Spencer and Lucian, roll Luck please.
Luck
Spencer and his streetwise nous shines through...perhaps the stars aligned?
The halls are very quiet- most of the orderlies it seems have gone to work tending to the patients and handling the day's business. You're moving through the administration wing hallway when Dr. Highsmith's secretary, Mr. Reeves, rounds a corner and crashes into Spencer. A file of loose, typewritten pages falls out of his hand to spill across the floor.
"Oh! I'm quite sorry, didn't see you there!",he says as he bends to pick up the papers. "Quite clumsy of me. Ah. Did you gentlemen forget something here?"
"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."
"Oh! I'm quite sorry, didn't see you there!",he says as he bends to pick up the papers. "Quite clumsy of me. Ah. Did you gentlemen forget something here?"
"Only the directions to the bathroom, Mr. Reeves - I'm afraid I've gotten myself and the other Mr. Reeves completely turned about in here. I'm afraid I have no head for navigation in these institution-type buildings," Lucian says, dusting off the secretary's jacket in a show of concern. "Are you ok? That looked like quite the collision!" He goes to straighten the other Mr. Reeves' clothing.
The secretary responds with affable grace to Lucian's natural charm.
"I'm fine, thank you, just a little startle is all. So long as... well, Mr. Reeves is all right as well. The lavatory is just down the hall here, there should be a sign but I suppose it fell. I'm always telling Dr. Highsmith this old building is showing it's age..."
For the moment, the loose paperwork sits unattended...
Spot Hidden V 55
The two folders have type-written tabs- "Incidents- January - May 1927" and "Incidents- June- December 1927". Seeing what goes where will be difficult as many of the pages have spilled out onto the floor in a tangled heap; it will have to be reorganized.
Library use. V 50
"Ahhh indeed terribly difficult to navigate these areas" Spencer turns the men away from the papers innocently "Perhaps you could show my colleague the way for a moment? we are looking to get going and I'd hate to see us now lost once again in these hallways? there's a good chap, very obliging, see you out the front eh?" Spencer gives an encouraging nudge and wave, tapping the other mister Reeves on the shoulder in the direction of the toilets.
Fast Talk V 45
If the man leaves with Lucian, Spencer will abscond with the file.
The helpful secretary obliges, leading Mr. McAllistair off toward the lavatory and allowing Spencer a moment to leaf quickly through the fallen paperwork. After a cursory glance through near identical incident reports, Spencer hits on a hunch- look for a police report. And it pays off: the entrepreneur closes in on a report filed on November 27, 1927. Patient Lucius Harriwell fatally slashed Orderly Cuthbert Yates in his cell. There are further details in the police report, but it looks like the other Mr. Reeves is heading back from the end of the hall...
Lucian chatters amicably down the hall with Mr. Reeves about his own absentmindedness and the sheer silliness he feels at being unable to see the sign that did not, in fact, fall off the wall. Inside the bathroom, he waits an appropriate minute in the bathroom, then waits another just to be sure. He bursts out the door.
"Mr. Reeves!," he yells, as both a distraction and a warning. "You aren't trying to lose me again in this warren, are you?" He keeps his tone light, hoping that his behavior merely comes across as eccentric, not suspicious.
Spencer gathers up the file as though being helpful - pocketing the police report as he does so...
"I think someone may have dropped this" he offers cheerfully.
"Oh is that Lucian done, we really need to get going...so Mr Reeves, would you be so kind as to continue to show us to the door... theres a good chap"
Spencer keeps up the charade, hoping to keep the man preoccupied.
Lucian keeps the asylum secretary busy for another moment, a hint of frustration at the gentlemen that have never navigated a hallway in their lives stretching his courtesy a bit. Spencer pockets the police report and tidies up the file folder while Mr. Reeves shows you all out.
Across the court, two orderlies stub out their cigarettes and return to the asylum proper. Martin and Victor sit on a bench next to the administration building.
Spencer hops into the car, keen to get moving...
