Harry glared at the woman, made a rude gesture, and opened his mouth, but then he saw the man walk towards him, and he started walking back. He tripped and fell, but scrambled to his feet and hurried out of the pub (though not without bumping into a few tables). "To hell with ye!" he shouted when he was safely outside, and he walked away.

"Goodbye now," she said cheerfully and waved like a queen. The disgusting pig of a man. She turned to Quentin and said, "I do apologize for my temper, but that man..." She gestured with her hands and made a disgusted face. Her comical expression soon turned serious and she gave a heavy sigh. "I hope I prove to be a bit more useful than the lout." The young woman approached the table once more and returned to studying the map as opposed to staring at Quentin; she seemed eager to help.

A young man stepped into the inn, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the shouting drunk who stumbled past him. He was always looking for conflicts to report on, but the drunk rows at the bottom of society were too common and uninteresting for his readership. Anyway, he wasn't here to work on a story. Yet.

He made his way over to the bar, ordered a whiskey for the sake of etiquette, and asked where he might find the Marquis North. Upon the reply, he turned his head and observed the aristocrat, before making his way over. Once there, he waited patiently until the woman who was addressing the Marquis was done speaking.

Gareth Scott was dressed in his best suit, with an emerald tie, and a bowler hat. His face was clean shaven and he was well groomed - very well groomed, like a man who spent just a little too much time in front of the mirror. It was all part of the job, of course.

"Lord Marques Quentin North, sir? Am I correct?" His accent was local, though Gareth had spent years trying to lose it. He always feared people might mistake him for a working class man - an absolute nightmare. At least his dress suggested otherwise. "I'm Gareth Scott, s-, my Lord, here to respond to your advert."

"Considering I was well and truly ready to box his ears myself, you have little enough to apologize for." Quentin says with a snort. "I have some tolerance for such disruptable people. However, if he could not even provide the barebones of local knowledge than I see little point in it." Though perhaps, in all fairness, he should have made it clear that it was local knowledge of Whitby county rather than isolated to just the town. C'est La'vie.

Turning to the young man he arches an eyebrow. "Quentin if you please young man, sir if you must." He held little love for title so he was fine with being called by his first name. However, if someone insisted on being polite he preferred the honorific he had earned through service to the crown rather than the title he'd been born with. Not waiting for a reply he jumps to the meat of things. "What qualifications do you have young man? So far I've had a drunk, who I've turned away. And a spitfire, who I am inclined to indulge. What do you bring to the table?"

She gave a nod of agreement when Quentin said what he said. Her eyes squinted a little and then relaxed. She was glad that the drunkard had gone away. Her skin still crawled from his touch, but she wouldn't complain anymore about someone she hoped never to meet again.

A more agreeable sort of man seemed to wander in and get Quentin's attention, and hers too. She gave a nod to him and said, "And I am Claire Devereaux." Not that it mattered much, they would have gotten introductions soon anyways.

[[CW: Sexism]]

Gareth raised a brow at what he assumed was the 'spitfire', who introduced herself. He lifted his hat shortly. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Devereaux," he said quickly. He could not know for certain, of course, whether she was married, but considering the fact that she had signed up for an adventure, he assumed that she had neither father nor husband to keep her from doing such unwomanly things.

He turned back to Quentin. "I am a local reporter, sir, and as such I am very familiar with the town, and accustomed to doing further research, should there be need of it." Usually his research consisted of listening in on town gossip and picking the most sensational tale, embellishing it with his own speculation, but Quentin didn't need to know that. He knew how to use a library.

"That sounds a bit more promising than our last potential member." Quentin says with a chuckle. "And you've yet to say anything inappropriate, which is another boon. So, I will give you the first riddle and we will see how well you do with it." Quentin clears his throat and repeats the riddle. "Our lad Farris needed coin so I left one for him under the Western Bank."

If the man was thinking sour thoughts of her because she was a woman, she was left blissfully unaware. It paid to be polite, folks, for she had not one unkind word to say to the reporter. In fact, she would glance toward the door, straighten her neck an lift her head up a little higher, then reach up to pat the slightly mussed quaffier at the back of her neck, and then blow a random lock of hair out of her face, obviously still fuming at the character that was Mister Long in the pants and short of brains. She was glad not to have to smell his putrid fart breath anymore.

"The pleasure is mine," she drawled, before returning her gaze to Quentin and then back to the reporter with a now, raised eyebrow. He would probably give a better answer than fart-breath for certain.

Gareth frowned and began to think. He was aware of how riddles could refer to less obvious meanings. Bank could mean a river bank or a bank for money. But he didn't know a bank that might be specified with that description and the town had a river after all. "Well, bank must be the western river bank of the Esk. If it's under a bank... perhaps it refers to the wooden staithes? It's underneath there?" It was a long shot, but the riddle was harder than he had expected. Farris didn't ring any bells.

"Well, that was certainly a more impressive display than the last... man who tried to answer it." Quentin says arching a singular eyebrow. "Though I can see that your knowledge is likely limited to just the town of Whitby. I'll provide a hint and see if it shakes anything loose. You've gotten the part about it being related to the river correct, the relevant piece of local history is near Glaisdale." Quentin explains eying the young man waiting to see if this prompts a more exact answer.