As the sun capitulated to the ebony cloak of night, an uncanny transformation swept across Caledon. The rhythm of the city shifted, the mechanical din of day, with its unrelenting industry, segued into an undercurrent of secretive vibrancy as daylight receded.

In the affluent districts of the east bank, Caledon's wealthy glitterati emerged. Their carriages deposited them at opulent theatres and grand music halls, their refined laughter slicing through the hushed whispers of the twilight. Yet, even amid the glamour, a sense of unease lingered. A masked figure in a corner, a suspicious glance over a champagne glass, the shiver of a debutante, there was a palpable sense that not all was as it seemed.

Across the river, in the west bank taverns, the city's less fortunate sought solace in shared stories and cheap ale. The conviviality was marred, though, by a building tension. Whispered rumours of a missing dock worker, the sight of a regular's empty chair, the hushed conversation of the tavern owner with a hooded stranger, all hinting at an unfolding drama that held patrons in its grip.

In the labyrinthine alleyways of Caledon, clandestine activities intensified. The black market flourished, but even the hardened criminals seemed on edge. Transactions were hastier, voices were lower, glances nervously darted down the darker corners. Something was amiss, and even the underbelly of society could sense it.

At the harbor, the cacophony of industry belied an eerie undercurrent. Workers noticed cargo being moved stealthily, whispers of unfamiliar vessels docking at odd hours, and sightings of unusual figures skulking in the shadows. The harbor, usually a sanctuary of routine and hard work, was ensnared in the web of suspense.

Guarding over all this was the city watch, their lanterns casting long, probing shadows in their ceaseless quest for order. Yet tonight, their step was more hurried, their gazes more suspicious, their grips on their weapons a bit tighter.

Beneath the shimmering moonlight, Caledon pulsed with an inscrutable sense of suspense. An invisible web of intrigue was slowly being spun, ready to ensnare the unwary. As the citizens navigated the precarious night, a palpable question echoed in the gaslit gloom: what secrets did the night hold? Would the coming dawn bring resolution or draw them deeper into the mysterious embrace of the unknown?

The once busy rustle of papersheets and scratching from fountain pens gliding over paper fell into quietness as nighttime ensued. A chill breeze gently blew through the window left ajar to ventilate the office chockful of study implements. And atop the fine oak desk, one grey-haired man snored loudly like a drum.

Such peaceful calm was disturbed when a sharp knocking on the door echoed throughout the room. There was a beat, and then the door creaked open. A figure made opaque by the dark room maneuvered its away across the furniture in front till it stood besides the man asleep. They carefully poked his shouder, "sir?" a boyish tone inquired.

Adraman's face scrunched up. He cringed awake. "Wha-- What are you doing in here--?" He asked groggily. "It's Robert, sir. Your, um, your secretary?" Robert lit an oil lamp.

"Ah," Adraman came back to his previous spot across the so-comfortable desk. He yawned, then eased his eyes shut once more to return to sleep. "It's been three days, sir." However, he could not let that slip. Adraman jerked back into his seat in disbelief. "THREE DAYS?!"

Robert stared at his superior with a look of mild amusement. Adraman cocked an eyebrow annoyingly, "What?" before he rubbed at his face, and found there were traces of ink smeared on it. He deadpanned while he reached over the desk to don his glasses. "Why wasn't I woken up sooner?"

The secretary rolled on his heels awkwardly. His boss had a tendency to be a little unreasonable sometimes. "Because... You put a Do Not Disturb sign on the handle. And explicitly told me to avoid disrupting your workflow, sir." Adraman rolled his eyes irritably, and wiped his face clean with a hankerchief. "Whatever. The damage has been made. What is it, Robert?"

Robert smiled amused. "Actually, it is funny you say that, because," he passed his superior a newspaper article from the Caledon Gazette. "The dockside factories south from here were alledgedly sabotaged by a mysterious source today's morning. They don't know why the machines aren't starting up, despite the mechanisms being seemingly in prime condition." The physicist read through the article thoroughly, then shrugged. "Perhaps if they shifted their focus towards the causation of it, and not the culprit, we'd be miles ahead by now."

Adraman cracked his knuckles and stretched his arms to the front, then abandoned his desk to make a beeline for the door. Robert followed, confused. "Sir? Where are you going?" The researcher pressed on without a break in his gait. "To the dock. Where else?" Robert continued to protest, "but you haven't even eaten in three days, sir! You aren't presentable to make an appearance either!"

