Professor Pecan
After the meal, James found no interest in billiards, nor Mr Krome's patronizing explanation of the game. He had bigger things on his mind--such as determining the extent of Krome's leverage over him. The man had to be bluffing.
"Have you been to Britain, Mr Krome?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
Krome grinned, eyes sparkling with challenge. "I make it a habit to visit every few years. Cambridge has such a beautiful campus."
James narrowed his eyes. "Yes, very beautiful. Though I spend most of my time in libraries and lecture halls, I'm afraid."
"Interesting you should say that. It's what I'd expect, with England's famously bright, sunny weather. Yet one of your colleagues mentioned you have a surprising affinity for the outdoors." Krome lowered his voice. "What was his name? Professor Westin?"
James stiffened, sucking a breath through clenched teeth. What a tosser. "Westin has a fanciful imagination. It's one of his... charms." He fingered the bone-ring of Yogg-Sothoth. "I have an imagination, as well--and I imagine that loose tongues have a tendency to stir dark portents. Unnamable evils that lurk in wait for the fool who would disturb them." He leaned in. "Unless one of their servants slipped a knife between that fool's ribs, to make sure such a thing never happened."
Krome stepped back, face twisting into an angry scowl. "You're insane, you know that? You should be in a padded cell."
Krome pushed past him, bristling with irritation. James smirked at himself for the minor victory. If only the bloody butler hadn't confiscated half his things to be "sent to his room," he would have more to back up the threat. As it was, he had to satisfy himself with the fact that he'd managed to so easily rattle their host. A celebratory cup of tea was in order.
He was mid-way through a second round of tea when the lights flashed and dimmed. Worried chatter broke out around him. He hurriedly set the hot mug down, spilled it all over his hand, and cursed. Chaos broke out--voices, movement. Then a gunshot.
Fumbling through the darkness, he finally oriented himself enough to dry his hand on his coat and pull his lighter from his pocket. "There is nothing to fear, everyone." He flicked the lighter on, a clear, tiny flame in the vastness of the dark manor. "I have a candle and a lighter on me, so all will be revealed in a moment." He lit the candle with the lighter, passed it to the closest person, and set about lighting the decorative candles littered about the room. Everyone was draining to library, where a few angry words were exchanged.
James was one of the last to arrive. The others crowded around the bloody corpse of Mr Krome, and staring at the rainbow of files arrayed on the desk.
"Professor Pecan, you can go next."
James didn't hesitate. He stepped forward--with a quiet apology to Ms Mercury for reaching around--and snatched the brown folder from the others. Time to see if that wanker had had a leg to stand on. He drifted to the back of the crowd as he flipped through the pages, and the air deflated from his lungs.
Photos. A lot of them. The students, the altar. The circle of bones and fire. How? How could he have gotten these?
He flipped the folder closed, clenched his jaw, and lifted his candle to the edge. Flame caught, ate away the corner, spread up the page. He watched it curl and darken the edges, then tossed it into the fireplace with the rest of them.
Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe.
That's when he caught sight of a figure on the mantle. A porcelain ballerina, set on a sky blue base--one side of which looked more worn than the other. James stepped up to it and tried to pick it up, but instead, the ballerina tipped over, fastened to the mantle. A clunk sounded beside him, and a section of the brick gave way from the wall. He squatted down, candle shining a ray of warm yellow light down the short tunnel. A crawlspace between the library and billiard room. Interesting.
"What's that you've found?" asked a voice with a light South American accent.
James glanced over his shoulder. Dr Vermillion approached, arms crossed--the one who'd asked after Lovecraft earlier. Hadn't he called himself a novelist at some point this evening? He should have recognized such a classic literary work, unless he was some kind of hack. But no matter. He had a familiar bookish air, with his several-day stubble, his bright red suit jacket, and rumpled undershirt, and James took an immediate liking to him.
"A crawlspace, it seems." He stood up, pressing a hand to his back with a groan. "A man of my age shouldn't be bending down investigating tiny spaces like that. I think if I bend down again, I might not be able to stand back up. Maybe you should have a look--you're young and strapping." He paused, realizing that what he'd intended as a compliment toward physical ability sounded rather more like a come-on. "Well, perhaps not as young and strapping as some of the others, but the most available at the moment."
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