Chapter 9 The afternoon sun was as hot as it had been on my first trip up the hill, but I found the going a little easier as I had prepared a little this time. Stopping frequently for a sip of water or snacking on a fresh green apple helped take some of the sting out of the steep climb, and I found myself looking around a bit more, catching glimpses of the sea through gaps in the trees or spotting the steadily dwindling village as the trail switched left or right. This time, when I reached the summit, I was better prepared to experience the full impact of the view. I was alone, much as I had been the first time I stepped up here, and the only sounds were the sea rolling up the stony beach and the squall of gulls below me. For a while, I stood still, just taking in the clean air and appreciating the freedom; the village, for all its charm felt claustrophobic at times as if life were condensed into too small a space. This felt like escape, and even if Laffs didn’t show, it was worth the walk. I sat on the cliff’s edge and ate half my sandwich, then pulled the spyglass from my pocket. Curiosity drew me once more to the Cavett Mansion, and I wondered again at how anyone could live in such a tumbledown and remote location. I figured I’d find out on Friday. Sweeping the spyglass along the horizon revealed nothing; there were no ships, no daytime fishermen, nothing stirring on the water other than the ever circling and tireless gulls. The spyglass finally came to rest on the village below. Rather oddly, looking at the little arc of brown stone from here, it didn’t seem quite as tidy as it had previously; from the street, everything looked just so, all the hedges trimmed, all the gardens neat, and each house clean, upright and true. From here, however, there was an almost imperceptible raggedness about it all, as if each and every house had been knocked half a degree off of centre. The street still followed that perfect curve, but the ends now seemed unfinished as though the architect had cropped his creation, leaving the disembodied stump for all to view. “Sometimes ye gotta step back t’ see th’ truth, Mr. Wallis,” said Laffs from behind me. I stood and faced him, once again sitting on the old tree stump. “Nice to see you again,” I said, “I was hoping you’d show up.” “Servin’ ye a’right, is it?” he asked, indicating the spyglass. “Of course,” I replied, “but why give it away?” He flapped his hand dismissively and said, “M’ eye ain’ what it used t’ be, can’ see a darned thing through it. Jus’ thought ye might like it, is all. An’ a’fore ye go on about th’ flask, Lottie would ha’ wanted it t’ be used. T’ ain’ no good t’ me any more. “Mem’ries are all up ‘ere,” he said, tapping his temple with a bony finger. I thanked him, and promised I’d take care of both. “Where’d the spyglass come from?” I asked as I sat next to Laffs, “It’s a beautiful piece of work, how did you come by it?” “Found it,” he replied, “not long a’ter I got back on m’ feet. I took a walk along th’ beach down there, in daylight o’ course, an’ it was lyin’ on th’ ground not far from where I took m’ beatin’. Figger one o’ th’ clowns dropped it, prolly one o’ them as was holdin’ me down. “Well, I jus’ took it as payment fer th’ pain they’d put me through. Pretty thing ain’ it?” I nodded agreement, turning the spyglass over in my hands. “Laffs,” I said, “You were out for some time. It must have been weeks, maybe months before you made it back along the beach, and they must surely have been back in that time, yet none of them picked it up. Don’t you find that a little odd?” “Guess I ne’er really saw it like that,” he replied, “I jus’ picked it up, an’ asked no questions. Of’n the bes’ way. Maybe they missed it in th’ dark, it were up near where they caught a’hold o’ me, maybe that was a little off their path.” Or maybe it was left for you, I mused. But that begged more questions; who would leave such a thing for him, and why? “Guess you don’t know who “T H” is then?” I asked, indicating the mark on the spyglass. Laffs squinted at it, frowning. “Well, I ne’er in all m’ years noticed that,” he said, “The only “T H” I know of is Tanner Hobbs. It ‘us his great, great, gran’daddy Jacob that th’ village were named a’ter, laid the firs’ stone ‘e did. Can’ imagine ‘e crafted this though, han’s like spades ‘e ‘ad. I think ‘is fam’bly still live in th’ Hobbs farm’ouse, south o’ th’ village.” There was that name again; Hobbs had been the assailant that Cole described in his journal, the man whose token had been missing. If Laffs was right, there had to be a connection. “Would Tanner still be alive?” I asked. “Don’ rightly know,” said Laffs, “Poss’ble I s’pose, ye’d have t’ ask in th’ village. Some o’ the older ones might ‘member ‘im, cud prolly tell ye somethin’, but I’d steer clear o’ that farm’ouse if I were you, funny things can ‘appen t’ a fella who goes pokin’ around th’ farms.” I looked at him curiously, wondering why he would tell me about it, and then try to push me away from it; was I being played by this old man, railroaded by misdirection? He knew as well as I did myself that the more he warned me off, the more determined I would be to take a look. Already, I had it in mind to take a country walk tomorrow, and to pay a visit on the Hobbs’. “I have an appointment at the Cavett mansion on Friday,” I said, hoping to glean some insight from the response. “Well, damned if I didn’ tell ye to keep clear o’ them!” said Laffs irritably. If he was playing me, he was bloody good at it, punctuating his annoyance by stamping the ground with his walking stick. “Now listen, and listen good,” he said, “If ye go up there, ye take some precautions. Don’ take anythin’ that ye don’ want them t’ know about, watch what ye say an’ what