Chapter 13 I had one more day before I would be meeting the Cavetts at their home, and I decided that the time would be well spent finding some of the connections between the various threads of my enquiry; my old mentor had once said to me that a mystery was less about tying up the loose ends and more about finding how those threads wove together to form the rich tapestry of truth. You might see the warp, he’d say to me, but the answer lies in the weft. I had a feeling that in this case, the analogy was entirely appropriate; I had a multitude of lines of enquiry, all of which appeared to lead nowhere, each of which appeared to be part of a much bigger picture. One name, however, seemed to be cropping up almost as much as the Cavetts, and that name was Tanner Hobbs. So, dressed in heavy clothes and a pair of sturdy boots, I set off to walk across to the Hobbs Farm. With me, I took my notebook, the spyglass, and the photograph and list from Cole’s envelope, ready to ask the family a few questions about Tanner, or to quiz him directly if he still lived. I had also prepared some notes about the confrontation in the Town Hall, as I had no desire to keep the journal on me. Tucked in the waistband of my trousers was my service pistol, just in case it was needed. Although the distance to the farm was fairly short, I fully intended to start with a trek along the side of the railway track, and follow it as far as time allowed in order to see if I could find any clues as to Cole’s fate. I would then double back via Tenpenny Hill until I reached the Hobbs Farm to speak with the family. I held out little hope of finding any physical evidence of Cole Barton, but the walk would perhaps serve to reveal potential witnesses to the events. Looking at his map, there were a couple of farmsteads close enough to the track that the occupants may have seen something, the Hobbs place being one of them, and any information I could glean from them would help. Additionally it would allow me to get a better feel for the outlying areas of Jacob’s Holt. At the station, I turned off the road and took to the fields, keeping the track to my left. The ground was hard- packed dirt, sparsely clothed with scrubby, dry grass that hissed and whipped against my legs as I walked. I took my time, scanning the ground around me and to either side of the track in the hope of getting lucky and finding something. The track peeled away from the village sharply as it exited the station, and then went straight north- east until it faded into the distance ahead of me, becoming hazy and indistinct as it passed Tenpenny Hill. Soon, I found myself walking alongside ripening fields of corn to my right, the ears heavy and bowed, rustling in the gentle breeze; this was no doubt Hobbs territory, and looking to the right I could see the ramshackle outhouses and storage barns that surrounded the little farmhouse in the distance. I stopped and marked the edge of the fields on the map. I moved on steadily, and even at my slow pace, I made good headway, and soon I spotted the Hallett Farm on my left. Hopping across the rails, I worked my way between rows of corn until I reached a little courtyard where a few scrawny chickens pecked at the dirt. I called out a greeting as I entered the courtyard, closing the gate behind me; nobody answered. I called again, mopping the sweat from my brow with my handkerchief, and wondered if perhaps they were all out in the fields somewhere; other than the chickens, I appeared to be alone. I wandered up to the door, knocked gently and peered in through the living room window. The room was dingy, and it was hard to see anything. I cupped my hands and pressed my face to the glass; I could make out the typical furnishings of a hundred similar properties, faded wallpaper, an unmade fireplace, a mantle shelf laden with trinkets and two threadbare sofas, one of which was occupied. Tapping on the glass, I called again, but the shadowy figure just sat, slumped and deathly still without a flicker of recognition. “What d’ya want?” said a gruff voice, startling me. I turned to face a tall, gaunt figure dressed in shirtsleeves and braces, his heavy boots crusted with dried mud. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, “I, uh… I was just passing and I… Mr. Hallett, isn’t it?” “Jus’ passin’?” he asked with a wary grin, “Out ‘ere, nobody’s jus’ passin’. Seems t’ me ye los’ yer path. Lest yer snoopin, p’raps. “ His left hand idly stroked the shotgun resting in the crook of his right elbow, drawing my attention to the weapon. “No, please,” I said raising my hands, “I just wanted to ask you a few questions, that’s all. I’m looking for a friend, he’s gone missing and I just thought you might have seen him.” “Ye that reporter fella, ain’t ye?” he said, “Ye been snoopin’ all round th’ village, pokin’ yer nose in where it don’ b’long. Prolly been tol’ by all o’ them t’ leave, an’ now I’m tellin’ ye the same.” “Look, all I want to know is if you happened to see anything odd happening on the evening train a few nights ago,” I pleaded with as much reason as I could muster, “My friend was on it, and it comes right past your-” “Train don’ come this way n’ more,” he said. “What?” I cried, “With all due respect, there’s only one line in or out, and it comes and goes twice a d-” “I said, ‘Train- don’- come- this- way- n’ more’,” he grated, “Now, yer either deaf or stupid, an’ I’m inclined not t’ care which ‘tis. I also don’ care if ye walk back th’ way ye came or ye get buried in m’ cornfield,” and with that he raised the shotgun and jabbed it at my chest. “Who is it?” shouted a rheumy voice from inside the house. “Nobody, pa,” Hallett called back, “Jus’ some city boy got los’ in th’ fields, thinks ‘e’s smarter’ n us.” He wagged the shotgun toward the gate, and I moved across to it, keeping my eyes on the gun all the way. Backing out of the gate, I made one last appeal. “I’m just worried about my friend, that’s all, and I was hoping you could help me. I didn’t mean to offend you.” He laughed sharply and said, “I’m not offended, I jus’ don’ like ye. Now I s’gest ye get goin’ cus m’ trigger finger’s gettin’ awful tired.” I backed off a distance, then turned and ran through the corn, keeping my head