[CW: It's crime noir and there's murder jokes right from the get-go.]

The sun was beginning to set. Rancid yellows twisted through raw pink clouds, Britain’s vague threat of rain forever lingering just out the corner of his eye. He ‘itched’ the corner of his brown mustache, testing that the edges could survive a quick douse. The glue smell was not so obvious at a polite distance, the glasses were thankfully merely glass, and he skipped any ink in the hair today. He was bound to be in close quarters with a potentially alert, violent fellow.

Well, violent at least. Why this robber chose to steal some apartment-dweller’s paste jewelry set when the copper pans were worth more still boggled him.

With a plane wooden cane in his gloved hand, Aslan thumbed over the knife in his pocket and brought his left hand out of a plain tan suit pocket to knock on the cobbler’s door.

Just in case he were to greet his death here, he did hope he could make it awfully inconvenient on his way down.

Thunder struck, and the grotesquely colored sky darkened belatedly as though it were a lady tripping and hefting up her skirts only after the stumble. He cast a withering look over his shoulder as one drop, then two, then ten began to hit pavement and hat.

The smell of rain was heavy on the air drifting through the cobbler's open back window. He would have to move to close the shutters soon, but the scent of the approaching downfall intermingling with the hefty salty aroma of the sea air was more enjoyable than he had anticipated. A brisk, cool breeze was graciously welcomed anytime Jules was hunched over sewing a piece of smooth, delectable leather.

Sighing, Jules sat back on his stool, calloused hands setting aside his work. The first three buttons of his starched light grey shirt were open, sleeves rolled up over a pair of forearms ribboned with taut muscle. Aching fingers stretched, clenched, and stretched again; a gentle attempt at reinvigorating the blood and loosening the stiffening digits.

A knock at the door caused the cobbler's ears to perk and his jaw clench. He wasn't expecting any deliveries, and his brother had a key. After the last time Asa had misplaced a key to the shop, Jules was certain the youth wouldn't make that mistake again.

Only yesterday had the display sign designating the Everetts' shop as one housing a cordwainer and cobbler been placed. He supposed it wasn't too unusual that he'd already have a potential client. Even so, the knock set Jules's aching fingers trembling, and he plucked a small knife from his workbench, slipping it into his pocket before cracking open the door. 


"Aye," he gruffed, eyes scanning over the slight figure. "You've made it only seconds before the storm, it seems. Come on, then." He opened the wooden door a little wider and stepped back, just enough for the stranger to squeeze through. 

"What brings you my way?" he asked, voice pleasant but wary, noting the weight of the small knife sitting not-so-comfortably in his pocket.

The stranger seemed unimposing enough through the crack in the door. Bland, even. Bland colors, bland expression, shoes worn and scuffed enough that they could camouflage in dirt.

The stranger’s gaze, however, sharpened at being forced to squeeze through a perfectly working door as though it were a suspect sewage grate. There was a split second of sharpened metal in his eyes, like the light had caught on copper only to reveal it mostly rust.

So far, Aslan’s presumed target seemed more alert than violent... for now. It kept Aslan on edge. The imposing fellow may well suspect, but he could not prove – and that was an important distinction in this line of work.

The man before Jules was in far less disarray. The hat and his shoes added to a taller illusion, bringing him to two third’s a head shorter versus what might have been a full head’s length without. He was broad-shouldered, though it was difficult to tell under the jacket, tie and suit much beyond that. Every button was buttoned up.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, words rapid with a brief roll on the ‘r’. “Loocky for me you’re fauss tae the doorr.”

He lost a full inch when he took his bowler hat off, though looked no less confident for it. He hung it up by the door and swept a leather gloved hand over his combed back hair.

“Coul’a swoorn s’wuz a bayk’ry nae loong 'goo. New’n town?”

The stranger’s smile was pleasant – overly so. A fresh carpet laid over broken glass. When Jules’ gaze settled on the subtle indent in his pocket, that smile became unsettlingly genuine. He turned to face him, somehow even closer than he had been squeezing past in the door. Scuffed shoe toes grazed the front of Jules’, yet with an easy smile as though he weren’t invading his space. At this distance, the odors of almond and mothballs were quite pungent.

“Overdue a lee’l reepair,” he said with a nod down that seemed almost profane at this proximity. “Shood Ay make’n ‘poin’men’? D’yae take walk-ins?”

At this distance, there was the smell of fresh whiskey on his breath – but his eyes and movements were far too alert to come off as drunken. There was something else... earthy, though it seemed dampened by the alcohol.

The stranger opened with a light, casual joke, one that might’ve garnered a gentle chuckle from the average shop owner, yet Jules offered little more than a quick titter beneath the thick mustache. “Lucky you, indeed,” he replied as he closed the door against the growing gusts of wind. 

