[IC] Act One: Savannah

Act One: Savannah



Theme Tune

Date: 26 May, 1937

The group assembles at the airport again three days later, all driven to the place through the narrow country lanes outside Arkham by Frank Kearns, who seems pretty happy at the prospect of flying again. Once at the airport, he starts to deal with the various tasks of prepping the plane, checking the plane's equipment, making sure he has enough fuel, and creating and lodging flight paths. Ms Winston Rogers is also at hand, to see you off, give you wishes of success and safe flight, and to hand you banker's drafts to cover your expenses and fees - the equivalent of about 3 months wages for each of you, for what she expects to take maybe a week. As you clamber into the plane, obviously a private one, and lavishly furnished with plenty of storage space, you notice that the maps and books have been stowed in the plane in bespoke shelves that allow the various tomes to remain in situ during flight. There are several other shelves here that remain empty.

When you are all ready, Frank heads to the cockpit and puts a headset on, and begins talking to the small airport's control tower. As he taxis to the runway, he switches to a plane-wide system and says "Should take about 8 hours folks, maybe a little longer depending on the weather. Buckle up. There are flasks and food in the galley at the back when you get hungry."

He takes off on the short runway, speeding into the air at a steep angle, and you can soon only see the ground through wisps of cloud. There's a bit of turbulence, but nothing that none of you can't handle.

---

A short interlude

Trent Holloway was surprised when his cousin, a lawyer up in Arkham, contacted him to ask if he was still in Atlanta, and whether he was free to help some people. "Should only take a week or so," he was told, and so had readily agreed. Sounded simple enough - basically just hire a car, get some rooms in Savannah (for four people in total including himself), and help them look into a guy named Douglas Henslowe. In return he'd been given a banker's draft for a considerable amount - enough that he wasn't sure this was entirely legit, except that his cousin was a steadfast quaker himself and above reproach. And so here he was, waiting at a small airport just outside Savannah, waiting on a aplne - the only one due in tonight - to arrive.

---

Just over eight hours later, he lets you know that you're coming in to land. It's late evening, and as you step from the plane into the Savannah evening, it's hot still, and humid. The airport is only small, similar to that at Arkham, and you see a car waiting for you by a small hangar, a man stood by it. "I'll be staying here to check on the plane, if you need to get a message to Ms Winston Rogers, let me know, you can find me here. Looks like that guy there is your contact; Ms Winston Rogers said she'd be sorting something out for you. Good luck." WIth that, he heads over to the hangar to open the door and bring the plane in.

Impending Doom Points: 4

It is the first time she'd flown and the experience was both exciting and discomforting, but Lillian is determined to stay awake. After a long while, this had become hard to do; by the time the aeroplane lands, she is quite tired and hungry - she's not eaten on board, but she took a stale something with her for later.

Filled with trepidation about her lodgings, she exited the aircraft lugging her case in her usual manner and waited to be addressed by the stranger first, or introduced by the others.

This has been Gabriel's longest flight, and definitely the first aboard a privately owned airplane. He has flown for conferences before, but not as far South.
He spends most of it observing from the window of this rare vantage point. First the multitude and variety of human activity, decreasing in scale until the particular becomes the general, blending in the distance with hundreds, then thousands, hundreds of thousands parallel lives.

Puts things in perspective... Seeing the grand scheme of things. Our concerns and personal struggles become insignificant in the wider context.

Eventually, the journey comes to an end, and he is happy to feel solid ground under his feet. Thanking Frank for the smooth flight, he walks towards the man Frank pointed out, extending his hand.

"I am Dr. Gabriel Walker, pleased to meet you. These are my associates, Mrs. Blakey and Mr. Weston. Very kind of Ms Winston Rogers to arrange for you to pick us up."

Samuel settles in. He knows better than to distract their pilot during take off, but once they're at cruising elevation Sam pokes his head forward. "Hey Frank... kinda nice to be flying without people shooting at us for once, eh?" Sam lets out a good natured laugh before promptly moving back to see what they had in the way of food. What better way to spend his time? It wasn't as if he could go for a walk.

