The Gentleman From Hell |S1| Ep. 2

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Dr.

Raglan's office.

Hello, Janine.

It's Benjamin.

Hello there.

I've been meaning to return your calls, but I've been so busy moving.

Is it possible for me to speak with Teresa?

Just hold on a second.

I'll transfer you over.

Thanks, Janine.

Sure thing.

Hello, this is Dr.

Raglan.

Hi, Teresa.

It's Benjamin.

Why, hello.

How's everything going?

Just fine.

I wanted to get back to you sooner, but...

Oh, I completely understand.

This is a huge change, and I can only guess how busy you've been.

Right, you are.

But, um...

Well, well, to cut right to the chase, I wanted to ask if you'd be willing to continue our little talks.

By phone, I suspect, given the, um, distance.

Whichever you might be more meniable to.

I know I'm officially out of the state's hands now, beyond your jurisdiction.

But I'd much rather speak about all this with someone I'm familiar with.

Someone I feel comfortable confiding in.

And of course, there'll be no more complications concerning payment.

Absolutely, Benjamin.

As you know, I have my private practice, so I'd be happy to keep seeing you.

Thank you, Teresa.

I truly appreciate it.

I'll ring you just as soon as I settle in.

Nail down times and whatnot.

Sounds good.

By the way, am I to assume I'm officially on the record?

Yes, I'm still making recordings.

While I may be busy living the good life, I'm still keeping up with my neuroses.

Wealth is no cure for obsessive-compulsive disorder, so if it works, it works.

Well, I don't know if it works, but it certainly helps.

Thanks again, Teresa.

I'll be in touch.

Sure thing.

Talk to you soon.

Numerous therapists and psychologists have informed me that my condition is inherently insatiable, always shifting its focus to a new obsession.

This has piqued my curiosity, potentially to a clinical degree, about how my disorder would react to confronting an absolute truth.

What value is there in seeking alternative perspectives when every view is rendered uniform by a singular overriding fact.

It seems possible that this juncture could mark the transition from disorder to outright madness.

This persistent dissatisfaction couldn't be better illustrated than by the current moment.

I've been named inheritor to all my father owns.

a man whose wealth is nearly uncountable.

And here I am, sitting up in the middle of the night, lamenting my incomplete knowledge.

I'd better get back to sleep.

It's a long drive to Cold Sparrow, and I hope to savor the journey.

I'm driving through the city of Cold Sparrow, the small town where my father's estate is situated.

It's bright and welcoming, with all the charm of a quaint pastoral town.

Tree-lined roads, manicured lawns, old houses that have been religiously maintained.

I imagine the place could pass for a bit of living nostalgia, snatched right out of someone's dreaming head.

It wasn't long ago I passed through a place like this, envious and wondering at what sort of life I was missing, what comforts I'd never know.

By the time I'd end up back at my flat, the vision would be like a colorful echo, reverberating, contrasting against the dullness of my urban rat hole, where hope died a slow death, one rejected manuscript at a time.

But here I am, driving to my new mansion in the nicest little town imaginable.

Naturally, there's a temptation to read into all of this, even doubt its existence, or perhaps worse, conceive of the whole thing as some sort of trap.

It is difficult to believe that my luck could take such a turn, that the universe would allow for such a course correction.

But on a day like this, even I might be convinced.

And that, ladies and gentlemes, is but a small sample of what we're dealing with.

Because there's lots more where that came from.

Guy sounds like a bit of a head case, if you ask me.

He sounds sad.

We should get moving on some of these names.

Which reminds me...

In the journal entry I read right after I found the stash, Beers mentions a lawyer who handled his father's will.

Said the guy had him listen to some recording his father made for him, that there was something odd about it.

The lawyer's name was um

Prest.

Charlie Prest.

We'll have to add his name to the list, along with this Dr.

Raglan.

The names might already be on the disc you snagged from our guy at the Bureau.

Maybe, but I'm not too sure how deep they dug.

They were dealing with an entire town's worth of missing persons, you know.

Come on.

We both know how things work in the Bureau.

How many times did we get the old nudge and wink routine whenever some rich bigwig wanted special attention, huh?

A guy as rich as Veers likely hogged all the limelight.

You know, you're too young to be that cynical, right?

Okay then, old man.

If the names are on the disc, you owe me lunch.

How's that sound?

I said you were cynical.

Not wrong.

That's what I thought.

Should we notify our great and powerful benefactor that we've arrived?

I was gonna do a video call from here, but the the reception isn't gonna cut it.

I'll shoot in the port-a-foy tomorrow, sound him out, and all that.

