After taking a cold drive across town to Abraham's apartment in Astoria, where he was able to clean up, find a suitable change of clothes, and retrieve select belongings, Rosalie and the writer returned not very far from their point of origin around an hour later to the offices of Prospero Press, a publishing house on Lexington Ave. and 35th, near the Murray Hill neighborhood.

"Come in, come in," said the man who greeted them at the door, letting them in out of the cold. Though only in his late forties, his once blonde mane had gone to gray, and he had something of a haunted look about him. "Good to see you well, Rosalie. Come in, come in. It's cold outside."

"Jonah Kensington," he said, extending a hand to Abraham as he closed the door behind them. The modest offices of Propero House were very informal, warm in both temperature and spirit with welcoming decor. The shelves were lined with books - not best sellers, but books of both fiction and non-fiction with occult and fantastic themes. The walls were decorated with curious artifacts that looked as if they might be from all parts of the world.

"A terrible tragedy. I read about it in the papers this morning."

"Jonah, it is so nice to see you again, though I do wish it was under different circumstances."  She nodded sadly as she moved further into the room and began removing her gloves.  "It was, indeed, a terrible tragedy, and one that we fully intend to investigate to determine just why Jackson died and who was responsible."

She unwound her scarf and then tucked her gloves away in her pocketbook.  "Jonah, do you know Abraham Hargrove?  You two probably know all of the same people in the literary world.  Abraham is a distant relation and one of Jackson's old friends."  She was still talking like Jackson was alive because the alternative was just too heartbreaking.

"Abraham Hargrove!" he said at the conclusion of the handshake, and wandered over to the bookshelf behind his desk. "Jackson spoke well of you, and asked me to read your book, which I did - I quite enjoyed it actually." From the shelf, he withdrew a copy of Dogs, Sorcerers, and Murderers and showed it to Abraham, before putting it on the desk and joining them in the small, casual sitting area.

"You say that you plan to investigate the matter of why he died and who was responsible. Are the police not looking into the matter? Do they have any theories? Do you?" he asked of them.

Compared to the man who’d wandered in to the sitting room this morning a couple of minutes late for the meeting, Abraham now appeared presentable if one were willing to overlook a few minor details.  A regular suit, plain dark grey affair with light beige pinstripes and a muted tie and not the overpriced, personally tailored affair worn to yesterday’s party, worn beneath a polo coat, matching pressed pants, with a scarf and fedora added for style and the simple concern that outside it was still January in New York.  Not much changed in the course of the last 24 hours where the roadways were concerned and if they had, surely by the grace of Saint Snowplow, then these roadways were in located in other parts of the state and not between Dr. Elias’s residence and the flat in West Queens he’d rented for the duration of his stay in America.

His faults concerned his face, the day-and-then-some’s growth stubble peppering his upper lip, chin, and cheeks with dark fur, though shut in between December 11th and 18th during an outpouring of inspiration, having groceries delivered by a Greek woman who spoke very poor English, he’d completely disregarded his appearance for the sake of art only to discover when he finally came round that there were a few hairs near his chin that did not match their neighbor’s naturally dark hue.  Besides his unkempt facial hair, he’d thought of beards as something worn by men with more years, and with current fashion among men his age being a complete absence of facial hair or at most a respectable mustache, he’d attempt to refrain from growing one by accident again, his eyes were stained with the alcoholic’s red reminder.  Washed from his system, the intoxicants were completely gone, but Abe picked the nasty habit up some time ago and wasn’t likely to put the bottle away for more than a few days, and his body would bear those marks.

At least he wasn’t alone in his faults.  They’d stopped so he could quickly change and he could gather his insurance policy against a repeat of yesterday’s horror.  While changing, Abraham caught sight of himself in the mirror, and startled by what he’d seen, he’d walked up to give himself a brief examination. Though certainly a fiend, he’d not sunk so low yet, had he?  No, he’d not been alone, especially on the other side of the Atlantic.  What he’d give to go back to Paris right now and put all of this behind him.  He could pretend that none of this had ever happened.  All he need do was avoid his mailbox.

