Call of Cthulhu: The Windthrope Legacy. IC Thread.

[Xsesiv]

OoC Thread (http://www.giantitp.com/forums/showthread.php?453913-Call-of-Cthulhu-The-Walker-in-the-Wastes-OoC-Thread&p=20007307#post20007307)
The Walker in the Wastes

the Prologue:

The Dead of Winter

Three figures, wrapped head to toe in Arctic gear, can be seen struggling through the tundra towards the camp, a few hundred yards out. It's a snowy day, requiring binoculars for them to see far. Each of them carries a rifle, brought out that morning in the hopes of shooting a seal, musk ox or caribou for supper, and each rifle has a different nation of origin, much like the people themselves: a German, an American, and a Canadian; two physicians – a man and a woman – and a male zoologist. They had a bit of luck today, managing to bag a middle-sized seal as it surfaced through a breathing hole, and they are currently dragging the carcass back to camp on a small sled.

The first person to spot them is the handyman. The radio, which it's his job to operate, has been playing up intermittently for a few days, so having ruled out any problems with the equipment itself, he is currently up on the radio room roof, doing something to the mast. "Oh, no," he shouts when he sees the hunters return. "Dr. Jason and his Doctor Argonauts are back!"

In the chemical laboratory within the camp work two men: one tall, one short, but both fit-looking and heavily muscled, and both trying not to get in each other's way too much in the cramped space. One, the shorter, has a few vaguely-promising ore samples which he is breaking up with a small hammer and then subjecting to tests. The other's occupied in something entirely less scientific, using chemical solutions to develop photographs. Doing this in the darkroom would give better results, but since that amounts to little more than a cupboard off the chemistry lab, the photographs need to be prepared out here and then put in the darkroom quickly to develop. They are putting up with the intermittent clangs and bangs , quite audible from here, as Horning fiddles with the radio mast.

The third medical doctor on the expedition sits within the living quarters. At the opposite end of the room stands the thin, shock-headed botanist, at an easel. The doctor throws down the book he is reading onto the desk and sighs anxiously as he looks at the clock set upon the wall. In the same room sits a redheaded woman, feeble- and uncouth-looking, nose deep in another book.

"Hey, what's the time?" asks the painter, looking up over his half-moon glasses.

"It's just past three."

"Well, if the hunting party's brought us something, I'll start dinner in an hour or so. If they haven't, I'll just have to make do with corned beef."

"Again?"

Wandering towards the fireplace, the doctor decides to allow himself the rare luxury of a pipe of tobacco, producing his pouch and loading the bowl with care. He places the stem between his teeth, lights a spill from the fire, and then the pipe slips, scattering the precious tobacco, which is sucked into the fire by the rush of air to feed the flames. He curses savagely and bangs the mantelpiece with a fist.

[jolinaxas]

Ellie woke up late in the day. That is to say, it was near noon when she decided to pry herself out of bed in search of aspirin and breakfast. Eight hours earlier, when she was stumbling home from the local bar's cover band performance, it had all seemed to have been worth it. Now, everything was a reminder of her obligations. Her Powerbook was currently acting as a serving-table to a plate with day-old toast, the word processor program on the screen nothing a bleak, white landscape. Motivation. That's what Eleanor needed in her life, upcoming manuscript deadline or not. But it seemed that motivation was the one scarcity that people like her ever had to deal with.

After a bleary stroll down the street to pick up cigarettes and a newspaper, she got ready and dressed. Black t-shirt. Black Jeans. Nice big boots. But for what? She'd spoken to the lead singer about a possible interview tonight. Some fluffy, harmless art piece for the local paper to make a quick buck. She imagined a cruel, but true headline.

"Local band passably able to play other people's songs. Hey, it's the best we've got..."

Christ, he'd been out of his mind on drink and God knows what else. Maybe he wouldn't even remember. After a few hours of minimally productive screen-staring, she abandoned her smoky, self-imposed exile when she heard the phone ringing.

[Plerumque]

Allan rose early and went for a walk. He found it most interesting to observe the neighborhood in the hours before dawn. One could really observe the surroundings without fear of distraction, of being jolted out of his reverie by some crude philistine. He returned home as his gainfully employed housemates began to stir and fixed himself a frugal breakfast before leaving again. He preferred to work outdoors, so he walked through town, ignoring the automobile fumes, until he reached a park in the upper-class side that wasn't too smog-choked and sat there, scratching lines through the draft of his manuscript and adding cramped notes in the margins. He broke his trance now and then to snap a few pictures of things that caught his attention- a fallen tree trunk eaten by termites, a bird's empty nest fallen from the tree branches that had secured it, a row of pale flowers by the water's edge.

He returned home at around noon to develop the pictures and check if he'd gotten a call from any of the studios he'd sent letters to. He saw Ellie focusing on her work (or absence thereof) and took an alternate route through the house to check the telephone. Nothing, of course. He set the photographs to dry in their chemicals and left again, pacing the streets restlessly as he agonized over whether to give up and get another job. Evening crept across the streets before he knew it, and he returned to find Ellie on the phone. "What's going on?" he asks.

[Tyeal]

Lukas hit the buzzer on his clock before it could go off. Being conditioned to get up at the same time for the last few years did that to a person. He sighed and stretched, popping his stiff joints, and hauling himself out of bed. He turned on his computer, making himself some breakfast in the meantime. His apartment was nicely sized and well-furnished, his job allowing him a number of creature comforts, and helping him with his job in a number of ways as far as finding needed information. With his plate of eggs, toast, and fruit, he sat at his computer and began scanning the internet for any new electrical tools, info he should know about, and some possible training equipment.

Breakfast and his search done with, he sets about slipping on some athletic tape around his hands, and a decent pair of shoes, squaring up with the hanging sandbag in a corner of his apartment. He spent roughly an hour just practicing some basic hand-to-hand fighting, as well as getting a proper charge and take-down technique down. And wound himself down with a leisurely bike ride. Lukas had himself set up in a nice complex, installing himself as the electrician for his block of buildings in exchange for getting his rent reduced by his landlord. He would wave to his neighbors as they went about their own routine, before finishing his route and coming back home.

The rest of his day was spent going through his Electrician's Code handbook, keeping Electrical Theory fresh in his mind, watching a crappy B-Movie, and playing on his imported NES for a little while.

"Damn!" He grunted and tossed the controller away. "Fukin' Wily.. I'm gonna shove mah buster right up his arse one o' these days..."

[Hack Writer]

Interview Mrs Prenderghast
Re-write Barry’s article about the sheep rustling up at the Hopson Farm
Drop off the editor’s dry cleaning
Keep writing that expose about the mayor’s connection to the property developers (and damn the editor if he doesn’t print it!)
Write copy for the Prenderghast article

And now for the best bit of the day: the pub. Sure he still had copy to write, but that piece on Mrs Prenderghast and her “premonitions” could wait till tomorrow. After all, the future wasn’t going anywhere.

Grabbing his jacket and rummaging for his cigarette packet, Will kicked his chair under his desk and strolled to the door. Behind him, Agnes, the cleaner, bade him a cheery goodbye. Will returned it, before heading for his car, ruefully shaking his head as his mind wandered back to the final task on his list:

Mrs Prenderghast, a bona-fide Psychic? Pft! Bona-fide psycho, more like. After all, the woman kept ten cats, five of them in her hair alone. The spinster's decrepit cottage, old and broken, its timber perlins rotten, its floorboards groaning, stunk like a wet stable and sagged like a knackered horse – not unlike the old dame herself. Certainly she believed she was psychic, and the ill-defined curios that jostled for space on the overflowing bookcase of her gloomy front room went a long way towards reinforcing the illusion: dust-caked jars with peeling labels marked “mandragora root” and “mandrake”; strange brass objects – like executive toys, only more archaic – the peculiar old bird had referred to as “alembics and retorts”; the goat skulls; the taxidermied ravens with polished beryl for eyes; on the coffee table: tarot cards, arrayed in a Celtic Cross spread. Sure the editor bought it – or thought the Brichester Herald’s circulation would be interested enough to read about it – but Will knew it was all nonsense; just another dead-end assignment to punctuate the list of dead-end assignments he’d been given since his promotion.

“But it could be worse,” he told himself as the spluttering polo peeled away from the pavement and slid into the late evening traffic. “I could be jobless, and I don’t have a pot of cash like Ellie, or a hundred-grand income like Lukus.”

Thoughts of his friends brightened Will’s mood; he was looking forward to seeing them, to receiving their customary welcome at the front bar of the pub. There they’d talk into the wee small hours, of ghosts and monsters and matters Will was only passingly interested in. He’d humour them and they’d humour him, allowing the young reporter to offload the frustrations of his day without rolling eyes and disinterested look. Normalcy: Will liked that. Psychic hoodoo – one odd-bod’s cackle about gathering darkness descending on the Severn Valley – wasn’t his forte. Still, it might make for good conversation when he finally met his friends. They always liked that sort of talk.

[Xsesiv]

"Good evening, madam," says the voice on the other end of the phone, a polite, smooth, well-spoken voice suggesting education and a measure of intelligence, as Ellie answers it. "I'm sorry to trouble you so late. I'm calling from London. My name's Keith Carter Hannigan, of Aref, Alexander, Dyer & Hannigan, Solicitors. I understand that a Mr. Allen West lives at this number. Might I speak to him, please?"

_____

"You look like a fella who's had a long day, Will. Usual, is it?" asks Dave, the barman, as Will walks into the Folded Arms. Dave wears a sleeveless black denim jacket and a black ponytail, and perpetually squints in bright light, which leads one to wonder why he had the interior of the pub decked out with halogens. He puts the drink down on the bar and blows a bit of dust off a tap.

"Lukas and Ellie and Allan ain't in yet. The way Ellie was hitting the bottle last night, I won't be surprised if I don't see her all day. Saw Allan wandering round about midday. Dunno where Lukas is."

[jolinaxas]

Ellie stifled a yawn.

"So late? Ah, don't worry about it. Let me see if he's around."

She cupped a hand over the receiver.

"Allan - it's some law firm. Aref, something, and something. Are you here, if you know what I mean?"

[Plerumque]

Allan shifts his gaze to Ellie's face. "What? Oh. Yes, of course. I wonder if it's about one of those copyright issues I worked on for Ciernik, the old bastard. I can't imagine why they would have this number, though." He considers this for a moment, then shakes off the thought and accepts the receiver. "This is Allan West. May I inquire who is speaking?"

[Xsesiv]

"Good evening, Mr. West. Certainly you may, sir; this is Keith Carter Hannigan, of Aref, Alexander, Dyer & Hannigan, Solicitors. That firm is executor of the estate of your late cousin, Martin Dixon, and as I understand it, you've inherited some property. I take it you're the Mr. Allan West of Brichester, twenty-six years of age? Yes? Congratulations, sir."

Hannigan taps his tongue against his teeth and paper can be heard flipping on the far end of the phone.

"It's near the village of Severnford, Gloucestershire. Not far from your home at the moment. A Victorian manor house and, of course, its contents, and the ruins of a Norman castle, and some few acres of land. There's also a cash lump sum which comes to around £100,000, after taxes and – " Mr. Hannigan coughs with practised almost-imperceptibility – "legal fees. Might I prevail upon you to schedule a meeting at our offices at your earliest convenience, preferably along with your family or household? First-class tickets to London can be sent to the airport or train station of your choice by tomorrow morning, courtesy of the firm, of course; and we'll send a driver to bring you the rest of the way."

[Plerumque]

Allan's initial reaction is one of unadulterated shock. This must be a mistake... I've never seen that much money in my life, except maybe when handling Ciernik's finances. I'm not even sure I know anyone of that name. Then the memories begin filtering in: a visit to the Severnford area when he was young, and then not again afterwards. He remembered vaguely that they had money, and his mother, ashamed of their own state of affairs, didn't try to keep in touch. His own memories were hazy, though, and he'd need to call up a relative to check.

He realized the solicitor was waiting. "Ah, of course. Sorry, you took me somewhat by surprise- I'm sure you understand. I have no pressing engagements, so as soon as you can get the tickets here should be fine. I'm afraid my mother is deceased, and my father moved overseas after her death, so I have no immediate family. Would it be amenable if I brought a few close friends instead?"

[Xsesiv]

"Not at all, Mr. West. Of course, that will be no problem, sir," says Hannigan. "Though you're the sole heir, we usually prefer those who will be living in the new household to be present when we do this sort of property exchange. And off the record, sir, if it's not overstepping the mark, I suggest you move into the manor alongside a few other people. For tax purposes, you understand.

