Beacon, NY
At the Sweeny Aerodrome (he hadn’t gotten used to calling it an ‘Airport’ yet), Mal taxies the Curtiss biplane past the hangar for the fledgling US Air Mail Service. He notes the impressive number of Curtisses waiting there. Of course, most of them have already given up their second seats for mail storage and extra fuel. Still, they were ‘sister’ planes to his own and with aviators – being a fraternity of sorts – he gives the pilots and crews a brief wave as he checks the windsock atop the building.
With the sky and field empty of approaching aircraft, Mal turns the plane’s nose into the wind and throttles up. The biplane leaps in response, roars across the hard-packed earth, bounces a few times, and then claws its way into the sky, the powerful Hispano-Suiza engine defying gravity with savage determination. Once airborne and climbing, Mal banks the craft lazily west until they are over the Hudson. He continues the turn until the river stretches out like a wide road before them. Heading south, the Hudson will lead them all the way to New York. Despite having kitted the Curtiss out with the latest aeronautical equipment, Mal trusts his ears – as they all did in the Great War – to tell him their speed. From the high pitch ‘singing’ of the support wires, he pegs their speed at 70-ish miles per hours. He glances at the airspeed gauge which counters with 75 mph. Regardless of who is right or wrong, they’ll be landing in less than an hour… giving Mal some time to ponder why ‘Prof’ Farnwright had included him in his will.
Each of you received a telegram earlier this week with startling news; not that the professor had died, but instead that he had apparently mentioned you in his will. You had barely known the man, and yet he left you something when he left this world? Something wasn't adding up here.
The letter that showed up two days later helped clear up a bit, but not too much. At least you had an address for this law firm, you already knew where the funeral would be held: the Columbian campus chapel around eleven. The professor was respected enough in his field to demand such a high respect, not many funerals were held there.
Arriving at the chapel as you may, a damp, bone-deep chill clings to the university grounds as you cross the quad, the kind that settles under your coat and refuses to leave. The sky above is a low, unbroken sheet of iron gray, swollen with the threat of rain that hasn’t quite begun-yet. Every few moments a thin mist drifts down, not enough to wet your clothes, but enough to bead on your eyelashes.
The trees along the path are shaking in the wind, their last scraps of yellow and brown leaves spinning across the stones at your feet. With each gust, you hear the distant creak of branches and the hiss of dead leaves skittering away. Students move quickly between buildings, clutching books beneath their coats, heads lowered against the cold. Their conversations are hushed, and more than a few glance toward the chapel with uneasy curiosity before slipping away as though they fear being drawn closer.
Ahead, the chapel emerges from the fog-like mist, its tall stone facade draped in hanging black cloth that flutters weakly in the wind. White chrysanthemums and evergreen boughs frame the steps, their colors muted in the gray light. The great oak doors stand open, spilling out a faint glow of lamplight. Two university attendants in black coats wait at the entrance, their hats pulled low against the cold. They nod as you approach, gestures precise and silent. Somewhere overhead, the chapel bell tolls a single, heavy note. It echoes across the courtyard, deep and resonant, vibrating through the damp air like a warning.
Marcus bustles through the cold toward the chapel entrance, consciously choosing to not compare the Columbia campus to Brown. He nods at one of the attendants to acknowledge them for their service and steps inside. He chooses a pew in the middle. Not too far forward, since he's conscious of his height and bulk blocking the view of those sitting behind him, but he doesn't sit in the back, because why should he? He's not a second-class citizen.
Finally, he sits in the center of the center pew he's chosen, because it's least likely that he'll be expected to stand up again to let someone move by or to move further in. With a loud sigh he doesn't even notice anymore, he lets his bulk lower to the cushioned wooden bench, and he relishes in the relative warmth of the chapel and the fact that he's off his feet.
He takes a look around at the other mourners to see if there's anyone interesting to look at.
Malcolm pulls his collar up and ducks deeper into the long woolen coat, trying to ward off the cold as he angles towards the chapel. Though unpleasant, the weather worked in his favor. He’d landed in the northern meadow of Central Park, presumably part of the scheduled barnstorming event for this weekend. The fog and cold all but guaranteed no locals (and few aviators) would want to go aloft today. He’d parked his drab bird alongside a few more garish cousins, exchanged his flying gear for a normal coat and cap, secured the waxed canvas cockpit cover, and made the shortish trek to the university.
He glances at the university attendants as he mounts the steps to the chapel and passes between them with a nod. Once inside, he pulls off his cap and quickly hand-combs his hair trying to make sure it is neat, since it won’t be stylish. He stuffs the cap in his pocket and looks around. Doubting he’ll spot anyone he knows, his second order of business is to find a seat, neither up front nor in the back. Being up front and not part of the grieving family said something, as did picking a spot in the back. Neither was a message he wanted to convey.
Ollie leaves his office, informing his secretary, Delores, to inform passersby to his absence this afternoon. The walk to the Columbia chapel is close enough, so he takes a moment to reflect before he arrives.
He arrives at the chapel, not tall, perhaps a bit more heavy-set than most. He removes his fedora as he enters the chapel, and gathers his leather gloves and overcoat over his arm. Underneath, he wears a three-piece suit and tie, both in black in mourning. His hair already shows signs of graying, and appears slightly gray. He wears a mustache over large jowls. He heads near the front to take a seat.