But then where would he be?  What sort of person would he be if he just ignored the blatant crimes of these… men?  Could he call Jackson’s murderers such?  He owed his cousin for his career.  Without Jackson’s advice, Abraham would never have made it as far as he had.

His other reason, insurance, presented it’s own problems.  There were better weapons available on the market if you wanted something for personal defense.  Keeping up with some of his comrades from the War, he’d briefly talked shop.  Aubrey mentioned the Luger he’d kept—looted—off the body a dead German officer, while Conway kept his service pistol.  But his, the Mauser, came to him years after the War ended and he’d not part with it willingly.  A M1920, the gun came from Barcelona by way of a German conman who’d left the Fatherland to make his fortune, but his pistol had been reworked and turned into a hybrid chambered for Parabellum Luger rounds.  He didn’t like the idea of carrying around a weapon, even with the threat.  It wouldn’t be the first time post-war he’d walked out carrying, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the idea of totting around death nor did it give him a sense of immortality.  That only came when you had a weapon in your hand, the tension of the trigger beneath your finger.  Until then, it felt like your life was suddenly put on the table and the deck was stacked.  People were insane.  No questions.

Along with a notebook, several pens, and a few map of New York in case they got lost, Abe put the weapon, some ammo, and it’s holster, which if needed could be fitted beneath his shoulder, in a briefcase, and returned to the matter at hand.

Arriving at the offices of Prospero Press, Abe followed Rosalie inside as the man who introduced himself as Jonah Kensington ushered them in.  Rosalie made the introductions.  Abe shook the man’s offered hand, ”A pleasure, Mr. Kensignton.” Modesty came much easier without alcohol muddying up one’s sense of proprieties.  Even though he still got a thrill out of it when someone complimented his work, he had the sense now to not break out into a silly grin.  After all, that wouldn’t be in character.  ”I’m glad you did.  Jackson’s help has been invaluable to me through the last couple of years.  Really, without his encouragement and criticism I doubt my book would’ve ever made it into publication.”  He eyed his novel, heart filled with a blend of pride and self-criticism.  After the final edit, he’d put the manuscript away and promised himself not to break it out again.  If he did, he knew he’d see things he should’ve changed or fixed that would keep him up at night when he was trying to fall asleep.

”It’s tragic what happened with Jackson.  Naturally, the police are looking into the matter, but we have some personal concerns.” Abe glanced at Rosalie.  ”You’re well aware of the material Jackson covered in his books.  Cults.  Particularly those obsessed with the darkness. Death. We’ve got some suspicious about Jackson, but we’ve got a few holes in our information and we think you might be able to help us out.  Could you share with what you knew about Jackson’s forthcoming book?  Did he communicate what he was working on?”

His sigh was laden with emotion and weariness, but resignation as he leaned back in his chair and began to speak to them.

"To start, I believe the theory of cultists being involved in the murder is all too likely. Jackson was always infatuated with these 'blood cults,' and my suspicions suggest to me that some old enemies of his have caught up with him. And yes, he did tell send me some information about what he was working on. Elias had been persuaded that a blood cult had massacred the Carlyle Expedition, but that not all of the principals had been killed."

”That’s not a big leap.  Jackson’s first book came out fifteen years ago.  I’m sure he’s faced some resistance on his endeavor to uncover the truth.  With the rationale required to join one of these death cults, you’d think Jackson would’ve had trouble at every corner of his career.  Then again, his work has mainly been aimed at tearing the fear away from these esoteric fraternities.  Yes, bitter cult followers from the Amazon or the Yucatan might be behind this business.” Disgust passed over Abraham’s face as he remembered yesterday, followed on his heels by rage and renewed determination not to fail his mentor.

