A Spinner In The Dark (Shiva x TheCorsair)

[Shiva the Cat]

"And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul."
-Walt Whitman

​

Bombay, India
March, 193--

“Telegram for you, madam,” said the well-dressed porter as he approached the isolated table on the back veranda of the Taj Mahal Hotel.

The woman seated there alone looked away from the picturesque view of the sea beyond with an expression of mostly-contained irritation as she took the envelope, addressed to Dr. Marianne Campbell, from his white-gloved hand. Dispatching the man with a coin and a soft “Thank you” in a lilting Scottish burr, Dr. Campbell considered ignoring the communication until she'd finished her breakfast. This was the first significant amount of time she'd had to herself in weeks, ever since boarding the steamer back in New York with her colleague, the esteemed Dr. Francis Morgan, and three undergraduate students in tow.

Until last night's late arrival in Bombay, any time that hadn't been spent supervising Miss Freeman, Mr. Whateley, and Miss Morales had been spent in conference with Morgan, discussing the strategy,best practices, and most of all, the cost of the mission at hand. Miskatonic University had agreed to cover the party's travel and supply expenses for an exploratory expedition to a newly-rumored temple near Gujarat, with additional funds available for excavation if they could actually find the place and deliver solid evidence of its existence (a prospect which many in the Archaeology department held in great skepticism).

Dr. Campbell had a sneaking suspicion Morgan himself had only been sent along as a chaperone to the party, rather than out of any real academic interest. After all, the idea of a lone woman shepherding three greenhorn field scholars through the jungles of India was utterly absurd, even if she was arguably the most accomplished lady archaeologist of the modern era.

In her earliest days at Westfield College back in England, young Marianne had risen to professional acclaim by discovering the grave of a viking shieldmaiden while on summer holiday, and while working an excavation in graduate school had located the entrance to the tomb of a long-lost Egyptian high priest. Even her career at Miskatonic had been jump-started by a serendipitous stumbling upon a prehistoric burial mound during a privately-funded excavation on a friend's property. Eager to lay claim to the discovery, the university had offered Dr. Campbell a teaching position, which though un-tenured as of now, had proven quite lucrative to the Scotswoman's interests.

Still, in the five years she had taught at Miskatonic, Dr. Campbell had never managed to quite fit in among her fellow professors. Most of them, probably Morgan included, attributed her career more to luck than anything else. They did have something of a point; who could say if Marianne would be where she was now if it hadn't been for a series of fortunate discoveries? Dr. Campbell herself would be the first to admit that while she excelled in finding, cataloguing, and preserving lost artifacts and structures, she could not always put them in the appropriate historical context (“I'm a jack of all ages, but a master of none,” was one of her favorite sayings). This led to a remarkable versatility when it came to field work of course—she was as comfortable on a dig in Egypt as Ecuador as East Timor—but alas her limited classroom acumen had relegated her to introductory-level lectures and labs for students who didn't know a ewer from an urn.

But Gujarat would be a chance to change things. If she could actually find the whispered temple hidden back in the jungle-covered mountains, Morgan and the other heads of the department had agreed to let her lead whatever formal excavation took place. Ideally such a task would only take place over the summer, but Dr. Campbell suspected that if the temple was all she dreamed, she could easily drag things out over months, or even years. Much as she might have enjoyed her quaint little rented house back in Arkham, she much preferred the prospect of being up to her knees in dirt, carefully sifting out remnants of civilization from the Vedic Period or earlier.

Of course, she still had to find the temple first. But Marianne had waited this long, and now that they'd finally made it to India she didn't mind waiting a few days more. Last night before sending the three students off to their own quarters, she had generously invited them to sleep in and spend the day exploring Bombay a bit for themselves, or at least enjoy the luxury of the Taj Mahal Hotel before they would be relegated to the rustic trails of the backcountry. Dr. Campbell hadn't seen any of them since her own late rising, nor had she crossed paths with Dr. Morgan, to her own relief. She thought he'd mentioned something about wiring back to Arkham last night before they'd parted company, but in truth Marianne did not care enough about Morgan's activities to inquire further. Her own agenda for the day was blissfully empty, save for a meeting with one of her father's army friends who had agreed to serve as guide for their expedition.

Or so she thought. When Marianne finally got around to reading the telegram, her usually careful poise slipped enough to allow a few hissing curses to come slithering out under her breath.

“For goodness' sake, not again,” Dr. Campbell muttered as her gloved hands tore the missive into shreds. Morgan was really going to let her have it now. The whole reason they'd come to Bombay in the first place, rather than going directly to Gujarat, was to make contact with Captain Burke, a rather scandalous old gentleman whose peccadilloes it would appear had finally caught up with him. Not only would this leave the party without a guide and guard against the dangers of the jungle, but without a translator as well. In multicultural Bombay that wasn't so terrible, but in the rural areas an interpreter was going to be absolutely crucial.

