As was his oldest and truest habit, Basil made sure to know the house he would be staying in well enough to escape it.
A strange way to go about life, he was sure, especially for a holy man - but everyone had their roots, and even the sturdiest trees thrive off of dark and unknown soils. So Basil walked, introducing himself to the staff, learning the rooms and their occupants; where the terribly familiar doctor Edmond kept himself, and who was in the room next to him (A Ms Susan, as he was told, and and EMT from what he could tell - she wore the pin, she wasn’t subtle). He learned where the kitchen was, and the dining area; the parlour, common areas, and all exits.
He kept particular note of the exits, of course.
But it was not the occupants, nor the layout of the manor, that plagued his mind as he went about his day; it was the whispering servants, who seemed ill at ease. One had approached him, confessing in a quiet voice that they felt... discomfited by the guests invited to the manor. Who were these people? Why a doctor? Why two nurses? Those were the ones that stood out the most.
He also couldn’t help but wonder who the host was - not even the staff appeared to know. Not the one who told him, in quiet confidence, that she hadn’t a clue who her employer even was.
It made his hands itch irritably, as if longing for something to grasp; a vintage to drink, perhaps. Not something he had had for quite some time.
The stranger made him leery, as well - Andrew? Alfred? Angus? What was his name? He hated not knowing who was sleeping just a floor below him. He made himself stand out, but also made himself slink into shadows, and it was a familiar dance and one he could admire when done well - but not when things felt so wrong.
Stepping inside the chapel, he went straight to the confessional again; running long, callused fingers over the nick in the wood that he had not noticed until he had cleaned the thing.
Many things about this place felt wrong.