Merle's been gone for five weeks and Whitechapple's still a shithole.
Whitechapple's been a shithole for who knows how long. Never should've gotten on that damn boat in the first place. Go to England! Make your fortune! They love Americans there! Load of horseshit.
If Daryl knows one thing, it's how to shoot. If he knows two, it's how to find people who don't wanna be found. Word is Merle was last seen around with his favorite girl, which was news to Daryl until he realized the favorite girl was a whore. After that, it's easy to pick up the peices. Black Mary liked this tavern. Folks at the tavern remember her going with an American to this hotel. Folks at that hotel remember this. People over there remember that. Eventuall he finds her brothel.
People tell him not to go there, but he ignores them. He's got shit to do more important than bullshit rumors about an Indian queen. "Ain't gonna cow to no squaw," Daryl grumbles from his latest lead.
There's commotion going around the whorehouse when he gets there. People weaving in and out, some crying, others looking weary-eyed at the wall. Nobody's doing anything. Feels more like a funeral parlor than a brothel. Merle wouldn't have liked this. Something's wrong.
The barkeep comes over to shoo him away. "Closed for the day," he says, and Daryl nearly hisses at him. Everyone's an ass because of the bow slung over his shoulder, who'd have goddamn figured.
"Need to see Black Mary," Daryl says, ignoring the barkeep's words. He doesn't care if they're open. He's not here for whoring. But when they hear him say the whore's name, the girls nearest him at the bar just cry harder, and Daryl's an idiot, but he's not stupid. He can put two and two together.
He looks at the barkeep. "Black Mary's dead, ain't she."
The barkeep sighs, looking downright dejected. "Found her torn to shreds," he says, all sorrow. "Must be the Ripper."
Before now, Daryl'd thought it was a myth. It doesn't take much to murder whores in America; folks're just being prigs, here. Easily scared the second some fool takes out a knife. But Daryl'd be an idiot not to lend some credence to it now. And if there's any truth to it, Daryl really doesn't want to find Merle at the center of it. He bites his lip, trying to decide what to do next. Impertinence wins out in the end.
He smacks his hand on the bar. "Who's in charge here?"
If there's one thing to still a room - to still this room, in particular, it's those words. The snap of tension that goes from the irritation of interrupted grief to something tight strung. The barkeep that looks up to a woman at the far back of the room. Another woman that moves from another corner who looks as pleasant as the gun strapped to her back, and another man that does the same.
All of them are red decked - the red that marked rebellions. Here at least, no one pretended who was whose side. There was only one sure-fire way to make sure you weren't going to get shot this far into barricaded streets of Whitechapel.
It started with not being friends to the crown and especially not to the United India Company.
The second was not getting in the rebellion's way.
Which he seemed bent on doing, at present. Marching into this brothel, in particular, and making demands. Though it was not in a serious matter, looking for a dead woman - or as sneered by the people's business it was supposed to be to protect these women and men - one more dead whore? Good for nothing that got what she deserved. It's something she will hear in the back rooms she sneaks about in on her better nights out. Gutted like a fish, that was the real crime, no gentleman could be capable of such. They are insulted that it might ever be insinuated as one of them.
Little did they know.
But she knew - and she knew no one asked about what happened to whores. No one that didn't have something else going on. But as to what, she couldn't work out from here, from just his brusque, demanding words. He didn't look like the newspapers or one of Commissioner Doyle's Dragnet doing a mockery of an investigation. No, - an American is whispered into her ear, the one that's been asking questions. Came over a few weeks ago, him and his brother. It had been noticed, and none of her business until he apparently marched in here, since he didn't seem to be chasing his good for nothing brother.
No, no, there was something else going on with him at least.
Devi and Finley move towards him and she lifts a hand from the table she is sat at, curls it in as a gesture. No, no, bring him here. The gold that glints like animal's watching eyes in the candle-lit dark of the room as her head turns to speak to the man at her side again. Waves her finger for him to clear the somewhat sensitive information off of the table and from his gaze.