The professor passed one hand over her freckled face, trying to collect her thoughts and determine the best way out of this situation before Morgan could discover it and berate her misguided trust in the old scoundrel Burke. Looking through the wide glass doors to the lobby of the hotel, her whiskey-brown eyes noted the diverse faces of the men, women, and children inside. The Taj Mahal Hotel was not only known for its luxury, but as a gathering place of all sorts in Bombay. The rise in anti-European and anti-British sentiment over the last few years had driven many out of the cheaper establishments in the city, and even those who couldn't afford lodging at the hotel (which was happy to cater to anyone with money, regardless of race or creed) often frequented the bar and restaurant off the lobby.

And that was how Dr. Marianne Campbell ended up walking into a hotel bar at quarter to noon on a Tuesday, dressed in a neat but unremarkable gray cotton skirt that hugged her ample hips and a crisp white shirt with no more adornment than a bit of ruching near her rather prodigious bosom. The collar was buttoned modestly to the top, but the sleeves were short enough to bear most of her soon-to-be tanned arms, while her thick mass of chestnut curls was pulled away from her face in a loose chignon.

The bartender was somewhat surprised to see a woman in the establishment, though when he heard her accent the sentiment was rather diminished and he was quick to make sure he had some decent whiskey in stock. Dr. Campbell quickly dismissed the offer on the basis of the hour, and instead asked the man if he knew of anyone who might be hired as a translator and guide through the northern highlands.

Yes, the bartender said, he did know of an American who came in sometimes and might be helpful, but there was no telling when he might make his next appearance.

“Then if you don't mind, I think I would like to just wait and see,” Dr. Campbell remarked, settling in at a corner table beneath a dim red lamp, where she could keep a hopeful eye on the door and any potential saviors that might walk through it.

While sitting in a bar was hardly how she had planned to spend her first day in Bombay, at the very least she would be unlikely to run into Morgan in the smoky gloom. That would give her time to come up with a backup plan if there was no interpreter to be had. She supposed she could try wiring some bail over to Burke...

But no, Captain Burke would have to continue his sojourn in the Delhi prison, for as luck would have it not long after Dr. Campbell had taken up her post the bartender cleared his throat to gain her attention, then inclined his man towards a stranger that had just entered the room.

Rising to her full, if unremarkable height, the professor approached the man with the dignified smile of a queen and the eyes of a cornered animal deciding whether to flee or fight. But her voice was even as she inclined her head in greeting. “Excuse me sir, would you be a Mr. Marsh?" she asked with a slight roll of the Rs in his name. "If so, I wonder if I might have a word with you...”

 

[TheCorsair]

It had been one of those days. No, wait. It had been one of those weeks. The kind of week where you nearly get hanged for a simple misunderstanding, and then escape to the railroad tracks, and then hang on to a coal car for dear life for a hundred and fifty miles. All over a misunderstanding about the proper ownership of a tiny sack of rubies. Very tiny. One the owner wouldn’t have missed at all. After all, Prince Abishek has a lot of rubies. But he was also quite unreasonable about things.

Really, it was enough to sour a man on his belief in the essential goodness of human beings.

Shaking his head sadly, Sam Marsh dropped from the coal car and did his best to brush coal dust from his khaki coat. He’d have to make the best of it. Sure, he’d returned to Bombay without the rubies. But! He’d returned to Bombay with an intact neck. And that meant he could still figure out a way to pay off...

“Oi! Marsh!”

Haji Mastan.

“Heeeyy...” he said, turning slowly and smiling his best smile. “How are you, this fine day?” It wasn’t Haji himself, of course. He was too big to do this kind of legwork himself. It was one of his bully-boys, a lean man with a scarred face. Prashan-something-or-other, Sam vaguely recalled. Prashan-not-terribly-happy-to-see-you, from the look on his face.

“You have the money?” The tall, lean killer stepped forward, resting a hand on the hilt of his curved knife.

“Of course I do!” Sam lied cheerfully, stealing a cautious glance around the rail yard. He was in full view of a crowded passenger car, but he had no doubt the men and women in it would all swear they saw nothing if questioned. “I...”

“You come with me,” Prashad demanded. “Pay Haji now.”

“...don’t have it in cash yet,” Sam continued. “I mean, it’s specialized. I have to see the buyer.” His mind raced as Prashad closed the gap. “Very, uhm, difficult to, uh...”

“Show me,” Prashad sneered, close enough that Sam could smell the rancid butter stink of his rotting teeth. “Show me, or I...”. His words vanished in a gurgle of pain as Sam crushed his testicles with a well-aimed knee. Before he could recover, Sam threw a rapid series of punches that ended with an uppercut, and the dacoit went down.

“Well,” Sam remarked to nobody in particular as he examined his bleeding knuckles. “It got worse.”

-*-

The bar at the Taj Mahal Hotel wasn’t the best in Bombay. The drinks were watered and the glasses were questionably clean, and the floor was ever so slightly sticky as you crossed it. But the liquor (such as it was) was cheap. And, more importantly, it was deep in Pathan Gang territory, so Haji’s boys were unlikely to risk a war over small fry. And Sam Marsh was well aware he was small fry.

“Excuse me sir,” asked a delightfully-accented voice as he entered the bar, “would you be a Mr. Marsh?"

He hesitated, but the speaker certainly didn’t look like one of Haji’s boys. Or like any type of boy at all, really. Why on Earth would she be looking for him, though?

“If so, I wonder if I might have a word with you...”