"Very well, sir, if it's acceptable, I'll send the tickets to Lower Brichester Station, the closest station to you that goes to London Paddington. If you make your way there in time to catch the one minute to midday train, I'll see you around half-past two tomorrow, God willing. How many tickets will you be requiring? Four? Five?"

[Plerumque]

"I see," says Allan, still slightly dazed. "Yes, four tickets should be fine. I'll call you back if any of my associates won't be able to make the trip, but I don't believe that should be a problem. Thank you, Mr. Hannigan. I hope to see you soon." He puts the phone down with a clunk. "Well," he says, speaking to Ellie. "It looks like I've come into some inheritance. Let's go down to the Folded Arms- I need a drink." Waving off any further queries, he leaves the house and makes directly for the pub, where he greets Dave with a quick hello and a request for a stiff drink, and slumps into a chair next to Will.

[jolinaxas]

Ellie lingered around nearby the phone, in the usual "I'm not listening, but you know, just in case..." manner.

"Inheritance? Well, you have my condolences - if they're necessary, that is. I'll take you up on that drink, but I really need to write this next chapter and... oh, you're out the door already."

Grabbing a leather jacket as quickly as she could manage, she followed Allan down to the bar, deciding to lean against the bar standing, beside her two roommates.

[Hack Writer]

“Ah!” Will sighed, the sum total of all the day’s exasperations finally given release. He deposited the beer glass on the bar counter, wiped his lips with the back of his right hand; he felt better, but the gnawing annoyance at the edge of his mind wouldn’t relent – and he needed to let it out.

Will turned his attention to Dave, the stoical, ever-understanding landlord of the Folded Arms. With his usual crew nowhere in sight –- Ellie, typical to form, probably nursing a hangover and acting all dreary in her pyjamas; Alan, probably scrabbling for loose change behind the sofa, he being the only guy poorer than Will; and Lukas being, well, Lukas -– it fell to Dave, upholding the proud tradition of patient publicans the world over, to shoulder Will’s troubles.

"You’ll never guess what the Ed had me doing today, Dave.” Will started, withdrawing a cigarette from his packet. “Bloody interviewing that bloody old bat that lives near the creek. You know, the one who threatened to cast a curse on the town council the other year after they built the bypass through ‘her’ woods. Mad as a box of frogs, that one. She insisted I called her ‘Ishatar’, said it was her ‘true name’. Mate, I’ve had it up to here--” he punctuated his tirade with a swift chop of his hand, to his forehead “-- with idiot assignments from the Weekly News. Tell you what, in a year or two, if that piece I ‘m writing about the property developers doesn’t make print, I’m off: to the Herald, or to the Gloucester Citizen. I’ve had about as much as I can take with writing about flakes and nobodies and their lost cats. ”

[Xsesiv]

"She came in here the other week," says Dave. "Stunk, she did. Got tipsy, gave up the spooky act and started flashing around some old photo she'd found of herself. Gorgeous, standing outside some mansion in the Lake District or something. Dunno what point she was trying to make, but it makes you wonder, don't it. Can't say I blame you wanting to leave, though. I was thinking about starting a scrapbook for the Weekly News, you know, Most-Trivial-Articles-Ever-to-be-Put-in-Print. Another pint?"

It's at this point Allan comes through the door and crashes down on a seat, closely followed by Ellie. "Here they are," announces Dave. He plonks down the drink Allan orders. "You alright, Allan, mate? I ain't seen you all day but you've been looking out of it. Hi, Ellie. That singer fella put you one in the tap last night if you want it."

It's shaping up to be a slow night at the Arms. It's only Wednesday, for a start, and the sunlight that has been warm and bright all day is quickly beginning to give way to night. Without cloud cover, the temperature is dropping rapidly. The only other customers in the pub at the moment are the real die-hard drinkers, a bunch of six or so large, older middle-aged men with buzzcuts, earrings and pints of lager, sitting at a corner table. Dave hits the switch to turn on the bar lights, and, eyes narrowed to slits, puts his elbows down at the bar and leans towards Allan, Ellie and Will.

[Hack Writer]

Will's response to Dave's revelation concerning the precognitive powers of Mrs Prenderghast is succinct: “Nuttier than squirrel turds, mate, I knew it! Honestly, I've a good mind to take this copy to the Ed tomorrow and shove it up his --” And then Allan and Ellie make their entrance, and Will forgets, for the first time this evening, thoughts of the clairvoyant cat lady and the merciless demands of his hack editor, welcoming his companions into the bar with a hearty: “Oi, oi!” followed by a: “The gruesome twosome have arrived!”

Allan slumps into the chair next to Will, and Will, taking a deep sup of his pint, gives his friend a good-natured nudge. “So, mucker, how'd your trip to the graveyard go? Everyone still dead?” He gives the joke time to sink in; like the head of a well poured pint of Guinness or a fine blanket of early winter snow, the wittiest jokes need to settle before their true beauty is appreciated. But he catches sight of Allan's expression: bemusement, uncertainty, and then he isn't so sure his particular brand of humour registered at all. “Hey, mate, are you feeling alright? I mean, you're looking a little peaky.”

FYI: I always find it easier to read a post if the speech is highlighted in a different colour; for no other reason, it allows players to pick out the heart of the post quickly, most of the time. And I chose Maroon!

[Xsesiv]

Dave chuckles at the joke and pours Ellie's drink. "Courtesy of the singer guy from last night," he says.

Amid uproarious laughter from the corner table, one of the men sitting there, mousy-haired, tall, barrel-chested, and dressed in a striped t-shirt, gets up and sways over to the bar holding a few empties, which he places on the bar. "Four more, please," he says to Dave. "Same glasses will be fine."

"I'm sure you'd rather talk it out with these your friends than me," says Dave to Allan with an almost imperceptible wink, by way of 'see you in a moment', goes over to the middle-aged man and starts pulling pints.

"Quiet tonight, isn't it, Dave?" says the big man.

"It's not just dead, mate, it's been identified by dental records and given a funeral with full military honours."

[Plerumque]

"Where to begin," Allan says, curling his fingers around his drink. "An old cousin of mine, someone named Martin Dixon, keeled over. Apparently, I was named as his heir in his will, despite the fact that I've met him maybe once in my life. And so, according to the lovely fellow who called me up a few minutes ago, I've inherited a Victorian-era manor house and it's surrounding lands, including the ruins of a castle- a castle!" Allan shakes his head in disbelief. "Oh, and about a hundred thousand pounds," he adds, taking a drink. "Anyway, this solicitor, who calls himself Hannigan, asked me to jaunt over to London "at my earliest convenience," so some matters can be settled. If he's anywhere near as efficient as he seemed on the line, the train tickets are probably already on their way to Lower Brichester Station. All this, though, it's just... well, I've seen films where this kind of thing happens. I've wrote a few myself, to be honest. But I'd never have thought that it could happen to me. It's a good thing, no question about it, though it has yet to really sink in. But how am I supposed to know what to do?" He tips the glass to his lips and drinks in silence for a few moments.

"But that's where you all come in, I suppose. You two and Lukas, you're my best friends. Maybe the best friends I've ever had, which sounds a little sad, but it's true. I was wondering if you could help me with this. If you would be willing to come live with me, once the papers are in my name. I'll have to wait until Lukas gets here to ask him, but I thought you, Ellie, might appreciate a change of scenery to inspire you, and I know you might appreciate not having to pay rent, Will. But then again, well, I don't know that Severnford has a thriving nightlife, or many stories to report on. So I'll understand if you don't want to come, but I'll be honest with you- I don't want to do this alone." Having forced the plea out, Allan drains his glass and sets it down, numbing himself to whatever response is forthcoming.

[jolinaxas]

Ellie took a too-long sip of the beer she'd ordered.

"Well, I appreciate the sentiment, Allan. And god knows this place has gotten a little... stifling. No offense, Dave."

She turned around to put her drink on the bar.

"And I can help out. No rent means maybe I could get us something better than cereal and those... noodle things. Not that I can cook, myself."

[Hack Writer]

Will gives Allan a bleary-eyed stare; the alcohol, drunk too fast and on an empty stomach, is starting to work mischief on his head. “Wait. So you’re telling me you’re a what, a rich bugger, like those la-di-da horse-and-croquet lot up Tewksbury way? Bwahaha! Pull the other one, Westy, it’s got bleeding knobs on!”

But Allan’s face is a graven mask of sobriety without the faintest trace of humour, and then Will, deadened senses finally registering the import of his words, exclaims: “Holy bloody Nora … you’re actually telling me the truth!” He rises from his seat at the bar then, slamming his empty pint glass on the counter twice in rapid succession like a judge about to pass sentence. “You’ve gotta celebrate, Westy, me bestest-best mate in the whole wide world! you’re, like, a rich git now – a country gent! Here, let me get the rounds in: a triple of quadruple whiskeys and something to chase it with: cider and black -- because, well, you’re unbelievably bloody rich!” He waves at Dave with all the enthusiasm of a ship-wreck survivor flagging down a passing cruise liner, “Oi, Dave, you’ll never guess what Allan’s just done! He’s only struck bloody gold, ain’t he? Richest squire in the valley now -- he’s a country gentleman! Drinks, mate, we want lots and lots of drinks!”

Will turns to Allan, an idiot smile cutting a lateral slice across his face: “and the answer’s “yes”, of course I bleeding go to London with you! Oh, and does this mean I'm let off that tenner I owe you?”

Before Dave or Allan have a chance to respond, Will’s up, his movements given impetus by alcohol. “Somebody’s got to let Lukas know. I mean, you said he’s coming with us too, right? Where’s the payphone? Dave, I need to use the bleeding phone!”

Dialogue too thick with colloquialisms? I think so, and I apologise if it's a touch difficult to read. I'll tone it down later, when Will sobers up a little.

[Xsesiv]

Dave finishes pulling the big man's lagers, takes the money and rounds with a knowing smile on Will, which changes slowly into open-mouthed shock. "Bugger me," he finally manages to sputter out. "Well, Al, I expect that's the last I'll be seeing of you now that you're Lord of the Manor. All wine bars and cocktail parties from here on out."

He pours Will's whiskies and pulls the cider-and-blacks and brings them over. "I suppose I'm opening a tab, then," he says, indicating the pub phone in the quietest corner, next to the lavatories. He produces a business card from among some papers next to the till and hands it to Will. "That's Lukas' number; he left this when he came to fix the fridge that time."

[Plerumque]

"Ah, no, Dave," Allan says, coming round to the bar. Despite Will's enthusiasm, he still seems sober- a state which, given the number drinks just ordered, is likely to change quite soon. "I'm sorry, mate. I'd invite you too, but I know you're attached to this place. I thought maybe I could get you a little something instead, as a bit of a thank-you for all this time. Perhaps..." he taps his lips thoughtfully. "Perhaps dimmers for these lights?"

[Xsesiv]

"Oh, no, fella," says Dave, grinning. "I couldn't accept it. A few years' of 'take one for yourself' is worth more than you'd know. I mean, I drink it and get paid for it. Not that I'd say no to one more. I'm happy for you, mate."

He looks over at Will. "You want to really ram the last coin into the slot. I'd get Lukas to fix that too, if he knew anything about it."

One of the big oldish lads from the corner, a man in his late forties wearing a polo shirt in its early twenties, wanders over. "Drinks all round, is it?" he grunts, looking to Dave.

"No," says Dave firmly. "You're welcome to buy another Carlsberg if you're thirsty, Geoff."

[Plerumque]

"Of course, Dave. You've earned it, to be sure. We'll miss you when we step into the pub at Severnford." Allan sighs ruefully, glancing back at the table. "I hope Will remembered we'll be meeting someone who I imagine will disapprove of us being hung over tomorrow. Unless he's planning to drink all of those himself, in which case he can hold his liquor even better than I thought. Eh, Will?" He wanders over to the telephone machine, listening in to half of the conversation between Will and Lukas.

[Hack Writer]

Will's phone call to Lukus was brief. He explained how Allan was now to be referred to as “milord”, how he'd apparently come into a wellspring of money due to some eccentric relative of his dying, and how they were all due to be heading off for London soon. “Polish your shoes, comb your hair, and put your best bib and tuck on, mate!” he concluded, “' 'cause Westy's a bleeding millionaire!” And then he put the phone down, wondering whether he'd overstated Allan's success with that last part. “Nah!” he concluded after a second's thought, and then he proceeded to telephone his editor.

