Chapter 14 With this revelation came nothing that an average mind would expect; my reaction was not one of shock, this was not a horrifying revelation that sparked some unhinging dawning of truth, there was no frantic denial or crumbling of fragile sanity. I did not shake my head, beat my fists into the floor or scream in anguish, nor did everything just fall into place and send lies and falsehoods packing. My world did not falter and my life did not collapse. Instead, it was as if someone had knocked on my door and, upon opening it, I had been greeted with nothing but a chill breeze that pushed rudely by me to reside among the flowering blooms of my memories. If I were to look to the past, I would surely see those beautiful flowers rimed with a frost that would sap their colour before they began to wither and fade. It was, in all truth, a torture far worse than sudden, forgetful insanity; I would bear witness to the slow, painstaking deconstruction of all that I held dear, the gradual decay of everything that I’d known, and each bloom that blackened and died would be another arrow through my heart. I knelt there for an age, staring blankly at the name on the folder, my name, the name of a man I didn’t know, and the light slowly faded around me. When I could no longer see what was written there, I tied the bundle back together with fingers that belonged to a stranger, tucked it under my arm and propelled myself toward the trail on borrowed legs. The sun had dropped until it touched the Limits, and it was plain that I would be out here in the dark; at that moment, I could care less, with all the evidence pointing toward my belonging here and not knowing why or how. I clambered down the slope, slipping and sliding on dry, loose earth, until I reached the train tracks where I turned toward the village. The sun was at the horizon, and I walked through long purple shadows as twilight bled the colour from the world, my boots drumming a steady beat in the oppressive silence. My head was bowed, and deep in thought I played over what I’d seen, what I knew and what I no longer understood; warp and weft indeed, only now I was looking at a weave of an entirely different kind. The investigation was no longer about conspiracy, smuggling and secrets, it was no more dominated by the Cavetts, but rather it was about my life, my very existence and my own incapacity to remember. I didn’t just want the truth, I needed it. The sun sank lower, no more than a sliver at the world’s edge, boiling the horizon in a final blaze of pinks and reds that melted through greys to deep blues to inky blackness peppered with the tiny pinpricks of stars above me, and under the colourless shadow of night, the whispering corn took on a sinister quality, spurring me on to one final push for home. I practically ran the rest of the way, a cold chill pricking my spine as I imagined a myriad of terrors crawling from the earth behind me or farmers with dogs and shotguns hunting unwary travellers. The soft glow of the station lights was a welcome site, and I hauled myself onto the platform with some relief. It was then that it struck me; I had walked along the tracks for over an hour and a half, and in that time I had not seen the train either heading for the Holt nor on its return journey to Bellville. Ralph Mellowes would know, I thought, He will have been here all evening. Mellowes was already locking up, his attention entirely on the task of fastening the padlock on the door of his little booth. “Mr. Mellowes!” I called, “Ralph, I need to talk to you!” “Lawd sakes!” he cried, startled by my sudden appearance, “Don’ ye ever slow down fella? Damn nigh two ‘eart attacks ye giv’n me. What in hell ye wan’ this time?” “Where was the train this evening? Did it not turn up?” I asked. “On’y jus’ left,” he said, giving me a sidelong look, “an’ ye already know that at eight it goes t’ Bellville. What’s th’ game, young ‘un, ye takin’ me fer a fool?” “I just walked along those tracks,” I said firmly, “all the way from Tenpenny Hill. In all that time, I saw no train, so unless it just…disappeared, I figure it never turned up. Now, I figure that you, as station master, must know if a train doesn’t show up, and you could also tell me why, so don’t take me for a fool, just tell me what’s going on.” He chewed his tongue for a moment and then pushed me roughly in the chest. “What in hell is yer game?” he screamed at me, “what wi’ frien’s that don’ exist an’ dis’pearin’ trains, ye jus’ never stop! “Oh, aye,” he shouted, wagging an accusing finger at me, “Thom Renley tol’ me all ‘bout yer little game! Vandalisin’ a carriage an’ inventin’ yer little stories! Jus’ cus yer a fancy city boy writer don’ give no cause fer ye to treat us like idjits.” He