Search Initiation

The afternoon air struck cold against Broadmoor's face as he emerged from the manor's warmth onto the front steps. A collection of men had gathered at the foot of the stairs, their assembled figures creating a portrait of Granton's social hierarchy in miniature.

Weather-beaten farmers stood amongst shopkeepers still wearing their work aprons, their faces bearing the particular combination of curiosity and concern that attended any disruption to the settled order of colonial life. A handful of more prosperous citizens lingered at the edges of the group, their better coats marking them as men of some standing — merchants, perhaps, or the managers of nearby estates. All had answered the call to assist in the search, though their motives surely varied from genuine concern to opportunistic curiosity.

The murmur of speculation carried on the winter air as Broadmoor descended the steps. He caught fragments of conversation — mentions of business rivals, whispered references to Inspector Barwick's earlier inquiries, the inevitable hints of scandal that attended any misfortune befalling the prominent. Colonial society, for all its pretensions to civility, fed upon such moments with an appetite that bordered on the voracious.

"Gentlemen," Broadmoor addressed them, his voice carrying across the assembled group with authority that commanded immediate attention. The murmurs ceased, faces turning toward him with expressions ranging from eager assistance to barely concealed suspicion. "We have a missing person to locate. Mr William Jeffries was last seen in this house last night. Our priority is to search the estate grounds thoroughly and then expand our efforts to the surrounding areas."

He paused, letting his gaze sweep across the assembled men. Each held his own reasons for being here — duty, curiosity, perhaps even darker motives. In a colony where fortunes rose and fell with stunning speed, the disappearance of a figure like William Jeffries created ripples that spread far beyond the boundaries of his estate.

"Leave no area unchecked, no structure unsearched. The outbuildings, the wells, the wooded areas, the river banks — everything must be examined with thoroughness. If Mr Jeffries is to be found, we will find him."

The words carried conviction, though privately Broadmoor harboured doubts about what, precisely, they would discover. His instincts, honed through years of naval service and colonial policing, suggested that William Jeffries's disappearance was far more complex than a simple case of misadventure or sudden illness.

As the men began to organise themselves into search parties, Broadmoor's attention was drawn to two figures who stood slightly apart from the general assembly.

The first was unmistakably a man of the land — a Scotsman, by his accent when he spoke, with the weathered features and watchful eyes of one who had spent decades reading the wilderness. His clothing was practical rather than fashionable, his stance carrying the easy alertness of a hunter or gamekeeper. A well-maintained rifle rested in the crook of his arm with the casual familiarity of a tool long employed.

"Thomas Gilchrist, sir," the man introduced himself, his accent thick but his words clear as creek water. "Estate gamekeeper these past four years, since the master first settled this land."

Broadmoor studied him closely, noting the confidence in Gilchrist's bearing and the intelligence evident in his keen grey eyes. This was a man who knew the estate's terrain intimately — every hollow and hillock, every game trail and hidden clearing. Such knowledge would prove invaluable in the search ahead.

"Four years," Broadmoor repeated thoughtfully. "You'd have come out with Mr Jeffries when he first acquired the property, then?"

Something flickered across Gilchrist's weathered features — not quite hesitation, but something akin to careful consideration. "Aye, came out with Mr Silas Croft and the master when he first settled this land. Those were hard days, breaking ground and clearing bush. Angus McLeod ran the farming operations back then — never saw a man with such talent for coaxing life from unwilling soil." His gaze drifted briefly toward the distant paddocks. "Different times, sir. The land was wilder then, and so were we."

"And in all that time," Broadmoor pressed, keeping his tone conversational, "have you ever known Mr Jeffries to disappear like this? To leave without word or warning?"

Gilchrist's eyes narrowed, and Broadmoor caught the brief shadow of something — concern, perhaps, or the weight of knowledge carefully guarded — before the gamekeeper schooled his features into neutral blankness.

"No, sir. The master's always been a creature of habit, regular as the turning seasons. This..." He shook his head slowly. "This isn't like him at all. Not one bit."

Before Broadmoor could probe further, the second figure stepped forward — a younger man, his muscular frame and calloused hands marking him as a tradesman. Soot stains darkened his rolled sleeves, and the faint smell of coal smoke and hot metal clung to him, announcing his profession before he spoke.

"Philip Pyke, Constable." His handshake was firm, his palm rough with the evidence of countless hours at the forge. "Village blacksmith. I mightn't know the grounds as well as Thomas here, but I've strong arms and willing hands. Figured I could be of use."

There was something refreshingly direct about the blacksmith — an honesty of manner that contrasted with the undercurrents of evasion and concealment Broadmoor had sensed throughout the manor. Yet he did not miss the way Pyke's eyes kept darting toward the house's upper windows, as though searching for something — or someone — within.

"Glad to have you both," Broadmoor said, his mind already formulating the search strategy. "Gilchrist, you'll lead a party through the wooded areas of the estate. Your knowledge of the terrain will be essential — if Mr Jeffries wandered into the bush for any reason, you're our best chance of finding his trail."

The gamekeeper nodded, his expression suggesting he had already anticipated this assignment.

"Pyke, you'll accompany me. We'll begin with the outbuildings and work our way outward."

As the men moved to take up their assigned positions, Broadmoor cast one final glance toward the manor. Movement at an upper window caught his eye — Victoria Ashford's silhouette, dark against the glass, watching the proceedings below with an attention that seemed to miss nothing.

Even from this distance, he could feel the weight of her observation.

The search for William Jeffries was beginning in earnest. Yet Broadmoor suspected — with the certainty of instinct developed over years of pursuing truth through lies and evasion — that finding the man would prove only the first step in unravelling a mystery far deeper than simple disappearance.

In a colony built upon secrets and reinvention, every answer seemed destined to spawn new questions. And the secrets of Jeffries Manor, he sensed, ran deeper than anyone had yet acknowledged.