Enter the Stranger

Between the Wars
presents
Autumn, 1934
Fairmont Royal York, Toronto
RSVP steering committee c/o Miss Honey

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“I'll tell you one thing. If anyone outs me as the author of the Abandoned series, or so much as mentions my fandom identity, I'll kill them.” She nervously smoothed and resmoothed the gray satin of her skirt as she spoke.

“As you wish, Miss Melford.”

The first speaker glared. “You do know you're not really a valet, right? Or has this new fandom finally caused you to break with reality?”

“If I might be permitted to explain,” her companion said calmly, “what you're about to experience isn't so much a fandom as an experiment in intentional achronicity—an effort, if you will, to lift elements from various historical eras and knit them together into an alternative reality.” She deftly pulled to the curb as she spoke, and waited. After a brief pause she cleared her throat and added, “If you'd care to step inside, I'll park the car and bring the bags around--”

“Oh no you don't,” interrupted Miss Melford. “I don't know a soul here. I only have the barest idea what I'm doing, and I'm only doing it to humour you. I refuse to leave your side this entire weekend.”

An uncharacteristic look of guilt crossed the other woman's face.

“Oh, hell,” said Miss Melford. “What aren't you telling me?”

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Enter the Stranger

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The woman who exited the car had murder in her eyes. The Stranger would have bet money on it--provided it was somebody else's money, of course.

She stood on the sidewalk, glaring up at the Fairmont Royal York like it was personally responsible for bringing her to the brink of homicide. The Stranger stood a few feet away, watching her.

He'd cabbed here himself, but he'd gotten out a block away, giving himself ample opportunity to check out his surroundings. Habit. He liked to see other people before being seen; liked, too, a last minute check of his appearance before presenting himself for scrutiny. Right now he looked, he thought, perfect. He'd be spending the weekend in 1934, or a reasonable approximation thereof, and it was a perfect chance to indulge his love of costume. He'd gone to considerable trouble to look the part. Still, it was always a worry...

This woman, on the other hand, was all wrong, dressed in mom jeans and a sweater set, with a knapsack slung over one shoulder. Making a quick evaluation of her clothes, he concluded that she could afford the hotel and even the hobby, but she wasn't with the Betweeners. She wasn't scruffy, just painfully mundane and very much of this time—in style, for a suburban value of style, right down to the year and season.

On impulse he stepped forward, bowed, and offered her his card. You never knew what hidden depths lurked in a housewife, after all, and he prided himself on his ability to construct a tempting business card. There'd been times when he'd skipped meals due to lack of funds, and many, many times when he'd had to cadge a place to sleep, but he never skimped on the essentials.

She raised one eyebrow, coldly, but he fancied something in her gaze softened when she took in the lithe, handsome young man, all crisp military lines save for the slightly overlong hair. He smiled, more to himself than at her.

* * * * * * *

Alasdair Darke, Psychic Artist
Afterworld and Fictive Dimensional Communications
Psychopompetic Art
Automatic Writing
alas.the.stranger@gmail.com
http://strangerverse.dreamwidth.org

He noted she didn't throw away the card, even though she turned away without speaking. He followed her into the hotel, keeping a polite distance. As he'd expected, she headed for the hotel's main registration desk, not for the tables staffed by the Junior Anachronic League. He paused, watching. There were already a handful of people in period clothes signing in and accepting nametags and attache cases. No one looked familiar. He strolled over and presented his receipt, confirmation of his right to be here.

“Of course. Alasdair Darke,” said the cute brunette, once she'd found him in her files. He admired the crisp efficiency with which she processed him, pulling out a brass nametag with a winged clock above his new name. It had rolled easily off her tongue, unaccompanied by raised eyebrow or sceptical look. He relaxed just a fraction further. That was all right, then.

She handed over an attache case—inscribed with his initials, which was a neat touch; no wonder one had to register for this weekend so far in advance—and pointed him to the hotel's front desk. “You'll have to sign in with the hotel as well,” she said apologetically. “Their policy, I'm afraid.”

