2019-06-05 - Thanks For The Fun Murder Talk

Byron's been to the Addington House Museum a few times over the years. The first, it was a school field trip. The second, probably showing a visiting guest around. He's returned on this gray, dreary day with questions on his mind. Dressed in a business suit and tie with a heavy gray coat thrown over the ensemble to ward against that rain, he finds himself mingling with some of the other visitors, having taken one of their tours and yet he remains even once that particular tour is over. In fact, he's wandering around the place, curiosity in his eyes.

Cressida had led one of the tours today - a busload of fifth graders on a field trip, studying local history. 'Studying', of course, being a loaded term. 'Trying not to study' is probably more accurate, although when Cressida, in her guise as tour guide, strayed from the approved curriculum to start talking about what ghosts may or may not haunt the museum, most of the kids started paying more attention. Especially when she went into detail in re: how said ghosts had shuffled off this mortal coil (read: untimely, and messily). She couldn't understand why the teachers had seemed so eager to end the field trip after that.

Ah, well. The kids have gone, the latest tour has wrapped up, its visitors petering out in a slow drip through the front door, and Cressida is occupying herself inventorying the objects not nailed down. Sad to say, it's usually not the school kids trying for free souvenirs, but the senior citizens, and there'd been a carful of them today too.

If Cressida takes notice of the smartly-dressed man lingering in the museum, she doesn't give any indication. People linger all the time. As long as he's not trying to pocket the silver, she doesn't mind at all.

Perhaps Byron, too, has ghosts on his mind, which is why he remains behind even as most have started to depart. Either way, he's found himself staring at many of the old photographs, those taken of the town itself, some of the Sawmill. He pays close attention to the faces in each picture, but also the names listed below. Every so often, he does cast a glance around the place and this is when he spots Cressida's presence in the near distance.

Making a slow walk in her direction, he gives another, rather mild cursory glance to his surroundings to check on whether any of the other tourists were lingering and if so, who, before he speaks forth. "Excuse me, I was wondering i was looking to learn more about our town's past and the Addington's family place in it all," a pause, before he quickly adds, "Beyond what they teach you in history class anyway. Who would I need to speak to regarding that. I got a lot out of the tour I'd taken earlier, but sometimes it's difficult to get your questions across in such a large crowd."

Alexander was not on the tour. He comes to the museum often, but he's never on the tours. Which is a shame in this case, because he missed some prime ghost and murder stories. Woe. Instead, he's been skulking around the library and the photos, his expression intent. He's dressed in a Motley Crue t-shirt, old enough to be paper thin and a bit frayed around the bottom, old blue jeans, and work boots. He is NOT stealing the silver - although he's giving a couple of those books and photos hungry eyes as he wanders. Seeing Byron and Cressida, though, he starts moving in that direction, frowning.

Cressida, counting the candlesticks arrayed across a pair of large fireplaces, does not hear Byron's approach. When he speaks, she jumps and gives a supremely undignified squeak, rather like a mouse whose tail has just been stepped on. The face that whirls around to stare, wide-eyed, at Byron is a thin one, long, with a pointed chin, plain, framed by long, unstyled hair. The entire effect is of a slightly startled fish.

"I, I-I-III would be glad to answer questions, excuse me." Cressida coughs, straightens, squares her be-cardiganed shoulders back. One can almost see the mantle of Cressida Addington, Curator settling to obscure Cressida Addington, Social Disaster from view.

Another delicate cough, and she flashes a smile, a little too bright and brittle. "What is it you would like to know? I didn't see you in my tour earlier but of course that was the kids so no, you probably wouldn't have been." She peers at him, blinking. "You're much too tall for that. Hello Mister Clayton. We will have some new items for the mill disaster exhibit next month."

On realizing that his well-honed casually walking stealth had startled the woman, Byron offers her a comforting enough smile at least. "Sorry. I apologize for scaring you. Didn't mean to. I need to learn to make my presence known better." He guesses! He'll wait, eyes diverted, so that she can regain her bearing and make herself Curator presentable like the Addington she is.