”However, if he was investigating a different cult for his next book, it could just as easily be one of their initiatives who committed the grisly act.  If a blood cult massacred the Carlyle Expedition and they happened to be the cult Jackson was focused on, they wouldn’t have qualms against murdering one lone man in a hotel room.  If members of the Carlyle Expedition survived, why wouldn’t they have come forward after leaving Africa?”  Unless they were truly afraid the cultists would hunt them down.
This message was lightly edited by the GM at 21:33, Thu 14 Aug 2014.

"Oh, his next book most certainly dealt with the Carlyle Expedition, and since he was killed during the writing of the book it is likely that this is something far more important than even Jackson believed," he said. "He's sent me all kinds of notes and..." He paused, sounding cautious or hesitant as he continued, as if he wanted to say more.

"You must please realize that I tried many times to convince Jackson that his methods exposed him to too much danger, and that he should conduct less personal research. He never listened to me. I wasn't just his publisher and his editor; after this many years the two of us had become close friends, and Jackson was a kindred spirit in many ways. I will grievously mourn his loss, much as if he were a blood relation. More, I think."

"I know, Jonah.  There are so many that were close to Jackson in some way or another.  You know how charismatic he could be and just how excited he could get when researching one of his projects.  After what happened last night -- we were attacked by his killers, you know -- none of us want to throw ourselves into the same danger, but we cannot depend on the police to bring these people to justice.  The officer said quite plainly that no one is talking to the police.  They are all scared.  I have to admit that I am a little more than frightened, myself.  The things we saw..."  She shook her head, trailing off as she attempted to push the sight of Jackson's mangled body from her mind.

"We need to know what he was working on.  It is very important to us, especially Uncle Leo.  You can well imagine what he and Aunt Kate are going through.  I cannot say that all of this will amount to anything or lead to anywhere useful, but I am hoping that you can help us, Jonah, at least for our own peace of mind.  Any information would be helpful.  Any insight you might have to give or notes he may have sent you might be vital, and not simply for Jackson's sake.  There have been others murdered by this blood cult.  More victims of circumstance that have gone without justice."

"Well, Jackson has been in touch with me over the course of his work on this particular project. He's sent me notes, and even visited me early upon reaching New York. I can share with you some of what he'd been working on, if it would help you," he said.

"Barbara!" he shouted from where he was, standing to go towards the door of his office. "Bring me the Elias file!" By the time he arrived at the door, the petite woman handed him a file that he brought back with him as he sat down again.

With an overwrought sigh, he began pulling a few things out and handing them in the direction of Abraham and Rosalie. "Let's see...it all really started in earnest I suppose when I received this letter from Jackson from Nairobi. He was convinced that not all of the members of the Carlyle Expedition were dead, and was following a lead. He requested advance money, which I as usual provided. He was convinced this story would make us all rich. In truth, if it were all uncovered, it most certainly would."



"The letter accompanied these notes," he said, handing them a few sheets of plain paper, each covered on one side only with Elias’ neat printing, and paperclipped together into a set. Reasonably well organized, they seemed in many ways complete, yet remarkable for the absence of conclusions, connections, and clearly defined themes. The hand is strong and bold.











"I received another wire from him in Hong Kong sometime in September asking for money, which I again sent. I didn't hear from him again till December 16th, when I received another telegram from him. His telegram was excited and a bit...forgive me, crazy sounding. I can't seen to find it in here," he said as he dug through his files, "but he said he’d been to China, to Africa of course, and to London for a few days, where he’d dug up a lot of stuff. Elias said he’d seen unbelievable things, and mentioned a plan or conspiracy of monstrous, world-wide proportions. He said that there was a timetable, and that he needed to find the missing pieces, but wouldn’t or couldn’t explain more. The wire ended, saying that he would soon be in New York. Elias took passage on a freighter, the Phal-arope, the next morning."