Not entirely sure how the Lukus/Will conversation will run. If Lukus doesn't answer for whatever reason, Will just goes through to the answering machine, not that he notices.

“Hello, Ed? Oh, it's just the answer machine. Anyway, Ed, I'm just ringing to tell ya that I don’t reckon I’m --hic!-- gonna make it into work tomorrow. But don't worry, I've written the Prenderghast article like you told me; it's all typed up, on your desk. And speaking of that article, Ed, I think it's about time you and I discussed why I keep getting shovelled these crappy assignments. I mean, I've been a faithful employee of the Weekly News for six years now. Yep, six! Damn, can you believe that? I can't. But anyway, Ed, here's the thing: I'm not getting the respect I deserve. I work twice as hard as most of the blokes – hell, probably more! Take Barry, for instance: that guy … do you know just how many hours I spent re-writing his last article? Two! Two damn hours -- in the evening, after the rest of you had buggered off home! Mate, that really ain't cricket, and if you don't mind me saying so it reflects badly on you as an editor. A bloke like me, I could work anywhere I wanted; the Citizen, the Brichester Herald. But I don't, Ed, and d'you wanna know why? Because I'm loyal! You won't find another reporter like me if you looked for the next --” Will's diatribe was cut short by the beep of the answering machine.

“Well,” he said, adjusting his jacket and putting the phone down, feeling a lot lighter for the burden he'd been able to release, “that bloody well showed him!”

Will turned back to the bar, shook his head. The whiskey and the cider had done its worst, and now he was feeling distinctly bleary-eyed. What did he just say to his editor? Beneath the warm glow of alcohol and the euphoria of proud defiance, a tiny seed of shame took root. But Will was too drunk to focus on it now.

Sauntering back to the back, Will propped his elbows up on the counter and surveyed the optics arrayed behind Dave, debating the merits of yet another drink.

[Xsesiv]

Dave pulls Geoff's lager, looking up at Will quizzically as he rants down the phone, then turns his head away politely as Will returns, to allow him to bask undisturbed.

"So," he says, addressing himself to Allan and Ellie. "London tomorrow, is it, guys? Gonna make a day of it?"

And, turning back to Will: "After something else, Will?"

[Plerumque]

"A day of it? Well, I suppose we might as well. I've not really had much of an opportunity to see London. Mostly the interior of cheap hotel rooms and a few movie theatres. Ciernik never really went in for the sightseeing, and I've never had the cash to visit on my own. They're paying for the ticket- what a change, huh? We're supposed to see the solicitor at around two and I don't know how long that'll take, but the best part of the day is the night anyway. We'll have to get all our carousing for the next few weeks out in one fell blow. On the other hand, I don't want to blow through my inheritance too quickly." Allan reflects for a moment. "What do you think, Ellie, Will?" He looks at Will as he makes his erratic way up to the bar. "Actually, perhaps I shouldn't be asking him for advice right now. Ellie?"

[jolinaxas]

Ellie suppressed a laugh.

"You should know better than anyone I'm not the one to ask for financial advice. But if you insist - as your accountant, Lord Allan, I suggest we make a day of it, as the man behind the bar suggested."

[Xsesiv]

Despite Will's enthusiasm, the night at the pub is quiet and subdued. The corner table drinkers leave at about ten and Dave is actually able to close before closing time without someone demanding a lock-in, leaving Ellie, Will and Allan to wander home at a respectable hour, tipsy at worst, and in anticipation of only mild hangovers.

Thursday the twentieth dawns cooler and damper than the day before, the light somewhat bluer. Today is the day of Allan's train to London, which gets in at one minute to midday.

The house telephone rings at twenty to eight that morning, waking up everyone in the house not already awake, and as soon as it's picked up, there is a hoarse West Country voice on the other end, which demands: "Is that you, Willy my lad?" to whoever answers. The voice is recognisable to all as Will's editor at the Weekly News, another William, a sixty-year old ex-factory-machinist, bony, superstitious and dyspeptic, who goes by the name of Liam George.

[Plerumque]

"I'm afraid not, sir," Allan says, trying to decide between a laugh and a groan and ending up with neither as he remembers the message that likely provoked this call. "This is Allan. Will should be around here somewhere. Drank a bit last night, as you may have guessed, so I'm afraid he may not be in the best of temperaments. I'll fetch him, if you give me a moment." Without waiting for a reply, he puts the phone down and crosses into Will's bedroom. "Time to get up, love," he chirps. "Today's a big day, and Liam George is on the phone."

[jolinaxas]

While not as hungover as the day before, Ellie was still distinctly -not- a morning person, and headed to the phone more out of a desire to make the ringing stop than to answer it. After picking up, Ellie muttered a "one moment" and left the receiver on the table, calling out to no direction in particular.

"Will? You around? Your work's on the phone. Uh - Liam, right?"

[Hack Writer]

“Bugger!” Will groaned, burying his head into his drool-caked pillowcase. His head rung like a church bell; his mouth felt rougher than a badger’s behind. But the physical discomfort paled before the surging tide of panic that came when Allan, standing at his bedroom door, announced the name of the flat mates’ newest caller.

“You bloody idiot, Will lad. You’ve pulled a proper blinder this time!”

Part-staggering, part-falling out of bed, the young reporter crept towards the telephone receiver on unsteady feet, feeling the room rock like the deck of a boat caught in high summer seas. Ellie and Allan were there, looking bright, looking breezy ... and thoroughly sodding Will off because of it.

Taking the telephone up in unsteady hands, Will croaked: “I’m writing my obituary now, Ed. It’ll be on your desk this afternoon.”

Just assumed Ellie held the phone while Allan gave Will the wake up call. Hope that makes sense.

[Xsesiv]

Liam begins what sounds like it's intended to be a tirade. "What do you mean by this, Willy my son?" There's a beep. "Hello, Ed," Will hears his own voice announce, as Liam plays last night's message back down the phone to him. "...if you looked for the next --" finishes Will's voice. "I'll tell you what," Liam continues without pause, but suddenly sounds defeated. "You can have the day off. That article about Mrs. Prenderghast? Not on my desk. Get it in before Sunday morning. But it had better be one of your best articles yet," he adds, back in full rant mode.

[Hack Writer]

“Y-y-yes sir, err, Ed. Yes Ed, sir. I’ll have it written up pronto, and it’ll be on your desk by tomorrow – guaranteed. And, uh, sorry about the, uh, crossed wires from last night; it was stupid of me; a dare. Yeah, some of the blokes in the pub, they dared me. I never meant a word of it though, Ed, you know me,” Will pauses to catch a breath, thanking the powers-that-be that his boss is in one of his rare ‘forgiving’ moods. The stars must be right, Will decides silently.

[Xsesiv]

"Blokes in the pu–" Will can hear the swishing of Liam's curly grey mop of hair on the other end of the line as he shakes his head. "I don't really care. Just don't do it again. Barry's not going to be happy, Willy my boy."

"Who cares what Barry thinks, Ed? He reflects badly on you as an editor!" shouts someone in the background, and there is loud laughter, cut off by the sound of a door slamming.

"I'm not happy either, come to that," continues Liam. "Some of the lads on earlies today took that message, and he was one of them, and you've made yourself and me and Barry the laughing stocks of the office. Well, tomorrow, you say, Willy my lad? Well, good. Goodbye." Liam slams the phone down; there is half a bang before the flat moan of a dialtone.

[Hack Writer]

"That ... could've been worse," Will states philosophically as he places the receiver down and turns to his friends. "I mean, he didn't sack me -- or threaten to come round and throttle me; and I've seen him do both, you know." With that, Will shuffles off back to his bedroom to collect his scattered clothes -- and his scattered thoughts -- before getting ready for the party's excursion to London. "Make bloody Barry a bloody laughing stock," he mutters idly. "Huh! The git can do that all by himself!"

Do you want Will to make a roll against Language or another relevant skill to see if he gets that article written on time and in suitable shape, Xsesiv? I can't see it being important in any way, but it might be fun to see where Will's tangled relationship with his workmates leads when he gets back from London.

[Plerumque]

Allan gathers his meager possessions as Will works on the article. He doesn't have much, as there wasn't much opportunity to buy furnishings when he was traveling with Ciernik, and after he left he couldn't afford them. Well, it looked like that was set to change. He looked back over the apartment, wavering between nostalgia and disgust. The house wasn't pleasant, but once you're gone from a place, it's always easier to look upon it with fondness. Allan shook off that train of thought and hefted his bag. "Ready?" he called. "Are you done yet, Will? We have to leave soon, or we won't have time to pick up the tickets."

[Xsesiv]

Lower Brichester is a poverty-stricken, filthy area, visibly decaying, with seedy pubs, discount supermarkets and video shops with blacked-out windows the only thriving businesses. People live in tumbledown high-rise flats, in tired-looking terraced or semi-detached houses, in squats, or on the street.

On one street corner, several black plastic refuse sacks have been set on fire, topped with a stained sleeping bag, which twists, curls and shrinks away from the heat like some unholy tentacle. A dozen jaded-looking teenagers in school uniform sit and wander around on the roof of a condemned block of garages, passing three-litre bottles of cheap cider, trying to pick the locks on the garage doors, and flinging chunks of gravel through a chain-link fence at an overturned caravan in a nearby park.

Lower Brichester Station's somewhat better than the rest of the suburb. It is of the sort of open-air design whereby passengers may enter through the ticket office or wander straight onto the platform from the street. Granted, it's sprawling and dingy, the small flowerbeds containing only wilting pansies, black grease and bare earth, pigeon droppings covering the graffitied benches and peeling gloss paint revealing cheap plaster or rusty old metal. That said, it's functional and, due to the presence of the railway police, more or less safe, and it provides cover from the drizzle which is picking up. There are about fifty commuters standing on the station's six platforms, most on numbers three and four, which service local stations, but with a hefty minority on two, London-bound. Most of the main building of the station has been leased by a convenience store and newsagent's.

There is only one cashier at the ticket office, a fat, frowning old man in a railway uniform. He stands and inspects his watch, which, if it's correct, should read around a quarter to twelve. "The next train to arrive at platform two," proclaims the old man over the tannoy, sounding like he is boasting, "will be the eleven-fifty-nine First Great Western service to London Paddington – " The man takes a breath and chokes on it. " – excuse me – calling at Gloucester, Stonehouse, Stroud, Kemble, Swindon, Didcot Parkway, and London Paddington. First Class is at the front of the train. As always, please take a moment to check you have all your belongings with you, and stand well clear of the platform edge until the train has come to a complete stop. Thank you." He sits and squints at the headline on the newsagent's sandwich board.

[Hack Writer]

Lower Brichester. A stinking, bulging bag of wet infection protruding from the hind-end of the city, the place was like a burst abscess beneath a gum line of pristine white teeth.

If Will were a more cultured guy, he’d have found something offensive in the brutalist low rise flats that loomed above the chipped pavements; middle fingers thrust defiantly into the face of aestheticism. If he were a soul more given to temperance, he’d have shook his head at the petty sin and Darwinian morality exhibited by the uniformly shuffling, uniformly close-eyed and sour-faced men and women and children who navigated the streets all around him. Thankfully for Will, he was neither of these; he was a reporter, and a reporter who saw Lower Brichester for what it really was: a damned good place to find a story, not to mention the occasional train.

“So,” he says to his friends as they approach the ticket office, “How you lot feel about leaving all this behind for a day? Me, I’m not sure how I’ll cope. I mean, just look at this place –it’s bloody wonderful!” he pulls out a cigarette from his packet, lights it, and casts the city one final look. “I’ll miss you, Brichester, I really will.”

[Plerumque]

To Allan, the streets had a kind of strange, morbid beauty. Lower Brichester was like the carcass of a train wreck, or a the scene of bloody murder: abhorrent but fascinating, impossible to look away from. There were so many stories here that he'd never learn, never enfold in his art. And yet it also reminded him of his own helplessness, his own particular variety of poverty that he'd tasted since childhood and might never taste again. Allan wasn't enough of a romantic to believe he needed to starve to create beauty, but in the certainty of his next meal, the certainty he'd have a place to stay tonight, he'd lost a connection with so many of these people. He could draw on his experiences and conjure up something that would evoke emotion in them, the sense of familiarity that all filmmakers strove so hard to build, but it would never again be quite the same.

