(1939-03-25) All That Is Good Is All I Defend
Details for All That Is Good Is All I Defend
Summary: Seeking possible witnesses to the latest Banshee crime, Aldrin discovered instead, Miss Signe Crabbe.
Date: 1939-03-25
Location: South Vertick Alley
Plot: The_Banshee
Related: The BANSHEE

It is a spring night. The weather is cool and overcast…

Often considered part of Diagon Alley by the masses, Verdic Alley looks much the same as Diagon proper, with shops of all sizes often leaning against each other or leaning out over the walkway. Here in the southern end of Verdic Alley, nearest the turnoff from Diagon, the only real difference is the walkway itself is a bit straighter, and then only a bit.

Stepping out of the book shop, a hard cover book clutched in both hands, is a rather slight, blonde-haired woman. She wears a light cloak in the warm weather over the top of a Muggle-style dress made of white fabric with small red and purple flowers dotted across it. She pauses near the front of the store - looking first one way and then the other, looking disappointed as whatever she /had/ been looking for doesn't seem to materialize. Oh… well. Not like that was terribly unexpected.

A tall young man, dark of hair and eyes moves with focused determination, eyeing the crowd here and there nearly with dramatic suspicion on his face. His eyes rove in every direction, apparently assessing details. Deftly, he avoids various collisions with passersby. He halts suddenly and looks at the young woman. His eyes narrow as he approaches. "Your pardon, miss, but I wonder if I might ask you a few questions. I am Inspector Summerbee, M.L.E."

As the man approaches her, Signe's eyes widen, and she takes a small step back - finding herself backed against the wall of the book shop. She lowers her gaze, clutching tighter to the book in front of her. "Umm, questions?" she asks incertainly, her voice soft. "Of course, I-inspector."

Aldrin attempts a smile, but it's obviously pasted on and probably has nothing to do with the young woman he is questioning. He cocks his head at her reaction, and then peers at her attire. "Hmm, probably a waste of time, but I can certainly inform you that your cooperation, if pertinent, would be greatly appreciated by the Ministry. From your style of dress, I calculate a seventy-five percent chance that you are NOT a resident of Diagon Alley?"

"No, Inspector, I'm not," Signe answers quietly, still not looking up. "I live in a flat in Soho - with a friend. But… if I can help the MLE, I'm happy to do so."

Aldrin issues a genuine smile at this point, though it is apparent that he is disappointed that he is correct. "Oh well, it's all moot then.
Still, I should advise you that there is a criminal at large. We…", and here it's clear he means the MLE, "will be issuing notices warning the public. The danger is severe, but so far, not directly to the everyday citizen. I assume you've heard of the Banshee…miscreant vigilante?" He arches eyebrows, clearly expecting an affirmative.

A criminal? Danger? Signe looks up now - her eyes widening with surprise and a little fear. "A vigilante?" she repeats. "No, sir. I hadn't heard yet," she offers uncertainly. Perhaps she'd been remiss in not keeping up with the Daily Prophet but - well. Living with a Muggle, it can be difficult to have owls showing up with newspapers with moving pictures on it!

Clearly taken aback, Aldrin nevertheless proceeds, "Don't be alarmed. The criminal's victims are not, as I say, the everyday Witch or Wizard…no. You need not be concerned. However, any suspicious activities you may have witnessed, well we should all be obliged if you would report them forthwith. It could be that you have no idea of the significance. For instance, I must simply ask you this: where were you at approximately 1:33 AM yesterday eve?" He whips out a small note pad and small, white feather which float in the air nearby. The quill appears to be prepared to write.

"Oh, well… I was singing," Signe admits quietly, reaching up with one hand to tuck her hair behind her ear while a little color sneaks into her cheeks. "I sing jazz at a little club called Blue Heaven. I was there."

Now, one eyebrow quirking to a great height on his face, Aldrin looks preplexed, "Muggle establishment, I assume?" Already suspecting the answer he looks distracted by some sort of internal defeat. Apparently, a hope has been dashed. The quill scribbles on the small paper. The scratching overcomes the general din of the passersby.

"Yes, Inspector," Signe admits, shifting uneasily on her feet. "It is. Just a Muggle jazz club and dance hall," she explains, both hands
clutched tightly to her new book once again.

Aldrin is clearly disappointed. "Well, I had hoped you were near the Leaky Cauldron. So, the quest must go on!" Suddenly, he looks up, "Oh, your pardon, Miss, but for the record, what was your name again?" He is transformed into just another young Wizard now, no longer the grim-faced Inspector—but it is very clear that he is only being polite at this point.

"I don't believe I gave it yet," the girl admits with some embarrassment. "It's Signe Crabbe," she offers.

Aldrin's eyes widen slightly. The quill scratch-scratch-scratches something unseen. "Hmm. Crabbe, is it? Well, then. Here I shall speak, as we say, 'off the record', if you will permit the presumption…?" He babbles on and suddenly seems to change his mind on what he was about to say. Finally, he settles on this, instead of whatever else it was. The quill and pad return to his pocket, "When you mentioned your place of employment…well, am I correct in detecting some sort of apprehension on your part? You demonstrated unease, denoting an unspoken desire for a change of subject. Is there something wrong with your place of employment?"

The color in Signe's cheeks deepens, and she stares determinedly down at the floor. Oh, if only Beryl were here! "No, of course there's nothing wrong with it," she answers hastily, but still in a soft voice. "I love it there, and I love the people there, as well."

Aldrin looks unconvinced, the realization of who he is speaking to is clearly on his face. It may be that he can begin to comprehend what is amiss here, "Miss Crabbe, I thank you for your cooperation. The Ministry will not soon forget it. If ever you have need, feel imperilled or otherwise troubled with…hmmm…any sort of ramifications, please feel free to call on Griffith and I." With that, he produces a card and
thrusts it towards the young lady with a no-nonsense gesture. The card certainly has text on it in exsquisite calligraphy.

"Griffith?" Signe answers uncertainly, looking up again to accept the card, and risking a peek at the man's face. Did he realize what she
was…? If he did - he didn't seem to care. Her gaze quickly goes from his features, to silently inspecting the card she now holds in her hand.

The card is a typical business card of the times: small, with a filigreed border and neat calligraphy. Cleary, handwritten: Griffith Tarrant
and Assoc., Private Detective. Below that is an address in Diagon Alley.

Aldrin bows slightly and is already eyeing others passing by, the multitudes who may or may not be witnesses—-whether they know it or not! He moves away into the crowd leaving the young woman standing there.

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