As the information flowed, Abraham settled back astonished they’d uncovered so much.  And with so little effort.  Abe hadn’t known what to expect from Jackson’s notes when they’d set out this morning.  Rosalie had been right in mentioning the others connected to the murder, though Abraham wondered whether a copy of this information should be delivered to the police.  After all, they were the ones who supposed to handle crime.  They weren’t in the West.  New Yorkers didn’t hunt down gangs of outlaws who’d done them wrong claiming the right of vendetta.  This was the 20th century.  Civilized.

Abe did not immediately read everything, scanning over pertinent information as the notes were handed over.  More information about the not quite lost Carlyle Expidition and the cult connected to the whole mess.

 ”My,” Abe was at a loss for words.  ”And you’ve been over this?  Certainly, I don’t want to put Jackson’s sanity into question.  Some bits sound a little like the ravings of an eccentric, I’ll grant you.  Kenya, China, and then London.  Could this timetable… could he have known then they were hunting him?  Was there anything else about it, any hint at what he might have been racing against?”
This message was lightly edited by the GM at 00:11, Thu 21 Aug 2014.

"Well, yes, sanity. That is something," he said, walking over to the side of the office. Taking down a painting, he revealed a safe that he deftly entered a combination into and retrieved something from it - a packet of papers. Closing the safe again, he hung the painting up in short order and returned to the two.

"When Jackson arrived in New York this time, he left another set of notes with me. They were...I wouldn't let anyone see them, as they made me somewhat embarrassed for Jackson, but as you are family..." He handed them a packet of notes, the pages folded and stitched together to form a small quarto volume of forty pages. Frequently a page or a dozen pages are blank. Sometimes a single word is repeated for several pages. Most entries are written with agitation and can barely be read. All the words are clearly in Elias’ hand, but the writing had a very bewildered and fragmentary character.



"When I got these, I thought that Elias had perhaps gone over the edge and needed six months in a sanitarium, or else that the author so little trusted anyone that he’d hidden all the data in his head so that it would be undetectable. I suspect you'll have some difficulty making out what he's written there. It took me several hours poring over it to make out what little I did. Here's what I've been able to decipher:

“Many names, many forms, but all the same and toward one end... Need Help... Too big, too ghastly. These dreams... dreams like Carlyle’s? Check that psychoanalyst’s files... All of them survived! They’ll open the gate. Why?... so the power and the danger is real. They... many threads beginning...The books are in Carlyle’s safe... Coming for me. Will the ocean protect? Ho Ho no quitters now. Must tell, and make readers Believe. Should I scream for them? Let’s scream together...."

The state Jackson must have been in after this.  Clearly, the information he’d uncovered had driven him with a fury he’d never experienced with any of his previous works.  Abraham himself knew the delirium that drew dangerously close to the borderlands of the fugue that could overwhelm someone when they’d raised an imp up from lower Tartarus, sweating from labors of a near amnesia-like trance as the words flowed onto the page.  That demon wasn’t behind Jackson’s notes.   It was some cousin, some arch-fiend he’d never guessed at.

Abe leaned over the page, attempting to read the note.  His eyes flashed back and forth, working down the page attempting to decode the cryptic handwriting.  ”Too big, too ghostly, three…” He murmered, voice giving out when he stumbled over the next word.  ”They will open the…” Abe furrowed his brow.  ”Gate.”  The rambling continued.  They’d come for Elias, alright.  ”Rosalie, you were with him in the Amazon when he went among the others.  Surely, he didn’t act this way even someone attempted to scare him with some silly superstition.  God, if he’d been with someone else, even in a sanitarium, he might be alive now.  This last must mean they’re all still alive.  Then who was massacred in Africa and why pretend to die?”  Other ideas came to mind, but out of common decency, Abe kept his mouth shut.  Why entertain madness like that?
This message was last edited by the player at 22:09, Tue 26 Aug 2014.