began to walk away, brushing me off angrily. “Bes’ all round if th’ nex’ time I see ye is as ye get on th’ train an’ leave,” he said over his shoulder, “Otherwise, jus’ keep away frum me ye bloody loon!” I was left standing alone in the darkness as he stomped off, keys jangling with every step. I realised I had broken the golden rule; I had turned an informant into an enemy, ending that line of enquiry which was something I could little afford to do. With the coherent strings of my enquiry fading faster than the evening light, I left the station platform and turned up the road to my lodgings. I let myself in quietly so as to avoid the Poulsons and went straight to my room. As usual, the window was wide open, so I dumped my package on the bed and closed it. A gravelly laugh floated faintly through the thin wall from Porter’s room setting the hairs on my neck tingling. I pressed my ear to the wall, and strained to hear what was on the other side. “Welcome home, investigator Wallis,” said Porter from the other side, “How was your walk? Useful I hope. Tiring, no doubt, that’s a big hill, but worth it for the… view.” Again he laughed, a humourless sound like falling stones, and I remained silent, my throat dry and my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth. “Oh, but… you’ve seen it before, haven’t you?” he jibed, “Only, last time you didn’t have to walk there. Came and picked you up, they did. Took you up there in a padded cart, settled you in to a nice little green painted room with bars on the windows and straps on the bed. Made you real comfortable too, doctor’s star patient you were.” More rattling laughter came through the wall, shaking my tongue loose. “Who are you?” I croaked. “Oh, come now,” he said, “That’s not really the question you want to ask, is it? What you really want to know is, who are you.” “What do you know about me?” I said, my anger rising, “Tell me, or so help me God, I’ll…” “You’ll what, Wallis?” he taunted, “You’ll come in here and beat it out of me?” He laughed again, and then fell silent for a second. “Nothing,” he said finally, “I know nothing.” With that, I heard him move away. I lost my grip at that point and stormed out of my room to hammer on Porter’s door, yelling at him to come out and face me. There was a second or two of silence before the lock clicked and the door eased open. I was on him in a flash, gripping him firmly by the collar and forcing my way into his darkened room. His grin didn’t falter, not even when his back hit the wall with a hefty thump. I leaned in close, smelling his stale breath as he grinned silently at me. “Tell me everything!” I shouted, “What do you know about me? What in hell is going on?” “Lies and half truths,” he cackled, “smoke and mirrors, tricks and trumps and slight of hand.” I balled my fist and punched his face hard enough to draw blood. “You are the flesh and the blood,” he grated, “the rest is just… ash.” This seemed to amuse him greatly, so I punched him again, splitting his lip. “That’s the ticket!” he cried triumphantly, “Let the beast loose, let it run free where everyone can see! I can take my medicine, but can you?” I tightened my grip around his neck and still he grinned. Heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs and Jack lurched into the room, breathing in sharply at the sight of me with my hands around Porter’s throat. “Elliot,” he said calmly, laying a hand softly on my arm, “This is not the way. Put him down, let him go.” “I need to know what he knows,” I growled, pulling away from Jack and keeping the pressure on, “and he will tell me, or so help me I’ll snap his scrawny neck!” “Would you really go that far, Elliot?” asked Jack gently, “Only he doesn’t look like he’ll talk. Just let him go, you’re a man, not an animal; there are other ways.” Porter still grinned at me, and it took a supreme effort to loosen my grip. Jack was right; Porter had no intention to talk. Pushing him roughly away, I let Jack lead me from the room, and as we exited Porter hissed at me, baring twin rows of tiny, pointed, lizard- like teeth and then cackled like a loon. Jack propelled me gently toward the stairs, insisting that a brandy was in order and placating me with reminders that I was better than that, and that I should deal with it intelligently. In the living room, I slumped into the little sofa and Jack handed me a large brandy before taking his place in the armchair opposite. “Now, I don’t know exactly what that was about,” he said, “and I don’t really want to either. It’s a good job my Annie is out, she would be terribly upset and I won’t have that. My advice would be to take whatever Porter says to you with a pinch of salt, and remember what I said. Porter is not someone you want to