Max_Writer

Wednesday February 1, 2012

(After playing the Call of Cthulhu scenario “The Edge of Darkness” Monday in High Point with Steve Turner, Jeff Smith, and Ken Woody from 8 p.m. to 1 a.m.)

On Wednesday, September 19, 1928, Grover Jones received a letter via personal courier from Rupert Merriweather, asking the man to meet him the next day at 1 p.m. at St. Mary’s Hospital in Arkham.

Jones stood over six feet tall and was a little overweight, though the potbelly hid muscle underneath. He was quite ugly and rarely wore a suit, preferring a tweed jacket and a cap when he went out. He sometimes wore overalls or coveralls, especially when working in the gas station in Cambridge where he repaired automobiles and pumped gasoline. Black oil peeked out from under his fingernails.

Rupert Merriweather was his boss’ stockbroker, but Merriweather, a very congenial fellow, struck up a conversation with Jones when his car had broken down in Cambridge. After that, Merriweather would bring his automobile down whenever he had a problem with it, and made sure to chat with the man.

He decided he had the time to close the shop and go see Mr. Merriweather the next day.

* * *

There was a knock on the door of the Vanderholdt guest house, where 29-year-old Thomas Vanderholdt had been living with the permission of his rich parents for some time. He opened the door to find the family butler there.

“There’s a telephone call for you in the main house,” the butler said.

“Thank you Franklin,” he said to the man

Thomas Vanderholdt stood a little less than six feet tall and was slim with dark hair and blue eyes. He always wore a finely pressed suit and was partial to tweed. He had lived in his parents’ guest house behind their mansion in Boston for almost a year now. He was a researcher by profession and between jobs.

“How are mother and dad?” he asked the butler as they walked to the main house.

“They’re in Europe, sir,” Franklin replied.

“For the summer?” Vanderholdt said.

“Still in Europe,” Franklin said dismissively.

The telephone call proved to be from the lawyer of Rupert Merriweather, who was asking for Vanderholdt to come to St. Mary’s Hospital in Arkham at 1 p.m. the following day. He told the man it was extremely urgent.

Rupert Merriweather was his parents’ stockbroker and he knew the entire Merriweather family. He did not much care for Rupert’s son Bertrand, who seemed to be angry at everyone.

“Franklin, is the driver busy tomorrow?” he asked the servant after he hung up the phone.

“I’m afraid he is, sir,” Franklin said. “Your parents gave him the rest of the year off. They won’t be back until New Years.”

“Ah,” Vanderholdt said. “So, the car’s not being used?”

“No sir,” Franklin said.

“So the keys will be in their usual place?”

“Yes sir.”

Vanderholdt knew that Franklin disapproved of his living in the guest house, though, as far as he could tell, the butler actually did like him.

* * *

The telephone rang in the small, Kingsport office of Alan O’Shea, a private investigator. He answered it and found himself talking to a man who introduced himself as Harold Smith, the lawyer of Rupert Merriweather. He told O’Shea that Mr. Merriweather desperately needed to meet with him at 1 p.m. the following day at St. Mary’s Hospital in Arkham.

Alan O’Shea was a dashing man of around six feet tall with black hair that was always slicked back with pomade. He wore a suit with a trench coat over it. He was also always armed with the 1911 .45 semi-automatic in a shoulder holster. Rupert Merriweather was O’Shea’s stockbroker and had given him several good tips in the never ending bounty of the American stock market.

O’Shea didn’t own a vehicle but the bus to Arkham was not expensive.

* * *