The note had been handed in by one of the Pendulum's anonymous porters. There seemed to more of them about these days, flitting about like minor messenger gods bearing curt notes from outside as well as the more traditional offering of a snifter full of some libation or other. Both of these items were presented to Shrikeweed on the customary silver salver, a tradition he had never liked largely on account of his slight aversion to silver, and he had taken the restorative brandy with one hand and the note, the wholly unexpected note, with the other. That was ten minutes ago, ten minutes and twenty-seven seconds if the clock was to be believed. Ten minutes and twenty seven-seconds of confusion, disbelief, and terrible agitation.

It had been a brief note, written on official Seventen letterhead by an inferior pen making use of an incongruously superior ink, and informing the receiver that a certain Officer Viverti (tedious official terms of specific rank and station followed though their meanings were wholly obscure) would call upon Mr. Basil Ambrose Shrikeweed esq. -- Very neatly done too, adding that superfluous and wildly inaccurate honorific by way of mollification, -- at a quarter past noon in the Strangers' Room at the Pendulum Club. And so there he sat, deeply agitated, in a large chair which he had contrived to angle into one of the more shadowy corners of that room.

The brevity of the note, and the tone of formal and deeply insincere politeness did not sit well with Shrikeweed. He disliked the Seventen even at the best of times, felt awkward and uncomfortable in their presence even if they were merely going about their quite legitimate and above all separate business on the other side of the street, and distrusted anyone who could feel at all comfortable, let alone proud, wearing any sort of uniform. He took another sip of his brandy, swirled it about the glass in a vain attempt to sooth his nerves, took another sip, and waited.

Eleven minutes and thirty-nine seconds. He looked down into his snifter, the brandy, the very good, very old, and very comforting brandy, was gone.

(( Sorry for the late reply. Hope this post is ok. ))

Chiaro was, perhaps, a bit late. Or perhaps she was perfectly on time- for her standards- arriving precisely when she meant to. It was hard to tell with her, really. While she could be quite the diplomat when the situation called for such insincere pleasantness, her last two interviews had most certainly not, and she had found that intimidation was quite the lovely ally when trying to work information from tight lips. If this meant garnering someone's attention via vague, slightly misleading but to-the-point, ominous messages to meet at a specific time at a specific location over very important issues with quite possibly dire consequences, then making the suspect sweat for a few very long minutes as they waited for her to finish her midday tea and stroll leisurely to the aforementioned meeting place, so be it.

When she arrived in the specified location at the Pendulum, it pleased her to find the rather tense-looking Shrikeweed waiting for her. This could be fun, though she had heard this man could have quite the sharp tongue and quick wit when he wanted to and she wasn't interested in dealing with any cheek. She smiled pleasantly, "Good day, Mr. Shrikeweed, I trust my message got through to you unhindered?" She took note of the brandy and her eyes flashed with a barely concealed, slightly cruel amusement. He must be rather uncomfortable with this ordeal indeed, unless drinking was a worn habit of his. Perhaps he was nervous for good reason? A guilty conscience perhaps? "Now, now, no need to look so pale. I am simply here to ask a few questions, and if you cooperate we might not have to haul you off to prison... maybe."

It was the longest three minutes as twenty-one seconds in the history of chronometric observation. Days could have fit with comfort between the passing seconds, empires might have begun, attained the height of their power, and crumbled into picturesque dust within the space of no more than a dozen pendulum swings, and, Shrikeweed of certain of this, at least two snifters of brandy and one of the club's excellent cucumber and dill sandwiches had been dispatched with only moderate haste.

It was therefore a considerably agitated and not entirely sober Shrikeweed who received his inquisitor. He was not drunk. Shrikeweed did not, as a rule, belong to the class of people who could be considered to be drunk and his present immoderate consumption was so out of habit that it would have been a very loose lexicographer indeed that would apply the label of 'alcoholic' to a man that had never even gotten to the point of singing even the most gentile of folk songs to a few select friends. Had he been a naval man, and Shrikeweed had never even been on a ship, he might have been considered to be one and a half sheets to a moderate topgallant breeze but no more. Part of him, the part that wore sensible shoes, paid his taxes months early, and dreamed of filing systems, that is to say the professional Shrikeweed, considered that this state of affairs might not be the best in which to receive a member of the Seventen and was even now considering requesting a very strong cup of coffee. The rest of the Shrikeweedian mind, the deeply suspicious, paranoid, cynical, and endlessly mistrustful portion was considering the merits of another brandy, or possibly of leaping out of the chair and running like a madman out of the room.