Behind her, the barkeep held up a fistful of papers and shook them. Business, then, because, Gordon was clearly acting cranky about his tab. “Uh, yes. Yes, I’m Samuel Marsh. Please, uhm...”. A quick look around showed a nearby table to be reasonably clean. “Why don’t you join me for a drink?”

He pulled out a chair, holding it for her. “What are you having, Mrs...?”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Marianne wasn't quite sure what she had expected the mysterious Mr. Marsh to look like, but as soon as she actually laid eyes on him she decided it wasn't that. As she observed his roguishly handsome face, her mind immediately went to the two young women under her guidance, and whether exposing them to someone with such airs was the wisest idea. But Doris and Pilar were technically adults, and she supposed they must have been exposed to much greater temptations back on Greek Row in Arkham. Good looks aside, she decided Mr. Marsh at least deserved a chance, and besides, Dr. Morgan would be back soon and asking what had become of their guide.

"It's Doctor, actually," the professor replied as she sank into the chair. "Dr. Campbell, at your service sir. And a cup of tea will more than suffice, thank you," she added, despite the exasperated look from the barman. A short time later, one of the waiters from the tea room across the lobby delivered a small pot of darjeeling, which Marianne poured daintily as she looked back across the table at Marsh.

"The gentleman at the bar said you might be hired as a guide through the jungle," she remarked with a nod in the barman's direction, her silver spoon clinking lightly against the delicate china cup. "You see, I'm an archaeologist. From the United States, in fact, although I'm not a citizen by birth, as I'm sure you can tell." She chuckled lightly, aware of how her accent and mannerisms had made her stand out back in Massachussetts. "I'm here with a small party of researchers from Miskatonic University, and we're headed for the jungles along the Mahi River in Gujarat. We had originally arranged for a British gentleman to guide us but...he has unfortunately been delayed."

There was no hiding the dry cynicism in her voice at this last remark, nor the flat expression in her eyes as she sipped her tea. "In any case, we are in need of a new guide. Language proficiency would be ideal, but it's not required. Primarily we need someone familiar with the region and back country travel in general. There are three students with us, all with varying degrees of outdoor experience, and I imagine the university will be quite put out if we fail to return with all three intact." The students had partially been chosen because of their willingness to forgo modern conveniences of course, but there was always the chance that the best intentioned among them might take the wrong step off a cliff or be on the receiving end of a particularly brutal snakebite.

"All of that being said, Mr. Marsh, I wonder if you might not be able to provide the services we seek. The university of course will pay any reasonable fees you might charge, as well as expenses related to transportation, equipment, etcetera," Dr. Campbell paused, then narrowed her eyes ever so slightly at the man across the table. "You should be aware of course, that in addition to myself there are two other ladies in the company, along with two gentleman. While we do not expect any special treatment, a certain modicum of respect and decorum is necessary. I take it that would be no trouble?"

She let the question hang a moment, then shrugged and resumed sipping her tea. "If so, then perhaps you might recommend another party suitable to our needs. I could arrange a small finders fee for you if so. But time is of the essence, and we had planned to head for Gujarat tomorrow, if we can find a suitable guide by then."

Setting down her cup, Marianne neatly folded her hands in her lap and tilted her head inquiringly. "So then, Mr. Marsh, do you suppose you might be able to assist us?"

 

[TheCorsair]

“Gujarat?” Sam leaned back, examining the Doctor sitting across from him. Gujarat would be problematic. Prince Abishek would be waiting back in Gujarat. Not to mention Prince Abishek’s executioner, who might be nursing a grudge along with a brand new black eye. It could get him killed, going back so soon.

On the other hand, Gujarat was a lot bigger than Bombay. And Haji would be a lot more interested in tracking him down than the prince. Probably. Most likely.

“Yeah, I know Gujarat,” he decided. His chair scraped the floor as he leaned forward. “And I speak the local dialect - well enough to get by, anyway. And I don’t have any problem with ladies on an expedition, as long as they behave.” He grinned. “I’ve had one or two think guide means porter, and that’s not what I’m signing on for.”

Looking wistfully at the bar, he started to see final for a drink. Gordon frowned in reply, shaking his tab in a fist. “So, yeah. I’m interested. You got your gear lined up? Because it’ll be cheaper to get it here in Bombay.”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Marianne couldn't help but sigh in relief to hear Mr. Marsh was familiar with the region and language, even if there was a certain hesitation in his body language. That was to be expected, she supposed. All her career Dr. Campbell had encountered men who didn't care for female employers, but she usually found that if the pay was fair enough they could at least be persuaded not to voice their concerns aloud.

And where pay fell short, well, that was where whiskey came in.

Following Marsh's gaze to the bar, the professor's plush lips parted in a small grin, and she raised one gloved hand to attract the barman's attention. "Oh Mr. Gordon? I think I would like that drink now. The Glendronach, if you don't mind? And two glasses, please" Looking back across the table at her companion, Marianne tilted her head cordially. "You will allow me, of course, Mr. Marsh? As a show of good faith on my part."

