Chapter 18 Shaking uncontrollably, I entered the sitting room and headed for the brandy bottle; the Poulsons were absent as expected, so I took the liberty of pouring myself a large glass, certain that they wouldn’t mind. The bottle clattered against the rim of the glass and some of the brandy spilled as I poured but I didn.t stop until I had decanted a substantial measure. I grabbed the glass with both hands, raised it to my lips and drained it in one gulp. The heat of it settled in my throat and made me choke, and I doubled over as I sucked in air between hacking coughs. Slowly the heat subsided, and, feeling a little steadier, I poured another measure into the glass, promising silently to replace the bottle at the first opportunity. With the drink in hand, I sat on the sofa and tried to unknot my thoughts; just what the hell had I seen? An old man had cut his own throat, bled all over me as his life ebbed away, only to taunt me and laugh moments later from the doorway of the very place in which he’d died? It wasn’t possible. So, I had to have imagined it; maybe the disorienting effects of the light had confused me, driven me to wild fantasies. I was tired, I had a bad head, the heat was stifling and the light and shadow in the church was confusing, I could almost believe I had imagined it all. Almost. I shuddered as I remembered the hot, sticky wetness of the blood that had soaked my hands, sliding between my fingers as I tried in vain to help the old fool. I could still feel it collecting under my nails, assailing my nostrils with its coppery tang; it was too vivid and too real to be mere fantasy, one would have to be verging on insanity to pull such a thing from the mind. So, was I insane then? How much do you remember, he had asked. I thought on it for a moment, recalling his line of questioning. “Henrietta,” I whispered, “My mother’s name was Henrietta. My first job was as a clerk in the local news office. I have been married for five years…” You tell yourself the things you want to believe so that you don’t have to face the truth, he had said. I mulled it over; was it possible? Could a man lie to himself so completely, so utterly, that it became truth? At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to hold my wife in my arms, to feel her hair soft against my cheek, to tell her I loved her and would never leave her again. If I were to believe the clergyman, then Alice did not exist. Fearful of what I might discover, but needing to know, I swallowed the brandy and headed for the phone. For a second or two, I stood paralysed, viewing it as if it were a snake that might administer a fatal bite, but the pain of not knowing outweighed the fear of what might be revealed, and eventually I lifted the receiver. A tinny, distant voice asked for a number, and I struggled briefly to remember. “Chelmsford five- five- two- four please.” The line crackled and then the phone at the other end began to ring. It seemed an age before there was any answer. “Hello?” said a woman’s voice. “Alice? Alice, is that you?” I asked. “Elliot? Thank God!” she replied with obvious relief, “Where have you been? I was so worried, why haven’t you called me?” I broke down and wept openly, my whole body shuddering with the sobs. “Elliot, what’s wrong?” she asked, “Elliot, you’re scaring me, why are you crying?” The more she asked, the less control I had; I couldn’t breathe, my heart hammered and my words fell dead at my lips. I wanted to say I’m fine now, don’t worry, wanted to tell her I loved her and to promise that I would be home soon, and right there and then I would mean every word of it; Jacob’s Holt had momentarily lost its grip on me, the need to prove my sanity held no sway and I was sure of my past. Alice had saved me with just a few words, putting all self- doubt to bed. You tell yourself the things you want to hear… Another wave of sobs wracked my body and in a blink my brief respite from madness ended. “Alice,” I whispered, “Alice, I… I’m…” and again I choked. “Come home Elliot, please, just leave it and come home. You’re frightening me,” she cried, her sorrow sharp enough to free my words. “I’m okay Alice, really I am,” I lied, “It’s just been hard and…” - another bout of tears threatened - “…and I miss you.” “Then, come home,” she pleaded. I was tempted, and the urge to just head for the train station, abandoning all of my possessions in order to ensure I made the next departure was almost undeniable. “I can’t,” I replied with a heavy heart, “not yet. I have to finish this. I know you won’t understand, but this is important, I have to see it to the end.” “Well, I’ll come to you, then,” she said emphatically; an icy hand settled around my heart as I realised that my own needs had forced her to the one decision I could not allow. Jacob’s Holt was no place for my wife. “No! Alice, you stay right away from here, do you hear me? No matter what, you are not to come anywhere near Jacob’s Holt. I’ll be home soon, I promise, just stay away.” “Are you in danger?” she asked. “No,” I replied flatly, “It’s just something I need to finish. Please, stay away.” The line went quiet, and I knew she was struggling with the urge to run for the next train, much as I had moments before. “Alright,” she said eventually, “But if you