Victor rubs his eyes and greets Walter with a smile. "Oh, hello Walter, apologies for my state, but I've had a bit of trouble sleeping lately. Why don't you come in, and I'll fix us some tea."
Victor takes the stack of essays from Walter and walks him to the kitchen.
After putting a pot of water on the burner, Victor pulls out a chair and takes a seat next to the student. "How are things Walter? I haven't seen you in a while. Are they teaching you anything in those UCL art classes?"
"Ah yes, Grayson. This is Martin Poole ringing. How do you do? I'm calling to see if you'd be interested in meeting with me. I've had an interesting few days and I thought we might discuss them, see if you have any advice or suggestions to offer, given your areas of expertise."
Martin offers to treat Grayson to dinner and/or drinks in return for his valuable time.
"You're too kind, Martin. Too kind. I would be pleased to join you. Perhaps the Wilmington hotel tonight at 8? I've heard they make a fine shepherd's pie, perfect for such an unseasonable chill. Well, that and a pint or two!", replies Mr. Snow, evidently thrilled by the idea of a free meal.
"What matters would you want to discuss? I may find the time to do some research before we meet."
After his mornings normal routine of getting smartly dressed and well groomed, Spencer arranges for flowers to be delivered to the Hewarts addressed to Jean, with an accompanying warm note asking her to join him Wednesday evening to see Otello.
"I wouldn't like to over play my hand with the lady, but a faint heart never won a fair maiden" he remarks to himself.
Later that afternoon, your secretary alerts you that Geoffries, the Hewarts' butler, has arrived to deliver a note to you from Ms. Hewart.
The man walks in, still with his heavy tweed coat, cap and driving gloves on. He bows formally before extending an envelope with 'Mr. Spencer Reeves' written on the outside in flowing script.
"Ms. Hewart sends her gratitude, sir.", he says, clasping his hands at waist level while you read Jean's note.
"Spencer,
Thank you so much for the flowers and your kind note. It would be my pleasure to join you for Otello on Wednesday night. Please let Geoffries know when we may expect you.
Warm regards,
Jean."
Lucian gathers the best of his paintings from the past few days and heads out to the salon. A gentleman he may be, but not yet above a little bit of gloating.
Your usual salon is held at Thomas Stewart's studio; another young painter from a similar background to yours, he is talented but ultimately forgettable as an artist: he has yet to make a signature style of his own. However, he does excel at critiques and it's obvious to almost everyone but him that a good teaching job is more suited to him than a career in galleries.
Though it's a short walk to Stewart's studio, it seems interminably long due to the freezing wind. If you hadn't anticipated the weather, your portfolio may well have been dragged from under your arm and scattered to the streets. You pause in an alleyway to rearrange your scarf between gusts facing some advertisements wheat-pasted inside. The ad for pipe tobacco catches your eye: the way the smoke curls and undulates out of the pipe bowl is strangely hypnotic. As you watch, it begins to waver and squirm, and then slowly, lazily, it reaches out for your eyes.. you jerk hard away on reflex only to find the advertisement as static as when you had walked into the alley. A few people passing by give you a queer look.
** spoiler omitted **
Victor rubs his eyes and greets Walter with a smile. "Oh, hello Walter, apologies for my state, but I've had a bit of trouble sleeping lately. Why don't you come in, and I'll fix us some tea."
Victor takes the stack of essays from Walter and walks him to the kitchen.After putting a pot of water on the burner, Victor pulls out a chair and takes a seat next to the student. "How are things Walter? I haven't seen you in a while. Are they teaching you anything in those UCL art classes?"
Walter steps in, pulling his coat off as he returns your book of essays.
"Thank you, Victor. Classes are going well, though it's hard to keep consistent: we're studying Titian's glazing technique with Professor Green but Professor Tomlin wants us breaking up forms like Picasso. It's enough to make your head spin!"Walter looks a bit nervous, though that's not uncommon from how you've always seen him.
"You say you're having trouble sleeping?"
Lucian shakes his head irritably. "I'll have to cut back on the damn coffee if this keeps happening," he says to himself peevishly. Or maybe sleep more soundly..., a quiet voice in his head whispers. Pulling his coat even tighter in a way that doesn't have much to do with the cold, Lucian hurries to get to Thomas' studio.
Martin smiles into the transmitter. "The Wilmington would be simply charming. In the meantime, I'd be interested in anything you can find out about a French play known in english as The King in Yellow. The play was written by a madman named Thomas de Castaigne during the Third Republic and supposedly caused riots. It uses a particular symbol known as the Yellow Sign that seems to affect the minds of those who view it. I'd also appreciate it if you could look into a place called 'Carcosa'. I'll be happy to explain things more when we meet."
"Yes, I'm afraid so. I've had some problems sleeping for several years now, but since Talbot's damnable play, it's gotten much worse.
Victor pours two cups of tea from the boiling water and hands one to Walter.
