strangerverse | Enter the Stranger

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He padded toward the front desk silently once he'd noticed the two women standing there. It was a knack he had,
that soundless stride, and it served him well when, as now, he wanted to approach a conversation without interrupting it. This looked to be one of those ferocious, restrained arguments that polite people have when they're in public. He'd always found those particularly informative.

“If I'd known we'd have to stay in separate rooms, and attend separate events, I'd never have come here,” the blonde was saying. She looked near tears. The Stranger eyed her curves appreciatively, not put off in the least by the threatened squalls. Someone had tailored that grey dress to fit her perfectly. He sensed he was in the presence of a great deal of money and taste. “How am I supposed to enjoy myself, hanging around with a bunch of complete strangers in a fandom I know nothing about?”

The second woman, sleek and dark-haired, spoke more calmly but sounded no less annoyed. “It wasn't supposed to be like this. The Betweeners have never bothered trying to reproduce class distinctions before, not seriously. They should never have let that damnable man interfere—him and his Upstairs, Downstairs fantasies...” Her voice trailed off as she noticed Alasdair, and she arched one cold, quizzical eyebrow. He bowed, well and fairly caught. Time to be charming.

“Alasdair Darke,” he said, addressing himself mostly to the young blonde, and not just because he preferred blondes. A quick look at her companion had told him that she was slightly older, and not the kind of “slightly older” which, desperate for some magic among the mundanity of life, is all too willing to believe in handsome, dashing young hero types. No, she looked the other kind of “slightly older,” shrewd and more cynical than she'd been at, say, 20, but still fully cognisant of the frauds and foibles common to the young. He knew in his gut she'd assessed him as rapidly as he'd assessed her, and probably summed him up damned accurately.

“Mina Melford,” the blonde said, eyes wide with admiration. “I love your uniform. This is Silverman, my valet.”

He bowed to the sardonic Silverman, not sure it was the done thing to bow to servants but
figuring it best to err on the side of gallantry. She looked amused. “It is a lovely uniform,” she agreed. “Great War?”

“Border Regiment, circa 1934.” He handed her a copy of his card as he spoke, which she smoothly pocketed without so much as a glance.

Miss Melford looked no more than politely interested, but her companion's eyes brightened. “A D. E. Stevenson devotee, then?” The Stranger tried to look knowing, but Silverman's momentary expression of approval vanished instantly, and he guessed she'd read his confusion. Damn. He was definitely going to have to do some boning up as soon as he was safely in the room he'd be sharing with Tom. Usually he liked a little more lead time before plunging into a new subculture, but the Between the Wars thing had presented too perfect an opportunity to pass up. He wasn't seriously worried; he absorbed things quickly enough when pressed.

The valet shut her eyes briefly in a way that suggested they were rolling beneath the lids. Probably not a valet, he reminded himself, not really. That simple black suit looked to have cost more than his own get-up. Silverman, if that was even her real name, looked well-heeled enough to employ her own servants. How odd that she'd want to play one for the weekend.

“I thought by the 1930s it was already difficult to find good help,” he said.

“Nearly impossible, I'd have thought,” said Miss Melford. “But Silverman has been with me for years.”

Was that meant to be in-character? he wondered. Before he could fish for further clues, Silverman had murmured something inaudible, Miss Melford had excused them both, and they'd moved briskly off in the direction of the elevators.

Alasdair checked in without incident, and headed upstairs himself, faintly disappointed in himself. The sooner he could get upstairs, figure out what the full canon was, and get up to speed, the better. He'd already sussed out the most obvious sources—Sayers, Christie, Wodehouse—and worked out all the advantages Sherlockiana could give him, particularly Conan Doyle's religious beliefs. But who the hell was D. E. Stevenson?

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