Then again, of all the scriptwriters and directors and actors he'd met since university, how many of them had lived in these kinds of slums? The ones he'd met were the successful ones, which meant - he could count the number on one hand. Well, two hands, perhaps, but take Ciernik. Allan knew for a fact that the closest he'd come to starving was having to put up with an inferior vintage for his wine. And he was hailed as a brilliant man, in the select circles that Allan had hovered on the edge of.

Well, at least now he wouldn't have to contemplate giving up his career to eat. Perhaps the death of that man - Martin Dixon, was it? He hadn't woken up with much of a hangover, but he'd imbibed enough so the events of last night were a little blurred around the edges - would turn out to be the best thing that had ever happened to him, as far as his art went. Ellie certainly didn't hesitate to throw in her lot with his, and she'd been more intimately connected with the underbelly of Brichester than he'd been, despite their comparative wealth. Well, he'd try to avoid looking back on this city with too much nostalgia, as if that was a common emotion for Lower Brichester to inspire. This was a good thing, any way he looked at it. Privately, he resolved that the train out would mark a new chapter in his life, the beginning to the second act. That all this had been merely a prologue, and real greatness was still before him.

"What? Oh," he said, realizing that he'd walked the last few blocks in a fugue state, and Will was asking a question. "Miss it? Nah. It's a dump. Come on, let's get our tickets."

[Xsesiv]

The old man looks through some papers in a rack, flicking through a few envelopes. He pulls out one marked 'West', reads briefly off the back. "First class to London, eh?" he grunts. "Hmmm!" He chucks the envelope under the security window. "There's your tickets, all present and correct. You have a booth. A5 to A8. Enjoy. It'll be turning up any moment, leaving in about ten-fifteen minutes."

There's a chunking noise in the office. He gets up and wanders away from the window for a moment or two, and some crunching noises can be heard. He returns with a plate with two slices of toast and Marmite, as the train's brakes squeal on the rails and it pulls into the station.

The train ride's comfortable enough. Lunch can be served if anyone wishes it, otherwise the journey is uneventful except as a sightseeing tour.

London Paddington Station looks just like it famously does; the four huge arches, lovely in wrought-iron and glass, covering fourteen above-ground platforms, not counting the Underground; the statue of Isambard Kingdom Brunel; the enormous clocks; the stand selling Paddington Brown teddies in the vast concourse. In the concourse, a waiting driver with a sign ('A. West and guests') helps everyone into a Black Cab, drives across London for about twenty minutes, and finally pulls up to a gleaming glass-fronted building facing St. Peter's Cathedral north across the Thames – the Lockeroff Building, the sign announces.

According to the sign, the reception area for Aref, Alexander, Dyer & Hannigan, Solicitors is located on the eighth floor. The reception area in question faces out through the glass wall at the front of the building. Lush green leafy plants grow along this wall behind the reception desk, manned by a thin, bespectacled Southern Asian woman. Below, amongst eighteenth- and nineteenth-century architecture, the streets and bridges are thronged with people, whilst three very well-dressed people sit nervously on comfortable seats, waiting to see their solicitors. "Ah," says the lady at reception. She doesn't shout across the room, but gets up and comes over. "You'll be here to see Mr. Hannigan, then; I've let him know you've arrived. Could I get you a drink? Tea, coffee?"

It takes just long enough for the receptionist to bring drinks for the new arrivals before an athletic, smooth-faced man steps out of his office, very well-dressed and well-groomed: expensive, understated grey pure wool suit, expensive calf loafers, hair neatly trimmed, a small, neat goatee surrounded by a shave undoubtedly done by a barber. "So, is one of you gentlemen Mr. Allan West?" he asks, extending a hand to whoever will take it. "Keith Carter Hannigan. We spoke on the phone."

[Plerumque]

Allan had just finished his coffee when Hannigan appears. He resists the urge to smooth down his hair before standing up, stepping forward and extending his hand. He gives the solicitor a firm handshake and looks him directly in the eye. "I'm Allan West. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hannigan, although I wish it were under happier circumstances. These are my associates, who will be sharing the house with me. This is Mr. Will Wrighter and this is Miss Eleanor Cartwright." He indicates them in turn, although it's rather unnecessary. "I'm afraid the last person I mentioned could not make it. Something came up, and he had to stay in Brichester." He smiles ruefully. "He wanted me to let you know that if you were ever in Brichester and needed a repair, Lukas McTavik is the man to go to. I doubt you'll be needing his services anytime soon, though." He puts his hands together. "So. It seems like we have some business to get to. Should we step into your office?"

[Xsesiv]

"A pleasure, sir, likewise. Ah, yes, your friends," says Hannigan, addressing himself to Allan. "Charming, charming. Do come into my office. Feel free to take a seat," and he holds the door open. The far wall of Mr. Hannigan's office is a huge window with blinds pulled about halfway down, while the near wall has built-in filing cabinets. In the middle of the office stands a desk bearing a computer, a desk tidy crammed with pens, pencils and paperclips, a double pendulum that swings about wildly, and a potted fern. Four clean-lined lounge chairs stand on one side of the desk and one swivelling office chair on the other. Mr. Hannigan opens the filing cabinet nearest the door and produces a file. He comes around to the side of the desk with the single office chair and sits, opening the file.

"Now then," he says, pulling a few documents from the file. "This all started back in 1986 when Martin Dixon died at the age of thirty-four. You have my condolences, by the way." He indicates a coroner's report, a police doctor's report and a death certificate, for the curious. They all agree: Martin Dixon, male, thirty-four, of Windthrope Manor, Severnford, single, white British, of no occupation, dark-haired, blue-eyed, six feet tall and weighing eleven stone, died at home some time on the fourteenth day of July in 1986 due to a cardiac arrest. "He was young, hence the inquest, but it was down to natural causes. These things happen from time to time. Of course, then came his will." Hannigan finds a copy of the will. "The will's already been formally read, sir, so I'm just going to pick out the salient points.

"'This is the last will and testament of Martin Dixon.
"'I, Martin Dixon, being of sound body and mind, hereby name my cousin Allan West my sole heir and beneficiary, and bequeath to the aforementioned Allan West the whole of my estate, including all lands and properties real and chattel. I request that my stocks, bonds, trusts, shares and investments be sold and my outstanding debts (if any) paid out of the proceeds. The remainder of my funds I also bequeath to the aforementioned Allan West as a lump sum. Should Allan West predecease me, I...' well, obviously, sir, you're alive and very well indeed, so there's no need to go into that. Then there's a few little things that don't really concern our purposes here.
"'I appoint Aref, Alexander & Dyer, Solicitors' – this is before I became partner, you see – 'managers of my estate, to be the executors of this my will.
"'Signed, on this the third day of...et cetera, et cetera.'

"Well, Mr. West, please don't take offence, but naturally his next of kin were not happy with this will, and couldn't fathom why he might want to bequeath his estate to a fairly distant relative. Instead of allowing us to act as executors, they contested the will. They tried to prove that Mr. Dixon was not of sound mind when he wrote the will. He had left the estate to you in order to spite his closer relatives, they claimed. This case has seen several appeals, but they were never able to demonstrate that Mr. Dixon was anything more than vindictive; not meaning to speak ill of the dead. Now that the case has finally been settled and the will has finally been upheld, we can act as executors and you can inherit your property." He smiles.

While he tells the story, Mr. Hannigan has been producing the various documents which Allan must sign for the transfer of the money, land and property from the solicitors' firm's custody to Allan's possession. Laying them out on the desk, he hands Allan a Parker pen and indicates where he should sign on each document.

"I took it upon myself to do some research. I thought you might be interested in the history of the estate, sir?"

[Plerumque]

Allan scans through the documents briefly and signs each in a looping scrawl. "Yes, I had wondered about that. Would you know if they had done anything to offend him?" He looks up as he sets down the pen on Hannigan's desk. "Ah, yes. I'd been to his manor once before, as a child, but the details are understandably vague. I'm sure none of us would take offence at learning a few more details of our new home. Oh, by the way-" he taps the papers "-if you could get a copy of the will for me to look over later, I'd appreciate that."

[Xsesiv]

"Certainly," says Hannigan, takes the will back and reaches under the desk with it for a few moments. There is the hum of a photocopier and he comes up with two copies, handing one to Allan and putting the other back in his file. While he is doing so, he says, "I don't recall having heard why he might have wanted to spite his relatives in this way, at least not in any detail, sir. All I was told was that he was a vindictive eccentric." He then takes out a piece of notebook paper and consults it.

"Well, William Drake, Earl of Brichester, had built Castle Drake on a hill overlooking Severnford in about 1157," he says. "That castle is what's now the ruin. His heirs lived in the castle until 1624, when James Drake died without heir and the castle was left empty, and it's stood empty ever since.

"In 1716, Sir Gilbert Morley bought the castle's estate and built a mansion near the castle, Morley Manor, where he lived until 1748, when he seems to have disappeared. The mansion was demolished shortly afterwards by a mob from Severnford. Severnford Priory was built on the estate in 1783. It operated until 1821, when it was destroyed by fire, burnt down by a local farmer.

"In 1843, the estate was bought again, by one Charles Windthrope, who built a mansion on the site of the priory – Windthrope Manor, your new home. He and his family lived in it until 1940." He smirks at something on the paper. "In 1925, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer came to Castle Drake to film something called The Harbinger on location. It was going to have Lon Chaney, Senior and Theron Lysander in it. A lost film, now, I understand. In 1940, when Aaron Windthrope inherited the estate from his father Dr. Douglas Windthrope, who had disappeared, he immediately sold it to Colin Dixon, whose heirs were living in it until 1986 when Martin Dixon died, naming you his heir. Now, sir, it's yours."

He crumples up the notepaper and throws it into a waste-paper basket. "Well, sir, I've taken the liberty of employing people, or rather maintaining people already engaged, to maintain the house and estate. A couple, older now. The husband's a professionally trained butler, and his wife does the cooking and cleaning. They have held live-in positions since the Dixon family were in residence, so they've been staying on since; there are, you will appreciate, all sorts of legal and tax worries with an empty house, and it really wasn't worth the hassle. We've also hired a gardener-groundskeeper. The gentleman who used to perform that office was not young. He has since retired.

"Bear in mind that with government subsidies on the land and Castle Drake's and Windthrope Manor's portions of Severnford's tourism grant, plus some wise investment of course, provided we're allowed to remain managers of the estate, owning it should be modestly profitable. After wages, taxes and fees, we'll deposit the profits into your bank account.

"Well, that about covers everything. I'll fly out with you to Windthrope Manor tonight or tomorrow morning, whichever you'd prefer. If you'd like to stay in London, I've reserved you rooms at the Savoy, under West. In the meantime, if you've nothing to do, I can arrange for dinner reservations and tickets to one of the shows on the West End; but perhaps you'd rather just go about your day?"

[Plerumque]

"An exciting past, to be sure," Allan says dryly. "Sounds like it must be quite historic. I do wonder what could have happened to that film, though. It sounds almost like something my old boss would have done. I'll have to see if I can track down anything about it. Thank you for the copy, Mr. Hannigan," he says, abruptly changing the topic, "and thank you doubly for taking care of the estate. We'll fly out tomorrow, I think. We haven't really planned out the day, though, so if you don't mind we'll take a moment to decide." He smiles again and turns to Will and Ellie, speaking in more hushed tones. "I should think Mr. Hannigan's help could be of use to us, but if you two would prefer to make our way through the nightscape on our own, I'm not opposed to that."

[jolinaxas]

Ellie sat while the legal issues were hashed out, simultaneously at home with the byzantine affairs of money, inheritance, and estate-keeping, and utterly out of place in her current attire.

"Dinner sounds nice, but you sound pretty interested in the goings-on at your new estate. That story about the film - I'll admit I'm interested as well. A lost film with Lon Chaney... Probably nonsense, but it'll be fun to look, won't it?"

[Plerumque]

"Yes, it is interesting, isn't it? The Harbinger... Sounds familiar, strangely enough." Allan frowns in concentration, then snaps his fingers. "Oh, yes, I remember now! I heard a few filmmakers discussing it once in Sheffield. It was incredible, they said. Almost transcendent. Ciernik had seen it, but he was never willing to talk about it. He was rabid about getting a copy, but couldn't find one for any price." He shakes his head. "Hadn't thought about in years. It was the only time Chaney and Lysander worked together, you know. There was something else about it that made it special, though. I looked it up once in university, as the prof had mentioned it in passing. It was so... something that accidents happened when it was shown. Fights and riots, or in the best-case scenario, fainting. After a few threats of a lawsuit, MGM recalled it. To see it would be incredible. To find a copy, something no one's been able to do for decades- and they've been trying, believe me." He looks up with wonder. "And to think I'd forgotten all about it. Perhaps I'll phone up Ciernik. He'd be amazed to hear I'll be living next door to where they filmed it. That I'll be stepping on the same ground as such giants." He remains silent for a moment, a strange expression on his face, then snaps out of it. "Well. That's something, to be sure. But I don't mean to bore you all with my trivia, and although I've learned to subside on stories about old movies, I doubt the rest of you are inclined to make your meal in such a way. Unless Will's opposed, dinner reservations would be lovely, Mr. Hannigan. Thank you."