He would've continued, if not for the grumble in his stomach. Adraman sighed in defeat. "Very well. I'll indulge your uncalled for concerns. Now, excuse me."

---

Once the researcher returned home from his workplace, he showered thoroughly, dressed for the occassion, and ate a decent meal, he frequented the central train station in the northeast. He stashed his shoulder bag with only the necessary items for the trip, not particularly interested to run into a thug and lose something of real value. Adraman stared at his reflection on the window, and cursed at himself for forgetting the miniscule detail of shaving off the fresh stubble over his features. Oh, well. It added character.

@Red Wizard

Desmond had been lucky, really, to secure a place in the boarding house that he had. Not only was it in a central-enough location among Caledon's many districts, but Ms. O'Hara's services were impeccable, and her rooms were in high demand. The only reason he had gotten the room was because he and the previous tenant had become quite closely acquainted over a few drinks - the man, was celebrating the acquisition of a new job as a clerk for a prominent company in another city. They spent the night drinking and talking, and by the end of it, the man had proclaimed to Desmond that he was his very best friend, and that since he would no longer be in town, that he would vouch to the landlady for Desmond.

It was lucky, really, that the man had kept his promise.

It was also lucky that the lady of the house was the very picture of discretion - if her tenants wanted their privacy, or if they came and went at odd hours, she never asked questions, only reminded them that meals were served at seven, one and seven o'clock, and to be quiet after eleven. Desmond, whose current job prospects meant late nights and early mornings, following up on leads, well... he appreciated that.

Tonight, though, it was just him and Ms. O'Hara, and it was well past suppertime. The older woman - a 'loveable spinster', she liked to say - was packing leftovers up into tins, and Desmond, in a rare mood for company, was sat at the table, mostly scrawling nonsense into his notebook at the dining table. It was a comfortable silence, and one he was loathe to break, but, well. There were questions on his mind. He coughed politely, and waited. She kept at her work for a few moments, before glancing in his direction. Desmond took that as leave to speak.

"So where are my neighbours this evening, do you think?"

Ms. O'Hara considered for a moment. "Well, at least one or both of Tanner or Cooper has gone out for a drink. And I think young Leander has a new sweetheart she’s been seeing."

Desmond nodded - that all made sense, from what he knew of the other tenants. "And Marston?"

She sniffed, giving him a look. "I wouldn’t rightly know. He enjoys his privacy. Much like you enjoy yours."

He shrugged back. "I merely found myself curious. I don’t see them much, and I find myself perhaps in need of friends."

"What you need, Desmond," Ms. O’Hara chided gently, "Is a job. Jobs come with colleagues, and colleagues can become friends."

He laughed softly. "You have no idea what journalists are like, do you?"

She turned, waving a spoon in his direction. "I know that the one living in my house has been respectful and kind, and that he's got a mouth to him when he wants to. That's enough for me."

Again, Desmond laughed. "Well, if you can send him my way, it sounds like he and I would get along swell."

Ms. O'Hara shook her head, jokingly exasperated, then, seemingly struck by an idea, reached over and grabbed the newspaper from the stack of evening post, and then tossed it in Desmond’s direction. He stared at it for a few moments.

"The Caledon Times? I’ve already tried them."

She shook her head again, “No, look at the headline.”

He did, and then he read some of the article itself. Things happening in the sewers... orcish involvement... and the 'trusty constabulary', of course...

"You need a story, right?" She waved her spoon again. "There you go."

Desmond considered it for a moment. This did have potential... and if it was hot off the press...

He stood, folding the newspaper under his arm. "Best to strike while the iron's hot, then. You'll be alright on your own tonight?"

Ms. O'Hara blinked in surprise. "I'm hardly a fragile flower that wilts without company, but - Desmond, is now really the time? It's after dark!"

He flashed a grin. "If I wait, someone else could get the scoop before I do. And believe me, sometimes the night shows what daylight hides."

With that, he made a quick stop in his room to grab his coat and a few essentials - and then he was off, headed in the direction of his new quarry.

@Red Wizard@CollectorOfMyst

A rhythmic clack-clack-clack echoed through the misty night air. Tonight Constable Olivia Jones was on Patrol. The sharp clacking of Olivia's standard-issued leather boots on cobblestones amplified the clarity and volume of each footfall. The syncopated clacks wove together into a persevering cadence, and Olivia couldn't help but smirk to herself. She knew the clacking lent an air of intimidation, announcing her presence and authority to any potential lurkers in the shadows.

