London - Office of Ramsey and Associates, Inc.
May 12, 1885 - 20:45 p.m. - Clear
Amelia Lancaster
Amelia was, if anything, punctual. Though of course at the moment, she stood just outside of Ramsey and Associates Inc., smoothing out the sleeves to her blouse. It was white, tucked into a dark underbust that was placed over the top portion of the long skirt she'd chosen. It was considerably more modest than her previous dress, and was one of the few outfits that could help her blend in with the lesser population. The colors were dark, but not black. She didn't want to appear to be mourning someone. It would have defeated the purpose. She'd pulled her hair back, though, tucking it into a bun, and allowed a few pieces to stray. It would keep it from appearing too long, she supposed, though she'd never cut it shorter.
Taking in a soft sigh, she pushed the door open, allowing the heels of her boots to click on the floor to signal her arrival. She was fifteen minutes early, but she didn't mind in the slightest. It wasn't easy, after all, sneaking out of the Lancaster estate without James or her father's watchful eye. She would have been late if she hadn't been careful. Her gaze landed on Ramsey and Miss Blythe, causing her to stop at a polite distance. “Mr. Ramsey, Miss Blythe," she greeted, nodding her head slightly in their direction.
“I hope it's not intrusive for me to arrive earlier than expected," she stated. It was, in a way, an apology.
Miss Blythe smiled at her immediately; it looked like she was just buttoning her dark green coat on over her ruffled ivory dress, the skirt of it falling to her knees. It left no skin visible, though, as she wore thick stockings beneath and boots that reached almost up to the hem of the skirt, polished brass buckles speaking more to careful maintenance than any amount of wealth.
Mr. Ramsey had altered his wardrobe slightly more dramatically. Gone was the heavy overcoat of the morning, or the sensibly-colored suit and shirt beneath it. Instead he wore a tailcoat and cravat, all in shades of black, white, and grey. It wasn't clear whether he'd been carrying weapons earlier, but it didn't look like he was now, save perhaps the slender, silver-tipped cane tucked up under his elbow while he adjusted his hat. He'd done a good job imitating the evening wear of an upper-middle-class fellow, in all, even disciplining his hair into a neater arrangement beneath the hat.
"It's not an imposition," he replied, tone flat in what she was quickly learning was somewhat characteristic of him. "The club is not more than two miles from here, and so we shall be walking. I expect you have questions; if you wish to ask them, then would be the time."
It didn't take more than another few minutes for everyone to be prepared, and Mr. Ramsey held the door for Miss Blythe and herself, pausing to lock it with a large brass key behind them before striking off to the northeast, though more northward than her house would be.
She did have a few questions, though perhaps not the ones he would expect. “If I am to act accordingly, what is the typical etiquette inside this cabaret?" she asked, walking in unison with Charlotte. It was, after all, considered inappropriate to walk beside a man who wasn't her husband or relative. Not that it bothered her, but she was trying to keep a low profile. Going to The Red Moon was going to be a new experience.
She'd never visited a cabaret, before. If she was going to be any help to Ramsey and Miss Blythe, then she needed to know how to conduct herself. She made a promise not to interfere with their investigation, and she was going to stay true to that promise. It would be a stain upon her honor as a woman, and as a Lancaster if she broke it.
"Oh, I know this one!" Miss Blythe quite literally perked up at the question, but then fixed her eyes ahead on Mr. Ramsey, who gave her a short nod over his shoulder. That must have been enough, because she shifted her attention back to Amelia. "Don't ask anyone there what their real name is or what they do for a living. Customers at such establishments only go if there's an expectation of discretion, you see, and it's bad news for the owner if we ask too many intrusive questions. Even if you recognize somebody, it's better to pretend that you don't. You shouldn't bother the performers, either, or touch them in any way, and you have to tip your servers if they do a good job. Or even if they don't, because sometimes people have bad days and it's cruel to expect them to always be perfectly together."
She smiled, then looked back to Ramsey as if expecting confirmation. The words had the air of a recitation to them, as though she'd been repeating back something that she was taught.
"Audience protocol," he reminded her, his voice lacking any admonishment.