Whatever the guide might have thought of the gesture, the barman was happy enough to pour out the whiskey and place it between them. Raising the glass to her lips, she paused before tossing it back. "May the best you've ever seen be the worst you ever see, Mr. Marsh," she replied, taking a delicate sip before setting it down. "Now turning back to business, I certainly do not expect you to carry any more than I or any of my students can manage. We've brought most of our own equipment with us from the States--cameras, handheld tools, supplies for taking rubbings and things like that--and my colleague is currently arranging for tents and other camping gear as we speak. Ideally we would only need to purchase rations and mules in Gujarat, unless you have access to some better means of transport. We have tickets for the afternoon train tomo--well speak of the devil."

A shadow passed momentarily over Dr. Campbell's face as a tall, thin man with wavy black hair and a beige linen suit stepped into the bar, one of his dark brows raising in either amusement or judgment as he observed the pair at the table.

"Well Marianne, didn't expect to find you in here so early," the man's Yankee accent mused as he pulled out a silver pocketwatch on a chain. "Only two p.m. A bit early for whiskey, isn't it?"

She bared her teeth in response, hating the way her colleague always addressed her by her first name, excluding the title she had earned or even the authority of 'professor.' If only Morgan wasn't head of the department...

"Clearly there's still a thing or two you need to learn about being a proper host, Frank," she replied through a grimace, making the necessary gestures of introduction between the two men. "Mr. Marsh, this is the college I mentioned, Dr. Frank Morgan." Marianne suspected Francis Morgan hated being called "Frank" as much as she hated being called "Marianne," and she took a special glee in using the moniker whenever possible. "Frank, this is our guide, Mr. Samuel Marsh. Won't you sit down with us and be sociable for once?"

"Hmph. Wasn't aware we were here for social visits. I thought we were here to work," Morgan grunted in reply, gesturing to the barman for a third glass nonetheless. Once his own cup was full, he looked more closely at Marsh as he took as sip. "So you're friends with Marianne's father, hm? Thought you'd be a bit older."

"Ah, that was Captain Burke," Dr. Campbell cut in quickly. "He was unfortunately called away on business, and Mr. Marsh has done me the great service of agreeing to take his place. We were just coming to the terms of payment when you came in, isn't that right?" Her brown eyes were silently pleading with the younger man when she looked back at him, praying he wouldn't change his mind now that he'd met the other leader of the expedition.

"Is that so?" asked Dr. Morgan. "And what do you charge for your services, Samuel?" There was no hiding the skepticism in his voice as he swirled his whiskey thoughtfully.

 

[TheCorsair]

Sam jerked slightly at Dr. Morgan’s interrogation. It brought back memories of his year at M.U., before the money had run out. Or, to be honest, before the school had been willing to continue his scholar ship given his abysmal grades. Did... was it possible that Dr. Morgan recognized him? No, no, it couldn’t be. They hadn’t crossed paths that many times, mostly because he’d cut most of the introductory archaeology classes the man had taught.

“What do I charge?” He sipped the whiskey that Dr. Campbell has so thoughtfully provided, and wished that Dr. Morgan would piss off so he could get back to splitting the bottle with her. That didn’t seem likely, though. “Dr. Campbell here said your university is puking up ‘reasonable e penses’, and we were just getting ready to discuss what they were.”

“Well, then,” Dr. Morgan said, drawing up a seat in a most unwelcome manner. “We can...”

“I was negotiating with Dr. Campbell,” Sam interrupted, mischief glittering in his eyes. “And I was going to tell her that I’m worth quite a bit. I’m familiar with Gujarat, I speak Hindi and the local dialect, and I’m an accomplished tracker and navigator.” He downed the rest of his glass. “I’m a crack shot, too.”

“And why would that be important to us?” Dr. Morgan's tone was frosty.

“Gandhi and Nehru have the population all stirred up,” Sam replied with a grin. “And while Gandhi talks nonviolent resistance to the Raj, not everyone is so... peacefully inclined.” A chuckle. “Plus, bandits don’t care if you’re merchants or scholars or what. They’ll rob and murder you regardless.”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"I would not have said 'puking up,' exactly," Marianne answered in a flat tone as she began to fish in her satchel for a pencil and pad of paper. "But yes, the expedition was approved with the understanding we would need to hire local help exactly for situations like this. Especially given the, ah...current political atmosphere," she added in a lowered voice. The professor hoped that their destination was isolated enough that they wouldn't cross paths with any particularly fervent nationalists, or if they did their American passports and visas would at least grant them a small reprieve (though Marianne dreaded having to force herself into the broad unnatural tones of the American accent in order to hide her own origins).

"And if Mr. Marsh's fees are beyond what the university has approved, well then, I can supplement the stipend with my own funds," she continued, eying Morgan's empty glass with a silent remind of who exactly had paid for the expensive drink he had just gulped down. Turning up her chin, she scribbled a number down on a page from her tablet, tore it free, then passed it folded over to Samuel without allowing her colleague so much as a glimpse of what she'd written. "Will that suffice for you, Mr. Marsh? I'm afraid we are in a bit of a hurry, and we cannot be delayed by long negotiations."