It's been a while, he thinks. He treats a hand on the pew he's chosen, genuflects, and takes a seat.
Howard, being a young, rich, and attractive man wears an obviously expensive fashionable suit, close cut to his body to highlight his somewhat hourglass form. He looked somewhat uncomfortable in it, the drab black not being what he preferred to wear when out and about. Tucked crisply into a pocket is a bottle green handkerchief, providing a dash of color. He wasn't sure where his top hat was, he had given it to someone as soon as he arrived at St. Paul's. It was too close to his father's private collection of books- although he cut himself off from that line of thinking. The Morgan Library was a public museum now, and he was sure that the more unpleasant volumes had been removed from public viewing.
Howard leans against the railing in the Triforium. He preferred being slightly higher up; he still wasn't entirely sure exactly what it was that he was doing here, and the quiet would help him focus his thoughts. He was confident he would have to do some schmoozing later, and wanted to save his energy for it. Eyes scanning the crowd, it struck him that the guests were a truly eclectic sort.
He takes a look around at the other mourners to see if there's anyone interesting to look at.
Right away, the most noticeable person is the college's Dean, Silas Harrow. He's standing behind a small pulpit at the back of the chapel, looking quite grim. If you know the professor at all, you know that the dean was one of his closest friends; his death must be hitting Silas hard.
Beyond him, there's the professor's closest relative, his distant niece Clara Warden sitting in the front row. She's wearing a mourning veil over her face, hiding her expression from everyone. Then, leaning against the back wall, is Inspector Thomas Harker, the leading detective on whatever investigation is left into the professor's death. Standing off to one side from the pulpit is Father Edmund Thorne, the university's chaplain. On the front row on the opposite side from the niece sits Dr. Miriam Keats, the university's physician. She likely was the one who performed an autopsy, if one was performed. Finally, sitting in about the same middle area as Malcolm is Sylvia Dunn, the professor's last research assistant. She is a nervous type, not looking at anyone else and keeping to herself. The rest of the crowd is of the non-important secondary kind of mourner.
Within a few moments of you all getting seated and the last mourner coming through the doors, the professor arrives, leaving you no time to introduce yourselves to any of the mourners. You know there will be a reception of sorts after, however, celebrating his life. You'll likely get a chance to speak to at least some of them there.
Four pallbearers step through the central doors, their shoulders straining as they carry the casket down the aisle. The wood is draped in dark cloth and chrysanthemums, the professor's favorite flowers glaringly pale against the black. The heavy doors of the chapel thud shut behind them, sealing the cold October air outside. Inside, the space is dim and close, lit by tall candles arranged along the walls. Their flames flicker in the draft whispering across the aging stone, making long shadows tremble across the vaulted ceiling.
The organ deepens to a full, slow hymn as the procession reaches the front. The casket is set upon the bier with an audible, heavy thump. The pallbearers exchange a brief, tense look before stepping back. The Dean lays one gloved hand atop the casket, bows his head, and turns to address the congregation. He clears his throat, though the sound comes out tight, almost strained.
"Friends, colleagues, students...we gather today beneath this roof to honor a man whose life was bound to this institution for nearly four decades. Professor Elias Farnwright devoted himself wholly to the pursuit of knowledge not for acclaim, nor for comfort, but for the belief that inquiry itself is a sacred duty. He arrived here as a young lecturer in 1887, full of restless energy and a certain-" he gives a faint weary smile at this "-stubborn curiosity that many of us here knew all too well. Over the years, he became not only a respected scholar of ancient cultures but a cornerstone of this university’s intellectual life. His lectures were spoken of with admiration...and admittedly, sometimes bewilderment." A soft, scattered laugh ripples through the hall.
"He challenged his students, not merely to memorize, but to see. To look at the past not as a collection of dates and relics, but as a conversation, ongoing and alive." The Dean pauses. His throat works once as he swallows. "Professor Farnwright’s passing was...sudden. Unexpected." A hush settles over the assembled. "And for many of us, difficult to comprehend."
He glances toward the closed casket just for a heartbeat, before looking back to the congregation.
"But, what I can say is that, in his final days, he remained as dedicated as ever. The lamp in his study burned late each night. He worked tirelessly on a final manuscript, one I hope we will soon see preserved in the university archives, as he intended." Another pause. A quiet tremor of unease threads through the seated faculty.
"He faced the unknown with the same steadfast resolve he brought to every challenge. Even when his work took him into places, both literal and scholarly, that many of us would hesitate to tread." The phrasing is odd. A few professors shift uncomfortably.
"And though we mourn, let us not forget what he leaves behind: decades of research, thousands of students whose minds he helped to shape, colleagues who admired him, and a legacy that will long endure within these halls." He draws a slow breath. The candles flicker again, several at once, though no wind touches the air.
"His absence will be felt keenly. But his contributions, his spirit of pursuit, his unyielding belief that truth lies even in the deepest and darkest corners of the world...these remain with us." A silence hangs between sentences. Almost too long.
"May he find rest. And may the light of his work guide us in the days ahead." The Dean closes his eyes briefly, then adds: "We commend our colleague to the earth… and to peace."