I'd like to get my hands on one of those journals you found.

Listening to tapes is all well and good, but they're not exactly my medium.

What's your cold take on the place so far?

Well, gentlemen,

I've been to a lot of bad locations in my day, but nothing sets my teeth on edge like this place.

Though I can't tell you exactly why.

At least not yet.

You still up for the walkabout, or would you feel better if we came along?

I'll have the radio with me.

So long as I have you fine gents at my beck and call, I'm sure I'll be fine.

One hour on the horn and we'll come a running.

You'd better, because I can tell you fellows this.

Whatever caused those people to disappear, it's still here.

Alright, I got all our stuff backed into the rooms, which are all side by side near the back of the house.

Figured we didn't want to climb all those stairs every day.

And here I was hoping we'd get to use the elevators.

Sure could have used them while I was lugging the uh Veer's collection down here.

Christ, I had to make about five trips.

Guy must have really liked the sound of his own voice.

Those elevators haven't seen maintenance in over two decades, but you're welcome to try them.

Just uh, don't be surprised if they only go straight down.

I thought the historical society was keeping the place up, that they uh wanted to turn it into a museum at some point.

Some paint and speckles, one thing, but those elevators probably need a complete overhaul.

Well, gentlemen, I think I'll save my walkabout for the morrow.

I'm feeling a little wiped out from all the day's fun.

Besides, my mojo, as you two are so fond of calling it, works much better after a nice breakfast and a hot cup of tea.

I trust one of you is capable of a fine English breakfast.

That depends.

Do the English like corn die fashion, bacon, sausage, eggs, toast, and flapjacks with maple syrup?

I can't speak for all of England, but this Englishwoman can make do with that.

If there's one thing I've learned since crossing the pond, it's that you yanks have quite a talent for excess.

When you say yanks, you mean us, right?

I thought you were officially one of us.

There are precisely two things I'll never forgive my mother for.

The first, coming here in her 60s to start a business, and the next, obliging me to follow so I could take care of her while she passed.

An event that took the woman nearly 20 years to complete.

Now I'm stuck here.

And despite what some official agency or other might now attest, I am, and will always be, British.

With that, gentlemen, I will bid you all a good night.

Now, Mason, if you would show a lady to her room.

Right this way, my lady.

Oh, Leon, start some coffee, would you?

She'll probably get a jump on organizing all the journals and whatnot.

Gotcha.

I was thinking the same thing.

Where the hell did I put that notebook?

Radios don't do any good when you drop them in the old place.

Where the hell is that coming from?

Is it coming from upstairs?

Great place to leave equipment, people.

Hey, everybody, come in.

We're both in.

Does Phil have her radio?

Yeah, I can see her on the floor.

Why?

I'm upstairs, and I'm hearing something like radio static, but I'm not sure where it's coming from.

I'll be right up.

I'll be here.

You sure it wasn't your own radio yet?

I'm an ex-federal officer.

When I tell you I heard something other than my own radio, you can take that shit to court.

Fair enough.

Wait a minute.

I bet I know what it was.

Come here.

Take a look.

Well, looky there.

An intercom system.

Must be hardwired in.

Probably crackled or something once I juiced up the place.

The voice I heard was probably just the thing picking up a radio channel or something.

You didn't mention any voice.

Yeah, it was all garbled.

Well, anyway, that puts that mystery to bed.

Sounds like.

Yeah.

Come on.

Coffee's getting cold.

I can't...

I can't believe what I'm seeing.

This place...

This place is gigantic.

Beautiful.

I've just driven past the automatic security gate, and it's...

unbelievable.

That's all I can really say right now.

It might as well be a castle, and it's...

my home.

I could cry.

This is almost too much.

How can this be real?

The inside of the mansion, the inside of my mansion, is not unlike a museum.

There's statues scattered everywhere.

I...

I can barely believe what I'm witnessing here.

The grandeur.

It's...

it's surreal.

The walls are covered in masterful paintings.

Each piece of furniture is a hand-crafted antique in remarkable condition.

Floors and mouldings of exotic woods polished to a mirror's shine, all pointing directly to the lifestyle of a a modern-day king.

It's like stepping into another world, one I've been barred from all my life.

And some of these paintings, why they must be portraits.

They're definitely something.

I wonder if they're relatives.

Particularly morbid-looking bunch of relatives.

Oh, and they're signed vias.

Perhaps my generous forebear was also a bit of an artist.

There's some skill here.

Perhaps even vision, if not a very pleasant one.

My god, these rooms, each one a little slice of some dark world.

And here's what I was hoping to find.

A library.

It's massive.