"No, I have never known Jackson to be frightened of any superstition." Rosalie grew very still and quiet as she took the pages to read.  Her normal reserve fled and was replaced by a look of deep concern, shown in the sudden paleness of her cheeks and the furrow of her brow.  Gloved fingers turned the pages one by one before she finally closed the packet and slid it back onto Jonah's desk. "I... I don't know what to make of this.  Jackson was never prone to fits of crazed writing.  His novels, while grim and grisly in places, were borne of facts and interviews and research... not this.  This truly seems like madness.  Was he so altered?  Did he witness something in his travels that drove him to write such things?  It seems like nonsense and drivel." 

She regarded the papers with a frown and then shook her head. "There are other unanswered questions as well, Jonah.  There were books, certain information that Jackson sought.  Do you happen to know what he was looking for in the Harvard libraries?"

"Jackson wasn't a man to be frightened easily, and he certainly has been a lifelong skeptic. In all of his work, his writing, his research, and his interactions with people, he was never convinced of any superstitions. This is why, you must understand, I find this all so troubling. On the one hand you're right, Rosalie. It does seem like nonsense. But then there's the Carlyle Expedition. My, but that would be the story of a lifetime. I would rather Jackson not met his end in its pursuit, but you must understand that for him as an author, that would have been quite groundbreaking if he uncovered more about that mystery. He said in his letter that it would make us all rich, and he wasn't joking."

He shook his head at the latter question. "I'm afraid I don't know what Jackson was seeking at Harvard. We were supposed to meet again, but...of course that didn't happen. He didn't get a chance to tell me much about his research here. If I had to guess, it would be to visit a particular librarian that he was acquainted with down there who might help him to locate a book or with some other research particulars. I can't seem to recall her name at the moment, but she has done some work with him in the past on and off and is something of a friend."
This message was last updated by the player at 17:13, Tue 26 Aug 2014.

He hadn’t thought Jackson one to lose himself easily.   His former career hadn’t been one for the faint of heart or weak of will.  ”The Carlyle—if even that bit is true then you have to wonder what why they went through all of this.”

“That would’ve been Miriam Atwright.  We’re planning a trip to Harvard to meet with her.  Mr. Kensington, if we do discover anything in our pursuit, I hope final book this final book can still be published and these last records of Jackson’s mental lapses, if indeed they were, kept private.  This book will be his legacy, and whoever is lurking behind his nefarious murder hopes to keep this knowledge secret.  I can’t say what will happen in the future, but Jackson wouldn’t have wanted his last work to go unfinished.  Rosalie, you might finish this book for him.  After all, you’d spent far more time with him than I ever did.  ”

Rosalie gave Abraham a long look before shaking her head.  "Other than scribbled field notes, I am not writer.  I might be useful in the physical research, but Jackson was the expert in all matters of the occult.  I have had a minor introduction to such things under his tutelage, but hardly anything of this magnitude.  It makes me uneasy.  He... he had traveled all over the world in pursuit of his accounts and delved so deeply that it killed him.  We are all amateurs by comparison.  I am almost afraid of what we might uncover if we keep searching for his killers."

"Jonah, would you mind if we borrowed Jackson's research materials?  I would like my uncle to see them to get his opinion.  He is the expert on matters of the mind and could offer insight on some of this.  If you do not wish to part with them, would you have them copied and sent to my uncle's address?"

"Of course the notes from Jackson will be kept in the strictest of confidences. If you were not his family, I would not have even shown them to you, but as you seem to be looking into this and are his kin I thought it would do well to give them into your possession. Rosalie, you may keep these and give them over to Dr. Elias. I'll make sure to phone him up to offer my condolences, and to let him know that I've given some of Jackson's things into your care," he said.

"Since the project was still going, I already had copies made of these when they arrived, so have no fear that I'll lose the information should you need it again. I'm an old man and am afraid I'm not much for gallavanting about, but Jackson was a dear friend of mine. I was always a key contact point for him. If there is something I can help with or someone I can put you in touch with, please call. Were I a younger man, I'd be looking into this myself, but all the same I must advise you all to take care as you do so."