[Xsesiv]

"Very well, sir," says Hannigan. "There's a cab waiting to take you to the Savoy now; you can prepare for your evening. I'll arrange for you to eat in the Grill at seven, unless you'd prefer to go elsewhere. I'll send another taxi for you at ten tomorrow morning, and we'll fly out from Heathrow about half-past eleven." He stands and heads for the door, holds it open again, and offers Allan a hand to shake. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. West. I'll see you in the morning."

[Hack Writer]

Owner of Windthorp Manor found dead!

Recollection of Martin Dixon’s death flashed through Will’s mind in bold typeface; a sarif font, 24 point. Windthorp Manor? Bloody hell, Barry was such a hack. Just how did he manage to land such a plumb assignment anyway?

Will scrawled whilst the Big City silk illuminated Allan on his new windfall, jotting down notes in the esoteric hieroglyphics of the guild of newspapermen – stenography, a trick he’d learned at night school a couple of years earlier. When the conversation took a detour through the sepia coloured Hills of Hollywood prehistory, Will doodled pictures of medieval castles in the margin of his pocket book; large castles, with a little stickman Will standing on the battlements. But mention of dinner -- free dinner! -- brought him back to the present.

“Objections to dinner? Nope, no objections at all,” he said to Allan, hoping the conspicuously wealthy law firm wouldn’t suddenly skimp on the expense account now. He’d never ‘dined’ before, and he quite fancied it now.

[Plerumque]

"Thank you, Mr. Hannigan," Allan says, shaking the solicitor's hand again. "Likewise. Thank you for your hospitality." He flashes Hannigan another smile, then departs through the door to the lights of London outside, so different and yet so similar to the lights of the screen that he loves.

He returns the next morning along with the others, neatly combed and immaculately dressed. As part of the last night's outing, he'd spent some of the old savings that seemed so much smaller now to purchase a nice suit, the one he wore for his last job being moth-eaten and unraveling by now. "Good morning," he says. "Dinner was most excellent, if you were wondering. Thank you for the reservations. Have you also already booked our flight?"

[Xsesiv]

The Savoy Hotel was totally luxurious and comfortable. Dinner at the Savoy Grill was free. The classic succulent grills, roasts and pies were available, alongside a selection of more modern dishes; the table was assigned a waiter and a sommelier who delivered the best match of wine or beer for each meal without being asked.

Allan's new Savile Row suit is comfortable, sharp, comes with a tie, three shirts and a spare pair of trousers, and was made overnight.

Ellie, in Soho, was able to find a certain quiet little club called the Batcave, outside of which a handsome fellow in black leather was selling off knocked-off fishnet stockings, and a girl, dyed-haired, cat-eyed, dressed in layers of shredded tights and armed with a shaver was giving out death-hawks to a surprisingly long queue.

_____

"Of course, sir," says a waiting Hannigan, in response to Allan's question, and indeed, forty-five minutes later a plane departs for Bristol, and forty-five minutes after that, a waiting limousine driver (again, 'A. West and guests'), ferries his passengers off.

_____

The limousine passes the turning for Brichester and carries on for about a mile, then gets onto a side road. Hannigan points out of the window. "Castle Drake," he says, in reference to a ruin on top of a hill. Moss-covered stone steps lead up the hill to the castle, of which one wall and the roof have collapsed, but a solitary, mouldering stone tower remains pointing up to the sky. A few backpacked tourists stand around the ruin, posing for pictures and reading an information sign. "We are officially on your property, Mr. West. We will be seeing the manor soon."

The limousine passes through a strip of dark, thick forest through which the road has been laid, separating castle from mansion, and continues down a track laid onto a grassy field with random chunks of cut stone lying about in it. The limousine turns a corner and Windthrope Manor finally hoves into view.

Windthrope Manor is a large, handsome Gothic Revival building of stone and wood, with high-peaked roofs and tall, narrow doors and windows. The windows are of leaded glass and the whole building looks like a fairytale house, the big brother of a gingerbread cottage. It has two full storeys and what looks like an attic conversion. The big oak front door stands in the middle of a porch carved with vines, a balcony over the porch, and there is a large veranda to the right of the front door. Two of the chimneys, amid some twenty or so, smoke from the roof. As the limousine takes another corner, it can be seen that part of the house extends behind the front face, giving the manor the rough shape of an L. Behind the house is a smaller building in the same style, which looks like a carriage house and stable. The doors of the carriage house are shut and the interior cannot be seen, but the stable door is open at the top half and two horses, chestnut and blue roan, are looking out.

[Plerumque]

Castle Drake's mouldering glory is alien to poverty-stricken Allan, but in his mind he erases the tourists and the signposts, presents the castle silhouetted against a bloodred sunset, and in its bold lines he can see the ghost of a film. Would Castle Drake have been the residence of Lon Chaney's diabolist, poring over yellowed tomes and studying the arts of invocation like a new Doctor Faustus? Would Lysander's man of the cloth confronted that dark student here? Or was the ruin more the domain of whatever spirits Chaney called upon? The rumors about the film had caught Allan's imagination, blew on the coals and coaxed them into flame, and as the limousine passes into the woods Allan resolves to ask the locals once they had settled in.

Then Windthrope Manor appears, and to Allan a vague sense of familiarity hovers over the whole place. Flashes of memory dart through his mind like silver minnows and back out before he can catch them. Odd pieces of the architecture - the sloping angles of the roofs, the haze around the chimneys, the wrought iron of the balcony rails - catch his eye and his memory, though he cannot conjure any specifics of the visit so long ago. Regardless, the aging splendor radiating outwards from the manse lording over the countryside is universally recognizable. It is both repugnant to Allan, whose occupation makes him perpetually resident on the boundaries, and strangely compelling. And now, of course, it is his.

"It's quite a place," he says, turning from the window to his companions, struggling to express the thoughts that crowd his mind before giving up. "Not a sight one often sees in Brichester. Our new home, I suppose, though it's difficult to think that way of it yet. Mr. Hannigan, will you be staying with us tonight, or leaving us to fend for ourselves?"

[Xsesiv]

"Ah, no, Mr. West, duty calls in Brichester. I have a few consultations to make and then it's back to Bristol for the overnight plane. But, nevertheless," he says, handing over a ring of chunky keys as the driver begins to pull up, "I'll be leaving you in capable hands."

As the limousine comes to a stop, he offers a final handshake. "Goodbye, Mr. West. Overjoyed to work for you, and if you like, I'll come to check up on you and the estate every now and then."

When everyone's out of the limo, it revs and drives away again. The front door of the manor is opened on approach by someone who steps back out of sight.

In the foyer, a room twelve feet high whose floor is chequered marble, fifty feet by sixty, hang about a dozen or fifteen beautiful oil portraits of the previous owners, arranged around the walls. Some are close enough to the door that their brass plaques can be read. The wall facing the door boasts an enormous marble fireplace and mantelpiece, beautifully stoneworked. Just off to the left of the front door starts a grand staircase leading up to the next floor, all the woodwork intricately hand-carved. Three people have lined up by the door: a small, sharp-featured man in late middle age wearing a black tailcoat and bow tie, a larger, rounder, rosy-cheeked woman in a sweater, slightly younger, and a very fit-looking, smiling sandy-haired youth with boyish good looks.

"Welcome to Windthrope Manor, lady and gentlemen," says the sharp-featured man, a serious look on his face. "your new home, I understand. If I may take the liberty of introducing you to your staff, my name is Albert Jenkins, and I'm the butler here." He indicates the plump woman. "This is my wife, Elizabeth; she's the cook-housekeeper. And this is Andrew Cook, who does the gardening and the groundskeeping and looks after the horses," he adds, finishing with the young man.

"I'm sorry, we didn't know you were coming until earlier today!" says Elizabeth, cheerily. "I haven't laid you on anything special for lunch, just a steak-and-kidney pudding. I can do you a proper roast for dinner, though."

"Might I have the privilege of conducting you through a brief tour of your home?" continues Mr. Jenkins.

[jolinaxas]

A touch suspicious, Ellie studied the lawyer, but his kind were always sort of inscrutable to her. She almost regretting not getting the free death-hawk - perhaps that would have put him off-balance.

The very theatrical opening of the front door elicits an honest "Wow." After introductions, she gives a little wave to the groundskeeper, then stays behind a fair bit to whisper conspiratorially among her friends.

"Steak and Kidney pudding? Very old school. Still, this place is absolutely amazing. The tour may take the rest of the week."

[Hack Writer]

Will stands in the threshold of house beneath the ivy-covered lintel, hands in the pockets of his overcoat, a cigarette hanging loose from his lips. “Bloody hell’s bells…” he exclaims upon sighting the well-ordered line of household staff, arrayed like soldiers on a parade ground. He takes a hasty drag of his cigarette, blows the smoke out the front door, and awkwardly stubs the butt out on the heel of his shoe, before depositing the remains in his inside breast pocket. “That’ll do until I find an ashtray,” he says to himself.

Then, Will listens as the twee old butler goes through the introductions, nods affably to each in turn, and shakes his head at the surrealism of the situation. Part of him – the socially conscious, establishment agitating newspaper man – thought it was all rather silly, this archaic little time capsule of hoary old stone, living historical preserve of an England long since past. But the other half of Will, the half that had tired of wearing frayed trousers, of jumpstarting his failing Polo, of scrabbling down the back of his sofa for loose change, thought: “Ah, stuff it!” The old dear’s offer of food seals the matter, and Will’s inner red beret-wearing social activist slinks off with its pamphlets and its megaphone, shaking its head and calling him a class traitor.

“Steak an’ kidney pud? You’ll get no arguments from me! C’mon, gang, let’s get the tour started!”

[Xsesiv]

Mr. Jenkins dismisses his wife and Andrew Cook and leads everyone else through a door to the right of the entrance. The door doesn't swing on hinges but slides back into the wall. It leads through into a room with large, gleaming bay doors at the other side, looking out onto the veranda. The room is as big as the foyer with a deep pile carpet, furnished with sofas, chaises-longues, armchairs and easy chairs, a drinks cabinet, a grand piano, small side tables and so on, with a crystal chandelier. Above the large fireplace is a Burne-Jones painting of Queen Victoria. All the furniture is original, and therefore antique. "The drawing room," says Mr. Jenkins. "This room was used for hosting formal receptions," and he looks a bit wistful. "Afternoon tea is served in the drawing room between half-past two and four o'clock."

He turns back and heads through another door, to the right of the one that would lead through into the foyer. It's another large room with another large fireplace, wood-floored and decorated tastefully, dominated by a sideboard and an elaborately scrolled formal dining table (seating twenty-two), and with another crystal chandelier. A smaller, plainer but equally ancient dining table is couched underneath the large one. "The dining room," says Mr. Jenkins. "When Mr. Dixon was in residence, we served breakfast at seven to eight on weekdays and nine to ten on weekends, lunch at half-past midday to one o'clock, and dinner at seven o'clock to half-past eight. We can change the times to suit you, of course, and the same with afternoon tea. If you'd prefer something more personal, we can use the small table, or you can have your meals brought to your rooms."

He continues, back into the foyer, and takes the last door leading off it. This leads into a library as big as the other rooms. The walls are totally lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases with lovely carvings, fronted and protected by shining glass, and an island of bookcases of similar design is in the middle of the room. The glossy tile floor is covered in lovely old rugs, and a few armchairs, end tables and an empty desk are the only furnishings. There is not enough room for much decoration, but a couple of photographs sit beside a candleabra on the mantelpiece; portraits of a man and a woman. The room is well-lit by windows and lamps. The windows of the library, as the other windows in the old house, are bordered with coloured leaded glass. The one window in the library that faces the front of the mansion has an unusual design in it: an eye at the center of a star. In the pupil of the eye is a flame. This design is done in brilliant red, purple, and green glass. "The library," says Mr. Jenkins. "Mostly literature, but there are a few reference volumes."