Miss Blythe's eyes rounded, then she nodded. "Oh, yes! It is acceptable to cheer or whistle for the acts, and if the funny ones make you laugh, that is good, but you're not supposed to talk over the performances or say anything rude."
That made a certain amount of sense, she supposed. If the purpose of a cabaret was to go there and be discreet, she could understand why Jane hadn't told her about it. A part of her, something deep and dark, thought that Mr. Morton might have been correct about their friendship, though. Shaking that thought from her mind, she allowed a small smile to cross her face.
“If someone were to ask my name, should I give them a false one?" she asked. Asking someone their real name was considered bad form, but was she supposed to give someone a false name if they asked her? “I do not intend to cause any complications, but on the off chance I am approached, I would like to be prepared," she added, turning her gaze to Miss Blythe. It seemed she was interested in answering Amelia's questions rather than Mr. Ramsey. Amelia didn't mind, though. The woman was interesting in a way.
Charlotte nodded emphatically. "It's common for people to use pseudonyms. Usually just one. Like me. When we go there for work, everyone calls me Sparrow!" The lilting chirp of her voice gave a clue as to why.
“Indeed they would," she spoke, allowing a faint hint of humor to lace with her tone. If that were the case, she supposed she could go with a name no one but her father would know. It brought a smile to her face, though it felt more mischief-like the longer it lingered on her face. “And what of you, Mr. Ramsey? Shall I address you as such?" she asked, turning her gaze to him for a brief moment. It was unlikely that she would need to speak with him, but Amelia liked to be as prepared as possible.
She didn't want to leave anything to chance. They would be arriving at The Red Moon, shortly, and she wanted to make sure she had everything she needed. That meant knowing the proper etiquette and how to address people.
"The owner of the establishment refers to me as Kerberos. You may do the same if it strikes your fancy, but I am not concerned with my anonymity. Ramsey would do just as well." He paused a moment, then shot her a glance over his shoulder. "You haven't asked what your friend went to the Red Moon for." The observation was neutral; it didn't sound like he was suggesting she should have, only that he had noticed it.
She sighed softly. “It would have made itself apparent," she spoke, though she did quirk a brow. “Please enlighten me, though, Mr. Ramsey. How is it that you know what she did?" she asked, the same curious feeling peaking her interest. She would have inquired about her friend's involvement with the Red Moon, but she felt that she would have found the answers when they arrived.
He blinked, shifting his eyes away and shrugging his shoulders. "Observation," he replied. "Several details were very salient. For one, Miss Chatham's makeup was done, as was her hair, and she was dressed for the evening, but when you found her, she was not wearing shoes. Additionally, Mr. Morton's physical and haptic responses gave a lot away. He is not an especially-skilled liar—his secret is one that survives mostly because people make assumptions and his silence confirms them. Additionally, I am familiar with the Red Moon and establishments of its kind, including the distinctive blend of incense that burns in the backrooms. It had been absorbed into Miss Chatham's clothing, strongly enough to suggest either an extended stay or frequent visits. The rest was only inference based on what the businesses are meant for."
It was impressive, or so Amelia thought. How was it that such little things like that gave way to what Jane had been up to? Jane either hid her clothing in a spot that the scents wouldn't be noticed, or Amelia and the others paid it little mind. Perhaps they had noticed it, but on a more subconscious level? Whatever the case, Amelia hummed a soft note in the back of her throat as she absorbed the information.
“You are fairly good at your job, Mr. Ramsey," she stated. It was merely a statement, an observation of her own, she supposed. It wasn't meant as a compliment nor was she being facetious. “What was Miss Chatham doing here, though?" she found herself asking. “You've stated that you are familiar with the Red Moon. Have you come across Miss Chatham before?"
"No." His answer was just as factual as her statement. "As for what she was doing—I expect that the owner will confirm." He stopped outside a heavy-looking, polished wooden door with a brass handle. It had no name-plate attached, and the building which it promised entry to was unremarkable, with heavy velvet drapes barring curious eyes from seeing inside. Only a blush-red lantern gave it even the faintest hint of uniqueness.
Ramsey did not bother to knock, nor did his announce their presence, merely pulling open the door and ushering Amelia and Miss Blythe in ahead of him.