Haunting even.

And beautiful.

A dance of shadow and light playing across a thousand antique-pampered books.

You must be Benjamin.

Jesus!

So sorry to frighten you, sir.

Oh.

You must be Rupert, yes?

The man who,

according to my father's will, comes with the house.

And who I cannot discharge under any circumstances.

Yes, sir, that would be me.

I hope you're finding everything to your liking.

I've been tidying all weekend.

Yes, about that.

I don't know that I'm very comfortable with the idea of having...

a servant.

I know you've been well provided for in my father's will, and you're meant to stay on with me here for a full year.

But I certainly don't expect you to remain in some servile capacity.

You're more than welcome to live as you'd like.

Come and go as you'd like.

That's very kind of you, sir.

Just Benjamin, Ben.

That's very kind of you, Ben.

But I've lived in this here house with your father for years.

Best years of my life, in fact.

I can't imagine living anywhere else.

With your permission, of course.

And I don't find my keeping the house in order as any kind of task.

It's a pleasure to wander these fabulous halls.

Why, people would pay a fortune just for the privilege of setting foot in here to see all the treasures and wisdom your father's amassed.

I tend the house because I love it, and it deserves as much.

You'll see that, too, in time.

Very well, then.

That's all entirely up to you.

As I said, my father's will more than provides for you, so you can do as you please.

I appreciate that, Ben.

Oh, and don't worry about your privacy.

In addition to my place out back, I keep an apartment in the village, so please just let me know when you'd like me to make myself scarce.

We're the only two people living in a mansion the size of a small mountain.

I'm not sure what privacy I could want.

I see.

You made a beeline straight to the library.

You're ahead's son, all right.

This was his sanctuary of wisdom, where he mingled with the dreamers, the philosophers.

Now, it's all yours.

This is certainly quite a collection.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit that I don't recognize any of these titles.

The Lodgecraft of Isolis?

Savica?

The Forgotten Sonnets.

I suppose these are all pretty priceless, one of a kind.

That they are indeed.

And not for want of such things, neither.

Your father didn't pursue things because they're pricey, but because of the wisdom that they might convey.

Take this yearbook, for instance.

The last of the infamous wither diaries.

Why, he must have read this a hundred times if he read it once.

He'd tell me during one of our late night chit-chats that Wither had a brain borne to the void, hungry for all creation.

That no matter what he stuffed it with, it was never satisfied.

I reckon that your father felt a certain kinship with Wither.

Incomplete men, the both of them.

Even though they felt with ten times the knowledge of ordinary folk.

Now, I don't know what that says about them, but it sure says something about the average man now, don't it?

That common men are far better off not knowing.

That wisdom should never be confused with health, as they rarely share the same body.

And I see that you've also inherited your father's boundless optimism.

Well, most of my things are still in transit, so I figured I'd just stay here until they arrived.

I hope my coming a day early hasn't interfered with anything.

Not at all.

In fact, I was just on my way into town to stay in my apartment for a spell.

Figured you should be alone in these first few days to soak it all in.

All the bedrooms are made up, neat as a pin.

So you've just got to pick one.

I appreciate that, Rupert.

I think the first thing I should do is drop a map of the place so I don't get lost.

I've taken a vast room on the third floor, with a massive domed ceiling and assorted finery.

I rather feel like I'm bedding within a miniature cathedral.

The view is stunning, the moon rising above the forest, the silhouette of the distant town.

It seems fairly clear that my father not only passed down his wealth, but also his ailment.

Existential obsessive compulsive disorder.

Our clinical need to know more than is good for us.

Even now, as I stare out over all that has become mine, it is not enough.

It all seems so hollow to me.

Perhaps my father thought so as well.

Regardless, now is not the time for such thoughts.

This, my first day in my new home,

as a new man.

I don't know if the recorder is picking it up, but there's a persistent sound of static and what might be a voice.

It seems our most

pleading.

And just a moment ago, I could have sworn I heard someone coming up the stairs.

Rupert, is that you?

Hello?

Is anyone here?

There it is again.

It

seems to have stopped.

The door was locked, but Lord knows how many ways in and out there are in a place like this.

I'm not sure what just happened, and I won't be until I review this recording.

But I cannot help but wonder if tonight is merely an introduction to my father's hidden secrets.

Secrets that wish very much to be told.

The Gentleman from Hell is a Maltopia production.

Today's episode was written by Mark Anzalone and performed by Stephen Zivic, Sam Stark, Aubrey Akers, and Mark Anzalone.

Sound editing was completed by Stephen Anzalone, and script editing was conducted by Walker Kornfeld.

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