She stood tall, her broad shoulders back and head held high underneath her rounded custodian helmet. A few stray wisps of her fiery red hair peeked out from under the helmet's brim. Her pale green eyes constantly roamed, missing nothing. Over her long-sleeved white blouse, she wore a black waistcoat decorated with shining silver buttons. Her long wool coat swirled around her calves, emphasizing her height. Around her shoulders was a black cape, making her outline even more formidable. A truncheon and set of handcuffs hung from her thick leather belt, well-worn from her six years of service.

Tonight the air eddied and swirled with even more mystical energies than usual. Olivia felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she walked through pockets of magic scattered throughout the streets. The atmosphere seemed saturated with unnatural thrumming power, like the gathering static before a thunderstorm. Olivia determined that this concentration of sorcery was due to the recent increase in bizarre and macabre crimes that had been plaguing the city as of late.

Headquarters was baffled by the gruesome violence and inexplicable thefts seemingly committed by otherworldly culprits. Even though Olivia had not been present during any of the calls to the recent crimes, she felt as though something sinister was stirring in Caldeon's underbelly. In contrast, butterflies fluttered in her stomach with excitement. She could only hope to play even the smallest part in unraveling these mysteries.

Olivia desperately wanted that shiny silver badge that marked her as a detective. Unfortunately, those appointments were limited as not many gave up those prestigious titles. Why did she want to join those ranks in that stuffy office so badly? To the skeptics, she supposed it looked like foolish ambition or vanity. But to Olivia, it was about purpose. She wanted to use her keen mind and unique gifts not just to patrol the streets but to uncover mysteries and seek justice. Being a detective meant having the authority to chase clues wherever they led rather than just responding to a scene. She dreamed of being the one to connect the dots, reveal the perpetrators, and help right wrongs. Not for the sake of prestige but to make the city safer. One day she would prove herself. She had to. The gleaming badge was more than just a rank to her - it was a key to unlocking her full potential and purpose.

Olivia tipped her hat politely to Mr. Abernathy as he swept the steps of his bakery. She often crossed paths with the kindly shopkeeper at this late hour. Seeing the constable on her rounds gave him a sense of comfort before bedding down for the night.

As she turned down a narrow alley, a drunken Orcish man stumbled out of a pub into her path. She wrinkled her nose at the overpowering ale stench.

"Evenin' Constable!" the man slurred. "Lovely night for a stroll, ain't it?"

"Move along, sir," Olivia directed, refusing to break her stride.

The man wavered for a moment before lurching back inside the pub doors. Olivia sighed - she'd have to keep an eye on that establishment.
Rounding a corner, Olivia heard a faint whimper. She followed the sound to a young girl crouched behind a stack of boxes, tears streaming down her dirt-smudged cheeks.

Olivia knelt so they were at eye level. "Why hello there, miss. Are you lost?" she asked gently.

The girl nodded, rubbing her runny nose with a grimy hand. Olivia offered her handkerchief. After a few soothing words, she was able to coax out the girl's address and personally escorted her safely home, a tiny hand clinging to two of Olivia's sturdy fingers.

It wasn't glamorous work, but moments like these reminded Olivia how much she loved serving the people of this city, even in a small way.

****

The first hints of dawn appeared as Olivia returned to the stone headquarters of the Caldeon constabulary. She nodded to the desk sergeant as she hung up her cape and truncheon. The echoing voices and clacking footsteps on the tile floors made it clear that the day shift officers were already mustering for their assignments.

Olivia's patrol boots clicked purposefully as she climbed the creaking wooden stairs to the detectives' offices on the second floor. Keeping her head high, she ignored the curious glances and hushed murmurs that followed her. A female constable was rare enough, but Olivia striding confidently through the detectives' domain was an anomaly.

She came to a halt outside a frosted glass door bearing the name: Inspector C. Halifax. She longed to be on the other side of that door, welcomed as a fellow investigator rather than eyed with unease in the hallway. Clearing her throat, she knocked firmly. A gruff voice bid her enter.

Inspector Halifax was poring over some documents at his desk. His gray mustache twitched with irritation at the interruption. "Yes, Constable Jones? I'm very busy."

Olivia stood at attention. "My evening report, sir," she said, handing over the detailed notes from her patrol. The inspector gave it a cursory glance before adding it to his mountain of paperwork. Dismissed by his silence, Olivia turned to exit. Jaw clenched with frustration. As she grasped the knob, Halifax spoke up.

"One moment, Jones."

Olivia paused, hand frozen on the knob. She took a slow breath before turning back around. "Yes, sir?"