"After an incident at the theater recently, among other things," He can't help but add in a low murmur, "I was just curious if there was information to be found here regarding--" And that's when she greets Alexander, Thorne's gaze flickering in the other man's direction. "Figures.." Another murmur beneath his breath. He doesn't greet Clayton with a smile, but there is this shared look of recognition at least, "I'm sure Mr. Clayton has a few inquires himself, if he hadn't asked you about them already."

"Mister Thorne. Miss Addington." Alexander acknowledges them both with curt nods. He stands just outside of arm's reach, hands dangling almost bonelessly at his sides as he studies them. His attention eventually focuses on Cressida. "That sounds lovely." And he sounds like he means it, but then falls silent, apparently content to wait for Byron to ask his questions, first. And by 'wait', we mean 'stand and stare like an ambulatory scarecrow'.

As something resembling an ambulatory scarecrow herself, Cressida is in no position to judge Alexander. She gives a conspiratorial glance toward the rest of the house, then oozes a little closer to her gentleman calle- NO NOPE WRONG PHRASE museum visitors, pitching her voice lower when she answers Byron. "I heard about the theater, a little," she admits, and seems a touch guilty when she continues, "I wasn't there. What, um, information did you hope to find her that could possibly be related to those goings-on?" Possibly the only verbal use of that phrase since 1872.

By now Byron is used to Alexander's odd ways, so he can ignore the awkward staring like a champ. He does, however, take note at the posture that Cressida takes and the hushed tone that she uses just as she steps closer to them. "I was hoping that there would be a quiet place in which to speak, but... seeing as your many exhibits are spread out throughout," He gestures randomly with a gloved hand, "I wouldn't mind a casual look around if you believe there's may be something of interest regarding what I'm about to ask."

He then lowers his own voice, not looking at either of them when he inquires, "I won't say that what I"m asking for has any ties to the theater incident, but I am curious if there are documented cases of strange occurrences like that happening. I'm only here asking about the history that your family collected because it truly is one of the best places when it comes to learning more about not just the Addington family's history, but the history of the town itself."

"An interesting question," Alexander murmurs. Then peers at Byron, curiously. "Is that flatter? It sounds like flattery. Does it work?" He turns a look on Cressida, narrowing his eyes and shuffling from one foot to the other as he thinks. He adds, to her, "Your exhibits on dismemberments are very comprehensive. I wonder if you might have society photos from the fifties through the seventies." A look at Byron, like 'did I do that right?', and his head in a hopeful little sideways tilt.

Cressida blinks owlishly at Byron, stooping forward a little, vulture-like. If it was flattery, it was entirely lost on Cressida (surprise surprise). "I'm very sorry, I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific, Mr..." Hadn't Alexander say...? Oh yes! "Mr. Thorne. There is a LOT of history here and I know a great deal more, I've made a study of Gray Harbor and its surrounding area and the families that populated it, and the events that shaped it and-" Cressida pauses for breath and effortlessly pivots, "They ARE comprensive, thank you; so many people don't appreciate the amount of effort that goes into making sure the details of a disaster don't get lost. I do have photographs! And newspaper clippings! There are albums, come with me please, both of you, if-" Half turned to move away, she turns back, "If that would help to answer your questions as well?" That to Byron.

Alexander asks questions that one doesn't ask aloud, not in company, at least. Byron still responds, more so to the question of whether flattery works and his answer is an honest: "Sometimes."

As he says this, his gaze remains focused on Cressida rather than looking anywhere near Alexander. When asked for the specifics, he's not the one doing the actual research, so his gaze finally turns to Clayton once the man puts forth his inquiry and a timeline! "We can start there." He'll easily say. He has no notes of his own and anything learned today would just be added to that of the Investigator's.

