Chapter Text
“Arthur, explain something to me.”
Arthur set down his tea. He raised an eyebrow. Old habits die hard, and all that. “What?”
“Why do human beings go through all this trouble?”
The corner of his mouth twitched into a half-smile. “You’ll need to be more specific, I’m afraid.”
“People overcomplicate everything with rules. There’s nearly a whole page about two celebrities getting married. It’s an intricate ritual, but it doesn’t serve any real purpose. Why is it a requirement before people can come together?”
“Some people like to throw parties, make a scene. Beyond that, I suppose it’s traditional. It’s what people expect of one another.” He thought of Bella, of his own marriage in a small chapel with only her parents, two witnesses, and the priest. Hardly a splashy occasion. “Don’t try to tell me you, of all people, lack a theatrical streak.”
“It’s not about theatre, it’s about the rules humans make. They are arbitrary.”
Arthur took another sip of his tea. “You’re philosophical this morning.”
“I’m just reading the newspaper.”
Something more was going on here, Arthur could tell, but he’d learned a long time ago not to try to push John into talking before he was ready. Instead, he asked, “Anything interesting?”
“Not especially.”
“You’re getting quite good at making tea.” Sometimes introducing something irrelevant helped to loosen him up, and it was true: John had been practicing. These days, he liked to point-blank refuse to tell Arthur what type of tea he was preparing. Arthur could usually pick it out by smell after it had started steeping, but he didn’t mind letting John take the lead on this. For someone who lacked a sense of taste, he was becoming a bit of a snob about it.
“We’re almost out of that good Earl Grey. We should get some more.”
“John, that stuff is expensive –”
“I know. I’m the one who reads our accounts.”
Arthur finished his cup. “Almost done with the paper?”
“Yes, nearly. Did you know that in Boston, someone taught a dog to –”
A knock at the door cut him off. Arthur stood and hurriedly folded the newspaper. “What time is it?” he whispered.
“Seven forty-two,” said John.
“Are we expecting anyone?”
“No.”
The knock came again. Arthur sighed, straightened his tie, and went for the door. The step around the desk, the placement of the knob: he knew them by muscle memory now, no need for directions. John would only begin to narrate after the door opened.
“Excuse me sir, are you Mr. Arthur Lester?”
This is a plainly-dressed woman, most likely in her sixties,” said John, right on cue. “She is clutching a large handbag in both hands, as if anxious. She is looking at us hopefully, but with some obvious trepidation.”
“Yes, that’s me,” said Arthur. “To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
“My name is Mary Walsh, Mr. Lester. I was hoping to – I heard that you might – oh dear, I’m sorry.”
“She’s getting flustered. Invite her in, Arthur.” Even as John spoke, Arthur stepped to one side of the door. “Please, come in and take a seat, madam.”
“Oh, thank you.” Arthur followed the sound of her footsteps to the clients’ chair in front of his desk. He went back to his seat, drew out his own notebook, and sat it on the desk as John picked up a pen in their left hand. His handwriting, by his own admission, was atrocious, but fortunately, no one else had to read it.
“How can I help you, Ms. Walsh?” Arthur asked.
“It’s…” He heard a sharp intake of breath. “It’s my son.”
Arthur felt that familiar plunge in his stomach. No matter how many missing child cases he worked on, it never really went away.
“He’s a student at Miskatonic,” she said, and Arthur couldn’t help but feel a bit steadier at that. He shouldn’t, because there was nothing inherently more reassuring about a missing college-age person than a young child, but… well. “He went missing last week.”
“I am so sorry to hear that,” said Arthur softly. Talking to grieving, scared people was one part of the job that never seemed to show up in films about private investigators.
“He’s… the police told me there’s nothing more they can do,” Ms. Walsh went on. “They say there’s no evidence of a crime, that he probably just… just left. But he wouldn’t do that. Not my Robert. He’s such a conscientious boy, he always has been. He wouldn’t leave. ”
“Tell me about him,” Arthur said.
“He’s my only son, my only child. I was so proud of him, going to the university like that. No one in my family’s ever gone to a university.” Arthur didn’t need John to tell him that she’d started crying. “He’s so bright. He’s sensitive, he wants to study art and become a famous teacher.
