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Source of Stability: Beatrice Westmore (doting mother)
"Mother, have you seen the rifle I got last Christmas, the one uncle Edward gave me?" I call out as I walk into the hall.
"I can't hear you dear – will you shut the door please?" Her voice comes from somewhere in the east wing. I close the door like a good boy – not that it's noisy outside, a few birds are singing out in the grounds that's all, but there's a wind and I know how she hates that.
I find her in her favorite chair in the salon, facing the garden, idly leafing through a photo album. She's in her black evening dress, with a scarf casually draped around her neck. Only the specks of gray in her chestnut hair, pushed back against her head, hint at her age.
Her green eyes sparkle as she looks up at me. "I asked Randolph to clean some of the things in your room, he might have taken it along. Can't you borrow James's?"
"I'm going on a journey Mother. Janet asked me to find one of her father's old acquaintances. But it's not just me – she asked some of Walter's old associates too. So I think it's best to be prepared, especially since we're going down South."
She smiles. "Well, ask Randolph then. Will you be back for the Hawthornes' party on wednesday?"
"I don't know. It's not just a simple visit I think. There's something fascinatingly mysterious about this whole affair."
"Well, dear" she gets up and kisses me lightly on the cheek "I'll tell them you wont be there then. Oh, and be sure to bring a warm jacket, the autumn storms down there can be rather vicious."
I sigh. "Yes, of course." I head out to find the servant and give him the instructions for my packing. In the doorway, I turn to find her looking at me in this peculiar way I've never seen before – is it worry or pride in that gaze? "Oh, and Mother – will you tell James I'll have to skip fencing tomorrow?"
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Savannah, Georgia
October 28, 1937
Dearest Mother
This journey is indeed turning into a bit of an adventure. We flew in Janet's plane down to Georgia - we, what a bunch we are. There's Doctor Udko, one of these psychoanalysts, apparently quite well respected in his field. He seems rather severe, dour even - might be european.
Then there's Mr. Astor, an author. I think you might like his works - not litterary masterpieces by any measure, but they seem to all contain a delightful touch of the weird and fantastic. I know how you and aunt Margaret love to discuss that stuff - who knows, one of you might even end up liking it so much you'll buy the publisher.
Well, back to our little company, there's also Mr. Haas who apparently runs a bookshop somewhere, and finally, the quaintest thing, Mr. Miritus who is - you'll never guess - a negro vicar. Apparently, these people where all friends of Walter's, or aquaintances at least.
And yet, even with a group this size, we only have one hired man along - Mr. Kearns, the pilot - a very capable man, I must add, he takes care of all the nitty-gritty details of travelling.
Anyway, we got down to Savannah - although they had an airfield, it was clear that we had reached the furthest edges of civilization - we had to walk for more than an hour to get to the town. And what a backwater it was, we were lucky we managed to rent a couple of cars.
So, we set out to find Mr. Henslow, the acquaintance of Walter's I mentioned to you, but it turned out he had been commited to an asylum. We managed to talk to him though, and to a Mr. Job, another lunatic. It seemed they had both been caught up in some drug-related controversy some years ago, some nasty situation that Walter had helped them out of. Not without damage to their minds though. But they did lead us on to some clues at Mr. Henslow's manor. We found what we had been looking for in the cemetery of all places, after what felt like one of those treasure hunts Father sometimes made for James and me when we were younger.
That was all fine, but on the way back to town we were accosted by a bunch of Oriental-looking hoodlums. We showed them what we americans are made of though, and with the help of the local police (I made a minor donation to their local support fund in appreciation of their good work) we discovered that the gooks might have been somehow involved in the drug trade as well.
The information we found seems to lead us to Los Angeles, so we'll be flying out there tomorrow. I don't know how long we'll be, but I trust you'll pass along my regards to James and to Father, and to anyone else who might come calling. I'll be sure to keep in touch.
Your loving son
Joseph
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