"Byron Thorne," Alexander supplies, helpfully, to Cressida when she hesitates over the name. He tries to smile at her - it's just a bunch of teeth messing with the viewer's mind, really. "You are very kind, Miss Addington." Then he leans towards Byron and says, in a voice not appreciably /less/ loud, "Huh. It does work." A sidelong look at Byron, and the slightest uptwitch of his lips as he straightens.

Apparently delighted at the prospect of showcasing her carefully-curated death and gore, Cressida leads the way to the study, where indeed a couple of photo albums have been artfully left open on a low table. Scorning these, she heads straight for a bookshelf, browsing spines with a spindly fingertip tracing the date ranges that serve as titles. "AaaaHAH!" A satisfied note of triumph, and Cressida tugs down a trio of thick books, heavy by the look of them. "These-" THUD on the table- "-are nineteen-fifty-one through nineteen-fifty-eight. There is a particularly fascinating disappearance case in nineteen-fifty-two that occupies several pages. News clippings." She sounds proud of this. "I think it's related to the Bailey cult but nothing was ever proven." She pauses. "...is there anything in particular you're looking for? I can probably narrow it down further. Maybe."

Feeling like he's the straightman in some comedy duo, Byron retains that almost unamused visage, his eyes shifting to peer out at Alexander's silent grin, though makes no response of his own. Though he does confirm Alexander's response with a perhaps, delayed, "Correct. Byron Thorne." But the Thorne family have lived on Gray Harbor for many years themselves... Though he is one of the remaining few left in town.

He doesn't even need to look at Alexander anymore to know that this place that Cressida is showing them now was like a fascinating pet shop for a young child. A pet shop full of dead pets. Still, looking at gruesome images was slightly more interesting than reading about it in some old tome! So Byron takes the time to pause and admire the dark imagery, that neutral expression on his features, before moving on to peer at the stack of books which are now presented to them, LOUDLY, on the table there. "I'll leave it up to Mr. Clayton to inquire. We seem to be looking into the same subject matter as it is." Though this mention of the Bailey cult does get a sharp raise of his brow, "Why do you think that? Out of curiosity."

Alexander trails along behind Cressida, shoulders slouched, hands in pockets. He looks around with bright eyed interest at the treasure trove of books. And while Cressida may scorn those open photo albums, he walks over to peer down at them. He doesn't touch them, just stares. It's absorbing enough that he actually jumps when the new books hit the table, backpedaling a step before realizing that no, we're good. It's just more KNOWLEDGE.

He drifts closer again, offering Byron's question a brief nod of agreement - yes, that, tell us more. But he's reaching out for the nearest of the new books, clearly intending to open and peruse it unless someone smacks his hands.

"Time frame," is Cressida's blunt reply, and she shrugs narrow shoulders. Alexander is given free rein to page through any of the albums on the table; she is apparently content to leave the hand smacking to Sister Mary Metal Ruler of the Iron Underwear. "I'm probably wrong, I don't have much information to go on with that one. Not like the Baxter murder." There is a glint of gleeful interest in her dark eyes at this. "It was tragic," she breathes. "Poor Miss Abigail."

While Byron's not all that overly interested to pour over some old text, he'll reach out a leather gloved hand to open up one of the books on the table, turning the pages carefully as he catches either the titles of chapters or a few key sentences on random pages. Cressida's uttering the name 'Baxter' is enough to slowly draw his gaze, lifting it to look upon her. "Ah, that name tends to come up every so often. Baxter. I can't say that I know more beyond what we were taught about the family in history class, but if you don't mind sharing while we graciously look through everything that you've brought us, I'll be more than eager to listen."

Alexander's eyes scan the books, lingering on any sort of photos. For once, it isn't the gory photos that catch his attention, but he lingers over high society sort of pictures - the Addingtons at parties, or other prominent families at charity events, balls, public ceremonies that have been captured on film. He's still clearly listening to the two of them, his eyes flicking up when Cressida and Byron speak. The mention of the Baxters has his attention enough that he stops paging through the book as he stares at Cressida. "Or related families," he adds, slowly. "Baxters who married out and their progeny."