ye tell ‘em an’ don’ accept any gifts. No gifts, ye got that? Good. “Now, d’ye has a gun?” “My old service pistol,” I replied, “but surely they wouldn’t-” “Listen t’ me! Ye tuck that pistol away in yer belt, an’ ye keep it on ye at all times. All times, un’erstand? They try anythin’, ye shoot firs’, as’ questions later, an’ get out o’ there fast as ye can. Ye run, an’ ye keep on runnin’, all th’ way t’ Bellville if ye can. “An’ watch that wife o’ his, she looks like an angel, but she’s th’ devil!” “What are you afraid they’ll do to me?” I asked. Laffs chewed the question over, his expression changing from fear to anger and back again as he considered his answer. “Cautious, is all,” he said eventually, “an’ you should be too. Damn’ foolish, goin’ up there, an’ no m’stake. Do as I say, is all I ask.” I promised I would, and that seemed to satisfy him somewhat. The conversation turned to more mundane subjects, and we sat and chatted for some time, the anger and irritation dissipating slowly as we spoke. The afternoon wore on, and when I next looked at my watch it was just gone six. I stood up, and took a last look around me before I headed home. Using the spyglass, I tried to pick out the farms and homesteads to the east of the Holt; I could vaguely make out one where Laffs had indicated the Hobbs farm to be, along with various barns and homes scattered further east and north of it. Panning round, I followed the course of the road as it passed north-east from the Holt. Frowning, I peered between the hills where the road passed off into the distance. “Laffs,” I said, “where’s Bellville? Surely I should be able to see it from here, it’s less than thirty miles and the air’s clear, but I can’t see any sign of it…” “Laffs?” I called, lowering the spyglass and looking at the empty tree stump where he had sat. Again, the old man had vanished silently, as if he were a phantom. Confused, I took another look toward where Bellville should rightly be, and Laffs’ words replayed in my mind; Sometimes ye gotta step back t’ see th’ truth, Mr. Wallis… Shivering despite the warmth, I folded the glass and set off down the hill. Chapter 10 I had missed dinner again, and as I entered the Poulsons’ I could hear Annie in the kitchen busying herself with the used crockery. I went to the door and knocked lightly. As I entered, Annie smiled brightly and motioned for me to sit. “I kept your dinner warm, Mr. Wallis,” she said, pulling a plate from the oven, “It’s only stew so it should have kept just fine. Would you like some bread?” “Thank you,” I said, “This is most kind. I have been a little busy I’m afraid, lost track of time. This looks delicious, really, I’m most-” There was a loud “thump” from upstairs, startling me. “Oh, yes,” said Annie, “I ought to tell you, we have another guest staying with us for a day or two. Young man by the name of Alfred Porter, says he’s come to visit relatives here, although between you and me, I think that’s nothing more than flim- flam.” The last was said quietly with a conspiratorial wink. Chewing a mouthful of the stew, I raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Not too many people around here from outside, and hardly anyone ever leaves,” she explained, “and since most people have more than enough room in their houses, why would he not stay with his family?” It was a convincing argument. “So what do you think he’s up to then?” I asked, taking another mouthful. Annie looked away, embarrassed, and continued with her clean- up. “I really shouldn’t pry,” she muttered, “None of my business, that’s what Jack always tells me.” I ate the rest of my stew in silence as Annie bustled around me. Complimenting her on a fine meal, I excused myself and left her to clear away my plate. I popped my head through the door of the living room to say hello to Jack, but he wasn’t there, so instead I mounted the stairs to the little landing above. For a moment, I stood and listened; soft shuffling sounds could be heard from the newly- occupied room, so I went to the door, intending to introduce myself to the new guest. I rapped on the door and called his name. Getting no response, I knocked again. There was a thump a shuffling sound and then someone was leaning heavily against the door. “Go away,” said a gruff voice from the room. “Mr. Porter?” I said, “I’m Elliot Wallis, I have the room next door to you. I just thought I’d introduce myself as we are neighbours.” “Introductions done,” rasped the voice, “Now go away.” Hs rudeness annoyed me, so I pushed the point. “Come now, we’re both staying in the same house, we’re both outsiders, I just thought you might like to share a drink with me. I have a flask with some very fine whiskey in my room-” “Don’t drink, don’t smoke, have no interest in friendship,” he growled, “Now go away.” I tried a different tack. “Well, maybe I can help you. Mrs. Poulson tells me you’re here visiting family. Since you are not staying with them, can I assume that first you need to find them?” “Who are you?” he growled, “What makes you think you can help me?” “I’m an… investigator,” I lied. “A private eye?” he mocked, laughing, “Then you are already lost! And I have no wish to spend time with a lost man. “Now, leave… me … alone!” he yelled, hammering on the door. I retreated a step or two, somewhat taken aback by his outburst. I left my fellow guest to himself and instead entered my own room. Shivering, I went over to the window and pulled the sash closed, making a mental note to ask Annie if she could leave it closed when she came to service the room. Dusk had settled over the world outside, and I switched the little bedside lamp on to relieve the gloom. Tucked under the edge of the lamp was an envelope addressed to me. I opened the envelope and