Halifax leaned forward, steepling his fingers on his desk. "As it happens, Detective Brown has fallen ill and will be out for some time. I need someone to cover his caseload."

Olivia's eyes widened in surprise. Halifax continued, "Your patrol reports show you have sharp investigative skills. I'm offering you the chance to take the lead on Brown's cases temporarily as an acting detective."

Olivia's heart leaped, but she kept her tone professional. "It would be an honor, sir. I accept."

Halifax nodded. "Report here first thing tomorrow, then. The paperwork on Brown's open cases will need review." He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

"Thank you, Inspector Halifax." Olivia walked out, pulse racing. It wasn't an official detective appointment, but it was the opportunity she had been waiting years for. A chance to prove herself. She hurried home, eager to begin pouring over the case files.

@TRES

The journey to the docks was largely uneventful, save for an incident where an intoxicated working class man had to be forcibly persuaded by the night watch to exit the subway for disturbing public order. The man flatly refused to move, only to be lifted and carried off the cart by the two burly constables. One of them nodded at Adraman, silently apologizing for the commotion, before the train continued south. Before long, Adraman reached his destination and the train continued on its way back north.

The factory in question was only a short walk from station, across the bridge to the western bank. The dark waters of the Kaper glittered with the light from the lamp posts above, burning bright through the night. The sounds of activity and commotion grew louder as he approached the opposite bank. There was another kind of life in that part of the city that never slept, a kind that thrived in the cover of night. People could be seen passing by on the street, or moving in and out of alleys and buildings. The occational constable patrolled the roads and walkways, keeping watch for any signs of trouble.

Adraman drew some attention to him, but nothing more than curious glances. He looked like he belonged elsewhere; certainly not on the western waterfront, but the people here were accustomed to strangers on strange errands and none confronted him. A scantily clad woman called out to him as he passed an establishment, offering nocturnal business, and cursed at him behind his back when he passed her by.

Finally, he arrived at the factory in question. It was a behemoth of a building next to the smaller, older buildings surrounding it. The chimneys, usually spewing black smoke into the sky, lay dormant and silent. There was light spilling into the night from a few windows, indicating a presence, but the place looked mostly deserted. A guard was standing on watch by the gate to the courtyard, eyeing Adraman as he approached. He was dressed in a uniform and carried a pistol in a holster on his belt.

Jared, the guard, was perplexed. He had noticed the man walking down the street a while back and had wondered what an upstanding member of Caledons society could possibly be doing in the western docks at this time of day. He could guess at several less savoury reasons, of course, but his mother had always told him not to judge people all to quickly and decided against his initial speculations. The man in question was a gentleman, no doubt. Was he perhaps lost? The streets and alleys of Old Town could be labyrinthean even to its inhabitants, so it would be of no surprise if an outsider got turned around trying to navigate them. He knew full well what his employer would think about the situation, but Jared was kind at heart and wanted to help. As the man drew near, he raised his hand in greeting.

Good evening, Sir, he called out, Lost, are we? Can I offer my assistance with anything? Directions, perhaps?

The physics professor merely rolled his shoulders in respose before he hunched back onto the seat he was plopped down on. "Such a lack of self-control," he thought to himself. What a poor sap; made to work himself down to the bone for a society which did not genuinely concern itself for his well-being. Adraman pitied the stranger's ill-fated outcome.

Adraman himself didn't hail from Caledon. His father had a single idea, and a faculty colleague made it into reality. There were occasions where Adraman wondered what could have been if himself, a boy with a recently passed away mother, and a father struggling to sustain each other, didn't make the cut for Caledon's gates. He was grateful for what life had given him.

As the train arrived to the southern station and there was a shift in scenery, Adraman blinked away from whatever zone out state he was in to meet his own reflection in the window. He propped up his round silver glasses, and stood up to carry on as usual. Adraman slipped on a peaked cap when the dark of night at the dockside turned out to be a little colder than he anticipated.

The professor wasn't oblivious to the prying eyes sizing him up. He knew his presence sticked out from the crowd like a sore thumb. But he wasn't deterred from his path. Unless somebody was foolish enough to try and mug him, they would do better than to expect him to be a helpless frail old man incapable of self-defense. Leave the uselessness to other members from the hapless airheaded high society he is forced to coddle with.

"Put a coat on. It's cold tonight." Adraman chided without even breaking a second to spare the escort a stare. It should be an embarrassment to anybody to partake in activities unbecoming of one's being. He was especially annoyed by the rather frequent attention he garnered from the female community for his striking features and rugged build. Adraman didn't have time for pointless drabble, there was just so much work to do first to even bother.