It was easy to dismiss the stranger’s bundled up nature as just a reaction to the brewing storm, but Jules’s former life in London contained too many sharpened blades and eager revolvers hidden inside long coats for him to feel completely comfortable. Even as his guest began to loosen up, disrobing only slightly, Jules’s fingers still twitched.

“You’re not wrong,” Jules confirmed, noting the stranger’s unusual accent and failing to place its origin. “The nice lady who owned the place sold, packed up, and was planning on moving back home, she said. Didn’t catch where. Someplace in Scotland, mayhap.”  

His small talk was halted as the stranger came up close, smile too friendly, too sharp. Everything was too with this one, Jules couldn’t help but notice.

A bouquet of scents filled Jules’s nostrils as he inhaled; his guest was nutty, musky, and rich all at once. They weren’t wholly unpleasant smells, he decided. 

The shutters banged against the walls outside the shop. “‘Scuse me, then,” he mumbled, clearing his throat with a gruff rumble as he slipped past the other man, moving in an odd sideways shuffle across the workshop. Never turn your back on strangers; that was just good sense. 

Once the windows had been properly shut and locked, the stranger received Jules’s attention again. “Looking for a repair?” He nodded at the man’s feet, covered in a pair of shoes that had seen more than a few rough days. “If those are the ones you’re meaning, I can certainly breathe some new life into them, but it isn’t going to be before the night’s up, let alone this storm. I’ll be in need of a few days, at least.”

Jules’s eyebrows knit together as he gave the stranger another look over. He wasn’t intimidating, at least not physically. Quite a few inches shorter than Jules himself, even with the extra height gifted to him by his various accessories. But there was just… something, wasn’t there? Something not quite right. He had smelled the familiar aroma of a good whiskey on the young man’s breath. Couldn’t fault a man for enjoying a drink now and again. 

“What did you say your name was, sir?” Jules asked, placing his hands on his hips. “I’ll be needing to record it, for the order, you understand.” 

Oh, lucky he would be if this was over – and fast. The man before him fit the description... of a sort. He was an imposing fellow, the kind that any man with an ounce of self-preservation ought not want to meet in an alley at night. He was faster to smile than some... overconfident, perhaps – like the burglar he sought. Green eyed and smooth skinned, not that any had made note of their unwelcome guest’s finer features. But he seemed more … astute. Far more astute than Aslan had been led to anticipate.

… Frankly, ‘sort of’ was more often than not good enough. It certainly had been when it had come to hanging his father. And for this paltry a bounty, ‘sort of’ was almost too good.

“Bells on her hems were rringin’ oon her way oot,” he said with a sly look that flickered briefly, and then in half a breath: “Wha’bou’ you? Why here?”

Up this close, he could smell something not quite meaty – but not far off, either. The last time he’d smelled fresh leather was the last time his father had taken him for shoes...

He straightened his posture. Nostalgia had to wait: he had a complete and utter stranger to screw over first.

The crab shuffle invoked his even closer attention; it was more the sort of hypervigilance he associated with those beyond the therapeutic recommendations of cocaine. He smiled with too many teeth, and then ‘let’ his attention wander about the room.

To the coat racks – was it one man’s collection? Were there any that could belong to additional inhabitants? His gaze flicked down. Were there shoes of a different size? Then a quick take across the room; signs of wealth or hobbies, or perhaps a well-armed wife to be aware of?

The kind of wife that his sister might be some day? Ready to take out a man at a moment’s notice – or less, when she inevitably grew bored of her latest routines?

“Tha’ they are,” he confirmed, chipper – though his gaze was flat.

He glanced to the now shuttered windows at the estimate, sliding his hands into his pockets with an unfazed look. The rain hammered on.

“’Fraid I di’n’ bring spares,” he mused.

And just as well: an excuse or two to come back was necessary, perhaps, with this one.

“Rright,” he smiled. “The … shoe reg’stry,” he almost even managed to say that without a skeptical arch of the brows. “Gavin Ireland. When’s a goo’time to drop them off?”

Just as he reached for his hat, thunder boomed in the distance.

“... Mind if I use the loo afore I head oot?”

“Gavin… Ireland,” Jules repeated, his left eyebrow raising slightly. He cleared his throat, turning away from the stranger slightly. He considered answering the odd man’s question about how and why he had ended up in Whitby, but it wasn’t a question he was ever too fond of answering.

“My younger brother and I relocated from a busy city,” he explained. A heavy leather-bound book filled with thick pages rested at the edge of his work table. “Started to feel a little rushed, you understand. I’ve heard sea air is good for the constitution. Visited once or twice, seemed as good a place as any to set up shop.” He smiled politely, plucking a fountain pen from its post and opening the book to its first page. It was completely empty. Taking his eyes away from the curious stranger, Jules scratched out the date, the client’s name, and a brief list of details about his request. Repair. Sinister/dexter. Approx. 2-3 days. 

