A.N: Okay, I've gone back and put spaces between the paragraphs in the first chapter to make it neater and easier to read… and now I'm starting (drum roll) chapter number two! YAY! Also, if anyone knows how to make bold and italics work after you upload… please tell me! (I'm uploading each chapter as a .doc from Microsoft word.)
Disclaimer: "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen" and all material therein, is originally owned by Alan Moore and Kevin O'Neil. The movie rights belong to 20th Century Fox. No infringement is intended.
Shoutouts:
queerquail: Thank you SO much! You're my first EVER REVIEWER! Receiving a positive first review has put loads of confidence in me! I was really worried that it would be total crp! Thanks for the paragraph idea, I've done it before in English work and stuff, but I wasn't sure if I should this time. But you're right… it does look better!
Chapter Two: What to do?
The two guards stood slowly and looked at each other.
"Dillon, what now?" Dillon shrugged. Although they had received some training in what to do in a situation such as this, it hadn't been detailed… how often does a dying man wander into the British Museum?
"I suppose we ought to tell someone…" He broke off as he noticed that one of the dead man's hands was clutching at something under his coat. Kneeling down, Dillon moved aside the wet material and pulled the hand out of the breast pocket that it was nestled in.
"What's that then?" His companion joined him on the floor.
"Well I don't know, do I?" Dillon tired unsuccessfully to pry the fingers out of their death grip to no avail. "Here David, you hold his arm steady and I'll try and pull this out." It took them almost a half hour to pry open the stiffening fingers to reveal what was nestled inside.
Both stood and looked at their hands. Somehow they'd managed to cover themselves in his blood. They eyed the body uneasily, wondering what on Earth could have happened to him at this time of the night. There was a long, ragged gash in his side, from which blood still seeped slowly to join the growing puddle of it on the floor. Dillon looked down at envelope he now held in his hand.
It can't hurt… can it?
He began to tear at the seal, trying carefully not to rip the precious message inside.
"Should you be doing that?"
Dillon paused. "My guess is that he died trying to protect this message. In my opinion it's our duty to at least open it and see who it's for." He continued to work at the seal, stopping every now and then to check he wasn't harming the information inside. David hovered over him, watching him carefully.
"And just what do you think you're doing?" Both guards spun around. Standing in the door was Charles Pinchbeck, curator of the museum. His thinning dark brown hair was slightly ruffled, and he wore a maroon robe over his pyjamas. The two of them began to stutter, randomly pointing at the door and at the body that now lay in a pool of blood which was slowly blossoming out across the marbled floor. Pinchbeck eyed them suspiciously.
"It wasn't us sir! He started pounding on the door and we opened it. H-he fell in and started screaming out bloody murder, t-then he just ups and dies right in front of us!" Dillon nodded his head up and down quickly in agreement.
"You mean to tell me that a mortally wounded man managed to stagger up all those steps, slam his fist against the door and then start screaming?"
The two looked at each other and then at Pinchbeck. "Yes sir." Not even they sounded convinced.
"I know it sounds mad, sir, but I think he was being chased."
"Chased?" Pinchbeck stepped forward slightly, as if interested. "Chased by whom?"
"I don't know, sir. I stepped outside for just a minute, and I saw something in the street. I… I don't think it was a human, sir. It looked more like a great dog… only it was crouched down like a cat." He avoided his superior's eyes. "I didn't really get a good look at it, sir."
"Was he carrying anything? Did he say anything to you? Tell me!" Pinchbeck's slight form advanced towards them, almost menacingly. "It is of the utmost importance that you tell me!" He voice began to rise.
The guards retreated a few steps before the advancing figure. "Y-yes, sir. This." Dillon held out the half-opened envelope in a shaking hand. Pinchbeck snatched it away and concealed it in a pocket inside his robe.
"Was this all? He didn't try and say anything?"
The guards shook their heads.
"And he came alone?"
This time they nodded.
"Very well. I'd very much appreciate it if you didn't mention all of this to anyone. I wouldn't like to have to relieve you of your current jobs because you couldn't obey an order from your employer. And we all know how difficult it is to find a well-paying job in London now…" Both men immediately paled.
"We won't, sir. We promise don't we?" David nudged Dillon sharply who again began to nod dumbly, his mouth opening and closing like a fish's.
"Thank you." He turned to leave.