aren’t back home in two days, I’ll be coming to you.” I sighed in relief, and set about making small talk to reassure her. We talked about our neighbours, the little black cat she had bought just before I left and how well her garden was growing after all the work she had put in; each little piece fell into place, each question brought another memory clear to my mind, shoring up my defences against the insidious mental rending that was plaguing me. After twenty minutes, I felt more like myself than I had for days. Ending the call with a promise to speak with here tomorrow, I replaced the receiver, finished my brandy and proceeded to ready myself for this evening. My mood was light, and my mind focused; I would enter the Cavetts’ house prepared for anything. By six- thirty, I was bathed, shaved and dressed in a dark suit and tie; I had pocketed my notepad and pen, just in case, but I was having difficulty hiding my pistol. Realising it was impossible to conceal, I settled instead for a small penknife that I carried with me often; little enough use in a fight, but I figured it might come in handy nonetheless. I would have preferred to have taken the gun, but turning up for a dinner invitation obviously armed was not an option; besides, if I were to trust in the existence of my wife, then I had a fairly compelling reason to doubt everything that I had learned in Jacob’s Holt, including the allegation of unwarranted violence by the Cavetts. In truth, it appeared that I had been played and misled more by the residents of the Holt than by this evening’s hosts. The car arrived at seven sharp as arranged, and as a last minute thought, I scrawled a quick note for Jack explaining my intention to replace the brandy before exiting the house and heading out. A sleek black Daimler stood at the side of the road, drawing admiring glances from passing villagers that soon turned to hateful stares when they saw me. Uncomfortable, I quickly opened the door and slid into the shelter of leather lined steel and smoked glass; the driver threw me a polite greeting to which I replied, and the car slipped silently away from the curb. The drive was short, but pleasant; the driver kept a steady speed, and I viewed the length of Jacob’s Holt from a comfortable air conditioned shell, noting once again the singular regularity of each building, the perfection of every stone and the consistent curve of the road. As we swept past the Town Hall and village green, I turned my head, straining my eyes for a sign of the mysterious street or a hint of the insubstantial nature of the buildings that masked its entrance; nothing was out of place, and the unbroken line of brown stone cottages stared back at me, mocking me with their normality. Slightly disappointed, I settled back into the seat and watched the rest of the village drift past the window. Eventually, the houses gave way to the open fields and farmsteads, and before long we were turning off to the left to cut between two hills; the wooded hillside of Treacher’s Hill rose sharply on our left, and I wondered if Laffs was up there now, watching our car glide past. The deep cleft we were in was overshadowed and gloomy with the sun sinking in the west, and the driver flicked the headlights on; the powerful yellow beams carved a path through the shade ahead, and I found myself craning my neck to see between the front seats, looking for a first glimpse of the mansion. We passed through two sets of heavy iron gates that swung shut behind us and then bore left around the base of Treacher’s Hill; I couldn’t gauge the distance, the time it took to arrive seemed to just float by, but the initial sighting of the mansion was enough to take my breath away. It was monumentally huge, more akin to a palace than a mansion; the wide sweeping loop of gravel driveway was edged with pristine green lawns stretching away to distant rough stone walls ten feet high that extended down past the mansion on either side, closing it off from the outside world; there were wide jet black steps, six of them, leading up to a columned front porch with countless high, brightly lit and arched windows to either side, each one framed in flawlessly lacquered white wood; above the porch and lower floor was an ornate and beautifully carved stone balustrade edging a balcony that extended the full width of the house; the upper floor was a perfect mirror image of the lower, sat six feet back and topped with a swath of sea- grey slate that was broken only at one end where, rising to unimaginable heights, a single spire pierced the darkening skies, creating an impossible sense of lightness not naturally associated with the substantial grey stone of its construction. A split second was all it took me to realise that I had seen this style, this weightless fabrication before, in the phantom realm that hid behind the unreal reality of Jacob’s Holt; the same grey stone, the same perfect lines, the same overtly decorative nature. In that same split second, I also realised that this could not be the derelict pile I had spied from the top of Treacher’s Hill; that house had been squat, ugly and in need of repair, so Laffs was either mistaken or misleading me. But, nonetheless, the location would seem to fit with what I had seen; another