Fall had come to pass, and was soon enough followed by the weary winter months so many spent huddled against the penetrating cold that seeped through whatever crevices it found amid the homes of Londoners. Yet with the seasons' passing came tragedy and terror: Jack the Ripper, the deaths of Lord West and his Indian mistress, the slaughter of several Japanese citizens, not to mention the usual criminal affairs of the underworld… The Yard, the Queen's Watchdog, and the vigilante had all been kept on their feet throughout the bulk of the holidays.
Naturally, there had been no end of work for the Undertaker as well. The frosts brought plenty to his shop already, but the stream of murders had left him no end of new and interesting guests. Still, there would be no reprieve just yet. Upon February's arrival came also the serial kidnappings of young children, and also a circus troupe with possible ties to the incidents. Only two days previously had Earl Phantomhive come barking for information about the children like the good dog he was for the Queen, and the night prior, another child had been whisked away and several policemen slain. The mortician was left to eagerly await the development of the case as the Little Lord sniffed about with his demon butler.
Under other circumstances he wouldn't have left his funeral parlor so early in the morning or for the sake of seeing the scene of the lawmen's demise when he knew, soon enough, they would be brought to him for burial. He knew of someone who would be there though: Someone who failed to keep to her own interests all in the name of her ideals. Though she was clever enough, it was more than likely that by the time she learned of the circus's connection to the abductions that the case would already be solved. Even were she to entangle with the Earl or the kidnappers—plunging herself into a fine mess she would be unable to escape—it was no concern of his. What did concern him was another matter she had been intruding upon.
With recent success, she had begun tracking the string of felonies of a certain individual who had become an excellent—as well as amusing—patron of his, and while the Viscount Druitt proved devious despite his ostentatious nature the woman's strongmindedness and ever improving skills were not to be taken lightly either. As of yet she had failed to catch more than middlemen, but Druitt sometimes made a poor habit of hunting down his victims personally. If the two were to cross paths, then either the nobleman would make a rare prize of the vigilante or he would lose a useful contributor to his own goals. The worst of risks though was the possible leaking of information regarding his experiments.
The time to field test his flesh puppets drew near. All that was lacking was the refining of minor details and solidifying of plans. A meddlesome creature that wouldn't hesitate to prevent his work, that neither fear nor desire could persuade otherwise, was unsatisfactory to those plans. However, he knew better than—and didn't wish—to toss her aside so readily, especially when her regular harlequinades proved to be so entertaining.
It was best to simply guide her attention elsewhere, and there was no shortage of depravity in a country with the indoctrination that all deserved, by God's will, the lot they were thrust in life. A false slip up, the drop of a hint—that's all it would take to provoke her boundless interest and send her scuttling off in pursuit of her next target.
A large shadow flew overhead from the surrounding rooftops, but only he amongst the city's early risers was able to witness its course and hear the subsequent clatter of footsteps against brick and mortar. A Grim Reaper, darting either to or from an assignment—though Undertaker assumed the latter given the direction in which they appeared. He wasn't all that far from the scene of the slaughter.
A warm, cerise, early morning glow began to merge with hues of cadmium as the sun made its ascent, and long shadows retreated from the dawn's wake. A substantial crowd—blocked by a trio of officers— had gathered before the alleyway in which the massacre had taken place, yet the sunrise aided him in quickly finding Nicole among the flock of curious eyes—her aurulent mane draping down the slope of her back in a lustrous display, though somewhat unkempt from a seemingly hurried attempt at grooming it. While others stared in fascinated horror at the tarped bodies that had yet to be carted away to the coroner and whispered amongst themselves, the young woman stared beyond them with an intense, scrutinizing gaze and combed the area for any minor detail that would aid in her own hunt for the culprits.
A hunt that would not see fruition: He was determined to ensure that. Smiling with devilish gaiety at the mischief the crossed his thoughts, the mortician weaved through drove of people with ghostly finesse to approach Nicole from behind. Fingers curled like spider limbs wrapped around the sloping paths of her shoulders, and he felt them rise in alarm as her muscles tensed. A sharp intake of breath echoed past her lips as her head jerked his way only for startled eyes to turn livid. "Undertaker?!" She attempted to break free of his hold of her. "What are you doing here?"
