A Tapestry of Testimony

The wine cellar existed beneath the manor's east wing, accessible through a narrow door hidden behind a tapestry in the servants' passage. Constable Broadmoor had chosen this location for the group interrogation with deliberate care. The dank, oppressive atmosphere would unsettle men already anxious about their precarious positions, whilst the cellar's thick stone walls would contain whatever revelations the afternoon might produce.

He descended the worn steps with a lantern in one hand and his notebook in the other, the cold air rising to meet him with musty exhalation. Row upon row of dusty bottles lined the walls, their contents representing wealth that men like those awaiting him could never hope to possess. Ancient oak casks occupied the far end of the chamber, their presence suggesting vintages that predated even the colony's founding.

Three figures waited at a rough wooden table in the centre of the space, their faces thrown into sharp relief by the guttering candles that provided the only illumination beyond Broadmoor's lantern. The constable had instructed Thomas to bring them here an hour earlier, allowing time for the cellar's oppressive atmosphere to work upon their nerves before questioning began.

Jasper Enfield sat with his shoulders hunched forward, as though attempting to make his lean frame smaller still. He was the youngest of the three, barely nineteen, yet his sharp eyes held a watchfulness that spoke of experiences well beyond his years. Those eyes darted constantly around the cellar, never settling on any point for more than a moment — the gaze of a man accustomed to cataloguing exits and assessing threats. His dark hair, longer than regulation permitted, fell across a face marked by faint scars that hinted at the London streets where he had learned his trade.

To Jasper's left sat Silas Jennings, his slender frame held with the remnants of a gentleman's posture despite circumstances that rendered such bearing incongruous. Where the other two convicts wore their reduced status openly, Silas maintained an air of faded refinement — wire-rimmed spectacles perched on an aquiline nose, greying hair that had once been carefully groomed, delicate hands whose calluses from recent fence work sat awkwardly alongside fingers that had clearly been trained for more elegant purposes. He was the eldest of the three at thirty-three, and his eyes behind those spectacles held an intelligence that Broadmoor recognised as both asset and liability.

Opposite them sat Ezra Barlow, whose burly frame seemed to dwarf the rickety chair that supported him. His thick, grizzled beard framed a weather-beaten face that spoke of years at sea before transportation had confined him to land. Unlike his companions, Ezra sat perfectly still, his posture carrying the rigid discipline of naval service even now. His piercing green eyes fixed on the cellar door with an intensity that was almost unsettling, watching Broadmoor's approach with the wariness of a man who had learned that authority figures brought only trouble.

"Gentlemen," Broadmoor began, settling into the remaining chair with deliberate calm. "I trust you understand why you've been brought here."

The three men exchanged glances — a wordless communication that spoke of prior consultation and agreed strategies. It was Silas who responded first, his educated accent carrying the careful modulation of someone who had once moved in respectable circles.

"The master's disappearance, I presume." His voice was measured, controlled, yet Broadmoor detected tension beneath the composed surface. "Though I confess I'm uncertain what we three might contribute to your investigation. We've each provided our statements."

"Indeed you have, Mr Jennings." Broadmoor withdrew his notebook, making a show of consulting pages already committed to memory. "And certain... inconsistencies in those statements have prompted this gathering. I believe that between the three of you, considerably more truth remains to be told."

Jasper shifted in his seat, the movement betraying nervousness his street-sharpened instincts couldn't entirely conceal. "I don't know what inconsistencies you mean, sir. I was in the stables that night, tending to the horses. Didn't hear nothing amiss till morning."

"The new stallion, as I recall from your earlier account," Broadmoor said mildly. "A temperamental beast that required attention throughout the night."

"That's right, sir. Right temperamental, he was."

Broadmoor made a note, then turned his attention to Silas. "And you, Mr Jennings? You claimed to be mending fences in the south pasture."

Silas's spectacles caught the candlelight as he nodded. "The fences require constant attention in this weather. I was there until well past dark, then returned to the convict quarters."

"Liar."

The word exploded from Ezra with startling force, his Yorkshire vowels thickening with emotion. Jasper flinched visibly, whilst Silas recoiled as though he had been struck.

Ezra's massive hands were clenched into fists on the table before him. "I saw you that night, Silas. You weren't anywhere near the south pasture. You were skulking about near the rose garden, moving like a man who didn't want to be seen."