---

Once they land, taxi, and debark, Sam turns to Frank. "Frankie, you sure you're going to be alright here? Got everything you need? Does it lock up right proper? Please tell me you still have your sidearm..." There is a twinge of concern to the Marine's voice. He had put some thought into what their benefactor had said... and hadn't been able to shake the idea that if there truly was an element of danger, it may spill over to the people around them.

Reluctantly, he accepted that Frank was staying here and moved to join his two travel companions and their new driver? "Samuel Weston, pleased to make your acquaintance," he said as he offered his hand.

Lillian nods quickly towards the man at Dr. Walker's introduction.

She didn't immediately offer her own hand, but she briefly looks around to see if there is a car, or perhaps to see if there is anybody else about.

The newcomer is standing by a car. You don't see anyone else around - looks like this was the last flight coming in, and it's a small private airstrip. Presumably there was / is someone in the control tower to give you permission to land, but they aren't around here.

The man introduces himself as Trent, and says that he was asked by Ms Winston Rogers to arrange hotel rooms for you and to hire a car. He'll drive you in to town, take you to your hotels, and leave the car with you so you have transport for the duration of your stay. He says you can leave the car at the airport when you're done with it, he can pick it up from there.



He's dressed in what you soon become accustomed to - dark trousers, shirt and tie, and a hat. The shirt has the sleeves rolled up, and though it's in the evening now, he runs a handkerchief over his brow and neck every now and then to deal with the sweat - the humidity is through the roof as well as the heat. It feels like you're sitting inside a warm, wet mouth or something.

As you drive into town, with the car's roof down (which at least gives you some relief from the heat and humidity, as your hair ruffles in what passes for a breeze), you notice that it's somewhat run-down, gas lamps sputter as you pass them, sending a yellow glow across the road that divides the city into slices of dark and light, windows lit within reveal the iron bars across many of them, and much of the place is in shadow - what could be lurking here?



The city itself is obviously old and run-down, as if it's on its last legs. You drive past half a dozen small park-like squares, lined with brick rowhouses, churches, and the like. There are trees everywhere, with Spanish moss dripping from them. The streets themselves are also made of brick in the main, with large wrought iron gates dividing up parts of the city.

Lilian is dropped off first at her hotel - Trent apologises, but Savannah, being one of the capitals of the south, hasn't yet fully loosened the Confederate grasp that once held it firmly, and this is one of the few that caters to Black visitors. "I picked the best one I could, but it still ain't much," he says ruefully. He gives you the details of the hotel that the others are staying at in case of emergency, and helps you with your bag.



The drive to the hotel where the gentlemen will be staying is only a few minutes - the two places are surprisingly close, but the areas are very different. While still not a grand hotel, the building is better kept, there is better lighting around the area, and it generally has a safer feel.

The heat and humidity hit him as he takes the first few steps towards the driver. It is oppressive, unbearable for a New Englander like him. He feels tired and uncomfortable in a matter of minutes. Damn it... how can anyone live here? And it's only May!!

As Lillian is dropped off at her underwhelming hotel, a rather awkward moment, he hastens to call after her as she heads towards the entrance, "Mrs. Blakey, maybe after settling in our respective rooms, it won't be too late for dining together?"
He confirms the logistics with Trent, to ensure his proposal is feasible.

"This is miserable." Even with the breeze of the car, the humidity was stifling. Samuel was simply sitting, but sweating like back when he was on a forced march. When the Doc mentioned dinner, Sam nodded in agreement... not that Mrs. Blakely could likely see him, but because it was a good idea. The more time they spent together, the easier it would be for Sam to keep an eye on both of them. He was already concerned about Lillian, being alone as she was. He took consolation in the fact that as they had just arrived, anyone who might be related to this nonsense they were investigating likely didn't know about them yet.

"If we can find somewhere suitable, certainly, Doctor." Lillian welcomes the idea, but isn't sure how likely it could be.

"If it isn't manageable, then I will come find you in the morning."

She carries her case up the flight of stairs and after a brief discussion about herself, finds her room. It could be much worse, it seems relatively clean. She finds it in the Green Book, so that offers some assurance.