How about you Walter? Have you noticed any strange effects since the show?"
"Geoffries my good man, terribly cold out, perhaps I can have my secretary fetch you a tea and you may take a momentary respite whilst I pen a response? Yes indeed capital idea, I shall ask her for two cups, prime time of day for it really" Without allowing time for response, Spencer calls for two cups of Earl Grey to be prepared, and begins penning a short missive letting Jean know to expect him Wednesday evening at 5pm. Whilst he writes, he continues his conversation, "I find the bergamot most warming...anyhow I did wish to pick your mind, see I wouldn't like you to feel you were talking out of position, but I'd enquire as to how Lord Hewart was finding my...interest. I'm very fond of Jean, I'll be frank, but I have no desire to have my suit cause issue".
Lucian shakes his head irritably. "I'll have to cut back on the damn coffee if this keeps happening," he says to himself peevishly. Or maybe sleep more soundly..., a quiet voice in his head whispers. Pulling his coat even tighter in a way that doesn't have much to do with the cold, Lucian hurries to get to Thomas' studio.
Thomas' studio is on the third floor of a well-repaired building near the University, mostly artists' studios for those that need a bit more space for sculptures, better ventilation for oil painting or just to enjoy a more social atmosphere. You walk up the stairs to his space, passing other young artists and robe-clad models. Quite a few say hello, even the people you're not sure you've met before.
You let yourself into Thomas' studio, where he's fiddling with a study he's done of a woman with long red hair gazing at her reflection in a still pool, putting a few strokes of Tuscan yellow into the white of her dress, then stepping back across the room. Thomas Stewart is a bit taller than you with an old-fashioned beard (you're certain it was grown in imitation of Toulouse-Lautrec, though he fortunately didn't inherit the painter's stunted legs) and round spectacles. He stands in his shirtsleeves and an apron, wooden palette in his left hand. He turns at the opening of the door.
"Lucian! How good to see you! We've got a few minutes still before everyone shows up for the critique. Can I get you a drink? You look a bit tired."
Martin smiles into the transmitter. "The Wilmington would be simply charming. In the meantime, I'd be interested in anything you can find out about a French play known in english as The King in Yellow. The play was written by a madman named Thomas de Castaigne during the Third Republic and supposedly caused riots. It uses a particular symbol known as the Yellow Sign that seems to affect the minds of those who view it. I'd also appreciate it if you could look into a place called 'Carcosa'. I'll be happy to explain things more when we meet."
"Wait, wait, let me get this down... King In Yellow... Carcosa- how do you spell that? And Castaigne, that's French... C-A-S-T-A-I-G-N-E? Very good. I'll see what I can find for you old chap. Tonight at the Wilmington? Six? Capital! See you there Martin!"
The Wilmington is a fine hotel not too far from your home in Belsize Park. Gentlemen discussing business arrangements or meeting friends sit at the tables, sometimes with feminine companionship. Arriving a few moments before Grayson, you secure a table for two and a round of pints. Snow bustles in a few moments later with his battered suitcase in tow. Life as a ghost-hunter isn't exactly lucrative: his jacket is a little worn and the patches at the elbow are for more than just cutting a scholarly air. Grayson's hair went completely white at a young age, leading you to believe he may have taken "Snow" as a sort of stage name in the profession. He is clean shaven and in his early thirties. He smiles as he spots you and waves, shortly before the host stops him and asks if he has a reservation. Impatiently, he follows the man's direction to the coat check and returns to your table- this time in a house dinner jacket.
"Getting bloody picky over here since last time I had the occasion.", he says after you've had a chance to exchange greetings,"But no matter. It's good to see you again, Martin."
Grayson pulls out a small journal from his back pocket and opens it up.
"Well, I had a chance to look into your French play. It's a valuable find, according to some of the booksellers I called. Rare to say the least, certainly infamous. None of the journals I've looked through have had much on the subject. I'd say you've got more on this than I do... but I've seen some odd bits of graffiti on the streets here and there. Hrm..."
He flips through his notebook, stopping on a different page.
" 'EYES SEE THE KING IN YELLOW.' 'THE KING WILL COME THIS WINTER.' And this thing..."
He turns the notebook around to show you where he's drawn a mirror image of the Yellow Sign with his fountain pen.
"I can't say I have the slightest idea what it all means, old chap. Why are you looking into it?"
"Yes, I'm afraid so. I've had some problems sleeping for several years now, but since Talbot's damnable play, it's gotten much worse.
Victor pours two cups of tea from the boiling water and hands one to Walter.
How about you Walter? Have you noticed any strange effects since the show?"
Walter looks into his tea, brow furrowed.
"I didn't want to mention it during the reception, Victor, but... once I got a good look at Michael's costume and I had... an episode."The young student clears his throat.
