London vs. Melbourne

The Holloway Castle Inn had a small pub on the ground floor with rooms on the next two levels. An older establishment, the wooden bar surround was festooned with framed photos and other memorabilia. The owner stood in the middle of the enclosure, almost like a cage of wood, glasses, bottles, and a few rum kegs; a tattered cricket banner, from 1882, hung not so proudly behind the register. A bitter game against the Australians and London loosing again, on their own turf, soured the locals and the games hence forth between the two countries would be called 'The Ashes.'

Laughing in a hearty, jovial manner, Mr. Croup eyed the two new comers, waving them over. He really hoped they weren't Ozzies.

"Welcome gents, what can I get you? See you have luggage, need a room?" The man's reddish, round face was like a beach ball piled on top of an even bigger ball that formed his body; a shock of dark hair greased back didn't help.

Warren smiled as he leaned on the counter, "A room and a pint sounds great."

"How long do ya' plan to stay?" Mr. Croup relieved to hear a familiar accent, grinned wide.

Turning to look at his seemingly distracted companion, Warren wonders himself.

Jack gives the appearance of an absent-minded and aloof character, but he was scanning the room.

"A fort-night, possibly longer... can you accommodate us?" Jack looked sideways at Mr. Croup; the great rotund figure made him slightly ill.

"Certainly, certainly... you're notta' Londoner." Mr. Croup looks at Jack's back and then smiles at Warren; he's not sure this man isn't running from the law.

"No, he isn't... a recent transplant; I'm from the country myself. We have business here, so... the room?"

Stepping out from behind the bar corral, Mr. Croup puffs as he leads them up the narrow stairs. It's a miracle he fits.

The room is small with two single beds and a wash basin, a view on to the street below adds the only ambiance.

"Perfect. Have you had any other guests take rooms here in the last few days?" Jack doubts Norman is here, but.

"No, last came in about a week ago, he left yesterday; you expecting someone?"

Mr. Croup handed Warren the key and looked dubious at Jack.

"We're meeting some friends, colleagues, but they may not have made it here yet."

"Well, 'appy  to have 'em; that'll be 10 and 6. Meals are served at 7 for guests."

Warren hands the money to Mr. Croup, who departs, waddling through the door as a 'thank you' is murmured.

Letting his bags drop, Jack pulls back the curtains and gazes out the window. A thick fog of black pollution, created by soot and ashes, makes the night seem like an abyss. Street lights glow faintly in the haze, but the prison is lit up like a factory.

"What now?" Warren takes off his coat, brushing some of the soot ash that hand collected on the shoulders.

"We have that pint, my friend, and listen to the gossip."

Jack grins as he flings his coat across a small wooden chair; a small cloud of dust poufs up from the floor. The filth of Victorian London is everywhere.

"Use that clever, inquiring detective's mind to root out any details of unusual happenings in the last week or so, in this or the nearby areas."

"Well, that Sir, I can do!" Warren laughs as they head downstairs for that pint. 

Public Domain, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2480305