There is a moment in every anime wherein a character is about to reveal some Deep Dark Important information; the light catches their glasses just so, glints off an improbably-elongated canine tooth as they turn their head just a little. Cressida doesn't wear glasses and as far as anyone can tell her teeth are perfectly normal, but still: it's just like that.

"It was never proven that he was one of THE Baxters," Cressida says in the sort of tone old ladies take when they firmly believe a rumor to be true. "Robert Baxter escaped from Stonehill in June of nineteen-thirty-eight. He was on the run from the police when he found Mayor Addington -- Thomas, the second, of course - and his family on an outing." She pauses. "Stop me if you know the story," she syas, "it's not exactly a secret. But."

Byron is seeking out things which Alexander used to talk more about prior to this day: Gory images, accidents. Probably things that the other may have looked through in the past at some point. What he's more interested in, however, is any text that goes along with each dark image, to get a better of understanding of just what the hell happened to create that mess!

Now, Byron may or may not catch the weird lighting or glint of anything, but he does sort of just stare at Cressida as if she were rubbing her hands together in preparation to tell them of something terrible. And then the story of Robert Baxter if brought up. "While coincidences do happen, that's quite a huge coincidence after what little we... or I know about why the Baxters were drive out of town to begin with. But yes, I know of the story. Something to scare children with or tourists whenever you're in Addington Park."

"It's an interesting story," Alexander says, and even sounds encouraging. There's even the hint of an actual smile given to Cressida. "Likely relevant. Hard to imagine that sort of coincidence in Gray Harbor." He looks back down at the photos. "Records about the Baxters have been erased. Their graves have been erased. The Virgin Mary told us that there was an arson at a mortuary somewhere around the sixties. I have wondered if it is connected." It's statements like that, said tonelessly and without any awareness that it might sound odd, that make people call Alexander unkind names. One of the many reasons, anyway.

"It's not just an urban legend, Mr. Thorne," Cressida says quietly, with relish. "It's historical fact, although... there are holes in the timeline of events." She crosses to the bookshelf again, finds the album marked 1938, and lovingly takes it down. Its appearance suggests that it has been well-thumbed, and it opens straight to the page holding the first news articles about the events. MURDER IN THE PARK!! the headline screams in early-twentieth-century histrionics; MAYOR'S FAMILY SAVAGEL ATTACKED! There are photos, grainy and unclear, of uniformed men and, distantly, two bodies covered with tarps, on a broad park lawn. Cressida continues narrating over this graphic representation, "Baxter was screaming at the Addingtons, according to witnesses - although personally, in light of the rest of the story, I don't think witnesses are all that reliable. He nearly took Mayor Addington's head off with his knife, and he stabbed poor Teddy seventeen times. The boy was only fourteen." She sighs. "They never found Baxter, nor did they find Abigail and Marie - that would be the mayor's wife and daughter. He kidnapped them, apparently, and the city finally declared them deceased." She considers Alexander a moment. "There IS a dearth of information about the Baxters, you're correct; it's very hard to find anything, and I've looked. I'll look into the mortuary fire, if you like."

Since the topic is on the Baxters, Byron takes pause with his idle look through the books, his hand pressed gently against the pages as if he were keeping his place there. His steady gaze follows, watching as Cressida saunters forward to bring a new book to present before them. For now, the one which he had originally been thumbing through is forgotten, as he moves forward to gert a better look at what the Curator is willing to show.

"It's the idea that these hostages were never found, that is the stuff of urban legend." There's this contemplative look on his features now. He'd heard of some of this, but had never put much thought into any of it. "By now, they are most likely dead, but it's curious and... disturbing to think, what if they weren't killed." He does't dwell on this openly for long, since Alexander's words are too hard to ignore.

"Who told that?" His full gaze is on Clayton.

