Martin nods. "That's true enough. So long as we don't attempt to hide our identities, disguising our true intent shouldn't be difficult. I just don't know exactly what we'd hope to find. We'd be supervised throughout and security is bound to be extra tight. I can't see how we'd avoid suspicion, so early after our last visit."
He pauses, tapping his lip with his cigar. "I do wonder, though, if perhaps strange incidents like this are related to Dr. Highsmith's determination to see Mr. Roby released. Perhaps he was eager to get Alex out of the asylum before anything else happened."
Martin puffs thoughtfully at his cigar. "In any other circumstance I think the idea would have merit. But the administration at the asylum already know us. I don't see how we'd manage to avoid suspicion, especially so soon after we were there."
As Martin reads the paper he pales slightly. Once finished, he reaches for his glass and swallows the rest of his scotch in one gulp.
"Clearly there's something wrong at the asylum. Although I suppose it could simply be a ghastly coincidence." He doesn't sound like he believes it.
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."
Yeah, I've been thinking and reading through the IC thread in search for something I've missed and forgotten but had no luck. I feel like I'm missing something obvious but damned if I know what it is!
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."
I've been trying to think of a decent way to introduce the topic of St. Agnes but haven't quite been able to. Hmm. I guess I'm running out of ideas for the moment and don't really have any other questions to ask.
"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."
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."
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?"
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.
"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."
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.
Has Martin heard of Robert Chambers?
Martin nods. "Sounds like a reasonable idea. Any thoughts on where we might start?"
"The only thing more I can think of," says Martin as he rubs his chin thoughtfully, "is to follow up with Scotland Yard. Unfortunately, they'll probably make mock of us too. Maybe we should just drop the matter with Quarrie for now and try some other avenue of research. Any thoughts, mate?"
Martin glances at Spencer and nods, trying to think of where to go from there. "Of course, anything that involves the police will be taken to them" he says into the phone. "But first I want to see if I can discern what's relevant and what's not. If you'd recognized a Mr. Malcolm Quarrie I'd at least have a chance of knowing if such a man existed outside of Alex's fevered imagination or not. Very well, I've taken enough of your time. Thank you for your assistance. If you do think of anything related to that name, please let me know."
Martin gives Dr. Trollope his contact information before ringing off.
Turning away from the phone, he sighs. "Well, that was of little help. Dr. Trollope seems to be running out of patience with me."
Martin shakes his head automatically and then remembers he's using a phone. "Much of what he said certainly seemed to be ravings but there were a few things of significance. Given that the there is still not a conviction for the murders Alex was accused of, I am reluctant to disregard it without investigation. For example, in your work with him, did he ever mention the name "Quarrie" to you?"
"Ah, Doctor, thank you for taking my call. As you may have already heard, I, along with some colleagues, spoke with Mr. Roby and supported your conclusion. He did say a few things that I found curious, however, and I was hoping I might ask you about them."
New plan then. Martin is going to start asking around about Quarrie, starting with Dr. Trollope and then moving on to Scotland Yard. Maybe there'll be others who have heard mention of him. He's not quite ready to give up on the mystery. Perhaps Spencer will be able to accompany him.
Martin pulls out a cigar and lights it, gladly inhaling it's sweet warm smoke into his lungs on such a miserable, unsuccessful day. "Well," he says finally, "Perhaps there is more we can do. If we can't find Quarrie, perhaps we can find out if Alexander has mentioned him to anyone else. Shall we try to make an appointment with Dr. Trollope?"
Martin leads the way to a warmer location with a phone.
Martin sighs and looks to Spencer. "Well bugger this. We seem to be at a dead end."
Disappointed at the news, Martin glances at Spencer. "We're, ah, acquaintances of an acquaintance. Mr. Quarrie had been a source of comfort to our acquaintance in trying times and we were hoping to gain his assistance in regards to...present circumstances."
Martin allows his surprise to show. "Oh really? I was not aware of that. He didn't happen to leave a forwarding address, did he?"
Martin gives a curt nod. "Yes. I am Martin Poole and this is Spencer Reeves. We are here to see Mr. Quarrie." He hands over his card.
