Post by Biblically Accurate Angel on Mar 20, 2023 1:55:36 GMT -5
Literary Mosaic
A Rewrite.
A MESSAGE FROM EYES:
It's been almost exactly seven years since I started the first Literary Mosaic thread. Since then, our homebrew detective series has become easily one of the best canons we've come up with. I think we can all agree that the world building we did with LM has been incredible, and all of these characters are as real to me as any that Agatha Christie and et cetera ever created.
At the same time, we can all agree that the series has had numerous pitfalls and narrative issues throughout its existence. A lot of these stemmed from my overzealous actions in game unable to be backed up with the solid writing it required. These issues began in the very first volume, as I jumped the gun far too often in a story with arguably the worst twist ending we've ever done that only began a domino effect of more stupidity down the line.
So here is my attempt to fix that. This is a rewrite of the first LM, retroactively titled Murder of a Doctor, but with all the stupid shit removed. I'm not quite sure what I intend for the next chapters, and I'm okay with someone else continuing the story should they be so interested, but I really wanted to revisit the first meeting between Hartley and Gunnarson and expand on it, setting up the rest of the series with a much stronger foundation than it ended up getting.
So without further ado, hope you all enjoy this first stab at a recreation of the Literary Mosaic universe.
It's been almost exactly seven years since I started the first Literary Mosaic thread. Since then, our homebrew detective series has become easily one of the best canons we've come up with. I think we can all agree that the world building we did with LM has been incredible, and all of these characters are as real to me as any that Agatha Christie and et cetera ever created.
At the same time, we can all agree that the series has had numerous pitfalls and narrative issues throughout its existence. A lot of these stemmed from my overzealous actions in game unable to be backed up with the solid writing it required. These issues began in the very first volume, as I jumped the gun far too often in a story with arguably the worst twist ending we've ever done that only began a domino effect of more stupidity down the line.
So here is my attempt to fix that. This is a rewrite of the first LM, retroactively titled Murder of a Doctor, but with all the stupid shit removed. I'm not quite sure what I intend for the next chapters, and I'm okay with someone else continuing the story should they be so interested, but I really wanted to revisit the first meeting between Hartley and Gunnarson and expand on it, setting up the rest of the series with a much stronger foundation than it ended up getting.
So without further ado, hope you all enjoy this first stab at a recreation of the Literary Mosaic universe.
— 1,000 EYES (FEEL THEM STARING AT YOUR SOUL)
Chapter I.
I don’t remember much of my life before the war. Glimpses of a fairly happy childhood within the rolling hills of Scotland become clouded with a dull pain at a certain fork - my older brother Roger confirms that this was the result of our parents’ tempestuous divorce. And the tempest doesn’t seem to stop there, as they would both be dead by the time I reached the age of 18.
I know I went to an English university, but what I studied there is beyond me. I ended up dropping out two years in and began taking up odd jobs, drifting from town to town wherever the work called for me to go. What those occupations I had were is now lost to a dark sea my brain can no longer access. Things begin to become clearer in 1940, when, on the eve of my thirty-fifth birthday, I joined the British Army.
The things I’ve seen across that year in hell are what have blocked out the rest of my memory. The guns stole from me a part of my mind. Some things I can never repeat, or it should feel as though I was committing murder a second time around. But divine hands saved me from the slaughter in a damned gruesome way. It was in North Africa that the shot rang out that would cut my military career short. Amidst all the smoke I felt a ripping pain tear through my leg. In agony and terror I dropped my firearm and fell to the ground. A friend of mine named John grabbed me from the firings and dragged me to safety. I don’t remember him saving me, for I was completely dead to the world, returning to some state before birth, thinking I should never wake up again. But in the morning when my eyes opened, I was being treated by the medic and given the news that the battle had been won. Still, my good fortune came at a heavy cost, reminding me once again that fate is the cruelest master of them all - for my savior himself, that same night, had been reduced to corpse in a sea of red.
So I began the journey of healing, and the state of my leg was such that it permanently put my fighting days behind me. There was nothing anchoring me to the African continent, and so I departed on a ship called the Friend back to England. Even in fair weather the movement of a boat can throw me off-guard; on this trip, the bumpy waves coupled with my lower limb made me feel absolutely wretched. I was a wreck by the time I left the ship. I could walk again, although a dreadful limp still recalled my moment of despair. With little money on me, I decided to go to London, where the vastness of the city would be sure to offer up some cheap lodgings and new job opportunities.
Trudging through the streets with my old army bag slung over my shoulder, I passed by several establishments that I could tell, just by looking at them, were far outside my price range. It was towards the end of an alley that I noticed a dimly lit inn standing quietly in the darkness. The sign above it said RED DEVIL’S. It may have been on the dingier side, perhaps, but dingier usually means cheaper, and so I entered to see where my fortunes would lie.