At their hotel, Samuel was pleased to note the plumbing. It was a luxury that many homes simply didn't offer, although Sam had a feeling it would become more common with time.

His room was on the second floor, and Sam found it plain but well kept. The shower and commode were a blessing, and well worth the price... not that he was paying. But if he was? Worth it. He had travelled light, so unpacking his bag was quick. His spare clothes were tucked into dresser drawers, and his boots were put by the door. He loaded his 1911 and put the holster on his belt before sliding his sidearm in. He always missed the weight on his hip, feeling incomplete without it. With it? With it, he felt whole.

Pulling on his light jacket, hemmed a touch longer than normal to help with concealment, he stepped in front of the sink. His sink. He smiled, then splashed some water on his face before stepping out to find the Doc.

After refreshing in the hotel room, the water a welcome relief from the stifling humidity out there, Gabriel sits for a moment to reflect about how segregated these parts are, and what that will mean for their work. It will be a hindrance, for sure. It seemed important to find some shared territory where it is deemed acceptable to be in the presence of coloured people.

He regroups with Samuel, sharing his concerns about these unexpected hindrances slowing them down.
"That man Trent left us the car - care to drive, Mr Weston? You have the better eyes and reflexes of a younger man. Let's go fetch Mrs Lillian and go find something to eat. We can brainstorm where to start on a full stomach..."

"Excellent plan, Doctor," Sam replies, taking the keys and heading outside to the car. "We need a restaurant that will serve all of us, though... perhaps we can ask at the desk?"

"Yes, let us go. Mrs Blakey had that Green Book with her, I wonder if that can be of any help to find an address. Frankly, I didn't know such a directory existed."

The man at the hotel desk seems a bit uncomfortable when Samuel asks for a restaurant that serves both black and white customers. "Sir, this is a segregated state. You won't find any restaurants that serve both here," he eventually replies.

Lillian packs certain valuables into the handbag, then heads downstairs to wait, asking questions to get her bearings, wanting to know where she could acquire groceries.

"We'll make due, thanks." Samuel replies, leading the Doctor out to the car and heading to pick up their compatriot in this little excursion.

"I'm afraid I was rather optimistic, about being able to share dinner, Mrs Blakey. It looks like, until we find a better solution, a hot dog taken from a stand and eaten in the car will have to do, for tonight. I don't like this, we will need a shared base of operations. Any suggestions would be welcome. I was toying with the idea of using the hangar where our employer's plane is housed - perhaps that is out of town enough to serve our purpose without being bothered by these silly segregation laws..."

"Sounds good, Doctor. Frankly, I'll probably eat at least two. We can pick up some groceries in the morning. Maybe we should acquire a camp stove and the other such accoutrements that will let us eat and work together."

The trio part for the night, having made plans to reconvene in the morning at the Savannah Library that was indicated to them.

After an uncomfortable night (the humidity making sleeping difficult, and the electric fan in his room just barely shifting hot air), Gabriel meets the others at the Library, luckily within walking distance from their hotels. He is wearing lighter clothing to try cope with the heat.

"I hope your night was more restful than mine... my old New England body is decidedly not compatible with this climate..." he says to his colleagues. Then, pointing at the Library entrance, "Shall we?"

Savannah, Georgia. 27 May 1937

The day starts quite pleasantly, the mist off the Savannah river providing a cool shade from the sun, but within half an hour of you all rising, the sun has burned its way through the mist and is subjecting you to the twin horrors of heat and humidity. On her way to meet the others, Lillian stops off to buy some essentials, food, and a portable gas stove - perfect for a picnic in some out of the way spot where the three are unlikely to be bothered by any of the local Klan affiliates.



In the daytime, Savannah reveals its fading grandeur; antebellum buildings that haven't seen much upkeep, newer buildings near the hotels that haven't used the same quality of materials, and cobbles and weeds peeking through the asphalt of the city roads. As the three of you meet up at the library, the humid stink of the river finds you, and clings to you, a cloying taste in your mouths a reminder of what once provided the lifeblood of the city, now in its last days with no other signs of industry to replace the shipbuilding trade that once reigned here.