“Not a problem,” he assured her, though the thought of producing his identification and credit cards made his heart thud uneasily. “Buck up,” he told himself. “This is no different than any other name change.” But he'd invested a lot of effort in pulling this persona together, not to mention the various costs. It'd be a shame to have anything go wrong now.

He took the extra second to wink at the brunette and hand her his card. Things always went more smoothly when he paid attention to staying in character, after all. He crossed the lobby, quietly impressed, and idly curious as to how much Tom must be shelling out for their room. He sent up a silent prayer of thanks that his young friend was not only flush enough and foolish enough to attend, but generous enough to have insisted on covering Alasdair's entry and accommodation. He owed him, Tom had claimed. The Stranger hadn't argued much. A little misplaced gratitude from a fan, he'd found, went a long way.

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Enter the Stranger

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The Fairmont's first floor “deluxe rooms,” as the hotel called them, were generously proportioned, but four people to two double beds was still a bit of a squeeze. Right now four guests costumed as Edwardian housemaids were murmuring apologies and shuffling out of each other's way while still trying to stake out space for their luggage, clothes, books, and laptops.

Eventually the youngest one, having checked her cellphone three times and her laptop once, spoke up. “Have any of you seen the Colonel? I mean, is he even here yet?”

The other three exchanged glances. Finally one—the tallest, and possibly therefore the one feeling most confined—answered. “Nellie, he's not going to be hanging around here, is he? No offence, but it really isn't fair. We don't have room to entertain guests.” In spite of her careful choice of words, her tone was brisk and impatient.

Nellie blushed. “No, of course not.” She looked down at her hands, fiddling with her ring as she spoke. “It's just I haven't seen him yet, because of this stupid rule about us not mingling with the upper-class players, and I need to talk to him.”

She looked up. The others were just standing, watching her. “He's such a stickler for the rules,” she said earnestly. “He told me last week that he'd never spoil the weekend's class structure by sneaking around to see me. But I thought maybe if I knew where he was I could bump into him, just for a minute. It's really, really important.” Her voice trailed off, and when nobody spoke she jumped off the bed and rushed to the bathroom.

“Please tell me,” one of the other girls whispered, “she's not in there crying over that jackass.”

“Did you see she's wearing that ring on her left hand now? As if it were a wedding ring?” The second speaker couldn't keep the glee in her voice from overshadowing the concerned face she'd started out with.

“Never mind that.” The taller girl eyed the bathroom door thoughtfully. “Did you hear what she said? I don't think she even realizes where the class structure idea came from.” The others, judging by their blank looks, didn't know either.

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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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Enter the Stranger

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Henry Clarke had arrived with a couple of his usual crowd, collected a few more as he registered and wandered through the lobby, and now, happily ensconced on the seventh floor, they threatened to become a small riot. Albeit a genteel, impeccably dressed riot, Honey thought, watching them drift in and out of one another's rooms. She stood with her arms folded, trying to radiate disapproval, while they cheerfully and effortlessly radiated a cloud of alcohol back at her.

“You should have them thrown out,” Bessie said.

Honey sighed. “For what? They're not underage, they're not damaging anything. They're not even all that loud, really.”

“For being utter wastrels,” Bessie's friend, the plain one with the lank hair, suggested. Honey suppressed an urge to shake her, or possibly wash her, and forced a smile.

“But that's perfectly in-period,” she pointed out. “There were plenty of dissolute younger sons in the 30s. Henry's just being accurate.” Really Henry was just being Henry, she knew, but she felt compelled to mount a defence.

“Beautifully put, m'dear,” slurred Henry, draping an arm across her shoulders. Honey shrugged it off in annoyance, and turned to find him breathing down her neck. “I always knew you liked me.”

She gritted her teeth. “I'm just trying to get through the weekend without having anyone thrown out.”

“Pity, that.” He paused to take an exaggerated swig of something bubbly but completely odourless. “I was hoping you'd find some excuse to have that priceless ass Anderson thrown out on his ear.”

Privately Honey would have loved to have obliged, but she shot Henry a quelling glare. “You know he's on the steering committee, right?”