A constable. To be expected, he thought. The physics professor tipped the rim of his hat up in a cordial greeting. "Good evening, officer." His voice was clearly that of a figure in charge, firm and eloquent. "No, sir," Adraman procured a license badge from his shoulder bag and presented it to Officer Jared, "I am a representative of the Arcanoscientific Studies & Physics Research Deparment, and proud chairman as of currently." Adraman stashed his badge back before he returned his blue eyes to Jared. "My assistant notified me of a disturbance in the Kaper Dock factories in today's happenings. I was unable to attend earlier due to being submerged in work." Adraman smirked briefly at his own pun.

"May I give the unresponsive mechanisms a look? I believe the root of the problem may not be intricately comprehended yet. It won't take up too much of your time."

@CollectorOfMyst

A gust of cool air greeted Desmond as he went through the doors of the boarding house and ventured out into the night. The dark streets were illuminated by the burning light of the lamp posts, casting sharp shadows across Desmonds face as he made his way uptown. A carriage drove past, splashing water as it passed through a puddle, it's wealthily clad inhabitants peering warily at Desmond as the carriage turned a corner and disappeared into the night. Most windows were dark, save for the rare few here and there, melding into the stars of the night sky in the horizon.

He was looking for one ms Agatha Blakes, a journalist in employ of the Caledon Times. Their offices were located in the north east, if he remembered correctly, in the same neighborhood as several other of Caledons journals and newspaper establishments. It was only a short treck to get there, but as he arrived, he found the building vacated. Not one to be easily disheartened, however, he took his search onwards. There were a few pubs and restaurants that journalists were known to frequent, and he decided to try his luck with one of them.

Desmond soon found himself inside the Bugle, a drinking establishment of good repute, well furnished and not too expensive. The salon was full of potential informants as to Blakes whereabouts, and Desmond wasted no time in asking around. It was not too long before he found a colleague of ms Blakes, mr Goodman, who, after having been persuaded with a pint and some charming conversation, divulged her adress. Desmond thanked him for his kindness and was soon on his way once more.

He found the townhouse only a few blocks away. It was a good house, made of stone, well looked after and with beautiful windows. Ms Blakes was not the owner; apparently she let a room from an old widow, mrs Twain, who mr Goodman had informed Desmond was a prudent but rather unjovial sort. The house was dark, save for a lit window on the upper floor. Was that perhaps ms Blakes room? Desmond could only guess, but he found it likely. He could try the front door, potentially risking to disturb the old widow in her sleep, or try some other more... discreet method of contacting ms Blakes. Both strategies held merits and risks. The night wore on as he contemplated his approach.

@Fuzzybootz

Browns desk was neat and tidy. All the pencils and papers were in the right place, everything folded and tucked away. There was a ledger in the top drawer containing the files of his open cases, along with Browns own notes on each one. The rest of the drawers contained what you would expect, like additional materials, old notebooks (dated and sorted), a framed picture of his sweetheart (or daughter? Olivia wasn't sure), an unsealed but closed envelope which Olivia decided against opening, etc, etc, etc. In this perfect picture of serene order, one thing stood out like a fresh sore; the newspaper, a copy of The Caledon Courier, flung carelessly on top of everything else.

The newspaper lay with the first page up, the headline exclaiming its message to the universe: Graveyard Vandalized! There were no notes next to this one, no clues or indications, save one. A name in the article was underscored, followed by a question mark. Worthington. Worthington? Olivia read the piece, starting to understand the significance of the scrawl. There had been body snatchers at work, a usual enough problem in Caledon. The surgeons needed their samples, after all, and few families were keen on selling their beloved dead to the butchers of the hospitals. Resurrectionists were cheaper, anyway, and required less paperwork. That wasn't anything to furrow your brow over, gruesome as it was. No, it was another detail of an almost throwaway line that demanded closer inspection.

Apparently, the crypt of the Worthington family had been breached, the stone door smashed open, but no corpse had been stolen. The article made no mention of the ghouls having been disturbed or stopped while doing their skullduggery, which meant they had chosen to refrain from touching the dead in the crypt. Understandable enough, as the family in question was old, rich, and powerful, but that demanded the question as to why they had bothered breaking down the stone door in the first place. No body had been stolen... But was there perhaps something else?