I was surprised to find the inside of the inn packed full with people. The smell of a good English supper wafted through the air and combined with the smell of good English beer to intensify a feeling of hunger that I had not realized I was having. But for now the pressing issue of lodgings was the more important one, so I stepped up to the bar to make my inquiries.
“Pardon me, sir,” I asked, “is the innkeeper in tonight?”
“Innkeeper is me,” replied the man behind the bar, an older, cheerful but reserved looking fellow with flaming red hair, who had just finished wiping off a glass and replacing it on his shelf. “How can I help you?”
“I don’t suppose you have any available rooms here tonight?” I asked.
“‘Fraid not,” was his response. “We’re full booked out. What kind of rooms did you have in mind?”
“Something cheap,” I replied. “I have no real income right now and I want to stretch out my army pay as much as I can.”
“Ah, back from the war, are you? Injured you, did they?”
I nodded, pointing to my leg.
He smiled and in turn pointed to his side. “I know what that’s like. They got me good in the Great War. I’ve got no use for the fighting nowadays, but I’m always happy to help out a fellow soldier. Tell you what, I do know of a chap who’s offering up part of his flat for a split rent.”
“Indeed? Is it on the more frugal side of things?”
“For what you’re needin’, yes indeed. Now he’s a foreign fellow, a Swede, but he’s a dear soul who I think would get along with anybody. If you’re interested I’ll just jot you down the address.”
Sweden’s neutrality in the war had left some of my countrymen bitter towards the folk, but, ever the egalitarian, I was undeterred. I could judge this man on his own points and make up my own mind as to his character. Moreover, if the price point was as good as the innkeeper claimed, then this was an opportunity I could not dare pass up.
“Sounds fine by me,” I said.
“Great,” was the reply, as he scribbled down the location on his notepad and handed it to me. “Just tell him that Beacon sent you his way.”
I thus embarked back out into the darkening city and headed in the direction he had sent me in, curious to meet my potential roommate. I reached the address given to me and saw a two-story building with a few different apartments within it. I went inside and, climbing to the second floor, found my way to the door with the right number on it. Then I rang the bell.
I heard some slight clattering from within the apartment, then a man’s voice saying, “Jag kommer!”, followed by an “Ett ögonblick!” A moment later, the door opened, and my eyes perceived before me a jovial-looking gentleman a few years my senior who had short blonde hair combed back over his head, a full handlebar moustache meticulously styled, and a goatee that had been shaped into an anchor. He was about 5’ 9” and had a heftier weight that seemed to suit his image. Nicely dressed in white was this gentleman, and I couldn’t help but admire his style.
“Ja?” he spake, looking at me with a curteous and pleasant smile.
“I don’t mean to intrude on you, sir,” I said plainly, “but I’m looking for a place to stay and was pointed in your direction by a man named Beacon.”
“Ah, Beacon! Dwight Beacon, nej? Lovely man. Certainly a fine beer brewer, although his cabbage stew could do with a few extra finesser…” He stopped himself from going on this tangent and shook his head at himself. “Please, come in.” And he fully opened the door and waved me inside.
The first section of this flat was composed of the living room, complete with a sofa, a coffee table, a desk and some chairs, a magnificent and packed-out bookshelf, and a television set. I could see a kitchen and two bedrooms peeking out behind doors on the left. Things were arranged both with great care and lack of care, depending on what they were. Everything had been lined up well originally, but there were pieces of the puzzle that had been displaced at his fancy. Most of the large bookshelf was stunningly assembled, but I noticed that he had a handful of books placed down in random spots. The coffee table had newspapers strewn across it. I noticed that the headlines seemed to point to a murder case that seemed to have just been solved, which may have raised some red flags for a normal person but to me were almost humorous. Rommel didn’t kill me, so why should I be afraid of a serial killer roommate?
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” he told me. “I will put on some tea for us and we can talk about business.”
I took my seat on the couch and set my army bag down beside me. But my eyes wandered back over to the bookshelf and I was quickly back on my feet looking at the titles that adorned it. The man had a bit of everything on those shelves, from philosophical works to political tomes; some classics, some modern works; an entire section of Swedish publications. The centerpiece was surely the well-read edition of the Swedish Bible he owned. I surmised that it must have been passed down through his family. But what I found most intriguing was the large section of mystery novels that I saw. He had everything from Conan Doyle to Christie to Dorothy Sayers. I picked up a copy of The Hound of the Baskervilles, a novel that I held dear to my heart since I was young. I was flipping through it just as he returned to the room with his tea.
“Chamomile is fine, I hope?” he asked, setting it down on the table. He noticed my interest in his books. “Please, help yourself to my collection. I have read them all once myself and they can always use some more love.”