“How you can stomach sitting on committee with someone calling himself “The Colonel” I'll never know,” Henry said. “I mean, how d'you keep yourself from smirking? Or belting him right in his pretentious face? Has he tried to sign you up for one of his writing courses yet? Don't go, they're a waste of time and money.”

“How do you know?” Honey asked, arguing in spite of herself. “Have you ever been to one?”

Henry grinned. “Me? I go to all of 'em. He hates the sight of me—don't know why, I'm quite good looking—but the old miser can't bear to turn me away and give up the fee. Expect he needs the cash to support his wife and children. Word is she was pretty pissed when he tossed up his day job to be a full time writing coach and self-published thingamajig.”

“Really, Henry, must you?” Honey tried to look disapproving—of gossip, of drinking, of something—instead of gleeful. It wasn't very nice to gloat if the man had really quit his real life job in pursuit of BNFdom.

But she couldn't quite help herself.
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Enter the Stranger

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Several hours later, the Stranger emerged cautiously from his room. Tom hadn't returned yet, though his suitcase had been waiting, along with a note assuring Alasdair he'd be back “soon.” That could, Alasdair knew well, mean anything. It hadn't mattered—the peace and quiet had made for some very productive web browsing—but he'd have been glad of Tom's company now, as he checked out the weekend's guests. It was always easier to be impressive when accompanied by the already impressed. That was what entourages were for.

Still. He was famished, and the prospect of afternoon tea in the Library Bar, laid on especially for the Betweeners, was too good to pass up. He could picture them now: firmly middle-class and middle-aged, with time and money on their hands, already charmed by the books-and-leather atmosphere. Ripe, in other words, to be dazzled.

Except as he lingered on the threshold, the women he could see were mostly in groups of two or three, and looked perfectly absorbed in their own conversations.

Wait. There was the blonde from this morning. Mina something. Melford? She was sitting alone. Perfect. He squared his shoulders, and strode across the room, confident he must be drawing a few eyes—too confident, in fact, to check, which would have spoiled the effect anyway.

“May I join you?” He waited for her smile before sitting down. “Your valet isn't with you?”

The smile faded instantly, but the pout was cute. “People playing servants aren't allowed in here for the duration of this event,” she recited, sounding thoroughly annoyed. “They aren't allowed to mingle with us at all. Apparently some idiot on the planning committee talked them into introducing a class structure for the weekend.”

“Pity,” he said mildly. “Still, I suppose it is in keeping with the whole 1934 thing.” She looked so glum that he felt compelled to cheer her up. “Hey, there's Pearl Whitaker,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially. He nodded toward the ethereal copper-haired girl who'd just entered the room. Mina looked at her and frowned further, possibly, he guessed, comparing her own generous curves with the waif-like figure trailing wisps of sea-green silk. Pearl, he thought irritably, didn't so much dress herself as drape herself; today she'd chosen a flapper dress and what looked to be an entire boutique's worth of scarves.

“Mad as a hatter, you know,” he continued. Mina looked mildly entertained by the news. “She was always a bit odd, and then she went broke last year, and now she's certifiable. I'm surprised she can afford to be here.”

“Oh, the poor thing.” Unlike nine-tenths of the people he'd told this story to, Miss Melford sounded sincerely concerned and not at all gleeful. Alasdair noted her compassion for random fans with satisfaction, and notwithstanding the practical side of things, found himself liking her. Not many people, he knew from long experience, feel instant sympathy for a stranger's financial hardships; most wait for that crucial few to act first. “What happened? Did she lose her job?”

“Quit it, actually. She'd written a novel, taken some bad advice, and spent a small fortune self-publishing it.”

Mina winced. “And it didn't sell?”

He shook his head. “Worse than that. It couldn't sell. The thing was a novel length fanfic, and she got slapped with a Cease and Desist.”

“How perfectly dreadful. Well. Perhaps this weekend will take her mind off things.”

“It probably would if we weren't playing Gentry and Servants,” he said. “I can't see how a weekend immersed in classism is going to help her much. To be honest, it doesn't sound like much of a lark to me, either. Whose idea was this, do you know?”