"Quietly, dearie: You don't want to invite curious looks, nor would I recommend you draw your blade at a time like this," he shushed with a low giggle. Even without looking, he knew her hand lingered against her sheathed weapon—an instinct honed by the ceaseless vigilance that was demanded of her. "I could ask you the very same," he then chortled in her ear. "There really isn't much need for you after the criminals have vanished. Strange that. I had imagined you to make every effort to have been there at the time of the scuffle." He took the time to smooth down a few wild locks of her hair before releasing her. Though his phrasing bore a measure of derision it was meant with no real substance of it. The dark circles that traced her eyes and the dulling of her usually keen senses were enough signs of her commitment in the matter, reflecting cold, anxious nights spent in wait on the streets for any hint of trouble.
"You understand all too well the reason for my absence. So long as certain parties meander about, I have little choice but to keep away." She didn't have to explain who those 'certain parties' were, but did add in a soft murmur as she turned her back to him once more, "Though I would have imagined them to have performed a bit better than they had with their numbers…"
"A nasty bunch, these culprits." He brought a finger to his lower lip, as though in deep musing. "Do tell, what have you learned so far? Surely there's something of interest for you to inspect the area so fiercely."
He poked her once in the cheek with his free hand in attempt to rile the quiet observations out of her, but only succeeded in getting it slapped away in irritation. Thus, he patiently left her a moment longer with her thoughts. It wasn't as though, at their distance, he could make out the full details of the locus spread before them in order to cure an already sated interest, and he wanted to assess her abilities by what she could gather from the paltry amount of clues.
"They used the rooftops," she eventually mused aloud. "A few shingles have fallen to the ground—too far from the chimneys for the sweeps to have knocked them loose and there was no wind last night to have done it either. Chances are that they used bladed weapons: I didn't see the bodies, but there are a few marks in the brick and on the ground, and what look like punctures in the mortar." She held one of her hands up to show him a pale, pink flower petal resting within her palm, running her thumb along its flat surface to reveal a white, grainy substance coating it. "They also used some sort of narcotic…"
"Not bad," he crooned with a low chuckle. "It seems those eyes of yours are as sharp as your tongue and quick as your temper. Would you care to make a little wager though, when the corpses are delivered into my care? You could be wrong about what killed the good constables."
"I'll not be tricked into playing that little game of yours again!" she snapped, pouting in indignation as her hand was drawn into a tight fist, crushing the petal within it. "You twisted the truth last time!"
"I believe it's called a technicality." He held his index finger before her face, mockingly chiding her and savoring her peeved expression. "You assumed that lad perished from a knife wound and I proved that he perished of blood loss: If he hadn't removed the knife himself before he could be brought to a doctor, he would've lived. No need to be a sour sport over it."
Before Nicole could get in the next word, a familiar figure to them both crossed through the barricade of officers and made a direct line for them. Hesitant to temper the well-known figure of authority, the mass of people subtly parted to make way for him. The silver-haired reaper took a single step and closed the distance behind the young woman, returning one hand to rest upon her shoulder and seemingly looming over her as the newcomer approached. All the while her feet remained firmly planted as they were, though her miffed glare switched to a much friendlier—if false—expression.
Ignoring his touch to look the Police Commissioner in the eyes, she greeted the latter courteously with a well-honed tongue, "Lord Randall, I'm pleased to see you're well at least. May prayers be with you and your men."
Nose crinkling, as though having caught the scent of a drunkard's bile left to ferment for hours at a pub's back door, the middle-aged man inspected them both behind the rims of his glasses. His brow twitched irksomely and he adjusted his top hat in provoked habit. Whatever he had been prepared to say to her were apparently silenced by the mortician's being there: He couldn't easily pull her away from the crowd to threaten her, interrogate her, or accuse her of some wrong while the Undertaker stood as a colleague at her side. Therefore, his response was delayed as he took a brief moment to consider his words carefully. "I believe I've said this once to you before, Miss Abott, but such a place as this is no place for a lady. A woman shouldn't expose herself to these grotesque matters—and I daresay you've witnessed enough wretched circumstances in your short time." He paused once more, gaze flicking over the street returning to meet hers as he then inquired, "You live nearby, don't you? Though, seeing you safe from harm, I'm assured you had no run in with the viscous lot involved in this."
