wellinghall (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wellinghall) wrote2015-09-30 10:56 pm
wellinghall) wrote2015-09-30 10:56 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Some notes on two boxes
Benisons, brickbats and beta readers are all welcome!
Part one: http://wellinghall.livejournal.com/647187.html
Part two: http://wellinghall.livejournal.com/1129007.html
My new job suited me down to the ground; indeed, if I may be permitted a pun, down to the underground. I had a good group of men under me - a mix of former sappers and Irish navvies - who knew their work, and who made pleasant company over a pot of tea at the midday break. However, I was a little disappointed to find no kobolds on the gang - neither the dark-haired ones from the Alps, nor their fairer cousins from the north, nor even the neutral-hued ones from the Helvetic Confederacy - and I resolved to contact the ones I had met at our rooms if we encountered any hard rock under Old Park Lane.
However, we made good progress for the first two weeks; and then even faster progress, as the drill suddenly burst through into a space. Once they had enlarged the hole, the men called me over, and we made our way through. Our helmet lights showed a room - or rather vault, with arched brick overhead - some thirty or forty feet long. It seemed to be a former store-room, but it had been abandoned for some years, to judge by the thick layer of dust on the floor and on the brick-built shelves lining the walls.
We walked up to the far end of the room, but apart from the dust, the odd loose brick, and some spiders scuttling away, the vault seemed to be empty. The men smiled, as this would speed our progress; although our tunnel would still need lining, the discovery of the vault would save much hard work, and speed our progress. As the afternoon was drawing on, I told them that they could pack up, and that I would buy them a pint or two when we had got above-ground; if anything, their smiles grew even broader at this welcome news.
As we headed back to the entrance, my foot struck something, with a muted clang. Bending down, I saw what appeared to be a metal box. I lifted it, and as it came up, I saw wood underneath it. I called the nearest man over, and we shone both our lights on it; it seemed to be another box, and he picked that one up.
We carried our burdens to the surface, emerging into a heavy storm, while the rest of the gang made the machinery safe. Once we were all up, we headed for the nearest workmen's pub, where I stood a couple of rounds, with a shot of whiskey for the navvy who had brought the wooden box up for me. Then, hailing a cab, I headed to Notting Hill Gate.
As I took these strange boxes into our rooms, keen to see what was inside them, Swannage looked up. "Ah! - you are back early. Would you care to accompany me?" he said, tossing a folder newspaper in my direction. I saw that one of the articles was ringed, presumably so that future researchers would know where it had come from. I read aloud -
"FOUL PLAY ON THE LONDON FLYER"
"POLICE CALLED IN"
"The midweek London Flyer dirigible airship service, arriving late at its Alexandra Palace mooring due to heavy storms, has been the scene of a police investigation. It appears that one of the passengers did not disembark, and we understand that he was found dead in his cabin. Foul play is suspected! However, the London police force have been called in, and are confident of making an early arrest."
Swannage snorted. "Those bunglers should be confident of nothing but making fools of themselves! Well - are you on?"
And so my day, already out of the ordinary, took another unusual turn. What would our trip to Alexandra Palace bring to light?
Part one: http://wellinghall.livejournal.com/647187.html
Part two: http://wellinghall.livejournal.com/1129007.html
My new job suited me down to the ground; indeed, if I may be permitted a pun, down to the underground. I had a good group of men under me - a mix of former sappers and Irish navvies - who knew their work, and who made pleasant company over a pot of tea at the midday break. However, I was a little disappointed to find no kobolds on the gang - neither the dark-haired ones from the Alps, nor their fairer cousins from the north, nor even the neutral-hued ones from the Helvetic Confederacy - and I resolved to contact the ones I had met at our rooms if we encountered any hard rock under Old Park Lane.
However, we made good progress for the first two weeks; and then even faster progress, as the drill suddenly burst through into a space. Once they had enlarged the hole, the men called me over, and we made our way through. Our helmet lights showed a room - or rather vault, with arched brick overhead - some thirty or forty feet long. It seemed to be a former store-room, but it had been abandoned for some years, to judge by the thick layer of dust on the floor and on the brick-built shelves lining the walls.
We walked up to the far end of the room, but apart from the dust, the odd loose brick, and some spiders scuttling away, the vault seemed to be empty. The men smiled, as this would speed our progress; although our tunnel would still need lining, the discovery of the vault would save much hard work, and speed our progress. As the afternoon was drawing on, I told them that they could pack up, and that I would buy them a pint or two when we had got above-ground; if anything, their smiles grew even broader at this welcome news.
As we headed back to the entrance, my foot struck something, with a muted clang. Bending down, I saw what appeared to be a metal box. I lifted it, and as it came up, I saw wood underneath it. I called the nearest man over, and we shone both our lights on it; it seemed to be another box, and he picked that one up.
We carried our burdens to the surface, emerging into a heavy storm, while the rest of the gang made the machinery safe. Once we were all up, we headed for the nearest workmen's pub, where I stood a couple of rounds, with a shot of whiskey for the navvy who had brought the wooden box up for me. Then, hailing a cab, I headed to Notting Hill Gate.
As I took these strange boxes into our rooms, keen to see what was inside them, Swannage looked up. "Ah! - you are back early. Would you care to accompany me?" he said, tossing a folder newspaper in my direction. I saw that one of the articles was ringed, presumably so that future researchers would know where it had come from. I read aloud -
"FOUL PLAY ON THE LONDON FLYER"
"POLICE CALLED IN"
"The midweek London Flyer dirigible airship service, arriving late at its Alexandra Palace mooring due to heavy storms, has been the scene of a police investigation. It appears that one of the passengers did not disembark, and we understand that he was found dead in his cabin. Foul play is suspected! However, the London police force have been called in, and are confident of making an early arrest."
Swannage snorted. "Those bunglers should be confident of nothing but making fools of themselves! Well - are you on?"
And so my day, already out of the ordinary, took another unusual turn. What would our trip to Alexandra Palace bring to light?