low and expecting the thunderous sound of Hallett’s shotgun at any moment. By the time I reached the train tracks, I was sweating profusely and shaking uncontrollably. I sat on the tracks for a moment, gathering my wits and digesting what had just happened. Laffs had warned me about the farms, he had advised that I steer clear, and now I could see why; it made me wonder if paying a visit to Hobbs Farm was such a good idea after all. It really was starting to irritate me that no matter what I did, regardless of how I pursued this, all it seemed to achieve was to provoke more questions. Why in heaven did Hallett react so strongly to my presence, and why lie so blatantly about the train? Warp and weft, I told myself, these are nothing but parallel threads. Move on, find how this all weaves together. I picked myself up, dusted myself off and after a quick scan of the area, I began to walk along the tracks. Looking ahead, I figured that at a steady pace it would take me another hour to reach Tenpenny Hill and the little valley where the tracks cut through; Cole’s map was most certainly not to scale, hurriedly drawn and somewhat inaccurate, but it did at least give an indication of points of interest. Also, looking at Tenpenny Hill from here, I could tell it was almost as high as Treacher’s Hill, so a view from there with the spyglass would potentially reveal some clues. Stepping the pace up a little, I pushed on, cutting to the right a little, intent on making it to the hill before mid afternoon. The ground near the farms had been pretty easy going, but the further I went, the more tangled and treacherous it became. Wild and unruly brambles snaked across my path, snagging my clothing and biting my flesh with thorns the size of coffin nails, and the scrubby trees thickened into a twisted mess of root and branch that took a deal of care to negotiate. Several times, I found myself backtracking to work my way around a particularly snarly patch of growth, cursing the time I had lost and resorting to wandering directly up the middle of the train track. The hill grew steadily nearer, but the afternoon was wearing on, and I began to fear I would not reach the hill soon enough for me to climb it. There was certainly no desire in me to be out in this wilderness after dark. At around three o’clock, I came across a little trail cut into the undergrowth off to my right. I followed it with my eyes, noting the steady ascent up the side of Tenpenny Hill; although I could not see if it reached to the top, at the very least it would place me in an elevated position from which I could get the lay of the land. Estimating that it would take me around an hour and a half to climb the hill at a brisk pace, I would be left with maybe a half hour to look around before making a hurried retreat down the hill and directly along the tracks back to the village. If I kept moving, I would reach the station before darkness fell. Hobbs Farm would have to wait, but after my experience at the Hallett residence, that didn’t seem such a bad thing. Starting my ascent, I wondered how many hills I would have to climb before I was done here. The ground rose steadily, much as the other hill, however there were no trees on this hillside, meaning that after about ten minutes or so, I could see clear over the tops of even the highest vegetation, all the way to the village; the distance from here didn’t look so bad, settling my mind as to the time I had available before heading back. The path took a steady route eastward and up, curling around the side of the hill until the village was almost directly behind me, and then doubled back, rising quite sharply the rest of the way. I pushed forward, breathing heavily, my legs pumping hard as I made the climb; I could see now that the path wound all the way to the crown of the hill, and I set my sights on getting to the top before four thirty. The last twenty yards or so were a scramble; the incline became almost vertical, and I had to clutch at outcropping rocks and stones, slipping back on the loose earth and scrabbling franticly with my feet, to haul myself bodily up and over the lip of the grassy plateau that formed the top. Clawing my way onto it, I rolled onto my back and lay there gasping for breath as my heart hammered in my ears. A few minutes’ respite and I pushed myself upright and looked around at the world below. The distant arc of the village looked much as it always did; a brown, unimpressive curl of stone set against the shining blue-grey expanse of the sea, the two long fingers of the harbour wall extended outward and almost meeting in the middle. Closer to me were acres and acres of golden corn ripening in the August sun, sparsely dotted with barns and outhouses, storage sheds and stables; I could see three farms from here, the most southerly being the Hobbs Farm, and nearest to the train tracks the Hallett place. Further away, I could make out the whitewashed walls of another, marked on Cole’s map as the Tilley Farm. A little north of that was the black thread of the road to Bellville. I pulled the spyglass from my pocket and trained it on the village; from here, I had a bird’s eye view of the Town Hall and its surrounding structures, and recalling what I’d seen the night before, I tried to work out how the phantom street fitted with the surroundings. Following a straight line from the entrance of that street at the approximate angle from my hiding place took me directly to the Tilley Farmhouse. I pulled out the map and marked route; coincidence, maybe, but interesting nonetheless. Looking at the map also revealed that the street and the train line ran in perfect parallel. I put my eye to the spyglass again and followed the line of the train track from the village, to the point at which I’d picked up the path, and eastward around the base of this hill to the valley where it passed out of sight of the village. Quite unbelievably, even from here, this close to the gap, I could still see nothing past the valley. Everything beyond that point became indistinct, like a smudged canvas, with the skirts of the hills bleeding into each other and the black metal of the tracks fading to grey and melting away. I figured it to be an unseasonable mist, although