Back to the Old Routine

It has been over a month since my last post. Let me apologise for this. My life has become lively, now that good old M&P is sending me to inspect workhouses again. It feels good to be contributing to society in such a way. Unemployment will not be as much of a problem when my job is done, as each workhouse has the capacity to support a great number of people. 

The following are workhouses I have inspected. To be brief, I have broken them down their details into a simple system. Date of Inspection, Name, Size, Workability, Ventilation, Attitude of Manger, Quality, and Final Verdict. 

Date of Inspection: Feb 16

Name: Plinners Home For Those In Need Of Work.

Size: Medium, with a comparatively large courtyard.

Workability: Reasonable space and layout. Several walls might need to be taken down or modified.

Ventilation: Not bad. It could be better, but a logical investment might be widening the windows in the main work area.

Attitude of Manager: Pleasant, but ignorant of the outside world. He seems to think that Tony Blair is still Prime Minister. M&P might consider putting someone in to help him run the place.

Final Verdict: Yea.

Date of Inspection: Feb 20

Name: Mullwin Towers.

Size: Large exterior, cramped interior.

Workability: See above. Loading bearing walls would need to be moved for the sake of machinery.

Ventilation: Next to none. I could smell more human by-products than is healthy, and most light was from incandescent bulbs.

Attitude of Manager: Flamboyant, pompous, and overall a lot of fun to speak to.

Final Verdict: Nay.

Date of Inspection: Feb 25

Name: Jack Hall.

Size: Massive to the point that it is hard to navigate.

Workability: Given a map and a horse, or a bicycle, it would be the most efficient workhouse in the whole of the Empire.

Ventilation: So much so that it is freezing cold and wet.

Attitude of Manager: Unavailable. The head governess showed all the friendliness of an electric eel.

Final Verdict: Yea.

Date of Inspection: Feb 28

Name: Marshal & Jim.

Size: Medium. 

Workability: Efficient. Nothing is too far from anything, and it was easy to navigate.

Ventilation: Stuffy, but not particularly uncomfortable. Not much would need to be done to improve it.

Attitude of Manager: Unavailable. His secretary seemed to be interested in me on an uncomfortably intimate level. Have her replaced. 

Final Verdict: Yea.

Date of Inspection: Mar 1

Name: Seeder House.

Size: Small and cramped.

Workability: None.

Ventilation: None.

Attitude of Manager: Satan.

Final Verdict: Nay.

Date of Inspection: Mar 4

Name: Coalburn House.

Size: Medium.

Workability: Reasonable, but could use some improvement. The bathrooms are far too close to the dining hall. The intent is usually to keep them close, so if a worker is to ingest something disgusting, the loo is well within reach. Paradoxically, this is the very reason some workers may have to use the loo in the first place. 

Ventilation: Quite terrible. Improvements would have to be made before the place is suited for the needs of M&P.

Attitude of Manager: Better than some, I must say.

Final Verdict: Yea.

Date of Inspection: Mar 8

Name: The Pulpit.

Size: Small.

Workability: Good. Everything fits together like clockwork. Next to nothing would need to be done to adapt it. 

Ventilation: Quite good. The windows seem to be specifically designed for what I'm looking for.

Attitude of Manager: Pleasant and warm. Never in my life have I met someone who seems to have opened a workhouse for the one purpose of improving the lives of their fellow men.

Final Verdict: Yea.

Date of Inspection: Mar 13

Name: The Uncle.

Size: Large and drafty.

Workability: A little less room would be desirable. Also, a ceiling that does not threaten collapse at any given moment.

Ventilation: Far too much.

Attitude of Manager: He seems to think his workhouse is the best there is. I didn't have the heart to tell him he was right, I told him he was wrong. He told me he was right. The rest is better left to the imagination. 

Final Verdict: Nay.

Date of Inspection: Mar 16

Name: Josiah's Maximum Fun Room.

Size: ... Honestly, I don't know what to answer. It seemed almost variable.

Workability: If building automata was a children's game, this would not be the way I played the game with my children.

Ventilation: None.

Attitude of Manager: Insane, and dangerous to society.

Final Verdict: Nay.

And there you have it. I have been a busy man, haven't I? I am running out of workhouses to inspect, so we shall see how much longer this journal exists.

❦ J.T. Marker

Curious Happenings

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The affair is finally over. A long lost relative of the Brilbees was located in Spain, and it has been decided that the workhouse legally belongs to him. I admit, that the whole thing seemed almost comical, but I swear to God that one has never lived until they have seen a judge bury his face in his hands as the jury raises Hell over how none of them know how to speak Spanish. I could tell by the end of the hearing that everyone was satisfied that a resolution had been reached, though annoyed by the imminent language barrier they would face.

I paid my respects to the late Mr. Brilbee this afternoon, after the final hearing ended. I felt saddened by this, as I realised that I never really knew the man quite well. Such is life and death, though. One never has all the time to meet and become acquainted with all the people they want to.

Two unexpected things happened to me, Tonight. The first, happened when I entered the pub. I walked in as I always do, expecting nothing unusual. But without warning, quite suddenly, everyone stopped what they were doing to look at me. There was a moment of terrible silence, as if they were seeing something otherworldly in me. Paranoia has been running high since the shooting on my street, but I have been to the pub several times since that event. I knew not what might be the catalyst of this reaction.

I waited for any reaction, any at all. I simply did not feel comfortable sitting down as the eyes of the room were on me. Finally, sound began in one corner of the room: Clapping. In the same amount of time the room had taken to silence, it was suddenly filled with the joyous sound. The bartender (who I should mention, by the way, is named Jim,) hailed me over with a filled glass. 

