The Shipment That Never Came

The muffled knock came at half-past ten, sharp and deliberate, interrupting William's third reading of the morning's letter. He had committed its words to memory by now — could have recited them with his eyes closed, each phrase branded into his consciousness like the marks convicts bore upon their flesh — yet he continued to stare at the page as though repetition might somehow alter its meaning. The cream-coloured paper had grown soft at the edges where his fingers had worried it, and the broken crimson seal lay scattered across his desk like droplets of dried blood.

The winter sun, now fully risen above the hills that cradled the Derwent Valley, cast wan rectangles across the Aubusson rug through the study's tall windows. The light possessed that peculiar quality unique to Van Diemen's Land's winters — bright yet without warmth, illuminating surfaces whilst failing to penetrate the chill that had settled into William's bones since the letter's arrival. He had ordered the fire built high despite the cost of fuel, yet even the flames that crackled and danced in the marble fireplace could not touch the cold that lived now in his marrow.

The knock came again, patient but insistent.

"Enter," he said at last, his voice low and clipped, betraying none of the turmoil that had consumed him these past hours. The mask was firmly in place — the gentleman's mask he had worn so long it sometimes felt more real than the face beneath. A man did not survive transportation, did not claw his way from chain gang to colonial prominence, without learning to govern his expressions as absolutely as any tyrant governed his subjects.

The door swung open to admit Thomas Whitfield, his bearing as precise as ever despite the morning's earlier disturbance. The butler's crisp black suit seemed to absorb what little warmth the winter light offered, and his every movement remained a study in carefully maintained control. Yet to William's discerning eye, sharpened by years of reading men's intentions in prison yards and business dealings alike, there was something different in Thomas today. A slight stiffness in his shoulders that spoke of tension held too tightly. The faintest tightening of his jaw, barely perceptible, yet present nonetheless.

Thomas knew something was wrong. Of course he did. The man had served William for years, had witnessed the household's rhythms in all their variations, had developed that uncanny sensitivity to atmospheric shifts that distinguished truly excellent butlers from competent functionaries. He would have noted William's agitation this morning, would have observed the letter's strange seal, would have drawn conclusions he was far too discreet to voice.

"Mr Blaylock has arrived, sir," Thomas announced, his tone carrying a weight that spoke of understanding far deeper than mere servitude.

William's jaw clenched at the mention of Jeremiah Blaylock. The name conjured images that now seemed to belong to another lifetime — the foreman's steady presence during the manor's construction, his quiet competence in managing the convict labour gangs, his willingness to ask no questions about aspects of William's business that didn't concern him directly. Once, William would have counted the man among his most trusted allies. Jeremiah had helped build the legitimate façade of Jeffries Manor and the business empire it represented, had maintained discretion about the darker underpinnings that no respectable colonial enterprise could entirely avoid. But trust, like everything else in William's world, felt suddenly fragile in the wake of the morning's revelation.

The letter had changed everything. Its accusations — of compromised arrangements, of official enquiries, of irregularities that threatened exposure — cast shadows of suspicion across relationships William had believed secure. If someone had betrayed him, if information had leaked to authorities or rivals, then who could he trust? Jeremiah had access to shipping manifests, knew the schedules of vessels carrying cargo whose true nature never appeared in official documentation. The foreman possessed knowledge that, in the wrong hands, could destroy everything William had built.

For a brief moment, William considered sending Jeremiah away. To deal with the man now, whilst his thoughts remained clouded by the letter's implications, felt like walking into battle without armour — like facing an opponent whose intentions remained unclear whilst one's own defences lay in disarray. Every instinct honed through years of survival screamed caution, urged delay, counselled gathering more information before committing to confrontation.

But then, William had not built his empire by shirking difficult conversations. He had not risen from transported thief to colonial gentleman by avoiding unpleasantness or hoping problems would resolve themselves through inaction. The men who succeeded in Van Diemen's Land were those who faced challenges directly, who seized control of situations before situations seized control of them. Whatever Jeremiah knew or didn't know, whatever role he might have played in the compromises the letter described, William needed to understand the terrain before enemies — known or unknown — could exploit his uncertainty.

"Show him in," William said finally, his voice calm but carrying an edge that was unmistakable. "And ensure we are not disturbed."

Thomas inclined his head in a small bow, his eyes briefly meeting William's before he turned to leave. There was a glimmer of something in that glance — concern, perhaps, or a warning unspoken, the kind of wordless communication that developed between men who had worked closely through years of shared endeavour.

