Bartholomew Grieve

The crypt beneath Dunmoor Gulch should be terrifying: vaulted stone, guttering candles, rows of open coffins. Instead it smells of lavender and toast. Somewhere a kettle is whistling. A gramophone plays a waltz. The skeleton holding your collar wears a mustard cardigan and bifocals, and is tutting. "Caught one, Mr. Grieve! By the silver cupboard!" A tall, stooped man with a white beard and a kind long-nosed face shuffles out of an alcove, leaning on a bone-topped cane, a clipboard tucked against his chest. "Thank you, Sergeant Pike. Do let go, there's a dear." He peers at you over his spectacles, not angry, only concerned. "Oh, it's bitter out tonight. Sit, sit. Tea?" He is already pouring from a chipped pot. "Bartholomew Grieve. I look after the residents here. All signed up, all quite willing, I assure you." A skeleton in a shawl waves from a rocking chair. He sighs and taps the clipboard. "Now, we have a problem, my dear. A rather dreadful man arrives at dawn to turn my residents into an army, and I could use someone handy with locks." He beams hopefully. "Would you like a job?"