The library itself is quite large, and Dr Walker soon finds an eager research assistant in the form of a middle aged librarian who points him in the direction of local archives. The library itself is in the same building as the offices of the Savannah Morning News and Evening Press, one of the local newspapers. There's precious little, at least in recent years, about the Henslowe name - the only thing that Dr Weston can find concerning Douglas Henslowe is a record of his birth announced in the local press in the society section, back in 1882. He also finds that the Henslowe estate (at about 13 miles to the southeast of Savannah itself in a rural area) is at 23 Old Hope Road, and the current owner is listed as "Virginia Henslowe." It seems the estate was built in 1801 on land owned by the Henslowes, and was run as a plantation for many years, covering a large part of what's known as the Moss Island Peninsula - so called because with heavy rain, the peninsula often effectively becomes an island - but that most of the land has been sold off over the years, leaving only a small remnant left to the family. Dr Weston also finds a map of Savannah and Environs, and marks the location of the estate on it.



He also finds out that the other address - 513 West Henry Street - is, as he guessed, a sanitorium, the Joy Grove Sanitorium. Its head, Dr Lawrence Teake, is said to be retiring soon, and his protege, Dr Jonathan Keaton, is expected to replace him when he does.

Sharing and commenting his findings with his companions, Gabriel says "it is the opposite of what I initially suspected: the property out of town is the family estate, while the Henry Street address is the sanatorium. Henslowe wrote most of his letters from the sanatorium... with a brief period in 1933 where he wrote from what must have been home... By 1934, he was back at the sanatorium."

Lillian had assisted fetching and refiling as Dr. Walker worked the best she could, but she was also looking for anything in the newspapers about an unusual number of missing persons around that fateful August '24.Lillian updates her own notes with Dr. Walker's research, "Perhaps taking a look at the family estate should coincide with lunch. Away from this stretch of the river," she adds, pulling a slight comic face.

Lillian scours the newspaper records, but finds little in August 1924 about missing persons, whether unusual or not. Whatever happened in 1924, either it didn't make the news here for some reason, or happened elsewhere.

"I'm not a lot of help here, I'm afraid. I can certainly carry things for you though, Doc," Sam says apologetically. "Same goes for you, Mrs. Blakely. Just tell me what you need me to go get."

That being said, Samuel does keep an eye out for anyone who seems interested in their group. His primary role was to maintain security, and he fully intended to carry out his duties.

As much as the humidity of the location is punishing, knowing it would change nothing the Marine doesn't even bother to complain. He unbuttons his top button and adjusts his collar as he carries documents for those far better suited to research and academia in general.

Samuel keeps an eye out on the surrounding scholars, librarians, and readers, but other than the occasional sour look at the sight of Lillian in the place, no-one seems to be inordinately interested in what you're doing. Most have their own noses firmly ensconced in books and haven't even registered that there's anyone else in the place, it seems.

There's nothing that you can find about them other than the previous report - that last Psychoanalysis roll was for either knowing them (would have required 2 successes), or knowing anything about their work (1 success).


Where to now?

"Well... I think it is time to pay the Henslowes a visit at their estate out of town. Feel like driving, Mr. Weston?"

"Of course. It's the least I can do, Doctor."

Once everyone has gotten in, Sam will fire up the car and begin heading out of town towards the Henslowe estate. As he drives, he generally stays pretty quiet. However, as they get close to the destination, he does speak up.

"Just so it has been said aloud, once we contact the Henslowes we won't be operating unknown in the area any longer. While I would like to believe we won't be in any danger, we cannot be certain."

It's midday when you leave the library and head for the car. Driving through the streets of Savannah you pass many old stone buildings, often moss- and ivy-covered, with iron railings standing on guard like ragged swords or teeth protecting their inhabitants, though judging from the several broken or boarded up windows that you see, not all of the buildings have (legitimate) dwellers within.



