boy and the drunkard. It had not escaped the steward’s notice that the boy held his right arm stiff beside him, or that he had the bulge of a gun under his coat, but the youth would have to be insane to even think about actually drawing it. And without the strength of his gun, the boy was not all that impressive of a specimen, being far too young to have weathered any serious altercations and also far too pretty to have been in many fights, and dressed as quite the dandy. Thus, to Pritchard, he would look weak, and would make an excellent target for a fist or three; to beat up the smaller man would satisfy his aggression towards Mallory and show the black man that he could have beaten him, if he could have been bothered to do so.

Fortunately, once Haverhill was between them, the drunkard only scowled at him and didn’t go that route, but instead muttered sullenly, ”Blach dogs, alla dem.” He hocked a loogie on the table in front of Mallory and stumbled off, retreating to a corner table. Haverhill flipped a crown at the solitary bar tender, who caught it and nodded. Shortly thereafter the quiet conversation resumed in the establishment and the confrontation was forgotten by all but those directly involved. Haverhill took out his handkerchief and wiped the phlegm from the table before turning to assess the busybody who had come over. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bar man approach Pritchard, accompanied by a burly footman. He focused the majority of his attention on the youth, sizing him up.

A boy, twenty or just past, full of the confidence of youth and his armament; Haverhill, who had spent much of his earlier life in exactly the same situation only quite a lot further down the social ladder, where it was far more dangerous to be so cocky, had no trouble spotting it. Didn’t the boy realise that he had just been both exceedingly rude and extremely foolish? To thrust his rather long nose into an argument not his own that had been quite under control without his puppyish attempt to intimidate Pritchard was quite discourteous indeed, and to do it when Pritchard was quite a lot heavier than him was stupidity itself. That aside, the youth was dressed in light mid-to-upper-class clothing with a dandy feathered hat on his head, which was quite odd given that he should have left it in the coat-room downstairs. It was blindingly obvious that he did not fit in at Brown’s; he stood out against the sea of somberly dark-suited gentlemen like a grasshopper in a crowd of ants.

Haverhill tried to think exactly what the young fellow was doing here in Brown’s. The place catered to a very specific sort of person only; the male upper servants of powerful people—the peers and only the most wealthy traders. All others were quickly let to know they were unwelcome; to get in, one usually had to be introduced to Brown himself by a regular. It was not a bar or public house so much as a gathering of mutual acquaintances and friends for an evening of comfortable relaxation. Every single person inside it was known by at least one other, and Haverhill himself knew over two thirds of those present and could name all but one—now two, counting the newcomer. Given that he knew all of the higher servants of anybody worthy of note, Haverhill was hard-pressed to explain the boy’s presence; especially since Brown’s wasn’t even an obvious public house. It had no official name, none of the garish signs advertising liquor that lesser-class establishments had, and absolutely no loud or unruly noise or behaviour about it.

Since the boy was not a servant, not a friend of anyone here, and not a very wise fellow either to be inserting himself into other people’s fights, Haverhill was able to come up with only one satisfactory explanation. The man was a sot. He must be one of those unfortunate people who went about searching for drinks wherever they could; Haverhill could smell alcohol on the boy’s breath, even though he looked relatively aware, as boys that age went. The steward glanced at Mallory, still smoking his cigar, and there seemed to be an acknowledgement of the probable nature of the new guest who had forced his presence upon them.

Haverhill sat in his chair, at his ease, and told the boy, “You know, it’s not wise to involve yourself where you aren’t invited. You are lucky that Pritchard did not escalate the situation; if he had, I should have held you responsible, and, I’d wager, so would the constables.”

Pritchard spat on the table where Brenton was standing. Haverhill wiped it off as best as he could, but a darkish stain was still left at the table where Pritchard had dirtied it. A feeling of utter disgust and nausea shuddered through Brenton as the man went away. At his side, Brenton’s knuckles cracked with intense anger at the drunkard as he staggered away toward one corner of the bar. The talk that resumed in the bar shook Brenton out of his inflamed state, and he slowly relaxed.

Brenton shifted his gaze slowly toward the newcomer. A feeling of annoyance dominated his mind as he regarded the twenty-two or twenty-three year old man. The arrogant look on his face, his prideful stride, and his upper-class attire all told Brenton that the man was obviously the type that, as Brown himself put it, were, "Totally ineloquent and bestial little rats." Brown was harsh. Every patron agreed behind his back that Brown was sometimes a crabby little man, but Brenton found himself leaning towards Brown’s position on this matter.

Further annoyance arose in Brenton that the visitor had not left the fight alone. He had not needed to dive in here, and that irritated Brenton much more than the man’s appearance alone. Brenton took a silent breath. Trying to calm himself, Brenton sat. He attempted to convince himself that the newcomer was a young lad. Yes, yes! That was it! He was a young lad, inexperienced, arrogant. Brenton… Brenton stopped as he realized he had never been that way.

Brenton finally gave up trying to convince himself that the visitor had good intentions. The youth had merely wanted to stir something up. Brenton raised one eyebrow as Haverhill said, "You know, its not wise to involve yourself where you aren’t invited. You are lucky that Pritchard did not escalate the situation; if he had, I should have held you responsible, and, I’d wager, so would the constables. Earlier, Haverhill had given Brenton a look that suggested that Haverhill silently agreed about this man. Apparently, Haverhill was not going to be as intimidating toward the youth as Brenton thought he would be. Brenton brought his cigar up to his mouth, and inhaled again.

Brenton reconsidered his thoughts, and decided that he should support Haverhill. Disguising his frustration, Brenton calmly agreed, "It was not your fight, and your pugilistic intentions are not appreciated." He looked steadily into the eyes of the boy to ensure that this point was well taken, before continuing, "What is your name?"

The older man slowly positioned himself between Evan and the drunk Pritchard. Evan eyed this action with a rather confused expression on his face. What exactly was Haverhill trying to do? Did he think Evan couldn't handle Pritchard? That made the young man angry, and he barely restricted himself from taking out his gun and shooting Pritchard. Just to prove he could handle him. If there was anything Evan disliked, it was being considered a weakling. For his entire life, he had not been considered a weakling-or at least nobody told him so. His friends had always trusted him with tasks no weaklings could really do. And even if he was physically weaker than Pritchard, he had a gun. And by God, he could shoot. It was something he had learned at a very early age. He recalled being six when he first fired a gun. With his father's help, of course, but still. It was all the same, and by now he was an excellent shooter.

