Martin nods. "Sounds like a reasonable idea. Any thoughts on where we might start?"
The fortuneteller looks over Victor's scarred palm.
"Your past is marred by bitter tragedy and your future uncertain. You seek to... to bury that which is not understood... but escape is impossible..."
She trails off, then blinks. When she speaks again, Madame Opal is more animated, more theatrical.
"Ahh... but the spirits reveal it now! A mysterious lady is in your future- perhaps wedding bells for the scarred gentleman? Yes, a lady with a giving heart and a magnificent dowry! The fifteenth of November shall be your lucky day, sir! I can see it! Trust in your intuition in your investments and be bold in your movements, for fate smiles upon you!"
Lucian gets a queer look in his face at the dual persona of Madame Opal, and as her reading of Victor's palm finishes, he shoots a sharp look at Victor before he intervenes himself.
"Now, Madame Opal, I can't deny that you've got a keen eye for observation and guesswork - but you're truly striking some chords here that may push past the mundane. I need you, for one brief moment, to cease being a performer and truly act as a conduit. You're glancing across something much bigger, and your 'act' is simply smoke and mirrors clouding that. We will make it worth your while, if you appear sincere and to not simply be trying to dupe the two of us." He gives her a piercing look, unsure for a moment whether he is leading or following in this ruse.
"well lets find out where Mr Estus might be keeping the old stage sets from the cancelled play, and maybe where he might be working on new materials... reckon some of our actor fellows might have a lead worst case"
The fortuneteller looks over Victor's scarred palm.
"Your past is marred by bitter tragedy and your future uncertain. You seek to... to bury that which is not understood... but escape is impossible..."
She trails off, then blinks. When she speaks again, Madame Opal is more animated, more theatrical.
"Ahh... but the spirits reveal it now! A mysterious lady is in your future- perhaps wedding bells for the scarred gentleman? Yes, a lady with a giving heart and a magnificent dowry! The fifteenth of November shall be your lucky day, sir! I can see it! Trust in your intuition in your investments and be bold in your movements, for fate smiles upon you!"Lucian gets a queer look in his face at the dual persona of Madame Opal, and as her reading of Victor's palm finishes, he shoots a sharp look at Victor before he intervenes himself.
"Now, Madame Opal, I can't deny that you've got a keen eye for observation and guesswork - but you're truly striking some chords here that may push past the mundane. I need you, for one brief moment, to cease being a performer and truly act as a conduit. You're glancing across something much bigger, and your 'act' is simply smoke and mirrors clouding that. We will make it worth your while, if you appear sincere and to not simply be trying to dupe the two of us." He gives her a piercing look, unsure for a moment whether he is leading or following in this ruse.
Madame Opal spreads out her long fingers in a placating gesture, though her face remains impassive.
"Now, now, young man. I've been truthful with you- and I can see that my predictions have struck a chord. You can't fault a woman for looking after her business. Good news brings more custom than bad and with the ill shadows hanging about you both I thought you could use a bit of cheering up. I can read your tarot, if you require further satisfaction..."
"Actually, we were wondering if you knew anything about the star Aldebaran and any connections it may have with the occult or supernatural."
"Actually, we were wondering if you knew anything about the star Aldebaran and any connections it may have with the occult or supernatural."
She purses her lips in thought for a moment, then replies.
"In astrology, Aldebaran was one of the Persians' four royal stars. It portends riches and honor, signifying the vernal equinox. They called it the Watcher of the East. Beyond that and Taurus' significance, I know little."
Victor nods. "I see. Any more questions Lucian?"
Lucian chews his lip indecisively for a moment before he shakes his head. "Perhaps another time on the Tarot, Madame," the dilettante says. "Not sure how much more piercing the veil I could take today after all." He keeps a thoughtful look on his face as the two leave.
Outside he sighs. "Well, beyond your impending marriage, did we truly discover anything, Victor? Perhaps some riches and honor in our paths as well?"
Victor shrugs. "Not much, no. Maybe we should see if Spencer and Martin have turned anything up."
Meanwhile in Belsize Park...
Martin and Spencer look through several chapters of Talbot Estus' new manuscript The Yellow Sign in the author's sitting room. Talbot leans forward from his armchair, eagerly awaiting his visitors' thoughts while Michael Gillen reads through the evening paper. The smell of the evening's roast wafts in from the kitchen, where your hosts' housekeeper/cook Mrs. Hawke tends to the evening meal.
What you've read thus far is... disjointed to say the least. The writing shares themes with The Queen and the Stranger as well as a poetical and macabre bent but it isn't cohesive by any means. Any self-respecting editor would likely take a red pen to it and demand some serious re-writes. Now you can understand why Mr. Gillen has kept a bit aloof of your reading thus far...
"Well it is certainly a body of work, although might need a bit of tailoring for a...wider appeal. So this Yellow Sign business, from where did you derive the inspiration? I was originally thinking it must be some sort of fancy from the Congo or other mysterious far-off land, but your visions seem rather lucid, as though more recollection than dream. So Mr Estus, what is your source of inspiration?"