What an odd eulogy. Fitting perhaps for an odd man. And what's this about his passing being difficult to comprehend? He was old. People fall over dead all the time, not least those who may have picked up some strange illness in a distant country.
Malcolm thinks he recognizes the wafting smell. He takes a closer look at the pallbearers as they carry the coffin past – specifically their pants and shoes – seeing if that can account for the unusual scent.
Between the strange smell, curious eulogy, the unsettled mourners’ reactions to it, and the conspicuous presence of the hovering flatfoot… Mal has more than a few reasons to wonder what exactly is happening here, and what happened to the Professor. If he died of natural causes, why would the police be here?
Mal glances a bit more closely at the folks in his eye line: Dean Harrow, the veiled girl in the front row who must be family, Father Thorne, Prof's assistant Ms. Dunn (if Mal recalls correctly), and Dr. Keats. He hopes something in their reactions will provide a clue. He wasn’t fond of surprises and this day seemed full of them. He also glances down surreptitiously, making sure his woolen coat is still closed and doesn’t obviously reveal the bulge of the holstered .45 beneath his right arm. He was technically violating the Sullivan Act at this moment, which could make for a very awkward conversation with the cop lingering around the periphery of the funeral.
Ollie thinks he notices something, but focuses more readily on the candle flames themselves. He then pushes them out of his mind to listen to the eulogy.
Time just keeps passing, doesn't it, he thinks. He remembers his college days, identifying what was a crypt and what was a cistern, how ancient civilizations put their buildings together.
I wonder what he was working on at the end?
The dean’s final sentence hangs in the cold, chapel air. For a long minute, nothing moves.
Then the organist plays a soft low hymn, something old, minor-key, and mournful. It rolls through the chapel like a slow tide, settling over everyone. You hear sniffles, soft handkerchiefs dabbing at eyes, the creak of the chapel pews as people shift.
A faint draft brushes the backs of the crowds’ necks, cold and damp from outside. The candles on the railing near the casket gutter sharply as the draft passes, with one flame sputtering almost out before slowly stabilizing. A few attendees glance over their shoulders, puzzled. Nothing seems amiss but the air suddenly feels closer, heavier, for just a single moment. The atmosphere cracks suddenly, and the dean chuckles nervously before looking over to the chaplain.
"Uh, yes, of course." Father Thorne says, coughing awkwardly. "We'll be having some words from the family and friends, if you'd like to come up now?" he says, motioning to those in the front row.
What follows is nearly an hour of the professor's friends and singular family speaking on his character and life. Nothing as strange as the dean's speech, instead mostly consisting of the things you'd expect. Luckily (or perhaps unluckily, depending on your feelings), no one seems to expect or even want any of you to speak at the funeral.
After those who speak get their words out, there is a lot more crying. Clara, the professor's niece, has removed her veil and her face is streaked with tears, as is the dean's. Expected, as the professor has been at the university for many, many years and the two were good friends. Sometime later, the chaplain stands back up and makes an announcement.
"We now invite all gathered to join the family in the university’s Great Hall for a brief reception before the procession to the Trinity Church Cemetery down the road. Please rise and let's make our way over there for a celebration of life." The crowd assembled in the chapel begin to gather their belongings and start the journey next door to the Great Hall.
Marcus can smell the earthy aroma coming from the coffin as it is carried past, even from his spot further away from the main aisle. He furrows his brow in confusion, but any rumination about the strange smell eventually fades into the background as he listens to the dean's moving speech and then the numerous other mourners who rise to eulogize the professor. Marcus can only hope that he is able to have a similar impact on his students and colleagues in his career.
"We now invite all gathered to join the family in the university’s Great Hall for a brief reception before the procession to the Trinity Church Cemetery down the road. Please rise and let's make our way over there for a celebration of life." The crowd assembled in the chapel begin to gather their belongings and start the journey next door to the Great Hall.
Marcus waits a few moments for the others in his pew to stand and leave before he slowly does the same. He follows the crowd to the reception. He considers trying to start up a conversation with one of Professor Farnwright's former colleagues or perhaps even the dean himself, but self-conscious thoughts about how he can't really explain why he was invited to Columbia rise up, and he avoids conversation. Instead, he tries to overhear any of said colleagues talking about the dean's speech. It sounded like the professor died under unusual circumstances? Maybe he can gain some context regarding that.
Mal rises and shuffles out with the crowd. He only recognizes a few people in the group of mourners… and even fewer would recognize him. Ms. Dunn might. He spoke with her enough about Prof’s travel needs, and they’d actually met at his office a time or two. If matters became too awkward at the reception, he could likely chat with her without it feeling too forced.
I just don't know enough about why I was invited here. A letter perhaps thanking me for my contributions, but an invitation to his funeral and will? What have I gotten into? I'll talk to the niece.
Looking properly somber, Howard moves through the crowd, waiting for the opportune time to introduce himself to Ms. Warden. He curses himself for not filling up a hip-flask before coming here, but it is what it is.
Ollie recognized that Farnwright's family and colleagues wouldn't remember what the two of them worked on together, so he accepted sitting in silence throughout the funeral.
Once the funeral ends, he surreptitiously checks his watch, making sure he has time to attend the reception and pay his respects to the family before leaving for his 2pm appointment.