He didn't want to change sides in this brawl so quickly, though. If it could ahve been called a brawl at all. Nobody was actually doing any fighting. But words hurt more than rocks, right? If he was to interpret Haverhill's action as said, he would have to be angry with him. And he wanted to let Pritchard remain his enemy. He wasn't as two faced to change sides within a few seconds. All Haverhill had wanted, he decided, was to prevent this fight from becoming a more serious one. And, of course, to prevent him from killing Pritchard. Or at least injuring him very badly. His face relaxing, he stepped back a bit, watching Pritchard leave with a wry but silent retort. He also spotted two men near the drunkard, probably to escort him out.

“You know, it’s not wise to involve yourself where you aren’t invited. You are lucky that Pritchard did not escalate the situation; if he had, I should have held you responsible, and, I’d wager, so would the constables.”

Haverhill had already been seaten as he spoke, which Evan took as a good sign. He didn't look exactly pleased Evan had joined their argument, but he obviously wasn't going to attack him for it. The young man was quite disappointed Pritchard had not attacked him, so he could have proved his strength. But, he had to make do with what he got. And what he got was just a discussion with these two. Not nearly as exciting as a fight, but it was something. At least he wasn't going to spend the whole day just drinking, or perhaps sorting out his papers. Haverhill's words didn't really disturb him...actually, it came as a kind of an offense. Not that the man had said anything offensive, far from that. But Evan cosnidered himself to be quite above the law. Especially after what he had done once. He was sixteen or so, and as drunk as ever. Him and his friends decided to scare the owner of a bar they used to visit quite often. It was supposed to be a simple robbery...they'd probably tell him when they were sober again. But something had gone wrong. He didn't recall what, but the man ended up dead. The police never caught neither him nor his friends. But they weren't supposed to worry as much as him, because he had pulled the trigger.

In this case, he just believed his father would get him out of trouble. Money can do wonders, and he was sure his father would provide him with a decent sum to have any incident forgotten. Naturally, he wasn't about to mention all of this to Haverhill. Instead, he just shrugged.

"He would have been the first to strike...besides, it is not like he holds a decent social standing here...or does he?"

The black man seemed calm enough, as he turned to face Evan. He seemed older than him, perhaps nearing his thirties or so. In his arms was a cigar. Smoking was not one of Evan's habits, although only sometmes, when female clients would come to his office, he'd light a cigar. Someone told him women liked that.

"It was not your fight, and your pugilistic intentions are not appreciated.What is your name?"

Evan chose to ignore the former sentence. Yes, he had made it clear his intentions were not appreciated. It had been hard not to add a harsh retort, though. Evan hated being treated like a kid, and for some reason he felt Brenton was doing exactly so. Why, he couldn't explain. Just to prevent being thrown out of the place, Evan decided to answer the question.

"Evan Stewart." He spoke firmly, with no trace of emotion. Despite all the effort, his eyes did glint with anger.

Was it possible to find a decent servant nowadays? It should be. If decent would mean relatively honest, capable of doing housework, candid and well-mannered. There were plenty of servants of that sort. Even if they wouldn't possess all of the said qualities in their private life, money was the sole thing needed to make them suddenly achieve them during their working hours. That was what made them just perfect-for a man who did not care about his employees' private life. And for a man who did not have any errands that had to remain secret at all costs, if he didn't want his reputation and plenty of other things heavily severed.

Jacques Deveraux wasn't such a man. Yes, he did have errands that had to remain a secret forever...or at least until his death. That was why he cared...and really minded what his servant would do in his private life. For if the latter was a drunkard, he'd no doubt blab about anything when he'd have enough to drink. So, the qualities of the perfect servant to Jacques Deveraux were the following; Trustworthy. He had to be able to keep secrets. Loyal. He had to follow his orders without questioning them. This, of course, meant he had to be with little if no conscience. And, most importantly, he had to be strong and enduring-this also stood for not being a drunkard.

And Robert Ney did not seem to be of that sort.

"I'm tellin' ya, sir..." He mumbled, barely finding his words, "If ya want a trustworthy servant...you've got the right man. You see, I can.."

The Frenchman rolled his eyes. He was wearing a dark cloak, with a hood he had barely forced himself to lower. He felt it severed his reputation a great deal, coming here on his own. Yes, he was in search of a servant, but it still made him uncomfortable. Any other man would send a servant, but Jacques didn't trust his ones to be able to make a good choice. Still, his face showed he considered all the people in here to be inferior to him. His nose was wrinkled, as if something near him stank horribly. And something did-Ney. He smelled of alcohol. And by the look of it, he'd drank more than just a bit.

"All you're capable of, Ney, is getting drunk. Now, get lost or..."

His look glided to three men at a table. One was dressed extremely well for a servant-probably already employed, he assumed. He was sitting on a chair. The other, also seated, was a black man. He was not dressed as finely as the older one, but seemed more or less unemployed. The third one didn't seem like a servant at all. Jacques eyed him. No, his boots and his clothing were far too expensive for a servant to afford. Unless he had a very good salary...which was unlikely. Shoving the angered Ney away, he slowly headed for them. He managed to hear a few lines they'd said. Apparently, the two seated weren't satisfied with the intrusion of the youngest man, the one standing.

"Excusez-moi, espoir de Messieurs... I que vous ne vous occupez pas de mon s'imposer aussi bien... mais je suis ici pour offrir un travail. Est n'importe lequel de vous, par hasard, a intéressé?"

He deliberately addressed them in French. It was very important for his servant to be able to speak his native language.

(((OOC:Jacques said: "Excuse me, sirs...I hope you do not mind my intruding as well...but I am here to offer a job. Are any of you, by chance, interested?")))

