The Watchman Watches in Vain

Melody is in her mid-thirties, wealthy and bored - and all three things are fairly obvious to an observer. Her chestnut-brown wavy hair is cut chin-length framing her high-cheekboned features and strong jawline. Today she is wearing leather riding boots and kaki jodhpurs, a tailored herringbone tweed jacket and a teal paisley-patterned neckscarf. She left her parchment-coloured leather driving gloves in the glove compartment of the Bugatti outside. An attire combination she finds practical, if slightly unorthodox. Like many aspects of her life, what she wears is something to experiment with, without much caring for the judgement of others.

The note from Mr. King had been a breath of fresh air in her dull morning post. Finally, something different from charity gala invitations and mundane High Tea parties... She was not acquainted with the Kingewyke family, a fact in itself unusual for someone in her societal position. And the man said to have noticed her for her quick wits and problem-solving when she had single-handedly helped an elderly man harrassed by several unsavoury characters in a back alley near River Town. Of course, she had no memory whatsoever of the incident, but still: reading those words had somewhat flattered her. Something in the tone of the phrasing was not the usual sycophantic praise (usually concealing a subsequent request for a favor, or for funds). But it was more the intriguing mention of Mr. King's adventurous career defending Arkham like an old-fashioned musketeer straight out of a penny dreadful story, that had piqued her interest. If nothing else, the proposed encounter promised some interesting anecdotes, and a chance to learn more about this once prestigious family of Arkhamites.

And now that she's here, this decadent French Hill residence full of old trinkets, combined with their fascinating host's demeanour and his mention of a mysterious threat, are definitely keeping her interest piqued. The variety of walks of life the other guests seem to belong to, is also rather surprising. This has all the traits of a welcome diversion from her usual engagements, for sure!

Alex Cowley is an intense young man, his hair frequently unkempt and straggly, his thin frame exaggerated in his old, frayed suit, but it's his eyes that give him the somewhat off-putting look. He gets off the bus and walks the dozen blocks or so to King's house, cursing the old man for not living closer, within walking distance, so that he'd have the bus fare still in his pocket rather than several balls of lint and the half-chewed rolled up bus ticket. Arriving at the house, he stands for a moment outside and looks up at the windows. Hope he has food at least, he thinks to himself, as his stomach rumbles at the very mention of the word.

He enters the house, his eyes slowly adjusting to the low lighting of the study after the bright sunshine outside, and spies the food laid out on the sidetable. He quickly assembles a plate, placing a couple of extra sandwiches and fancies in his pockets for later, then sits and eyes the others as they watch him. He tries his smile, not often revealed in public - nor in private, come to that - and feels a little self-conscious. Should have practised it in the mirror at home he thinks. Might be a bit out of practice. Looking at the others, his penetrating gaze settles on a wealthy-looking woman. He's sure he's seen her somewhere before. It takes a few minutes, but then he remembers: The faker, Mrs Wilmington, a year or so before. This woman had attended the seance there, briefly, before Alex had pulled on one of the hidden wires and revealed the travesty she was pulling on her paying guests. He nods at the woman, wondering whether she had recognised him, or whether she assumed he was some lunatic.

Melody nods back at the intense-looking fellow, who is strangely familiar, trying to recall where they might have met. Then it comes to mind!
"Oh, I remember you... Crawley? Carlisle? You are the seance debunker, are you not? Melody Fitzjohn-Barnes, I believe I saw you in action, once... quite theatrical!"

Wouldn't mind a quiet conversation with this man about THAT last seance I attended... she thinks.

Clancy Bleasdale looks nothing like people expect a journalist to look. He's tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled. He has the chiseled features of a Soviet propaganda poster. He was in fact an athlete until a few years ago. He had gone to Miskatonic U on a football scholarship and played for the full four years he attended school. But he wasn't the dim-witted jock most people expected. He was interested in political science, economics, history, the occult, and journalism. This last one became his major and he was hired by the Arkham Advertiser right after graduating instead of pursuing a professional football career. He started out as a lowly man-on-the-street reporter, interviewing people and tracking down details for other writers at the paper. But in a couple of years he rose to investigative journalist, which was where he really wanted to be. He got to chase down his own stories and write them up in his own column, "Clancy's Cases." He exposed the usual vices of any city's underbelly: corruption, illegal activities, and coverups. He also occasionally ran into unexplained stories, cases that defied logic or explanation. Things to do with the occult and supernatural.

It was from these columns that Clancy Bleasdale came to the attention of Hartley King. Clancy had had a letter waiting for him on his office desk one morning from Mr. King. The letter praised Clancy for his incorruptibility, determination, and unwavering curiosity. It was for these traits, and Clancy's access as a journalist, that he had invited Clancy to his home to discuss vague but tantalizing hints at hidden threats to Arkham. And to protect this city from those threats. How could Clancy decline?