It was strange that I was invited to the will reading, Ollie thought. Perhaps there was some old diagram available he wanted me to have. Would make a nice curio for the office.
As the mourners drift from the chapel into the reception, the change in air is immediate and suffocating. The room was never large, built decades ago when the college hosted smaller, quieter affairs, and its low arched ceiling seems to press downward as though bowed beneath the weight of years of unspoken words.
The walls are paneled in dark walnut, polished to a dull sheen that reflects the gas lamps in warped, greasy halos. One side of the room is dominated by towering bookcases, their glass-fronted doors locked, volumes inside leaning like exhausted sentries. Against the opposite wall stands a long table draped in black cloth, where nervous student volunteers have arranged refreshments at odds with the simplicity of the hall: an extravagant-looking cheese tray, tea sandwiches with unusual fillings, and sliced roast beef on small rolls, completed with a pair of urns for tea and coffee.
But it’s the crowding that does it. Every whisper is amplified by the low ceiling. Every step feels too loud on the old hardwood. The hall was built for perhaps twenty people, but forty have squeezed in, clustering in uncomfortable little islands of grief and gossip. Shoulders brush. Coats snag. Someone’s perfume is too strong. The radiator in the corner clanks like it’s struggling to breathe, fighting against the cold October chill outside.
Instead, he tries to overhear any of said colleagues talking about the dean's speech. It sounded like the professor died under unusual circumstances? Maybe he can gain some context regarding that.
Marcus does a little bit of listening to the faculty discussing the professor's life and previous works. No one seems to know much about what his final manuscript was going to be about or the professor's manor of death, though a few of them are talking about the dean's strange speech. They mostly seem willing to do so because the dean himself hasn't shown up to the reception yet, most likely staying behind to speak with the chaplain about preparations for the procession.
he surreptitiously checks his watch, making sure he has time to attend the reception and pay his respects to the family before leaving for his 2pm appointment.
Thankfully it's only about 12:15 pm, you should have plenty of time to see the procession and make it to your appointment at the law offices.
If matters became too awkward at the reception, he could likely chat with [Ms. Dunn] without it feeling too forced.
The professor's most recent assistant is obviously a shy woman, and has somehow found a spare corner to herself amongst the chaos of the cramped hall.
waiting for the opportune time to introduce himself to Ms. Warden.
Howard sees Ms. Warden is the obvious center of this entire reception, with everyone offering their condolences on her losses and giving offers of assistance with anything she might need. There are a few opportunities between well-wish
The professor's most recent assistant is obviously a shy woman, and has somehow found a spare corner to herself amongst the chaos of the cramped hall.
Malcolm could only take New York City in small doses for just these reasons – teeming crowds and the loudness. It all felt smothering and claustrophobic. The press of people at the reception, the amplification of every sound, and the stifling weight of the low ceilings were a microcosm of everything that drove him from the city itself. In an act of self-preservation, he moves away from the center of the room and the throngs of mourners, covering his strategic retreat by grabbing a cup of coffee and a few tea sandwiches from the tables set against the wall.
He hovers at the periphery of the room, feeling trapped, and finds himself slowly navigating toward the exit. Instinct trumping reason. He notices the professor’s assistant has cleverly carved out a small and relatively calm space for herself. He might find some relief there, otherwise his feet would drag him out the door. He approaches the lady slowly and does his best not to press into her sanctuary more than necessary.
He addresses her quietly, ”It’s Ms. Dunn, isn’t it? I’m Malcolm Strom. I worked with the professor a few years back, maybe you remember? He was working at Ur? In Mesopotamia… or rather Iraq now. I was his pilot. We spoke on the phone a few times and met in passing at his office once or twice?” He asks, hoping she remembers but not expecting she would. He presses on, ”I just wanted to offer my condolences. I enjoyed working with the professor and I hope you did as well." Struggling to offer more than kind words, he adds, "Can I be of some service, Ms. Dunn?” He holds up the cup of coffee and the plate of sandwiches. ”Would you like either? I haven’t touched them. Or if there is something else you’d prefer from the table, I’ll bravely attempt to fight through this crush of people to fetch it for you.” The ghost of a smile crosses his face.
Howard approaches Ms. Warden in between some well-wishes. "Dreadfully cramped in here, isn't it? Far too many loud, noisy people. I'm going to stand nearby, eat my food. You give me a signal if someone you don't want to talk to starts using up too much of your time, and I'll butt in, distract them." He smiles, sadly. "All I can do for you in this time of grief I'm afraid. I'd like to talk with you later, but not here."
Marcus is used to having to maneuver his bulk in crowded spaces, but this room seems especially oppressive. To distract himself, he looks for someone to start a conversation with, and even though his eavesdropping has indicated that Professor Farnwright's colleagues don't know much about his manuscript or cause of death, maybe there's some context that's obvious to everyone and so isn't spoken of. He shoulders his way to a likely group of colleagues.
"Um, hello, Dr. Kingston, Brown University. My condolences, of course. I knew Elias rather distantly, I'm afraid, so I hadn't heard anything about this manuscript the dean mentioned. His final work, perhaps? Also, forgive my ignorance, but I still don't know how he passed. I was hoping
to learn a few details?"
Ollie grabs a drink and heads over to Prof. Harrow.