"It's unlikely that they weren't killed - the disorganized but extremely violent outburst that the perpetrator indulged in is not usually associated with the discipline necessary to keep captives alive for the long term. It may have been his intention, but it's likely that the moment he felt significant frustration, he murdered them - and perhaps himself as well." Alexander says all of this in a tone that suggests it's meant to be reassuring. He looks at the book with dark-eyed interest. "Although not finding the bodies does make that somewhat unusual. They may have gotten lost." He puts emphasis on the word 'lost' that suggests he doesn't just mean geographically. When Byron questions him, his head comes up, and he meets the other man's eyes, blandly. "The Virgin Mary. She doesn't like talking in church. If you go to such places."

Cressida looks taken aback. "Oh," she says. "I'm sure they were killed, Mr. Thorne." Her smile is uncertain; contradicting someone is a social maneuver with which she is quite unsure of her footing, but contradict him she does, nevertheless. She waves a hand at Alexander; yes, that, see? Yes. "That's what I told the children today, you see. The ghosts. That's them. Abigail and Marie." She leaves, for the moment, the question of Mary alone.

Byron isn't surprised when told that both of his current research partners believe that Abigail and Marie Addington to be murdered, even if they present their opinions in highly different ways, each carrying their own tone of explanation. Though this mention 'Lost' receives his attention and here he murmurs, "Right. Their bodies could very well have been lost."

No, Byron doesn't shy away from Alexander's gaze when their eyes meet, this topic of the Virgin Mary still weighing down on them like a heavy white elephant in the room. It's as if he's trying to determine whether Clayton is joking or not, but knowing Alexander, he doesn't not the sort. Usually. "And the Virgin Mary... informed you of this because?" There's the briefest of a pause there, almost as if to allow Alexander to respond, but he goes on, "Because someone prayed to her and asked about it?" Though another though comes to mind, "Or because the town is in dire trouble and she figured we needed all the help we could get?" He could be questioning all of this as nonsense, and he probably does think that, but for now, he'll play along.

Alexander gives Cressida an appreciative look at the support. There's a curious question, "Have you ever seen a ghost, Miss Addington?" before Byron's frank response draws his attention back to the other man. He sits back a little in the chair, and considers this. "I'm not sure. It had the air of a secret - understandable, as it seemed to be arson. Perhaps someone prayed to the statue for their guilt in witnessing such a thing for so long that it stained it with the memory. But, it was a vision in a dream, so darker motives cannot be ruled out. I do not often find my dreams helpful." He rubs at his face. Then, frowning at both of them, asks, "Would you like to see?"

"Seen them?" Cressida looks evasive. "I haven't seen Abigal and Marie. But I've seen what they do here. Miss Abigail is a little terror sometimes when she takes a dislike to a visitor." She probably shouldn't look so smugly pleased about that, but there it is. She'd been hovering so far, but now she takes a seat, pulling an ottoman over closer to the low table where the albums have been spread out for perusal. She glances at Byron; back to Alexander. "See... Yes. Yes, I think I would."

When it is revealed to Byron that this vision of the Virgin Mary was part of a dream, the professionally dressed man cannot hold back his heavy sigh and just nods his head once. "A dream." He'll repeat. The fact that it's a dream does mean that it's probably not the real Virgin Mary, but that doesn't discount the information he was given. Now that everyone is moving to take a seat, Byron does the same, drawing out a nearby chair to settle down into.

As a child, he'd heard tales that Addington House was haunted, so he has an inkling knowledge of that, even if he didn't believe it at the-- when he came of age to stop believing in such stories. "Has anyone tried to ask her about what happened?" He decides to toss out there to the group, but it's to Alexander that he turns to, expecting the man to take the floor now, "But of course."

