[IC] Prologue - A Mysterious Meeting Beckons

Eternal Lies Prologue



Theme Tune

Date: 23 May, 1937

Dr Gabriel Walker.

Dr Eric Hardstrom, Gabriel’s employer and mentor, had summoned him to his office, the rich, dark mahogany desk seeming vast between them. The two colleagues had made the usual small talk and chatted about several of the patients, when Dr Hardstrom paused, stroked his beard, and said "Dr Walker, an opportunity has arisen. How would you feel about a sabbatical to work on a peculiar case? The patron is one who you probably won’t recognise, but I treated her father as a personal favour some time ago. She has an intriguing proposition, one that I can’t make time for, what with the sanitarium and all, but that I felt you might be more suited for, from your lack of ties other than the feline of course. It promises to be a rather unique case."

Intrigued, though perhaps a little hesitant, Gabriel indicated that he wished to know more before accepting. "Splendid," Dr Hardstrom replied. "I’ll let her know immediately." He reached for the telephone, an obvious signal for Gabriel to leave the office.

The rest of the day went as usual, busy, a mixture of patients showing promise in their recovery and, rather more unfortunately, those still not responding to treatment as Gabriel would have liked. At the end of the day, as he made the short walk from the sanitarium to home, he noticed a car - a limousine - slow and stop just ahead of him. A man, dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform, got out and looked at Gabriel. "Dr Walker?" he asked, opening the rear door for the alienist. The man appeared a little unsteady on his legs - Gabriel does hope the man isn’t drunk.

Samuel Weston.

After the war, Samuel was treated for shellshock (albeit rather rudimentary treatment), which is where he met Frank Kearns, a flyboy who’d lost a leg in a fiery crash over no man’s land. He was of a similar age, a no-nonsense kinda guy, who, after he went through rehab and got fitted with a new leg (made from the same metal as the struts on his old plane, he always says with a smile that never quite reaches his eyes), he took a series of charitably-offered jobs that barely paid his way, and the two men drifted apart for several years.

Samuel was surprised to see his old comrade fairly recently, and looking pretty good, considering. He had a new suit, and insisted on getting in a couple of rounds before Samuel was able to buy the next drink. He’d been working for "this rich broad, worked for her father before her, they’re good people," was being paid a decent wage, and what’s more, was once again doing what he loved - flying. "Mostly it’s just driving, don’t get in the air as much as I used to, but the feeling’s still there when I’m in the plane," he explained to Samuel. The night ended late, and Samuel woke the next day with a raging hangover, but went to work happier than he had for a while, having spent long hours reminiscing.

It was about a week later that he got home to find a note pinned to his door. It read "A car will pick you up at 8. I have an interesting case that I think might appeal to you." It was unsigned. Sure enough, at 8 on the dot, a limo appeared. The driver's door opened, and there stood Frank Kearns, a smile on his face, and clad in a chauffeur's uniform. :Let me get that door for you" he says, opening the rear door.

Lilian Blakey

Lilian hasn’t really enjoyed her time in Arkham so far. It’s colder than New York, for one thing, rains more, and seems always cloudy, and this is May! It’s supposed to be warm and sunny! It’s also very white. As she’s tried to find out what happened to Mac, she’s hit obstacle after obstacle, especially at the police precinct, where the detective didn’t even want to talk to her once he found out they were no longer together. Then, of course, he got real interested when he heard they were separated, and wanted to know where she was on the night of his murder. Luckily for Lilian, even a racist cop couldn’t pin that on her when she was on stage in New York at the time.

The only bright side of Arkham she found was a small jazz club just east of downtown, and like Cafe Society, welcomed both black and white patrons. She hadn’t gotten up on stage - too upset with the investigation and the run-around she was getting - but she had seen some unknowns there who could really play and sing. Why they weren’t more famous, or hadn’t played outside of this place, she had no idea. She’d even made a friend or two, the young black guy (Timmy? Tommy?) who wore a bright blue zoot suit and sunglasses despite the dark interior of the club and the gloomy skies outside, the older rich white lady who wears a different designer outfit every time she sees her there and always offers her a drink and a cigarette from a silver case and who actually listens to her when she talks (Jane? Janet? Something like that), the young kid, Charlie, who works as a dishwasher at some chicken place that she’s never managed to find, despite increasingly exacting directions from everyone who knows of it and who rave about it, and who plays the sax himself he says, and several others. Hard to believe she’s only been here for a couple of weeks.