"Dean Harrow? Ollie Vandermeer. I worked some with Prof. Farnwright back when I was a student. This can't be an easy time. I was surprised to hear of his passing, but I know it's been a long time since he and I had last spoken in any case. But it seems like it was a surprise to far more of us? Faculty, alumni, everyone?"
Malcolm:
Malcolm does find a small reprieve from the press of people in the far corner of the room, and is able to not occupy it completely at least. She doesn't look happy to have her little sanctuary intruded upon at all, but she's also not super offended.
"Ah, my apologies, I don't know if I remember you exactly. I do remember that particular trip of his, was quite the interesting haul back, if I am recalling correctly." she says, seeming to ease into the conversation as Malcolm goes on. "Ah, I'll take the coffee, thanks. Not feeling eating for...obvious reasons, I suppose. Rough time for all of us, it seems. You mentioned being his pilot, how well did you know the professor?"
Howard:
Ms. Warden is impressed with Howard's assessment of the situation and how she feels about it, and is immediately enamored with the man.
"Oh I so appreciate that, Mr...?" she awaits your name (assuming you give it). "Very nice to meet you Mr. Morgan, although the circumstances could've been a bit better." she offers a slight smile before pulling you a bit closer and whispering. "I'm staying at the Belleclaire for the two weeks I'm in town taking care of things, why don't you stop by tomorrow afternoon and we can talk there? Room 604."
She sneakily slips you a business card with the address and symbol of Hotel Belleclaire on it before mixing back in with the crowd of mourners.
Marcus:
Marcus finds a colleague of the Professor's, Dr. Alice Clarke of Geology. "Ah, a fellow academic." she says, seeming more at ease with Marcus once she knows he's a professor as well. "Ah, unfortunately the police are keeping things hush hush, all very secretive. He must've been doing something very, very intriguing, is all I have to say about it." You get the idea that she is much more interested in the gossip of circumstances rather than his actual death. Must've not been very close to the Professor and only here on behalf of professionalism.
"If you want some actual details, and you should, then I imagine the detective is the place to start. Haven't talked to him myself, so I can't be sure he'll even talk to you."
Oliver:
The dean is doing his best to remain strong and in his role as a leader of the college, speaking to anyone and comforting them as best he can. It's obvious, however, that the whole thing is shaking him more than he wants to let on.
Harrow extends a hand for Oliver to take. "Yes, that's me. Good to see you." he says, somewhat distracted. The mention of surprise is enough to shake him out of it and get you his full attention, luckily.
"Ah, yeah, it was very unexpected. The professor was old, to be sure, but there are older members of faculty on campus. The way his assistant found him, it was..." he snaps his lips shut, shaking his head.
"Apologies, that isn't my place to say, especially with the detective still involved. I just feel for Ms. Dunn, she must've had such a shock. These things can be so unpleasant."
"Mr. Morgan, although you can call me Howard if you'd like."
Oliver:
The dean is doing his best to remain strong and in his role as a leader of the college, speaking to anyone and comforting them as best he can. It's obvious, however, that the whole thing is shaking him more than he wants to let on.
Harrow extends a hand for Oliver to take. "Yes, that's me. Good to see you." he says, somewhat distracted. The mention of surprise is enough to shake him out of it and get you his full attention, luckily.
"Ah, yeah, it was very unexpected. The professor was old, to be sure, but there are older members of faculty on campus. The way his assistant found him, it was..." he snaps his lips shut, shaking his head."Apologies, that isn't my place to say, especially with the detective still involved. I just feel for Ms. Dunn, she must've had such a shock. These things can be so unpleasant."
"They certainly can be," Ollie agrees. He looks around a moment before lowering his voice. "Listen, I know everyone here is offering their condolences to Ms. Dunn, as is right, but this certainly hasn't been easy on anyone, yourself included. Why don't you come by my office this evening, and we can hold our own wake over your late colleague? I can arrange for a room at a local restaurant. Bring whomever you like. Just a chance to celebrate the man and friend."
The discordant tenor of the comments circulating through the room reach Mal’s ears. He hands the saucer and coffee cup to the assistant while waving off her apology. ”There’s no reason you should remember me. I expect you were busy making all of the arrangements in the professor’s itinerary. I was just one of many balls you were juggling.”
”…[it] was quite the interesting haul back, if I am recalling correctly." she says, seeming to ease into the conversation as Malcolm goes on. "You mentioned being his pilot, how well did you know the professor?"
”I can’t speak to the professor’s discoveries in Ur… but the trip had some 'exciting' moments, yes.” He considers her question, then responds more quietly. ”Honestly, I don’t feel I knew the professor that well… but, at times, strong bonds are formed when two people share hardships. There were some ‘incidents’ around Ur. We exchanged some words with unfriendly locals… and a few bullets. That’s a confidence I hope you will keep.”
He continues in a slightly less confidential (but still quiet) tone. ”I was somewhat surprised to be invited today. I hadn’t even heard of the professor’s death until I received the invitation. I don’t even know the circumstances of his passing.” Mal leaves the comment hanging, hoping Ms. Dunn would provide a few details.
