Alive At Crepusculum ✓ [TPL Book One]

XIV

"Friday. June Eighth. 1855. Police investigation reveals the late Geoffrey Brews hoarded Satanic memorabilia in his Rosefield Plantation. Turns out Mr. Brews had a business deal with the Florence, notoriously rumored as a SATANIC slave ship. Memorabilia at the plantation complex consisted of stones with sigils, dreamcatchers, rugs with demonic horned figures, red candles, an elephant's tusk, a jar labeled 'Scorpion for Sacrifice', and some bones from an animal hanging from the ceiling, and many other sinister items.

"Mrs. Brews was not available to provide further detail apart from a letter she wrote to Penwood State Police saying how caring and loving Geoffrey was to her and the children. He was not an evil man at all, and 'He only wanted what was best for the family.'"

Next to the article in the Westerfield Evening Gazette was a photograph of the inside of the plantation and of various objects. On a coin was a horned ram with the letters, "TPL" engraved on it.

Mallord Beagle was reading the gazette in the living room alone. At the end of it, he felt a vision tickle his peripheral. He put down the paper and sent the vision away. It didn't help his sleep reading these sorts of things. Now he wanted to smoke or drink, but he'd quit all that when he retired. His wife made him promise if he were going to be a father.

He almost wanted to break that promise now. Being the Heather Hero in hiding was taking a toll on his mental energy. In the secret cupboard behind his favorite book by Reuben Shormstear was a pack of expensive cigars. He took one out and breathed in the familiar scent.

At the sound of the front door, he flinched and hastily put away the cigar. For his family, he made a promise, and he was going to keep it. He heard Michael creep across the floor, making it squeak as he went upstairs.

Mallord emerged from his study to call to his son but hesitated. What could he say? Punishing him didn't seem right. He didn't think his son meant anything bad to happen to his father when he stole those guns. With a heavy sigh, Mallord leaned against the door of his study, hands in pockets, wondering if he had failed as a father.

* * * * *

Michael was in his room when he heard his father's footsteps up the stairs. As always, his father went away. With a sigh of relief and disappointment, Michael took the telegram out from his pocket. It was in the mailbox. A policeman in casual clothes put it in there. Michael remembered seeing that wavy, brown-haired policeman before. Some time long ago when his father was still a detective.

All day, he and Will had been preparing to leave for Montgomery. They would take a cabby as far as Penwood and then hitch another ride with someone Will worked with on the Florence. The ship was coming in on the tenth. Will's hope was to snatch a special Roktion slave and get the ship prepared for departure on the day.

There was no guessing, on Michael's part, why Will was so hung up on this one Roktion slave appearing on June tenth at an inn called Connie House. And there was also no knowing how Will, either. How had he known about the contents of the telegram a month ago?

Detective Beagle

Help me find my husband Stop Will pay Stop

Meet me Stop Connie House Bayland Noon June Ten Stop

Red scarf Stop Ship in a bottle Stop

Anastasia Nikolaeva

Will had said a man called Richard, leader of the Red Circle, told him all about it. At the time, Michael didn't think much about this as Will often exaggerated things. The leader of the Red Circle? Exaggerated. A somehow special Roktion slave? Exaggerated. He learned long ago to never believe Will's claims until he saw it for himself.