Then came the breakthrough: The detective, Marsh, suddenly left the force (rumours were that he was told in no uncertain terms that he should resign before some things got out in the open), and the new detective, Cranston, took over and pretty much had the case in the bag before the end of the day - some bunch of hoods holed up in an old abandoned church, apparently murdered Mac when he was looking for a place to sleep overnight and picked the wrong abandoned building. With that suddenly done and dusted, Lilian wasn’t sure what to do. Head back to the city?

Before she could leave though, her case already packed, there’d been a knock on the door and a man in a chauffeur’s uniform said he’d come to pick her up, that his employer wanted to speak to her before she left. Who the hell knew she was here though?

Gabriel halts at the sight of the limousine. For a moment, a criminal scenario worthy of a cheap Detective pulp magazine springs to mind. The powerful mobster sending his goons to kidnap him in a luxury sedan.

Don't be silly, Gabriel, he thinks. Who'd want to kidnap someone as dull and boring as you?

Dismissing that absurdity, his lithe brain makes the association with the wealthy patron Dr. Hardstrom had mentioned. Yes. This must be it.

Once the credentials of the driver and his employer are ascertained, he gets in the car.
"Your employer is not one to waste time in making appointments, I gather..."

"Sure ain't," the driver says as he sets off, the car smoothly driving away. "We got two other stops to make before we arrive. You need anything back there, you just let me know. I"m Frank," he continues, peering at Dr Walker in the car's central mirror.



The car is comfy - the leather seats soft, the leg space roomy, and the driving exemplary. It's not long before the car stops again for the second pick-up.

Lillian was taken aback; "One moment, please," she'd said and shut the door. It wasn't immediately kicked in, so she'd peered out of the window on to the street.

There was the car, a high roller's machine. The man in the hall looked like a driver, but she couldn't see anybody else and there were curious onlookers.

This was a green book hotel and a comfortable one. When she came looking for Mack, she'd tried another place like this first, but he'd moved out of there quite quickly; probably been moved out if she'd read between the lines correctly.

She needed to make a decision and it wouldn't do for this car to be left alone for long. Lillian put her decent coat on, pulled on her gloves over her ringed hands and grabbed her hand bag. Then hoiked her suitcase to her hip. The chauffeur, for he fit the description, was still there.

"I was going to catch the bus in half an hour. I guess I need to keep the room."

"Aw Frank, don't do that. Y'don't serve me, and while I know you well enough to know you take your job -- any job -- seriously, this is me you're talkin' to," Samuel tells his old comrade. Samuel was a simple man, from simple stock. This highfalutin treatment just didn't fit him.

Still, he got in the vehicle. He wasn't looking to make a scene or make things difficult for Frank, who was just doing his job after all. It crossed Sam's mind that while he might not be one for getting treated like he was money, Frank's employer might come down on him if he didn't give guests the "money treatment."

"So, where we headed Frankie?"

"We can take care of that for you ma'am" the chauffeur replies to Lilian, when she mentions needing to keep the room going. He takes the case from her and puts it in the boot while Lilian gets in the car, where she sees a fellow passenger.

"I'm on the clock, Mr Weston, you get the same treatment as everyone else does, I'm afraid," Samuel's old war buddy says. It's only when Samuel gets in the car that he notices the other two people already in the car.



"You'll see when we get there" Frank replies in answer to Samuel's question. "Won't be too long now, you were the last stop."

Gabriel nods in salutation at the other passengers as they in turn get on board.

"Madam... Sir... Dr Gabriel Walker. Looks like we have a destination in common."

"'Mr. Weston' now too? My feelings are hurt Frank," the big man replies as he settles into his seat, his tone friendly, the chiding entirely good natured.

"Seems so," Samuel replies to the Doctor. "Samuel Weston. Pleased to make your acquaintence Doctor. And pleased to make yours as well, Ma'am."

"Mrs. Lillian Blakey," she offers, but the honorific suddenly sounded strange again.