It takes a good ten minutes before you start to leave the confines of the city - driving past West Henry Street, you notice, a nice enough neighbourhood of old Victorian buildings in the main from what you see - and edge into the more rural parts of Savannah and the surrounding countryside. Here, the buildings are much sparser, older, and in many cases, even more dilapidated - those you can see, at least, since many are plantation houses set well back from the road behind uninviting and formidable walls, almost all covered with more Spanish moss and ivy. The tree-lined roads that you travel on - which get worse as you go further, eventually becoming dirt tracks with ruts formed where mud has dried - hang with more Spanish moss, which blot out the sun but don't make it any less humid; you're all sweating within minutes of getting in the car.



Everything is wet and still, as if the trees themselves were sweating. The road is made of red clay, which has a distinct aroma, and which clings to the tires as you drive. The sides of the road are a morass of trees, moss, and swamp-like soft ground, and the air is abuzz with biting gnats, their tiny mouths searching for any patch of skin available fot them to feast on.

After a half hour or so, in which you get turned around a couple of times, and miss turnings which are hardly distinguishable from bare patches of clay rather than the roads they purport to be, you arrive at the Henslowe Estate. Like many of the buildings you'd driven past, this one is hidden from sight behind tall walls - build in a time when keeping inhabitants in against their will was the norm, rather than keeping visitors out, but now perhaps doing the latter rather than the former - at least six foot high, capped with wrought-iron spikes. Large wrought-iron gates stand closed; behind them you espy more of the same as outside - trees covered with Spanish moss, a clay road that leads out of sight, and the stench of swampland, brackish water, and rotting wood. By the gates is a bell and clapper attached to a chain. You can't tell when the last time the gates were opened, but you're guessing it's been a while.

"A lack of fresh air seems to be a real problem in this city," Lillian says in her deeper Harlem accent.

"This place is really creepy!"

"Can't disagree, on both accounts," he replies, getting off the car and immediately embraced by the sticky, oppressive air.

"Glad you were driving, Mr. Weston. I would have got us stranded down some of those muddy backroads..."

He looks at the bell, and at the unkempt aspect of the property. "It doesn't look like someone lives here... let's try ringing. Virginia Henslowe was the registered owner we found. Let's see..."

He pulls the chain with brio.

The bell clangs loudly and repeatedly, eventually the ringing dying away in the still, hot air. Minutes pass, the only sound the constant buzzing of insects that try to eat you alive, nipping at you with their tiny teeth, and you're about to give up on there being anyone here, when you hear the sound of something - or rather, somethings - heading your way. Curious, you wait, and after another minute or so, a man appears, three very large dogs (you'd guess at least part mastiff, but the other thing crossed with them must have been bigger than a mastiff) by his side which each give you looks that suggest if the gate wasn't there, you'd be their next meal. The man is fairly old - you'd estimate in his 60s at least - with a grizzled, unkempt beard and hair that hasn't seen the interior of a barber's in quite some time. His clothing is distressed but hard-wearing, and judging from the aroma, even at this distance, hasn't been washed anytime recently. Under his arm is a shotgun, double barrelled, pointing down.



"Visitors ain't welcome" he says in a southern drawl, his voice harsh and rough, like he's been existing on coffee, whiskey, and cigarettes for half his life. As he speaks, his words filter out through the several remaining teeth that he still has. "An' I know you ain't invited, cause we ain't invited you."

Taken aback, and uncertain if he is more worried about the three dogs or the shotgun, he ponders his response.

Remember your violent patients. Don't contradict them.

"We all... agree on that, mister. But, tell us... how does one get invited, if one wants to speak to Virginia Henslowe... about her brother, Douglas?"

He observes the man's reaction at the mention of each of those names.

"Mother Henslowe ain't takin' visitors. If'n you wanna see Mr Henslowe, you'll want to visit Joy Grove, that's where he's livin' now. An' he ain't her brother, he's her son. You wanna try to talk some sense into that poor boy's head, you try him there."

The man walks off, away from the gates, while the dogs stand on the other side watching you.

"We're trying to figure out what happened, that made him lose his sense in the first place. If he's as bad as it sounds, he won't be able to tell us. Mrs. Henslowe might have insight... and you might as well," Samuel calls out. "If she isn't taking guests, perhaps you'd be willing to help instead?"

"Old Mother Henslowe don't know what got into him, and neither do I. You wanna know what's wrong with him, you go and see him and ask him yourself. See what you're getting yourself into."

