The taxi carrying Harrison and his friend John Wessells dropped them both off directly outside the house, before setting off on the seven mile journey back to Arkham.
For courtesy’s sake Harrison rang the door bell before letting himself in with the key his uncle had provided him with, and crossed the threshold closely followed by his companion.
As they stepped into the hallway an elderly man in a wheelchair appeared from a doorway.
“Ah Harrison my boy! Good to see you, and I assume this is your friend Mr Wessells. How do you do? Please excuse my condition, I should with any luck be out of this damned contraption in a few weeks.”
With that, Harrison’s uncle beckons them to follow him into the drawing room from which he’d emerged.
The room, like the rest of the house, is elegant and comfortable. A large bookcase lines one wall, and in the bay window overlooking the road outside a dining table has been set for dinner. As the investigators settle themselves into comfy armchairs by the unlit fireplace, Holst senior pours them all a stiff scotch each.
“A perk of knowing the Chief of Police my boy” he says, tapping his nose with his finger. “A small literary notoriety can have its advantages”.
“So, Mr Wessells, my nephew tells me you also write?”
