(PC) Let's Play Mystery Case Files: Ravenhearst Part 1
2My forty-eighth Let’s Play
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BRIEFING
Entry #1 (My New Life)
August 24, 1894
Today I finally made my arrival in Blackpool, England! I already miss my friends and family back home in Iowa, but I always swore that after my final year at the teacher’s college I would spread my wings and see more of this glorious world!
I have arranged boarding with the local headmistress, a grandmotherly woman named Meredith Thornton, under whom I shall apprentice in exchange for menial household chores. I’m not much of an asset in the kitchen! With any luck at all, my modicum of culinary proficiency shall suffice.
October 4, 1894
The diminutive community is not exactly teeming with activity, but I’m anxious to attend the annual Autumn Formal this Friday evening!
Time Limit (Standard/Relaxed): 36 minutes/72 minutes
Required Items: 22
Total Items: 24
LOCATIONS
Entry: 8
Front Porch: 8
Parlor (Lock Puzzle #1): 8
THE LOCKSMITH
Chapter 1 – A Hermit’s Demise
For as long as Blackpool, England has been known as a travel destination, Merrow’s Cove is the pub most would say is at the core of the town’s culture. As the area’s preeminent watering hole for almost two centuries, locals and tourists alike concur that the Cove has seen its fair share of history – from beach holidays to kindling romances to soccer matches.
For Terry Somerset, the building’s current proprietor, his night would occur on September 1, 2001. During that very evening was the legendary qualifying match between England and Germany. As throngs of customers watched the broadcast, pushing the Cove’s bar taps to their limits, Terry watched in glee at the success of both the English team and his business. It was one of the building’s most successful days of business ever, and undoubtedly a nexus for countless happy memories.
However, Terry’s true destiny that night would lie in a familiar nuisance. Sitting at his barstool, juggling his time between sipping his pint of Guinness, watching the match, and ogling the pub’s preoccupied miniskirts, was Victor Dalimar. A crotchety old man well into his autumn years, he had spent the majority of his free time at Merrow’s Cove ever since he could legally get hammered, staying until Terry and his bartenders kicked him out at closing time.
Though he had a reputation as an ornery recluse, Terry found that such a status was likely exaggeration from the locals. Whenever he noticed Terry was starting to get bored, he would initiate conversations with him, frequently regaling him with fantastically bizarre, though ultimately forgettable, stories of his family. Given that he frequently paid his tab and generously tipped the barkeeps, Terry tolerated the curmudgeon’s idiosyncrasies.
During that evening, however, Terry noticed an uncharacteristic shift in Victor’s demeanor. Whenever he had refilled his pint, he took notice of a weathered book the old man placed on the bar. It was bound in black leather, the word “DIARY” written on it in gold letters. Next to it was a ring with three weathered keys.
Compared to his prior chats, Victor’s tone that night was considerably gloomier. Whenever Terry tried to talk with him on various frivolities, he reacted morosely, often recalibrating the conversation towards topics such as legacy, family, and aging. When Terry filled his glass for what would be the final time, Victor asked him if he could take his diary if he died, throwing in his keys for an admittedly inexplicable codicil.
Accepting the offer with receptive befuddlement, Terry asked him why he would even make such a deal in the first place. “The things my family has done… I can’t take it to the grave,” Victor cryptically answered. It would be the last words Terry could remember him saying, as he soon left to tend to other thirsty patrons.
When England’s victory was all but confirmed, the pub erupted in a display of joy and revelry. However, that frenzy would not last. In spite of the booming noise, Terry could hear a scream coming from Victor’s end of the bar. Instead of glee, it was one of pure shock. Victor, slouched on his stool, did not even flinch during the cacophony. The concerned patron, coincidentally one of the college blondes the old man leered at, had begged to anyone in earshot to call the paramedics.
Nonetheless, it would be for naught. Victor Isaac Dalimar, at the age of ninety-nine, was pronounced dead on the scene. Apart from the items he had bequeathed to him, Terry was left with more questions than answers.
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