The Kingdom / Chapter 01.02 - "The Inspector"
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
Five weeks at sea, aboard the S.S. Elizabeth, crown jewel of the New England Steamship Company, a luxury cruise liner, by all reports. Still, Inspector Kelly felt better once he set the leather soles of his loafers to the solid footing of the ground, and the ten-day carriage ride from Boston to Philadelphia, interspersed with overnight visits to a number of roadhouses and hotels along the route, seemed heaven by comparison. Most of the journey was spent either in quiet contemplation of his current case, or making light conversation with the other passengers of the coach, a bright young woman named Yolanda Piedra-Alegre, and an established gentleman with a thick, handlebar mustache and a glinting monocle who claimed to be the world-famous hunter, Templeton Montebank, Esquire.
Member of a minor Spanish noble house, Miss Piedra-Alegre had fled the newly formed República España after her mother, an outspoken proponent of the old monarchy, was arrested for treason. She was full of stories rife with intrigue and suspense, and the Inspector rather enjoyed her exotic accent as she regaled him with tales of her narrow escape from the hands of revolutionaries. Likewise, Templeton shared his adventures with the Spanish heiress and Inspector Kelly, reciting the narrative of his memories with fervor, sending his young audience to the Serengeti Plains, the Congo, the deserts of Egypt, all by virtue of his words.
Philadelphia came all too soon, and after collecting the calling cards of both Miss Piedra-Alegre and the gruff old hunter, then arranging for his luggage to be sent to a nearby hotel, the Inspector left the coach station. Traveling now by foot, he quickly read through the directions given at the start of his long journey, then set off across town to find the office of Sir Alan Pinkerton, head of the Royal American Investigations Division, his contact for the case at hand. In the bustling street, the hard soles of a hundred pair of shoes clapped against the bricks of the cobblestone road as pedestrians wove between carts and horses, going about their daily business, their voices a soft murmur melding with a background din of industrial machinery. Barefooted children darted around parents, uncles, and total strangers, some playing games of tag, some running errands, some getting their first taste of petty theft. Several times, Inspector Kelly had to remind himself just how far our of his jurisdiction he was, gritting his teeth as the little rapscallions made off with coins and loosely worn jewelry.
He arrived at the office for the Royal American Investigations Division midway through the afternoon and for a few moments he stood, admiring the austerity of its architecture, the simplicity of its design. It sat, a single, unassuming building behind a pleasant garden through which wound a flagstone walkway. It reminded him, in fact, of his home office, in Whitehall, a suburb of London. He grinned, pulling the cap from his head to dab at his brow, when something struck him from the side, nearly bowling him over. The Inspector turned quickly, regaining his balance, just in time to watch a girl – no more than eight or nine years old – topple onto her rump, her eyes jerking upward to meet his.
“I'm sorry, m-mister, promise! I w-wa'n't watching w-where I was g-goin',” she stammered, her lower lip already starting to quiver. “I d-didn't mean to...”
Inspector Kelly just stared at the girl, dumbfounded, for a moment, then crouched down and offered her his hand. “Come on, up to your feet. No 'arm done.”
“I... I g-guess not. You're not mad at me?”
He gave her a good-natured smile and shook his head. “Now 'ow could I be angry with a li'l angel like you, wot? Why don't you tell me your name?”
She took his hand. “I'm Mae,” she said as they stood.
“Well, Little Miss Mae,” he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat. Pulling out a couple coppers, he bent down and pressed them into her hand. “Go buy yourself some candy and try not to tackle any more gentlemen, okay?”
She gawked at the coins sitting in her hand, then looked up at him. “Yessir, I will right away, mister. Promise!” And with that she was speeding down the road and around a corner into an alleyway. He laughed as she disappeared, then turned and took the stone path to the front door of the office. After rapping his knuckles firmly on the door, he stood quietly, hands rung together behind his back, waiting for the knocking to be answered. He tried a second time, and was still unheeded, when he finally decided he would simply have to enter on his own.
The front desk was staffed by a young secretary in a while shirt and black tie. The man met Inspector Kelly's gaze coolly. “Can I help you?” he asked.
“Ah yes. Inspector Fredrick Kelly, Scotland Yard. I'm here to speak with Sir Alan Pinkerton.”
“I trust you have your papers in order?”
“I do,” he assured the secretary as he reached for his hip pocket. “I've got them right 'ere in my back pock--” He stopped. “Maybe the other.” His wallet, however, was in neither, nor in his waistcoat, nor anywhere on his person. For a moment he entertained the idea that it was left with the remainder of his luggage when he remembered tucking the directions to the office into the leather folder. “Bloody 'ell.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Bloody bloomin' 'ell,” he swore. “That little knee-biter stole my wallet!”
The secretary covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. “Scotland Yard, and you didn't know your pocket was being picked?”
Fredrick opened his mouth to answer when the door burst open and a diminutive man, hair pasted to his balding pate by a slick of sweat, spilled in from the garden. “The Rikti,” he shouted. “The Rikti have returned!”