The boy displayed his ignorance of the situation at Brown’s in a pretentious show of bravado. Haverhill merely smiled sardonically at him and declined to make further reply; if the lad needed to salve his ego then by all means, let him do just that. There was no point in extending the warning, either the lush had perceived it, or not. Mallory voiced his agreement with Haverhill, and then asked the newcomer’s name. Haverhill took out a silver cigar case as they waited for the answer, selecting one from Havana. They were expensive, but despite what snobbish folks said there really was not that much difference between Havana cigars, Italian cigars, or any other kind. A cigar was a cigar. In this case, though, the cigar was also a status symbol; he was demonstrating that he could afford Cuban cigars. He lit the end with a match that he stubbed out in the red glass creation in the center of the table that was the table’s ash-tray.

He took a breath of the smoke just as the boy answered flatly, ”Evan Stewart” There was no trace of emotion in the boy’s voice, none at all. Haverhill could barely stop a snort of amusement, and smoke trickled out of his nostrils. Did he think he was fooling anybody? The lad was angry, quite angry, and trying to hide it. But he was making a right muck-up of it; the boy’s voice had been self-assured and brashly confident before, the voice of a lad proud of himself, and now there was nothing. It was hardly difficult to think of what had produced the change. Haverhill considered goading the boy, but there was no point to it, just as there hadn’t been before. So instead, he gave the requisite polite fiction and introduced himself and Mallory politely. “A good evening to you, Mr Stewart. I am Haverhill; my friend is Mr Brenton Mallory.”

There was a movement out in his peripheral vision, and he slid his eyes that direction. A man had just shoved another out of his way. Haverhill examined the pusher, since he automatically identified the pushed one as Robert Ney, a valet down on his luck. This made a third man in Brown’s that he didn’t know. It must be the evening for newcomers tonight. Out of place newcomers, moreover; this one didn’t fit into the establishment any better than Stewart did. He was almost as pathetically funny as the boy, although his dress was the polar opposite of the lad’s. Where Stewart was dressed in light colours that stood out like a sore thumb—only added to by his ridiculously flamboyant hat—this gentleman was dressed darkly. In itself, that wasn’t unusual in Brown’s, since all the patrons were dark-suited upper servants, but this fellow had an inky-hued cloak on. A cloak! With a hood!

The ember on the end of Haverhill’s cigar glowed as he drew in another breath to prevent a laugh from escaping. No doubt the man thought he would not be noticed in such garb, but the truth was, he stood out now as a fellow who wanted to avoid attention—which was, of course, the surest way to guarantee the attention he would rather avoid. Also he looked something of an idiot to be wearing his outer coverings when he should have doffed them below. Ah well. At least he was not wearing his hat the way Stewart was. The man came over to their table and Haverhill raised an eyebrow at him. It seemed this was also the night for strangers to accost him. The man spoke. "Excusez-moi, espoir de Messieurs... I que vous ne vous occupez pas de mon s'imposer aussi bien... mais je suis ici pour offrir un travail. Est n'importe lequel de vous, par hasard, a intéressé?"

Haverhill gazed at the man in incredulity. Did he think that Haverhill was not employed? Or Mallory? Had he somehow missed the fact that they were in Brown’s, a place not noted for its inexpensive nature? Did he think that the two stewards had stolen their cigars? Much too curious as to how someone could be that dense too be offended at the man’s implication, Haverhill also noticed that the man spoke in French—Haverhill spoke five languages with fluency, something that he had gained over a lifetime of study and experience, and French was one of them. A foreigner, then; or as Haverhill would have called the man in his youth, a frog. There was no love lost between France and England.

Haverhill smiled widely, and said in English, because this was England and he would be damned if he spoke anything but English to the fool, “My good man, you seem to be operating under the assumption that we are not employed. I assure you that such is not the case; you might try your luck in one of the lesser establishments. It would be unusual to find someone unemployed in Brown’s.” There was an implied insult in the statement to match the one that the Frenchman had given the two stewards; that he wasn’t welcome in the upper establishments and he should try the lower-class ones. But then, Haverhill was annoyed, and this man truly did not belong here either.

The expression on Brenton’s face immediately became unreadable as he silently analyzed the second unwelcome visitor. Inwardly though, his contempt welled up. As Evan Stewart cut an odd figure, so too did this man. However, the second man seemed to stick out even worse than Stewart. He wore a hood of all things. Obviously, this man was even less welcome than Evan Stewart.

However, something else disturbed Brenton about this newcomer. Brenton couldn’t put his finger on exactly what, but still it nagged at him like a splinter in his mind. The source of his discomfort remained unknown until Brenton examined the stranger’s eyes. If they were the window on the newcomer’s soul, then Brenton thought that it must be a very twisted soul. They seemed infected with a sinister nature that sent shivers up and down Brenton’s spine. Not that Brenton feared this man’s capabilities; Brenton was easily stronger than him, but there seemed an evil aura given off by this second man.

Brenton’s suspicion turned into indignation as the newcomer proceeded to address Haverhill and Brenton in the snobbish lisps and gutturals of French. “ Excusez-moi, espoir de Messieurs... I que vous ne vous occupez pas de mon s'imposer aussi bien... mais je suis ici pour offrir un travail. Est n'importe lequel de vous, par hasard, a intéressé?” Brenton, who had a fairly good knowledge of French, understood the annoying foreigner that had so rudely addressed him. He was looking for work? Someone had misdirected him. Brown’s was for those already employed. The annoying thing, though, was that any fool on the street could recognize the position of Brenton and Haverhill. This French bastard obviously had no clue whom he was talking to.

Brenton glanced at Haverhill as he elaborated on the employment status of both stewards. “My good man, you seem to be operating under the assumption that we are not employed. I assure you that such is not the case; you might try your luck in one of the lesser establishments. It would be unusual to find someone unemployed in Brown’s.” Brenton without thinking raised one eyebrow. After all that had happened tonight, Haverhill still managed to remain calm somehow. Calm, not happy. Brenton recognized that Haverhill’s smile seemed rather malevolent. Calmness. That was what Brenton needed.

Brenton tried to emulate his friend, and said politely, though not without subtle sting, “Indeed, I think that the Earl would be most displeased if his steward failed to return to his job, especially given his new employer.” Despite himself, Brenton wrinkled his nose slightly at the second intruder. He would never work for a Frenchman.