"Glad to meet your acquaintance," she'd say to both, but her mind was suddenly drawn to her earlier memories of Mac.

He observes the two strangers. The man seems to know our driver. The woman... He wonders how a woman of color in New England, driven around in a luxury car, must feel.

"I must admit, this is confusing to me. I was under the impression my services were required... as a specialist of the pathological mind. And that is the type of work one must conduct alone... "

Lillian suddenly felt alarmed and tried gamely not to show it, "This car isn't going to your surgery, is it? I came to this town to find someone and that done, intended to go back to New York."

"No, the hospital where I work is not this way. I believe we are heading to meet Frank's employer... right, Frank? Care to share their name with us?" he suggests, now addressing the driver.

Arkham, 23rd May, 1937

Theme Tune

"You'll be able to see for yourself soon, almost there now," the driver says, as the car leaves the city proper and starts to head through a more rural landscape. Another ten or fifteen minutes pass as you drive through tree-lined roads before the car slows and turns into what appears to be a small airport.



The car pulls up outside a small hangar, the shutters rolled up and light spilling from inside into the now dark evening. There's a single plane inside, along with what looks like a posh parlour transplanted into the front of the hangar, complete with standard lamp, comfy sofa, and several chairs, along with several large bookshelves filled with books and a side tale covered with what appears to be maps.



A woman (who Lilian immediately recognises as the rich white woman from the club) sits in one of the armchairts, presumably waiting for you. As you get out of the car (Frank opens the doors for each of you, then stands by the car within earshot), the woman stands, bids you sit on the comfy armchairs and sofa, then retakes her seat and introduces herself.

"Good evening. My name is Janet Winston Rogers. I apologise for bringing you here, but I wish to employ you for a short while. You have all come highly recommended;l Mr Weston, by Frank, who tells me of your courage, your steadfastness, and dependability. Dr Walker, by Dr Hardstrom, who has praised your commitment to your career and deep knowledge of psychiatric methods. And of course, Ms Blakey, who I have personally found to be insightful, perceptive, and determined. These are all traits that I seek in a team of investigators. But before I begin, can I interest you in a drink? We have tea, coffee, or a selection of liquors."

She pauses as a butler, dressed in full suit, bow tie and gloves included, brings refreshments, including some sandwiches (crusts cut off) and small cakes before retiring to the back of the hangar, which remains in darkness. Ms Winston Rogers is in her mid 30s, you would guess, dressed immaculately in designer clothes of the highest quality and modish cut, but seems somewhat guarded in her demeanour.



After each of you has taken a drink, and possibly food, she offers a silver cigarette case, around, lighting one herself before continuing.

"My father, Walter Winston, made his fortune in pharmaceuticals after the war. When his business was thriving and with good managers in control, he travelled extensively, as he had always had an interest in folklore. That, in turn, led him to an interest in...well, I suppose you would call it the occult. When he wasn't travelling, he had meetings all the time - secretive meetings, with, I suppose, fellow dabblers in the occult. he became more distant, both in temperament and geography. 1924 saw him away, hardly ever at home, and he seemed distracted when he was at home, unless locked away in his study with his little group. He was intent on battling something, but wouldn't tell mother or myself what it was, simply that he was on the trail of some bad people. Mother grew to dislike his little coterie of followers. That's when she started to drink more heavily".

The memory is clearly affecting; she talks with eyes down on one of the Persian rugs that scatter the hangar floor as she goes on. "August in '24 was when something happened. He came back from wherever he'd been, changed. Rattled. Unravelling. There were no more meetings after that. No more travel. He wasn't well. He had sessions with Dr Hardstrom for a while, Dr Walker, as you may know. But that didn't seem to help. He burned his books. He jumped at shadows, he hardly ate, hardly slept. He insisted he was being watched, even when he stopped leaving the house. He would never talk to us about what had happened, and forbade us from asking further, growing furious - and he'd been a mild man up to that point. Mother died in '32. Father hardly grieved, hardly seemed to notice she was gone. 'Nothing matters anymore' he'd say if I tried to bring up any matters of the funeral, of his business, of anything of import. He simply grew more paranoid, more frustrated, more haunted. He passed away at the beginning of this year, a shadow of himself, hardly recognisable."