He took a deep breath, let it pass hissing through his teeth, adjusted his cravat, and with a heroic, but inevitably doomed, attempt at stoicism addressed his inquisitor. "Do sit, down, constable," said he is a voice more nearly like that of a highly educated and neurotic rat than a real person, "the chairs here are quite - um - comfortable. Comfortable -yes- very good chairs here, the best. Can I be interesting you in a cucumber sandwich?" He began to pause, possibly to allow the Seventen to reply, but went on in his increasingly nervous manner, "What am I saying? Of course you would like an - um, yes - a cucumber sandwich. Every one likes a good cucumber sandwich. Very good here. It's the cheese you know, very smooth and creamy, that makes for a good cucumber sandwich. Never settle for am inferior cheese, is my advice to you madame."

He sat there, staring at the green uniform, blinking in the most alarming manner when finally her words had a chance to filter through the layers of nerves, the inevitable mental paperwork, and the spreading ocean of brandy. "What?" he squeaked. He shook his head slowly from side to side, surely he had muddled the Seventen's words. "I'm sorry. Prison?"

Part of him almost added, but thankfully held back at the last moment, the remark "No chance of a good cucumber sandwich there."

(( Sorry for my lateness. Again. ))

Chiaro quirked a brow at his ramblings about first the state and quality of the apparently comfortable chairs- the best, even, if his words were to be believed- and then to the subject of cucumber sandwiches- a delicacy Chiaro was not overly fond of- and finally, after quite the display of rattled nerves, settled on the subject at hand.



Chiaro took a deep breath, then exhaled a quick sigh of relief that his little ramble was at an end. She almost felt bad for him, but a large part of her was too amused by the display to think much of it. "Yes, Mr. Shrikeweed, prison. And to answer your previous inquiry, no, I am not interested in cucumber sandwiches, thankyou. Now, I would suggest you remain seated for this ordeal. I have some questions for you regarding the recent killings, and if you give me your full cooperation we might be able to get through this as quickly as possible and both be on our merry little ways. If you are honest with me, we might even be able to avoid the whole 'prison' issue." She offered a tight smile, "Does that sound reasonable to you?"

Thoughts, great secret thoughts like leviathans upon a private ocean, swam behind the indifferently colored eyes of the archivist. Thoughts he would have done well to bring to the light, they might have helped him make sense, even if only a very little sense, of what the constable was about. Instead, only the brightly colored and shining surface thoughts, thoughts like great schools of anchovies were available to the conscious mind of Shrikeweed. Murders? What murders? Why ask me of all people about murders? And why did I go on about the benighted cucumber sandwiches? What a thing to go on about. A real mess you've made of things and no mistake. Cucumber sandwiches indeed. Wait. Do I know anyone who might be so immoderate as to allow themselves to be murdered? And did I ask if she might want a brandy? Or possibly a glass of wine? No. No, she's on duty and the royal garden society probably frowns on that sort of thing. Better not to ask. Murder?! Being murdering is not a character trait usually associated with those of my acquaintance. Why ask me?

And then, at the height of this shifting and swirling school of thoughts, one of the great leviathans of profundity rose and made ready to feast upon the tiny flitting thoughts.Perhaps it was drawn to the motion, the agitation, perhaps it was seeking food, or perhaps it needed to surface to take in great lungfuls of air. Whatever the reason, between thoughts of cucumber sandwiches, chairs, and the possibility of being executed for some unknown crime without a proper last meal, Shrikeweed became dimly aware of it. Dust came the deeper thought Dust and spiders, a polite spider. An arachnid parlor maid. Remember the corridor? The long unused corridor? And the office? The harassed Seventen captain in her dim little office surrounded by the paperwork she did not wish to do? What was the paperwork about? Didn't she say . . .?

Alas for Shrikeweed, for these thoughts were not heeded and they sank deeper below the roiling surface. He let them go, confused and unnerved, and turned to face the Seventen. He swallowed hard, his throat parched, and said, "Constable, my opinion on the reasonableness of your 'request' seems hardly to be relevant. You will ask your questions whether I want you to or not. So let us get to them and get this over with and let us not dwell overmuch on the pleasantness of chairs or the delights of a fine sandwich." He once again adjusted his cravat and went on, "Though why you want to interrogate me, and why you were so undiplomatic as to threaten me with prison is beyond me. I assure you, I know nothing about any murders. I've never seen one, attended one (not even an execution mind), been party to one, nor have I ever known either a murderer or a murdered corpse. They are not my kind of people, Constable."