"Well that was all very interesting, and at least oddly curious, what do you fellows think of all that?"
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?"
Lucian snorts derisively at Spencer's choice of words. "You know, in the Orient, the Chinese have a curse - May you live in interesting times. I'd agree, I think that our conversation was, perhaps, too interesting." Lucian stares out the window, idly wondering how he'd go about painting the landscape, if the creative itch he felt were to be humored. Probably covered in blood and bodies, he thinks grimly. The unsatisfied compulsion to paint was leaving him feeling irritable.
Martin chuckles. "Indeed."
Your driver, the diligent Mr. Long, conveys you to the Wheatsheaf and assists in carrying your luggage to the boot. After another short drive and a wait at the station, you find yourselves on the 2:30 train back toward London; you'll be getting in a bit late.
In the privacy of your train car, you have a chance to inspect the police report Spencer nicked.
On November 27th, 1927, orderly Cuthbert Yates was found slashed to death in the cell of patient Lucius Harriwell. Two kitchen knives were found in the cell, determined to have been the murder weapons. A great quantity of blood was found in the cell- even more than what is considered typical of even such a savage crime. Furthermore, two blood types were found on an attached forensic test- one of which matches Mr. Yates. The other blood type does not match with the perpetrator, however. Mr. Harriwell was found unharmed and a slashed, bloody nurse's uniform was found in a laundry hamper. No nurses were reported injured or missing upon the Hereford police's inquiries. The police concluded that Harriwell was the murderer; St. Agnes' Asylum maintains custody but the patient is straight jacketed at all times.
Idea
Spencer is clearly a bit tired, and can't seem to connect the dots.
"I seem to have picked up that file rather by accident; I will be sure to mail it back to Mr Reeves upon our return..."
"Strange, one crime scene with not enough blood, another with too much."
Success.
Martins' Idea vs. 75:
Lucian's Idea vs. 55:
Lucian and Victor:
"Hold that thought, Spencer - I'm not sure I believe in accidents anymore. Harriwell's is the room next to Alexander's cell... which may mean that Mr. Harriwell is more innocent that the police believe, and perhaps Mr. Roby is less innocent than we believe. This entire thing is getting far too strange..." Lucian purses his lips in thought. "Such as where did the person in the bloody nurse's outfit come from, and where did they go? I'd be interested to see who the blood matched..." Lucian looks up. "Rather poor show from the Hereford police, in my opinion. Blaming the crazy man may be easy, but it's hardly good policing."
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."
"Well that is a curious turn of events indeed, so many odd questions and so many odd events... either way Roby is quite clearly a problem"
"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?"
"Oh, it was nothing. Just wondering aloud if those orderlies we saw smoking were the same ones that I overheard talking about Mr. Harriwell."
You return to Paddington Station late in the evening with yet more questions than when you started. Two heinous crimes with no rational explanation, all surrounding the only person you've met who seems to have a clue about these strange events following "The Queen and the Stranger". The four of you go your separate ways into the windy rainy night. It makes no sense, naturally, and remains a foolish sentiment but you catch yourselves feeling faintly relieved that the stars are obscured by the clouds even as the wind and rain make your voyage home into a hardship.
Rest comes in short spurts: it's damnably cold already and your sleep is wracked with ominous, anxious dreams that dissolve upon waking.
The first of November dawns grey and miserable, the wind and cold only letting up a bit since the previous night. If this is any indication, this winter will be particularly harsh.
"Well I'll be off to drop by Miss Jean, a nice dinner perhaps and a friendly wander. Might be some fresh news about Estus too...or any other developments since we have been away. Mind you I half suspect some meddlesome buffoon might have found his way in to try his hand in my absence, but I suppose I will see soon enough eh?"
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.
"Well I'll be off to drop by Miss Jean, a nice dinner perhaps and a friendly wander. Might be some fresh news about Estus too...or any other developments since we have been away. Mind you I half suspect some meddlesome buffoon might have found his way in to try his hand in my absence, but I suppose I will see soon enough eh?"