Evan watched Haverhill take out an expensive cigar...a Cuban, by his judging. It didn't mean much to him-he was used to luxuries like those. Still, he noted that Haverhill was a high ranking servant. He wondered whether he had anything about him in his 'hidden files', as he usually referred to them. Perhaps he had...it was going to be good to look it up. This was another private game of his-whenever he'd see a person, he'd attempt to guess whether he had something-some juicy, ugly little detail-on them. Later, he'd check how estimate his guess had been with his vast collection of the said details. It was a fun game to play, especially when you actually turned out to have something on almost anyone you met. Unfortunately, Evan couldn't remember this man's face. Too bad...because neither the other, the black one, seemed to be familiar to him. Still, he was going to remeber the names:Brenton Mallory and Haverhill. Among all his clients, he was sure he'd forgotten about the looks of some.

Haverhill, he noticed, wasn't really happy with his intrusion. Neither was Mallory. The two seemed to be very similar...even one's words supported the viewpoints of the other. And they both seemed to hold something against him. Perhaps they had noticed his true intentions? That he wasn't interested in helping them, but was hutning for excitement? Well, so what if they had? It wasn't going to prevent him from playing dumb and acting as if he didn't see it. It wasn't going to be anything he hadn't done before. He was about to say something, he wasn't sure what himself, when a fourth man appeared. He was wearing a hood of a sort-weird, if you asked Evan. But perhaps he was a murdered, a lunatic, who knew? And that would make things interesting.

“ Excusez-moi, espoir de Messieurs... I que vous ne vous occupez pas de mon s'imposer aussi bien... mais je suis ici pour offrir un travail. Est n'importe lequel de vous, par hasard, a intéressé?”

French. Evan couldn't have said he hated it. But there was a great deal of dislike. One thing his parents forced him...and literally forced him to do was to learn French. He swore he'd always remember those lessons as the worst moments of his life. But, thanks to them, he could have understood what this newcomer had to say.

Before he even had a chance to consider it, the other two spoke.

“My good man, you seem to be operating under the assumption that we are not employed. I assure you that such is not the case; you might try your luck in one of the lesser establishments. It would be unusual to find someone unemployed in Brown’s.”
He could understand what Haverhill was saying...but he hadn't noticed it before. Perhaps it was because of his wealth that he hadn't-this seemed cheap to him. The situation was probably the same with this Frenchman. Being a rich man, he had come to search for an employee in a place of lower status than where he usually went. And he was rich, because he wore expensive clothing underneath the cloak.

“Indeed, I think that the Earl would be most displeased if his steward failed to return to his job, especially given his new employer.”
Evan almost laughed. Was this man actually deeming himself more important...was he showing off because he was a servant of the Earl? it seemed so to him. Evan would never show off himself if he had been in the same situation...he'd probably hide in shame. Really, what was so nice about being a puny servant?

"I understand how this place may seem...lowly to us, Monsieur...but for servants, it is expensive and posh." He spoke with a swift smile on his face, obviously insulting the servants. He had been smart enough to speak silently, so only the three around him could have heard.

Jacques smiled, but thanks to his hood nobody could see his face. He felt pretty good, but he also felt that he was going to start a fight, or at least a pretty noisy argument...not that he didn't want it. Well…he didn't just want it, but he felt as if he needed something like a good fight or argument since his life had been very boring since he moved to England. In France he had also lived a pretty boring life, but at least some peasant would run after him with a rifle in his hands when his parents lowered his wages, but Jacques would never tell his parents about it since he considered it fun. In England no peasant would run after him with a shotgun because Jacques was already an influential trader, not just the kid of some rich folks.

“My good man, you seem to be operating under the assumption that we are not employed. I assure you that such is not the case; you might try your luck in one of the lesser establishments. It would be unusual to find someone unemployed in Brown’s.”
When he said that, Jacques thought that Haverhill and his friend were not the best candidates for the job since it did not seem that they would do everything for money, and when money was not the most sacred thing in their lives then they would not be really good for dirty work. Jacques needed to find a servant whose only faith was money because otherwise he would have to dirty his hands, and that was one thing that Jacques wanted to evade.

Deveraux also saw another man in the room, but he did not seem like someone who would like to get a job as a servant. He seemed like a wealthy man who sought adventure, but Jacques doubted that being his servant would be an adventure. Since it was obvious that this stranger's financial status was better than the ones of Haverhill and Mallory, it also meant that he was already employed. Jacques again turned his look on Haverhill's friend Mallory and thought that the fact that he was strong would be good for the job, but Jacques could have seen that he was a good friend of Haverhill what meant that money was not the most sacred thing in his life.

“Indeed, I think that the Earl would be most displeased if his steward failed to return to his job, especially given his new employer.” Deveraux's first thought when he heard that was: ”That man is barbarian and an ape. And that fool thinks that he is someone and somebody, but he is nobody. And the worst part of his stupidity is that he pretends he's all high and mighty just because he is the Earl's servant. Does that foul- smelling ape even know who he's talking to; is he even aware of his own stupidity? That Earl must be a damned fool to hire a madman as his steward and which idiot brought that gorilla here from the jungle, or did the bastard escape from an institution for the mentally ill.“ Jacques could not make up his mind which one of these two answers was the correct one- was Mallory from a jungle, or did he escape from an asylum?

"I understand how this place may seem...lowly to us, Monsieur...but for servants, it is expensive and posh. “ When Jacques heard those words he felt as if he finally had an ally, and from whose mouth had they come from? From the mouth of the stranger? Jacques was pleased that a man that he did not even know chose to help him in this argument. Obviously he did not like the way Mallory was showing off just because he was a puny servant, which proved that this stranger was not as dumb as Mallory was, though Jacques wondered was anyone in this world as stupid as Mallory. He looked at the stranger and said: “I may not know you, stranger, but I have to admit that you are right. For that foul-smelling ape there, a house that costs no more but one penny would be way too expensive.

Jacques spoke loudly to make sure that the person he addressed as a foul- smelling ape heard him.

Haverhill was amused when the boy slighted them, a sardonic smile flickering about his lips. Really, with such little subtlety to him, Stewart would never get on in the world at all. It did not vex Haverhill at all that Stewart should think ill of him for his profession, nor did he trouble himself to correct the fellow on the relative amounts of capital available to the two of them. It had been clear from the start that Stewart was a flamboyant fellow of no taste; the cloth and cut of his clothes was inferior to Haverhill’s and Mallory’s both, although the eye-catching fashion of it disguised the fact when one compared it to the dark evening suits of the stewards. There was no benefit to enlightening the fellow, because he was clearly stuck in his own world, the world where he was better than the two of them simply because he was not a servant.