"I just went catatonic, like I was in shock! I barely remember any of it, but I remember waking up an hour or so later. They had put me on a couch in Mr. Noble's office and Jean was mopping my forehead with a damp rag... they said I fainted, that I must have been working too hard. But I know it was that symbol."
Mr. Paige sips his tea and sets the cup back down with a clink.
"Now and then I'll have a daydream, like I'm drifting away. I'll go to the park to sketch between classes and the whole thing feels like a dream... and I jolt awake to find only a few minutes had passed, when I felt like I had spent hours there. It was entirely queer."
Walter clears his throat again.
"Say, Victor... do you know anything about that fellow, Spencer Reeves?"
"Geoffries my good man, terribly cold out, perhaps I can have my secretary fetch you a tea and you may take a momentary respite whilst I pen a response? Yes indeed capital idea, I shall ask her for two cups, prime time of day for it really" Without allowing time for response, Spencer calls for two cups of Earl Grey to be prepared, and begins penning a short missive letting Jean know to expect him Wednesday evening at 5pm. Whilst he writes, he continues his conversation, "I find the bergamot most warming...anyhow I did wish to pick your mind, see I wouldn't like you to feel you were talking out of position, but I'd enquire as to how Lord Hewart was finding my...interest. I'm very fond of Jean, I'll be frank, but I have no desire to have my suit cause issue".
The Hewarts' man takes a seat.
"As you wish, sir.", he says.Geoffries sips the offered tea. Even seated, his posture is perfect.
"I would venture that the Lord Hewart is favorably inclined toward you at the moment, sir. I'm not privy to all the pertinent details, but I believe his curiosity was a bit aroused by the... incident with your coattails. But given the location of your investment interests I believe he understands your position. Though if I may be so bold, sir, I find it helps immeasurably to leave one's work at the workplace, if you catch my meaning."
"Geoffries, your frankness is appreciated. Men such as us know well there is never really a moment free from our work, the demands of duty are ever upon us, though I note the suggestion as both sensible and well put"
When the impromptu 'tea ceremony' is complete, Spencer thanks Geoffries once more and bids him good day, remonding him that 5pm on Wednesday he will be by.
(This time, Spencer will leave his 'paperweight' in the glove box when collecting Jean)
You let yourself into Thomas' studio, where he's fiddling with a study he's done of a woman with long red hair gazing at her reflection in a still pool, putting a few strokes of Tuscan yellow into the white of her dress, then stepping back across the room. Thomas Stewart is a bit taller than you with an old-fashioned beard (you're certain it was grown in imitation of Toulouse-Lautrec, though he fortunately didn't inherit the painter's stunted legs) and round spectacles. He stands in his shirtsleeves and an apron, wooden palette in his left hand. He turns at the opening of the door.
"Lucian! How good to see you! We've got a few minutes still before everyone shows up for the critique. Can I get you a drink? You look a bit tired."
"Thomas, you bounder, how are you!" Lucian greets him enthusiastically. "I'll have whatever you're having, as long as you're offering." Lucian looks interestedly at the painting of the woman while Thomas goes to make the drinks.
At the mention of his looking tired, Lucian waves his hand dismissively. "Just a passing thing, Thomas, just a few days hard at work - and with quite the work to show for it. I dare say some of the finest I've managed yet, if I may be so bold as to discard modesty for a moment. I of course wouldn't want to ruin the fun by showing you the paintings before everyone else has gotten here..."
"The yellow sign, yes. I think you're right Walter, it was at the moment that the sign was revealed that my affliction began as well. I know that Martin Poole has taken an interest in investigating the symbol. Perhaps I should speak with him and see what he has turned up. If i meet up with him, would you be interested in coming along?
On the subject of Mr Reeves, I'm afraid I don't know a great deal about him. He seems to be an entrepreneur of some sort, with fingers in many different business ventures. Spencer as a person, I don't really know much either. He has certainly has been fun to have a few drinks with, lots of good stories."
Victor holds back a snicker as he seems to remember a particularly scandalous anecdote of Spencers.
"Why do you ask anyway?"
Martin nods as he sees the familiar sign and takes a long swallow at his pint.
"Talbot Estus discovered one of the manuscripts and used it to craft a play. I attended the first and only performance and the effect on the audience was...disturbing...to say the least. I've been doing everything I can to learn about it. If people are writing those things in the city, I fear that a certain kind of madness is spreading."
He drank again and gestured to the sign. "That sign in particular seems to be of great import. What I'm wondering is if that sign is something someone discovered that somehow opens a door to something. Something terrible. I need to find a way to stop it, but I'm not sure where to start. I was hoping you might have some ideas."
"Geoffries, your frankness is appreciated. Men such as us know well there is never really a moment free from our work, the demands of duty are ever upon us, though I note the suggestion as both sensible and well put"
When the impromptu 'tea ceremony' is complete, Spencer thanks Geoffries once more and bids him good day, remonding him that 5pm on Wednesday he will be by.
