Ch.24Ch.3 – My Miskatonic Comrades (4)

The bodies of Mickey Howland and Olson Noble were moved to Boston. A team of specialists including forensic experts, taxonomists, botanists, and doctors would examine them thoroughly in a “safe and controlled environment.”

“Who made that decision? Who’s in control of the situation right now?”

“Major Winston of the National Guard, Dean Eckerman of Miskatonic University, and I make decisions together. I coordinate between the police, city hall, medical organizations, and the Federal Security Bureau. Major Winston’s 50 National Guard troops maintain order and security at the university. Dean Eckerman represents the interests of professors, students, and the school.”

“The relationship between students and soldiers doesn’t seem particularly good.”

Scully nodded.

“It’s exam period, so both professors and students are on edge, and then the National Guard was deployed. But we don’t have the luxury of seeking everyone’s consent.”

“What about Arkham Police or State Police? Wouldn’t they cause less resistance?”

“No. They couldn’t effectively control the university campus. There are clear limits to how many officers they could deploy. Moreover, we must consider the possibility that ‘Rasputin’ has connections with Arkham’s civil servants. He might have bribed police officers or be acquainted with officials.”

Scully stood up. She opened the door of the research office, checked the corridor, and then locked the door. She stood by the door for a moment, seemingly listening for sounds outside, then returned to her desk when she detected nothing suspicious.

“Let me be frank. The members of this school are uncooperative with both military and police. That’s why the Federal Security Bureau has high expectations for you two. You’re complete outsiders with no vested interests here, so you might be able to approach people more amicably than we can.”

Crayfield’s eyebrows twitched up and down. Scully continued.

“Your original assignment was to provide close protection for Professor Mark Bravery, but you weren’t selected just for that. We considered your information gathering skills, interpersonal abilities, persistence, patience, and success rate. Agent Henry Payne spoke highly of you.”

Crayfield preened.

“Oh, so I have quite a good reputation at the Federal Security Bureau?”

“I heard you’re an expert at obtaining evidence of infidelity.”

“Oh. God. What exactly do you want from me and my assistant?”

Scully’s glasses glinted.

“Please investigate this case from an independent perspective. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need any help. Gather clues, secure testimonies, and find the culprit. Who Rasputin is. And the full picture of how this terrible incident happened.”

Crayfield’s face looked more relaxed. If he had only been assigned to protect Professor Mark Bravery, it would have been difficult to track the two female college students who were potential protagonists, let alone uncover the truth behind the case.

Catherine Scully’s request was essentially removing his restrictions.

Of course, Crayfield wouldn’t accept immediately.

“This seems like too big a job for what we’re being paid.”

“You’ll be compensated generously. Please consider what you’ve received so far as just a retainer.”

“How much money are you willing to spend?”

Catherine Scully removed her glasses. Without the round glasses that had softened her impression, her demeanor as a cold surgeon became more pronounced.

“Whatever it takes to prevent more bloodshed.”

* * * * *

We rested on a bench in the medical building’s garden at Crayfield’s suggestion. He smoked two Camels in succession.

The number of students had increased as dinner time approached.

There were none of the usual exam period complaints like “I couldn’t write a single word,” “I wrote completely wrong answers,” or “Nothing I studied showed up on the test.” Instead, all the students just glared at the soldiers on patrol as they passed by.

But the soldiers hadn’t done anything wrong. Their hair was neatly trimmed, and none had beards. Their uniforms were all new, starched and ironed until crisp. It seemed that despite their busy schedule, the National Guard wanted to make a good impression on the students.

Or perhaps it was the soldiers’ own initiative. The age difference wasn’t that significant. In fact, the privates and corporals were probably younger than the college students.

Not all of them would have graduated from high school.

There were only two differences between these two groups: the clothes they wore and their circumstances. That alone seemed enough to make people hate each other.

Crayfield stood up. The Astronomy Building was easy to spot with its dome-shaped roof and massive telescope.

“Assistant, let’s look at our notebook first. We should have a strategy meeting before going in.”

The notebook contained facts we had discovered so far:

“This list isn’t complete, but I already see some patterns. The two deceased were part of the ‘reading group’ that our protagonists belong to, and they were also ‘broadcasting club members.’ The reading group members seem deeply interested in communism and socialism, and the Soviet spy ‘Rasputin’ used the school’s broadcasting facilities. We need to find out what connection exists between the reading group and the broadcasting club, and whether Mark Bravery, the broadcasting club’s faculty advisor, might be a communist.”

The Astronomy Building was located in an annex to the south of the main campus. It was easy to find with its dome-shaped roof and visible telescope.

After passing through the entrance guarded by soldiers, we saw a large solar system model. The floor of the first-floor hall was smooth marble, and on the far wall were a fireplace, coffee tables, and sofas.

Following the stairs to the second floor, we found storage rooms, classrooms, and the broadcasting room in question. The broadcasting room door was locked with a clear warning sign that read “No Entry.”

“There’s another broadcasting room?”

Crayfield was right. Next to the shortwave radio broadcasting facility was another room labeled “Campus Broadcasting Station.”

That room had no entry restrictions.

A passing graduate student explained that the left room was for shortwave radio broadcasting that could be heard outside the school, while the right room’s facilities used wired communication networks that could only be heard through campus speakers. During weekday lunches or evenings, broadcasting club members would play requested songs or messages.

“They’re not doing it now because it’s exam period. The broadcasting club roster? Well, Professor Mark Bravery would know that.”