After your breakfast and morning exercises, you pen a short note to Miss Hewart for delivery. But before you can turn your attentions to thoughts of that fair creature, there remains the day-to-day drollery of managing your enterprises at the Benevolent Society. After bundling up in your winter coat and hat and the short walk through Bethnal Green to the office, you begin attending to your messages, meetings and other concerns. This being the first of the month, it's time to go over the books with your accountant- a bloke named Jack Varley (Mr. Jackson Varley on paper). Mr. Varley is a short, thick man that resembles a "loan officer" more than an accountant but nonetheless has a talent for numbers.
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.
Bundling up against the damp and the chill, you head out toward the Census Office by St. James Park and Whitehall Street- not far from the War Office where Mr. Roby was employed for a time. The office is oppressively quiet, like most administrative buildings in your experience. After a brief word with a clerk, you're given access to some of the records- file cabinets with the previous year's census broken down by neighborhood and alphabetical order. As it happens, there are quite a lot of names to wade through.
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.
On a hunch, Martin narrows down his search to more upscale areas of London, near universities and museums: a man of Roby's station likely wouldn't associate as much with lower class residents of the city and it is difficult to pursue a sideline as an occultist on a workman's wage. And fortunately it pays off: a Malcolm Quarrie is listed as a resident of 12 Moreton Street in Westminster as of 1926.
v 30
Spencer is still rather caught in thought on the more recent 'troubles', never being a vocational accountant, his rough skills aren't serving him well that moment.
Lucian wakes with the urge to create still nipping at the heels of his mind. After arming himself with a pot of black coffee, he sets up an easel and begins painting furiously, allowing the technique to take the fore of his mind over the content, letting his otherworldly inspiration guide his brush. He loses himself in the strokes, letting himself forget the past days.
Lucian works furiously at his watercolors well into the day. When he takes a break, however, and looks at it from a distance, he realizes that he's been completely overworking it. The colors are muddy, the composition is static and the young dilettante has realized that he could do better than that.
1d100 v 30
Spencer is still rather caught in thought on the more recent 'troubles', never being a vocational accountant, his rough skills aren't serving him well that moment.
Distracted, you note that the numbers looks fine enough to you and give Mr. Varley permission to allocate your stocks and other investments as he sees fit.
It's after noon but before tea that a response arrives from Ms. Hewart: Regrettably, Jean has taken ill over the last several days of this unseasonable cold. On the advice of her physician, she is staying at home until her illness passes.
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.
Victor wakes and instinctively rubs his sore eyes. He's gotten used to mornings like this. After fixing himself a cup of coffee, victor sits at his table and goes through his notepad. "Aldebaran." he mutters to himself. "What could you have to do with any of this?"
Victor finises his cup of coffee, bundles up, and calls a car to London Library on St. James Square.
Keeper screen:
Victor's cab deposits him at the library in short order.
With little difficulty, you find a comprehensive volume on astronomy. Showing your pass to the reader's room, you find a quiet seat at a desk and start reading.
Aldebaran is a bright red star of 0.9 magnitude, being the ninth brightest star in our sky. It sits above the Hyades- an open star cluster that constitutes the "head" of the constellation Taurus the bull, Aldebaran forming his right eye. Further back in the constellation lie a tight cluster of young stars called the Pleiades.
From mid-northern latitudes (like, say, England), all these stars are visible with the naked eye with the exception of the Pleiades. Six of the seven stars of this last cluster, called the seven sisters in Greek Mythology, are about fourth magnitude and easy to see, but many more are visible with binoculars or a telescope. In northern latitudes Taurus rises in the east in October, peaks in the southern sky in early January, and disappers into the west at the end of March.
The taurus constellation with Aldebaran.
Spencer is saddened by this news and has a fine tea and flower arrangement sent around to Jean from Harrods.
"How dire, I hope she gets well soon..."
Clearly he was hoping for the joy of her company to offest the latest darkness.