* * * *
Ambrose and Percy pushed their way into the warmth and buzz of Trump’s Teahouse. This particular Teahouse was located just down the road on the opposite side of the street from Mrs Milliard’s shop. It was now lunchtime, and in lieu of getting their regular pie from Mrs Milliard, many of the locals were now crammed into Trump’s, looking for a bite to eat. Thankfully, despite the madness that was ensuing, several local people had agreed to meet with Ambrose and Percy to discuss the present situation. As the detectives made their way to a table in the corner, they could overhear the wild rumours flying around the room. “I heard they’ve gone mad and started serving up horse meat, that’s why the pies are so bad now!” said one man as he munched on a pastry. “No, no – their equipment’s just broken, I hear they’ll be open again this afternoon.” replied another man as he stuffed his face with a lime tart.
“Mrs Milliard’s gone insane!”
“It’s a sign of The Eight! The end is near!”
“Horse meat! Can you even eat horse meat?”
And so the rumours flew around the room. Ambrose sat down at the table, which was quite cramped owing to the fact that four others were also squeezed into the corner. Percy somehow maneuvered his way in to bring the total ensemble to six.
Mr and Mrs Trump, the owners of the establishment, sat in one corner. Both were portly and short, grubby from the business of the day. They had been working in the area for a number of years, with mixed success. Mrs Trump was known for her stern manner and outstanding tea collection, whilst Mr Trump was known for falling asleep constantly, and for getting yelled at by Mrs Trump. At the moment he appeared to be attempting the former, and was likely to soon be indulging in the latter. Beside him sat the balding and somewhat bemused Mr Button, the local tailor. He was wearing his white shirt and pinstripe waistcoat, and sported a moustache that was neatly trimmed at the side of his wide mouth. He seemed to not be enjoying all the commotion. Finally, next to him sat Bernie, part of the local residents association, and a well-known pickpocket. He was clearly fidgety in the midst of such a large crowd of potential “business”, but was managing to keep his hands firmly on the table whilst members of the C. P. F. were present.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us today” began Ambrose. “I trust that you’re all aware of the seriousness of the situation with Mrs Milliard.” Mrs Trump immediately butted in: “Well we’re aware that something’s wrong, but without more information we’re not going to be of much use to you. When are you planning on telling us exactly what’s happening? We’re up to our ears in people here, and it seems like no one knows when it will end!” She gave her husband a mighty thump on the chest, and he started to life in his chair. “Yes! Yes, how long will it take to mend?” he blustered, shaking off his sleepiness. “We can’t tell you exactly what the issue is at present” Ambrose patiently replied, as Percy began to scribble in his notebook. “But you can certainly help to speed things along. Have you seen anything suspicious in the past few days? Anyone that you didn’t recognise roaming around the place?” He quizzed. Mr Trump raised his voice over the din – “No idea, but if you’re looking for suspicious characters, there’s the man to start with!” He thrust an accusing finger in the direction of Bernie, who looked at him with an expression of faux-shock. “Me? Why Mr Trump, I would have thought you’d have learnt to trust me by now! I’ve been a loyal customer of yours for years!” He held his hand to his heart and smiled broadly. “Alas, I’ve been out of town on business. I only agreed to come to this meeting as a sign of good faith. We at the residents association do appreciate a good pie, and are awfully fearful of what could become of this street without Mrs Milliard making her famous pies.”
Ambrose regarded Bernie with a sideways glance. Here was a petty criminal, who like so many of the low-lives walking the downtown back alleys wouldn’t part with information without a fee being levied. For Ambrose, this meant there was little to be gained in pressing the issue – and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to bribe anyone, it went against his standards. Still… something about this pickpocket was a bit off. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but…
Mr Button joined the conversation. “Well I, for one, would be ruined without Mrs Milliard’s business. She draws in the crowds from around the neighbourhood, and they often drop in garments to me to get fixed and altered – not to mention the money my wife makes from cleaning out pie stains from people’s clothes.” He seemed to be growing more distraught at the reality of the situation. “There’s not a single clothes merchant near this place. Without the famous Milliard drawcard, people will simply leave their garments at Quince’s Taylorshop in the Garment District. I’m afraid that I won’t last long once the buzz dies down.” He thrust his hand dramatically around the room. “All these people will be gone in a few days, without the drawcard of the pies – no offence to your cooking, Mrs Trump.” She shot him an icy look, but replied sweetly. “None taken, I’m sure.”
Ambrose was finding himself getting highly uncomfortable in the midst of the crush of people pouring in for their lunchtime feed. He quizzed the group one more time. “So has anyone actually got any information that could help us get to the bottom of this mystery? Any comings and goings, anything out of place or unusual?” Blank stares greeted his question. “Very well then, sorry to waste everyone’s time.” He stood up to leave. Nothing was going to be achieved here. As he turned to go, he heard Percy pipe up. “Any of you employ someone strong enough to lift some heavy machinery?” Ambrose froze. Oh no, Percy, you can’t give away Mrs Milliard’s secret. He tried to hide his feelings as he looked back at the group. Everyone simply shook their heads, but Mrs Trump did have one suggestion. “What about the tall bloke Mrs Milliard employs to keep the crowds under control whenever it gets busy? He’s a walking mountain he is, wouldn’t surprise me if he could lift something heavy… what was it you think he’s done anyways?” Before Percy could answer, Ambrose cut him off “Nothing, we just need to see if someone was capable of breaking into the shop. It would take a lot of strength.” He laid his hand firmly on Percy’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s go.” As much as Ambrose didn’t like Mrs Trump’s nosiness, she might have had a point – perhaps the tall man did have something to hide. He looked out through the crowd as they pushed their way to the exit.
Once they made it out of the tea shop, Ambrose scanned the street but the man was gone, as the crowd outside Mrs Milliard’s shop had clearly got the message and moved on to tastier pursuits. Frustrated, Ambrose decided they would check their last lead out immediately. He turned to Percy, who was panting away from the exertion of moving through the crowd, and finishing up his notes. “Percy, you must be careful – we have to be extremely careful not to give away anything about Mrs Milliard’s situation and methods.” “Sorry, I just have a theory, that’s all.” Percy replied quietly. Ambrose was getting fed up with theories and rumours. He shot back immediately: “Well that’s all well and good, but we’re acting with discretion. So for heaven’s sake, be discreet!” Percy muttered something about being sorry, but Ambrose didn’t stick around. He turned and started walking up the hill. It was time to visit the workshop of the Aurelious family, home to some of the greatest Artisans in all the Empire, and the place where Morris had been assembled. Time was short, and so far the answers were few.