An Unexpected Invite Gathers League Members for the First Time

As a named benefactor of the last will and testament of Sir Reginald Charles Cranbury you are asked to attend the reading of said document on Saturday the 14th of September 1922 at Pendennis Lodge, Yorkshire. Accommodation will be provided from the evening of Friday 13th until Sunday 15th, and your attendance and co-operation over this period would be appreciated, and is stipulated as a condition of your inheritance. We are aware that your connections to the deceased are perhaps tenuous at best, but we assure you that this document has reached the correct recipient. R.S.V.P. Yours Sincerely, Mr. Oliver Black - acting on behalf of the estate of Sir Reginald Charles Cranbury -

"All very rum I'm sure", thought many of the League as they tucked into their eggs and B. Still, in for a penny.... An eye to Debretts said nothing of interest - "Cranbury, Reginald Charles, Sir. s. Lonora Juliana, Giles Nigel Theodore. Edward College, Oxford, Philosophy, Classics and Theology..." blah, blah. It might have been professional curiosity, the sniff of lucre or a free meal, but some 13 people showed their eager faces that Friday evening, ready to inherit a mystery.

The unlikely ensemble drank cocktails till the small hours and measured Sir Charles furniture to see if it'd fit in their drawing rooms; They second guessed Mr. Black and sniffed around his document cases as soon as the poor chap nipped to the conveniences. It seems many had already met, or knew each other by reputation, but only Mr. Voster (the South African fellow) had even had a whiff of this Cranbury fellow. Hearty pea and mint and cheesy crumpet with a good dose of mixed spirits soon got them talking, while Morley the chauffeur stomped backwards and forwards to the station looking for stragglers. They quizzed the staff about their potential benefactor and drank the deceaced chaps Noilly Prat. Suspicions were raised momentarily when Mr. Vorster caught sight of a prowler, but soon forgotten as the arms of Morphus and a nightcap approached.

Next morning, as with the lark, a hearty breakfast and they prepared for the reading. All hoped for something different. Was Cranbury a fan of Miss. Blumes? A friend of Sarah's father? An aquaintance of Lord Carnarfon? A collector of fine Irish whisky or some sort of racing enthusiast? No such such luck, just a number of envelopes and a bunch of bizarre instructions that possitivly made ones head spin. One envelope each, for those named, with instructions to open them forthwith. As Mr. Black wearily handed them to their designated recipients, Captain Leighton was fidgety throughout. All manner of trinkets were enclosed. Some personal and some upsetting for the likes of Miss. Mobury, Captain Leighton and Mr. Flynn. Some, superficially unrelated, intrigued Miss. Hunter-Fitzsimmons and Eddie Braithwaite. Only Evelyn seemed to have turned a profit, with a nice piece of 18th dynasty Egyptian jewelry. One became communal property due to the death of some fellow called Thomas at the end of the war, a ripped up note from a guilty consciensed vicar of all things. Cats amongst pigeons and all that. Some, however, seemed to contain clues to the crux of the matter...

A peculiar bird this Cranbury. Next, he wanted them to prove themselves in some paper chase affair! Sent them to out into his public gardens to follow up the content of these envelopes until they reached a satisfactory conclusion. If they suceeded then there was £30,000 for them to persue his rather mysterious and as yet undisclosed research. All agreed that £30,000 wasn't to be sniffed at.

Within the envelopes they soon noticed a commonality. A certain symbol, a sun, appeared on a bottle belonging to Mr. Riley, a flyer from Miss. Blumes theatre, on a photograph of Sarahs father (now owned by Mr. Braithwaite) and on Jacks tattoo. Increasingly bemused, they prepared for the four hour task ahead of them.

In Cranbury's gardens, things got curiouser and curiouser. All manner of sculptural, hoticultural and architectural nonsense lay before them as they roamed from odity to odity, putting Cranbury's puzzle together. One clue lead to another. There were boxes requiring keys, keys requiring boxes and some tricky water features to be negotiated. Finding clues in the hands of stone titans and marble centurions, in the maw of topiary dogs, with cats with fiddles, in wooden legs, in closets with skeletons, behind metal geese and on tomb stones, many began to doubt Sir. Reginald's sanity. Eventually, all clues led to an underground chamber containing an unusually subdued fountain and a statue of Pluto, who had obviously been following instructions by C. Atlas. When all the doors to the room were closed simultaniously, a metal object hidden in the ceiling fell into the pool below. Rescued by Mr. Voster, a tussle broke out amongst the gentlemen but was soon quelled by level headed Hunter-Fitzsimmons. Just as peace was restored some photographer chappie rushed up and said Proffessor Jacobs had gone and got himself murdered. Murdered with a dragon handled Oriental knife! Chester recognised the ghastly object as having also killed that T. Petrie chappie in his bar in Cairo at the end of the war. Chesters bar that is, not Petries... At the insistance of the police the whole bunfight, including the photographer, returned to the house for tiffin. Putting their black armbands back on they respectfully discussed their findings.

Mr. Flynn and Lord Arthur also had a piece of this metalic object, which fastned together permanently to make another piece of this ongoing puzzle. They explained their stories of destiny and what-not while the League bickered amongst themselves until the Inspector and his assistant arrived. Confiscating the photographers camera, he then finger printed and cross questioned the gentlemen about the Professor while the ladies took tea.

When the news broke that the Professor wasn't the Professor all were relieved but confused. It transpires the Professor was actually some hotshot reporter called George Moody who was sniffing for a mystery, and found one. The real Professor was recovering in a police station in Glasgow and was most put out about being tricked and drugged by some hack from the press. Eventually, the Inspector left for the station with Mr. Black and the photographer chappies in tow. Edmund finally confessed he had had a funny turn during the will reading and that a shadowy figure was watching them. To his suprise many found him less of a crack pot than he had feared, and one or two others privately shared their supernatural experiences with bemused bankers.

Cocktails insued. Chunky Baxter arrived and recieved his envelope. Many still considered Sir C. a complete loon. Black returned with the murder weapon, the Leagues integrity, a ticket for the policemans ball and some £50 lighter. Mr. B deemed their garden adventures satisfactory within the conditions of the will. Then they bickered and shouted about a constitution, a name for themselves and how everyone else was bickering untill Chester finally sent them all to sleep with one last tipple from the shaker. Good man.

Up with the cockrel to a fine English breakfast. The real Professor Edward Jacobs had arrived on the early train and had even more in common with certain people, talking with Sarah, Eddie and Chunky at length. Also, a photograph had been dropped off by the police, taken from the photographer chappies camera, adding a haunting weight to Captain Leighton's story. So, they decided what to do next, agreed on their goals, voted on something-or-other and packed their luggage. Several people were shocked to find small articles of jewelry missing and some suspect one of their number to be a Johnny Lightfingers.

Who can say what was going through their minds as they borded their
trains. After all, this was just the beginning of a much larger mystery...

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