There were coat hooks just inside, but no one to take their outerwear. Since Miss Blythe was really the only one wearing any, she took the chance to doff her coat, then led the way through another door. Mr. Ramsey left his hat, then followed.
Sound hit them like a wall on the way in; the scents of alcohol, warm food, and heavy perfume rushing out in the same gust as the slightly-damp heat of many people and the thick wax tapers decorating every table. The floor creaked softly under their feet, almost lost to the din. The main space was devoted to seating, tables floating free in the middle and booths set into the corner, upholstered in silver-embroidered red velvet. The wood was uniformly dark and rich, from the tabletops to the bar which sat along the left wall, shelved of bottles arranged around a massive brass and copper clock, its internal gears exposed by the amber-tinted glass face etched with silver numbers.
Many of the tables were already occupied, people ranging from working to upper class mingling freely, starched and careworn sleeves rolled up just the same way. Music played from one side of the stage taking up the entire far wall, red and silver curtains pulled to the side in massive drapes. The woman at the center was crooning into a microphone in a smoky, low voice, occasionally punctuated by a whoop or whistle from the crowd. Overwhelmingly men, it seemed.
It was breathtaking. Quite literally in Amelia's case. She sucked in a sharp breath, regretting it almost immediately when smoke and perfume filtered into her nose. She lifted her hand to her mouth, however; she stopped halfway and allowed it to fall back to her side. She might not like inhaling the scent of the place, but she also didn't want to give off a first bad impression. Granted no one was glancing in their direction, yet. Most of the attention was on the woman who was singing, and even Amelia had to tear her eyes away from the songstress.
She opened her mouth to say something, however; she remained quiet. She could taste the air in the establishment, the smoke and the ash that seemed to be lingering about. Perhaps, because it was her first time in a place like this, her senses were a little more sensitive? It would make a certain amount of sense to her if that were the case. She'd have to become better acquainted with places like this, but now was not the time for such thoughts. She came here with the intentions of spectating an investigation.
It was interesting watching Mr. Ramsey work, and Miss Blythe. She wondered for a brief moment, how they were going to find the owner of the establishment, however; Mr. Ramsey's earlier statement banished the thought. He'd been here before which meant he already knew. True to her word, Amelia remained quiet, stepping a little further to the back so that Mr. Ramsey and Miss Blythe could take the lead. She couldn't help her eyes from wandering, though. It was fascinating, and new to her.
Ramsey chose a booth near the back of the room, far from the stage but with a decent view of it. He gestured for both herself and Miss Blythe to be seated first, then took the free side glancing towards the bar and nodding at the woman standing behind it. She was wearing a bright red dress; when she stepped out from behind the bar, it proved to be only half as long as her thighs, exposing several inches of fishnet stocking before a pair of truly-formidable-looking heeled boots, black, shiny, and with a height of at least five inches.
She tossed a slow wink in their direction before turning and disappearing into what had to be the kitchen or some other back room through a well-hidden door behind the bar.
Mr. Ramsey appeared quite disinterested, but at this distance, Amelia could see that he was actually making a very subtle study of the room itself, his eyes scanning the patrons, the performers, and the fixtures. It was impossible to tell just what he made of any of it, but his body language suggested no unease. Miss Blythe was attempting to do the same, only her subtlety needed some work—she just looked so obviously-fascinated by everyone around her.
While they waited, another waitress—this one only slightly less outlandishly-dressed—brought them a tray with drinks and what looked to be sweets. “Compliments of the house," she said sweetly. “For Mr. Kerberos and his companions." With a smile that was either genuinely shy or spectacularly well-acted, she set everything down and withdrew the tray with a flourish. The sweets proved to be an expensive-looking mix of truffles, a few petit fours, and pretty little tea cakes, all impeccably decorated. They seemed an odd match for the clientele in general, to say nothing of the man they'd apparently been prepared for.
She could understand if he had a bit of a sweet tooth. She had one, herself, and often thought of learning the trade, however; there wasn't a person who could teach her without her father knowing. She straightened out her posture in the seat, and glanced at Miss Blythe. “Is the owner aware that you have arrived?" she asked softly. She wasn't entirely sure how this worked, but she wanted to know, to learn so that she could have this knowledge. It wouldn't serve her any real purpose, but it was something new to her.