His voice trails off as he goes wherever he's going. Looks like that conversation is at an end.

One of the dogs slopes off after him, the other two stand and watch you.

Turning to his companions, Sam asks the obvious question... "So then... do we believe him? About them not knowing I mean?"

Feeling a little better with the shotgun pointing away from them, he says "Hard to tell, with so little to go by..." he murmurs. "What seems clear to me is, we're not going to be let in there, today."

He looks at the posts along the street, to try figure out whether this remote location would have a telephone line. Maybe she doesn't take visitors, but might answer a telephone call?

You can see some wires heading into the property, up high and down the road a ways. Make a Civil Engineering roll.

There are several lines entering the property - at least you assume so - they seem to enter along a partition wall with another property, and some may go to the other place. You notice both electricity and telephone lines that enter the Henslowe property though.

He points out the lines to Weston and Lillian. "Looks like they have a telephone line. Maybe Mother Henslowe might be more ameenable towards a phone conversation... hopefully their number will be listed in a directory. We'll see."

The strange man's words keep echoing in his mind, like a bad omen. 'See what you're getting yourself into...'

"That sounds like a better idea for now, Doctor. I also think we might as well try the Sanitorium, as per the kindly offered suggestion," Lillian says, happy to get away from staring canine eyes.

The drive back to Savannah is much like the route to the Henslowe Plantation - you get stuck in the clay mud, you take several wrong turns (the roads, if you can call them that, are mostly unmarked, so you are never sure quite which road you are on. There are several unmarked (private?) roads which look exactly the same as the "proper" roads too which doesn't help.

All in all, with a break for a spot to eat, by the time you get back to Savannah, it's late evening, and as Dr Walker knows, the sanitorium is likely to be closed to visitors by this point.

"Not our most productive day, unfortunately," Sam says as he leans on the car, watching the sun set. "And now, someone knows we're here asking questions. Just in time for us to have to seperate for the night."

The man shifts uncomfortably. "Unfortunately, you Mrs. Blakely are in the more difficult spot. There don't seem to be too many hotels available to... you. Which means you'd probably be easier to find. And you're alone, because the places that accept you won't accept us."

He closes his eyes and sighs, before reaching under his jacket. "Tell me, Mrs. Blakely, how much do you know about firing a pistol?"

Samuel hands over his sidearm and the spare magazines, providing her with basic familiarization with the mechanics and the basics of firearm safety -- even if she's familiar.

"Well, I feel we made a little progress all the same, Mr Weston : we learned the relation between Virginia and Douglas Henslowe, and know for sure now that Douglas is still in the Sanatorium... also, his mother's reluctance to receive visitors could be interesting in itself."

Upon parting ways with Lillian, he wishes her a good night.

Before retiring for the night, Gabriel will ask at the reception of their hotel to peruse a telephone directory of the area, if one is available (otherwise, it is a first thing in the morning visit to the Post Office).

The receptionist passes Dr Walker a slim phone directory. The number for the Henslowe residence is unlisted, however.

"Thank-you, I've practiced with a Colt .25 before, but this .45 seems it might be too large for me to comfortable with, Mr. Weston."

Nevertheless, Lillian practiced loading and unloading it. Then tried to lay it in her bag. She passed the spare magazines back.

"If I've used this and then need to reload, I'm probably out of luck. I'll return it to you in the morning.

"It's all I have," Sam says apologetically. "It's heavy, but it does its job well. Served me well in the war, and it'll serve you well here." He takes the spare magazines back with a chuckle. "You're right about that. Just don't anticipate the break, and don't rush. One well-aimed shot that hits, or is close enough to force your assailant down, is better than all seven going wide."

When they drop Lillian off at her hotel, Sam meets her gaze and gives a nod. "Stay safe. If you can't... give 'em hell."

When the two men arrive at their lodging, Samuel shakes his head dismally and confides in the doctor. "I'm supposed to keep the both of you safe. It bothers me that the best I can do for Mrs. Blakely is to give her my sidearm and wish her luck."