Marcus:
Marcus finds a colleague of the Professor's, Dr. Alice Clarke of Geology. "Ah, a fellow academic." she says, seeming more at ease with Marcus once she knows he's a professor as well. "Ah, unfortunately the police are keeping things hush hush, all very secretive. He must've been doing something very, very intriguing, is all I have to say about it." You get the idea that she is much more interested in the gossip of circumstances rather than his actual death. Must've not been very close to the Professor and only here on behalf of professionalism."If you want some actual details, and you should, then I imagine the detective is the place to start. Haven't talked to him myself, so I can't be sure he'll even talk to you."
Marcus is able to relax a bit himself when he realizes that Dr. Clarke isn't especially emotional about being here.
"Ah, the secrecy must be why I haven't heard anything. That is intriguing. No rumors, even?
"And do you know this detective's name, perhaps? I don't suppose he's present."
Marcus uses his height to do a quick scan of the crowd if Dr. Clarke names or describes the detective.
"Mr. Morgan, although you can call me Howard if you'd like."
"Thank you, Howard, I will do that." she says, smiling warmly again, though it's not hard to see it's a smile pasted atop a brittle state of mind. "I will be sure to keep you close at hand, should the need arise."
Why don't you come by my office this evening, and we can hold our own wake over your late colleague? I can arrange for a room at a local restaurant.
"Office? Oh, you're that Mr. Vandermeer, I remember the professor mentioning you a couple of times. You're at least partially responsible for a handful of statues on campus, right? Elias always was fond of your work; he brought your name up for a handful of building designs here and there over the years, shame we never got to work together on something with you." he says, obviously reminiscing on times long past. "Yeah, I think a little private wake would do me good, can tell each other the stories the public wouldn't want to hear, eh?" his mood seems significantly improved after having accepted the offer.
I don’t even know the circumstances of his passing.” Mal leaves the comment hanging, hoping Ms. Dunn would provide a few details.
Unfortunately for Malcolm, it doesn't seem like she is willing to completely divulge everything she knows.
"Yeah, I, uh...I found him. In his office in Schermerhorn Hall. I...I don't remember much from that day, everything was such a blur. Was most certainly unexpected, the professor takes...took such good care of himself." she says, her lips trembling as she speaks. "I...I think I'm done talking about it." she finishes, disappearing back into the crowd of mourners.
No rumors, even? And do you know this detective's name, perhaps? I don't suppose he's present.
Dr. Clarke pulls you aside, away from the main group of people, and speaks more conspiratorially at a lower volume.
"Oh, there are plenty of rumors. Murdered by a rival archaeologist, poisoned himself with too much alcohol, even the old boring heart attack. No one really knows exactly what happened, besides perhaps the university's physician Dr. Miriam Keats, or the detective, Inspector Thomas Harker. Dr. Keats is here as a member of the faculty that was particularly close to the professor, and Inspector Harker is here presumably to case the funeral, see if whoever did it showed up to gloat or the like."
Dr. Clarke will point out both individuals to Marcus. Harker is hanging around at the back wall, not interacting with anyone and instead just observing, while Keats is mingling with the other professors around the refreshments table.
"Wonderful. I think it will be good for all of us."
Ollie shakes Harrow's hand and takes his leave. Offering perfunctory condolences to Ms. Dunn (who seems to be distracted by a much better looking socialite) he makes his leave of the event, checks his watch, and stops by his office on the way to the attorney's.
"Hello, Delores," He greeted his secretary, a young woman appropriately dressed in gray, "I'm going to need a reservation tonight for dinner. Party of..." he counts on his fingers a moment "six, maybe seven. A private wake for the funeral I just attended. The dean of Columbia's College of Archaeology will be there. We'll want some discretion, so a private room at Voisin or similar would be appropriate. I've got a second appointment I need to rush to, so wherever you can get is fine. Secure it with the company account. Thanks for your help. I should be back for any details or messages before five."
Business done, he rushes to the will reading.
No rumors, even? And do you know this detective's name, perhaps? I don't suppose he's present.Dr. Clarke pulls you aside, away from the main group of people, and speaks more conspiratorially at a lower volume.
"Oh, there are plenty of rumors. Murdered by a rival archaeologist, poisoned himself with too much alcohol, even the old boring heart attack. No one really knows exactly what happened, besides perhaps the university's physician Dr. Miriam Keats, or the detective, Inspector Thomas Harker. Dr. Keats is here as a member of the faculty that was particularly close to the professor, and Inspector Harker is here presumably to case the funeral, see if whoever did it showed up to gloat or the like."
Dr. Clarke will point out both individuals to Marcus. Harker is hanging around at the back wall, not interacting with anyone and instead just observing, while Keats is mingling with the other professors around the refreshments table.
Faced with the reality of confronting the detective while the man was on the hunt for a suspect, Marcus immediately disregards the notion of questioning Inspector Harker.
Instead, he examines Dr. Keats. It seemed uncouth to question her about the professor's death in a crowd, but perhaps if he bumped into her while she was alone. Marcus makes a bit of small talk with Dr. Clarke, asking her about her life at Columbia while he brings up any comparisons or contrasts with life at Brown. Eventually, he'll thank her for the conversation and move on.
Mal hadn't meant to make the assistant bolt, but clearly his winning personality had won her over. He watches her leave. With nothing else keeping him here, he decides to step out and get some air.
