Day Four

Day four.

It has been a while, has it not? 

Anyhow, allow me to enlighten you on the days passed. Various legal issues have arisen. M&P are trying to resolve them as we speak. It has come to my attention that the manager of Emerson Wall has died. Murdered, actually. It seems the young woman I spoke to when I first entered had a psychotic streak, and shot him with a pawned revolver as he slept.

A ghastly business on its own, but now there is a question of who can actually sell the building. With the manager (his name was Arnold Brilbee) gone at a relatively young age, he never wrote a will. Therefore, Emerson Wall should legally belong to the Emerson family, as they sold it to Mr. Brilbee in the first place. But they are all long dead.

Dreadful. What a tragic end for such a lovely fellow. 

I was sent to inspect Smith Castle, yesterday. I have no doubt that M&P would sooner tear it down than put any of their machines in it. At the time, I thought Mr. Pultham was the most vulgar man I had and ever would meet. At least he attempted to be Polite and seemed to genuinely like me. Mr. Berring gave me no such courtesy. I could tell he loathed me for no other reason than I was dressed well. This gave him the wrong impression that I was from an aristocratic life, and the excuse to treat me frightfully.

I am not ashamed to admit that his workhouse was by far the worst I have seen in my career. The entire building smelled of mould, rot, and various human by-products. The floors were made exclusively of rotting wood. This might have been bearable if it were not for the horrendously poor ventilation, heating the place to uncomfortable levels.

I left, saying to Mr. Berring, "We'll let you know." Which is a fancy way of saying, "We are not interested in your Hell Hole. Good day to to you, sir."

To my relief, the man in black has not returned to the pub. Taking the opportunity to find out about him, I approached the man I witnessed him talking to. Though, as I have said, I have never spoken to him, I am an observant fellow. I noticed that he was enjoying a stronger drink than usual.

"Good evening," I said, extending my hand. "I'm Marker. And, would it be to much trouble if I were to ask you a question?"

The man looked up at me. I could tell he was drunk. Slightly, but still drunk.

"No, not at all," he said, looking back down. He extended his hand to shake mine. "Yates is the name. I pray you won't ask me anything too queer, though."

"Thank you," I said. "I won't ask you anything strange, at least I hope. Would it be indecent of me to ask who that man was last night?"

He took a swig of his drink and laughed. "And why would you want to know that?"

"I had a run in with him," I said, deciding to tell him the whole story. "He knocked me over, and never helped me up, like a gentleman should. I should like to know who he is."

"Not very gentlemanly of you to be holding a grudge." he said, laughing again.

"I'm aware," I said. "But I also do not think bad deeds should go unpunished. And on the off-chance that it was merely and accident, and he somehow did not notice me, maybe we could become the best of friends, if only we could be acquainted." The man raised an eyebrow. "I was only joshing about that, of course." I added.

The man laughed once more, coughing up some of his drink. "You know why he didn't act like a gentleman? Because he's no gentleman."

"Pardon me?" I said.

"And I've already said too much. Do yourself a favour, and forget you ever saw him. Otherwise, he might come after you next, and "question" you." He raised two fingers, forming air quotations.

"But-" I began.

"I've said too much!" he said, getting up from the table and walking out the door, slamming it behind him.

In conclusion, I do not know what to make of all this. Maybe it would be better to just forget about the incident. After all, I was not hurt. I have, however, drawn the scene. Maybe this will give some of you a laugh. At the time it was quite frustrating, but now I find it to be rather silly.

❦J.T. Marker