He exits the library, walks up the spiral stairs and comes out in a big hall, with seating and decoration and a carpet, with access to the balcony at the front of the house.

"Master bedroom," he declares, opening the door to a large, luxurious room with a huge four-poster bed, a large dresser, two high-backed leather chairs, a nightstand with porcelain wash-basin, a fireplace, a bookcase, a bureau with a chair, and a closet.

"Second bedroom," he says, as he shows off a room almost as luxurious as the first: furnished identically, except with a bed that is merely large and less impressive chairs.

Mr. Jenkins proceeds to show his new bosses five other bedrooms; two doubles and three singles, but otherwise all on a par. These are smaller (still large) and less well kitted out (still very nice), each with bed, chairs, dresser, desk, fireplace and closet. He shows them to the two bathrooms, each fitted out with tub-shower, sink, toilet, mirror and cupboard.

He leads everyone upstairs again, through two unfurnished, undecorated attic rooms used for storage, with lots of tea-chests stacked against the walls, wrapped in sheets. In the first, a table-tennis table, another piano and a pool table have also been shoved back against the walls. In the other room have been plugged in a large television with VCR with an old, battered sofa facing it, a hi-fi system, several speakers and amplifiers, and a bookcase containing an impressive if rather incongruous collection of romantic comedy movies and heavy metal records. "These rooms aren't very nice, I'm afraid," says Mr. Jenkins. "Mr. Dixon was planning to remodel the entire attic space but only got so far. Anyway, what he did finish: the den," and he opens the door onto the attic den.

The den's very spacious, windows affording a good view of the surrounding landscape and countryside, including the forest and the lone tower of Castle Drake. The day has got very hot and sunny of a sudden, and through the window, Andrew Cook is visible walking towards the stables with wheelbarrow, shovel and brush. He suddenly stops, removes his green polo shirt, mops his forehead with it, and slings it through his belt.

The den has a number of comfortable couches and chairs, a dartboard, a table each for snooker and billiards, a chessboard, a card table, and a small bar, well-stocked with fine cigarettes, cigars, pipes and tobacco, as well as good drinks, both alcoholic and non-, with a small, glass-fronted refrigerator, currently empty. The room has been decorated with a variety of random objects: a large portrait of a stern, intimidating gentleman (the tarnished brass plaque reads Sir Gilbert Morley), an ancient framed photograph of a heavyset man in the company of a handsome man in an aviator's suit and a short swarthy man in a fedora, standing in a desert with a camel and attendant standing in the background, and, next to the ashtray on the coffee table, a triangular stone tablet or amulet with a crude but powerful tree-shaped design.

Mr. Jenkins looks over the bar. "Ah," he says, "the wines," and he leads everyone down both flights of stairs, back into the dining room, and through the door that leads to the pantry. There is the smell of cooking meat and pastry permeating this area by now. "The servants' area," he says, passing the pantry and a china cabinet and descending some more stairs. "There are two bedrooms, one for my wife and I, the other vacant. Andrew currently lives at home in Severnford. There's also the kitchen, the laundry, the servants' bathroom, the scullery and the pantry. Unless you wish to inspect the servants' area, I won't show you around it if you don't mind." He passes through a cellar room with a coal furnace (not currently lit), a coal bin and two humming petrol generators, along with more sheet-wrapped crates, the sheets marked ANTIQUES, and enters a large, cool, dark room. "The wine cellar."

The room is filled with dusty bottles, of French wine in racks, crates and cases, all of them good and some of them quite rare. Still others are very old, such as a bottle of 1900 Lafite Rothschild, Pauillac in pride of place. There are twenty bottles of the legendary 1947 LaFleur Pomerol Bordeaux. Mr. Jenkins lifts a case with more wine. "This one is a gift from Mr. Hannigan," says the butler excitedly. "1990 d’Yquem Sauterne. Best to drink in about fifty or sixty years. Now, I'll handle the day-to-day wines, but if you want something particular with a meal, I can bring it. I won't open anything special unless you ask for it. And we keep other drinks, of course. Ale, beer, brandy."

He proceeds outside, to the carriage house behind the manor. Andrew Cook has let the horses – there are in fact three of them, the last a magnificent palomino beast – out of the stable into a small sort of paddock behind. He himself is now in the stable, mucking it out. Mr. Jenkins opens the carriage house and it can be seen to have been converted into a fairly well-equipped garage. Two vehicles have been tightly wrapped in sheets, and there is floor space for two more cars and maybe a motorbike or two. Mr. Jenkins pats the shorter, sleeker of the sheet-shrouded shapes. "A Rolls-Royce Phantom," he says, and then, indicating the larger, stockier, "and a Victorian carriage. Two-horse. The upstairs of the carriage house has been converted into spare rooms. Since there's a ramp installed at the back, it's currently used for storage for Andrew's tools. The spare rooms are passed as habitable."

Mr. Jenkins looks behind him, towards the house, and sees Elizabeth standing outside the servants' exit, waving. "I believe lunch is served, lady and gentlemen. Unless there is anything else you might need, please allow me to escort you to the dining room."

[Plerumque]

Though the outside of the house was cloaked in an off-putting sense of recollection, the interior of Martin Dixon's manor is completely new to Allan, and all the more impressive for it. Unlike his companions, he doesn't exclaim aloud at the appearance or respond to Ellie's whispers. He merely marvels at the luxury etched into every line of the home, remembering just enough to keep his jaw closed. He soaks in the details, eyes roving to every piece of furniture as they pass through the room. hearing Mr. Jenkins' voice only intermittently. It reminds him of the palatial hotels Ciernik insisted on staying in, or the set of some magnificently-furnished film. The idea that someone like him might even be capable of laying claim to such a place hasn't yet sunken in by the time the tour ends, and instead he decides to focus on what he knows better- the people.

"Thank you, Mr. Jenkins," he says, running a hand over the sheet disguising the car as they exit the carriage-house. "I'm sure we would appreciate that. I must say, you've been very accommodating. It seems like it must have been a shock when your old employer- Mr. Dixon- passed. I'm afraid I don't know the specifics of this situation, though. Had he been ill for long before then?"

[Xsesiv]

"I am only glad to be of service, sir, but your appreciation is well-received," says Mr. Jenkins, as he progresses across the garden.

"Oh, no, he wasn't ill at all, sir. My wife and I were out – I was arranging a dental appointment for Mr. Dixon, she was doing the week's grocery shopping, and it was the gardener at the time's day off. When Elizabeth did come back, Mr. Dixon had dropped down dead in the middle of the drawing room. A heart attack. Nobody could have predicted it. I have heart problems myself, sir, but it was Mr. Dixon who had a heart attack without warning. It's a strange world. Don't you agree?"

He coughs as Allan runs a hand over that car. "It's a beautiful vehicle, in near-mint condition, sir, but it was halfway through an engine repair when what we were just discussing occurred. I understand that a few parts still need replacing."

[jolinaxas]

Ellie goes through the tour, and comes away with the impression that this new house is both eccentric and mysterious, terms she prefers to label people with. If half of the hinges, bolts, and locks she saw were what she thought they was, this place was straight out of "Clue."

On their trip to the stables, Ellie mostly looks at the horses, but one particular observation when they speak to Andrew elicits a gasp.

I'm not really sure how to drop all of these clues, so when we re-convene away from the ears of the servants, assume she goes over them, if I forget.

[Plerumque]

"I would certainly agree, Mr. Jenkins. Finding that strangeness has been my occupation for many years now. A filmmaker," he adds in response to a perceived question. "Albeit one who has yet to make a film. But we're not that interesting. I'd like to know a little more about this house. About you and Mrs. Jenkins, and Andrew. How did you three come to work for Mr. Dixon?" Allan walks with the others the dining room.

[Xsesiv]

"Indeed, sir, a film-maker? An interesting occupation, surely."

Mr. Jenkins tells the story in a very straightforward way, without particular emotion. "The elder Mr. Dixon – that is, Martin Dixon's father, Philip – first engaged me as a footman many years ago, sir, forty-two or forty-four years ago. We had a larger staff at the manor in those days. I married Elizabeth, who was then a housemaid here, when I was thirty. I was promoted to butler at the age of thirty-five. Elizabeth was working as a cook in a restaurant in Severnford when it closed down in the late seventies or early eighties, and then I politely suggested to the younger Mr. Dixon that she might come back to the manor to replace the cook-housekeeper here, who had just retired. Andrew, on the other hand, Mr. Hannigan took on only two years ago, sir, just out of school, to replace the old gardener, Reginald Jones. He was seventy-eight years of age, sir, and he just couldn't keep up with the work anymore. He did suggest Andrew as his replacement."

By this time, the dining room has been reached. Mr. Jenkins excuses himself and retreats to the pantry. The table has been laid for three, a steak-and-kidney pudding steaming in the middle, with bowls of carrots, buttered peas, broccoli and mashed potatoes. There is a pop from the pantry and Mr. Jenkins emerges with a large bottle of red wine. He pours away the first drops and circles the table pouring a glass for everyone. "You will excuse me, lady and gentlemen," he says. "If you need anything, you need only ring," and, putting a small silver bell next to Allan's hand, he retreats to the pantry.

The pastry is crisp without being hard, changing immediately upon touching the gravy to being soft without being chewy, the steak and ox kidneys have been marinated in good stout before being sealed, by the taste, and are tender and juicy, the thick, deep brown, savoury gravy is full of rich mushrooms and sweet onions. The mashed potatoes are creamy and delicious, and the vegetables are cooked to perfection: sweet and still just crunchy. The wine is a full-bodied red, complementing the meal.

[Plerumque]

Allan leans forward once the butler is gone, speaking in a low voice to his friends. "A more interesting place than we bargained for, eh? There's a number of things that don't quite match up. It seems there may be parts of the house Mr. Jenkins didn't show us, although with what intent I don't know. A few eccentricities in decorating as well. And those blocks in the field outside, in the shape of the rectangle. I've no clue what those might be about. We'll have to ask Mr. Jenkins and his wife. And Andrew- although he himself is another conundrum. I know you saw it in him, Ellie. I've seen his like before, those of tragic aspect. I've seen it portrayed enough times by brilliant actors- the broken-down man, beaten on by life- to see that there's a bit of that in him, and I don't think he's faking. Ciernik always used to say that it's the worst parts of us- of our history, of our personality, who we really are- that define the rest of our being." Allan is quiet for a moment, spearing a vegetable and chewing it contemplatively. "So much I want to ask about, to investigate," he says. "The film. Martin Dixon, and his parents, and the other people in the photographs. The blocks of stone. The parts of the house that seem to have had additions." He takes another bite. "Andrew Cook." He holds up his hand as if warding off remarks. Perhaps I just want to learn all I can about this place I am to own, but it's all so curious. It's like I've been living in a dream since Ellie picked up that phone. Where to begin, though?"

[Hack Writer]

Will services his hunger while Allan talks, eliciting a snap like dried twigs from his dinner plate as silver fork pierces dry pastry. He takes a bite, nods his head in gratification, and plumbs the depths of the pie for the culinary treasures inside. He contribution to the conversation is limited at first: “right you are, mate”; “Couldn’t agree more!” and: “bloody hell, this pie’s good!” But then the conversation turns to the matter of Martin Dixon’s death, and the newshound scents a story worth putting the dinner aside for.

“Mate, I don’t know what bleedin’ rectangles have to do with anything, but odd-bod Dicko’s death doesn’t chime right; I mean, people don’t just drop down dead – no matter how much you might wish it.” He crosses his silver fork over his silver knife then, placing them both down at the edge of his plate, and steples his hands, index fingers tapping together like an inverted metronome. “No, it’s definitely bloody weird, I’ll grant you. You reckon … what, that old Jenkins the butler did him in? Nah, this isn’t Agatha Christie, mate. I can’t see that, not in a month of Sundays. But maybe … maybe he had other enemies – business associates or something?”

As for the matter of where to begin, Will offers some assistance: “I’ll have a nose round when I’m back at the office tomorrow, assuming Ed doesn’t have me cleaning toilets or something. Barry wrote the article about Dicko’s death, and I’ll see what he remembers. Oh, and I’ll dig into the backgrounds of some of these characters, see if Old Jenkins has a history of offing people he doesn’t like.”

Can Will roll Local Knowledge regarding the castle and the opinion the locals have on it? For example, are there any persistent folk stories that crop up, tales of hauntings, old murders, etc?