(This time, Spencer will leave his 'paperweight' in the glove box when collecting Jean)
Geoffries assures you that he will convey to Jean your warm greetings and the appointed hour of your arrival once more to the Hewart house. The rest of the day passes by sluggishly, thoughts of the fetching young actress and your next romantic evening rendering the mundane details of your lending business almost insufferable.
You let yourself into Thomas' studio, where he's fiddling with a study he's done of a woman with long red hair gazing at her reflection in a still pool, putting a few strokes of Tuscan yellow into the white of her dress, then stepping back across the room. Thomas Stewart is a bit taller than you with an old-fashioned beard (you're certain it was grown in imitation of Toulouse-Lautrec, though he fortunately didn't inherit the painter's stunted legs) and round spectacles. He stands in his shirtsleeves and an apron, wooden palette in his left hand. He turns at the opening of the door.
"Lucian! How good to see you! We've got a few minutes still before everyone shows up for the critique. Can I get you a drink? You look a bit tired.""Thomas, you bounder, how are you!" Lucian greets him enthusiastically. "I'll have whatever you're having, as long as you're offering." Lucian looks interestedly at the painting of the woman while Thomas goes to make the drinks.
At the mention of his looking tired, Lucian waves his hand dismissively. "Just a passing thing, Thomas, just a few days hard at work - and with quite the work to show for it. I dare say some of the finest I've managed yet, if I may be so bold as to discard modesty for a moment. I of course wouldn't want to ruin the fun by showing you the paintings before everyone else has gotten here..."
"Oh ho! Truly? Well, you've quite peaked my curiosity old chap.," Thomas replies as he pours tea from a hot kettle on the small stove installed in the rear of the studio. He returns and hands it to you, steam and the scent of orange blossoms rising from the cup. Mr. Stewart consults his pocket watch. "Fortunately, we haven't long to wait."
Shortly thereafter, the rest of the studio regulars file in. Adkinson with his mop of black hair, Rowan who is always wearing green, the sculptor Boris the Russian expatriate, followed by a few faces that you recognize but can't quite recall a name for. All, naturally, remember Lucian and greet you with enthusiasm.
The pieces are hung on the white wall opposite the windows for everyone to look at for several moments. While Boris' latest study attracts the usual amount of impressed babble and Adkinson's luminous in-progress portrait attracts impressed nods, Lucian's watercolors draw the most attention. Where once your work was "interesting" or "promising" you're now receiving some concrete criticism.
"Astounding control."
"Well-balanced palette, that hint of yellow in the reflection really adds that special punch..."
"Those shadows... they just seem like I could get sucked into them."
"I must say, this is an amazing effort, Lucian! A tremendous improvement, technically!", enthuses Thomas,"But... it's quite a bit darker than your usual isn't it? It's awfully bleak. Where did this sudden change in direction come from?"
"The yellow sign, yes. I think you're right Walter, it was at the moment that the sign was revealed that my affliction began as well. I know that Martin Poole has taken an interest in investigating the symbol. Perhaps I should speak with him and see what he has turned up. If i meet up with him, would you be interested in coming along?
On the subject of Mr Reeves, I'm afraid I don't know a great deal about him. He seems to be an entrepreneur of some sort, with fingers in many different business ventures. Spencer as a person, I don't really know much either. He has certainly has been fun to have a few drinks with, lots of good stories."
Victor holds back a snicker as he seems to remember a particularly scandalous anecdote of Spencers.
"Why do you ask anyway?"
Walter stares into his tea nervously, but meets your eye when he responds.
"I just heard that he was seeing Jean and, erm, had a bit of curiosity about him. She is a dear friend of mine, after all...""I would be interested in seeing what your friend has turned up. I can't say I have much to contribute, but it can't be a mere coincidence that we're all feeling dodgy after the performance. Did you find it affected your work at all? Jean and Hannah both said they had strange dreams as well, though I don't think Hannah likes talking about it."
Martin nods as he sees the familiar sign and takes a long swallow at his pint.
"Talbot Estus discovered one of the manuscripts and used it to craft a play. I attended the first and only performance and the effect on the audience was...disturbing...to say the least. I've been doing everything I can to learn about it. If people are writing those things in the city, I fear that a certain kind of madness is spreading."
He drank again and gestured to the sign. "That sign in particular seems to be of great import. What I'm wondering is if that sign is something someone discovered that somehow opens a door to something. Something terrible. I need to find a way to stop it, but I'm not sure where to start. I was hoping you might have some ideas."
Snow takes a heavy sip of his own pint and nods.
"Hmmm. So you think this is some sort of... psychic epidemic? I'll keep my eyes open; we'll have to do a study to see if it pans out. Interviews, tests. I'll set up some photographs at the graffiti sites... maybe there could be a psychic impression to pick up. Do you know anyone that's been afflicted with this?"The waiter checks in at your table and Grayson orders the shepherd's pie he had been hankering for.