It's then, she stands, hands planted on the low table in front of her. An exaggerated tired gesture as she leans forward, sure of her movements, and of what she is - not a queen in a brothel, but the worst thing in the room. Voice rises and falls in a clear cut sound that makes everyone else in the room fall silent. "She was found in two pieces this morning with her gut strung up as decoration for the first person to find her."
Devi makes herself apparent more directly. The threat she always was and never needed to exaggerate. The gun in its holster but a hand that grips it. This is their territory. The way that this far into the underworld, gangs divided up territory, this was clearly theirs. "You asked for me? But then, you've been asking a great deal of questions of late."
So he's lead over to a shadowed part of the room and a woman sitting there like she's holding court. He can tell right away she's no whore. Might be the madame of the place, judging from how she's sitting. Definitely someone to watch, considering how everybody's looking at her like she hung the stars.
Daryl sits on the chair opposite her, some flashy piece of shit that's slowly falling apart. Like most of the shit in Whitechappel, it probably used to be something once, but sure as shit ain't anymore.
From living a life with Merle, Daryl knows how to negotiate with someone who thinks you're a piece of shit. You have to, if you're going to carry a stolen crossbow through the shittiest neighborhood in London. He hunches his shoulders, terminally unimpressed by whatever bravado this lady is cooking up. You just gotta not care about questions and prying eyes, which Daryl doesn't. It's more important to make your point, and make it fast and clean.
He wouldn't know - an American. The men in this room have shed blood to make sure his people never knew this hell that they all live in. They laugh because of course they do.
"We know who killed her. Every man, woman and child knows who killed her." She sits down again. Devi comes closer then, striding up to stand at her left side, standing there with a scowl on her face like she usually did. The other side, the barkeep comes up, a bottle in hand and two glasses. Wine, good as can be afforded, but she had never had expensive taste.
They're poured out and she takes the one for her up. Drinks first, at least so he knows it's not poisoned. Not that he has a reason to know that it's meaningless. "But it seems you've lost your brother. That is why you're here, isn't it?"
Daryl isn't thrilled at being laughed at, but it's not really life or death. It'd drive Merle crazy, but Merle ain't here, so it's nothing to scream over. He shrugs it off and keeps going. All you can do, in this place and places like it. Don't let nothing stick to you.
"Why ain't you stopped the prick?" He takes a stiff drink of the wine. Not to his taste, but nobody makes the right moonshine here. "Reckoned we could trade. I can find him, you cough up what you know about my brother."
Now she laughs. Head back, taking a mouthful of wine and settling her back against the chair. "If you have a plan to kill the esteemed Lord Hastings, then by all means. Share it with us, we have only been trying for months. I've only been waging war with him for years."
She doesn't hold herself like a Queen, rather she holds herself like a soldier - as easy as one of the others around the room. If not for the cold - the far too educated way she speaks. "But I'll give you what you want to know about your brother, in exchange for your help."
Daryl glowers, rolling his eyes just slightly. So this is the Indian queen, huh? Daryl isn't too impressed. Still, it's basically what he asked for in the first place. Daryl extends his hand.
She looks at him, looks at him carefully. It's not a secret, not down here at least. Her name was carefully murmured and passed along, and anyone saying it, did so with care if they wanted to keep their head. Else, they were brave and brash. Much like his brother.
"Deal." She leans forward, grasping his hand firm. No noble woman's hand, soft and untouched. Calloused and marred with a starburst of sword's mans scars across her knuckles where they are just showing underneath her leather braces. She grips and tightly to his hand the way she does a weapon.
Settles herself back down, a leg hooking over the other to brace ankle to knee - relaxed so far as she never is. "A man, an American, came here not two nights ago, with Black Mary. I know, because he knocked out two of my men before I pulled him off them. Seemed surprised I was stronger than he was." Surprised was one word for it. Devi bristles and hisses something in Hindi, that says about the impression he left. "So surprised, he struggled to come up with another way of calling me whore once I threw him out onto the street. Elected to spit at me, then. Sound like your brother?"
