Chapter 1 - Dr Bentley

 “I’m afraid I must regretfully inform you that your application as to the location of one of our employees has been declined, Dr Bentley.” A young, well-dressed woman with a small clipboard and a sour expression relays to a tall man wearing a simple outfit; shirt, suspenders and fitted, straight-pressed trousers. “We have, however, found instructions that this be left to you as William’s emergency contact. I apologise that I am unable to assist you any further.”

She holds out a wooden box, patiently waiting for it to be taken. The man is distracted by something momentarily, not noticing until she clears her throat and repeats herself. His eyes focus and he responds whilst taking it from her.

“Oh, I see, do you know if there is a provided reason for the Mayweather Estate declining my application?” Dr Bentley’s deep brown eyes squint quizzically at her as he comes round from his daydream.

“I’m afraid, Sir, that as you are unable to prove your relation to the employee in question, we cannot provide details of their whereabouts. Despite your position as an emergency contact, there is no information we can spare at this time. We at the Mayweather Estate appreciate your application, you can find your coat and belongings at the post on the left on the way out.” The young woman recites, as if reading off a script, before turning sharply and moving on to another man just down the row of seats.

The building itself is a large mansion, fitted with a brand-new static electricity generator to power the lanterns around the foyer, which looks to have been refurbished to resemble a reception area. Wooden pews sit in lines before a few desks, manned by four women all dressed in similar clothing.

Dr Bentley quickly collects his leather briefcase and green woollen scarf, striding out of the lavish doors, wrapping the scarf around his neck. The city is dark at this time of night, the lights from the Estate fade behind him as he strides down the cobbles of the street, holding out a lantern that keeps him from the encroaching shadows.

-

A wooden door, with a sign reading “Dr A. Bentley” set onto its clouded glass window, creaks open following the rustle of keys. Reaching in, Bentley sets the lantern on a small hook just on the inside and locks the door behind him. He pulls free his scarf, leaving it on a coat rack in the corner. The room looks as if it once saw better days, an unused therapy sofa sitting pushed into the corner, several open boxes filled with stacks of paper are strewn about it haphazardly.

He is a tired looking man, thin, early thirties, with short, curly brown hair, fair skin and thin, square, silver-framed glasses sitting on his nose. He settles in behind the desk, untucking his shirt and setting his briefcase down, pushing aside an ink pot and a few brass pens. Opening it up, a small golden locket falls, hanging from a chain from the upper half, showing the image of a young blond man with slicked back hair and scars across his cheeks. His hands curl around the ornate wooden box inside, pulling it out along with a few sheets of paper filled with tight, well-written script and a drawing of a curved, five-pointed star.

“Bloody idiot, what did you find yourself caught up in?” He mumbles under his breath, glancing at the pendant before opening the box gently. A small, dark red jewel glistens in the lantern light, maybe an inch across with thin onyx inlays crawling across it like veins. He pulls out a piece of paper from within the box, alongside the jewel.

 “Andrew, keep this with you at all times my love, my blackened heart will protect you.” He reads from the paper, chuckling to himself. “He always did like to joke about how I corrupted him.”

He assesses it for a moment, his fingertip caressing it softly before he lets out a sigh, plucking it from the box and slipping it into a pocket.

He begins to rifle through a few of the sheets on his desk, comparing the image of the curved star to other drawings from eye-witness accounts and descriptions received from crime scenes around the city. He finds his eyes slowly closing, his head resting on the desk, falling asleep as the lantern's oil runs out.

-

A dark room, with shifting walls and floor surrounds him, the expanse outside the semi-translucent barriers shifting with thousands of figures and movement. Dr Bentley stands within, his eyes drawn out to the distance outside the glass walls, toward a single burning point of light. He stares until his eyes begin to burn, unable to draw his gaze away, only being shaken from it as a soft whisper caresses his ear, and a tapping sound starts on the glass behind him.

“Andrew… Andrew I am here.”

-

“Andrew, I’m here, bloody well wake up!” Andrew awakens with a start to the sound of a young woman outside the room, rapping her knuckles on the glass door. A sheet of paper stuck to his face by a drop of not fully dried ink falls off, landing back on the desk as he quickly rises out of his chair. Stumbling over a box in the dark, he gets to the door and opens it.

“Good heavens, Brother, you look a right mess. You’ve ink dried on your face. When was the last time you ate? You resemble a stick.” A young woman; small and waifish, dressed in a long conservative blue dress, her chestnut wavy hair falling to her shoulders. Her eyes are bright, a hint of humour in them as she chides her brother.

 “Sorry, Ida, I must have fallen asleep whilst I was working, I didn’t get the chance to eat yesterday, and I was busy trying to get my application approved at the Mayweather Estate”

“That place is giving you the runaround, is it because you can’t prove your connection to him?”

“Ida, if I told them we were partners they’d hand me over to the police and I’d end up being committed and told I’m deranged by one of my former colleagues” Andrew tries to rub the ink stain off his face before continuing. “But regardless, treat me to a meal? I’m frightfully low on funds right now.”

“You’ll owe me one. Any luck figuring out what that symbol is, the one you found in William’s briefcase?” Ida begins to walk down the hall, Andrew locking the door behind him to follow her.