Silas's face had gone pale, the candlelight emphasising the sudden hollowing of his cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about. You're mistaken."

Broadmoor leaned forward, his interest sharpening. "Mr Barlow, you claim to have seen Mr Jennings near the rose garden? At what hour?"

"Must have been near eight o'clock." Ezra's eyes remained fixed on Silas with barely concealed hostility. "The moon was just rising, casting long shadows. I was tending to those black roses the master was so fond of — delicate things that need careful managing. That's when I spotted Silas, creeping along the hedge like he was up to something."

"And if you were in the rose garden," Silas shot back, finding his voice at last, "how do you explain what you told the butler? About seeing a rider heading for the woods with blood on his hands?"

A heavy silence fell over the cellar as Silas's words hung in the air. Jasper's head swivelled between his fellow convicts, his expression shifting from confusion to alarm. Broadmoor remained outwardly impassive, though his pencil had frozen above the page.

Ezra's face had drained of colour. "I don't know what you mean," he muttered, but the tremor in his voice betrayed uncertainty.

"Don't you?" Silas pressed forward with unexpected confidence. "You told Thomas you saw a cloaked rider leaving the property at speed, hands glistening wet in the moonlight. If you were tending roses all night, how could you have witnessed such a thing?"

Broadmoor's gaze moved between the two men, cataloguing every flicker of expression, every involuntary movement. "Mr Barlow, Mr Jennings raises a pertinent question. Your accounts appear to contradict one another."

Ezra's jaw worked silently for a moment before he spoke. "I might have taken a walk later. To stretch my legs after the rose work. That's when I saw the rider."

"And the blood you mentioned? You claimed the rider's hands were covered in it."

A bead of sweat traced down Ezra's temple despite the cellar's chill. "I might have... embellished that part. It was dark. Could have been mud, or anything really. But he was in a hurry, that much is certain."

Jasper, who had remained silent during this exchange, suddenly spoke up. "Here now, what's all this about bloody riders? Nobody told me anything about this."

"That's because you hide away in them stables all hours," Silas observed, his earlier composure returning now that attention had shifted to Ezra. "Too frightened of what might be prowling in the dark."

Jasper's lean face flushed crimson. "I ain't frightened of nothing, Silas Jennings. And at least I do honest work, not scribbling figures all day whilst plotting ways to slip away from my duties."

"Honest work?" Ezra scoffed, a bitter smile twisting his bearded features. "Is that what you call helping yourself to the master's whiskey and letting the kitchen staff take the blame?"

Jasper was on his feet before Broadmoor could intervene, his chair clattering to the stone floor behind him. "You take that back! I never stole nothing in my life!"

Silas let out a bark of humourless laughter. "An interesting claim from a man whose reputation preceded him even to Van Diemen's Land. They called you 'The Ghost' in London, didn't they? Famous for entering houses without leaving a trace. Perhaps you should remind yourself how you came to be in this colony."

Jasper's fists clenched at his sides, but something in Silas's words seemed to strike deeper than mere insult. "That was... different. I was a boy. I didn't know any better."

"And yet those skills remain remarkably convenient," Silas continued, his refined voice sharpening with accusation. "A man who can pick any lock, enter any room unseen, disappear without trace. When the master vanishes mysteriously, who better to suspect than London's Ghost?"

"Enough." Broadmoor's voice cut through the mounting tension with quiet authority. "All three of you, sit down."

Jasper retrieved his chair with trembling hands and lowered himself back onto it. The veneer of unity the convicts had presented at the interrogation's start had shattered completely, revealing currents of suspicion, resentment, and fear that ran far deeper than Broadmoor had anticipated.

He studied each man in turn, allowing the silence to stretch until it became almost unbearable. When he spoke again, his voice was calm but carried an edge that none of them could miss.

"I want you to understand something, gentlemen. Mr Jeffries's disappearance is a matter of utmost gravity. If I discover that any of you have lied to me, or withheld information that might illuminate what occurred, the consequences will be severe. Transportation for life. The chain gangs of Port Arthur. I trust I make myself clear."

Three heads nodded, though their expressions ranged from sullen defiance to barely controlled panic.

"Good. Now, we're going to begin again. And this time, I want the truth."

It was Jasper who cracked first.

Perhaps it was his youth, or perhaps the burden of secrets had simply grown too heavy for a boy raised in London's streets to bear. Whatever the cause, his facade crumbled as Broadmoor's questions wore away at its foundations.