Spencer spends the time in his office, preoccupied with the thoughts of Jean. What would she make of some of his darker business activities, how forgiving a heart would Lord Hewart have when it came to accepting the nastier parts of Spencers activity?
It is a rough world he is a part of, and even for the well meaning Spencer there are dark deeds that one must be involved in... if this relationship blooms further, should he be seeking a shift to more savoury income? Could he in fact divest the nastier parts of his business and focus on the parts that were benevolent. Could he in fact go straight?
Or are these the romantic notions of an infatuated fool?
Martin also orders a shepherd pie and another set of pints for the both of them.
"It may well be. I met two others at the performance that night who seemed influenced by the play or the symbol. Victor Sixsmith and Lucian McAllister. Both men have been highly inspired by the play and have set out to reproduce images of it with a considerable degree of fervor. I think that Victor feels a little concern over the mania that resulted from it, whereas Lucian has embraced it. The initial result at the play itself was an inclination toward violence. Old women and young men alike were suddenly aroused into fury, striking at anyone who got in their way. In the days since, it seems this fury has been transformed into creativity."
Martin strokes his mustaches thoughtfully. "Perhaps I can get a list of some others who attended the play for you to interview."
The pieces are hung on the white wall opposite the windows for everyone to look at for several moments. While Boris' latest study attracts the usual amount of impressed babble and Adkinson's luminous in-progress portrait attracts impressed nods, Lucian's watercolors draw the most attention. Where once your work was "interesting" or "promising" you're now receiving some concrete criticism.
"Astounding control."
"Well-balanced palette, that hint of yellow in the reflection really adds that special punch..."
"Those shadows... they just seem like I could get sucked into them."
"I must say, this is an amazing effort, Lucian! A tremendous improvement, technically!", enthuses Thomas,"But... it's quite a bit darker than your usual isn't it? It's awfully bleak. Where did this sudden change in direction come from?"
Lucian opens his mouth, fully intending to tell them all of his trip down Carcosa's haunted, haunting streets, but his voice catches and his memory surprises him with Victor's face, his own fist, and the hollow, far-away sound of his own voice shouting. He looks at the others, faces turned towards him, thinking back on talks of what miseries the great masters went through to create their finest works. I can't possibly let them know about Carcosa, he thinks soberly. They'd try to go in a heart-beat.
And you do hate sharing..., a dark whispering thought chimes in.
He smiles, a little wanly. "Just bad dreams, Thomas, giving me that little bit of dark inspiration. Certainly doing hell on my complexion, but the art is refreshing."
"Yes in fact, it has affected my work and in a positive way actually. I haven't been so inspired in my life! The cost though.." Victor rubs his eyes, then adds with a chuckle.
"It's interfered with my beauty sleep and I can use all that I can get.
Why don't I contact Martin and we can hear what he has found out. He seems to be good friends with Spencer, so I'm sure he'll be with be along as well. That way you can meet him for yourself. When we do meet up, I'll make sure we bring along Lucian McAllistair as well. He should be interested to hear that it's not just himself, Talbot and I who were put under this damned plays spell."
Martin also orders a shepherd pie and another set of pints for the both of them.
"It may well be. I met two others at the performance that night who seemed influenced by the play or the symbol. Victor Sixsmith and Lucian McAllister. Both men have been highly inspired by the play and have set out to reproduce images of it with a considerable degree of fervor. I think that Victor feels a little concern over the mania that resulted from it, whereas Lucian has embraced it. The initial result at the play itself was an inclination toward violence. Old women and young men alike were suddenly aroused into fury, striking at anyone who got in their way. In the days since, it seems this fury has been transformed into creativity."
Martin strokes his mustaches thoughtfully. "Perhaps I can get a list of some others who attended the play for you to interview."
Grayson wipes his mouth with his napkin, quickly swallowing a mouthful of his pie.
"I can take a walk down to the precinct and see if I can't get a look at the police report on that riot at the Scala. Maybe I can get a few likely names and subjects out of it. I'm not an expert, but we can take a look at your friends' brainwaves while they're sleeping. I've got a contraption I fixed up from an old ward in St. Mary's after they bought some new equipment."
The pieces are hung on the white wall opposite the windows for everyone to look at for several moments. While Boris' latest study attracts the usual amount of impressed babble and Adkinson's luminous in-progress portrait attracts impressed nods, Lucian's watercolors draw the most attention. Where once your work was "interesting" or "promising" you're now receiving some concrete criticism.
"Astounding control."
"Well-balanced palette, that hint of yellow in the reflection really adds that special punch..."
"Those shadows... they just seem like I could get sucked into them."