As she waited for the guide's answer, another though occurred to her. "Has there been much violence in Gujarat lately? We only just arrived in Bombay last night, and I haven't had a chance to see the papers..." Pouring herself another glass, Dr. Campbell swirled the whiskey thoughtfully. She had some experience with firearms, thanks to various hunting parties with her friends, and she knew at least a couple of the students were comfortable with firearms. Morgan too, if the stories about that Dunwich nonsense was to be believed, but beyond a couple of sidearms the party hadn't heavily invested in arming themselves.

"If we were to require additional equipment of a defensive nature," the professor said slowly. "I don't suppose you would be able to arrange for that as well, would you, Mr. Marsh?"

 

[TheCorsair]

Sam examined the number that Dr. Campbell has written, and pursed his lips in thought. Normally, he’d ask for more. Normally, though, he wasn’t worrying about being publicly castrated as a warning to others with a bad debt. Well, maybe normally was a bit strong. It was safe to say that the majority of his creditors didn’t plan to make an example of him in that brutal fashion. “That’s fine,” he decided, folding the paper and tucking it into his breast pocket. “A little less than I normally charge, but it’s for a good cause.”

The Doctor - the sexy one, not the disapproving old fart - thoughtfully refilled his drink. And since nice he was raised with manners, he picked the glass up and sipped at it appreciatively. “How much is much?” he replied to her question. “There’s work stoppages, and the majority of the violence is the Raj trying to force people back to work. But unrest breeds bandits, and expeditions looking for lost treasure attract bandits, so...”

“We’re not looking for lost treasure!” Dr. Morgan protested, outraged. “This is a sscientific expedition!”

“Yeah, well.” Sam sipped more whiskey and gestured with his glass. “What you’re actually doing won’t actually matter. The local bandits will hear that whites are heading into the jungle looking for a lost city, and they’ll assume you’re looking for treasure. King Tut kind of stuff.”

“Tutankhamen was Egyptian,” Morgan grumped.

“And lost cities full of gold are everywhere,” Sam told him. “In the imagination, at least. So...”

"If we were to require additional equipment of a defensive nature," Dr. Campbell said slowly. "I don't suppose you would be able to arrange for that as well, would you, Mr. Marsh?"

“I certainly could,” he assured her. “As long as we’re keeping it simple. A rifle apiece and a couple of shotguns, and a pistol apiece as well. That would make you all look more like hunters.”

“That’s an advantage?” Morgan asked, curious despite himself.

“That it is,” Sam answered, before draining and refilling his glass. “White hunters are rich, of course. But they’re also armed. Makes them less desirable for bandits.” He made a roasting gesture at the lovely Dr. Campbell. “I can get them for you here or there. When do you want to leave?”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

“That’s fine,” Marsh decided, folding the paper and tucking it into his breast pocket. “A little less than I normally charge, but it’s for a good cause.”

"If it's any comfort," Dr. Campbell replied sweetly, her tongue chasing a spare drop of whiskey from her lower lip. "I think there may be a tax deduction in there somewhere, if you go in for that sort of thing. I would certainly consider it a donation to the Archaeology Department of Miskatonic U."

Morgan seemed a bit less generous in his appraisal of the man, and Marianne couldn't help but wonder how hostile her colleague would have been if he wasn't the sort of stuffed-shirt New England academic that usually kept a handle on such virulent dislike. I'll have to speak to him about Marsh privately the professor decided. After all, once they were in the thick of the jungle, it wouldn't do for Frank to offend Mr. Marsh to the point where he abandoned the expedition entirely. Guns or no guns.

"Your suggestions seem perfectly reasonable to me, Mr. Marsh," the archaeologist continued, folding her hands daintily in her lap. "If questioned, I think we can fairly call ourselves hunters, after all. We may not be hunters of beasts, of course, but we are hunting something in those forests. You see, Mr. Marsh, there's a certain--"

"For God's sake, Marianne!" Morgan snapped, slamming his open hand against the table and rattling the glasses. The woman's bewildered stare, in addition to that of the bartender several feet away, immediately showed that such an outburst was drawing even more than the damned Scot's whiskey-loosened tongue, and when Dr. Morgan spoke again it was in more hushed tones, though they were no less angry. "I thought we agreed not to discuss details of the expedition in public?"

Embarrassed as she was at her colleague's tone and actions, Marianne blushed even deeper at the realization she shared some fault in the matter as well. "My apologies, you're quite right. We cannot be too careful." In truth she doubted any rival expeditions from Yale or Harvard were hiding in a secret cubby of the bar, but she'd had her own experiences with academic espionage, and if she ever wanted Miskatonic to pay for such an extravagant journey as this was proving to be, they could leave no room for error.

Turning back to Marsh, she cleared her throat a little and tried to recover her dignity. "We have tickets for the afternoon train to Anand, departing around four tomorrow I believe. I doubt it would be any trouble for us to secure an extra ticket for you, if you don't mind leaving Bombay on such short notice." She paused a moment, lowering her own voice again. "I think it would be wise not to bring a large number of firearms with us on the train. It may raise a few questions, aye?" Straightening her back, she gave a passing glance to Morgan. "Unless my esteemed colleague disagrees, I would suggest we purchase the remainder of our gear--all of it--in Anand."

"In the meantime, Mr. Marsh, might we convince you to join us this evening for a wee bit of refreshment?" Her tone brightened as need of subterfuge fell away. "I think it would be lovely to give you a chance to meet the students of the expedition before setting out. We have a private dining room booked, and we would be at more liberty to discuss the specifics of our journey."