I set the book back onto the shelf and then resumed my seat on the couch. The Swede passed me a mug and we took a sip together.
“Ah! but I have forgotten completely to introduce myself,” he said suddenly after the tea had subsided in our systems.
“Well my name is James Hartley,” I said, and proffered my hand.
“And I am Adolf Gunnarson,” he said. I think he noticed the way my eyes moved when I heard that name, because he raised his hands up in frustration and said, “Ja, I know, just like the German. If I could meet that Mr. Hitler, I would give him a piece of my mind. Back in my native Sverige, Adolf is a name of kings, and means ‘noble wolf’. But here, in this war, Adolf is the name of evil, and it sickens me to be thought of next to such a man. So,” he said, in practicality, “we shall do it as the English do: you shall call me by my surname Gunnarson, and we will put this business of krig out of our minds. I can see by your military uniform that you have returned from out of the war yourself, nej?”
I nodded as he continued, “And your limp suggests that the reason for your return is one of injury.”
“You’re right there,” I said. “I’ve just come back from North Africa and have yet to find a job. My army pay won’t cover me forever and I came to London for enhanced opportunities.”
“I shall keep an eye out for you then,” was Gunnarson’s reply.
My eyes scanned around the room. “I do like this place,” I told him. “I love the way you’ve arranged it, and your bookshelf is unparalleled.”
“A collection that has taken me years to build!” he said, triumphantly. “That bookshelf contains volumes from my childhood to my school years and even to things I pick up at random just last week. I think that someday I should like to donate my collection to a library, or perhaps even open up a library of my own. I would love to help people access the knowledge that has so richly blessed my own life! But that will have to wait until after this blodiga war is over.”
“I see you have a special affinity for mystery stories,” I remarked.
Gunnarson’s smile widened. “Ja indeed, my favorite genre. I have loved mysteries since I was a child and first read The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. I think that I can truly say that I would not be the same person without those stories.”
“You and I are a lot alike,” I told him. “For me it was The Hound of the Baskervilles. Ever since I read that book and felt the creeping atmosphere of the moors, I have been a dedicated reader of mystery novels myself. I’ve often thought of trying my hand at constructing a mystery myself, to be quite honest with you.”
“Ah!” said Gunnarson. “That far I have not gone. I find life to be full enough of the little mysterier to worry about constructing my own. But if you do put one together I should love to give it a read.”
“Of course,” I smiled. Then I grew serious for a moment. “I really appreciate this, by the way. It’s nice to actually be sitting in a warm room again. I know I don’t have much income right now, but I will do what I can to make sure my half of the rent is always paid on time.”
“I will be upfront with you, Mr. Hartley,” he said, looking me right in the eyes. “I do not like being taken advantage of, and I can usually tell fairly quickly when that is happening. There were primarily two reasons for my opening up a second room in this flat. The first is to try to offer up some form of hospitality to those in need right now. The war has broken down almost everyone and it is time I gave a little something back to do my own part. The second is that…” Here he sighed and stared out the window. “It gets lonely, living alone. I feed off of people, and when I am left to my own thoughts I often devolve into the worst forms of myself. So I figure a roommate might help out and make the days just a little brighter and more interesting. And you seem like a very interesting person already! We’ve barely spoken and already I like you. You have that… very British attitude about you. It is as though I am reading one of those classic English stories we have just been discussing. You seem very proper and earnest in that famous fashion of your people and— well, further proof as to that, you have already finished your tea!”
I looked down at my mug. He was right.
Gunnarson chuckled and said, “Drink may nourish but it does not fill; are you hungry?”
The feeling from before now alighted on me with great energy. “Well, now that you mention it…”
He raised his hand. “Please, finish getting yourself set up. Your room is the one on the left. I was using it as an extra closet before I decided to acquire a roommate,” he chuckled. “Whenever you find yourself satisfied, you may join me in the kitchen where I shall be cooking up a supper for the two of us. I hope you are not a particularly picky eater?”
“Not at all,” I said. “One of the few things I’ve been blessed with is a fairly wide palate.”
“Excellent,” replied the chef of the night. “In that case, I shall set to work. Call me if you need anything.” And he marched with vigor into the kitchen.