After answering, the graduate student walked to a research room down the corridor.

The third floor had classrooms of various sizes on both sides of the corridor. We didn’t go in deeply as we could see college students taking exams through the open doors.

“Isn’t there an elevator?” Crayfield complained as we climbed to the fourth floor. There were no classrooms, but instead professors’ private rooms, research labs, archives, and dedicated bookshelves.

We found Mark Bravery’s room without difficulty, but it was locked. A note fluttered on the door: “Supervising Exams – Absolutely No Entry.”

We continued up to the fifth floor.

Under the dome-shaped ceiling, which was as tall as two ordinary building floors, stood a telescope as big as a cannon. It matched the typical image of an observatory.

Through the open ceiling, stars were beginning to twinkle one by one.

And there was someone standing with hands behind his back, gazing at those stars.

“Ahem. Excuse me.”

When Crayfield cleared his throat, the man slowly turned his head toward us.

He was almost completely bald, with black spots blooming across his thick flesh. His bulldog-like sagging jowls concealed his short neck. His eyes were large but his eyelids appeared thin, his flat nose was small, and his frog-like mouth was long and large, almost reaching his ears.

“Who are you?”

Yet his voice was surprisingly delicate and soft, almost comparable to a musical instrument.

“I’m John Crayfield, private detective. This is my assistant. Are you a professor from the Astronomy Department?”

The man’s smile was visible even from a distance.

“Why would you think that?”

“Who else but a professor would be standing with hands behind his back, looking up at the sky while wearing a navy vest over a white shirt?”

“I am a professor, but not from the Astronomy Department.”

The man strode over and offered his hand.

“Gordon Whateley, Professor of Folklore Studies at Miskatonic.”

His fingers were plump to the tips, and his grip was strong.

We sat in chairs near the observatory stairs and had a brief conversation. As it turned out, Gordon Whateley’s hometown was Arkham, specifically Innsmouth.

“I look like a frog, don’t I? It’s a genetic characteristic of Innsmouth people. Because of this, I’ve faced quite a bit of discrimination despite being a native American.”

Gordon seemed quite honest. Excessively honest, to the point of making listeners uncomfortable.

“That’s also why I became a professor of folklore. I considered majoring in biology, but I thought folklore would be better for examining cultural or racial roots.”

“And you occasionally look at the stars too?”

“Folklore isn’t a demanding discipline. I replaced the midterm with a report assignment. So I’m quite relaxed now.”

Gordon smiled good-naturedly.

“You’re here because of the sad recent events, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How such a thing happened… Both were excellent talents. They had a keen awareness of issues in today’s America and a strong will to make this country better.”

Crayfield gave me a subtle glance, imperceptible to Gordon.

“Did you have interactions with them? With Mickey Howland and Olson Noble?”

“Of course. They were passionate participants in the open reading group. I’m the faculty advisor for that group.”

I naturally recalled the poster our protagonists had put up in the hotel lobby.

“Do you also lead the late-night discussion on Rosa Luxemburg?”

“You have excellent information gathering skills. I participate as a moderator in the discussions. Some students talk too much, while others are too shy to speak. A moderator must give everyone equal opportunity to speak.”

“Then you must also know… Ann Molly and Marie Shelley?”

“Where did you hear those names?”

Gordon gave us a wary look. Crayfield raised both hands.

“Ah. They’re staying at the same hotel as me. I chatted with the two students when they were putting up posters for the late-night discussion in the lobby.”

Gordon’s face relaxed again.

“Ah, I see. Yes, Marie Shelley is one of the students I teach directly. She’s very intelligent. I mentioned replacing the midterm with a report? She wrote an excellent paper. The highest score this semester.”

“If a professor like you acknowledges it, she must have written something incredible.”

When Crayfield chimed in with agreement, Gordon’s face brightened again. No professor dislikes hearing praise for their students.

“That child traveled around Innsmouth, Arkham, and Ipswich, collecting stories from the elders. Among them were stories related to the approach of Mars. That is, before our ‘ancestors of faith’ came from England to America, legends about Mars had been passed down among the indigenous natives.”

“Mars doesn’t have a positive image in other cultures either. It had strong associations with war and disaster. Is it similar here?”

“You’re quite knowledgeable! Similar but slightly different. Whenever Mars approached, the natives here offered cattle and sheep as sacrifices. But not as offerings. Rather, according to Marie Shelley’s expression, it was to ‘receive seeds.'”

“Receive seeds?”

“Yes. The ancients seemed to view Mars as a kind of seed pouch. When the seed pouch came close, they needed something to contain the seeds—a pot would be a more accurate description. Anyway, they needed something to hold them, right? So they would climb very high mountains, cut open the bellies of cattle and sheep, and pray for seeds to be placed inside.”

“That’s really unusual. Were seeds actually placed?”

Gordon held his waist and laughed.

“Well, I’ve been looking through records just in case, but haven’t found anything definitive. Even the oldest elders say, ‘I only heard about it from the old folks, I’ve never seen such a ritual myself.’ So it seems the practice died out long ago. If it had been effective, it would have continued until now, but since it didn’t, I suppose it wasn’t very successful.”

“Does this plant have a name?”

“Of course it does.”

Gordon nodded.

“The ancients worshipped it, calling it Vulthoom. Or the Sleeper of Revermoss, or Gsarthotegga. They say it grants immortality to those who inhale its fragrance.”