"I must say, this is an amazing effort, Lucian! A tremendous improvement, technically!", enthuses Thomas,"But... it's quite a bit darker than your usual isn't it? It's awfully bleak. Where did this sudden change in direction come from?"Lucian opens his mouth, fully intending to tell them all of his trip down Carcosa's haunted, haunting streets, but his voice catches and his memory surprises him with Victor's face, his own fist, and the hollow, far-away sound of his own voice shouting. He looks at the others, faces turned towards him, thinking back on talks of what miseries the great masters went through to create their finest works. I can't possibly let them know about Carcosa, he thinks soberly. They'd try to go in a heart-beat.
And you do hate sharing..., a dark whispering thought chimes in.
He smiles, a little wanly. "Just bad dreams, Thomas, giving me that little bit of dark inspiration. Certainly doing hell on my complexion, but the art is refreshing."
While the rest of the salon chuckles at your joke about your complexion, Thomas looks a bit concerned.
"Just don't kill yourself Lucian,"he says,"I'm certain a fair number of the girls across London would be beside themselves with grief...""... but at least it would give the rest of us a chance!", chuckles Adkinson
"But where would your work be without your profound frustration, Addy?"
That gets a bigger laugh and the critique moves on.
As you're packing up, Thomas takes a last moment looking over your pieces.
"I say old man, these are truly amazing. The bigger galleries don't hold much with watercolors, you know, or with your (forgive me) rather bleak subject matter. What do you plan to do with them? It seems a shame not to have these exhibited."
As you're packing up, Thomas takes a last moment looking over your pieces.
"I say old man, these are truly amazing. The bigger galleries don't hold much with watercolors, you know, or with your (forgive me) rather bleak subject matter. What do you plan to do with them? It seems a shame not to have these exhibited."
"It does, doesn't it," Lucian muses. "I haven't rightly given it that much thought, Thomas. While the positive critiques have certainly been refreshing, I'd rather not let myself be pigeonholed into the macabre before I can see where this surge of creativity is taking me. So for now? I'll sit on these. Maybe I can make my way to the hallowed halls of some respectable gallery with a nice easy landscape in a few more weeks,"[/b] he says sarcastically.
Spencer
After what seems an eternity, Wednesday night arrives and you knock off work, freshen up and pick up your lovely date. Jean is a vision as always- lovely, classy and respectable, a perfect companion. Lord Hewart seems to have warmed to you, judging by his strong handshake and affable demeanor. Minding Geoffries' advice, you leave your business at work (or in the glove box, in this instance).
As a man of culture, you have a passing interest in the opera and from what you could tell it was quite good. Jean's reaction, naturally, was the main attraction. Enraptured by the famous tenor, she seemed quite moved by the performance. You did notice her growing rather... distracted? No, focused would be a better term, during the tragic final act and Othello's descent into madness. Discussing it in the car on the way to dinner, it seems the King in Yellow casts a shadow over other works. But you found it a specter easily dismissed in such charming company. At the end of the evening, you favored your lady with a proper kiss at her door, pleased at the bloom of her blushing cheeks. The remaining days pass pleasantly and you meet once again, this time to take the air on Sunday afternoon and enjoy a quiet lunch in her father's company. All in all, things are going well for the talented Mr. Reeves.
But now and then you find odd graffiti in your neighborhood. A reversed image of the infamous Yellow Sign scrawled on a brick wall. And on your way to a meeting, you spot the disturbing sentence "THE STARS SHALL EAT US WHOLE" written large and bold across the arch of a bridge.
Victor
While speaking with Walter has brought a measure of perspective to your situation, your nights are still difficult to endure. Those haunting dreams persist and you feel a building tension, much like during the second act of "The Queen and the Stranger". You repress your urge to sit down and create something, anything, for fear of spreading the madness further. You begin consultation with Dr. Samuel Bridgman of south Islington and the sessions do give you a degree of relief. Your therapist tells you that it's too soon to really tell what the source of these strange dreams and hyperactivity could be, but he believes there may be a link between works in the theater and the incident that left you badly burned; conflicted feelings about your father bubbling to the surface along with the trauma of the incident. Things seemed to be getting better after your first session... until the vision happened.
You were walking out to a tea room in your neighborhood to get out of the house, a good book under one arm, when you glanced up at a window three stories up in a brown building on your right. Ragged curtains flew out in the wind, fluttering like streamers. It must have been a freak breeze- the flag above it was perfectly limp. Then all of a sudden, the curtains whipped out of sight and were replaced for a second with a pale face. It looked directly down at you, with an unreadable expression on its frozen, paper white face. A passer-by was shaking your shoulder for a moment, but you were insensate until you finally snapped out of it. To say the least, it ruined your constitutional.
Martin
After your evening out with Mr. Snow, you call upon Ms. Winthtrop once more to inquire as to her health. She confided that while, outwardly, she was perfectly fine, she had a deep fear of projecting into the ether again. Pamela was quite disturbed when she began remembering what happened during the consultation and has decided to take some time off to settle her nerves. Grayson has little luck getting those afflicted by the Yellow Sign during the play to agree to an examination after he looked them up from the police records. It seems your test pool will remain awfully small, but men of science must persevere: at least, that's Grayson's theory.