She dabs at a tear with a linen handkerchief, raising her eyes and smiling apologetically.

"It was as I was going through his documents that I found the letters. They were from a man called Douglas Henslowe, who I believe was one of those who he met at the house repeatedly, and who had been working with father up till August in '24. He wrote a number of letters, mostly repeating his request for father to write back, to write down what had happened, what he'd seen. My father never replied to any of the letters, but he had obviously read them time after time, made notes on them, studied them carefully. Henslowe wrote one final time just before father died. I think he knows what happened to my father in '24. I wish to know what he was mixed up in. Whether I need to defend him or apologise for him. Whether he left any work unfinished. Whether I am in any danger."

She raises her eyes again, more defiant now. "All I have to go on is the postmarks from the letters - two different ones, addresses in Savannah, Georgia. I will gladly lend you my plane, and my pilot, Mr Kearns, for the duration of your investigation. Please, go to Savannah, find Mr Henslowe, and find out what occurred in '24. If Henslowe is in the same state as my father was, then time is probably of the essence. Money less so."

Taken aback by the unexpected proposition, he puts his coffee cup on the saucer with a clink.
He leans forward, frowning.
"You'll have to forgive me... I am very confused. Surely you don't mean to... ask that we leave right now, Miss Winston Rogers? When Dr Hardstrom mentioned you wanted to see me, I assumed it would be for... a more orthodox request? To examine someone for a psychiatric assessment, perhaps. But... Flying to Georgia? Dr Hardstrom did mention a sabbatical from my hospital duties, but.... nothing of this kind," he makes a vague gesture to the airplane towering nearby.

He looks at the others, to observe their reactions.

"Not immediately, of course, but with a day or two to get your affairs here in order. I understand that this is a somewhat unorthodox request, but I was led to understand that each of you possess the unique mindset, tenacity, and skills that I require. If that is incorrect, then I will gladly compensate you for your time this evening, and Mr Kearns will drive you back to your home."

Gabriel relaxes a little. But why then arranging to meet us in a airport hangar? Is this a display of wealth, to show us she owns a plane? he thinks.
He glances at the wealthy woman trying to read her body language and the nuances of her speech.

Dr Walker, you get the impression that she's holding something back, possibly through either pride or fear, you can't quite tell which. Other than that, her body language seems to suggest that she's comofortale being in a position of power and control, and doesn't appear to need to prove it to others. Whatever the reason for the surroundings, it's not to prove that she's wealthy.

"I see... well, at any rate, let me just say... I for one am very flattered. I mean... a woman in your position can hire the best of the best. And you seem a very discerning person. I am honored that you might think little old me could be of help... in this very personal matter."

He will try getting on her good side, in his best reassuring tone, while subtly putting himself in a subordinate position.

Ms Winston Rogers gives Dr Walker a wry look, as if pointing out that she understands what he's doing, but does open up somewhat.

"I've never really shared my father's interest in the occult, especially having seen what it did to him, and I've never really been convinced that it's anything more than hokum. But having said that, I'll admit that I did believe my father's house was haunted at one point. Shadows seemed to bend and warp, and odd stains appeared before vanishing again. I thought, a couple of times, I saw that there were....things. In the walls. But I was just an excited, silly girl at the time. Certainly when I went back to the house after he died, there was no sign of anything like that."

Lillian had taken coffee and one of the small cakes, but it was so good that she'd reached for another.

She was listening, however.

"I'm flattered you thing so kindly of me, but I need time to think about my circumstances. That said, are these your father's books, Ms Winston Rogers? Also, would you permit us to read the letters? It might be important, there could be something hidden or deducible from a reading between the lines, if you will."

Gabriel listens carefully.
Hmm... not dissimilar from the hallucinations some of our Sanitorium patients describe. Could the woman have a latent psychotic trait? I must try to talk to Dr Hardstrom about this family. His take on Janet's father could reveal crucial, he thinks.

He then reacts to Lillian's words. "The letters, of course. Mrs Blakey. Good thinking!"

"Of course." She pulls out a bundle of letters and passes them to Lilian.

























The letters have pencil marks here and there - underlining particular letters and words, some words connected by lines and arrows.