Haverhill could think of all sorts of fallacies in that way of thinking. Haverhill’s servitude to the baron was what enabled him to have such a good income. It was what allowed him to know almost everyone of import in the city. It was what allowed him to have a degree of power that Stewart, no matter how hard he tried, could not attain; Haverhill had control of one of the largest information networks of any of the great households, and he had the ear of the baron, allowing him to affect the world around him in a substantial way. But most of all, Haverhill saw this about Stewart: he was pitiable. Any man that could not persuade himself to deal with those he considered beneath him without letting it into his manner was a fool. Those of status often could not even wipe their arses without the help of a servant, yet none of them could be troubled to make even their own way smoother by simple courtesy towards their underlings; and it was the efficiency of those very same underlings that determined their success. His smile widened, and Haverhill began to say something when the Frenchman opened his mouth.

”I may not know you, stranger, but I have to admit that you are right. For that foul-smelling ape there, a house that costs no more but one penny would be way too expensive.”

The smile slid right off Haverhill’s face when he heard the Frenchman speak. It was one thing to insult for status and profession, quite another to insult for race. He was clearly not the only one who felt so, either; the entirety of the upper floor of Brown’s heard the Frenchman, as he had not troubled to keep his voice down and indeed had spoken loudly, his voice cutting through the soft susurrations in the room. There was a stilling about the place as those of a more open-minded bent stopped in what they were doing; the rest of the patronage—although they might not care particularly for Mallory—could, without trouble, identify the Frenchman as a stranger, a French stranger, who did not belong and was insulting a servant. The solidarity of one working man for the next assured the Frenchman of their attention as well; he had just managed to turn the sentiment of every single person in the place against him.

Against this background of complete silence, Haverhill drew a breath from his cigar and then placed it in the ashtray at the center of the table, before looking up mildly at the Frenchman. There was no need for him to stand, as it was the other who was the intruder. Mallory might resent what Haverhill was about to do, but Haverhill knew that if Mallory were to defend himself in this situation it would rapidly degenerate, as such things always did when a biased person spoke to the object of his prejudice, and if it came to physical violence then justice would be against Mallory. Therefore, Haverhill would take the burden of responsibility upon himself, since his connections were stronger, and also because he was quite well able to defend himself if the man wished to create more of an issue than he already had. He spoke softly, his voice no harsher than his eyes, yet because of the silence in the room it was clearly audible to all.

“You, sir, would be wise to hold your tongue on this subject. You are a French merchant in an English establishment; you cannot be under the delusion that you or your country are very well-loved here. I would think that such a situation, which should give you a better understanding of Mr Mallory, would induce you to be more courteous, but, since it has not, I shall only say this: Your precipitant use of insult marks your character as leaving rather a lot to be desired; you, sir, are a cad.” Haverhill knew that most of this would likely be wasted on the man, but it was a verbal put-down given as one gentleman to the next, so that Mallory might feel his honour defended yet the patrons of Browns feel that it had been done with as much respect as could be accorded the situation.

His eyes still mild, Haverhill gestured at the door. “Now, I cordially invite you to take your leave of us without further inconvenience to any present.”

No emotion could be read off Brenton’s face as Stewart stated “I understand how this place may seem...lowly to us, Monsieur...but for servants, it is expensive and posh.” The boy was trying really hard to provoke a fight. Brenton had already made up his mind to respond with indifference to any agitating comments given by the boy, and apparently, so had Haverhill, who briefly smiled for a moment at Stewart’s youthful superiority. However, Brenton’s thoughts were interrupted by the comments of the Frenchman.

A foul-smelling ape. The man had called him a foul-smelling ape. Brenton felt his old anger surge back at this French newcomer, and his already black skin turned a shade darker. He heard a soft crunch as his teeth clapped down on the cigar, which he was taking a breath from, nearly biting all the way through. Brenton noticed that he was not alone in his ire. A wave of sympathy passed among the patrons of the bar, as each one recognized that a Frenchman was insulting an English servant.

Haverhill again remained calm. In a quiet voice, Haverhill stated, ”You, sir, would be wise to hold your tongue on this subject. You are a French merchant in an English establishment; you cannot be under the delusion that you or your country are very well-loved here. I would think that such a situation, which should give you a better understanding of Mr Mallory, would induce you to be more courteous, but, since it has not, I shall only say this: Your precipitant use of insult marks your character as leaving rather a lot to be desired; you, sir, are a cad.” Brenton felt relieved somewhat, as the Frenchman had finally been informed of his position here.

Brenton realized, however technically right that Haverhill was, he had just stated a fallacy on one thing. A set of circumstances such as these would not necessarily give the newcomer a better understanding of Brenton Mallory. The French had never been slaves. Indeed, Brenton felt a tinge of annoyance toward Haverhill for this misinterpretation. Brenton dismissed it quickly, though. Haverhill was just trying to help Brenton, even if his help was a trifle condescending.

Haverhill went on, ”Now, I cordially invite you to take your leave of us without further inconvenience to any present.” Brenton, realizing that his cigar was wasted, rubbed it in the ashtray in the center of the table. Coolly, he stated to Haverhill, “I agree. After all, this is a club for gentlemen, and if anyone cannot persuade himself to behave as such, he should leave.”

Evan felt amused as he watched the Frenchman exchnage insults with the two men. Foul-smelling ape? A smile curved the young man's lips. Indeed, Frenchmen were as he imagined them-they knew how to make a man feel less worthy. His mother had brought her French friend into their house once, but he hadn't had a chance to spend much time with her. Nor had he had any desire to, as a matter of fact. Later, upon her departure, Molly Stewart had informed Evan of her pompose behaviour, constant pesky remarks and complaints. Strange, he never thought he would be actually glad to encounter such a person. Now, his opinion changed rapidly.