As the door closed behind Thomas, William rose from his chair and moved to the window, his back to the room. The velvet curtains, deep burgundy and heavy with the weight of propriety, had been drawn aside just enough to reveal the sweeping grounds of Jeffries Manor. The pristine lawns stretched toward distant tree lines, their winter-brown grass rimed with frost that had yet to melt despite the morning's advancing hours. The hedgerows maintained their geometric precision even in dormancy, testament to the gardeners' dedication and to William's insistence that standards be upheld regardless of season. Beyond the formal gardens, paddocks rolled toward the river, and beyond the river rose the hills that sheltered this valley from the worst of the colonial winter's bite.

To an outsider, it was a scene of idyllic perfection — an English country estate transplanted to the antipodes, complete with all the trappings of gentility that marked its owner as a man of substance and taste. But to William, who had designed every element of this vista with calculated purpose, it felt this morning like a stage set for the theatre of his life. A carefully crafted illusion meant to obscure the roiling chaos beneath. The manor, the grounds, the servants, the respectable wife and heir — all of it performance, all of it construction, all of it vulnerable to a single letter bearing a blood-red seal.

He clasped his hands behind his back, his broad shoulders straightening as he drew a deep breath. The posture was one he had cultivated deliberately — the stance of a gentleman surveying his domain, of a man secure in his position and confident in his authority. It felt hollow now, yet he maintained it through sheer force of will. Whatever came through that door, whatever truths or lies Jeremiah Blaylock brought with him, William would face it as the master of Jeffries Manor. Not as the frightened convict who still sometimes surfaced in his dreams, chains rattling, overseers' whips cracking, the stench of the transport ship's hold filling his nostrils with remembered desperation.

The faint sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears, steady and measured — the tread of a working man who had learned to move through grand spaces without apology yet without presumption. Jeremiah's walk. William had heard it countless times during the manor's construction, those purposeful steps crossing scaffolding and surveying foundations, carrying their owner through every phase of the building's creation. He knew that walk as intimately as he knew the man himself, which was to say: well enough to trust, yet perhaps not well enough to be certain.

A moment later, the door opened again, and Thomas returned.

"Mr Blaylock, sir," Thomas announced, stepping aside to admit the foreman.

William turned slowly from the window, allowing the motion to convey deliberate control rather than anxious anticipation. His piercing blue eyes — the eyes that had learned to read men's souls in the prison yards of Parramatta — settled on the man who entered. Jeremiah Blaylock cut a sturdy figure against the doorframe, his tall, broad-shouldered frame filling the space with the solidity of someone accustomed to physical labour and unafraid of its demands. His heavy wool coat, practical rather than fashionable, spoke of a man who dressed for work rather than appearance, though the quality of the fabric testified to prosperity earned through years of capable service.

Jeremiah's weathered face, ruddy from the cold morning air and the walk from his cottage near the estate's working buildings, betrayed no overt emotion as he entered. Yet his eyes — dark and watchful beneath heavy brows — flickered with something William could not immediately place. Wariness, perhaps. Or the careful assessment of a man who sensed danger without yet understanding its nature. Jeremiah had survived his own challenges in reaching Van Diemen's Land, had built a life through skill and determination, and possessed the instincts of someone who had learned that powerful men's summons did not always herald good news.

"Thank you, Thomas," William said, his tone dismissive but not unkind. The butler hesitated for the briefest of moments, his grey eyes lingering on William's face as though searching for some unspoken instruction — or perhaps offering silent counsel that circumstances prevented him from voicing. Then, with a slight bow, he withdrew, closing the door softly behind him.

The study seemed to grow quieter in Thomas's absence, as though the butler's departure had removed some stabilising presence that had moderated the room's atmosphere. The fire continued its soft crackling, the clock on the mantelpiece maintained its measured ticking, yet these familiar sounds seemed suddenly insufficient to fill the space between the two men who remained. The air thickened with unspoken tension, with questions forming but not yet asked, with accusations hovering just beyond the threshold of utterance.

Jeremiah stood just inside the room, his hat clutched in one calloused hand, the other resting lightly at his side in a posture that might have appeared relaxed to casual observation. But William noted the faint sheen of perspiration on the foreman's brow despite the room's lingering chill, noted the way his fingers moved restlessly against the hat's worn brim. Jeremiah was nervous. The question was whether that nervousness stemmed from guilty knowledge or merely from the instinctive wariness any sensible man felt when summoned unexpectedly to his employer's study.