“You’re welcome to come back and drop them off anytime,” he confirmed, leaving the book open to allow the ink to dry. “My brother and I live above the workshop. One of us is typically here to welcome clients.” Assuming Asa isn’t out getting himself into trouble.

“I wouldn’t feel right, sending out back out in a storm like this,” Jules said. “Feel free to make use of the facilities, but you don’t need to be too quick to run along afterwards. How about I make us some tea? A little warmth to combat the storm’s chill, maybe.” A strong, muscled arm pointed casually toward the staircase. “Loo and stove are both upstairs. Follow me?”

Narrow wooden steps creaked with age as Jules began the quick climb to the upper floor. He could not explain why he felt compelled to offer the man a hot beverage while his gut tensed and squeezed beneath his abdominal muscles. The handle of the small hidden knife bounced against his thigh as he ascended the steps. 

The living quarters were sparsely decorated. Two beds, a bureau, a half-filled bookshelf. Among these mediocre possessions, a long line of shoes of various sizes, colors, and styles decorated the edge of the wall. Shoes stretched from one wall to the other, then doubled back, stacked on top of one another. A small wood-burning stove, table, chairs, and a small collection of dishes and flatware were located against a far wall.

“Loo is over there,” said Jules, nodding towards a door at the north side of the room. “I’ll put the tea on. Try not to get lost.”

Mr. ‘Ireland’ stared right back with that too-keen smile.

His eyes skimmed the coats once more at the mention of a brother. Same size? Same temperament? Same record? Did he lose sleep at night wondering what his younger sibling might be doing at any given moment?

Probably not. This man seemed to have a few years on Aslan from the creases in his face. Perhaps there was a significant age gap... perhaps not, but even if there were – there was still the likelihood a younger brother might have started his own life in the city.

… If he weren’t some blundering, bauble-snatching buffoon.

He could certainly relate to the city being too much; then again, ‘too much’ was the only environment in which dear Nisa could survive. ‘Too much’ was the only thing that kept him one foot quickly in front of the other without the past caving in on them both.

“Yeah? Never lived in a city bifore,” he said, smooth as butter. “Which oone?”

Mr. Cobbler here anticipated being well and buttoned up enough to handle drop-ins. Damn it.

Though modest of height, the shut windows cast Gavin’s shadow as ominously as any other over the virgin logbook.

“Perrfect, thanks,” he answered with a smile.

There was a quick glance to the stairwell when he mentioned his brother typically being home, Gavin’s left thumb looping loosely in his pocket.

“Oh no trooble no trooble a’ all,” he answered in one spill of breath.

He froze when the cobbler mentioned tea, pasted-on smile faltering. Hospitality. Tea. Was this man going to kill him? Allah Allah, focus on anything but that.

… Goodness, that man had arms.

Alright, maybe the impending murder was a better focal point.

At rest (and with so much else to take in), the indent on this friendly cobbler’s thigh had not stuck out so prominently. Now, he saw it with every step. Perhaps his arse was better to focus on.

Two men with knives – perfectly cordial.

“Will do!” he agreed readily.

Harder to escape through the window if he lost his bearings, after all.

Once he was in the room proper, he fumbled about for a lamp or light or something of the sort...

The storm outside had left the modest room feeling overcast and dreary, a deep gray shadow falling across the walls like a heavy woolen cloak. As his guest warily made his way across the room, Jules lit a lantern to edge the shadows away with a warm, flickering orange glow. Next was the stove, now lit, and then the kettle, set on top to make the water boiling hot. What kind of tea would Mr. Ireland prefer? Did it matter what kind of tea a potential scoundrel enjoyed? A cup of bohea would have to suffice regardless of whether Mr. Ireland preferred a refreshing congou or not. 

The cobbler’s back tensed, each muscle tight and ready to spring like a compressed coil. What did this Ireland fellow truly desire? Despite it evident that the man’s shoes were well in need of a good fixing up, Jules’s stomach bubbled and turned. They couldn’t possibly have found them yet. No, Jules had been sure to cover their tracks; told Asa with a firm tone to keep a low profile. Hadn’t even told Mum where they’d run off to. As far as Mrs. Everett was concerned, her good boys had taken an extended trip to Italy for authentic leather goods, or something along those lines.

The Everetts’ china wasn’t the most astounding of quality, but it would do. He picked out the only unchipped cups in their collection. White with a delicate pale blue floral pattern along the edges. Mrs. Everett had insisted. “A bit of me to take along with you, then. The rest of me is too old for such extravagant travels.” 

She’d like Whitby, he’d decided.