Yes, he was angry with Mallory and Haverhill. For the love of God, he had only tried to help them, which no other man would do unless paid! And there they were, acting as if it had insulted them. He started wishing he had taken the drunk Pritchard's side...perhaps there would be a bullet in Haverhill's or Mallory's head then. Seeing the Frenchman literally kill them with words(something Frenchmen were, from what he'd heard, excellent) was a refreshing experience to Evan. At the foul-smelling ape comment, he noticed a few other heads look their way. Another thing the French were good at was attracting attention...obviously. Haverhill remarked:

”You, sir, would be wise to hold your tongue on this subject. You are a French merchant in an English establishment; you cannot be under the delusion that you or your country are very well-loved here. I would think that such a situation, which should give you a better understanding of Mr Mallory, would induce you to be more courteous, but, since it has not, I shall only say this: Your precipitant use of insult marks your character as leaving rather a lot to be desired; you, sir, are a cad.”

Better understanding? In Evan's opniion, Mallory needed a good kick, not understanding. He was just a stuck-up servant imagining he was something because of a reason nothing but obivous. Well, there was no reason Mallory should have thought of himself as something. He chose to remain silent, producing no response at Haverhill's comment. It was going to be entertaining to see Jacques snap at him. Besides, he had not offended Evan, had he?

Another sound came from Mallroy, who, at least by what Evan saw, was angry. Jacques had surely managed to unnerve him, the young man noticed with a grin. Yes, the truth can hurt badly; “I agree. After all, this is a club for gentlemen, and if anyone cannot persuade himself to behave as such, he should leave.”

Here, Evan could not elide, since the perfect response just spawned on his tongue. Gentlemen, eh? He barely withheld a despiteful snort. Actually, he hadn't withheld it-he snorted, turning to face Mallory, with a firm expression on his face.
"Gentlemen? Well, forgive me, but then you are the ones that should leave. Despite your...effort to conduct like something close to gentlemen, you still are puny servants, aren't you?" Evan spoke silently, not to be overheard by other people, who seemed not to have returned to their own affairs. Yet both Mallory and Haverhill could have heard him. Of course, he had to leave now, for if they were puny servants, why would he want to be in their company anymore? He had to stick to his words. He continued speaking, "I shall take my leave...'gentlemen'...because I have no desire to spend any more time in your company. I fear for my health-I could pick up a disease."

With those words, he turned to Jacques, producing a brief nod and then walking away. He left the bulding, but waited outside. He wanted to see what the outcome of the argument between the other three would be. And eventually he'd find out...they couldn't stay in there forever, now could they?

Jacques looked at the two men he was arguing with and thought:" It is time for a killing blow ". Jacques decided that he was enough of arguing and that he should end this argument Swiftly and with style. He remembered the time when his grandfather once told him that nobility was not in the means, but in the cause. Jacques always liked that and it reminded him to prepare to use dirty methods to beat these two if this ended with a violent solution. Deveraux put his hand on the big pocket of his cloak and felt that his derringer is still in there. That made him feel safe and encouraged him to take the next step.

”You, sir, would be wise to hold your tongue on this subject. You are a French merchant in an English establishment; you cannot be under the delusion that you or your country are very well-loved here. I would think that such a situation, which should give you a better understanding of Mr Mallory, would induce you to be more courteous, but, since it has not, I shall only say this: Your precipitant use of insult marks your character as leaving rather a lot to be desired; you, sir, are a cad.” When he heard Haverhill, he just smiled and answered. Jacques had hoped that he could insult the ape himself in a far better way.

Deveraux first looked at the stranger, and then at the "gorrila brothers" sitting on the nearby table. He felt as if he has already won the argument that the stranger was helping him with.

“I agree. After all, this is a club for gentlemen, and if anyone cannot persuade himself to behave as such, he should leave.”

"Mr. Haverhill. I just couldn't agree more with you here. I truly should have a better understanding of Mr. Mallory. He is not just a foul-smelling ape, but a female foul-smelling ape. I am truly sorry that I forgot to mention that fact."

Jacques almost started laughing when he heard Mallory's statement that this is a club for gentlemen. Jacques never heard that a gorilla could be trained to become a gentleman, so he answered:"If you, ape, were allowed to enter here then this is either a ZOO or a club for gentlemen and their animals. I belive that my second assumption was the correct answer." Jacques had truly enjoyed while just telling the truth. He never thought that the truth can actually be this funny.

Just as Deveraux hoped, the stranger said:
"Gentlemen? Well, forgive me, but then you are the ones that should leave. Despite your...effort to conduct like something close to gentlemen, you still are puny servants, aren't you?" Jacques didn't say a word, but he was very pleased that the stranger stood by his side in this "Conflict", and the more Mallory got insulted by either him or the stranger, the better.

"I shall take my leave...'gentlemen'...because I have no desire to spend any more time in your company. I fear for my health-I could pick up a disease." Jacques again liked the way the stranger insulted those apes, but he was not glad because the stranger was leaving, so he'd have to beat Haverhill and Mallory on his own, so he just said:"Farewell, helpful stranger".

(OOC: The post was run by Jacques before it was posted, and he specifically informed me to shoot first Pritchard and then Mallory. :) )

There was silence after the Frenchman proclaimed Brown’s a zoo for gentlemen and their animals. Honour had been insulted and despite that it was frowned upon by the law to duel, a challenge could not fail to be issued. Indeed, Haverhill, merely sitting with an eyebrow raised at the very apparent vulgarity and utter idiocy of the Frenchman could only wonder at one thing; whether it would actually be honourable to challenge such an obviously mentally handicapped person or whether it would be better simply to beat him around the head with a cane. The boy, Stewart, had said a few quiet words, but his intemperance was the result of youth, and went unnoticed, as did his exit. Every eye was fixed on the Frenchman, whom, Haverhill noted, felt the pressure and slid his hand into his pocket. He would have a gun in there, a revolver most likely. Haverhill snorted. No man would be foolish enough to incriminate himself in front of an entire room full of patrons he had just insulted.