Lillian found herself looking at the curious marks where a cypher or code might have been cracked by the recipient, faintly wondering if the letter dates had anything to do with it or if something else known to both men was in play.

After Lillian read the first one, she passed it to the Doctor, but then expressed her initial opinions of the markings after starting the second.

"Just a beginner's guess, you understand."

Dr Walker waits for Lillian to pass the letters, as she finishes reading each one. He reads them in turn.

hmm. This Douglas Henslowe's struggle to be beleived by 'the doctors' is interesting. And so is the mention of his committing all the details of that August 1924 to paper. It sounds like some people died, that night? I would be very curious to read his notes...

He focuses on the calligraphy, and on the loneliness that transpires from the man's words. Then on the dates. Almost ten years of trying to get a reply, poor man...

He then looks at Walter Winston's own notes and markings, trying to find a pattern, what logic the man used in his scrutiny of these missives...

As Dr Walker scans the letters, one after the other, searching for clues as to what kind of code is embedded in the letters...

...he discovers that the letters are, in fact, completely as they appear on face value. It seems that Walter Winston was searching for a possible code, but none can be found. He considers this; it appears evidence of what his daughter has been saying - a distinct paranoia, searching for hidden meaning where this is none to be found.

"When you're ready to leave, let Frank know. The books and maps here are from father's study; use them as you see fit. As I said before, most of his books and notes he burned. I'm not sure why he kept the letters, or spent so long poring over them. But please, find Mr Henslowe, and find out what happened to my father all those years ago."

As the others look at old letters Samuel has no interest in, he instead turns to their host. "I am genuinely sorry for your losses, Miss," he begins. Glancing to the others as they read the correspondence in question, he looks back to Janet and continues. "I will take some time off from the bank. I'm not sure what benefit I can provide during this errand -- a warrior's place is on the battlefield, not in the halls of academia -- but I will provide whatever aid I can. You have my word."

As Dr. Walker starts to read the last letter, Lillian asks Frank for access to her suitcase. Discreetly opening it to broadly conceal the contents, she removes some easily accessible pencils and an unused notebook before closing it again, ready for Frank to replace it in the car.

Armed with her stylus, she begins to make a list of things to consider.

Gabriel is impressed by Lillian's methodical approach, as she explains her list of points to follow up on.
"My compliments, Mrs. Blakey. I have colleagues in Academia that could do with some of your sharp thinking, I can assure you."

He points at the different address from which the letter writer seemed to have written during 1933. "This Old Hope Road, Savannah, that you spotted... could it be a Hospital? A Sanatorium, even?"
He scans his memory to remember if he has ever heard of that address in his clinical duties.He also takes a look at the selection of books that Winston Rogers has gathered here for their perusal, looking for a Savannah, Georgia map or directory.

"Mr Weston, I fear that your help might be invaluable and indeed necessary. The letters refer to enemies and leaving people behind dead. I would prefer not to see any of you perish while asking questions for me. Therefore, I see your presence as not just important, but pivotal. Please keep everyone safe, if you can.

The maps on the table are of a variety of scales, and cover a lot of the US (though often not to the level of city maps that show particular streets) and global ones, though those are larger scale in general, covering whole countries in one map. Still, as a reference, they are useful.

The books are mostly introductions to folklore and the occult - nothing too advanced, presumably those were among the books he burned - and encyclopedias, reference works, etc. Again, nothing you'd generally read over but that would act as a reference point for Archival Research rolls on fairly broad subjects or if you have a particular thing in mind you'd like to read up on.

Dr Walker thinks he may remember a colleague from Savannah that he met at a conference a few years ago, though just by looking at the addresses, he isn't sure whether or not that would be the one, or even the name of the institution.

He frowns at the Savannah address. "Nah. Nothing springs to mind."
Addressing Samuel, he mentions, "It sounds like we could definitely use your expertise, Mr. Weston. This is a... rather unusual task for me, but I am glad to be accompanied by someone handy with... extreme situations. Thank you."

"Miss Winston Rogers, so shall we regroup with you here in, say, three days? I can surely use them to put my things in order for this unplanned sabbatical, and to see what I can find out from Dr Hardstrom and other contacts..."