And if anything, Amelia loved learning new things, regardless of how it would help her in the long run.
Seeing as how Miss Blythe had just popped an entire petit four into her mouth, Mr. Ramsey took the question instead, dividing a tea cake in half with the small fork provided. "She knows," he said simply. "Briar Rose went back to tell her." He must have meant the woman in red.
Indeed, the same woman returned a moment later in the company of another. The new arrival was surprisingly tall, moreso than either Amelia or Miss Blythe, with sheets of long, straight black hair and eyes that turned up at the outer corners in an unusual tilt. Her features seemed to belong to someone from the far east, reinforced by the mellow tawny color of her complexion. She clicked over to them in her heeled boots, offering up a coy red-painted smile, the sole spot of color in an otherwise black, white and silver ensemble that reflected her apparent heritage while also changing it to reflect the fashions of modern London. Flowing silk was in abundance, but the lace at the high collar and the cut of the sleeves was very English, even if the embroidery most emphatically was not.
There was an enviable grace to her motions; she crossed the room as though she floated, sliding into the booth seat next to Mr. Ramsey and placing a hand very familiarly on his shoulder. Neither he nor Miss Blythe even so much as blinked when the woman pressed her lips briefly to his cheek before settling next to him. “Mr. Kerberos. It's been so long. I was beginning to think you'd abandoned us altogether." Her voice sat lower than her appearance suggested, in the upper tenor register, smooth and silky itself.
Mr. Ramsey, lifted an eyebrow, heedless of the faint red mark on his face. "Liang. You look well."
"Hello, Miss Wu," Miss Blythe added, flashing a smile now that she'd paused in her consumption of the sweets in front of them.
The Red Moon's mistress returned it with genuine warmth. “Sparrow. What a pleasure to see you again. You've not changed a bit, I see."
Miss Blythe shook her head. "Actually, I've changed a lot. I'm learning so much more now!"
Miss Wu only wore a soft smile. After a moment, her eyes slid to Amelia. “Good evening, Miss. You arrive in the very best of company, but we've not met. I daresay I'd remember having entertained a noblewoman in my humble establishment."
Amelia allowed a small smile to cross her lips, and arched her brow. “It is my first appearance," she responded, allowing her smile to broaden. “Lily," she finally answered, shifting her head in a proper position, though not to seem as if she were looking down on anyone. Grace and beauty should always be met with the same, or so she was taught. “I am called Lily, if it pleases you," she continued. It was a name coined by her father given her proclivity to the flower of the same name. She'd always adored the lily flower, and she often smelled of them. Her father supposed it had to do with how much time she spent around them, but Amelia didn't mind. It was one of her favorite scents, one that she would give anything to smell at the moment.
“Liang Wu," the owner replied, inclining her head with a swanlike motion. “You're welcome to just call me Liang, if you like. We're not so stuffy here as people can be in other places." The subtle curve of her smile suggested that she knew Amelia spent a lot of time in such 'stuffy' places.
She returned her attention to Mr. Ramsey, then, arching one fine, dark eyebrow at him. “As delighted as I always am to see you, dear Kerberos, I'm afraid I've no inkling why you might be here this time. Have you finally come around to the aesthetic appreciation of the show?" Her tone suggested she didn't quite believe that, dripping with a certain kind of wry amusement.
"I'm here about a customer," he replied flatly. He didn't seem to mind the way she shifted closer, tilting her head perhaps to better hear him. It did seem like the kind of conversation to have at low volume. "A young woman. She would have come in regularly with a man, but they both split up in quite short order, you understand? They might have asked for introductions at some point, to some of your flock."
Liang's eyebrows lifted; she pursed her lips. “You know very well I don't run that kind of establishment," she said, sounding almost offended by the suggestion.
He shook his head quickly. "No you don't. But you do run one where certain sorts of people get to feel safer in being themselves than they usually do, don't you? And if the meeting request came from a good person, for a good reason, and you sensed that good could come of it, you'd facilitate." He sounded absolutely certain of it.