Mina shook her head. “Some former Sherlockian who bullied his way onto the steering committee, that's all I know.”

The Stranger stiffened, but forced himself to speak calmly. “Did you catch a name?” It was probably fine. He hadn't been all that widely known among the Sherlockians. Only a handful of die-hard Doylists had even met him, much less paid for his services.

She shrugged. “Just a nickname. They call him the Colonel.”

Son of a bitch, Alasdair thought. What were the odds of that?

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Enter the Stranger

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Unpacking done, Silverman headed back down to the first floor, where all the “working class”--at least for this weekend—were housed. Hoping to meet some of her fellow travellers, she left her room door open while she unpacked her own clothes, and sure enough, someone dressed as a parlourmaid popped in. “Jane,” said the maid, by way of greeting. “I'm next door. What are you playing—butler? Suffragette housekeeper?”

“Lady's valet,” Silverman explained.

“Care for a cuppa? I've already got the kettle on to boil. So far we've got two butlers, a gaggle of housemaids and shop girls, and one tremendously well-built chauffeur. Everyone's just getting settled in, but my room is already the designated tearoom.” Jane sounded entirely satisfied with this state of affairs. Silverman, pleased there was a place where people informally congregated and even more pleased that it wasn't her room, followed her cheerfully. The perfect opportunity, she thought, to join in whatever entertainment the other guests could provide without relinquishing her solitary space.

And all too soon, entertainment was forthcoming, although as it arrived in the form of a sobbing young woman it wouldn't have done to look too amused. The distraught creature was in a maid's uniform, and Silverman struggled to hide her satisfaction when the girl lifted her snowy white apron to bury her face in its folds. Well and properly done, that, with no hint of theatricality; one could easily have believed one really was looking at a jilted housemaid. It was impossible not to admire, even if it was a bit callous to treat someone else's misery as a distraction. Still, she thought philosophically, sipping her tea, what was life after all but a series of performances. Life with Mina had taught her that much.

Besides which, it was impossible to offer anything substantial by way of sympathy or advice until the girl had actually spoken to clarify things, and she remained unhelpfully mute throughout Jane's perfunctory introductions. A bit much, the continued sobbing, really.

Jane must have been thinking something similar, since she chose that moment to address the newcomer sharply. “For God's sake, Nellie, what is it now? Has he finally dumped you?”

Nellie looked up, shocked out of her sobs. “Of course not! Why would you think such a thing?”

“Because you're such an idiot about him, I assumed you'd take his departure as bad news,” Jane snapped. “And it's not as if you think or talk about anything else anymore, so what else would you be crying about?”

Nellie sniffled loudly a couple of times, gave her face one last fierce scrub, and then smoothed the damp apron back into place over her knees. She lifted her chin and looked as dignified as is possible with a red, puffy face. Silverman silently applauded the effort.

“I'm upset,” Nellie said haughtily, “because I don't like the people I'm rooming with. I'm staying with Maggie White and Betsy and some friend of theirs called Frankie, and all three of them keep rolling their eyes when I talk, and giving each other looks when they think I can't see, and I don't see how I can stand an entire weekend of it. And there we are, four of us crammed into one room. Oh, Jane, I wish I was rooming with you again, like at Midsummer. That was so much better.”

Jane didn't say a word, and Silverman felt a distinct and unwanted pang of sympathy.

After a tiny pause Nellie tried again. “Are you rooming alone this time? You've got the exact same room we're in, with two double beds. I suppose the organizers just reserved a block of them.”

“I am,” Jane said, “and it's wonderful. No offence, but I'm really glad to have a room to myself this time around. I need the downtime.” Which was patently untrue, since she'd already set herself up in the role of “person who serves tea to all comers,” but Silverman could see her point. She appreciated downtime herself.

So it must have been sheer pity for Nellie's youth and unhappiness that moved her to speak. “I've got a room to myself, too. Do you want to crash with me, Nellie?”

“I'd love to,” Nellie said, throwing her a painfully grateful look. “Silverman, was it? Do you have a first name?”

“Yes,” said Silverman, quellingly.

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