“Last Friday night, he was supposed to be helping put on a show of some kind. He works in an art gallery, you see, as well as going to school there, and there was to be an exhibit of some art that he’d arranged, and everything was fine, but he never arrived! I was there, you know, I liked to support him…” She paused for a moment in the middle of a sob. Arthur lifted his head so John could meet her eyes.
“Take your time,” he said. “I know this is difficult to discuss.”
She sniffled. “Thank you.”
“Do you have a handkerchief?” Arthur kept spares in his desk drawer for just these sorts of occasions. He dug around momentarily, found one, and lifted it up for her to take.
“You’re kind, Mr. Lester.”
“It’s no trouble at all. Tea?”
“No, thank you. Where was I? Oh yes. Robert, he never arrived at the exhibition. It’s not like him, not at all. I asked Edith – that’s his lady friend – and she said she didn’t know where he was, either. He wasn’t in his rooms, or at the lounge, or the library, or… or anywhere we looked. No one’s seen him since then.”
“This is what brought you here, then?” Arthur kept his voice steady and gentle.
“Yes. Well, I heard… I heard you have a reputation for helping with problems that other people won’t, or can’t.”
“I try to do what I can.”
“Can you help me? I can pay you whatever you need.”
“Arthur, her clothes are worn and show signs of having been repaired several times. Either she lives a frugal life, or she cannot afford to replace them.”
“We’ll work something out,” said Arthur. “We can discuss rates at your convenience.”
“Arthur, our rent money,” John grumbled.
“Just do whatever you can,” she said.
“I will.” He took down her name and address, or more accurately, Arthur asked the questions while John took them down. She gave him her son’s address at school as well, and the name of the gallery that employed him, where the art exhibition was to have taken place.
“Thank you, Ms. Walsh,” he said again. “I will let you know as soon as I learn anything.”
Their days of blithely hailing taxis were over. Working alone, and having to rebuild his reputation and clientele from scratch after the death of his partner and his own disappearance, had substantially reduced Arthur’s income. Not to mention that many of the cases that came their way turned out to be of the decidedly odd variety, often coming with clients who could not afford the rates most investigators would charge.
Indeed, they had just wrapped up a rather involved pro bono case involving striking longshoremen being half-eaten by a many-limbed thing that arose from the river. This was part of the reason John was preoccupied with the state of their finances.
Thus, they took the streetcar to the university, with its five cent fare. The Arkham streetcars were old, rattling, and drafty, despite having been installed less than a decade ago. Everything decayed faster in this city than other places. Still, the general noise let Arthur, sitting near the back, have a quiet conversation with John without drawing undue attention their way.
“Missing student, eh?”
“She said she heard about us, about our reputation,” said John. “We both know what that means.”
“I know.”
“We could have avoided this if we’d just gone to Boston. They don’t get these kinds of cases up there.”
“Yes, you’ve said that before.” He knew John could sense his frustration. They’d had this talk dozens of times. Arthur doubted there was any new ground to cover.
“You like these cases, Arthur.”
“I do not.”
“You do. You like the strange ones, the ones others refuse to look at too closely. You like to swoop in and save the day.”
“That’s a gross exaggeration.”
“You know I’m right.”
“Well, even if that’s true, you can’t deny that you and I have a – a unique set of skills, applicable to these sorts of situations.”
John’s amusement rippled across Arthur’s thoughts. “We do.”
“And you said you were glad we helped those workers last month.”
“I did. I just want you to be aware that we are establishing a pattern here. This is an especially dangerous line of work, even for a private investigator.”
“A lot less dangerous than what we were doing just after we met. We’re using the skills we have, John. What else are we going to do?”
“I’m saying I agree with you, not trying to start an argument. Get up. We’re almost to our stop.”
More passengers had boarded since Arthur sat down, so John had to guide him through to the door. He still managed to step on someone’s toes and nearly trip and fall when stepping onto the curb. It was things like this that made him miss taxicabs.