Daryl, a natural stickler for patterns and details, catches the roughness on her hand first. Yes, he's some kind of queen, but that's not a real title. Maybe she cares for titles as little as he does. What matters is: she does things.
Good. He hasn't signed on with a complete idiot.
"Nah," Daryl says with a keen eye. "He would'a been more creative." Merle's never been at a loss for words... well. Not if he was sober. But it's all empty chitchat as far as he's concerned. It's a lead, even if it's not a very good one.
(The reality of it is, if Merle doesn't want to be found, he won't be, and Daryl needs something to do in the meanwhile.)
She stands, waving him to follow her. To the stairs at the back of the room - normally, this place would be more rambunctious. The sound of working girls and their fake pretty laughter. The bawdy gaffs of men at dancers and the badly tuned piano playing songs - and much to Devi's horror, she had learned the words of the filthiest ones or scratch of the two records that they owned playing in the corner.
But tonight the room is still with the hitch of tears. The drink that is in everyone's hands. The consolation to those left.
She's far too good at that, now.
Lakshmi tips back her head, drinks the rest of the wine in a mouthful and turns to Devi as she works. Their words are a rise and fall in Hindi, brief instructions - to secure the perimeter, increase the guards sweeping, the same work and Devi bows, the stiff words of 'yes, my queen' as the look she gives Daryl is nothing less than disdainful.
Unforgiving, that one.
But with it said, Lakshmi walks up the stairs, past the doors of the private rooms. To the one at the end. Hers, and just marginally bigger than the others as she opens it. Behind them, Finley takes up guard by the door when she shuts it. "Forgive all the secrecy, my name is not something spoken outside of this place."
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u kno
no subject
All of them are red decked - the red that marked rebellions. Here at least, no one pretended who was whose side. There was only one sure-fire way to make sure you weren't going to get shot this far into barricaded streets of Whitechapel.
It started with not being friends to the crown and especially not to the United India Company.
The second was not getting in the rebellion's way.
Which he seemed bent on doing, at present. Marching into this brothel, in particular, and making demands. Though it was not in a serious matter, looking for a dead woman - or as sneered by the people's business it was supposed to be to protect these women and men - one more dead whore? Good for nothing that got what she deserved. It's something she will hear in the back rooms she sneaks about in on her better nights out. Gutted like a fish, that was the real crime, no gentleman could be capable of such. They are insulted that it might ever be insinuated as one of them.
Little did they know.
But she knew - and she knew no one asked about what happened to whores. No one that didn't have something else going on. But as to what, she couldn't work out from here, from just his brusque, demanding words. He didn't look like the newspapers or one of Commissioner Doyle's Dragnet doing a mockery of an investigation. No, - an American is whispered into her ear, the one that's been asking questions. Came over a few weeks ago, him and his brother. It had been noticed, and none of her business until he apparently marched in here, since he didn't seem to be chasing his good for nothing brother.
No, no, there was something else going on with him at least.
Devi and Finley move towards him and she lifts a hand from the table she is sat at, curls it in as a gesture. No, no, bring him here. The gold that glints like animal's watching eyes in the candle-lit dark of the room as her head turns to speak to the man at her side again. Waves her finger for him to clear the somewhat sensitive information off of the table and from his gaze.
It's then, she stands, hands planted on the low table in front of her. An exaggerated tired gesture as she leans forward, sure of her movements, and of what she is - not a queen in a brothel, but the worst thing in the room. Voice rises and falls in a clear cut sound that makes everyone else in the room fall silent. "She was found in two pieces this morning with her gut strung up as decoration for the first person to find her."