Olivia realized she had three possible leads to investigate; she could try searching the graveyard in general, and the crypt in particular, for clues. There could be something there overlooked by the journalists and constables. Maybe something more in line with her... Unusual talents. Or, she could try tracking down the writer of the article, one mr Simeon Gadd, and pry him for information. He would probably have been at the scene early. Maybe he had seen or heard something that didn't make it into the article, or wasn't possible to observe anymore. Finally, she could of course try to query the Worthington family in her quest for answers. Although why they would allow a detective, or a simple beat cop for that matter, to pry into what could possibly be private matters, she couldn't say.

One way or the other, the strange nature of the case called to her, no matter which lead she was going to choose.

@TRES

Jared raised his eyebrows in surprise. They actually sent someone from the university to investigate the machines? Wonders never ceased to happen. Normally, he would never have admitted a stranger into the factory unannounced, but... This man was clearly a gentleman and a scholar, and had the credentials to prove it. The foreman would probably understand. He decided to go with his gut and trust this arachno... Whatever he'd said.

I see, he said, Certainly, Sir. You may enter the premises. I am however unable to leave my post at this hour, but if you proceed to the entrance over yonder, he pointed at a door in the facade, You will find someone to help you along. Tell them Jared let you in, and ask for the foreman, mister Howe. He can show you the malfunctioning apparatus.

Jared unlocked the gate and opened it for the professor. He watched as the man crossed the courtyard, wondering what life was like when you were a scholar at the university. Very different was the answer he came up with. More reading, and less drunken delinquents. But that was for fine folks, such as the professor, not people like himself.

Alan soon found his way inside, and was directed to the foremans office by an equally surprised worker. He was let inside, and was greeted by mister Howe. He was a big man, the foreman, with broad shoulders that stretched the fabric of his shirt thin. He was bald, but sported a bushy moustache the color of coal. He gestured for Alan to take a seat opposite him at the desk, a behemoth of dark wood, and then sat down himself.

Welcome, Sir, he said in a surprisingly soft and tender voice, I am Howe, the foreman. How might I help you this evening?

Alan responded with another formal tip on the rim of his hat, and a firm nod on the head. "Noted. Thank you, officer."

Thinks with his hands, works with his muscles, Alan had a unremarkable first impression of the foreman. Strong men deserved respect for their dedication to themselves, heck, Alan himself belonged to the demographic regardless of how concealed his form was under the layered clothes he wore. However, it was disappointing to see potential intellect be wasted on a mound of flesh and sinew daily. The large, bushy and dark moustache that contrasted with his bald-headed scalp was cute in a funny way, though.

"Good evening, Mr. Howe." Alan outstreched his hand, and shook Howe's before he mirrored him at the opposite end of the desk. "Thank you for agreeing to hold an impromptu meeting this late into the night. However, it was urgent news of a predicament in the dockside factories that brought me here as a representative of the Caledon Institue of Academics in the northeastern district." With diplomacies out of the way, Alan propped up his silver-framed round glasses. "I am fairly confident to suspect the cause of the hindrance of the factories' mechanism may not be fully explained by science as of yet. In other words, of magical origin. Thereby, I humbly request your permission to investigate for myself the inoperative equipment, and perhaps gain more insight into the situation. It will not take up much of your valuable time, sir."

Alan was naturally suave, and skilled in the art of obtaining people's favor with honeyed words and slight impositioning.

@Red Wizard

Desmond smoothed back his hair and fiddled with a crease in his shirt. In one hand, he held a single yellow rose - liberated from the garden of a more well-to-do household. He plastered on a nervous smile, before taking hold of the knocker and giving it three firm raps against the door.

He stood in wait, gently tearing off the thorns and leaves that still clung to the flower. Truthfully, he didn't know much about Old Widow Twain - he was happy with Ms. O'Hara - but hopefully, a woman like Miss Blake had, somewhere, encountered flower language. He wouldn't mind explaining that it was an offering of friendship and new beginnings, but its purpose was mostly to divert the widow - a gentleman caller was, perhaps, more normal than a rookie journalist, and certainly more palatable at this late hour. All Desmond himself needed to do was get his foot - quite literally - in the door.

And then there was his approach. He needed to know as much as possible before heading to the sewer, starting with Miss Blake's source - whether she had been there herself, or if it had been a tip, and from whom. Rumours didn't spring from nowhere, and the more he knew, the better. And if he needed an incentive... well. He had that in mind already. Desmond didn't need the story to be in his name, not just yet. Miss Blake could publish it in hers... an exclusive exposé. All the answers, available in the Caledonian Times. And it would get him access to more.