Pleased to speak about a subject so dear to him, Mr. Estus sits back in his chair. As he speaks, he gestures animatedly with his hands.
"I've always had an interest in the macabre, Mr. Reeves, from old ghost stories, the work of Poe... it all stretches into a more primitive part of our minds, I find, exposing what lies beneath our civilized exteriors. The turning point, when I discovered The King In Yellow came from reading some stories by Robert Chambers, a countryman of Martin and mine. He's moved away from his focus upon the play, but I've found the work singularly transcendent!"
Martin nods agreeably, puffing at his pipe. "You and I have long been in agreement, Talbot, when it comes to the macabre. The primitive part of men's minds, so often held in check by the demands of society, are frequently the key to inspiration. I saw that in the war. When a man's mind holds only a desperation for survival, genius often comes to light. By tapping that hidden aspect of man, writers such as Poe are able to bring to life rich wonders that appeal to us all simply because those wonders touch us deep within our hidden hearts."
He blinks, startled to find that he'd fallen back into the pattern of half lecture/ half discussion that he'd so often found himself when corresponding with Mr. Estus.
"My apologizes, I fear I have begun to ramble." He returns his attention to his pipe.
Martin nods agreeably, puffing at his pipe. "You and I have long been in agreement, Talbot, when it comes to the macabre. The primitive part of men's minds, so often held in check by the demands of society, are frequently the key to inspiration. I saw that in the war. When a man's mind holds only a desperation for survival, genius often comes to light. By tapping that hidden aspect of man, writers such as Poe are able to bring to life rich wonders that appeal to us all simply because those wonders touch us deep within our hidden hearts."
He blinks, startled to find that he'd fallen back into the pattern of half lecture/ half discussion that he'd so often found himself when corresponding with Mr. Estus.
"My apologizes, I fear I have begun to ramble." He returns his attention to his pipe.
"As I recall, the King in Yellow was quite a departure for Chambers and he never did anything like it again. For some reason, I haven't previously thought of his work in connection to your own."
"That seems like a good idea. Four minds are better than two, eh? I'll have one of my people deliver an invitation to the two of them once I get home."
"As I recall, the King in Yellow was quite a departure for Chambers and he never did anything like it again. For some reason, I haven't previously thought of his work in connection to your own."
"Indeed, a departure. But what a departure! Mark my words, Martin, I believe that when the public's literary taste broadens to embrace our contemporaries, The King In Yellow will be Chambers' most remembered work. A singular piece, undreamt previously- only with the original play could I hope to rival it. But in time, once The Yellow Sign is completed, Chambers' stories will have a companion in their strangeness."
Mrs. Hawke steps into the living room.
"Your pardon, gentlemen, but dinner is ready.", she says.
Michael Gillen folds his newspaper and replaces it on the coffee table.
"Excellent, I could eat a horse! Martin, Mr. Reeves- would you care to join us? Mrs. Hawke's roast is quite famous around these parts."
"What parts would those be, Mr. Gillen?", she jokes,"The living room and the hall?"
"That seems like a good idea. Four minds are better than two, eh? I'll have one of my people deliver an invitation to the two of them once I get home."
Victor and Lucian quickly catch a cab back to Mr. McAllistair's home- the cab driver is a man with sharp features and greasy black hair, chain smoking roll-up cigarettes in the driver's seat. While he gets you home quickly, his outwardly courteous demeanor grates on you and leaves you with a foul taste in your mouth. Certainly not the type of man you're used to.
But back in Lucian's building, where civilized discourse (and drinking hours) reign, it's easy enough to forget him and the omnipresent cold. One of the young artist's servants takes off to deliver the invitations to Martin and Spencer's doors as soon as they are in hand.
"Why a famous roast is never something the astute gentleman passes up, even if that fame is simply confined to a hallway and a living-room" Spencer continues the joke and builds camaraderie.
"Well I suppose I'd be quite keen to have a look at the works once they move to completion, you'll have to indulge me with an early copy eh?"
Spencer moves with the group to dinner.
Martin nods. "A fine roast sounds just the ticket for such a dreary day as -- all the days of late have been, it seems."
He stands, and accompanies the others for supper.
You enjoy a fine roast at the Estus/Gillen household, with potatoes and carrots on the side. While Talbot remains focused (or, less charitably, obsessed) with his novel and the King in Yellow, Michael does his level best to keep conversation a bit lighter.
As he eats and listens to the chatter about the King in Yellow, Martin keeps thinking about Alex Roby. Finally, he asks, "Say, Talbot. Have you ever heard of a man named Malcolm Quarrie?"
Talbot looks up from cutting his meat.
"I can't say that I have, old chap. Is he a writer?"
Martin shrugs. "I don't know. Someone I spoke to recently mentioned this man in a context that made me think he might have similar interests in the macabre. I thought I'd see if you'd heard of him, since I have not."
