#but a whole load of people must have misread it if that was the case...

[socialitesleuth]

"This is Britain." Penelope contemplates, though even she isn't entirely convinced by her own conclusion herself. "The weather can change here at the drop of a hat."

She eyes up the downpour through the windows. It's becoming heavier with each passing minute. The pellets of water hit the glass loudly and Penelope wonders for a moment if the rain has since turned to hail. Sure, British weather could be unpredictable, but John was right to express his concerns.

This didn't seem normal.

A quick thought of the local farmers and landowners distracts her momentarily. With such a heavy storm, and with it occurring so suddenly, flooding was all the more likely. Penelope makes a mental memo to check in with the locals once the situation has cleared. Depending on the scale of destruction, perhaps she and Parker could be of some assistance.

"Then again," she reconsiders, with her attention fully back to the present situation, "when you put your suspicions like that, it is rather alarming."

Penelope could remember the problems that had been caused by Fishler with his out-of-control drones. Despite the chaos that had ensued, the man hadn't been trying to wreak havoc.

While she doubted Fischler would be fool enough to try that experiment again, she didn't rule him out entirely. The self-proclaimed visionary was always one best kept on watch.

But if this freak storm was indeed due to some sort of interference, and it wasn't caused by Fishler, then who? Was this the result of another science experiment gone wrong, or was there something more sinister at play? If someone was deliberately causing such a storm with malicious intentions...

Penelope cast the theories and questions from her mind and smiles cheerily, undisturbed as the howling gale outside rages on.

"At least the report on the manor is a relief. Parker will be thrilled to hear there isn't much to worry about there."

She'll save the news for later, however; she doesn't want to remind him of the worry he'd had.

Her manicured nails, pristine and unchipped, swipe John's image to one side of her device before pulling up a secondary image. She processes the guest-list, making a couple of quick adjustments before sending the file over. "There, I've sent you the finalised version. The ones ticked off are those who are accounted for. The rest... I do hope they've managed to find shelter."

The dimly glowing lights from the chandelier flicker. A few of the guests, still shaken by the storm, gasp. Thank goodness the Creighton-Ward Manor has a fair few backup generators. An evening trapped inside in the dark wasn't a promising prospect for anyone.

"Thank you, John." Penelope isn't sure she's vocalises her gratitude yet. "For the warning, and for the assistance."

Garden Party Gale [RP]

@socialitesleuth:

Stressed is not a word that Penelope's vocabulary is overly familiar with. She's the epitome of the quaint and oft-overused British saying of Keep Calm and Carry On. Years of handling situations that were less than ideal meant that Penelope had an astute ability to remain unfazed by sudden predicaments. Such as this one. Calm and collected, her mind is already attempting to solve a compendium of possible conundrums, solutions to various problems that could occur should the storm become anymore worrisome. She's unflinching as the manor begins to take a battering from the gale, nonplussed when the hears a scream echo from the entryway down the hall. Utterly composed. After all, panicking never helped anyone resolve anything. "Flying gazebos, you say?" Penelope can't let that comment slip by. As she leaves her position by the window, her lips curve into an amused little grin. She directs it at the little figure hovering in the the centre of her faux cosmetic compact. "Don't be saying things like that around our dear friend Fischler. I'm sure he'd find the concept absolutely splendid!" She, like John, did not. The imagery of out-of-control tents soaring haphazardly through the skies is enough to have her hurrying along the hallway, towards the entrance. The corridor acts like a wind tunnel. The closer she gets to the open entrance, the stronger the draught is. Penelope fights against the gusts, raising her voice slightly to be heard over the whistling gale. "I believe this particular event was to have upwards of fifty in attendance. It's not one of my biggest events of the year, I'm pleased to report, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't worried about anyone who might still be travelling getting caught up in this storm." Howling, strong breezes rattle through the open doorway. Parker is already there, standing stalwart with a white knuckle grip on the cast-iron handles. He's ushering in the guests, offering up a hand to the slightly older couple who are straggling behind the rest. To describe the group as windswept would be an understatement; even their clothes are lopsided from their brief tussle with the storm. A quick headcount has them at fifteen and, without hesitation, Penelope guides them all through to one of the manor's many libraries. Normally this is one that remains closed to the public. Old texts and unique editions are housed in there, usually off-limits to any possible prying eyes, but Penelope makes an exception to the rules. Out in the corridor, the thump of the large outer doors being closed reverberates through to them and Parker appears moments later. "Cor, blimey!" He says. "Ain't seen a storm this bad for donkey's years. Everyone h'alright?" He attends to the guests, assessing and checking on each and every one in turn. Leaving them in Parker's capable hands, Penelope takes a seat on an Ottoman on the other side of the library. Her shoulders are slightly hunched but she still sounds as composed as she was when she first picked up John's call. "Worry not, we've taken shelter in the West Wing. No-one appears injured, just a little shaken up. Understandable, given the circumstances." The wind's howls sound more like roars in the rafters above. Rain continues to pelt against the windows, turning the visibility to effectively zero. If the grey clouds had sunk down to ground level, no-one inside the manor would have known; it all looked grey and opaque outside now. A sudden crash occurs from somewhere outside and a few of the guests jump out of their skin. Even Parker seems to wince at the sound. "Any idea how long this storm is going to last, John?"

"Uh-huh." A muscle under one of his eyes twitches a little, aware he's being teased about the gazebo thing, but, professional as ever, John doesn't comment on it... still, he doesn't think she's going to let that one go easily.

He does finds the mention of Fishler suddenly unsettling though.

"You know..." Something uncomfortable dawns on the astronaut, "I haven't been able to work out why there was no reference to this storm in local meteorological predictions." His frown deepens, "The first mention was the Amber Alert that Thunderbird Five flagged less than five minutes ago." And the whole thing had not only come out of nowhere, but it's weirdly localised over to the South East of London and Northern Kent. "Why," He postulates, mostly to himself, "would no one have seen a force ten gale coming?"

Except, John has seen sudden, unpredictable atmospheric conditions like this once before, with Fishler and his weather drones. He's developing a very bad feeling about this.

"Eos?" He calls up to her, somewhere offscreen, "Can you run me a scan for any large, metal anomalies in the airspace around South East London? Calibrate it for anything receiving electrical signals."

"FAB John." She chirps, her voice routed into the narrowband Commline so that Penelope can hear her too, "Here is your structural report."

Eos cascades the requested information into his hands and John's relived to find the East Wing is in better shape than it had looked.

"You've got a dormer and a couple of chimneys that might need repair come morning." He reports, "But the foundation analysis is looking good." Which is impressive for a building the age of the Creighton-Ward mansion. "Forward me your guest list?" John requests, "I'll run check-ins for you with anyone unaccounted for."

It's lucky he's a master of multitasking. The crash-bang outside the manor doesn't even seem to phase him.

"I'm no meteorologist," John tells her, "but, I'd expect a storm like this to last at least overnight, though if that windspeed drops, the rain could be there longer."