As the reception winds down, people start filtering out and the conversation slowly dies down to a quiet whisper. Each of the party makes their escape from the cramped and overcrowded hall, and none of the attendees try to stop you. No one seems surprised. A few people nod politely, one offers a brief handshake, another murmurs "Thank you for coming." It feels like an entirely reasonable moment to go for each of you. Behind you, conversation settles into a low, practical murmur. The initial gravity of the gathering has thinned, people speak about trains to catch, offices to return to, lectures that will need covering next week. Cups are refilled out of courtesy rather than desire.
Outside in the corridor, the sounds change. Footsteps echo more clearly, voices flatten into indistinct noise behind the closed door. The air is cooler, faintly smelling of polish and old stone. A custodian passes with a folded tablecloth over his arm, already beginning the work of undoing the afternoon. Outside, the city meets you exactly as it should. Traffic moves. A streetcar rattles past. Someone nearby laughs at a joke they didn’t hear the start of. Life has already stepped back into the space the funeral occupied. The reception will wind down, the room will be cleared, and by evening there will be little sign it ever happened.
You notice a sign posted outside the hall indicating that the actual committal will be held at the Trinity Church Cemetery this evening at 8:00, so you'll have plenty of time to get to the will reading and freshen up before then.
It’s a short walk from Columbia to the IRT El 116th St-Broadway station. Malcolm enjoys the pretty, less congested, view of the city from the elevated tracks of the subway train - even in the gloomy weather. An hour or so later, he steps off the train at the Bowling Green station. From there it is a short walk to 40 Wall St. But he has plenty of time to meander around before the meeting, so his trek becomes something of an easy amble as he looks around the southern end of Manhattan.
"Ms. Warden, are you coming to the will reading, and do you have a ride? I must admit to being somewhat perplexed as to why I was invited, perhaps you'd care to join me? I told my driver to pick me up at around this time. I told him to rent a Bentley 3-litre, so I'm sure there will be space..."
Ollie easily makes the walk from his downtown office to 40 Wall, arriving under a black umbrella.
Leaving the stuffy building behind, Marcus' sigh of relief turns into a pre-emptive sigh of exhaustion as he considers that he now has to make his way halfway across Manhattan. He's no stranger to walking, but it's so far away! Providence is a sensible city, not this sprawling mass of urbanity.
To prepare himself for his journey, Marcus makes his way to a nearby coffee shop for a bit of caffeine and a light snack, and then he takes a taxi to the office of Cadwalder, Wickersham, &Taft.
Ms. Warden, are you coming to the will reading, and do you have a ride? I must admit to being somewhat perplexed as to why I was invited, perhaps you'd care to join me?
"Ah, I have my own car here, so you'd need to bring me back afterwards, but yes. I think I might enjoy joining you." Clara replies, taking your rented Bentley and arriving with you.
The offices of Cadwalader, Wickersham & Taft are located at 200 Liberty Street in Lower Manhattan and are opulently furnished, visible even from the outside.
You are shown through a sequence of narrow corridors, each lined with dark wood paneling polished to a dull sheen. The ceilings feel lower the farther in you go, not by design so much as by accumulation, layers of renovation, soundproofing, and added conduit slowly pressing the space downward over the years.
The conference room chosen for the reading is long, rectangular, and entirely interior. There are no windows. Light comes from a row of green-shaded lamps suspended over the table, casting downward cones that leave the upper corners of the room in shadow. The air is warm and faintly stale, as though it has been breathed many times before.
The table itself is massive, carved from a single slab of dark wood. Its surface bears faint impressions where countless documents have rested, pressed flat by years of deliberation. High-backed chairs line its length, their leather seats stiff and unyielding, encouraging good posture and little movement. Along one wall stands a series of built-in cabinets, their doors flush with the paneling. They look structural rather than decorative, too solid, too heavy. You can imagine that removing them would leave the room somehow weaker.
At the head of the table sits the firm’s representative, a senior partner whose voice is calm, practiced, and utterly neutral. He places the document before him with care, flattening it with his palm as though ensuring it does not shift.
When the door closes, the sound is not a click but a final, padded thud.
"I shall now read the Last Will and Testament of Professor Elias H. Farnwright, Late of New York City, formerly of Columbia University. Executed this 24th day of October, 1925."
"I, Elias Hiram Farnwright, being of sound mind and memory, though keenly aware of the limitations thereof, do hereby declare this to be my Last Will and Testament, revoking all wills and codicils heretofore made by me. I make this declaration freely, without coercion, and with full knowledge that the dispositions herein may appear unorthodox, but are necessary in light of circumstances which I shall not burden the courts of this state with explaining.
General Provisions
Firstly, I direct that my body be committed to the earth without unnecessary ceremony, and that no attempt be made to preserve it beyond the customary offices of burial. I further mandate that my study on the third floor of my residence be sealed for no fewer than seven days following my death, to give those named within time to get there.
Secondly, I leave the sum of five thousand dollars to the New York Public Library, with the explicit condition that none of my private journals be accessioned or displayed without review by the executors named herein.
Thirdly, I leave the rest of my estate, provided the four executors named here are done with their tasks, to my closest family member, my niece, Clara Warden. All monetary assets and property are included in this.