"Hopefully she won't need either, Mr. Weston. The gun, or the luck. Let's be optimistic. After all, so far we haven't stepped on anyone's toes. A little early, maybe, to be in the sights of enemies..."

Longing for a shower to dispel the stickiness that clings his shirt to his skin, he shares the dead end of his hunt for the Henslowes' number. "No joy with that phone number, I'm afraid. The lady of the estate isn't listed. Oh well, better luck tomorrow. Have a restful night, Mr. Weston."

Lillian makes a beeline for the room, places the gun out of sight, but in reach under the bed and settles in for the night. The best she could, anyway.

Savannah, Georgia, 28 May, 1937

The night passes slowly, as each of you toss and turn in the humid night. The windows are all open to let some of the meagre breeze enter, though it does bring with it a somewhat foetid air from the river. The morning sees you awake, safe and secure, if not well-rested. You meet up again outside Lillian's hotel, and climb into the car once more, since West Henry is still a fair walk away, and even this early, the humidity is wreaking havoc with you, sweat stains immediately appearing and beads of sweat starting to roll down your faces, salty drops entering your mouths and stinging your eyes. You can certainly see why a hat is a necessity here.



It's only a few minutes away, at least, and you pull up in front of a large building. The area has steadily gotten more down market, the street filled with old public buildings and large residences turned into apartments. 513 West Henry is a large, imposing building, A sign outside reads "Joy Grove Sanitarium." Kudzu covers a large part of the facade, with tall, narrow windows - barred, you notice - lending it a looming verticality.



You walk up to the entrance, where you enter into a fairly large waiting room, a nurse at a desk in one corner and several chairs set out in the area, potted plants, and nautically-themed paintings on the walls. The walls themselves have seen a fairly recent lick of paint, but look to have been done by a well-meaning amateur rather than professionals. The nurse smiles at you as you approach, and offers you a book to sign in and asks who you'd like to see. There are several doors - some with very sturdy locks on them - one of which is ajar and next to the nurse's desk. When you mention the name of Douglas Henslowe, a man puts his head around the door and gives you a quick once-over.

The man is in his mid 40s, slender, lightly bearded, bookish with round spectacles, and dressed in a good suit under a white coat, his hair still thick and still slightly more pepper than salt to it.

"You want to see Douglas? Are you friends, or relatives? I don't believe we've seen you here before. I'm Dr Keaton; I'm the physician who's been working with Douglas.

Gabriel steps up to Dr. Keaton, and produces his calling card from his jacket's inside pocket. "Ha, Doctor, we are in luck, then. Allow me to introduce myself, I am a colleague. Gabriel Walker, I am an Alienist practicing at Pickering Psychopathic Hospital, in Arkham Massachusetts. I am a Doctor in Psychiatry from Brown University in Providence, nice to meet you."

He allows the man to check his credentials on the calling card. "We are here on behalf of the family of a man with whom Douglas Henslowe extensively corresponded. I wonder if we can borrow a few minutes of your time to talk about your patient, Doctor?"

Having reclaimed his sidearm from Lillian when she joined them, Samuel now stands in the Sanitarium acutely aware of its weight on his hip. Even though it's hidden by a light jacket, a fleeting moment of concern aboit the safety of carrying around the touched crosses Sam's mind.

"Of course, always a pleasure to talk with a man in the field. We can go to my office if you'd prefer. And these people with you are...?

You're not sure whether the invitation includes the rest of your entourage - after all, if they are not themselves alienists, he might not wish to bore them with jargon, or may wish to discuss a case that involves confidentiality.

Meanwhile, the nurse gives Samuel a smile. A fairly knowing smile?

Gabriel thinks quickly on his feet, trying to gain access for his companions too. "Thank you, doctor. Oh, of course. This is my secretary, Mrs Blakey. And Mr Weston is... a detective, also hired by the family I work for..." he says.

"Shall we?" he adds, trying not to leave the doctor too long to think about his companions' credentials.

"Mrs. Blakey. I've been assisting Dr. Walker at the request of the correspondant's family."

Lillian latches on to Gabriel's explanation.

When the doctor introduces him as a detective, Samuel opts not to say anything at all and let the Doc sell it.