"Umm, sir?" David ventured to ask one last thing. "What do we do with…" he gestured to the body on the floor, avoiding looking at it directly.
"Oh. I'll send someone along presently to take care of it." He said it almost off-handily. "Your shifts are nearly over aren't they?" They nodded. "Good. Once it has been removed you may go home early. I don't think we'll have anymore disturbances tonight."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
Pinchbeck left the room, making a mental note to place higher security on the front doors and headed off into the sleeping quarters of the museum. David and Dillon looked at each other and sighed in relief, chuckling slightly. Pinchbeck could be intimidating for so small a man. No doubt what was running through both of their minds was how he could react with such calm before a dead body… there was no way the old curator with the small, pointed nose and thick spectacles ever could have come into contact with anything so much as a dead door-mouse… was there?
Pinchbeck scurried through the darkened halls of the British museum using the sporadic flashes of lightning to guide him, all the time muttering nervously under his breath. He came to a small wooden door which was guarded by two more sentries. Seeing who it was, and the anxious expression on his face, they immediately stood aside and let him pass.
Inside, Pinchbeck turned up the gas on the wall light to avoid tripping over the furniture that decorated the small living room. The warm glow cast light on the coffee table and sofas in the centre, and reflected dimly off of the polished oak desk, on top of which sat a gramophone, the flower-like speaker giving off a golden flush from the light source. The dark red fabric on the walls reminded him of the blood that he'd seen pooling around that body, the blood that was already beginning to dry on the envelope… and his fingertips. No time to think of that now.
Carefully picking his way around any obstacles, he walked over to another door, this one hidden behind a tapestry. He pulled the heavy decoration out of the way and knocked quietly. No response. He knocked again, this time more insistent. Still nothing, he continued knocking, the taps becoming louder and more frantic until he heard someone inside stirring and mumble a gruff "come in".
He twisted the door handle, and pushed. "Close the door behind you man! It's the middle of November for God's sake! Keep the heat in!" Pinchbeck did as asked before he walked over to the bed on which Amos Burrows lay.
"Sir?"
"Yes? Who is it?" Burrows pulled his bulky form up sluggishly into a sitting position and began to grope for his glasses on his bedside table.
"Pinchbeck, sir."
"Pinchbeck? Christ, man, what are doing waking me up at this ungodly hour? What time is it?" He turned and looked up at the clock that sat above his mantelpiece. "Three in the morning?" He indignantly answered his own question.
"I'm sorry, sir, but this just came in." He held out the envelope. "I think that the team may have been trying to contact us."
"The team?" Burrows now stood and took the envelope; all signs of sleep had vanished from his demeanour, and his voice took on a deeper tone. He finished breaking the seal and carefully pulled out the note. Moving closer to the fire, he began to read quietly to himself.
Pinchbeck watched him. If this was what they had been expecting, then drastic measures would have to be taken, and they would have to be taken soon.
Burrows paled considerably, his face told the whole story. He touched a hand to his head and staggered backwards onto the bed.
"God, Pinchbeck. It's worse than we'd anticipated." He handed the smudged and stained note to the curator, who immediately read through the few scribbled lines. He sat down on a seat in front of the fire, feeling panic bubbling up from somewhere inside him.
"I want every single member of the board in this building by nine 'o' clock today. We must discuss this."
"Y-yes, sir." Pinchbeck was still trying to recover from the shock. It couldn't be… they hadn't let him get that far… had they? That was impossible; they'd had a team on him for almost a year now… monitoring his every move… Through the haze of his panicked thoughts, he heard someone calling to him.
"Pinchbeck! Man, snap out of it!" Burrows was now standing and shaking his left shoulder roughly with one hand. "You must stay focused! I don't trust any of those young, impetuous whelps with your job… If you turned catatonic I don't know what the British Empire would do…" He smiled in spite of his own worried thoughts. "Get to it."
Pinchbeck took that as a signal to leave and he stood. "Thank you, sir." He handed back the note. "I'll arrange everything." Determination pierced through his fear. He bade Burrows a good night and left, shutting the door securely behind him.
Burrows walked over to his desk. Pulling out a pen and paper, he began to make notes. The board would not agree with him readily. He would have to win them over, and quickly at that… there was little time to spare.
A.N: Allright, I'd originally planned to go further in this chapter, but I think it's pretty long already. I'll leave you with this for now and get started on the next! Please review! (You know you want to…!)