Liang sighed. “Yes, I would." Her eyes dropped briefly to the table. “I think I know the pair you're referring to. They're close. Protective of each other. Good sorts. Why do you ask?"
Amelia wasn't sure if she should have been the one to answer that question. She'd promised that she wouldn't interrupt Mr. Ramsey's investigation, however; she was just answering a question, not asking one. She took in a slow, quiet breath before thinking over how to best answer. Should she state that Jane had been murdered? If someone here was the perpetrator, she could, inadvertently, tip them off. She had no intentions of doing that. The other option was being subtle about it, however; the results could be the same if someone found out Jane's murder was being investigated.
“Something has befallen one of them," she decided to say. It was, she supposed, ambiguous, but Miss Wu seemed like a lady of intellect; surely she'd be able to read between the lines of a statement like that.
She frowned at that, glancing at Mr. Ramsey for confirmation. He nodded. "The woman. There was evidence that was meant to point back to you, I believe. Someone carved 'fùchóu' into her back. The characters were accurate, though not neat."
Miss Wu's lips parted, a look of alarm contorting her features. “That's horrific! The poor girl—what can I do to help?"
"Someone's targeting your most vulnerable customers, Liang. And they seem to be doing it with the intention of setting you up. Are there any standouts in your list of enemies? Anyone who might resort to these methods?"
Her mouth pinched, a furrow appearing between her brows. “There are many hateful fools who'd think little of killing people who are different, I'm sure." Her voice cracked softly with emotion, but she maintained her composure otherwise. “No one causes a fuss in here anymore, but there are awful people who sometimes loiter outside, harassing my patrons or the performers. But I couldn't tell you who among them would—would do something like this."
"Then we'll take the whole list," Ramsey replied.
Miss Wu nodded slightly. “Of course. It will take me a while to get all the names. I'll ask my flock if anyone's been especially pushy lately. Maybe one of them would have seen something. But Kerberos... if she was hurt by someone she'd gone with... you know we'd be looking for a woman."
He nodded. "I think it was probably a team, actually. One to lure, one to kill. The killer was almost certainly a man, but they may have disposed of the body together. Not something a woman could do by herself, I think."
Miss Wu hummed, then rose gracefully, her fingers brushing briefly against Mr. Ramsey's shoulder. “I understand. I'll have the list for you by tomorrow. All of you should feel free to stay as long as you like, of course. I'm sorry I could not remain to entertain you; please forgive my rudeness."
Amelia was slightly confused, but not because of the situation. She was confused about Jane, and what Mr. Ramsey had stated. She lifted a brow in his direction, and tilted her head in a slight angle. “She preferred the company of women?" she asked, furrowing her brows. How had she not known? Was Jane ashamed to tell her? She banished the thought from her mind, and sighed softly. Mr. Morton might have been correct, after all.
Miss Wu gave her a sympathetic smile. “Most of us are a little different here, Lily-love. It can be hard to share that with others, when our secrets are dangerous." With a last nod, she took her leave from the table.
“I would like to stay a moment longer," she stated, once Miss Wu left. She wanted to see more of this place, to know what Jane knew. Perhaps not to the same degree, but this was something her friend kept from her. It would also be a new experience for Amelia, and she wanted to know it.
"We can do that." Ramsey said it in the same neutral way he said everything, but for a moment, it was as if his expression was slightly... softer, somehow. It was gone as soon as it had appeared, like a shadow passing over his features. "If you have other questions about what we've learned so far, now would be a good time to ask them."
"So you're thinking that Miss Chatham came here to meet women... and Mr. Morton came here to meet men?" Miss Blythe didn't seem to find anything strange or unusual about this at all, but even she had a sense of the fragility of the information, from the gentle tone of her voice.
He lifted a teacake in his fingers, dipping his chin just briefly before he took a bite.
Miss Blythe hummed. "Then there were bound to be times when she was alone. It's hard to know what happened then." She pursed her lips, considering the problem.