[roll0]

[Plerumque]

Allan shakes his head at Will's speculation. "I'm sure they had him examined. Mr. Jenkins said it was a heart attack. If someone knocked him off, they'd have to be awfully good. As far as I know, he lived off this land. I might be wrong about that, but I don't see him having any business arrangements that could warrant an assassination, or any enemies influential enough to get the job done that cleanly. No, I think the death was probably natural, although we should see if there's a coroner's report. If you're going in tomorrow, you could ask around and see if anyone knows anything about the film. The blocks of stone might be an abandoned construction project or something like that, so I'll just ask Mr. Jenkins. I'd like to see the town, though, talk to some of the residents." He checks his watch. "It's hardly past one. We have plenty of time, should we like to make the most of it."

[jolinaxas]

Ellie just sort of picked at the pie, restricting most of her eating to the pastry. One could say that organ meat was never her taste.

"Yes - Andrew, well, I'm not even sure what could have resulted in... what we saw. In any event, I think I'm going to have a look at Severnford itself tomorrow. From a historical perspective. I'd definitely love to have a quick look at the town now, since we have the time."

[Plerumque]

"Well, unless you have an alternate proposal, Will, it sounds like our time would be best spent visiting Severnford now, and Ellie and I can go back again tomorrow for a more in-depth look around." Allan finishes the last dregs of wine in his glass and stands up. "I'll go talk to Mr. Jenkins, tell him we might miss tea. I wonder if there's a car less conspicuous than a Rolls we could use." Assuming Will raises no objection, Allan pushes his chair in and eyes the silver bell for a moment, but rather than pick it up he exits towards the pantry to find the butler and get the answers to his questions.

[jolinaxas]

Ellie stands up, her half-finished glass of wine still in her hand as she tries to find a nice window to look out of.

"Tell me if I'm wrong, but if you're the sort to own a Rolls, you're also the sort to not have it be your -only- car."

[Xsesiv]

The different view afforded by the dining-room window shows no other cars but a battered red Vauxhall parked up behind the carriage house, next to the paddock's fence.

Mr. Jenkins is inspecting the silver in the pantry's cupboard, occasionally wiping a spot from a salver or smear from a crystal glass. From the kitchen comes a female voice, singing about how the hills are alive with the sound of music. The singing stops and, incongruously, is replaced by a whistled rendition of the violin theme of Danse Macabre. Mr. Jenkins looks surprised to see Allan enter, but quickly regains his composure. "If you don't mind my saying so, sir, the bell is more orthodox. Might I help at all?"

[Hack Writer]

“Sounds like a good idea, Allan. Course, I’m gonna have to smooth things over with the Ed tomorrow, plus I need to shoot over and see my old man back in Stroud, tell him about your windfall. Ha! Wait till he hears about you scaling the social ladder. Mate, he’ll probably disown me, what with you being a paid-up member of the reactionary bourgeois elite. Still, he hasn’t been eating pot noodles in front of a two-bar halogen heater for the last six months, so he can stuff his socialist clap-trap up his gulag. Hmm, better get my washing from him first though, before I break the news.”

To Ellie, Will says: “And what’s wrong with my polo, hm? The old girl’s still out front, and I’ve put air fresheners in to clear the cigarette smoke -- so no worries about you smelling like an ash tray.”

[Plerumque]

"I apologize for intruding. I only wanted to let you know that the three of us have decided that we'd like to take a trip into town, and we may not be back for a few hours. If you could serve afternoon tea a bit later than usual, we would be grateful." Allan smiles propitiatingly and backs out of the pantry, hoping to escape before Mr. Jenkins can raise an objection.

[jolinaxas]

Ellie fished a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of a pocket.

"Not worried about the smoke. Just making an observation. It's like having a refrigerator with nothing but a single bottle of Dom Perignon in it. Very odd. Especially if, judging by the state of it, that Vauxhall belongs to the servants."

[Xsesiv]

"Very well, sir," says Mr. Jenkins, "I shall endeavour to have afternoon tea served around the time of your return."

Severnford stands a little over a mile away from the manor. It is a small town of maybe two thousand residents, on the east bank of the River Severn, linked by ferry to the tiny hamlet of Old Severnford (of maybe two hundred) on the west bank, surrounded by what might once have been farmland. An island in the river has on it the very last crumbling remains of an ancient Roman ruin. The sun glitters on the ripples caused by the gentle breeze.

The hamlet of Old Severnford and the centre of the town of Severnford have public gardens, grassy lawns and trees, and beautiful old architecture entailing some cottages, a pub or two each and a handful of shops; Severnford also has a church and a vicarage, a small police station and a tiny library, surrounded by redbrick housing developments. On the Old Severnford side, nearer the A48, are a couple of hard-core industrial developments.

[Plerumque]

"Perhaps we should try the library first," Allan says as Will parks the car. "That is, if you're in the mood for a history lesson. If we just want to see the town, I'm fine with taking a walking tour, or we could try the church if spiritual fulfilment is what we're after. Myself, I want to ask around about the film, but I can do that just about anywhere, so I shall leave it up to you two to determine our first stop." He bows exaggeratedly, a farcical imitation of the lord it seems he's be expected to be.

[jolinaxas]

"The library seems like a good first stop - after the tour, of course. Maybe a small town like this is a good setting for my next book. Couldn't hurt to do a bit of research."

Ellie shrugged noncommittaly at the suggestion of going to the church, never having been much of a believer herself and the odd looks she got whenever she was dragged there by her family in previous years.

"We need to make sure this place has all the particulars. It's a bit smaller than Brichester, but it looks much nicer."

[Xsesiv]

Ellie may tour all she likes but the town does not extend much further than the buildings in the centre of town and the housing developments. One would surmise that this is a sleepy commuter town, and that residents must commute to Brichester or Berkely for employment.

____

The town library is a small, grimy institution not much bigger than a fair-sized house, manned by a frown-lined man in a shirt and jeans behind a counter that looks second-hand placed in front of some stairs marked No Access in felt-tip pen. A young redhead with four piercings in each of her ears is pushing a trolley sparsely populated with books around the worn-shiny carpet. About half of the library is fiction, another quarter local history and folklore; tourist stuff, and another quarter is assorted reference volumes.

____

The porch of the lovely old church is surmounted by the statue Will was recalled of: the angel, apparently threatening a huge toad with a star. The parish vicar, rotund, balding and dressed in dog collar and suit with spectacles hanging from his hook nose, sits in the sunny porch, apparently for the sole purpose of waving to passers-by.

[Plerumque]

Allan walks up to the man at the front desk, smiling. "Good afternoon," he says. "My friends and I are new to Severnford, and we'd wondered if you could explain to us some of the more arcane bits of its history, or at least direct us to some reading matter we could consult for the same purpose."

[Xsesiv]

"Arcane?" asks the man at the library counter with barely-restrained incredulity, raising an eyebrow so thin it almost disappears into one of the wrinkles on his forehead. "We've got some books on the area just over there." He indicates with a sweep of his arm the section of the library closest to the central reading tables, its shelves stocked with thick and thin pamphlets and books about the Severn Valley area. "I don't really understand exactly what you're looking for, but you should hopefully be able to find it. I'll warn you, though, it'll be hard to find much specialist stuff about Severnford even in the SV brochures. It's not really an alpha city."

[Plerumque]

Allan looks quizzically at the man. "I meant only to suggest that elements of the town's history might be obscured to the casual inquirer. I have found that to be the case in almost every city I visit, and expected Severnford to be no different. It does seem that you have a well-stocked array of knowledge pertaining to local history, but I thought that soliciting a guide as to which might be helpful could be of use, given the panorama from which we are to choose. But if you have other matters to attend to, I am sure we would not wish to impose further on your time." Dipping his head, he moves over to the central reading tables to confer with Ellie. "Shall we do a bit of research before moving on?"

[jolinaxas]

Ellie gave Allan a smile.

"One stop at the Manor, and you're already talking like an aristocrat. I see how it is."

Stopping by the section the librarian indicated, she pulled out one of the books and random and cracked it open.

"Let's survey the panorama, shall we?"

[Plerumque]

"It's an intimidation tactic I learned years ago," Allan says quietly. "It's like the chest-thumping of male intellectuals. It's also helpful when you want to fast-talk someone. Normally I wouldn't bother, but something about his manner grated on me." Following Ellie's example, he begins sorting haphazardly through the books, then realizes he's disturbing her search and leaves to walk through the rest of the library, examining their collection of fiction with a critical eye.

[jolinaxas]

Ellie gave the local books a cursory examination.

"Well, it's what you'd think. Roman temple here, spooky woods there. And then a whole bunch of nonsense about goatmen and large frogs and the devil?"

[Plerumque]

"Well, it looks like we can move on then," Allan says, putting a book back on the shelf. "Check out anything you think will be particularly edifying and let's try the church. Regardless of one's beliefs, it often can tell you quite a bit about its town." He thanks the librarian tersely as he passes though the doors and into the afternoon.

A few minutes later, Allan stops before the stairs to the church. He glances up and climbs the stairs, extending his hand to the vicar. "Good afternoon, sir! It's a pleasure to meet you. You must be the hand of religious instruction in this town. I and a few friends have recently moved here, and we thought this would be a good place to start." He smiles, releasing the man's hand. "My name's Allan West, and this is- well, she's no need of me to introduce her."

[jolinaxas]

Ellie stayed a little distance apart from Allan and the vicar. Religion was just something she really didn't want to interact with, adversarially or cooperatively. She pried her hand off of the small pile of books she'd taken from the library to give a small wave.

"Eleanor Cartwright. Like he said, just having a look around town."

[Xsesiv]

"Reverend Duddlesworth," replies the vicar, looking straight at Allan but not shaking his hand. "Or Charlie, if you like. Excuse me not shaking." He holds up his own hand to indicate why: he has a large, fresh graze on his palm. He has hooded deep green eyes set in a fleshy but not unattractive face, and a rich, fat voice. "Religious, or just interested? There are no services today until eight this evening. But I've always got time to speak to visitors and newcomers. Would you care to step inside, perhaps?"

[Plerumque]

"I'm not practicing anymore, but perhaps I'll start again while I'm here. It's always seemed a good way to meet new faces. I'm afraid tonight I'll be too busy, however. Moving in and all that. Certainly not too busy to talk for a few moments, though." Allan steps inside.

[Hack Writer]

Will tackles his infrequent visits to the immediate family with all the cautious pre-planning of a cat burglar undertaking a dangerous heist. The objective is usually simple: money, laundry, food from the larder; the tactics are often oblique: through a side door, hushed and stealthy; loot and scoot, the better to avoid the Old Man’s endless serenade of socialist rhetoric and his stepmother’s microscopic cross-examination of his love life. But this time Will enters through the front door, finding his stepmother curled up on the sofa in front of the TV, indulging her secret predilection for melodramatic soap operas involving bourgeois members of the upper class; and that has to mean Dad’s out, which is too bad.

“Hi hon!” comes the thickly accented voice of Karimah, Will’s twenty-nine-year-old Malaysian stepmother. “Dad not home; he at pub, with his friends. So, you find girl fren yet, huh?”

“No girlfriend, Kari, no.” says Will, picking up his laundry basket from its customary place beside the fireside. The laundry’s fresh and neatly folded, as is the way when Kari does thing. “Say, you have any idea when dad’ll be back?”

“About nine, maybe nine forty-five. He got important meeting tonight, yah.”

Will stifles a scornful expression and makes do with a quick roll of his eyes. “Red” Lester Wrighter was no doubt chairing another gathering of the Cotswold League of Communists – the Clocs; a name that, with a few choice spelling alterations, just about summed the group up.

“That’s too bad, but I gotta run now, Kari, sorry. Take care, and thanks for the washing.”

“Any time, hon!” his stepmother replies, and Kari settles back down in front of the television.


-------


Gazing up at the strange stone grotesque perched atop the porch of the church, Will stubs out the last of his cigarette while fumbling for his notebook. “That’s the bugger, Al,” he says with conviction, pleased that his memory hadn’t led them all astray. “Ugly thing, ain’t it? But then, that’s what they’re for, those grotesques, to scare spirits and stuff away." He follows his companions into the church, and listens while Allan goes through the formalities with the vicar.

[Xsesiv]

The vicar nods and smiles to Allan as he hears that Allan is thinking of joining his flock. He enters the church porch and stands just inside for a minute, then turns around. "This is a little too formal, don't you think? Follow me, we'll have a cup of tea," he announces, and he leaves the church and walks up its side, down a gravel path to his vicarage, a little stone cottage, opens the door, ushers everyone through the hall, which is immaculately clean, and into a kitchen, its walls lined with kitsch plates, antique toasting forks and the like. "Sit yourselves down," he says indicating a small table with doilies and placemats with chocolate-box nature drawings on them, and quickly produces a tea set and a plate of biscuits.