puzzle to be answered. Ties, connections, warp and weft; I’d started to think like an investigator again. The car came to a halt, and this time the driver left his seat to open the door for me. I barely noticed the courtesy because standing at the door of the mansion was Luci, impeccably dressed as ever in a simple black gown of pure silk that emphasised every curve of her lithe form. This was where she belonged, and the surroundings just served to enhance her already stunning appearance. She smiled warmly and welcomed me with open arms, planting a delicate kiss on each cheek before taking my arm and leading me inside, her undeniable beauty sending my heart racing and her touch thrilling me to the core. Guilt tried to raise its head; after all, I had not long spoken to my wife and told her I loved her, and yet here I was, tongue tied and sweating like a love sick schoolboy over a woman I barely knew. But guilt had no power here, guilt failed, and before the front door closed behind us, I am ashamed to say that my wife was forgotten. “Come through,” she purred and led me across a massive, high- ceilinged entrance hall, brightly painted in pastel shades of blue and hung with crystal chandeliers that sparkled like a million stars, “Damon is just dying to meet you, and we’ve also invited a number of other guests that you might find interesting. After all, we can’t have you believing that everyone associated with Jacob’s Holt is unwelcoming.” “This place is amazing,” I said, swinging my head around to take it all in, from the carved, solid oak staircase that dominated the central portion to the numerous doors leading off into the north and south wings of the house; I noticed rich tapestries adorning the walls alongside family portraits, and centrally above the turn in the stairs a huge painting of Luci herself. Luci thanked me and whisked me past it all, heading toward the rear part of the south wing and promising to give me the grand tour later in the evening. She ushered me into a room occupied by a small group of men, drinks in hand, who turned to face me as we entered. Luci introduced me to each one in turn; Herman Mayling, a short, balding gentleman, slightly overweight, who Luci described as the most talented jeweller in the country; Donald Harstock, a middle aged writer of pulp fiction novels and long term friend of the family; Trent Berkeley, retired adventurer and author of “Finding the City of Gold”- I had read this during my childhood, fascinated by the idea of searching the dark and lost regions of the world; Alain Barlow, a tall, gaunt figure, skeletal in appearance with a hooked nose and watery flint coloured eyes, who Luci introduced as Damon’s private physician. Last of all came my host. He was not at all what I expected, regardless of the prior warning that had been given; wheelchair-bound, frail and bent, he looked as if death had gotten bored of waiting and left him instead to fade away slowly; his liver spotted scalp retained scraps of silvery hair that fell in wisps across his wrinkled skin and he masked his eyes with dark lenses set in delicate gold frames; as he smiled at me, his skin creased and folded deeply, but his teeth looked to be those of a young man and jarringly out of place between shrivelled lips. “At last we meet,” he said in a thin and reedy voice, “Luci has told me much about you Mr Wallis.” I took his extended hand, the flesh moving loosely over the bones like an ill- fitting glove. “Call me Elliot, please,” I replied graciously, “It’s an honour to meet you, though I can’t imagine what Luci might have told you.” “You do yourself a disservice, Elliot,” he said, the smile never faltering, “You are a journalist, after all, a noble profession that relies on truth on the one hand, and lies made wholly believable on the other. A truly delicate balancing act! So which side of that particular fence do you favour?” “Damon! Elliot’s only just arrived and you’re already teasing him,” Luci admonished with a laugh. “Its fine,” I offered, “Really, I get worse at most of the parties I attend, believe me.” “See, I told you he was a sweetie, didn’t I?” she said, moving over to Damon’s side and settling her hand on his shoulder. “My wife, beautiful and always right,” he announced to the room brightly. The guests laughed and agreed, and Donald Harstock clapped me on the back with one meaty hand, declaring me a good sport and demanding that I regale him with some of my experiences out in the big wide world. “That can wait until our final guest arrives,” Luci said, “I am sure that he will be most interested in Elliot’s tales too. In the meantime, Elliot, would you care for a drink and a smoke perhaps?” She took my arm once more and led me to a cabinet at the opposite corner of the room where she poured a healthy measure of whiskey. Handing me the drink, she lit two cigarettes and passed one to me, a light smear of her red lipstick on the filter. “I was worried that you might not come tonight,” she said, “especially after your visit to the church today.” “You heard about that, then? Not my finest hour, I must say,” I replied with a wry grin. “Mr Broddick told me,” she said sympathetically, “He should have warned you about our preacher, he’s more than a little odd and a powerful speaker to