The tense silence was broken by a roar. The drunk man who had insulted Mallory before, Pritchard, suddenly reached the end of his rope, his rationality suffering from a massive overdose of liquor. He broke out of his seat at a run, pounding towards the man who dared to insult him (his soused mind completely missed the fact that it was a general insult to everyone in the club). The Frenchman, exhibiting both an extreme in foolishness and an astonishing lack of a desire to go on living, pulled the hand he had in his pocket out. Haverhill was not surprised to see that it contained a two-shot derringer—he had known there would be a gun in there, although he had expected a revolver. What did surprise him was that the Frenchman hastily pointed it directly at the charging Pritchard and pulled the trigger. There was a bang, sudden silence after the bang, and Pritchard tumbled to the floor, a hole slightly off-centre in his forehead. Time seemed to slow as the Frenchman swung the derringer around towards the table where Haverhill and Mallory sat.

There would be only one bullet in it, and doubtless the Frenchman would kill the black man, the object of his hatred. Haverhill could have sat still and been perfectly safe. But it was not in his nature to sit by while one man killed another without honour. A duel was one thing, but this Frenchman had committed cold-blooded murder and was on his way to making it a double homicide. Haverhill left his seat and arrived at the Frenchman’s arm in the blink of an eye, striking one hand up under the wrist and the other down on the elbow. The Frenchman, perhaps seeing that he would lose the functionality of his arm from this, pulled the trigger a second time—before he had properly aimed but also before Haverhill’s hands reached him.

There was another gun-shot, followed closely by a sickening crack nearly as loud.

There was another silence, a pause as people tried to see what was going on. From where Haverhill stood, he could see people who, like him, had reached for the Frenchman, all of them now stopped in their tracks. The Frenchman’s arm dangled in its socket, broken near the wrist by Haverhill’s strike—that had been the second crack. But despite that the Frenchman’s bullet had found its mark; Haverhill could see it by the hideous smirk on the bastard’s face even without glancing at Mallory. It was slightly surrealistic that the Frenchman could be so set in his hatred as to smile at having shot the black man despite that he must be in worlds of pain from his broken arm and that he would now be tried and hanged for a murderer—there could be no doubt of the outcome of his trial, not with a room full of respectable gentlemen for witnesses.

But the respectable gentleman, having just lost one of their number and possibly now a second, quickly devolved from that illustrious state. The silence was broken as a bottle whistled through the air to slam against the Frenchman’s back. He grunted and staggered into Haverhill from the force of the throw, and Haverhill, not exactly the most respectable of gentlemen himself if you considered his past, only shoved the man to the floor in response, laying him out by twisting on the broken arm. Then he ignored the Frenchman to suffer the mercy of the crowd that descended upon his form to beat it into unconsciousness as he dashed to the table where Mallory was now sagging in his chair.

Pulling off his cravat, Haverhill stuffed it against Mallory’s wound, shouting for someone to get a doctor. Two men came forward at once, explaining that they had been doctor’s assistants before they were butlers and would do their best until a doctor arrived or Mallory could be moved. Haverhill left the black man to their care, well aware that he might make a gunshot wound worse if he fiddled with it. At this point in time, a constable arrived, attracted by the unholy noise in the club, and began to beat people away from the Frenchman’s body with sharp blows from his baton. Sullenly the crowd quieted and withdrew, revealing the Frenchman unconscious on the floor, having garnered quite a fine collection of massive bruises and small lacerations on every part of his body, in addition to his broken arm.

The constable shrilled his whistle out the window for backup, and not long after he was joined by three more constables. The one that had been there all along began to canvass the crowd and sent one of the other constables to fetch an inspector, and the other two who had recently arrived swung the Frenchman’s body between them none to carefully. Haverhill, as an observer of the entire sordid situation, volunteered to go with them, and the inspector, arriving at the moment Haverhill was leaving, ordered him to file a full report with the officer on duty at the gaol. The two constables trooped out with the unconscious Frenchman swinging between them amidst a crowd of other people leaving Brown’s after giving the inspector their addresses. Haverhill spotted the boy loitering around the outside of the doorway.

Giving Stewart the benefit of the doubt for having actually left instead of proving himself a madman as the Frenchman had, Haverhill spared the moment necessary to issue him a warning. After all, this man was merely like so many others, convinced that servants were lesser people; he had not shown the insanity of the Frenchman in hating based on skin colour. With the press of people leaving Brown’s in a hurry, it was not difficult to appear at his elbow and tell him, “I should fear for your health also, young boy, if you remain here much longer. Your welcome is worn out. You will be remembered as one who sided with the Frenchman, and you might do best to avoid this location in the future.”

Then Haverhill left the boy without waiting for or hearing an answer, to catch up with the constables carting the Frenchman off to gaol.

(OOC: Haverhill and Jacques next post in Her Majesty's Prison Farringdon Circle)

Rage overwhelmed Brenton again at the Frenchman’s comment. There was no way out of it now, Brenton had to teach this frog a lesson. His fists balled at his sides, and he stood up, knocking back his chair. There was a ripping sound as the chair sped back. It had torn furrows into the carpet, but that hardly mattered any more to Brenton. He was so single-minded in his anger that he did not even hear the comments of Evan Stewart, nor even that he had departed the bar. An insult sprang into his mind. “Perhaps this is a club for gentleman and their animals. But then, where is your master, frog?”

Brenton growled as he was about to say this, but it was drowned out by the inebriated yell of Pritchard as he charged across the room toward the Frenchman. Brenton tensed as Pritchard drew near. Not knowing whom was the target, he was about to sidestep when a loud bang sounded. Pritchard twitched once, and then his momentum caused him to fall forward. He was shot dead. Brenton’s eyes darted to the Frenchman’s hand. He was holding a derringer. Out of the end of one of the gun’s barrels a small trickle of smoke wafted upward. Brenton stood stupefied as shock intermingled with Brenton’s anger. What had this man done? Brenton’s earlier suspicions about the Frenchman were confirmed now. He could see for the first time that this man was a murderer. A murderer? In Brown’s? There were obnoxious people like the late Pritchard of course but never had there been people of this frog’s nature.

These thoughts had barely passed through Brenton’s head when the man swung the derringer over to point right at Brenton. Haverhill intervened at this moment. Brenton saw his hands came down in opposition to break the Frenchman’s arm. However, it was too late. A surreal pop echoed through the room and there was a sudden force through Brenton’s body. Pain tore through Brenton as the bullet shot through him. Though he didn’t know it yet, the bullet had entered at an angle, hitting his second rib and breaking it, then ricocheting up and hitting his shoulder blade and exiting his body out his back. He coughed as the air was driven out of him.