"How do you know that it is her?" Alexander asks Cressida curiously. A glance at Byron, a thoughtful frown. "I have never attempted to interrogate a ghost. It would be interesting. I've never seen one." Some imaginary thing that Alexander HASN'T seen? Amazing. Speaking of - he settles back in his chair, expression going blank. One hand lifts to his temple, he rubs it absently, and there's the touch of his mind on theirs - it's polite, but strong. A confident rap of mental knuckles on their walls. What enters when allowed is very much like a covert recording taken in a theatre: it lacks the initial /strength/ the vision probably had, but is still easy to make out, announcing itself with the faint scent of smoke and the crackle of flames deep in their ears. It is a fire in the darkness. A building burning, the flames just now starting to rise out of the darkness. The sign out front says '[Something unreadable] Family Mortuary.' It has just gone up in flames, too, and - as though the fire is being watched from some distance away - a figure is silhouetted against the orange fire. Shadowy but there are some visible details: a woman in her 30s or 40s, with dark brown hair and flashing brown eyes that reflect the firelight, even at a distance. She's petite, well-dressed, and standing next to what would have been a very expensive car, back in the day. She just stands there, watching the building burn, smiling a small smile, clearly unaware that anyone can see her.

Even secondhand, it's a powerful vision, and Cressida stares wide-eyed at Alexander in the wake of it, with much the same general feeling of rising abruptly from very deep sleep with the tendrils of some vivid dream dragging at the edges of consciousness. "I've seen that face," she whispers, and closes her eyes tightly, presses the heels of her hands to them, as though the pressure will jog her memory. "I swear I've seen that face. I don't know. I don't - I'll have to dig." Oh no! Not research! However will Cressida The Curator Cope? Could be a hit children's book, there.

While Byron's had his powers for most of his life, even if he hadn't realized it until he was in his early teens, this was the first time that he'd experienced something of this nature. Even with an empath for a best friend, they've never ventured into territory like this. So when he'd agreed to allow for this, he had no idea what he was getting himself into.

In fact, this felt like a dream in itself, but without him actually being there. He was merely a witness to everything happening, an outside observer. There's this tensing of his muscles when the vision and images first start up, feeling uneasy about this whole thing. Unlike Cressida, he doesn't recognize any of this. Not the location, nor the figure in the distance, but when she speaks out, he tries to focus his sights on this woman, "I can't say that I've ever seen that face at all. Is that this who you were looking for in those photographs?"

Wide-eyes and unease. Alexander's gaze drops to the tabletop, and his hand does, too, joining its mate in his lap, where they twist nervously against one another. "Sorry. If it scared you," he mumbles to them both. There's a jerk of a nod, apparently meant to encompass both Cressida's intention to do research, and Byron's question. He doesn't look at either of them, though, instead reaching out for the book so that he can thumb through it. He's not avoiding them, really. He's just busy. Look at how busy he is.

And oh look conveniently the focus is no longer on her, and Cressida reaches for one of the albums, entirely at random. "I will start looking," she says. "There will be something, there has to be something. I have seen that face. I'm sure of it. Mr. Thorne, Mr. Clayton, are you all right? Can I get some tea? Coffee? Aperetif?" Again, a phrase that hasn't seen use since early days, good grief.

Byron himself just sits there in blank silence once the link is broken, the visuals gone, though he remembers what he had just seen. It felt intrusive, in a sense, though he'd opened his mind wide open to receive it. "Don't... Don't do that ever again." That's his initial reaction to this, no matter how useful a tool it is. Something that he, himself, had not come to realize that perhaps he could do the same.

When asked if he were alright and then when this offer of refreshments rings out, Byron does immediately say, after blinking once, then twice, "A cup of coffee. Please." But he follows up with, "If it's not too much trouble." Hey, she offered!

Alexander flinches, as if Byron's words were a physical blow, but it's his only reaction. Other than a curt nod. He rises jerkily to his feet. "No." A pause as he works through the social script with difficulty. "Thank you, Miss Addington. The offer is kind. I'm sorry. I should go." He turns, every motion abrupt, and retreats without another word, certainly nothing like 'goodbye, thanks for the fun murder talk'.