"Run out is - well!  Not exactly."  Such a crude term!  No one was following him, after all, and there were no torches or pitchforks.  "They wanted me gone, so I left, but I wasn't run out.  It was a mutual decision, between me and everyone in Ravenscar."

The chair in the corner of the office that held too many clothes for it all to belong to Arthur alone was ravaged.  Jackets and vests and shirts and dresses even rained as they were tossed away, the doctor selecting a small amount of the clothes there that fit whatever expectations he had.  And a small amount it really was - two, maybe three shirts and just as many vests, one of which still had blood and a tear from where Malachi had stabbed him.  One pair of trousers and a long skirt that the doctor might have mistaken as an apron or rag.

Everything in Arthur's arms were shoved into the briefcase and he was back to fluttering about, scouring his office for something else still.

"I came to Whitby because my family is here.  I thought they'd have missed me, so the choice was easy.  What made you come here?  Were you run out of London?"