"Good morning, sir," Jeremiah said at last, his voice steady but carrying the roughness that betrayed his Yorkshire origins. Four years in the colony had softened some of his accent's harder edges, yet the vowels of northern England persisted beneath the surface — a reminder that Jeremiah Blaylock, like William himself, had come to Van Diemen's Land from elsewhere, had remade himself in this distant place, carried histories that preceded his colonial existence. "You wished to see me?"

William gestured to the chair opposite his desk, a high-backed affair upholstered in rich green leather that had been imported at considerable expense from a London furniture maker. The chair was designed to intimidate subtly — its occupant sat lower than William behind his desk, looking up rather than across, positioned as supplicant rather than equal. Such details mattered in negotiations, in confrontations, in the countless interactions through which power was established and maintained.

"Sit down, Jeremiah. We have much to discuss."

The silence that followed Jeremiah's settling into the chair stretched between them like a held breath. William had returned to his own seat, his imposing frame commanding the space behind the mahogany desk whose polished surface gleamed faintly in the weak winter light filtering through the windows. His fingers were steepled before him, his expression carefully neutral, his blue eyes fixed on the foreman with an intensity that seemed to pin Jeremiah to his chair more effectively than any physical restraint.

Jeremiah felt the scrutiny like a physical pressure against his chest. He had known William Jeffries for years now — had overseen the construction of this very room, the positioning of every stone and fitting of every panel according to designs he himself had drawn. The study was his creation as much as William's, yet sitting here under his employer's gaze, he felt suddenly like a stranger in unfamiliar territory. Something had changed since their last meeting. Something fundamental had shifted in the atmosphere between them, though Jeremiah could not identify its source.

His hands gripped the brim of his hat, the familiar worn leather providing small comfort against his growing unease. The hat had accompanied him from York, had survived the voyage to Van Diemen's Land, had shaded his eyes through countless days of supervising construction. It represented continuity with his former life, with the craftsman's traditions his father had taught him in that narrow workshop near the Shambles. Now his fingers moved against it nervously, betraying anxiety he could not entirely suppress.

William had always believed that silence was a tool as potent as any weapon. It was a lesson he had learned well in the fields of Parramatta, where a withheld word could mean the difference between punishment and reprieve, where convicts who spoke too readily often found their confidences used against them. The overseers had taught him the value of patience, of letting silence do work that words could not accomplish, of allowing others' discomfort to extract confessions that direct questioning might never yield. Now he wielded that silence with precision, letting it draw out Jeremiah's unease until the foreman's collar grew damp despite the morning's chill.

"Tell me, Jeremiah," William said at last, his tone even but laced with quiet menace, "what do you know of the shipment that was due to arrive three days ago?"

Jeremiah's dark eyes flickered — a subtle movement, quickly controlled, yet William caught it nonetheless. The skills he had developed reading men's faces in the prison yard had served him well in business, and they served him now. That flicker spoke of recognition, of significance, of knowledge that Jeremiah was weighing whether to reveal or conceal.

A bead of sweat rolled down the foreman's temple, tracing a path across weathered skin that had been shaped by decades of outdoor labour. He made no move to wipe it away, perhaps hoping the gesture would go unnoticed, perhaps unwilling to draw attention to his body's betrayal of his attempt at composure.

"It's... not like I haven't been keeping track, sir," Jeremiah began, his voice steady but lacking its usual confidence. "I received confirmation of the loading myself, spoke to the captain. Everything was in order."

"Was it?" William asked softly, his tone deceptively calm. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk, closing the distance between them in a gesture that was deliberately intimidating. The movement brought his face into sharper relief, the hard lines of his jaw, the calculating intelligence in his eyes, the slight curl of his lip that suggested both scepticism and barely restrained anger. "Because according to our associates in Port Arthur, that shipment never arrived. They seemed quite displeased, as you might imagine."

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending sparks up the chimney with a sharp crack that made Jeremiah start despite himself. The sound of splitting wood punctuated the tension between them like a gunshot, its echo seeming to linger in the room's heavy air. The fire's dancing light threw shadows across William's face, accentuating the planes and hollows in ways that made him appear almost predatory — a far cry from the gentleman who hosted dinner parties and discussed colonial politics with visiting dignitaries.

Jeremiah swallowed, the sound audible in the study's oppressive quiet. His mind raced through possibilities — storms, delays, the countless mishaps that could befall vessels navigating the treacherous waters around Van Diemen's Land's coast. He had supervised countless shipments over the years, had managed the logistics of William's various enterprises with the same meticulous attention he had brought to building the manor itself. Failures were rare, and when they occurred, there were always explanations.