Amelia glanced to her left, watching as the patrons of the establishment busied about and laughed. Some were having conversations with one another, and some were simply staring at the singer. It had a bit of charm to it, she would admit, but she couldn't find it in herself to enjoy it. Someone here murdered Jane, and were trying to frame Miss Wu, or at least that's what she picked up from the conversation.
“There is only so much one can do alone, Miss Blythe. Conversation is one of those things, but hardly anyone enjoys conversation to activity," she stated, sliding her attention back to Miss Blythe. Amelia may have been young, she may have been an aristocrat, but she wasn't exactly naïve. The benefits of being a curious child, she supposed.
"Oh. No, I meant that it would be difficult to know for sure who she was with, or for anyone to keep an eye on her. So her killer would have had opportunities to go unseen." Miss Blythe didn't seem to have quite the same understanding of the implications, but she'd said something sensible nevertheless.
“Why would anyone wish to frame Miss Wu, though? Her establishment appears sensible and it doesn't appear that anyone among them has any ill-intentions towards anyone else." That was the atmosphere she could read, at least. Why would anyone want to harm someone who wasn't harming anyone else?
Mr. Ramsey swallowed, then scowled outright. "There could be any number of reasons. Rival businesses looking to sully her reputation. Church agents convinced that she promotes sin." From the emphasis he placed on the last word, he found such arguments unconvincing to say the least. "Nationalists who have a problem with a foreigner doing so well in London. Or former customers she's previously banned from her premises, seeking revenge."
Miss Blythe perked up at the last. "What about our case? That time you managed to get those Syndicate people to leave by finding evidence of their money laundering? They could think she betrayed them."
He hummed a short note. "It's possible some agent of theirs is responsible, but I think it unlikely. Most of them are still in prison."
“They could still have agents on the streets if they communicate with each other," she stated, though she frowned slightly to herself. That would prove more difficult, and she doubted that, whatever grievances they had towards Miss Wu, they would not amount to the trouble of sending letters or having visitors. She pursed her lips slightly together at one of his statements.
“The Church would go to such lengths?" she questioned. Part of her did not doubt it, considering that she and her father attended regularly. Even times when it wasn't necessary, though she'd managed to get out of those attendances. But to go so far as to murder someone? Wasn't that, in itself, a sin?
Ramsey snorted. "Of course they would. No organization retains that much power worldwide without enough dirty secrets to make Liang blush." He shook his head, taking up one of the small glasses that had been deposited with their sweets and knocking it back in a single swallow. The amber color of it was not entirely different from her father's whiskey.
The performance onstage shifted to a much more energetic number, several members of the Red Moon dancing in colorful silk and improbably-high shoes, to a jaunty piano tune. The audience's volume increased accordingly, the crowd really beginning to integrate into the show. Some of the performers even left the stage and danced around the tables on the floor instead, abundant laughter and cheers breaking into the song itself. For all it seemed like sensory overload, most everyone seemed to be abundantly joyful, an almost-celebratory mood infecting the club.
“I suppose that explains my reluctance to attend," she stated, sitting back in her seat with a little more slack in her posture. It wasn't often she did so, but the atmosphere in the Red Moon was becoming a little lively. It was enjoyable, to say the least. She pursed her lips together, though. “If it has that much power, how do you go about convicting them? Wouldn't it be difficult even if the murder itself could be pinned on them?" she asked. If it turned out it was the Church who murdered Jane, wouldn't they deny the connection and say their agent was working on their own? A rogue?
She shook the thoughts from her head. They still needed more information before they could even suspect a person, let alone an organization. “I assume we would need more information, though," she voiced it out loud. She lifted her gaze back to her companions and offered a short smile. “I... thank you for allowing me to come," she spoke. “I've learned many things, because of it." It wasn't anything that would prove useful for the case, she supposed, but Mr. Ramsey and Miss Blythe might have learned something. They were the investigators for a reason, and she was not.
"We don't concern ourselves with that. With bringing down the entire structure. Not everyone in the church would have endorsed this, if any of them were responsible in the first place. It doesn't matter what they say—only that whoever committed the murder is caught."
He at least certainly didn't seem to believe he'd wasted his time in coming here. Perhaps he'd learned something useful after all.
For now, it seemed they'd be waiting for Miss Wu to conjure her list of suspects.