"Assuming Mr. Marsh agrees to sign the necessary paperwork first, of course," Dr. Morgan cut in. "Just the normal documents. Non-disclosure agreement, terms of employment, liability waivers...you don't have anything against that, do you my good man?"

 

[TheCorsair]

It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse to sign Dr. Morgan's paperwork, just out of spite. It'd be fun to watch him flounder, and sputter. He seemed like the kind of man who sputtered. "I have nothing against that, my good Doctor," he replied with just a moment's hesitation. "Do you have all of it here?" Spite was fun. Getting out of Bombay with his hide and his balls intact was essential. And getting paid to do it might just make it possible to come back to Bombay someday. He sighed, ever so slightly. Sometimes, being an adult was no fun whatsoever.

"Of course not," Dr. Morgan sniffed. "It hardly makes any sense to travel with contracts, on the off chance I might need them. You'll need to return to the Taj Mahal Hotel with us."

"Well, then." Sam knocked back the last of his whiskey, then cocked his head to look at the much more attractive Dr. Campbell. "I seem to recall that you invited me to join your expedition for a little refreshment anyway. Why don't we further mix business with pleasure then, and attend to the contractual requirements? Not that I think it's necessary - I'd hardly run out on my alma mater."

Morgan lifted an eyebrow at that. "You are an alumni of Miskatonic University?"

"Ex Ignorantia Ad Sapientiam; Ex Luce Ad Tenebras," Sam smiled as he rose. "Or, more familiarly, 'Go Pods!' But..." he added with a fit of honesty, "I don't know if I count as an alumni. I attended two semesters, and then my family could no longer afford the tuition. The late... unpleasantness in Dunwich, I'm afraid, damaged our finances." Morgan stiffened at the mention of Dunwich, something that didn't escape Sam's notice. "You were familiar with..."

"I was there, yes," Morgan allowed. His fists clenched, and he shook at the memory. "I was present assisting Dr. Armitage with the, uhm, the... unpleasantness."

"My dear sir!" Sam gushed, suddenly seizing the Doctor's hand and shaking vigorously. "My family... well, they credit you and Dr. Armitage with saving our family farm and home. And with saving all of Dunwich, to be honest. It is a pleasure to meet you!"

 

[Shiva the Cat]

Dr. Campbell quirked her head curiously at the mention of Dunwich. That particular incident had taken place prior to her tenure at Miskatonic--though she had been in the country at the time, visiting with a Mr. and Mrs. Derby at their vacation home up in Maine, discovering the very burial ground that would lead to her future career at the university--and though she'd tried time and time again to get Morgan to tell the story, he had never said anything to her other than it was "not something for a woman's ears." The fact that Marianne continued to occasionally needle the man about the incident to this very day probably did nothing to ease the chilly relations between the colleagues.

She never would have guess in a million years that a random mercenary in a Bombay bar would be acquainted with the story, and a new light sparked into the professor's eyes as she looked from one man to another. "Really, Mr. Marsh? I thought I detected a hint of New England in your accent, but to think: a Miskatonic alumna, all the way out here? And a Dunwich native, no less!" Resting her elbow on the table, Marianne brought her fist up beneath her chin and tried to look as coquettish and demure as possible for a woman of her age and profession. "I don't suppose you can tell me what exactly occurred back then? Frank here is always so tightlipped about the matter, and the village folk don't seem to trust foreigners with the story..."

"Maybe if the foreigners would learn not to drink so much whiskey in the middle of the day," Dr. Morgan growled, seizing onto his colleague's wrist and pulling her to her feet. "I think we ought to go and arrange that extra train ticket now, Dr. Campbell." He said her name with a mixture of venom and embarrassment, and his movements made it clear he wished to leave the conversation before any unpleasant histories could be risen from their graves. His glance back towards Sam was unfriendly, but his tone had resumed its usual control. "You'll be at the hotel at seven, Marsh." It wasn't a question, or a request. "Tell the man at the desk you're dining with the Miskatonic group, and they'll show you the way. If you're late, we'll assume you're no longer interested."

"Oh nonsense Frank, he'll be there," Marianne scoffed as Dr. Morgan all but dragged her from the bar. Still, as she glanced over her shoulder back at Marsh, the look in her brown eyes was pleading. If he didn't show up, she would never live it down.

********​

Shortly before seven that evening, strange noises were coming from a linen closet on the eighth floor of the Hotel Taj Majal. Behind the closed door, a pretty dark-skinned chambermaid was pinned against the shelves of towels and bedsheets, the normally-respectable long skirt of her uniform hitched up over the girl's generous hips to allow a pair of long fingers to tease and dip into her dripping sex. The maid might have cried out at this intrusion, but her mouth was currently sealed with a pair of plush lips the color of fresh peaches. When they finally pulled away, it was only for her attacker to tease her glistening fingers across the maid's mouth, encouraging her to taste her own arousal.

"Please..." the maid gasped as she obediently liked the fingers clean. "Miss...I'll get in trouble..."