“From what I can tell it seems to be connected to some sort of cult, but I don’t see why William would be investigating a cult considering he was working for the Mayweather Estate as an expert on infectious diseases.” The two continue, out of the building and down the cobbled streets, bickering away.

-

Finishing lunch, a hearty meal of some breakfast sausages and crispy fried eggs, Andrew and Ida separate once again after a long embrace, Ida having to meet her Fiancé to arrange some things for her wedding.

Andrew finds himself back in the dimly lit study, balling his hands in his hair, complaining to the air about a lack of leads or new reports of similar disappearances within the last few weeks. He finds himself staring quietly at the image of William within the pendant, deep in thought, his fingers thrumming rhythmically on the desk.

He coughs, his hand unconsciously wrapping around an empty glass. His eyebrow twitches as he glances at it before shifting from his chair, moving toward the faucet in the corner. His feet scuff on the coarse carpet as he stops short, catching a glimpse, briefly, of himself in the mirror on his wall. Within the reflection there are very faint ink marks on his cheek where he had fallen asleep atop a page, and just before he goes to scrub them off, he leans in closer. He lifts a finger to them, tracing along the lines carefully. His eyebrow slowly rises in what could be confusion as he assesses his own face.

He turns to the offending sheet that still lays face down atop the desk, flipping it over in his hand.

“What in God’s name is this?” His jaw falls as he stares at the sheet and the ink on the page that has flowed from freely from a central point. It has run off like veins, in many lines that drip off the edges. Above the ink looks to be a hole that was burnt through as if it were held over a candle.

 “What was I drawing last night, and why would I use so much ink?” He sets the sheet off in a wastebasket and rubs his eyes. “I really ought to attempt a better sleeping schedule.”

He goes back to engrossing himself in research, passing the rest of the early afternoon in silence. The chair shifts with his weight as he flinches, another rapping of knuckles against the glass door breaking the tense atmosphere.

“Dr Andrew Bentley, are you in? I have something for you, sent from the Mayweather Estate.” A coarse and thickly accented man calls out through the door.

“Just a minute!” Andrew calls back, climbing his way out from the many boxes littering the floor. The door swings open, revealing a portly man with a large moustache and thin wisps of hair on the sides of his head, holding a package.

“Sign here then, Sir, and I can be on my way.”

“Oh right, yes, course.” Andrew scrawls a signature on the clipboard, pulling the box away from the man.

“Tween you’n me, Sir, my youngest, Jason, just got a job there as an expert on infectious something or rathers. Does that place seem on the level to you?”

Bentley stops, stunned for a moment. A plethora of emotions dancing across his brow before he responds.

“I couldn’t rightfully say I’m afraid, not sure myself why they’d send for me.” The lie rolls unnaturally off his tongue in response, clearly falling flat on the man as his face pales.

“Oh, right… well have a good night, Sir”

“And yourself, thanks again!” Bentley closes the door behind him, leaning against it. He moves to the desk, repeating what he just learned under his breath whilst he opens the box.

From within he first pulls out a small letter, addressing Dr A. Bentley, sealed with a meticulous M pressed into dark blue wax. He opens the envelope with a letter opener that rests on a stand next to his ink pots, reading it aloud, mumbling the words quietly to himself.

 “To the address of Dr Andrew Bentley,
I am sending this letter with regards to your recent inquiries toward the whereabouts of our employee, William Hargrave.

I have checked your credentials and found you to be an upstanding citizen as well as having been put down as William’s emergency contact. I have deemed it likely that I can trust you, at least enough to reach out. I am afraid to inform you that I too am concerned about William’s whereabouts.

I have worked with him for a few years now, as his student and then his partner, he has taught me a great deal about the work we do here in the Mayweather Estate and I think it is right for me to tell you personally what in fact this work is, as it is not what I imagine you expect.

I have enclosed a card with an address for us to meet, as well as a few things you should keep on your person as a layer of protection. I can only assume as a close friend of William you are a superstitious man to some degree, and I hope you trust me that whilst unlikely, the items I enclosed will prove helpful.

I look forward to seeing you on Thursday of this week, eight in the evening is when I will be there.
With regards,

Irene Baxter.”

He pulls out the small card hidden behind the letter, reading aloud the address of “Ninety-three Butchers Street”, tucking it into a pocket before looking through the other items.

The first is a unique static electricity lantern, it has a translucent miniature chemical battery attached to one side, and a small crank that appears to charge it. The second is a flat iron coin with the symbol of the curved five-pointed star that hangs from a silvery necklace chain, and finally a book; title reading “The Burning Stolen Light”.

“A handheld electrical lantern? Those are quite expensive to just be handing out like that.” Bentley remarks, marvelling at the innovative technology. He pulls the chain, suspending the pendant from a finger, his eyes poring over the details. “This symbol again, what is its connection to all this?”

Setting the book and items aside, he sighs loudly as he rereads the letter, his concerns about his partner most assuredly confirmed.

His hands tremble softly, his brow furrowing as he starts thumbing the red jewel in his hand. He reads the first few pages of the book, quickly losing interest before returning to his notes. Taking some time to search through an employee list of the Mayweather Estate, he finds the area wherein the name ‘Irene Baxter’ would be, to be empty.