say the least. Did he… confuse you? I hear his ability to instil paranoia is formidable.” “Paranoia?” I mused, “Yes. Maybe that’s what it was, although, at the time it seemed like something more. He had me believing that I could not trust my own eyes and I’m afraid I took it quite to heart.” “How awful!” she cried softly, “What on earth did he do to you?” “Well, I…” I started, replaying my day after exiting the Town Hall; oddly, the more I thought about it, the more remote it seemed, as if it were a tale that I had heard but taken little interest in. Portions of it were hazy, indistinct and incomplete, and these half- memories were interspersed with empty moments, devoid of feature. It all seemed so trivial. Frowning, I said, “I’m really not sure. Isn’t that strange?” “A good thing, I say,” she stated, “Damned old fool shouldn’t go poking around in people’s heads like that! He’s been warned, but he doesn’t learn. Maybe it’s time Mr Broddick had another word in his ear.” “He’s done… whatever he did to me before, then? To others, I mean…” I asked, a little bemused. It’s why I stay here… A cold finger crawled up my spine at the poorly defined memory, and I jolted as if shocked when a memory of blood flashed before my eyes. “Are you alright Elliot?” Luci asked, her voice edged with concern. I shook the feeling off, nodded and smiled, took a sip of the whiskey and a long pull on the cigarette to calm myself. She cocked her head slightly, looking at me doubtfully, then grabbed my arm and pulled me toward a door at the back of the room. “Come with me, Elliot, there’s something I want to show you.” Leaving the room, we passed through the dining room to a large conservatory, glass- walled and roofed, overlooking the rear gardens of the property. Brightly flowering borders lined the edges of neatly trimmed lawns that dropped gently away from the house, leaving an unobstructed and rather spectacular view of the sea beyond. The sun was just above the Limits and sinking fast, and above us the first stars were pricking the sky. Luci directed my gaze to the burning horizon. “It’s a beautiful view, Luci,” I said, “and not unlike the one from Tenpenny Hill.” “Yes, it’s lovely,” she said patiently, “but just look, closely.” I looked at her quizzically, and she laid one soft hand on my cheek and redirected me. Shielding my eyes, I gazed intently at the scene, watching the sun melt into the Limits. “What am I looking for?” I asked, turning toward her again. Once more, her hand gently pushed me to face the sea, and she breathed in my ear, “Just watch.” So I watched; I strained my eyes to see whatever it was I was supposed to see, but all that was there was the endless rolling waves and that ominous fog bank, from north to south as far as the eye could see. The sun sank to its fiery collision with the horizon, lighting the fog with a russet glow as darkness descended from above, and I was just at the point where I would turn to Luci yet again to inquire as to why I was looking when, out of the fog eased a tendril of delicate flame. I blinked, rubbed my eyes and focused. Moving to the glass, I pushed myself to determine exactly what I was seeing. Faltering slightly, I said, “Is that…” “-boats, yes,” she replied, “Dinner will be a little late, as we have to wait for our guest to arrive.” She was smiling happily, staring at me in a way that made my heart beat faster, and I could feel my cheeks flush as I diligently surveyed the scene outside. “I wanted you to see it, Elliot,” she said wistfully, “I’ve always thought it a beautiful sight, the way they just appear with their torches held high. From here, it looks just like a snake of fire, like the water’s burning, don’t you think?” Laffs’ words came back to me in a rush; he had thought them beautiful too, even after his beating, and I wondered if he was standing atop the hill and watching as they drew closer. “Clowns…” I murmured, thinking on his tale. “What did you call them?” Luci asked, taking my arm. “What? Oh… just something somebody told me,” I replied cagily, “Luci, who are they? Where are they from?” “Old family friends,” she said, “Traders from far away that the Cavetts have come to know well. We do some business, and we all profit. As to where they are from, I am sure our guest will be more than willing to elaborate.” “What sort of business do you do with them? What do you trade?” I asked. “Patience Elliot, all in good time,” she said, kissing me lightly. The boats were making headway, and very soon they would be drawing up on the beach below. I could discern a number of dark skinned occupants, all dressed brightly in the manner that Laffs had spoken of, and I wondered a little at the danger I might be in, until Luci pulled me close and pressed her body against me, kissing me hard. My fingers entwined in her soft hair, and I returned the kiss passionately, lost completely under her spell. Her lips were warm and sweet, her skin soft and her body firm and young, and I could not have denied her if my life had depended on it; it wasn’t love, it was lust, pure and simple, and I wanted more. Pulling away from me gently, she said, “I’m glad you’re here, Elliot,” and then with one last kiss she led me, breathless and slightly bewildered, back to the room and the other guests.