pulled the card from inside; embossed on the front fold was the Cavett name and family crest, inlaid with gold leaf. I flipped the card open and read the formal invitation within; Mr Elliot Wallis, You are cordially invited to an evening at the Cavett Mansion in the company of Luci and Damon Cavett and other guests this Friday. Dinner will be served at eight o’clock, followed by an evening of entertainment and conversation. A car has been arranged for your convenience, to collect you at seven o’clock sharp. Regards, The Cavetts Tucked inside the fold was a scrap of paper upon which was written in a fine, flowing hand; I look forward to our next meeting. Luci xx I smiled involuntarily at the thought of seeing her again, then placed the card and the note in my bedside drawer and pulled out Cole’s journal, intending to read a little more before sleeping. Sitting back on the bed, propped against the cool wall, I opened up the journal where I had left off earlier and made a start. Much of the next few pages were filled with accounts of his first few days reporting directly to Mr. Cavett, either by phone or in person; it appeared that Cole had paid many visits to the mansion, each time being taken there in a car, every time returning drunk. The monotony of the accounts soon had me drowsing, and before long I had drifted off to sleep with the journal lying in my lap. Around midnight, I awoke to the sound of someone creeping down the stairs. The full moon cast silvery bars of light across the floor of my room, plunging the corners into an inky impenetrable blackness. I heard the front door open and close softly, and, curious, I went to the window. Down below, I could see a tallish figure dressed in a dark, well- tailored suit, his wide- brimmed hat pulled down tight, leaving through the Poulsons’ yard gate; doubtless our new guest I surmised. At the gate, he paused, looked furtively both ways, and then set off north up towards the green. Grabbing my jacket, I made a hurried exit, determined to follow. I left the Poulsons’ front door at a crouch, using the hedges that separated the gardens to conceal me from my quarry. Allowing him time to pull ahead a safe distance, I then made my way from garden to garden, hopping lightly over gate or fence to hide from view. Porter seemed to be in no hurry, and set a steady pace until he reached the green where he made his way to the stone marker. By this time, I had made a daring dash across the street to hide behind the little wooden panelled fence that edged the teashops’ outside seating area. Crouching low, I peered at Porter through a gap in the fence. He had stopped at the marker, and I watched as he lit a cigarette, the match briefly lighting up an angular and hairless face; he was thin, almost emaciated, probably about my age, and pale, so very pale. The orange glow from the match seemed to reflect off of his skin untainted by pallor or complexion, giving him a ghoulish appearance that set my nerves jangling. I watched for several moments as each drag of the cigarette raised that death mask from the deep shadows under the heavy brim of his hat, wondering what he was waiting for. As he stubbed out the cigarette, another man joined him, followed shortly by a third; each of them wore the same expensive suit and wide- brimmed hat, all three had the same build. Perhaps these were his “relatives”, I guessed. They talked for a while, their hushed voices too soft for me to hear, and then all three set off together toward the Town Hall. Now their backs were toward me, I risked a proper look, raising my head above the level of the fence. All three walked together, perfectly in step, past the Town Hall… and turned right! My mouth fell open, and I watched slack jawed and stunned as all three passed through where by all rights there should have been a solidly built cottage of brown stone and thatch, disappearing around a corner that shouldn’t exist. Careless now of who might see me, I raced across the green to follow, and as I reached the corner, a tall, tattooed and dark- skinned figure barred my way, pushing me roughly backwards. I stumbled to a halt, my heart pounding in my throat as the clown stepped toward me, grinning humourlessly. He grabbed me by the lapels of my jacket and pulled me close. Tilting his head to one side, he sniffed deeply and frowned. “J’ikla skel n’abrath,” he growled with distaste, “Ska’al N’aath!” I never saw the club that sent pain shooting through my temple. I remember falling, and then everything was darkness. I wasn’t alone in the darkness; I could hear soft voices from the shadows, conversing in a language unlike anything I’d ever heard on my travels, but I could tell that they spoke about me. Occasionally an unseen hand would grab at me, pulling at my clothes and prodding my sore flesh, and more than once I could feel hot breath on my face, but my eyes saw nothing, and my lips made no sound. I must have been laid on a cart, for I could tell that I was moving, although I could hear no wheels, not a creak of flexing wood nor grumble of turning axle. For an age it seemed I lay this way, swaying with the gentle motion of my carriage, unable to move or see, with the voices fading in and out around me, until, eventually, I came to a halt. A multitude of hands grabbed me, lifting me roughly and carrying me on. My head lolled painfully against my shoulder, bouncing with the motion and sending bolts of agony through my skull, and then I was falling again, this time onto a soft, deep bed. The shadow voices receded, but I was still not alone; warm breath once again touched my face, followed by soft lips pressing against mine. “Sleep now,” said Luci, “It will only hurt for a little while…” She smelled of jasmine and roses…