"One moment, please, Doctor. Ms Winston Rogers, regarding these other companions, the missing, did you find anything that may give possible clues to their identification, such as an address book? Also did you find anything such as a scrap book and have the books been checked for notes hidden inside them?' Lillian asks, almost breathlessly, warming to the puzzle.

"No; as I say, they met secretly, and neither myself nor mother were ever introduced to any of them. Quite often they'd meet at night anyway, and we'd never see them. I do know that one of them was wheelchair-bound, I saw him a couple of times. But as to notes...everything was burned by my father other than you see here, I'm afraid. You're welcome to check each book individually, though that might take a while, an most would likely have fallen out if anything had been placed within during the transporting to this hangar."

Lillian is somewhat deflated, but then says, "Thank-you, that description makes me think that there may be a survivor we don't know about yet. Surely someone so afflicted would be unlikely to go exploring somewhere off the beaten track?"

You meet with Dr Hardstrom the next day, but he's fairly unforthcoming. He maintains that he saw Mr Winston as a private patient, not through the sanitorium, and that it was clearly after the events of August 1924. He says that Mr Winston was very hazy about any details especially of what had occurred - just that it was something bad, and seemed to exhibit signs of paranoia and delusion, and that Dr Hardstrom suggested a stay in the sanitorium and a course of medication, but that Mr Winston rejected both and eventually, after just a few sessions, decided not to continue with psychotherapy.

Lillian's rhetorical question had provoked little more than a "maybe," and a "perhaps," so she'd moved on to consolidating hers and others' ideas into her notepad for possible following up.

She had asked Ms. Winston Rogers another question, "Ms. Winston Rogers, do you think that there any remnant travel records or bills from around August '24 for your father in company or personal records that it might be appropriate to have checked? I'm wondering if it is a viable way to track his movements."

"I'm afraid not dear. Like I said, he burned a lot of his notes and books."

Winston Pharmaceuticals is a well-established, and well-run business. It was started by Walter Winston just after the Great War, and quickly grew thanks to good management. They don't really specialise, but work in a variety of areas (most are standard), bringing their own drugs to market as well as generic versions of established brands. They're available at most pharmacies (they also do a lot of over the counter medications), and have been run by the same management team for the last 2 decades at least. They tend to be conservative rather than radical in their approach, and have grown steadily since their infancy. The owners (Walter Winston, then after his death, Janet Winston Rogers) have been very hands-off since the early 1920s (As Janet said, her father basically handed the running of the company over to the (competent) management so that he could devote himself to his "studies" and adventures).

Samuel doesn't have much he needs to do to get ready, going into the bank and informing them he will need some time off as a personal matter has come up unexpectedly.

He'll pack a bag, including his pistol and the bayonet for his rifle, a flashlight and batteries, and with the proper supplies -- extra magazines, ammunition, cleaning equipment -- he'll be ready to go when it's time.

Over the next few days, Lillian contacted family members and bandmates, letting them know what had happened to her husband.

However, Lillian also said a professional opportunity had arisen in Georgia that she wished to investigate; the change of scene would do her good.

They were worried, of course. She'd telegram when she could (more impersonal). Right now, Lillian had mourned enough, or so she thought.

After searching for quite some time, Dr Walker discovers that the Old Hope Rd address is just outside Savannah itself, and appears to have been an old antebellum mansion and plantation - so while he can't find any mention of it being a sanitorium now, it's distinctly possible, since many old plantation mansions were converted to hospitals, museums, and the like after the civil war when the plantations associated with them no longer had slaves to work their lands and became more unprofitable (and especially where their owners were killed in the civil war). In addition, a lot of sanitoria are privately owned, so that may be why he can't find a public listing as one.

Satisfied that he may have found the place, he calls it a job well done, but as he's finishing up his research, he does notice one important fact - that the building was first built and owned by one Jeremiah Henslowe.

Henslowe! It cannot be a coincidence... whatever this address is, it was owned by Douglas's family... They sound like they come from old, pre-civil war plantation money. Maybe it wasn't a Sanitarium after all... what if he simply spent a year in the old family mansion?

Gabriel makes a mental note to share this interesting snippet of information with the others on the first occasion.