The Undertaker hid a smirk behind the sleeve of his robes. As incompetent in their work as the Yard proved to be, Arthur was a discerning man: The same young woman taking a peculiar, perverse interest in crime scenes—standing before the flock of onlookers with a knowledgeable, observing gleam in her eyes—was more than enough to grant him suspicion against her, even if he failed to consider her being the vigilante they fervently searched for. And she had already been seen 'coincidentally' stumbling across a few corpses that were, in truth, of her own design. However, amongst who else knew of her, she was nothing more than a woman of strong faith who was kind to all she met and taught the children of her church and tenement when they would otherwise have little to no means of study because of their work in the factories: The favor people held her in and the lack of evidence against her made her practically untouchable.
"Thank goodness, no. I live in Bethnal Green," she sighed, feigning relief when he knew she must've been boiling with frustration underneath the surface. He nearly snorted when she turned Arthur's interrogation against him by asking with a smile, "Where were you, Lord Commissioner?" To others, it was a show of polite concern: Only they three knew of the bold derision and outright abhorrence projected in her words.
If the Yard did catch her, she would pay for her brazen speech in spades. While Arthur was revered for his station, those unfortunate enough to know his true nature often found themselves facing agonies far worse than death. Even now, as Undertaker watched his reactions, the man seemed to be savoring the details of the gruesome process befitting her end: It would be slow and it would be painful, that much was guaranteed if the latter were to finally lay hands on her.
Nevertheless, I'll still steal away what remains of you from under the bloke's nose, the ancient Shinigami longed to tease her with morbid hilarity. As often made as the promise was, by now he actually felt a sort of possession of her in that regard. Through her Cinematic Record, he would unearth the fragments of a long-gone self that she kept buried; and he would decide whether she was to rest eternally beneath the ground or continue to play some role amongst the undead within the grand drama that he orchestrated. To see her disposed in any cold manner would be nothing short of insolence, and would be a misdeed against the memorable, fierce temperament she bore as she lived.
Lord Randall's brow gave a vexed, twitching motion before stilling once more—a slight break in his otherwise calm and controlled façade. "I'd other business to attend to involving the case, though I don't know whether to call it Providence or misfortune for the fact. Perhaps an extra man is all they might've needed." Undertaker wondered momentarily if in some fashion that 'business' pertained to the police files the young Earl had left behind at his shop on the chance that the man was telling the truth. However, he saw no good reason to mention them.
"I suspect the coroner will have a fair look at them before those poor fellows are brought to my door," he voiced, bringing the commissioner's stare to meet his for the first time since the former's approach. Leaning his head forward over the young woman's shoulder, he then asked, "It's up to their families, of course, but when do you suppose I can expect them?" He questioned the grim matter so casually that Nicole shot him a disapproving glance while the other man slightly recoiled in place—all in accordance to the purpose that had drawn the inquiry from him, to remind the latter of his presence and frighten him away. The longer the bloke talked the longer his own business with the girl was postponed, and were she to find it suit to leave the scene in an effort to avoid Arthur's prodding than he possibly would have little other chance to speak with her again before she began her hunt.
"That would depend upon their loved ones' wishes, not the Yards. You'll have to wait for their consonance." The scowl Randall cast might've caused lesser men to shrink back in submission. "If that's all you came for, then I'm afraid you've no business skulking about."
"I'd imagine I'd at least come and have a look-see how much work I have cut out for me."
A small, apathetic nod was all he received before the other dipped his head back to the young woman. "I've heard of your regular prayer meeting attendance at the Oxford House, but we've advised all citizens to remain in-doors after nightfall."
"Been asking around about this pretty, little dear, have you? My, my, Lord Randall, I daresay I hadn't believed you to be chasing skirts." Two faces shot him repudiating, disgusted glances: He returned them with a Cheshire's smile.