Abraham nodded accepting the truth of her words.  ”As you say then.  But don’t sell your gifts short.  None of us possessed our cousin’s particular drive toward anthropology’s most dark and arcane corners.  And you are not the only one who’s afraid.”

”Thank you, Jonah, for all of your help.  If you think of anything else that might be helpful, please phone the Elias household.  I believe we have all of the information we need form Prospero presently, unless there’s something else.”  He glanced toward Rosalie to see if she had anything to add.
This message was lightly edited by the player at 18:36, Thu 28 Aug 2014.

"Yes, thank you, Jonah."  She gathered up Jackson's materials and sealed them inside a provided envelope.  She pulled on her gloves in preparation to face the cold outside and then held out her right hand to the editor. "If we discover anything of note, I will call you myself.  I think you deserve to know what happened as much as any of us.  Thank you for all of this.  I am sure it will be vastly helpful."

Once again exchanging both pleasantries and sincere condolences as they left, Jonah bid the two of them goodbye, encouraging them once more to contact them should they need any information or assistance.

OOC:

It turns out that Abraham and Rosalie are now only a few blocks from the train station. Shall I go ahead and proceed with their trip to Boston, or did you two have something else in mind?

Train station sounds good to me.

This message was last edited by the GM at 21:05, Mon 08 Sept 2014.

The train ride had given Rosalie ample time to sift through Jackson's notes, though none of it really made any sense to her.  She hoped that her uncle would understand some of it.  The rest of the journey to Harvard was uneventful, for which she was thankful.  The events of the previous day were all too fresh and the memory of Jackson's mutilated body leaped to mind all too easily.

In the library, she unwound her scarf and removed her gloves, clutching them in the same hand as her purse.  "Isn't this charming?" she whispered to Abraham, not wanting to disturb those studying.  "Let's see if we can find our Miss Atwright, shall we?"

Abraham seemed equally enchanted with the library, taking in the scent of old books and the sight of people reading and writing all around. Undoubtedly with a little bit of whiskey or perhaps absinthe, he could find a comfortable corner here to begin writing his next volume, but there was work to be done now.

"Most certainly a sound plan," he said, approaching the nearest desk. "Excuse me, we're here looking after one Miriam Atwright. Could you perhaps direct us in the appropriate direction?" he asked, certain to keep his volume low.
This message was last edited by the GM at 17:40, Thu 11 Sept 2014.

"Yes, she has an office right this way," a young man replied quietly, but beckoned with a hand indicating that he would lead them in the proper direction. Walking quickly, he lead them to a small office in which stacks of books were found piled on a desk. "Miss Atwright? Visitors for you." That was all he said, leaving them to the tender mercies of the librarian.

"Yes, how may I help you?" she asked, looking a bit distracted. She had a friendly way about her.

"Hello, Miss Atwright.  I hope we are not disturbing you.  I am Rosalie Elias and this is Mister Abraham Hargrove.  I believe you have had some correspondence with my late cousin, Mister Jackson Elias?  He was searching for a particular book or information from your library.  We were hoping that you might able to help us uncover what he was looking for."

"Oh, indeed! Yes, I was quite an admirer of your cousin. He was looking for a book called Africa's Dark Sects." She paused for a moment and then took stock of what Rosalie had said to her.

"I'm sorry, did you say just refer to Jackson as your...late cousin?" she asked.

Rosalie nodded sadly.  "Tragically, I did.  Jackson was the victim of a crime most heinous and we, his family and friends, are attempting to uncover what he was researching in hopes of finding those responsible for his death.  Mister Hargrove and I came on the train this afternoon with the intention of seeing you specifically in hopes that you might be able to shed light on the information Jackson wanted."