cross.” “Who is he Jack?” I asked, staring into the depths of my brandy, “He seems to know more about me than I do myself, things I’ve forgotten or hidden away. Why is he really here?” Jack sighed deeply, sipped his drink and picked his words carefully. “We were asked by Mr. Broddick if we would mind having him stay here for a while,” he said, “and given certain… reasons, we couldn’t really refuse. Now, I don’t like him any more than you do, but I have to put up with it, and if you want to stay here, so do you. No more fighting, just steer clear.” I nodded slowly and apologised. I turned to other matters to free my mind from the anger I felt towards Porter. “Jack, you and Annie have been here for years,” I said, “What do you know about the old ruins up on Tenpenny Hill?” “Crest View?” he replied with surprise, “Well there’s a place I haven’t thought about in an age, I’d almost forgotten about it.” “I was up there today,” I said, “Was it some kind of hospital or institution?” He pondered this one for a moment, then, “I suppose you could call it that, in a way. Quite an imposing site it was when we first came here; three storeys, high arched windows and the biggest doors you’ve ever seen. You could see it from anywhere in the village, until the fire gutted the place. The ruins sat there for a few months, slowly crumbling, until the landslide tore the south part of the house away, finished it off. It was almost like someone didn’t want any chance of it being rebuilt.” I looked at him quizzically. “Oh, it wasn’t a hospital in any official capacity,” he explained, “It was more of a gentleman’s folly. Not the Cavetts, mind you, but some big- wig doctor from London. He moved out this way for peace and solitude, bought Crest View Mansion and had the north wing converted to house some of his more needy patients. He said it was to better be able to treat them or some such nonsense.” “So he brought the patients with him, from outside?” I asked, “Did anyone from the village ever end up under his care?” “No, indeed not,” laughed Jack, “Not much call for the kind of doctoring he did in a community the size of this. Now, how did he describe his work? Revolutionary mental repair, that was it… Strange don’t you think?” “Did you ever meet the doctor?” I asked. “At one time, he was a real celebrity around the Holt,” replied Jack, “Always visiting the locals, showing his face and getting to know us all, but that all stopped around ’14, just before the war. He shut himself away in Crest View and we didn’t see him in the village any more after that. Odd, really, he was quite a sociable fella from what I remember.” “Did you ever go up to the Mansion,” I asked, “you know, to visit, either before or after he shut himself away?” “As a matter of fact, I did,” he replied, “Quite a few times when he was still out and about, he asked me to deliver some fresh fish. Used to ask all of us in turn, well at least us that had the means to cart produce all the way up the hill. I was fortunate enough to have a wagon, but it was a hell of a trek, I don’t mind telling you. Always paid over the odds though, so it was worth it. I guess he must have made a pretty penny from his time in London.” “And did you ever get to see the north wing?” I said. Jack laughed at this and replied, “Unless you worked there, you didn’t get in. He said something about patient confidentiality when I asked him about it once, wouldn’t talk about it at all.” “Well, what about the fire then?” I enquired, “Where did the patients go after the place burnt down?” “Poor blighters all burned in their beds,” he said, shaking his head, “Nobody came out alive, not even the doctor. The fire struck suddenly and being all the way at the top of that hill, it was an age before we reached it. By that time, the place was just a blackened shell with gouts of flame spewing from the windows and doors. I remember it like it was yesterday, the heat and the smoke, and that horrible stench that comes with burning flesh. Something like thirty- odd people died that night and the fire’s still never been explained over twenty years later.” My ears pricked up at this; the numbers just didn’t add up, I would have been little more than a child when the place burnt down, hardly old enough to warrant isolation in an institution, albeit a privately run one, and certainly I would not have been old enough to escape a burning building and disappear without a trace. “What was the doctor’s name?” I asked. “An easy one to remember,” Jack replied, “Sounded foreign to me. “His name was Helzinge, Doctor Thorvar Helzinge.” My heart skipped a beat; I had a new TH to investigate, and one that should be easy to track. Somewhere, there had to be a record of the eminent London doctor Thorvar Helzinge.