Lucian nurses a scotch as he sits in his living room. "What a cad that cab driver was," Lucian notes to Victor. "Fine driver, but what a crude facsimile of class he wore. Like as not he thought himself quite dapper, speaking courteously to a pair of gentlemen such as ourselves, but you can't quite disguise clear boorishness! Though his cigarettes did sorely tempt my senses..." He pulls out his cigarette case and lights one, luxuriating in his vice. He makes an offering gesture to Victor.
Spencer simply notes the faces at the table, perhaps one there might betray some recognition...
Roll -
Thats whatever skill pretty much met :p
Spencer simply notes the faces at the table, perhaps one there might betray some recognition...
Roll - 1d100
Thats whatever skill pretty much met :p
Lucian nurses a scotch as he sits in his living room. "What a cad that cab driver was," Lucian notes to Victor. "Fine driver, but what a crude facsimile of class he wore. Like as not he thought himself quite dapper, speaking courteously to a pair of gentlemen such as ourselves, but you can't quite disguise clear boorishness! Though his cigarettes did sorely tempt my senses..." He pulls out his cigarette case and lights one, luxuriating in his vice. He makes an offering gesture to Victor.
Enjoying your evening refreshments, Lucian takes a moment to leaf through the evening edition.
One thing leaps out at your skimming:"Second Murder Strikes Hereford Asylum!"
1 November 1928
On the evening of the 31st, staff at St. Agnes' Asylum for the Deranged in Weobley, Herefordshire discovered the brutally slashed remains of orderly Frederick Long. Long was discovered in the cell of one Lucius Harriwell, a patient at the asylum. The presence of two kitchen knives in the patient's cell and Harriwell's discarded straight jacket point to the inmate as a most likely suspect.
While police investigate the matter, Superintendent Charles Highsmith has stated that he "intends a thorough review of asylum security protocols and will be suspending all unsupervised visits to the grounds pending the police's findings."
Mr. Long is survived by his wife, Harriet and son, Rupert.
Victor begins to put a hand up in refusal of the cigarette , then remembers the week (month/ year) that he has been having, shrugs and accepts. Stifling a cough, Victor looks over at the paper on Lucian's lap. "Whats that now?"
Lucian's face is blank as he passes the paper to his companion, pointing to the article in question. "Our investigations may have been inconclusive, but another piece of mystery just fell into our lap," says Lucian quietly. "What do you think could possibly be happening at Hereford?"
"Well, thank you for the excellent dinner," Martin says as he lays down his utensils with a sigh. "It's always a pleasure to hear about your work."
"It was our pleasure!",Talbot enthuses,"Please, come by anytime- there's always room at our table for you gentlemen. And if you run into Mr. McAllistair, please ask him how he's enjoying The King In Yellow."
Martin and Spencer step out into the cold, windy night- it's fortunately only a short walk from Talbot's home to Martin's. Beyond the occasional passing auto, the streets are empty and quiet beneath the electric streetlights.
Victor's eyes widen as he reads the paper. "Lucian, I think this happened while we where there. This must have been what the orderlies were discussing in the hallway. I wonder who this Harriwell fellow is?"
Lucian nods slowly, staring into space. "No idea who Harriwell is, my good man - but that does seem to take some suspicion off of our friend. Awfully hard to kill a man when we're all in a room chatting with him." He snaps to, looking about him in a bit of a daze. "I wonder if our companions are going to grace us with the pleasure of their company. I'd be interested in getting their opinion on this, as well."
Spencer and Martin return to Martin's apartment in Belsize to find his mail awaiting him there. At the top of the pile, addressed from Lucian, is an invitation to dine out and have drinks at Mr. Poole's earliest convenience to discuss recent events with Mr. McAllistair, Mr. Sixsmith and (he hopes) Mr. Reeves.
Martin reads through the invitation and hands it over to Spencer. "Perhaps our friends have some news to share with us. Hopefully they've had more success than we have."
"Well sounds like a nice evening to be had, we should head over as soon as practicable. I shall get a fresh change of clothes and we can head there upon my return"
Should nothing else occur, Spencer will get changed, then head off with Martin to enjoy the cordial invitation.
Donning their best evening attire and their winter coats, our itinerant investigators adjourn to a hotel bar near Lucian's residence. A pianist plays in the corner and gentlemen sit together enjoying cigars and cognac or pleasant female company. It's a conservative choice for Lucian, but ultimately more conducive to discussion than the more raucous haunts he enjoys.
Martin walks into the establishment and immediately lights up a cigar, inhaling the fragrant smoke with pleasure as he makes his way over to the table.
After everyone has arrived, he takes a quick swallow of his drink, puffs avidly at his cigar and lets out a sign of mixed contentment and exasperation. "Well, gentlemen, my search was pretty much a dead-end. There had been a Malcolm Quarrie in London but he left his last known address a couple of years back. No one seems to know where he is."