Speaking of, he could hear footsteps approaching. He held both his hands behind his back, waiting to see who he would need to speak to.

Howe leaned back in his chair, hands clasped over his chest, as Alan explained his business at the factory. His eyes were focused on the professors, as if he was listening as much with his gaze as he was with his ears. When Alan was finished, Howe nodded politely and leaned back in towards the desk. The chair groaned as he shifted his weight. He spread his hands in acknowledgement of the professors hypothesis.

Yes, Sir, he said in that surprisingly feminine voice, I completely agree with your assessment. We've had the machines looked over ourselves, as have the constables, and have found no structural fault or obstruction. Although I can't see how the constabulary would be knowledgeable about the intricacies of engineering, my personel surely is, and if there were any material failing they would have found them.

There was a quick knock at the door, followed by an old man with a small catering cart. On the cart was a pot and two cups with matching saucers. The man discreetly rolled the cart up to the desk and poured coffee into the cups. He placed the cups in front of Howe and Alan, and was soon on his way once more.

Coffee, professor? Howe offered, I find that it helps with the night shifts. We get good beans here, courtesy of the company. It really is very good. And, personally, he continued, producing a small flask from inside his waistcoat, smiling, I like to add a little sting to the brew. I buy it from an exiled dwarf uptown. It's really good. Can I perhaps tempt the professor to try a drop or two?

With the coffe business sorted, Howe leaned back again holding the delicate cup and saucer in his big hands, sipping away at the hot drink.

I would be delighted if you would inspect the machine hall, professor. We've been waiting for an expert to come by, but the company isn't too keen on letting just anyone into the factory. Secrets of the trade and all that, you know. But they couldn't protest a thorough investigation from a man of science such as yourself. Whenever you're ready.

@TRES

The door creaked open, revealing an elderly lady dressed in a nightgown. She was carrying a lit candle, it's warm light illuminating the womans wrinkled features. She looked at Desmond from top to toe, taking him in, her face fixed in a somewhat stern but equally surprised grimace. Finally, she looked him square in the eyes, her brows slightly raised.

I must say, she said, That I'm quite perplexed as to why such a dashing young man such as yourself would be calling at my door this time of night. I would be inclined to take it as a compliment, albeit unexpected, were it not for my growing suspicion that I am not in fact the lady you're here to see. As much as this assessment disappoints me, I am still glad. The young lady upstairs has been entirely too unconcerned with courtships, as far as I'm concerned, and she could certainly do well to spend a little time with a strapping lad. Oh please, don't try to deny it, I'm not interested in appearances or other lies. Do come inside. I'll show you to her room.

The woman let Desmond in, guiding him upstairs. She stopped in front of a door and knocked on it. Without waiting for a reply, she opened the door and stood to the side.

You have a gentleman caller, my dear, she said, Now, I would have liked to have been informed of this prior to his knocking on my door, but we'll have that discussion in the morning. I will tolerate no secrets or skullduggery in this house. Well, I'm off to bed. I do not want to be disturbed. Good night.

Without further ado, she left the two of them there, disappearing down the hallway. A young woman, presumably miss Blakes, was sitting at a small desk in the room, staring at Desmond with wide eyes. She hadn't been able to speak while the whirlwind of a widow had passed by, and now she sat with her mouth slightly agape, still trying to catch up. Finally, she took a deep breath.

Who... she whispered, Who are... I mean, what are... Uh, to what do I owe the pleasure, mister...?

@CollectorOfMyst

Olivia knew the best place to start her investigation into the Worthington crypt vandalism was at the graveyard itself. As an experienced cop, she understood the value of examining a crime scene firsthand before the trail went cold. She had heard many an experienced detective scuff at a poorly written Crime scene report. The reports could still be useful, but nothing could substitute for being on location to pick up clues with her own eyes.

The cemetery was sure to offer insights and information not contained in the constables' statements. The mood and lighting of the environment, the precise method of forced entry, footprints in the soil, disturbances in the crypt - these details could crack open new avenues of inquiry.

More importantly, Olivia sensed this case went beyond a simple act of desecration. Why force entry yet take nothing? The aura of wrongness she felt demanded investigating right at the source, where residues of dark intent might still linger. Cemeteries and graveyards held stories not just in gravestones but in the very air.

Olivia needed to immerse herself in the scene, letting her intuition pick up on what might elude logical analysis. To walk where the perpetrator walked, see what they saw, perhaps glimpse the malevolent glimpse that drove them. Some haunting mystery dwelled in this place, beckoning to her.