“We’ve arrived at the Montague Street entrance of Miskatonic University. The buildings are old, built of weathered gray stone. Their roofs are tall and sharply peaked. In the narrow paths between the buildings, students and academics walk to and fro. Just ahead of us and to our right is a stand with what appears to be a map of the campus – yes, a bit further – there. Stop.”
Arthur waited while John examined the campus map. “We’re looking for Shelley Hall.”
“Found it. Turn left and walk straight ahead.”
Judging by the voices around him, Arthur guessed the paths between the buildings to be moderately crowded. Still, he and John had gotten quite practiced at crowd-dodging, recent experience on the streetcar notwithstanding, and got to Shelley Hall without further difficulty.
“It’s a three-story dormitory building, much like others we have passed on the way here. There are three steps up to the – yes – handle is to your left – there. There’s a doorman sitting here in the entry hall. He’s looking up at us.”
Arthur raised a hand. “Hello.”
“Can I help you?” came the doorman’s voice.
“My name is Arthur Lester. I’m here on behalf of the family of Robert Walsh,” Arthur said, putting on his best professional face.
“Walsh? Didn’t your pals already turn that place over?”
“I’m here in a private capacity, working directly with the family,” said Arthur.
“No skin off my nose,” said the doorman. Arthur gave him a wave and headed past.
“Straight ahead to the door. Now left, there’s a stairwell.”
“Third floor, room seven.” He followed John’s directions up the stairs and onto the third story landing. He kept going down the hall, trusting that John would stop him at the right time. Once outside the door, he tested the knob and found it locked. Fortunately, Ms. Walsh had given him her copy of the key. He fitted it into the lock and was just turning the key when a new voice sounded behind him.
“Excuse me, sir, can I help you?” It was the kind of can I help you that was merely a more polite way of asking what the fuck are you doing here?
“To our right is a young woman. Judging by her apparent age and her presence here, I suspect she is a student. She’s staring us down with suspicion.”
“Apologies. My name is Arthur Lester. I’m a private investigator working with Ms. Mary Walsh. She gave me this key.” He held it up in her direction.
“Oh.” Her tone was much mollified. “Sorry. I thought… it doesn’t matter. So I guess you’re here about Robbie, right?”
“Robert Walsh?”
“Yeah, he’s a friend.”
“I see. What is your name, miss?”
“Edith. Edith Dunning.”
“It’s good to meet you, Ms. Dunning, though I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“She’s nodding in agreement.”
“Mr. Lester, was it? You’re not with the police?”
“No, I’ve been hired by Ms. Walsh directly.”
“Good. The police haven’t done anything. They barely looked at Robbie’s room. They keep saying he just left of his own accord, but he wouldn’t do that.” There was a note of conviction in her voice, and then there was her repeated use of the nickname. They’d been close.
“Ms. Dunning, would you be willing to discuss a few things with me about Robert? It won’t take more than a moment.”
“If you think it would help, sure.”
“Is there somewhere we could discuss this?”
“There’s a common room over this way.” Arthur followed her, relying more on the sound of her footsteps than John’s directions, through a doorway and into what seemed like a larger room. John guided him to a chair by a fireplace, opposite Edith. He could feel John reach for the notebook and pen they kept in their left sided jacket pocket for this exact situation. John rested the notebook on the arm of the chair and opened it.
“She’s looking at the notebook. Say something about it.”
“Just a standard practice,” said Arthur. “Helps keep everything in order. Ready to begin?”
“All right.”
“What brings you here today?”
“Dropping by a friend. He lives up the hall.”
“Are you a student here?”
“Yes, I study medieval history.”
“How do you know Robert?”
“We met in an introductory art history course here. We started studying together, then became friends, and, well, we’ve been seeing one another for the past nine months or so.”
“I see.” Romantic entanglements always complicated things. “I imagine this last week must have been a difficult one.”
“Yes. I talked to the police, but only a little. They didn’t have that many questions for me.” A pause and then, more urgent, “I just want to find out where he is.”
“As do I. To that end, when was the last time you saw him?”
“When he was preparing for the exhibition. I went over there to see if he needed anything. He hadn’t been sleeping and I was worried about him.”
Not sleeping? “Tell me about what made you worried.”
