Peace, quiet, and a dose of professional advice
Our stay in Covington has been about as quaint and quiet as you would expect from a small English village in Devon. Nothing much happens here that everyone doesn't know about. Our little homestead, Easter Cottage, is a higgledy-piggledy building with a nonsensical layout, but its become a second home to each of us. Or, at least to me, and it seems as much to the others.
There is, of course, an air of impatience, and guilt even, about removing ourselves from the world in this manner. Cooking meals (at which only Howard has any particular talent), doing the washing up, reading novels or taking walks down to the shore; even our weekly interactions with the lovely young woman, Susan, who does the remainder of the tidying and laundering, is all like a strange dream. We're going through the motions, pretending that this is what life is truly all about, day-in and day-out as if there isn't evil lurking out there, trying to quite literally take over the world.
But, of course, we aren't supposed to think about that now.
We have managed to blend in well to our local community, who - no doubt - were suspicious of this gaggle of foreigners appearing overnight in their little niche. We have made a few friends, listen to the local gossip, and try not to take sides in the squabbles over a stray sheep or mismeasured sugar. The local pub (I say "the" as there is, of course, just the one) is the hub of activity, or at least so it seems from our corner of the village. The Goose. Aptly named both for the character and simplicity of its charm and clientele. Quiet but for the occasional squawk.
Howard has a friend in the area, one Jackson Royce, whom he pays the occasional visit. He is much at peace, here, more so than the others. He actually enjoys his daily hike, and hums to himself a bit whilst cooking. I find his humor comforting, and for a moment can forget the dreams (nightmares, really) and darkness that awaits us the day we depart.
Collectively, we seem to have made another friend. Otto made his acquaintance initially, a man named Bastien who lives on a boat, but treks in to visit The Goose from time to time. We seem to have hit it off, and now Bastien and his dog are regular visitors to Easter Cottage. Bastien doesn't speak much of the war, but wears the mark of it upon his face.
The man, with good reason, is pessimistic of society, and has been heard to say that people deny the darkness. Otto took to Bastien more than our good doctor, and bonded with him over the horrors they have each faced - whether in war or in Ethiopia. I wasn't sure what to make of such a man, at first, or of Otto speaking so openly to him, but he has never treated me with anything short of good manners and the occasional blush. And he makes a fine companion at cards.
I've taken to playing chess, with myself if none of the others is interested. I always thought it a strange pastime, but it does distract the mind - and every distraction is welcome here. Although, I think if I read one more "women's novel" I may actually lose my mind completely. Fortunately, there was a small collection of biographies in the study, which gave me further distraction. Teddy Roosevelt's was intriguing, but Tesla's was by far the most distracting. I admit I found myself fantasizing him inventing some new contraption which we could use in the battles to come.
But, of course, we aren't supposed to think about that now.
The doctor, Dr Charles Greenley, comes and stays each Monday through Thursday. Howard meets him at the station Monday evenings at 7.15 sharp, and he returns every Thursday on his own, departing quickly after tea. He takes turns with each of us in the drawing room, or The Green Room as we've named it, after the hideous color painted on the wall each of us faces during our chats with the good doctor.
The chair is comfortable, though, and the conversation - mine at least - is good. Those precious hours with Dr Greenley, where we can actually speak about what we've seen and learned, the horrors, the nightmares.. when we don't have to pretend, just for a little while, in that "safe space".. I dread that time, but every week find myself a bit more relaxed and relieved after. I suppose I'm afraid each time I open the floodgates that I won't be able to close them again... that I'll become Sally again, maybe for good.
The doctor asked to speak to Sally once.... I don't remember the rest of that conversation, and I asked him never to do it again. Afterwards, we focused a bit more on how to compartmentalize Sally, to lock her up, but acknowledge she's there. He's given me hope that I can keep her shut away now, and I haven't had a Sally incident since.
Usually the doctor speaks with Howard first, and me next, both on Tuesday. Otto prefers to delay his conversations with Dr Greenley to the second day, as if it hadn't now become routine and was somehow down to his stubbornness. Although he admits, like the rest of us, that the conversations are necessary to our convalescence and restoration, he seems more reticent to discuss the details.