And if she was lucky, examining the crypt herself might even provide the chance of encountering clues the criminal left behind. Stray hairs, muddy footprints, a dropped matchstick - Olivia's trained eye could spot the tiniest detail out of place. But she had to start at the heart, at the gravesite itself, if she hoped to unravel this shadowy plot.

*******
"Ah yes, nasty bit of business, that was," the tired older desk sergeant with a large mustache huffed. "Not sure what you think you'll find, but here is the scene report. Hobbs and Willis were on duty that night"

The Desk Sergeant, Walter Fraser, had regarded her skeptically at first. But when Olivia explained Inspector Brown's Illness and her current assignment, his manner became more accommodating. He handed over the file without too much trouble.

Hobbs and Willis, she knew. She had been out on Patrol with one or the other of them on many different occasions. These days, the pair seemed always to be joined at the hip. She knew exactly where to find the pair.

*******

Olivia was greeted by their familiar faces when she entered the break room at the constabulary. Constables Hobbs and Willis sat immersed in a game of cards, as was their usual method of passing the time. A haze of pipe smoke hung thick in the air as she entered.

"Olivia! By Jove, it's good to see you again," Hobbs exclaimed, rising to shake her hand heartily. "It's been, what, six months since we’ve had a shift together?"

Willis grinned around his pipe stem. "Heard you be filling in for Inspector Brown? Nasty Illness?”

Olivia smiled wryly as she pulled up a chair. "My word travels fast, though I can't complain about some official investigation work coming my way.”

"So you're looking into that nasty crypt business over in Highgate, eh? It was the oddest thing," Hobbs said, scratching his head as he recalled the scene. "Me and Willis were the first on site after the groundskeeper reported the break-in. The iron crypt door had clearly been smashed open, and the lock busted right off. But looking inside, nothing seemed disturbed. No bones out of place, no valuables stolen that we could see."

He shook his head, perplexed. "Gave me the chills being in there, I'll tell you. All those generations of Worthington buried together, their stone coffins sealed up tight. Why force your way in just to leave everything untouched?"

Willis nodded along as he puffed on his pipe. "Those Worthingtons have been buried there for ages. Never liked the bunch myself, all high and mighty since they built their fortune in the textile trade. But desecrating graves is bound to bring bad fortune."

"The weird part was, the door was the only thing damaged," he continued. "It's like someone wanted to get in and have a look around, then thought better of it and scarpered. But what could they have been looking for?"

Hobbs shrugged as he laid down a card. "Doesn't make a lick of sense why someone would break into that musty old crypt. But I reckon you're smart enough to figure it out, Miss Detective. Let us know if you need any other insights."

The constables wished Olivia luck before returning to their card game, the peculiar cemetery case already fading from their minds.

*******
The carriage clattered to a halt on the crowded cobblestone street, the horse’s shoes striking sparks against the stone. Olivia grasped the side handle and stepped down, smoothing her skirt. All around her, the city bustled with activity.

New age motorized carriages puttered by, sharing the road with horse-drawn hansom cabs and carts loaded with goods. Chimney stacks belched plumes of inky smoke that mingled with the low-hanging fog. Vendors cried out from cluttered storefronts lined with hand-painted signs, selling everything from fresh bread to polished shoes.

Newsboys waving papers jostled and wove through the throngs of passersby. Street musicians added a lively soundtrack of accordion melodies and tambourine beats. Clusters of smartly dressed gentlemen stood conversing while nannies in crisp uniforms pushed elaborate prams.
Olivia set off on foot, merging into the steady stream of bustling traffic coursing along the sidewalks. Vendors called out from crowded stalls, selling flowers, newspapers, and hot chestnuts. Around her rose tall townhouses, their wrought iron balconies and window boxes overflowing with crimson flowers.

At the end of the lane, the road opened up into a major thoroughfare. Olivia paused, waiting for a break in traffic before crossing. Reaching the other side, she continued down a less crowded street, passing by tidy shops and a small park where children played hoops and flew kites.

The farther she walked, the more the cityscape shifted. Buildings became more scattered, smoke-belching factories lurking behind high stone walls. The housing grew shabbier, and laundry lines strung between apartments. Fewer people jostled along the narrow sidewalk. Up ahead, the Gothic spire of the old church rose above the rooftops.
Turning down a nearly deserted side lane, the cemetery gates finally came into view, wrought iron worn with rust and age. Olivia felt an air of melancholy descend as she approached the threshold to this island of the dead amidst the living, pulsating city.