The remainder of your time has been taken over with investigating what this "psychic epidemic" could mean- someone has to document it, after all. Between graffiti seen on the street and your acquaintances experiences, you've begun researching similar incidents. Talbot has little to say on the matter, believing ultimately that this creative well he's found is a thing of beauty. The progress on his own manuscript is ploddingly slow- the draft you've looked through was practically unreadable. Calling on Mr. McAllistair to see how he's getting on with the King in Yellow has shown you that the young aesthete has grown rather fixated on the subject to say the least. His paintings are more impressive than you had believed from your previous interactions. But you can see that dogged gleam in his eye: he's delving deeper, drawing from the same well as Estus.
Lucian
Your dreams continue, but you have no other incidents like on the way to Thomas' studio. Your art continues to improve and you drive yourself hard to produce more and better works. You're genuinely inspired, perhaps for the first time in your life- not merely dabbling, but excelling. It's a heady rush and a great boost to your ego and spirits even as your weariness crashes in once in a while. This is what it's like to be truly inspired, this is what it's like to be a real artist, bringing harsh and beautiful truths to life with your brush and paper.
Lucian finds the King In Yellow thoroughly promising and Estus labyrinthine notes in the margins lead you down ways of thinking and considering the play you hadn't though of before. As mad as it sounds, you've come to believe Carcosa is a real place. Consulting books on astronomy in the library, you've found that the Hyades cluster alluded to in the play is in the constellation Taurus. Carcosa resides on Aldebaaran, the great red star making up Taurus' eye. Lake Hali could well be the space among them. If only you could reach it, to walk those streets so familiar in dreams, to be among that final procession in Lost Carcosa...
Lucian is enthusiastic about Martin's visit, proudly showing off his latest pieces of work to the writer. If Martin brings up the brain scans, Lucian will happily volunteer to undergo one.
As the delving into the realm of Carcosa continues, Lucian has an idea. In a manic burst of energy, he clears one wall of all decorations and furnishings, tossing hung paintings about and upending a bookshelf onto the floor in his haste. He begins to paint a small sample of a night sky, with Taurus and the red eye of Aldebaran staring out into the room. He steps upon the scattered detritus of his seemingly ransacked room as he works, always feeling the crimson star's gaze upon him.
Lucian proves more adaptable than most, his mind readily accepting the mysteries of Hastur with minimal protest. Lose sanity.
Spencer is delighted with the latest developments. At work his mind is occupied by the continued thoughts of Jean, and this is amplified by the conduct of Lord Hewart and his welcome, suggesting that this might not be a doomed romance in the Romeo and Juliet spirit.
Jean has brought out the gentleman that always existed under his business like exterior, and he is revelling in the indulgence of his better nature.
Of course, this King in Yellow business is a bit of a cause for concern, and that strange symbol popping up on a wall (along with the unusual message) leaves Spencer a touch perturbed. There weren't hallucinogens slipped into the guests drinks at the play were there?
Either way, these concerning matters would be well discussed amongst sensible men of reason at the upcoming meeting.
28th October, 1928
It is another chill, blustery day in London as Martin and Spencer arrive at around 3 pm at the Great Western Hotel in West London near Paddington Station. It is a comfortable, reasonably priced hotel that appeals to the frugal traveller while offering plenty of amenities. In the lobby, you inquire with the desk manager and he phones up for Dr. Highsmith.
After a moment waiting in the lobby a middle aged man with brown hair, a neat beard and slightly bushy eyebrows descends the stairs. He is dressed in tweeds and carrying a leather briefcase, the very picture of a country doctor.
"Good day, gentleman! You must be Mr. Poole!", he says, extending a hand. "And Mr. Reeves, a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Doctor Charles Highsmith; please, let's have a seat in the lounge and I'll order us some tea. Are you gentlemen hungry at all? The food here is quite good. Awful chill we've been having, isn't it?"
You take seats in the lounge, mostly empty an hour before tea time and affording a good deal of privacy.
After you've made small talk for a few minutes, Doctor Highsmith pulls out his pipe and lights it with a match after the waiter arrives with the tea.
"I understand it must be a bit perplexing to get my letter out of the blue, Mr. Poole", he begins," but I've a delicate matter between a unique patient and his family and I learned that you were staying in London working on your next book. I hope you don't mind my saying so, but I'm a great admirer of your novels. The matter requires some finesse, as both myself and my patient's family have retreated into our entrenched positions and refuse to budge; it is my hope that you will gather the facts and help sway them to being a bit more reasonable. Now, before I get into the particulars, I feel I have to say that I'm happy to let you proceed in any way you deem appropriate so long as the privacy of the matter and the good name of St. Agnes' Asylum is maintained. Shall I continue?"
"A pleasure to meet you Doctor, a warm tea and the odd morsel would be most welcome after that snappy bit of cold."