There was the first pain. Brenton put his hand up to the hole in his chest. Pulling it back, he saw blood covering them. Then the secondary pain settled in. Fire coursed through the tunnel dug by the bullet. His face contorted into a grimace of pain as he fell back into his chair. Never in his life had he felt like this. After a few seconds he let out a short yell. He stopped, as the pain grew worse with the exertion.

The world swirled, and grew hazy. Haverhill was standing over him with something. He put it against Brenton’s wound and immediately more pain engulfed Brenton. Haverhill. Brenton realized. Haverhill was trying to kill him. Kill him. Kill him… He briefly grabbed Haverhill’s hand…

…and then lost consciousness.

Later, he would learn that two of Brown’s more distinguished gentlemen, Adam Trulove and James Wheelwright, carried him out of Brown’s in his unconscious state. They were friends of Brenton’s, the best friends he had in the club (apart from Haverhill—who had not tried to kill him). They transported him to Dr. O’Neal, a doctor that they had known for some time. After paying his expenses, they departed, leaving him in the care of the doctor.

(OOC: Exit Brenton. Next post will be linked in)

Evan had already started to feel bored. He was still lingering at the door, but nothing interesting seemed to be happening and nobody seemed to be coming out. He started reconsidering his decision to wait for them, and he slowly regretted ever leaving the pub. In search of fun, he had come to a dead end where he could do nothing but sit and wait. Them inside were at least throwing nasty comments at each other if nothing else. It came out as better compared to nothing. Which was exactly what he was occupied with right now. Simple, plain nothing. Checking the time, Evan decided that he'd remain here for another five minutes. If nothing happened within that period of time, he'd head back home and find something else to amuse himself with. His dark eyes watched a couple of women passing by. He wondered, did he have enough money on hands for a quick visit to the brothel? Just as he turned to count, a sound reached his ears.

It was a sharp, loud sound; the sound of a bullet, unmistakably. Impulsively, Evan's hand reached for his gun and his head bolted up. Firstly, he thought it had come from the streets, that somebody was shooting at him, or at some other passengers. Then, after a few seconds, he realized the shot had come from the inside. Excitement filled him, and he was quite glad he had not opted to leave earlier. He was never patient, but luckily patience came to him when he needed it. Everything would, he pondered, come to him when he needed it. He was a very lucky man... Unlike the person who was shot by the bullet. Evan had spotted the Frenchman had a gun, and by the shouts coming from Brown's, he could imagine he had wounded, if not killed somebody. He pitied that this had not happened under circumstances more mysterious. Then he could've earned some money on it.

Another shot was fired, and the shouts became even louder. Evan's curiosity grew, but his reason told him to stay out of the pub. He resisted the urge to enter because police was bound to get involved sooner or later. This had started out as a small argument, but it seemed to have turned into a major brawl. Which was going to have serious consequences. As a detective, Evan was well acquainted with the law. He knew how other inspectors thought, and he knew that, if this case would be assigned to him, he'd arrest all the people present. Only that he'd do it just for fun...while the other coppers would do it because they deemed them all guilty...in a way. But the reasons were far beside the point. What mattered was that if he entered, he was going to be arrested or in trouble. Which he wanted to avoid.

The police appeared soon-Evan stepped away so the few constables could enter Brown's. The noise from the inside grew more silent by the second, and soon there were very few, brisk shouts. Then the door burst open and two constables came out, carrying a man. Evan eyed him to recognize the features of Jacques Deveraux. He could have envisioned the events that had taken place in the pub clearly. Jacques fired at Haverhill or Mallory...and the rest of the 'respectable guests' attacked him. By the looks of it, the Frenchman was not going to have a nice time recovering. Unless he shot whoever he did in self-defense. Evan could solely speculate about what had happened, so he abandoned the subject, and focused on the upcoming crowd.

Brenton Mallory was carried out next. The man seemed to be in a bad state too, Evan noted. He could not see whether Brenton was breathing or not. He tired his hardest to separate the useful facts coming from the crowd and the mere murmurs of panic. Finally, something reached his ears; "...and, bulls eye! Straight in the forehead." What? He glanced at Mallory again, to see his forehead was intact. So, Deveraux had shot another person? And killed them? This worsened the poor Frenchman's situation. Another whole sentence reached Evan's ears; " Poor Pritchard. He had been drunk, otherwise I'm sure he would not have rushed at the Frenchman so..." Pritchard? Well, not a terrible loss to the world...

But this entire affair reminded Evan of another, similar one that happened about six years ago... it was night. A dark London alleyway. Two figures were sneaking down it, heading towards a tavern. They were chuckling, dark masks over their faces to hide their features. One of them hit the door of the tavern, pulling out a gun. The murmur customary for the tavern ceased, while the two men requested money. The bartended bent over to give it to them. One of them supervised him, while the other kept an eye on the customers. The old man at the bar pulled out something else. The one supervising him, whose attention had been taken by a sound from the street, turned abruptly and thought it a shotgun. He fired the revolver...only to see the bartender had taken out a simple box...

Evan shuddered as he returned to the real world. That had been an accident. He never meant to kill the bartender, he even intended on returning the money! It had all been just a joke...that turned out terribly. But it was not his fault! It couldn't have been, he was 16 or 17, and he panicked...and shot a man. He, too, had hit the bulls eye. Straight into the forehead. The bartender had died instantly. He had been a jolly old man, everybody had liked him...even Evan! He never meant to kill him...But it wasn't his fault! So mesmerized by his own thoughts, he did not hear Haverhill approaching, and flinched at the sound of his voice;“I should fear for your health also, young boy, if you remain here much longer. Your welcome is worn out. You will be remembered as one who sided with the Frenchman, and you might do best to avoid this location in the future.”

And he vanished, giving Evan no time to reply. He seriously considered what Haverhill had told him. He might just do so. The whole 'crime scene' did not seem so attractive to him anymore. Slowly turning away from the sight, he walked back home. On his way, he was haunted by the face of Benny Tanner, the bartender that was killed in a robbery on a cold, London night.

(((OOC:Exit Evan Stewart. Next post in Another Set Of Eyes)))