The reason for this warm welcome? Apparently, word had gotten around that the 

"Brilbee Hearings" had finally come to an end. I have not read a paper in days, but the afternoon edition today had small announcement about it. And since these hearings had become famous around London for its tediousness, and I am a known frequenter of this particular pub, everyone decided that I deserved a round of applause for - as Jim put it - not blowing my brains out from boredom.

It was a strangely fitting end for the whole situation. I ate, drank, made merry, and generally forgot about the whole affair. It was also most refreshing, to say the least.

If only the day could have ended there, I would have been the happiest man in the British Empire. However, things took a strange turn after that. In fact, I am still uneasy about the whole thing, as it happened less than an hour ago. I will try to reconstruct the events to the best of abilities.

I left the pub. Everyone inside was wishing me a good night, and congratulating me on my "accomplishment". The night was cold, and I could see my breath in front of my face. I had barely stepped onto the sidewalk when suddenly, a man ran out from the alley opposite to me. I thought of it as nothing more than a vagrant, on the run from a constable. I decided that I had better not get involved, so I made for home.

Only, I was not fast enough. I felt a hand grasp my shoulder, and I turned around instinctively. I was greeted by the sight of Yates, the man who I had asked about the tall man. He looked panicked and flustered, and was not wearing a coat or vest. I guessed that he had left his home in a hurry.

"Marker! You have to help me!" he gasped, breathlessly. "I saw something I shouldn't have!"

"Slow down, my good man," I said, putting both of my hands on his shoulders. "First, let's get you into the pub. You need to warm up! What the Devil are you doing, dressed like that in this weather?"

"You bleeding fool!" he sputtered, shaking off my grip. "You don't understand; they're everywhere! I can't go in there!"

"What? Who?" I said, now becoming quite confused. "I can assure you that-"

"No, no, no! Get me to your home! Maybe they won't follow- Oh, Lord!"

Yates' expression changed from terrified and angry, to terrified and helpless. He looked passed me, to a point somewhere to my south. I turned to see what Yates saw. There, barely two metres from where I stood was the tall man. He carried an umbrella under his left arm, and in the light of the gas lamps, I could see his face clearer then I had before. It was that of an older man, grizzled and pale. Other details were still obscured by the low light, however. I heard the sound of shoes on pavement, and turned to see that Yates was running toward another alley.

"I say!" I called after him. "Where are you going?!"

I could tell that he had no intention of answering me. He ran like a man possessed. I turned back for an instant to see that the tall man had raised his free arm. He snapped his fingers, and I heard a sickening crack from behind me. I turned back to where Yates had been an instant before to see him sprawled across the sidewalk.

It took a moment to register that there was someone else standing above him. You can imagine the shock I felt when I realised that it was a man of similar height and dress to the one behind me. He also carried an umbrella, and from the position he held it in, like a cricket bat, I could tell that it must have been the weapon with which he had struck Yates.

Yates groaned, trying to get up. The man in the black coat grabbed him by the right shoulder, and hoisted him to his feet. Yates offered no resistance. I turned back to the first man, saying, "I say, what in God's name in going on here?"

"There is nothing to see, here," he responded in a deep, cold voice. "Return to your home."

"My good sir, I happen to know the man your friend has just struck," I persisted. "May I inquire as to why you must treat him in such a way. Has he done something of an illicit nature?"

"That is of no concern to you," he said. "Return to your home."

"I'm afraid that it is," I said, growing impatient. "What are you going to do with him?"

"Sir, you need not worry about your... friend," said a new voice. It was high and cold. I turned to see it was the second man. He was younger than the first, and had blonde hair that fell from under his top hat. "He is in safe hands. We will not harm him."

With that, the two men made off through the alley which Yates had ran out of when I first saw him. I was far from reassured by the tall man's words, but what could I do? I returned to my apartment, and tried to fathom what had just occurred. I was confused, and, quite frankly, scared out of my wits. Typing this has helped a great deal, but I still have no Godly idea of what I have witnessed.

Obviously, Yates did something to make the two men angry with him in some way. Perhaps they were members of a gang? Undercover police? Multiple theories came to me, but none made sense. 

Perhaps some of you have an idea of what might be going on? I know that next to no one reads my journal, but it would be appreciated if someone could help me understand this.

I'll work on getting rid of that warning on the top of the page.

❦ J.T. Marker

WARNING

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My God. I hate this. No, I don't hate this; I absolutely loathe it! I'm a real-estate agent, not a jury!

Perhaps I should explain: Since the murder of Mr. Brilbee, things have gone from bad to worse. Apparently, M&P have decided that I should attend each hearing related to the incident. Their reasoning behind this, I cannot fathom.

Every day, I wake up, have a cup of coffee, (though I prefer tea, must have coffee to wake me up faster) and go the courthouse. I sit and listen to men in powdered wigs read papers, argue, read more papers, argue some more, then call a recess. I grab a bite to eat, then go back. I have not payed any mind to half of what has been said, much like when a workhouse manager gives me the grand tour.

At the end of the day, I stop by the pub for a meal and a drink, then I go straight to bed. I can never be bothered to write anything about my day because of how dull it was.

Needless to say, as I have already said it: I loathe this greatly. I wish Mr. Brilbee had never died. He had much to live for, and I would not be in this situation.

Maybe when this damnable situation is over, I will entertain you with more posts of my adventures in real estate. For now, goodnight.

❦ J.T. Marker