Makes sense. I was thinking more of meeting at the pub rather than inside it, since pubs make such good landmarks and they're often more common than hotels. The Continental Hotel works just fine though, thanks!
Martin waits curiously at the door, entirely uncertain what to expect.
"Good, then I'll meet you at..."
Martin chooses a pub down the street from the address and gives Spencer the information before hanging up, tucking away the note with the address and heading out to meet him.
Good day, Spencer," Martin says when he picks up. "I think I might have located Quarrie. Interested in meeting up with me to see if we can have a chat with him?"
Martin scribbles down the address information for Quarrie and stands, stretching his back out after so much time looking through the books. He considers visiting the address on his own but decides after a moment that there are greater strengths in numbers. Instead he seeks out a phone and rings up Spencer.
Martin rubs his forehead as he begins to go through the records, wondering what made him think that this sort of a search was a good idea.
Library Use vs 75: 1d100 ⇒ 66 Success!
After a wretched night's sleep, Martin wearily pulls himself from his bed and wraps a dressing robe around his body before making his way over to his writing desk. He pulls open the curtains of the window just beyond the desk and gazes out into the gray morning with profound distaste.
Sitting down at his desk, he thinks about getting a cup of coffee or tea to get the morning started properly but instead grabs a sheet of paper and a pen and without thinking begins to write.
The stars shine as brightly as a beaded curtain as the King peers through, his yellow eye affixing on the small blue planet in the distance. The audience is watchful with their fearful greed and his sign burns like pale yellow stars adrift in the London night. He waits, he chuckles, he screams his terrible joy and all across the small blue world his audience opens their doors to him.
His hand cramping from how tightly he clutches the pen, Martin stares unseeing at the sheet of paper before he starts, reads the words and crumbles the paper in a tight fist, tossing his both paper and pen away.
Unacceptable behavior, he admonishes himself and forces his body away from the desk and into the kitchen where his tea pot is waiting.
Several minutes later as he cradles the warm tea cup in his hand and sips the sweetened morning brew softened with milk, he decides that he needs to get out of the flat before he goes mad.
"Malcolm Quarrie," Martin mutters under his breath. He decides the first step would be to the census records office. Or wherever he can look up Malcom Quarrie or the Quarrie family in population records.
"I wish we hadn't gotten distracted, Victor," Martin says softly as he looks out the window at the passing landscape. "What were you saying about those orderlies before?"
Martin shrugs. "It's not as though the Hereford police are likely to be all that well trained for murders as bloody as that. It truly is a strange counter to the one Alexander was accused and found innocent of. Perhaps he was innocent of the first but whatever he witnessed that drove him mad led him to committing his own, albeit bloodier, murder."
He sighs as he leans back in his seat. "Truth be told, I suspect I just want to believe that. It's easier to think he needs to be committed so that I can feel better about the role I played in ensuring that he is."
Martin chuckles. "Indeed."
Sounds about right to me, boss.
As the two orderlies stubbed out their cigarettes, Martin starts. "Hadn't you been saying..." he begins but then Spencer and Lucian leave the administration building and hurry across the courtyard to the car.
"Nevermind. I suppose we should go before whatever they did falls upon us." He stands and leaves for the car, grateful to get out of the cold at least.
Once inside, he glances over at Spencer. "What part are you referring to?"
Victor Sixsmith wrote: "In a way, yes, but only that it was tied to the play. Normally my visions are in some way related to the lake that bordered Carcosa. This time though, I was on a plain and saw the figure cloaked in white.. the white acolyte perhaps? Then a sense of loss." Victor pulls out his notepad to show Martin the scene that he had been drawing, and notices that he drew in the large star Aldebaran. "This star has recently been very predominant at night. It's strange that it has begun to show up in these visions. That may be worth looking into when we get back to London." Martin frowns as he studies the drawing. "Indeed, perhaps there are some answers that can be found in researching the star. I've never been quite so keen on astrologers but what we've been experiencing...well, I am beginning to think that Hamlet had the right of it. There are certainly more things in heaven and earth than I have dreamt."