Emma Warren sat tucked into the corner of a long sofa, almost as if trying to burrow. She kept her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap. She was a small woman, with soft pale skin and chestnut hair in a short bob with well-kept finger curls. She wore round, gold wire-frame glasses and minimal makeup, except for a dark shade of red for her small pursed lips. She wore a brown and tan plaid wool blazer with matching knee length skirt and a cream blouse, with plain taupe stockings and chestnut brown leather shoes with a low, thick heel. Beside her was a simple brown purse, the top of which was open enough to reveal a small notepad and pencil with some notes written on it in a neat, albeit cramped, hand. The whole look screamed librarian or, in her case, Professor of History and Anthropology.

Her latest series of articles to appear in the prestigious academic journal American Anthropologist concerned the rise of secret occult societies in America, focusing on the Thoth-Hermes Temple in Chicago and the American chapters of the Hermetic order of the Golden Dawn in New England, both founded in the first decades of the 20th Century. Throughout her academic work, Emma displayed an unparalleled skill for finding previously unknown sources, as well as an approach that took heir metaphysically claims seriously -- or at least without the open contempt that most scholars adopted to such matters. In short, she was a very, very good researcher on the occult and its sociological aspects, while retaining an open mind--a rare combination indeed. Academic had a way of breeding skepticism to such belief systems, after all. it was the unique combination of skills that drew the attention of one Hartley King.

"You are welcome to squeeze in my Bugatti, darlings. If you don't mind a fast driver..." she had said upon taking leave from King.

As she speeds through the country roads west of Arkham in the red Italian car, the thrill of adventure and wind in her hair elate her. "At last, something interesting! Life can be so... underwhelming, at times. Don't you find?"

Once at the farm, she slows down the car to a halt. "Is it here? Hmm... Anyone else getting a strange feeling?.."

"Be a long walk otherwise," Alex says, climbing into the car, and holding tight as Melody takes off at a resounding pace. As they get near, and Melody asks if anyone else feels that life is underwhelming, he replies "If anything, the opposite, but then I don't have the money to afford a car like this. I'm sure that not having to think of where your next meal is coming from protects you from life like that." He doesn't say it to be unkind, simply to point out that the luxury of boredom with life is something that not everyone can afford.

As they reach their target, however, and Melody asks about the atmosphere (which Alex may have ruined himself, he thinks, Alex simply says "hmm."

When she hears Melody's offer, Emma almost blushes. "Oh, I've always wanted to drive in one of those... my old Model T can't compete. Could I take a rain check on that offer? I have my own car here. I can drive myself and two others."
--
When they arrive, Emma parks her car and gets out. Something bothers her immediately, like an inch she can't find to scratch. She scans the area around her.

When he hears the story about Mr. Harrington, Clancy's eyes widen in surprise. "Well, what a strange coincidence. I was given an assignment just this morning to interview an eyewitness about a supposed plane floating in the Miskatonic later today. I guess now is as good a time as any."

While he would have loved to experience riding in a Bugatti, he also didn't want to a woman to drive alone. "I'll ride with you, miss," he says as he dons his tan hat and sport coat. He was dressed in a tan three-piece suit with charcoal waistcoat and white dress shirt. His tie was eye-catching as it had an Escher-esque geometrical pattern in dark colors that tricked the eye the longer one stared at it.

During the drive he makes small talk with the woman. Clancy is polite and charming, a key to his success as a journalist to getting information from recalcitrant interviewees.

When they arrive at the farmhouse, Clancy gets a tingle up his spine that is his developed journalistic sense that something feels amiss. "I'm getting a feeling that there is something strange here." He pulls out his notepad and makes a quick jot of the time, a description of the place, and his immediate impression.

Clancy sits down on the worn sofa and gives Mr. Hare his most winning smile. "Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Mr. Hare. I can assure you I'm not one of those sensationalist tabloid reporters. Regardless of the reputation of my paper, I take my job very seriously to report the truth accurately. I can guarantee nothing you say will be taken out of context or exaggerated. I will even send you a copy of the article proof before we run the story. Although a possible downed plane might be interesting to a few people for a day or two, I doubt many people will pay much attention to it. Now then, can you tell me what you saw as accurately as possible?" He takes out his writing pad and fountain pen, ready to take notes.

While Clancy speaks to Mr. Hare, Emma stands to the side and takes the opportunity to examine the books (of course).

Emma skims the tables of contents on several books. Seeing some topics of interest, she decides to delve deeper...

Melody adjusts her hair after the shocking encounter with the oversized hog. "Gosh! What an absolute brute that hog was! It didn't care for my red Bugatti? In Spain I saw bulls charging the red bullfighter cape... but never pigs!

"Thank goodness you warned me, Mr. Cowley! Imagine the headlines: FITZJOHN-BARNES INJURED BY A PIG [chuckles]"

When her heartbeat has somewhat calmed down, she follows the others inside.