Devi makes herself apparent more directly. The threat she always was and never needed to exaggerate. The gun in its holster but a hand that grips it. This is their territory. The way that this far into the underworld, gangs divided up territory, this was clearly theirs. "You asked for me? But then, you've been asking a great deal of questions of late."
no subject
Daryl sits on the chair opposite her, some flashy piece of shit that's slowly falling apart. Like most of the shit in Whitechappel, it probably used to be something once, but sure as shit ain't anymore.
From living a life with Merle, Daryl knows how to negotiate with someone who thinks you're a piece of shit. You have to, if you're going to carry a stolen crossbow through the shittiest neighborhood in London. He hunches his shoulders, terminally unimpressed by whatever bravado this lady is cooking up. You just gotta not care about questions and prying eyes, which Daryl doesn't. It's more important to make your point, and make it fast and clean.
So he does. "You wanna find who killed her?"
no subject
"We know who killed her. Every man, woman and child knows who killed her." She sits down again. Devi comes closer then, striding up to stand at her left side, standing there with a scowl on her face like she usually did. The other side, the barkeep comes up, a bottle in hand and two glasses. Wine, good as can be afforded, but she had never had expensive taste.
They're poured out and she takes the one for her up. Drinks first, at least so he knows it's not poisoned. Not that he has a reason to know that it's meaningless. "But it seems you've lost your brother. That is why you're here, isn't it?"
no subject
"Why ain't you stopped the prick?" He takes a stiff drink of the wine. Not to his taste, but nobody makes the right moonshine here. "Reckoned we could trade. I can find him, you cough up what you know about my brother."
no subject
She doesn't hold herself like a Queen, rather she holds herself like a soldier - as easy as one of the others around the room. If not for the cold - the far too educated way she speaks. "But I'll give you what you want to know about your brother, in exchange for your help."
no subject
"It's a deal, your majesty."
no subject
"Deal." She leans forward, grasping his hand firm. No noble woman's hand, soft and untouched. Calloused and marred with a starburst of sword's mans scars across her knuckles where they are just showing underneath her leather braces. She grips and tightly to his hand the way she does a weapon.
Settles herself back down, a leg hooking over the other to brace ankle to knee - relaxed so far as she never is. "A man, an American, came here not two nights ago, with Black Mary. I know, because he knocked out two of my men before I pulled him off them. Seemed surprised I was stronger than he was." Surprised was one word for it. Devi bristles and hisses something in Hindi, that says about the impression he left. "So surprised, he struggled to come up with another way of calling me whore once I threw him out onto the street. Elected to spit at me, then. Sound like your brother?"
no subject
Good. He hasn't signed on with a complete idiot.
"Nah," Daryl says with a keen eye. "He would'a been more creative." Merle's never been at a loss for words... well. Not if he was sober. But it's all empty chitchat as far as he's concerned. It's a lead, even if it's not a very good one.
(The reality of it is, if Merle doesn't want to be found, he won't be, and Daryl needs something to do in the meanwhile.)
"Tell me about your murderer."
no subject
She stands, waving him to follow her. To the stairs at the back of the room - normally, this place would be more rambunctious. The sound of working girls and their fake pretty laughter. The bawdy gaffs of men at dancers and the badly tuned piano playing songs - and much to Devi's horror, she had learned the words of the filthiest ones or scratch of the two records that they owned playing in the corner.
But tonight the room is still with the hitch of tears. The drink that is in everyone's hands. The consolation to those left.
She's far too good at that, now.
Lakshmi tips back her head, drinks the rest of the wine in a mouthful and turns to Devi as she works. Their words are a rise and fall in Hindi, brief instructions - to secure the perimeter, increase the guards sweeping, the same work and Devi bows, the stiff words of 'yes, my queen' as the look she gives Daryl is nothing less than disdainful.
Unforgiving, that one.
But with it said, Lakshmi walks up the stairs, past the doors of the private rooms. To the one at the end. Hers, and just marginally bigger than the others as she opens it. Behind them, Finley takes up guard by the door when she shuts it. "Forgive all the secrecy, my name is not something spoken outside of this place."