Martin nods agreeable and walks beside Victor, rubbing his chin ruefully. "I wonder if the vision came because of something present here and now. If Alexander is involved in what we've been experiencing, it would stand to reason that others out here may be as well. Was the vision similar to those you've had in the past?"
Martin follows Victor over to the bench and stands awkwardly beside him. After a moment he leans over to catch a glimpse of the pad and the man's scribbles.
"Struck by inspiration, eh?"
"Dreadful weather," Martin grumbles and then glances over at Victor. "Something wrong there, mate?"
Martin talks a slow walk around the grounds outside of the administration building, taking everything in as he puffs thoughtfully at his cigar.
Martin lights his cigar and nods. "Indeed. I imagine violence occurs from time to time in an environment like this but I can't deny my curiosity."
Sucking on his cigar but not yet lighting it, Martin nods. "Everything makes a lot more sense now. I wish we could help but I have no doubt that if Mr. Roby saw Alexander as he is now, he'd refuse to reconsider."
Shocked by this latest announcement, Martin fumbles for a cigar and tucks it into his mouth without even thinking. "Excuse me, but I thought we were discussing an early release. You're saying that if Alexander doesn't leave now he'll never leave?"
That's the problem with pbp. So much time passes in one conversation that you can forget things that have already been said just a "few minutes" ago. Sorry about that!
"Perhaps we can revisit this in January, once his more difficult period has passed?"
Martin nods. "Well, doctor, I'm sorry we don't have better news for you. Given Mr. Robys reluctance to allow his brother home, however, and Alexander's less than stellar condition yesterday it just doesn't seem wise quite yet. Is there anything else we can do for you? It's a shame we came all this way to be of such little help."
He pats his pockets to ensure a cigar is still there and then stops. "Just to be clear...you mentioned lucid months. Is there a pattern there? Is he more lucid in certain times of the year and worse at others?"
Martin nods thoughtfully. "Does Alexander socialize with the other patients at all?"
Martin nods curtly. "I did want to ask: Does Alexander receive any visitors other than Dr. Trollope?" He mentioned someone named Quarrie, yesterday. Do you know who he's referring to?"
Martin shakes his head. "The play is just a curiosity. It can't be at all connected to what's actually wrong with Alexander, given that the play itself was only performed once in London and that was a few weeks ago. It was just curious that some of what Alexander said shares a certain quality with the unusual things going on in London."
He pats his pocket to ensure that his cigar case is still secure there and goes on. "Even were the coincidence non-existent, I'd be concerned about Alexander returning home as out of sorts as he seems to be. I suspect that his brother is not particularly interested in seeing to his care which also suggests that it won't be the right place for him. Living in a place where one is unwanted certainly isn't healthy, is it?"
"Honestly, Dr. Highsmith, it's this phenomenon of which Spencer speaks that concerns me the most." Martin adds, rubbing at his chin. "Many of the unusual things that Alexander speaks of are having an unusual, even hysterical, effect on certain elements of London society. For that alone, it may not be wise to allow Alexander to leave here. He could become fixated on such things and worsen rather than improve."
Martin allows the others to speak first, watching Dr. Highsmith and listening to the doctor's response.
"So Mr. Roby was heavily medicated yesterday? Is that the reason he was so unresponsive at times? It seems as though he's quite focused -- even obsessed -- with a...mythology, for lack of a better word. Does he speak of Carcosa and the King in Yellow frequently?"
Listen Check: 1d100 ⇒ 89 Abject Failure.
Martin agrees with Victor quite vehemently and nods as he shrugs the collar on his coat up. "I'm a little curious to see what the good doctor has to say to our opinion." He picks up the pace toward the entrance.
"Well I, for one, have had a most pleasant stay. The Wheatsheaf was quite comfortable."
"Well, I suppose we should be off to discuss things with the doctor. Are we all agreed that our recommendation shall be that Mr. Roby stays in St. Agnes?"
He finishes his tea, takes one last bite of a scone and stands, pulling his coat off the chair and pulling it on.
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