Indeed, the person currently rubbing her thumb against the maid's swollen clit was a woman, though she was dressed in a man's shirt and trousers, and her thick hair was cut into a severe and rather unfashionable (by Bombay standards) bob. "You're not going to get in trouble, mija," the other woman whispered as she kissed the maid again. "No one is going to find us--"

The door opened before the woman could finish the sentence, and the maid's moans were immediately stifled under a displease throat clear behind her lover's back.

"The others said I'd find you here, Morales," Dr. Campbell stated in a displeased tone. "If you'll leave that poor young woman alone, dinner is in fifteen minutes."

Pilar Morales sighed as she released the girl, who immediately smoothed her skirt down and fled the scene (though not before receiving a firm swat on the behind from the college student). Grinning mischievously after her paramour, Pilar reached into the pocket of her shirt to pull out a pack of cigarettes, sliding one between her lips before holding it out in offering to the professor, who immediately declined with a wave of her gloved hand.

"Morales, I swear, every day I wish I'd left you back in the desert where I found you," Marianne sighed as she led her student towards the dining room at the end of the hall. "If the board knew one tenth of what you get up to..."

"Aw, come on Doc. You know I keep things interesting," Pilar said with a wink as she lit the cigarette. "Can't say the same for them other two," she added as they stepped through the double doors into the room.

 

[TheCorsair]

“Samuel Marsh,” he told the headwaiter. “I’m with the Miskatonic expedition.”

The headwaiter’s expression didn’t change, but Sam still felt like he was being examined with distaste. Which was probably fair. He’d done his best to get cleaned up and respectable-looking, but his white suit was faintly off-white and somewhat rumpled, and his tie was wrinkled (it had been wadded up in his suitcase), and his hat was beaten up. But he’d showered and shaved, and really was making an effort.

“Ah, yes,” sighed the headwaiter. “Right this way, sir.”

Shrugging, Sam followed him over towards a large table near the kitchen. Drs. Campbell and Morgan stood right out - particularly Dr. Campbell, who filled out her suit quite nicely. The other two were a young dark-haired man who stared at everything around him like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing, and a slim-built black lady who was trying and failing at not behaving the same way. “Ah, Mr. Marsh,” Dr. Morgan called, waving him over. “Good to see you can be punctual. Come, let me introduce you. This is Doris Freeman, a graduate student in Archaeology.”

“A pleasure, ma’am,” Sam told the black lady, shaking her hand.

“Likewise,” she assured him, offering him a bright smile and a shockingly firm handshake.

“And this young man is Zachariah Whately,” Dr. Morgan continued. “From...”

“Dunwich!” Sam finished. “Yeah, I know Zach! Just a little shaver, when I left.”

“Well now,” Zachariah drawled, looking surprised. “Small world, I guess. What brings you here?”

“Little of this, little of that.” Sam took an empty chair. “This everyone? I thought there were five of you?”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"Let's see..." a smoky voice remarked from the door. Pilar rubbed her thumb against the corner of her mouth as she entered, wiping away a red smear that might have been lipstick--curious, considering she'd never once worn cosmetics in her life. "One, two, three, four, five. Looks like we're all accounted for to me." Taking the empty seat to the left of Marianne's, the undergraduate didn't bother to ask Samuel his name, his business, or how he'd gotten past the veritable army of tailcoated waiters downstairs and into the private dining room. Instead she merely poured herself a generous glass of sherry and raised it jovially in his direction, before downing nearly half if it in one gulp.

Across the table, Miss Freeman raised a dignified eyebrow at the younger student's display. "What happened to you, Morales? Get lost on the way to the powder room?"

Setting down her glass, Pilar looked her rival dead in the eyes. "Well I asked you to show me the way. How come you didn't want to come with, Do-Do?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, fully aware of the rumors about her that circled among the female student body of MU.

"Ladies, please," Dr. Campbell hissed under her breath, glaring sharply at the pair before turning her attention back to their guest. "You will of course forgive any high spirits around here, Mr. Marsh. You know what they say: familiarity breeds contempt. But I assure you, all three of these students were specifically chosen for their talents, even if they choose not to display them at all times."

Sitting down at the head of the table, the professor poured herself a much more modest glass of the sherry. "At the very least, I'm pleasantly surprised to see you and young Whately are already acquainted," she continued, offering the younger man a gentle smile. He hadn't been her own specific choice for the expedition, but she did have to recognize Morgan made a good decision in selecting the friendly, even-tempered lad. Especially compared to the strong-willed and occasionallly volatile young women.

"Still...quite the coincidence that we should travel halfway across the world, lose the service of our original guide--" the news of that particular misfortune had already circulated among the party. "--and find that a replacement who is not only a Miskatonic alumnus, but indeed already acquainted with a member of our party. Very curious indeed," Marianne mused, her gaze lingering on Zachary a bit longer, then shifting over to Frank.

Was the Dunwich tie the reason Morgan had chosen the young man to accompany them? The question had crossed her mind more than once, and now that Marsh was among them Dr. Campbell couldn't help but feel it was more than the hand of chance that had brought them all together. After taking a sip of the wine, her smile returned with fresh warmth, settling on the face of their would-be guide.