"Please, sir," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, "you have to understand. We didn't mean no harm, none of us. It's just... things haven't been right at this manor for months. Not since the master started acting strange."

Broadmoor's pencil hovered above the page. "Strange in what way, Mr Enfield?"

Jasper glanced at his fellow convicts, some unspoken communication passing between them. When he continued, his words came slowly, as though he were choosing each one with care.

"It started maybe six months past. Mr Jeffries, he'd always been a hard man, but fair enough considering. Strict about the rules, but you knew where you stood. Then something changed." Jasper's eyes took on a distant quality, as though he were seeing scenes that troubled him to recall. "He got obsessed with those black roses in the garden. Would spend hours amongst them, talking to them like they could answer back."

Ezra nodded heavily, his earlier hostility forgotten in the face of shared recollection. "I saw him out there at all hours. Sunrise, midnight, didn't matter. And the things he was saying... it wasn't any language I've heard, and I've sailed ports from here to the Indies."

"There's more." Silas adjusted his spectacles, his educated voice carrying weight despite its tremor. "Books started arriving for him. Old volumes, bound in leather that looked almost like skin. I saw one when I was working in his study — the pages were covered in writing that seemed to move when you looked at it too long. Made my head ache just glancing at it."

Broadmoor thought of the strange books Mrs Harrington had mentioned, the ones with symbols that caused discomfort to look upon. The testimony was aligning in ways that troubled him.

"And the visitors," Jasper added, his voice dropping further still. "Strange folk, coming at all hours. Cloaked figures who'd go into the master's study and stay for hours. We'd hear sounds through the walls — not talking exactly, but something else. Chanting, maybe. Made the horses nervous, and they ain't easily spooked."

"Tell me about the night Mr Jeffries disappeared," Broadmoor said. "What did each of you actually see?"

Another exchange of glances. This time it was Ezra who spoke, his Yorkshire accent thickening as though proximity to these memories demanded his native speech.

"It were a strange night from the start. The wind had been blowing fierce all day, but come sunset it just... stopped. Dead still. And there were this feeling in the air, like before a storm breaks, only worse. Like the whole world were holding its breath."

Silas nodded. "I felt it too. That's why I left my post at the fences, though I knew I'd be punished for abandoning the work. I had to see what was happening. The air itself felt wrong."

"And what did you see?" Broadmoor pressed.

"I saw the master," Silas said slowly, "heading across the grounds toward the old eucalyptus at the property's edge. The one the native folk call sacred. He was walking with purpose, like a man keeping an appointment."

"I followed him," Jasper admitted, "keeping my distance. He was muttering to himself, same strange words Ezra mentioned. And he was carrying something — couldn't see what exactly, but it caught the moonlight wrong. Gave off a glow that weren't natural."

Ezra leaned forward, his voice dropping to barely above a whisper. "I were already near the tree when they arrived. Had gone that way earlier, before the strange feeling started, to check on the boundary fence. That's when I saw... I saw..."

He trailed off, his weathered face twisting with something that looked remarkably like fear.

"What did you see, Mr Barlow?" Broadmoor asked quietly.

"There were something already there. Waiting for him." Ezra's hands had begun to tremble on the table. "I thought at first it were one of them tigers — thylacines, the natives call them. But it were... wrong. Too big. And its stripes, they weren't markings like they should be. They moved, Constable. Rippled like water, like they weren't quite fixed to the creature's hide."

Broadmoor felt a chill trace down his spine despite himself. He thought of the thylacine he had seen from the Blue Room window — the creature that had watched the manor with such unsettling intelligence before melting back into the forest shadows.

"What happened next?"

"The master, he weren't afraid." Jasper's voice had taken on a wondering quality. "He walked right up to that thing and started speaking to it. Same strange language as before. And he held up what he were carrying — a stone, it were, covered in markings. It glowed brighter as he spoke, bright enough to hurt your eyes."

"The beast," Silas continued, "it responded. Made this sound — not growling exactly, more like something I can't put words to. And it started circling the master, round and round, whilst he kept speaking and the stone kept glowing..."

"Then there were a flash," Ezra finished, his voice hollow. "Bright as noon, lasting just a heartbeat. And when we could see again..."

"They were gone," Jasper whispered. "Both of them. The master and that creature. Vanished like they'd never been there at all."