Appointment of Executors
I hereby appoint the four named individuals here present, jointly and severally, as Executors of this Will, trusting not in their closeness to me, but in the usefulness of their differing talents. Should any one of them decline this responsibility, the remaining shall proceed without prejudice.
Bequests and Instructions
Contained within my possessions and amongst this will are four separate wax sealed envelopes bearing the names of the four executors I have named, each to be opened solely by those named on the letter itself.
You are not asked to build, unfortunately. You know I so enjoy your designs. You are instead asked to know when a space has been made unsafe by its geometry alone.
I ask you to: examine my collected accounts of subterranean accidents, identify patterns where collapse occurred without sufficient cause, and advise the others when an escape route exists in name only.
You will encounter people who believe themselves enlightened. Remember this: those who can afford secrecy rarely fear the truth, only the loss of control over it. Your role is not to confront. It is to enter rooms that others cannot, and understand the upper class.
I ask you to obtain what cannot be purchased openly, listen where scholars are not welcome, and determine who profits from ignorance remaining fashionable.
I ask you to retranslate what was intentionally softened, identify which rites were preventative rather than devotional, and advise, without embellishment, what consequences follow when such rites are imitated imperfectly.
You know, as I have come to know, that the ancients were not naïve. They were afraid, and often correctly so.
Final Instructions
All materials named above are to be examined together, and no portion of my research is to be acted upon in isolation. Once read and memorized, the letters are to be burnt and disposed of.
If, upon review of all the material I have provided you with, you conclude that my fears were unfounded, I direct you to also burn my private papers and research and remember me as a man who mistook pattern for purpose. If, however, you find that my conclusions align, even imperfectly, then I charge you with the following: Do not attempt to advance the work. Do not publish the work. Decide only whether it must be ended, or endured."
There's a bunch of other legal jargon setting out these provisions legally, but that isn't very interesting to you.
Marcus' mouth opens and closes several times as he tries to understand the context his letter. He folds it and places it on the conference table in front of him, resting his hand atop.
After a moment, he asks the executor at the head of the table, "How long ago did Dr. Franwright write that will?"
The executor riffles through a bunch of paperwork for a couple of beats before answering. "About a month ago, September twenty-first."
"This... this is rather peculiar. Were he perhaps a chemist, or engineer, I could understand the secrecy in his research, but he was an archeologist! Why so much detachment in this field? Darwin published his works some 70 years ago."
"Ms. Warden, I hate to be indelicate and boorish, but were you particularly close to your uncle? Could you shed some light on this matter? By my companion's faces, they seem to be just as mystified as I am."
Ollie considered his note and watched the others in the room.
"In all honesty, there's only so much conjecture we can create before recognizing that we really just have to see for ourselves what has been bequeathed."
but were you particularly close to your uncle? Could you shed some light on this matter?
Clara looks just as clueless and shocked as the rest of you at your mention of her uncle's research.
"I, uh...I don't know anything about any of this. I wasn't ever particularly close with uncle Elias, he never showed me any of his researches or anything. I'll have to do some looking into things of my own, see what all he left me."
Marcus ruminates for several moments before reaching a conclusion.
"Well, there's no point in talking around a mystery that I don't even understand. The will states that we are to make assertions based on the material left to all of us, in whole, not in part.
"So. The Professor has charged me with reviewing his personal papers at the Alden Athenaeum and Philosophical Society. Afterwards, I am to offer judgement of a sort on the findings therein.
"What about the rest of you?"
"I've been given a folio of sketches, ostensibly of a building or other structure. Sight unseen, there's little more I can say about it at this time."
Puzzlement crosses his face as Mal reads the letter no less than three times. His eyes reveal no sense of illumination after the final reading. ”I need to retrieve a case from his office at Columbia. Like you all, more documents to review.” He’s glad Ms. Warden wasn’t close with Farnwright because Mal is about to be indelicate. He looks at the lawyer, ”What were the circumstances of the Professor’s death?”
”What were the circumstances of the Professor’s death?”
"That is quite the interesting question and it's a good sign that you're asking it, if the professor's will is anything to go by." the lawyer says before continuing.
"The unfortunate truth is...we don't know yet. The police are still investigating his untimely passing as a murder, and even the medical professional who performed his autopsy won't tell us anything. The only thing we know is that he was found in his office at the university, and all the doors were locked. There were some…strange details neither the cops nor mortician wanted to tell us, no matter how hard we pried. That strangeness might be connected to all this strangeness, but don't worry. His will doesn't have any provisions for his manner of death, and he didn't have any life insurance to speak of."
"I would be personally interested in anything you are able to find out, however, as he was my friend as well as client."
Malcolm frowns. ”How he died might have some bearing on what we’ve been asked to look into. Miss Dunn found the Professor. She must have a few details the police are withholding. She didn’t take a shine to me but perhaps one of you more gregarious gentlemen would have better luck.”
"I am to look through a collection of notes from various societies that the Professor did not accept, and try and draw parallels between them. Begging your pardons sirs, my name is Mr. Morgan. I wish we were meeting under better, or frankly less confusing circumstances. Perhaps we should all make plans to meet back up again this time tomorrow, Ms. Warden included? Time to unwind, make lodging accommodations, take our first looks at this task that has been set before us? I'll book us a reservation at the Hotel McAlpin, we can talk more from a place of less idle speculation in the 'morrow?"