The librarian looked quite upset at the news of Jackson's passing.

"You have my condolences, my dear. I cannot say that I knew Jackson intimately, but I've known him for many years and have a great respect for his works and his research. Over the years, I've occasionally been able to point him to a particular book or otherwise aid him in his research and we've been periodically in touch. I will sincerely miss him."

"As I mentioned, Jackson was looking for a volume called Africa's Dark Sects by one Nigel Blackwell, a self-funded explorer of sorts. The topics in the book vary widely, but the focus is on African cults and esoteric religious practices - the more gruesome or vile the better. Cannibalism and bestiality are some of the more comparatively tame practices discussed. He focuses on the Kenyan Crown colony and German East Africa, the Belgian Congo, and West Africa. We did have one of the only remaining copies of this book in the world in our collection, but it seems to have simply disappeared from our collection."

"Still, I knew Jackson was mainly interested in African cults, and I was to help him look for some material on the subjects of his interest when he came here."
This message was last edited by the player at 14:38, Tue 16 Sept 2014.

"I am so very sorry to spring this news on you suddenly.  I had no idea you had assisted Jackson with his novels.  He must have been so thankful to have a skilled researcher to help him."  She sighed softly and glanced back at the library.  "I wish that book had not disappeared from your collection.  It would have been very helpful." 

Turning back, she asked, "Tell me, have you ever heard of any mythology about a deity called the 'God of the Black Wind' or the 'Cult of the Bloody Tongue'?  It was something of the African legends that Jackson was pursuing."

"The names do ring a bell - in fact, I believe they were mentioned in the missing volume that Jackson was looking for, but I'm not sure I have much information about them at the tip of my tongue." She purses her lips as she spends a moment in thought.

"Do you think you might be able to help us find out more about them here in the library, perhaps pointing us in the right direction?" he asked.

"I would be most happy to do just that," she said, "though if you would allow me, I might be able to better do justice to the research myself. The subject is I'm afraid a rather esoteric one, and even with me assisting you in the research, it might take you as much as a full day before you were able to unearth even the most rudimentary details."

"If you'll allow me, if you can provide your contact information, I would be glad to conduct some research over the next few days for you and tell you what I can about these people."

"That would be most helpful.  Heaven knows that I am a novice at library research.  I prefer a more hands on approach.  Probably the best place to reach us would be at my uncle's house."  Rosalie opened her clutch and pulled out her consulting business card and a pen.  Turning the card over, she wrote down the address and phone number to Leo's.  "My information is on the front if you need it.  We would be most interested in hearing about anything that you might discover."

"Most certainly Miss Elias. Are there any particular details you might give me, other than those two names, which might guide my search?" she asked, carefully filing the card away. She was by all appearances a very neat and organized woman.

"I'm afraid there is little else I can tell you about Jackson's research, other than he was looking into the mysteries surrounding the Carlyle expedition in that particular area of Africa.  He thought the myths I've previously mentioned might be somehow related.  According to his notes, Jackson believed that this cult or cults were likely based in the mountains north of Nairobi. I know this all seems somewhat vague, but we are still attempting to piece this all together.  As I said, anything you might find could be helpful."  Putting her things away, she tucked her purse under her arm and then offered her hand to the woman.  "Most of all, thank you for your time and your friendship with my cousin.  It is very heartwarming to hear there are others outside of our family that will miss him."

"I join Rosalie in giving you my thanks for your concern. Jackson was very dear to us all, and we look forward to hearing back from you at your earliest convenience," he said.

After exchanging farewells with Miriam Atwright, he escorted Rosalie out of the library and they found themselves soonafter on the front steps once again. "Well, I daresay we should try to catch the next train to New York so that we can get back by nightfall, unless you think there's more to do here."

"No, I think we should head back and check in with the others.  Hopefully Miss Atwright will be able to turn up something.  Let's hurry back to the station and see if we can't catch the next train home."