"There must've been some mistake, sir," he managed, hearing his own voice emerge less steadily than he would have wished. "Maybe a delay... bad weather at sea, perhaps?"

William's eyes narrowed, the blue seeming to darken with suppressed fury. "A delay?" he repeated, his voice hardening like iron cooling after the forge. "Bad weather?" He straightened in his chair, his imposing frame seeming to fill the room with barely contained energy. "Do you think I haven't considered these possibilities, Jeremiah? Do you think I would summon you here if I thought this was some trivial matter?"

He reached for the letter on his desk, watching as Jeremiah's eyes tracked the movement with involuntary attention. The cream-coloured paper, crumpled slightly from William's earlier agitation, still bore the scattered remnants of its crimson seal — those fragments that seemed to glint in the firelight with malevolent significance. The letter itself William kept angled away from Jeremiah's view, but its presence on the desk was statement enough. Correspondence had arrived. Information had been received. And whatever that information contained, it had prompted this summons, this confrontation, this sudden chill in a relationship that had seemed secure just days before.

Jeremiah's gaze lingered on the letter for a moment longer than was wise, his dark eyes trying to discern what words might be written on that visible surface. Then he caught himself and looked away, but not before William had noted his interest. Another piece of information filed away. Another observation that might prove significant.

"No, sir," Jeremiah said quickly, his words tumbling over one another in his haste to respond, to deflect, to restore some equilibrium to an exchange that had tilted dangerously against him. "Of course not. I just meant—"

"Enough." William's voice cut through the air like a whip crack, silencing the foreman mid-sentence with the same authority that had once commanded convict work gangs and now commanded business empires. He rose to his feet with deliberate slowness, his movements controlled but brimming with restrained energy.

"This is not the time for excuses, Jeremiah. It is the time for answers."

He began to pace behind his desk, each step measured, his boots striking the polished floorboards with rhythmic authority. The boards, Jeremiah noted with the craftsman's instinct that never quite left him, did not dare creak beneath their master's tread — a testament to the quality of their construction, to the care Jeremiah himself had taken in ensuring every element of this manor met the highest standards. Yet now that craftsmanship seemed almost mocking, the evidence of his dedication surrounding him whilst his employer regarded him with suspicion bordering on accusation.

"The contents of that shipment weren't just cargo, were they?" William continued, his voice low and dangerous, each word landing with the precision of a thrown blade. "You know as well as I do what was hidden beneath those crates of wool and timber. If that shipment has fallen into the wrong hands..."

He let the sentence trail away, its implications hanging in the air like smoke. They both understood what was at stake — understood the nature of certain arrangements that existed beneath the surface of William's legitimate enterprises, arrangements that could never appear in official documentation, that relied upon discretion and trust and the kind of loyalty that asked no questions. If those arrangements had been compromised, if the wrong people had gained access to cargo that was never meant to be examined closely...

Jeremiah shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the green leather creaking softly beneath his weight. His weathered complexion had paled under William's unwavering gaze, the ruddy colour draining from cheeks that had faced Yorkshire winters and Tasmanian summers with equal stoicism. He looked suddenly older than his forty-one years, suddenly diminished in a way that had nothing to do with the chair's deliberately intimidating design.

"I'll look into it, sir," he said, his voice faltering despite his obvious effort to project confidence. "We'll trace the route, check the ports, speak to the crew. I'll put our best men on it straight away."

William regarded him for a long moment, his expression inscrutable as a mask carved from stone. The firelight played across his features, illuminating and shadowing by turns, creating an effect that seemed almost theatrical — the wealthy gentleman transformed into something harder, more dangerous, more reminiscent of the desperate man who had once survived through cunning and ruthlessness alone.

The clock on the mantelpiece continued its measured ticking, each sound like a hammer fall in the tense silence. The seconds accumulated into a small eternity whilst William weighed the foreman's words, searched his face for signs of deception, calculated probabilities and assessed risks with the cold precision that had served him through years of navigating circumstances where a wrong judgement could mean chains or worse.

Then, with a faint nod that conceded nothing but acknowledged the response, he sat back down, the chair creaking softly beneath him as he settled his weight.

"See that you do," he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of authority that had once convinced a prison guard to look the other way, that had persuaded investors to trust a man whose past remained carefully obscured, that had built an empire from nothing but will and the willingness to do what others would not. "And you'd best uncover the truth quickly, Jeremiah. Our clients will not remain patient for long, and neither will I."