I picked up my army bag and opened the door to my new room. It was neat and small and quaint. There was an old rocking chair next to a colorful pastel rug. A nifty little wardrobe stood in the corner, and beside it was another bookshelf, this one mostly empty, aside from a handful of titles that seemed to invite the person who was staying here to fill out the rest of it themself. It was certainly not difficult to make myself at ease within this space. I sat down upon the bed, and the spring it gave was one that put my inner child at peace. I set my army bag down and pulled out what few contents it held: some hygiene items, my ‘civvies’, and a letter that I had held dear to my heart throughout those long nights on the battlefield. I glanced back over its contents. The letter was directed ‘to my dearest James’ and signed ‘the future Abigail Hartley’. Everything in between held what I had believed would be my entire world when I got through the cold and bloody war. But as I was recovering from my wound in Africa, I received a message that had turned my world around. My fiance’s house had been hit during the Blitz. I didn’t need to read much further to put the pieces together.
I sniffed back the forming tears and wiped my arm across my eyes. I reached forward and set the letter in the bookshelf, so that I would never forget Abigail the way I had already forgotten much of my previous life thanks to the war.
After putting the rest of my things away, I went to join Gunnarson in the kitchen. The man was completely in his zone now, with his eyes closed as his body moved to the rhythm of his cooking, supplemented by his cheerful, rapturous singing. Clearly he was making something he’d done many times before. He basked in the scent of it all, constantly broke the whistling spell to comment how “Himmelskt!” it was. I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by the sight of a man so focused, so fully envigorated by his craft.
After a particularly zesty twirl, his eyes sprang open and noticed me.
“Find everything okay?” he asked loudly over the sound of sizzling.
I nodded.
“Excellent,” was the response, as he turned his head back to the dinner.
“Need any help?” I offered, but he shook his head.
“Don’t worry, it’s all under kontroll. You could set the table if you like, though.”
I went to work on this errand, and soon he had me sitting down as he served the meal.
“Köttbullar!” he said proudly. “Or as the English say, ‘Swedish meatballs’. A very special recipe from,” and here his eyes twinkled, “my mother.”
The way his eyes shimmered, I could tell that something about his mother was a touchy subject for him, but I did not want to pry. We sat in silence for half a moment before he grabbed his utensils and urged me to dig in.
A mouthful of flavor erupted on my tastebuds. The meatballs were covered in a luxurious gravy and had been seasoned with allspice and white pepper. I had never before eaten such a dish, and even now I don’t think I’ll ever have tbe same experience as I had that night. A mixture of my hunger, my reliance on army slop for the past year, and Gunnarson’s simply stunning cooking made that dinner a monumental moment in the history of my relationship with food. I said not a word as I wolfed down main plate. Gunnarson, for his part, was also digging in with gusto, and seemed extra ecstatic that I was enjoying it as much as he was.
Eventually the meatballs had been eaten and not a one was left over. Gunnarson poured out a glass of wine for the two of us, a bottle of port he’d received from a friend. We drank in a post-supper glow of silence, before the Swede broke the still.
“So pardon my asking, but what are your plans now that you are back in England?”
“Well,” I said slowly, “obviously I shall need to look for employment. Maybe I’ll be lucky and find something I like, or perhaps I shall actually write out that book I mentioned,” and here I chuckled.
“Have you no family?” Gunnarson asked.
“Well… there is my brother,” I replied, “but he’s currently out at sea in the navy and his family lives in Scotland where we grew up. I’ve been in England since my university days.”
“What ship is your brother on?” inquired the Swede.
“King George V,” I stated with pride. “Just last week she helped bring the dreadful Bismarck to its knees.”
“Yes, the sinking of Bismarck has certainly boosted morale around here,” Gunnarson noted, “although Hood was a heavy price to pay.”
“I hear that the Americans are remaining obstinate that they will not be joining us. And is it true that most food has been rationed now?”
Gunnarson nodded. “You name it and it is probably rationed. About the only thing they will let you take away in bulk is godforsaken stuff like whale meat.”
“Whale meat?” It had never occurred to me before that we still had a market for whale meat.
“It does not beat a good old-fashioned steak,” spake the culinary master, “but I have tried my hand at it before and the results did surprise me.”
“I shall have to go get my ration cards tomorrow then,” remarked I, as we both took another sip of the port and settled back down into a silence.
This time it was I that broke the silence.
“So why did you move here from Sweden?” I asked.
Gunnarson sighed. “I moved to England soon after I became an adult. My parents both died in an automobile accident when I was ten, and I have not had the best of experiences as an orphan in my country. I decided to come here because of those mystery novels. It was very much a dream come true of mine to step foot in the land of Sherlock Holmes. And for all the highs and lows, I have not regretted my decision to emigrate.”
This was as much as I learned about my new roommate that first day. After we finished our wine, I insisted on helping with the dishes, to which he accepted, calling them “bothersome things that get in the way of progress”. I then excused myself and retired for the evening. I had been sleeping poorly since I joined the army, and this was my first night being in a proper bed again. I lay on my side and stared up at the letter on my bookshelf. Then with a slow movement, my eyelids closed over my eyes and I drifted off into the best sleep I’d had in years.