The Commissioner pulled a handkerchief out from his coat pocket, wiping his glasses with it as he cleared his throat in discontent. "I'll be off then, madam, Undertaker… You both would do well to keep off the streets after dark until this matter is resolved."
Without so much as a tip of his hat, he spun upon his heel and retreated back through the crowd to where his officers awaited him. The mortician and vigilante remained in silence as he left, watching his form until it disappeared beyond the crossing of two alleys. As if feeling the disaffection from her person, Undertaker gave a throaty croon and drummed him fingers upon the curve of her shoulders where his hands still rested. When she tried to shake him away he shifted his hold to clasp her by the forearms, evoking a wicked glare from her in turn.
"You're aware that chap wants you dead," It wasn't a question so much as a statement that he whispered in a solemn tone. "He'll be having his men keep a particular eye out for a certain woman with a cloak and sword. The Underworld's recent affairs have him riled even further—like a maddened, rabid dog tethered to its post. Perhaps, for a week or so in the very least, it might be better to postpone your next chase."
Her eyes narrowed, "Those very affairs are the reason I need to continue my work. The Yard hasn't forced me to turn tail yet, and I don't intend to let them."
"I see you're as stubborn as always." With that said, he eased his grip on her enough so that she could wriggle herself free from him. As she spun on her heel to face him, he continued, "I can assure you though, you've no purpose in going after these criminals: I daresay their activities will come to close by the week's end—what with the Queen's Watchdog sniffing them out."
That was a title even the likes of she knew, for even though who it belonged to remained a mystery to her it was a thing of apprehension whispered by many of the East End's nefarious denizens. With unease was also the understanding that any mission the Watchdog undertook was seen through to the letter, therefore he felt mentioning the little Lord's involvement would give her further reason to give up her hunt just this once.
She never questioned how he happened upon such knowledge as the Watchdog's activities, but then he likely wouldn't answer her if she did. Besides that, it was also likely that it didn't come as much of a shock to her after their first meeting: He was aware of her rarely voiced suspicions that he was more than a humble mortician.
"Moreover, don't you have more than enough work piling up as it is?" With a dismissing wave of his hand, he casually began to retreat from the crowd. Not a moment after, he heard the rhythmic trod of her boots tailing after him. "You were bedridden for some time not at all long ago, weren't you? Surely, you've been busy catching up thanks to that. There is your usual work to consider, along with your prayer meetings, your tutoring the neighborhood children, that lead you've told me you've been following and any 'special requests' you might receive. Not to mention the ordeal in Chatham…"
"What's happened in Chatham?"
He did well to contain his amusement as she tugged upon the bait he had cast. Already he could see the gears turning behind her inquisitive stare, seizing the task and plotting an appropriate course of action to suit it. Like a knight spoken of in the romantic tales of a bygone age, so she would venture forward with all haste to the dragon's keep. Casting a subtle glance at her from over his shoulder, feigning rebuff, he laced his fingers together before his chest. "Hmm? I assumed you knew, dearie. Then again, I suppose you're not quite in the know. Well, to be fair, it's all been kept very discretely: Not even the papers have managed a nibble of the issue." He toyed with her only for the sake of doing so, curious to see if she would put in some further effort to gain his knowledge. Rupturing her stern demeanor always proved entertaining enough for him to oblige her with his aid on the few occasions she aversely requested it, but she had yet been willing to play the fool for him on her own accord. Why not attempt to make her jump a bit for what she wanted?
"Undertaker," her voice was cold and she folded her arms across her chest in refusal as if having read his thoughts. "I've already told you I've no interest in playing games: If you know of something, then tell me." Silence hung between them for a moment while he allowed her to writhe in her lack of awareness, giving her a smug grin. She drummed her fingers once along her arm and gave him a childish pout before casting her eyes to the ground and adding in a low, averse mumble, "Please…"
He chortled: Even that much of an effort on her part was akin to pulling teeth. At any other time, he might've seen how far he could push the woman, but—with the circumstances being what they were—he would indulge her. "You've never heard of the Magpie Hall Lane Workhouse, have you? I believe they've a few positions open. No doubt you'll find suitable work there for someone of your talents."