"Now then," he says. "What would you like to know?"

[Plerumque]

"Ah," Allan says, settling himself gingerly in a chair, "Well, as I said, we're new. We don't know a lot about the history of this town, but we've heard a few interesting things. Someone mentioned the lost Chaney and Lysander film that was shot in Castle Drake, for instance. I've always thought it's a good idea to know what one can about the place one lives, and asking residents seemed like a good way to help with that." He smiles as he takes a biscuit.

[Xsesiv]

"Well, I haven't been here long myself," says the vicar, "only a year or two. But I can tell you what I've learnt about the place. It's been around at least since the Domesday Book, when it was in the possession of the Earl of Brichester. It had the same church we have now, and nearly a hundred families were living here, most of them farming. The church and the town were added to gradually over the years. Come the Industrial Revolution, Severnford became a prosperous river town, but what with the economy and urbanisation in the last century, the town has gradually shrunk.

"As for the film, I couldn't begin to tell you. Mr. Chaney was a horror-film actor, yes? It's not really my area of expertise." He runs a finger over an etching in brass of a robin hung on his wall. "I've seen enough strange occurrences, enough of the powers of the Devil, that I can no longer find any joy in them."

[jolinaxas]

Ellie raised an eyebrow.

"When I did some research earlier, there was mention of some very peculiar things in this area - more than what you'd consider the usual fanciful local legends. Is that what you're talking about? Goatmen and very large frogs and the like?"

[Xsesiv]

The vicar smiles at the mention of the massive frogs. "Ah. That'll be the Berkeley Toad. That one, I don't believe. The story goes that a huge toad was kept in a dungeon by a witch, the Witch of Berkeley, where it was fed the corpses of humans. It was supposed to have been banished by some powerful being from another world, an angel or a demon. That's the carving over the church porch. Horrible thing, but the locals won't let me take it down. They say the Berkeley Toad may escape if I do! Goat-men, I haven't heard of."

He sniffs and squeezes a quarter of a lemon into his teacup along with a lump of sugar. "But there are souls tied down. Hellish powers keeping them bound to Earth. Monks, ladies, and particularly the evil. Not content with their lot, they attack the living. One young man who had been in my congregation..." the vicar shudders. "He was tormented by apparitions of pale faces, in dreams and waking dreams, for nearly a month. I was powerless. And he was found mutilated and floating face-down in the Severn. Well, I say face-down, but the fact was that the flesh of his face was sloughed away. I conducted the funeral."

[Plerumque]

Allan closes his eyes for a moment and re-opens them. "I'm sorry. That must have been very hard on you. Knowing that a young man under your care was driven to such an unfortunate end... well, it is only natural that such a thing would weigh heavily on one's mind, particularly if you were unable to ease his madness in the month before. It sounds like the superstition of the locals is more to blame than anything you could have helped with, though. I hope you do not blame yourself. It sounds like you have done a wonderful job here."

[jolinaxas]

"I don't mean to question your judgment on the matter, but you say that he was acting oddly in the previous month. Was it possible that this insanity, with its hallucinations and what have you, may have simply driven him to suicide?"

[Xsesiv]

The vicar nods gratefully at Allan's sympathy, then looks to Ellie, unimpressed. "I don't call myself the county coroner, miss, but I've counselled people who later committed suicide, and those bereaved by suicide, and I've conducted funeral rites for suicides, and I've never come across anyone who's used a blast sander to perform the deed. All the injuries were abrasions, three limbs and two toes on the last foot were missing, the body had great gouges scraped all over it, and there was no flesh on the face. Beyond human power to do to oneself. Beyond human conscience to do to another. I don't wish to talk about it any more."

He rubs his eyelids and abruptly, splutteringly, changes the subject. "Have you come to the village market yet? Tuesdays and Fridays. It's only a small - you know, but you get a real feel for the local...culture."

[Plerumque]

"Ah, so it must be going on today!" Allan's response is bright, as eager to change the subject as the vicar. What time? Could we still make it?" He checks his watch. "From what you've told us, it certainly sounds like the culture of the locals ought to be worth understanding."

[Xsesiv]

"It's really a morning thing," says Reverend Duddlesworth. "Dawn, it begins, usually. Farmers, early starts and all. You might catch a few of the late leavers if you head to the north meadow now, though."

The vicar stands and apparently wants his guests to follow this course of action, because he says "It's been lovely meeting you, and I hope to see you again. Sunday, maybe."

[Plerumque]

"Perhaps," Allan allows, and stands. "Thank you for your advice. It's good to know at least one face in the crowd." He sticks out his hand before remembering the vicar's aversion to handshakes, and awkwardly returns it to his pocket.

"Well, what shall we do now?" Allan asks, once they've left the church behind them. "I'm not too interested in the dregs of the market, unless you two are. We could try one of the pubs, but it's a bit early for that. Or we could just go back, and return tonight or tomorrow."

[jolinaxas]

Ellie raised a hand.

"Actually, there were some rather strange things back at the house - I wanted to show you some of them."

[Plerumque]

"I noticed a few things too, if we're talking about the same oddities. But I figured we would have all the time we needed to figure those out later. Then again, it doesn't seem like we'll be far away from Severnford much, either." Allan bows, feigning an air of ironic nobility. "Lead the way, madam."

[Xsesiv]

It's shortly after four when Ellie finishes leading the way back to the manor, which is almost as impressive the second time around and for anyone that looks, afternoon tea has been laid out in the drawing room: tea with milk, lemon and sugar, scones, triangular cucumber sandwiches, fresh bread, butter and jam, cakes and tarts, and all the rest of it.

From the way the library, master, second and fifth bedrooms, attic storage and cellar are looking, there's more to this house than appears at first glance. Then there's the question of the stone in the meadow outside, and Andrew Cook...

[Plerumque]

"Perhaps we should try the library again," Allan proposes. "I know it wasn't that successful in town, but I'd be curious to find out what kind of taste Martin Dixon had in literature, and there might be something of use. And you were talking about strange things, so I suppose you noticed the recent scrollwork additions to the bookshelf. Perhaps he just had different tastes than the carpenter, but it never pays to underestimate paranoid old men. Even if he wasn't particularly old. Or particularly paranoid." He thinks for a moment. "Let's just check the daisy," he says, going upstairs to do so.

[Xsesiv]

Allan, prodding at the scrollwork daisy, hears a click and a creak, and suddenly one section of the bookcase swings open on hinges. Behind it is a narrow, cramped staircase leading up and to the right. The whole place is covered in dust, a musty, papery smell, and cobwebs, decades since disturbed. It's cold and dim in here, the lights from the library barely illuminating the room well enough to see by.

At the top of the staircase is a room of lavatory-cubicle proportions. The room's furnished with an ancient folding desk, left open, bearing mouldering old paper, a old fountain pen, a bottle with dried-up black crusts in it, and a yellowed candle and a very old box of matches. The room also has a single chair, a crammed bookcase, and a door. Allan would guess it comes out somewhere in the vicinity of the master bedroom.

[Plerumque]

"Definitely using this as house as the set for my next film," Allan grins. "Well, let's see if we can figure out what made old Martin tick, eh?" Despite his cavalier words, he moves slowly and carefully, lifting the papers on the desk delicately to see if any have writing on them and then moving to the bookcase to inspect for any titles of particular interest.

[jolinaxas]

Ellie regarded the strange setup with interest, even as she was a bit unsettled by it.

"Now, this is very strange, isn't it?"

[Xsesiv]

The paper on the table is moulded through, blank, and flakes away at Allan's touch. The bottom two shelves of the small bookcase are crammed with some three dozen or forty books on the occult.

The top shelf holds two books and a single book series in pride of place: not shoved higgledy-piggledy into the shelves like the other books. One of these books is an ancient, battered, leather-bound quarto tome without obvious title; another a fairly old book, its paper yellowing, little more than a thick brochure, and entitled The Eltdown Shards; and finally, the series is entitled Revelations of Glaaki, and these books, Victorian-looking subscription hardbacks, are numbered I through IX.

[Plerumque]

"Very odd." Allan steps back from the table. "The condition of this room might be attributed to mere disorganization, but the matchbox on the table... it's not recent. I recognize that style, and that's from the thirties or forties at the latest. Those weren't Martin Dixon's matches." He takes a swift step to the bookshelf and runs a finger over the leather. "And these don't look particularly modern either, though I recognize none of the names. But if all of this is still here... is it possible that Martin Dixon never stepped foot in this room at all?"

[jolinaxas]

Ellie moved closer to the bookshelf as well, to make sure her initial assumptions were correct.

"How could he not have? He lived here for quite a while - unless he was particularly inattentive..."

She pulled out the Eltdown Shards and examined the cover of the pamphlet.

"And all of this... this isn't crystals and bible codes - stuff for gullible people to buy on their way out from having their chakras adjusted or something. These are actual occult efforts - the ones I can recognize, at least."

[Plerumque]

"I don't know. I suppose the butler could have covered it up, but in lacking a reason or a good effort, it may just be that I'm thinking of this more as I would direct it than anything else." Allan looks over Ellie's shoulder. "So this is stuff for slightly less gullible people, then. Well, perhaps he was just embarrassed of his collection and wanted to hide it away. But perhaps we should look at the other peculiarities in the house, and see if there's anything else before drawing conclusions." He takes a few steps outside the chamber and breathes in the slightly less musty air. "Well, given the choice between the bedrooms, the attic, and the cellar, I'll pick the bedrooms every time. Besides, we ought to know where we'll be sleeping."

[jolinaxas]

Ellie nodded.

"If it's any worse than this, I may not be sleeping here..."

[Xsesiv]

The master bedroom's panel slides fairly easily across, revealing behind it a door that comes out into the tiny secret study.

The second bedroom's flush bolt pulls across and comes into another neglected passageway, skinny and dark, that passes behind a bedroom and a bathroom and is finished with a door that opens inwards, coming out into further blackness, a small chink of light in the middle, and then, after a second glance, it appears that the back of the fifth bedroom's cupboard has come open. In more understanding ages, a gentleman guest might be called on at any time to increase the happiness of the lady of the house by a night-time visit...

[Plerumque]

"Well," Allan laughs. "It seems the function of this particular passage is significantly less obscure than that of the hidden study. I shouldn't think you would need to book a room in a Severnford inn, though. If you'd rather not sleep next to the study, there are four other bedrooms. Let's try the attic. There's a better chance that Dixon found that one." He follows the path that Mr. Jenkins originally took them, up to the attic storage, and pushes the tapestry aside.

[jolinaxas]

Ellie snorted.

"I only have cause to be unsettled by living in such a room if there were a truly loathsome person on the other end of the passage. No rooms with strange books that haven't been touched for decades here - I've heard of arrangements like this, but I always thought they existed mostly in the minds of mystery-book writers who needed such contrivances -which they neglect to narrate -to keep readers from sorting out their culprits..."

[Plerumque]

"It had sounded like you weren't too fond of that old room we found," Allan says, mounting the stairs. "I thought you might not want to sleep adjacent to it. But it sounds like the passage is no less disagreeable to you, albeit in a rather different sense. I suspect the builders of this manse were less concerned by aesthetics, though. I shall rest assured that if you were the architect, rather more byzantine means would be instituted to, ah, keep the law guessing."

[Xsesiv]

The door behind the tapestry in the attic opens into a small, dark room, at first glance completely empty. At a second look, it contains a tiny, wooden, tight spiral staircase, going down. Descended, it comes down into the third bedroom's closet.

[Plerumque]

"I think we need a map of this house," Allan says, shaking his head. "Shall we check the wine cellar, then, or see about the furnishings of the den?"

[jolinaxas]

Ellie nodded.

"Probably a good idea. All I remember of the den is the picture of Doctor Windthorpe. Perhaps you saw something I didn't."

[Xsesiv]

Picking up the stone tablet in the den, it has an unpleasant, rough but greasy feel, although it does not leave residue on one's hands.

The frame of the old sepia photograph is glass-backed. Picking this one up and turning it over shows a note, pencilled on the back of the photograph in a scrawling hand: with Vito and Gleason in Cairo. 1924.

[jolinaxas]

Ellie picks up the photograph to get a better look at the annotation.

"Cairo, eh? Not a bad place to be at the time. That's around when Carter was there, I think..."