“I don’t know. It was just, in the days leading up to the show, I’ve never seen him like that. He looked like he was staying up all night. In the morning he’d be dead on his feet. He’d sleep through classes, then work into the evening on his plans for the show. I never saw them, it was all in that notebook of his, but he was running himself ragged. I don’t know why. It wasn’t even that big of a show, just a few pieces from his advisor here at the university, and he works at the gallery, so it’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the space, either.”
“Skipping classes, missing sleep – was that unusual for him?”
“Very.”
“And then, when you saw him getting ready for the show, where was he?”
“Over at the gallery. I offered to walk him back but he needed to stay a bit longer and I had class.” Arthur detected a flash of guilt in her voice. She blamed herself for not keeping a closer eye on him.
As gently as he could, he said, “So he was still preparing things when you left?”
“Yes. I should have… I don’t know.”
“There’s no way you could have known,” he told her.
“Maybe.” She didn’t elaborate and Arthur decided not to push it. God knew you couldn’t force acceptance on anyone. “Anyway, he never came back for the show, and the cops said they had a witness who saw him leave his room by himself.”
A witness. Arthur made a mental note and he knew John would make a physical one. “Did you notice anything else unusual in the lead-up to the show?”
“No, I don’t think so, but you should ask Danny. Daniel Lee, I mean. They’re friends, and Danny was helping him plan the event.”
“Where can I find him?”
“He lives just down the hall. Room four.” She paused, as if considering her next words, then went on. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. He doesn’t have any enemies or anything like that. I can’t think of anyone who’d want him hurt.”
“Ms. Dunning, we can’t know that –”
“I know. I just thought you’d want to ask that. He’s a good student. Everyone likes him. He wants to teach art history. He doesn’t pick fights, doesn’t go out drinking. If he’s not studying or working, he reads in the library, or he and I walk along the river, or…”
“She’s on the verge of tears.”
“Thank you, Ms. Dunning. You’ve been incredibly helpful. I know it can’t have been easy to talk about this.”
“She’s nodding.”
“Take my card. If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to let me know.”
She took it. They thanked each other and Arthur held back to let her leave the room first.
“Interesting,” he murmured as he returned to room 307. John hummed in agreement.
“Losing sleep, walked out of here by himself. Do you think he was being blackmailed? Perhaps he got involved in something, ended up in over his head.”
“Maybe.” Arthur unlocked the door. “Everyone’s certainly in a rush to tell us what a model student he is. No enemies and all that.”
“Perhaps he is, or was. Or perhaps appearances deceive.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. Now, tell me what we see in here.”
“We are standing in a cramped student dormitory room. The ceiling is low and the lighting is dim. To our right is a bed, unmade. To our left is a small desk, strewn about with papers. Across the room is a window looking down onto the street below, and next to it is a chest of drawers. Several of the drawers are lying open and appear to contain various unfolded articles of clothing.”
“So, a typical student room, then.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“University students aren’t known for their tidiness, on the whole.”
“What about you?”
“I was a bit better than some, but then again, that’s not a particularly high bar. Can you tell if the police disturbed the place, or if things are as Robert left them?”
“Difficult to say. If, as you say, many university students live in this kind of clutter, then perhaps this is the way it was left.”
“Hmph. Let’s start with the papers on the desk.” He turned left, stepped forward with his right hand out, and caught the edge of the desk. He could already hear John sorting through with their left hand.
“Anything useful?”
“Essays. Notes. Wait… yes! This notebook… the most recent entry is a series of notes about an art exhibition.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s… it’s nearly incomprehensible. He uses a lot of abbreviations here. I think most of them relate to the pieces on display.” The sound of turning pages, then “There are quite a lot of notes. Pages and pages of them. The writing gets increasingly cramped and disorganized as they go. Towards the end, it decays into squiggly lines. I don’t think this is even writing anymore.”
“He most likely wrote that in the last few days, when Edith said he was losing sleep,” Arthur reasoned. “But that doesn’t sound like the average sleep-deprived student trying to finish a project.”
“And how many pages of notes could one really need to plan what sounds like a relatively small exhibition? I count thirty three here.”
“You were right, John. I think it’s going to be one of those cases.”