"Yes, sir," Jeremiah said, relief flickering across his face like sunlight through breaking clouds. He gripped the arms of the chair, his calloused hands pressing against the leather as he prepared to rise, clearly eager to escape the study's oppressive atmosphere and begin whatever investigation might restore his standing in William's estimation.

But before he could stand, William held up a hand — a simple gesture, almost casual, yet it froze the foreman in place as effectively as any shouted command. Jeremiah sank back into his chair with the resignation of a man who understood his reprieve had been premature.

"There's more," William said, his voice softening slightly but losing none of its edge. "Our associates also mentioned... irregularities in recent transactions. Discrepancies in the manifests, funds unaccounted for."

The colour drained further from Jeremiah's face, leaving his weathered features grey beneath their tan. The fire's warmth seemed suddenly insufficient against the chill that settled over him — a cold that had nothing to do with Van Diemen's Land's winter and everything to do with the implications of William's words.

"Irregularities, sir?" Jeremiah echoed, his voice barely above a whisper. The word seemed to catch in his throat, emerging rough-edged and uncertain.

William leaned forward again, his piercing gaze locking onto Jeremiah's with an intensity that permitted no evasion, no deflection, no refuge in ambiguity. "Yes, irregularities. I find it curious that such errors have arisen under your watch. Care to explain?"

Jeremiah swallowed hard, the sound audible in the room's suffocating stillness.

"Sir, I can assure you, I've no knowledge of any such... discrepancies," he said, his voice trembling slightly despite obvious effort at control. The Yorkshire accent had reasserted itself fully now, the careful colonial polish stripped away by stress. "I've always run the operation with the utmost care. If there's been any mistake, it's..." He hesitated, his words trailing off into uneasy silence as he seemed to recognise that any excuse he offered might deepen rather than diminish suspicion.

"If?" William prompted, his tone dangerously quiet.

Jeremiah licked his lips, his gaze darting briefly to the letter on the desk — that mysterious correspondence whose contents he could not see but whose significance he clearly sensed — before returning to William's face. His expression shifted as he spoke, moving from defensive uncertainty toward something that might have been calculation or might have been desperate inspiration.

"It's possible," he said slowly, choosing each word with care, "that someone's been tampering with the records. I've noticed... small things, sir. Details that don't quite add up. I didn't want to trouble you until I was certain, but..."

William's eyes narrowed further, his expression darkening like the clouds gathering outside. "Go on," he said.

"I think there might be someone working against us, sir," Jeremiah continued, the words coming faster now, tumbling out as if he feared losing his nerve if he paused. "Someone with access to the manifests, the shipping schedules. It's the only explanation that makes sense."

For a long moment, neither man spoke. The fire crackled and settled. The clock maintained its inexorable rhythm. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the windows, carrying with it the promise of further weather to come. William's gaze bore into Jeremiah with an intensity that seemed to strip away all pretence, all performance, searching for the truth beneath the foreman's words with skills honed through years of reading men's intentions in circumstances where misreading could prove fatal.

"If what you say is true," William said slowly, each word measured and deliberate, "then we have a traitor in our midst. And that, Jeremiah, is a far graver matter than a mere missing shipment."

Jeremiah nodded, his face pale but resolute beneath William's scrutiny. The fear had not left his eyes, but something else had joined it — determination, perhaps, or the desperate courage of a man who sees one path forward and commits to it regardless of obstacles. "I'll find out who's behind it, sir," he said firmly. "I'll get to the bottom of this. You have my word."

"See that you do," William replied, his voice cold as iron left too long in winter air. "And Jeremiah—be careful. If there is a traitor, they will not take kindly to your investigation." The warning carried genuine concern beneath its severity, though whether that concern was for Jeremiah's welfare or merely for the investigation's success remained deliberately unclear.

"Yes, sir," Jeremiah said, rising from his chair at last. He stood for a moment, hat still clutched in hands that had essentially built this room and now seemed uncertain of their welcome within it. The green leather chair sat empty behind him, bearing the impression of his weight.

He hesitated, as if about to speak further — to offer additional assurances, perhaps, or to ask questions whose answers might illuminate the shadows that had gathered so suddenly around them both. But whatever words he considered, he thought better of them. Some things were wiser left unspoken, some questions safer left unasked. With a respectful bow of his head, Jeremiah turned and walked to the door, his measured tread carrying him across floorboards he had laid with his own hands, past panelling he had fitted with craftsman's pride, toward an exit from a room that suddenly felt less like his creation and more like someone else's territory entirely.

The door clicked softly shut behind him, leaving William alone with the letter, the fire's dying warmth, and the terrible uncertainty of not knowing whom he could trust.