"I don't suppose you would be at liberty to speak on the Dunwich incident, would you Mr. Marsh? Back in Arkham it seems to be quite the secret, at least from us outsiders," she gestured towards herself, Morales, and Freeman, the latter of whom she believed was not a native of that particular hamlet, though she might have been mistaken. "I've been dying to know what exactly it was that occurred there."

 

[TheCorsair]

Dr. Morgan frowned at the question, and Zachariah became extremely intent on examining his glass of water. Sam, for his part, shrugged. “Bit of a mess,” he said. “I don’t fully understand everything that happened, really. It was some infighting in the Whately clan, and my people were transplants from Dunwich. Still seen as outsiders, two generations later.”

“Infighting in the Whately clan?” Morgan repeated, mildly incredulous.

“Yeah,” Sam answered. “I was at school when it happened, but the way pa told it one of old wizard Whately’s grandsons ran amok. Killed a bunch of cattle, burned some houses down, things like that.”

“That’s, uhm…” Zachariah caught Morgan’s expression, and nodde. “More or less, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Sam echoed. Then he turned his attention back to the lovely Dr. Campbell, pouring himself a drink as he did. “But, that’s probably enough reminiscing for now. Can you tell me what it is your expedition is looking for? I’d like to know where I’ trying to guide you, after all.”

 

[Shiva the Cat]

"Ahem, I do believe there's the matter of a few signatures first," Morgan cut in, producing a packet of papers and a pen from seemingly nowhere. Gracelessly pushing aside Sam's plate, the professor pointed out the different places to sign on the various waivers, non-disclosure agreements, and an exhaustive insurance policy that could have rivaled the Sahara for the dryness of its terms. Only when all had been signed to his satisfaction and were safely locked in his attaché case did he allow Marianne to speak.

She did so with a roll of the eyes and a rifle of papers through her own valise, although at first she only produced one item from its shadowy depths: a yellowed map of the the Mahi River Valley. Surprisingly, the label in the bottom left corner of the parchment did not indicate the document as property of Miskatonic University, but of a much older establishment.

"I obtained that map from Oxford University," Dr. Campbell explained. "Dr. Morgan and our students are already quite familiar with the ill-fated Theobald-Humphrey expedition of 1884. Perhaps you've heard of it as well?"

She allowed only a moment of response before continuing. "Well, to refresh everyone's memory, the group consisted of a small number of naturalists from Oxford and some affiliated establishments, as well as half-dozen British soldiers to accompany as bodyguards. Their aim was to study and document the flora and fauna of northern Gujarat for a period of approximately three months. Should you wish to peruse the official logs of the expedition, Mr. Marsh, I can easily provide copies."

Rummaging in her bag again, Marianne withdrew a worn leather logbook, and began to gingerly turn through the pages. "This is the journal of a botanist who was included in the party, a Miss Elizabeth Brightholme, who just so happened to attend my own alma mater back in England. She wrote that in the summer of 1884, the party came across a remote village that was being plagued by what the locals thought was some terrible monster in the forest, snatching up their children and lone travelers in the night and carrying them to a forbidden temple situated in the northern hills."

Marianne moved behind Sam and leaned over his shoulder ever so slightly, indicating three marks on the map that must have indicated such hills. "Driven by curiosity and a sense of justice, the party and their guards decided to travel to the temple to investigate. It took them nearly a month to comb the area, but eventually they did manage to locate the temple. Unfortunately..."

The professor paused, trying to choose her words carefully. The impatient Dr. Morgan had no such qualms, however. "The most detailed records regarding how to find the damned thing were either lost, or they never existed in the first place," he interrupted. "Other than that bit of sketching--" the older man gestured dismissively at the map. "--and Marianne's 'instincts,' we have no idea where this temple is, if it's even still standing."

"It is still standing!" Campbell insisted, annoyance cracking through her voice. "That is...it's most likely still standing. Brightholme did write about some aggressive tribes in the area--"

"But that's not the spookiest part." Now it was young Morales' turn to interrupt, a ghoulish grin on her face as she leered across the table at Sam. "Brightholme and two of the soldiers were the only survivors of the entire expedition. All the other academic members of the party disappeared in the temple itself, while the rest of the soldiers were killed in a scuffle with some half-crazed village folk from the next valley over."

"Allegedly. And Miss Morales, I think we would all appreciate it if you saved the ghost stories for after supper, if you please," Marianne sighed. Opening her journal again, she turned the page to a few beautifully illustrated sketches detailing not just the structure of the temple itself, but various friezes and bas-reliefs adoring its walls. The margins were also filled with images of flowers and other plants native to the region, as well as a very curious looking spider that almost seemed to have a human face on its back.

"These were drawn from life by Brightholme herself. As you can see, there is no art or architecture of this style anywhere in modern India, or even in the ancient world. I would even go so far as to hypothesize that this temple may predate the Indus Valley." Closing the journal, Marianne carefully tucked it and the map back into her valise. "We have brought a great deal of recording and photographic equipment with us, with the goal of obtaining definitive proof of this temple's existence and its location. That is where we require your help the most, Mr. Marsh. We will of course handle the keeping of all records along the way, we merely need your help to get us there."

Sitting back down at the head of the table, Dr. Campbell took another sip of her sherry. "So...any questions?"