Broadmoor sat back in his chair, his mind struggling to accommodate what he had just heard. The testimony aligned too closely with Nathaniel Blackburn's account of gates between worlds, of ancient powers and willing participants in rituals beyond human understanding. Yet it also contradicted the evidence he had gathered from the household — the sounds heard from the Blue Room, the scorch mark on that chamber's carpet, the sense that whatever had occurred had happened within the manor's walls rather than at some distant tree.

"Why didn't you come forward with this immediately?" he asked, keeping his voice neutral despite his churning thoughts.

Ezra's bitter laugh echoed off the cellar walls. "Who'd believe us, sir? We're convicts. Our word means nothing against the reputation of a man like William Jeffries. We'd have been flogged for spreading wild tales, or worse."

"Besides," Silas added, his refined voice heavy with resignation, "we were afraid. Not just of punishment, but of... whatever that was. Whatever took the master. We couldn't explain it, couldn't make sense of it. So we agreed to say nothing, to claim we'd seen nothing, and to hope it would all somehow resolve itself."

"But it hasn't resolved itself," Jasper said quietly. "And the longer this goes on, the worse it feels. There's something wrong with this place now, sir. Something that wasn't here before. Or maybe it was always here, and the master just... woke it up."

Broadmoor studied the three faces before him — each bearing its own particular blend of fear, guilt, and desperate hope that confession might bring some form of absolution. He had interrogated enough men to recognise genuine terror when he encountered it, yet he had also learned that truth could wear many faces, and that desperate men often found stories that served their purposes better than reality.

"You understand," he said carefully, "that what you've described defies rational explanation. Spirit creatures, glowing stones, men vanishing into thin air — these are the elements of folklore, not criminal investigation."

"We know how it sounds," Silas acknowledged. "But we're telling you what we saw. What all three of us saw, whether or not it can be explained by any rational framework. Something happened to Mr Jeffries that night. Something beyond any of our understanding."

Ezra nodded heavily. "There's forces at work in this land that don't answer to colonial law, Constable. The native folk know it — that's why they mark certain places as sacred, why they won't go near them after dark. The master, he were meddling with things no man should touch. And now he's paid the price."

"Or perhaps," Broadmoor said quietly, "he went willingly. Perhaps this was what he wanted all along."

The three convicts exchanged uneasy glances at this suggestion, as though the possibility that William had chosen his fate was somehow more disturbing than the alternative.

"Whatever the truth may be," Broadmoor continued, closing his notebook with deliberate finality, "I expect each of you to remain available for further questioning. You will speak to no one about what you've told me today. If I discover that any of you have been embellishing or fabricating elements of this account..."

He let the threat hang unfinished, watching as each man absorbed its implications.

"We've told you the truth, sir," Jasper said, and there was something in his young voice that made Broadmoor almost believe him. "Every word of it. What you choose to do with that truth is your affair."

Broadmoor rose from his chair, its legs scraping loudly against the stone floor. The cellar seemed darker than before, the candlelight barely holding back shadows that pressed close on every side. The wine bottles lining the walls watched the scene with dusty indifference, their contents aging slowly whilst above them, the mystery of William Jeffries's fate remained as impenetrable as ever.

"Gentlemen," he said, gathering his lantern and notebook, "you may return to your duties. I shall have further questions in due course."

He climbed the worn steps without looking back, leaving the three convicts in the cellar's chill embrace. Behind him, he heard them begin to speak in low, urgent tones — comparing notes, perhaps, or simply seeking reassurance in each other's company after the ordeal of confession.

The tapestry that concealed the cellar door fell back into place behind him, and Broadmoor stood for a moment in the servants' passage, letting his eyes readjust to the manor's marginally brighter interior. His mind churned with the implications of what he had heard, with the impossible testimony that nevertheless aligned too closely with other accounts to be dismissed entirely.

Gates between worlds. Ancient powers that predated British settlement. A man walking willingly toward something that defied comprehension, carrying a stone that glowed with unnatural light.

And somewhere in the midst of it all, the truth about what had happened to William Jeffries — a truth that seemed to retreat further from his grasp with every witness he questioned, every piece of evidence he gathered.

The investigation would continue. It had to continue. Yet with each passing day, the constable found himself less certain that the answers he sought could be found through the methods his training had provided.

Some mysteries, perhaps, were never meant to be solved by mortal minds.