Spencer relaxes back in his chair, interested to see how this might all play out.
"My patient's name", begins Dr. Highsmith,"is Alexander Roby, the brother of Grahame Roby the banker. Grahame and the family doctor, Dr. Lionel Trollope, committed Alexander to St. Agnes' Asylum almost two years ago. Along with myself, we signed an Order on Petition that authorized the admittance. This was close upon the murder of Herbert, Alexander and Grahame's father, and of their sister Georgina at the family home in London."
Dr. Highsmith puffs on his pipe, reaching into his briefcase to pull out a manilla file which says "Roby, Alexander" on the tab.
"Alexander has suffered night terrors but has made encouraging progress since his committal. I can see no evidence of untreatable long-term insanity in Mr. Roby, as the predictably spaced attacks have been controlled by strong sleeping drafts. The Order on Petition only lasts for two years and his review is approaching. I'm prepared to make the decision whether to release Alexander or keep him committed, but I'm uneasy about the position his family has taken. All of my communication on his case has been with Dr. Trollope, who has been urging me by letter over the last year to keep Alexander committed. I believe Grahame and his extended family are leaning on the Doctor to do so, but they will not speak to me directly. I would like to know why they oppose Alexander's release."
The Doctor takes a small sip of his steaming tea and continues.
"What I would like you to do, Mr. Poole and Mr. Reeves, if you're willing, is to intervene and hear Dr. Trollope's views. As I've said, we've both retreated into our positions- perhaps your reputation and independence could move us toward an accord. I would rather not release Alexander without the support of his family if it can be helped; he will require some care after his release. If you could manage to speak with Grahame Roby, that would be even better. I'm anxious to learn of Alexander's family history: what lead up to his admission and his character while he was at liberty. Should you find any new information, I will reassess my position, but as it stands I would quite prefer to recommend Alexander's release into a relative's care or, failing that, a convalescent home."
He looks between the two of you.
"How about it, gentlemen? Would you be interested in intervening as neutral parties? I can, of course, open St. Agnes' doors to you and anyone you have deemed fit to assist you if you wish to interview Alexander yourselves."
"I would be delighted to assist in the matter and offer what help I can, I'm sure Martin here would also be a sport about it. What say you Martin?"
Martin takes Dr. Highsmith's hand and firmly clasps it, accepting the offer of a light meal to accompany the tea. He then listens quietly to Highsmith's dilemna, nodding with a polite smile at the kind words regarding his work.
"Of course, I'm happy to approach this matter with utter discretion. You have my word as a gentleman. I'm honored to help in whatever way I can."
Martin nods along with Spencer's words. "I confess, this is an interesting situation. I'd be quite curious to know more myself, and would be happy to talk to all parties concerned and learn what I may.
Martin remembers reading about the 1926 murders; a very shocking case. Alexander was thought to have been arrested, but if so no charges were filed. Newspaper archives would have more information.
"Excellent! I'm so glad you can intervene. Here is Dr. Trollope's and Grahame Roby's addresses.", he says, pulling out two cards. Dr. Trollope lives on Long Acre near St. James Park, while Mr. Roby lives in Belgravia- a highly desirable neighborhood.
"I will send them both letters of introduction this afternoon to smooth things over for your interviews. I'm planning to return to Weobly and St. Agnes on the 30th if you would care to join me and speak with Alexander. It should be a fine opportunity for a short holiday if you gentlemen like. Good hunting if you've a mind, fine Hereford beef. It would be my pleasure to host you and any of your friends."
Your light meals arrive and you all tuck in. If you have any questions for Dr. Highsmith, this is a good time to bring it up.
Martin accepts the cards, looks them over and tucks them away. "Excellent. It would be quite a pleasure to visit Hereford and your institution."
As he eats, he mulls over what the doctor has told them. "So I gather that no explanation has been provided at all for why the family wishes Alexander to remain committed to your care? Does your patient correspond with Mr. Roby? Does he or other members of the family visit him?"
"Patients aren't allowed access to pens or pencils as a policy: we certainly don't want any suicide attempts. So correspondence is rather impossible. Alexander hasn't received letters, either. Grahame Roby has not visited his brother, though Dr. Trollope has made several visits to check up on Alexander and his progress."
Dr. Highsmith clears his throat.
"I suspect their opposition mostly has to do with a matter of... reputation. With the tragic death of Alexander's father and sister and Alexander's commitment, Mr. Roby may well feel that his brother is an embarrassment. It is, unfortunately, entirely too common to view those afflicted with psychosis in such a light. Especially tragic, given that I believe Alexander's condition is entirely treatable and manageable."
"True, a rather unhelpful circumstance when these troubled men are merely viewed as an encumberance upon ones family; it is the duty of a family to remain stoic in such adversity and carry the care of their relative with dignity, not to lock them in the wine cellar"
"A little business, a little leisure would be just the ticket right now I believe; it has been a rather adventurous little while"