to all intents, it looked as if the world just came to an end. I wrote “mist?” on the map, deciding that a twenty minute diversion on my way back would be worth the risk. I checked my watch; I had ten minutes to spare, so I had time to make a quick circuit of the hilltop and take in the view from the other side. The centre of the plateau was shielded by a tangle of trees. I walked to the edge and peered into the gloom; right in the middle was a clearing with some tumbled ruins, overgrown with brambles and weeds. Curious, I pushed my way through, heedless of the scrapes and scratches I received from the twigs and thorns that impeded my progress. The central clearing was shrouded by an overhanging canopy of branches thick enough to blot out the sky and impose a premature twilight, but as my eyes adjusted, I was able to make out the shape of the ruined structure. Whatever had been here was large and thick- walled, made out of heavy grey stone blocks. I stood at what appeared to be one side of the building, the front being marked by large, semi- circular steps leading up to where a huge front door must have hung, facing the village. In most places, the walls were now no more than waist height or less, but there was enough remaining for me to see that each wall had been pierced at regular intervals by a narrow window. I studied the remains of one of the sills; there were nubs of rusted iron poking out of the stone where they had been barred. Perhaps this had been a prison, it was certainly remote enough. I moved around to the steps and made my way inside. As I stepped into the ruins, I had a momentary flash of recognition; for a split second the walls were tall and strong, and I stood in a long corridor with a bleached wood floor; the green painted wall to the left was a row of regularly spaced iron doors, heavily bolted on the outside; the wall to the right opened on several office spaces and half way along, a corridor running at right angles to where I stood. I saw it for no more than a second, but it was vivid and detailed. Shaking my head clear, I viewed the weed choked and charred remains of the floor; this place had burned fiercely. Following the corridor I climbed over rubble slick with soot until I reached the corner of the adjoining hallway. Looking along it, I could see that the devastation that had been wrought here had been far worse at the south side of the building. There was roughly thirty feet of tumbled ruin that came to an abrupt end where the building had sheered away as if the earth beneath had simply collapsed. There would undoubtedly be a tangled mess of remains down the slope of the hill on that side. I turned my attention to one of the little side rooms to my left. Amongst the rubble there was the twisted and mangled remains of an old iron bed frame, its rusted springs entwined with encroaching weeds. I knelt and studied the litter around it; some buckles and scraps of charred leather caught my eye, and again my mind painted an image of incarceration and paralysing fear. I picked up the scraps and stuffed them in my pocket, returned to the corridor and worked my way toward the end. A little way along on the right was another room; the twisted and broken remains of copper plumbing broke the ground in places, and there was a blackened cast iron sink half buried under a mound of grey rock and rotting plaster. One wall stood almost intact, and against it was a large rusting bathtub, it’s clawed feet still fixed firmly to the remains of the floor. I choked and coughed, with the feeling of drowning closing my throat and burning my lungs as for an instant, the fire had never happened. With my eyes watering and my head buzzing, I backed up into the corridor. The far end seemed to have suffered less; the walls here were a little higher, and the floor, although blackened, was mostly intact. I was in a room; a broken desk of considerable size dominated the space, and in one corner stood a filing cabinet, curiously untouched by flame and ruin. Three of the four drawers were open, the fourth was locked shut. I grabbed a stone and hammered at the lock, flinching at the hollow, metallic thump that set my ears ringing and gave the oppressive gloom a voice. Three hefty swipes and the lock burst. Inside was a bundle of manila wallets tied together with string. The package was old, yellowed with age and crinkled with dampness. I grabbed the string and pulled the bundle out, and then I knelt amongst the dust and soot, placing the package on the floor in front of me. Carefully, I picked at the knot until the string came loose. I ran the palm of my hand lightly over the topmost folder, brushing away the accumulated dust, and it was as if a bolt of electricity struck my fingertips and raced up my arm; an inner voice warned me to leave it, to turn away and run, never look back, keep moving, and yet, at that moment I was impelled to continue. With fingertips only, I turned each folder over and read the scratchy, faded lettering on the front. Lafferty, Peter A. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Blacksmith, Alfred R. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Broddick, Roland P. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Snell, Frederick M. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Hobbs, Tanner C. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Hallett, Robert Q. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Renwick, Edward G. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Tilley, Samuel J. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Tamworth, Oliver D. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Britt, Thomas E. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Selby, J.P. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. Eleven folders, eleven names, the same eleven names on Cole’s list and the eleven faces that smiled happily in the photograph; all of them ex- inmates of this institution. Two more remained, and the next one sent me reeling. Barton, Cole F. Diagnosis- Clinically Insane. I wiped cold sweat from my brow, licked my dry lips with a tongue that felt too big, and with trembling fingers, I picked up the last and turned it over. The name on the front was mine.