Wednesdays, Howard puts on a bigger supper, something special or one of Otto's favorites (the English diet is not his favorite cuisine) and after we all go down to the pub for a drink. This was a suggestion of the doctor's, a way to convince us it was alright to mix with the locals and not stifle in each others' sole company.
We go down other days now, sometimes as a group, but often just one or two of us, as we learned to enjoy some time on our own. I think we originally stuck together for discretion, or safety, perhaps. But we soon learned to trust ourselves and our neighbors. And even enjoy a drink and a laugh! imagine that.
I write weekly to George, but never mention the case, of course. The letters are brief, as - really - there just are so many pleasantries one can exchange, and nothing much has varied over the past two months. Still, it's good to make the effort, and nice to stay in touch. I do long to tell George everything, every last detail. But to what end?
And in any case, we aren't supposed to think about that now.
Two months have passed. Erik has been busy in Amsterdam, with no contact. He's due to arrive in a few days, and I think the others are looking forward to it just as much as I am. I'm sure, even though we aren't supposed to think about it, we're all equally intrigued to hear whatever news he brings. But a few days before, the day arrived for me to contact Janet's personal assistant, Richard. Richard, as expected, had updates for us on the tasks we'd set for him before departing New York for England.
Richard hired a Private Investigator, Mike Harper, in Los Angeles to track down Captain Walker, if possible, and investigate the Trammel Estate. The PI had been in touch, apparently, having come into possession of something important. Richard hoped one of us would come to the agreed meeting, to see for ourselves whatever it might be. Without the others there, I didn't feel comfortable agreeing to such a drastic travel plan which would plant us square back into the reality of it all. I promised to call back the next day with our decision.
On a different subject, Richard had managed to track down Vincent Stack's elderly mother. She confirmed that Stack never married or had children, and it doesn't seem likely he'd have left behind an office with old notes. His mother described him as "away quite a lot". But, at least it's one more lead followed, even if it came to a dead end.
I discussed the matter with the others over coffee that evening. It was truly unusual, despite only being away for a couple months, discussing the case again, even briefly. We agreed that sending Erik to New York was the most prudent decision we could make with so little information to go on, giving the three of us several weeks longer for our convalescence. We know, of course, the end is coming and we will be back all too soon in the thick of it. I, at least, am rather nervous about the prospect, itching as my mind might be to return to assembling the remaining pieces of the puzzle.
* * *
Erik stayed on with us, just for a day, and the only bit of the case we discussed with him was Richard's news. He was off again the next day, and we didn't see him again for several weeks. All this travel takes time, of course, and it gave us each time to wrap up our stay in Covington in our own ways. And then he returned to Easter Cottage and the case was afoot once more.
Erik's tale from New York was a shock to the system, and my mind is now once more fully engaged with the case. He and Richard were to meet the PI to receive Trammel's Journal, but Mr Harper never made it to their meeting. The pair found him dead in room 102 across the road, at The Parkview motel. Erik managed to find a locker key and Harper's travel ticket, and they left the disfigured body for the police to discover.
They tracked down the locker and obtained the journal, but not without being attacked - by Jack Pizner of all people, all the way in from LA himself. Erik got away, but not without shots being fired. He and Richard made their way back to Janet's estate, for safety. He showed her the journal, which had more of a scrapbook-like quality. Janet agreed he, and the journal, would be safer out of the country, and she booked him passage on the next zeppelin over.
None of us have perused the journal ourselves, all of us still a bit trepidatious about jumping back in with both feet, but Erik had time to study it on the journey and has filled us in as to its content.
Within its pages are detailed ledgers about the sale of Nectar in Valetta (and a contact there named Montgomery Donovan), many letters from a "J.B." in Mexico about the production of an album and Nectar and anothe person called de la Luz, mention of The Black Man (could this be related to The Black Stone?), Gol-Goroth, and Nyarlathotep.
This last name Howard recognised from something he'd read in the past; an agent or messenger of the "outer gods" who goes by many names.
After some discussion, we have agreed on two initial plans: 1) to investigate Morley's bookshop and the disappearance of its proprietors; 2) to travel to Malta and investigate Montgomery Donovan and the sale of Nectar there. And so it begins, again. I only hope we are ready.
