Hi!! #6 sentimental for Fleetwhistle, if you want to?
Archibald Fleet was not a sentimental man. On the whole, he viewed sentimentality with suspicion, the way he viewed an overly helpful witness, or any given member of the Bell family at all times. And in Even Greater London, a city awash in the sentimental - attributable at least in part to the literally undying love of its monarch for her consort - that made him something of an outlier. This did not bother him, in general. Fleet had become accustomed to being the only level-headed ship in a sea of silliness.
Which is why if one were to ask him about the smallish fabric-bound scrapbook he kept tucked in an inconspicuous desk drawer, he would demur. If pressed, he would grow flushed and stammer something about it being unimportant. And if pestered, he would become testy and demand that one mind one's own business.
For if access to this book could be gained out of Fleet's sight, it would reveal itself to contain a ticket stub to a mummy unwrapping, a smallish feather, such as might be shed from the wing of a common budgie, a sheaf of newspaper clippings, all with the same author, and a telegram receipt reading simply, "Ginger Bun".
Clara appeared in the office looking pleased with herself, but she didn't have to say why, because Fleet already had a copy of the Morning Chronicler on his desk. "Another frontpager," he noted, and she beamed.
"It was just one of those that practically wrote itself," she said. "I'll nip down and get us some coffee, shall I?"
"Good idea," he replied, waiting until she was on her way down the stairs before opening a desk drawer and removing a small book and a pair of scissors.