As the tea paraphernalia was collected, a muffled thud sounded below; Jules could feel the floor beneath him shake. 

“Precious jewel!” a voice called up. Jules scowled. “Ay, I know you’re up there! Can’t hide from me, you know that.” A few more thuds. Heavy, quick, coming closer with each step. A scruffy face appeared in the doorway with a cheeky grin stretching from ear to ear. 

“Ay, precious, you’ll never guess what nonsense I heard today about the fools back in L--”

Jules brought a finger up to his lips, then pointed at the tea setting with the other hand. “We have a guest. Surely you have more appropriate stories than the ones about ol’ mates.”

“Ay.” Asa nodded, dirty fingers scratching at a pile of dark curls atop his head. “Proper guest, then?”

“Perhaps.”

The Ireland fellow was relatively quiet in the water closet. No splash of the toilet, nor telltale foul odors … though if the cobbler were keen on pausing, he might catch this and that through thin walls. The quiet, muted jostle of a cabinet; the shift of clothing as it brushed floor and rose – he had not, after all, shed his jacket with his hat.

Aslan paused to collect his thoughts, hands sliding over wood in search of any hidden panels. Hardly the typical case – riches hidden underneath a loose floorboard, or an elaborate trapdoor. Especially not on a second floor. But he had read enough penny dreadfuls as a boy to harbor a small hope of one day, one day finding something truly exciting.

Preferably jewels rather than bodies.

No sooner did he entertain the thought of ill-retrieved, ill-gotten goods (what? the cycle of life – nothing more, nothing less) than did he feel the shudder through his feet of a downstairs door opening. He had dawdled. He had dawdled, and could he fit out that window? Tight squeeze. The footsteps sounded heavy – more knife-wielding cobbler-sized than British Turk-sized.

“Precious jewel!”

If that robber had chosen this moment to lug in a cache of actual valuables, this was about to be the riskiest day of Aslan’s life. He couldn’t help himself. He held his breath lest it so much as dampen a single syllable through the door, and pressed his ear to where edge met latch but still cracked space enough for light.

Was the cobbler in the habit of hiding, too? He supposed height did not scare those close into behaving after all. Fools back in...? – but alas. The cobbler was smarter than whoever his ‘precious’. It would be charming, were it not so inconvenient.

“Properr gaysts bring booze orr wom’n.”

According to old Warwick, anyway. He may not have known his head from his arse about gold rushes, but he seemed especially discerning about who did and didn’t maul his prick in their mouths.

Alright. Maybe Warwick hadn’t been the best source of guest etiquette, either.

The door swung open, and Mr. Ireland’s hands were behind his back as he stepped out.

“Loo’s like th’rain’s le’ oop,” he said blithely, regardless of the... brother’s? friend’s? actual state. “Canna say’m in th’habbet oo’ tempting fate.”

Even if it were true.

Asa cocked his head as Jules's guest exited the water closet, hands behind his back and all bundled up. Didn't much look like the man had planned on staying all that long; so why, then, had he followed his brother up those squawking steps? Quite the mystery, Asa thought, but he had the good sense enough to not mention it out loud. 

"Jules, you're not planning on letting your guest leave so quickly, are you?" he asked, sweeping across the floor to pluck a teacup from the setting. "Aye, friend, my brother went through the monumental effort of preparing this... " he paused, leaned over to the catch a whiff of the tea leaves. "Bohea? Bohea." Not Asa's favorite, but he wasn't about to complain. Not now, anyway. 

"Come, come, it's a mess outside. At least warm your bones before popping off."

Asa approached, placing a heavy, calloused hand atop Gavin's shoulder. An insistent nudge directed the guest to a small table where the three could sit; an even more persuasive push encouraged him to take a seat. Jules's tense, forced smile could be see out of the corner of Asa's eye, but that was just Jules, wasn't it? Always worried, always thinking, always fretting about any old thing. Asa smirked at the concern woven through the creases at the corners of his older brother's eyes. This man, whomever he was, had left his brother feeling cautious, but what was the small man going to do? A seemingly unnatural twenty-three centimeters and a couple of stone surely separated Asa and this stranger. What could he possibly do?

"Jules, you introduce, I'll pour." And so he did. Asa put down a cup and saucer for his brother and the stranger before gathering the kettle. "Milk? Sugar?" he asked, grinning wide.

"Asa, this is Mr Gavin Ireland," Jules replied, slowly pulling out a chair of his own. "Mr Ireland, this is my brother, Asa. He helps me here at the shop. May very well assist me with your order." He paused as Asa deposited a single sugar cube into his cup. "Mr. Ireland... I'm sorry, sir, I don't believe you ever said what you do?" 

"Do? Oh, a man is surely defined by what he does," Asa added, nodding enthusiastically. "What do you do, sir?"