The Wilderness Speaks

The transition from cultivated garden to untamed bush was abrupt, as though some invisible boundary had been drawn between the world of human ambition and the ancient land that had existed long before any European foot touched these shores. One moment Broadmoor walked upon gravel paths bordered by imported roses; the next, he pushed through undergrowth that seemed to resent his passage, branches catching at his coat like grasping fingers reluctant to release their grip.

The atmosphere changed as dramatically as the terrain. Where the garden had held the mingled scents of English lavender and native heath, the woodland offered something rawer — damp earth and rotting leaves, the sharp medicinal tang of eucalyptus, and beneath it all a smell that Broadmoor could not quite identify. Something old. Something that predated the colony, the garden, the manor itself. The smell of a land that had known countless seasons before any map had given it a name.

The canopy overhead filtered the failing afternoon light into strange patterns, dappled shadows that shifted with each breath of wind. Every rustle of leaves seemed amplified in the woodland quiet, every snap of twig underfoot drawing the eye toward movement that was never quite there when one looked directly. The trees themselves — ancient giants whose trunks bore the scars of bushfires survived and seasons endured — loomed over the searchers with an indifference that felt almost hostile. They had stood here for centuries. They would stand here long after these intruders had returned to dust.

Thomas Gilchrist moved through this environment with the ease of long familiarity, slipping between obstacles that seemed to deliberately impede the men who followed. The gamekeeper's rifle remained slung across his back, but his hand strayed to it frequently, fingers brushing the stock with the unconscious habit of a man who had learned never to let his guard drop entirely.

Broadmoor kept pace beside him, noting the tension that had settled into Gilchrist's shoulders the moment they entered the tree line. In the open ground of the garden, the gamekeeper had seemed merely cautious. Here, in his own territory, he had grown rigid with a wariness that spoke of something beyond professional concern for a missing employer.

"You seem ill at ease, Mr Gilchrist," Broadmoor observed, ducking beneath a low-hanging branch that seemed positioned at precisely the wrong height. "I'd have thought these woods would be as familiar to you as your own cottage."

Gilchrist's eyes swept the surrounding bush before settling briefly on the constable. "Familiar, aye. But that doesn't mean comfortable, sir. Not today." He paused, seeming to weigh his next words. "The land has its moods, you might say. And today..." He shook his head, leaving the thought unfinished.

"Today what?"

The gamekeeper was silent for several paces, his boots finding their way through the undergrowth with sureness. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to something barely above a whisper, as though he feared the trees themselves might be listening.

"These woods can be dangerous, Constable. The land doesn't take kindly to us newcomers — not truly, not in its heart. We've been here four years now, clearing and building and imposing our ways upon ground that's known only the old ways for longer than we can reckon." His accent had thickened, the Scottish burr becoming more pronounced as emotion crept into his words. "And then there are the clans — the ones who've been here longer than we can imagine. Sometimes they let us be, but sometimes..."

He trailed off, his gaze fixed upon something in the middle distance that Broadmoor could not see.

"Sometimes what?" Broadmoor pressed, keeping his voice low to match the gamekeeper's tone.

Gilchrist's jaw tightened, and for a moment he seemed to struggle with himself — the desire to speak warring with some deeper reluctance. "Sometimes they remind us that this was never our land to begin with. Best not to think too hard on it, sir."

A sudden rustle to their left froze the entire party in their tracks. Hands moved to weapons, eyes strained against the shifting shadows. For a long moment, nothing stirred — then, with an explosive burst of motion, a wallaby shot from the undergrowth, bounding away through the trees in a blur of grey fur and panicked energy.

The men exhaled in nervous relief, a few offering quiet chuckles at their own jumpiness. But Broadmoor noticed that Gilchrist did not join in their laughter. The gamekeeper's attention remained fixed upon the spot from which the creature had fled, his expression troubled.

"The wildlife's been skittish these past few days," Gilchrist muttered, more to himself than to his companions. "More so than natural. Animals sense things, Constable. Things we might miss with our dulled city senses."

Before Broadmoor could probe this observation further, a shout echoed through the trees from Rogers, who had wandered slightly ahead of the main group. "Constable! Over here — you need to see this!"

The party converged upon the deputy's position, pushing through undergrowth that seemed determined to impede their progress. Rogers stood beside a massive eucalyptus, its pale trunk scarred by the marks of possums and the weathering of countless seasons. He pointed to something at the tree's base, half-buried beneath fallen leaves.

As Broadmoor drew closer, he saw what had captured the young man's attention — a leather glove, expensive and well-made, its surface marred by dark stains that could only be one thing. The glove lay partially concealed beneath a layer of debris, as though someone had attempted to hide it but had been interrupted before completing the task. Or had simply not cared enough to do it properly.

"Blood?" Rogers asked quietly, giving voice to the question they were all thinking.

Broadmoor knelt to examine the glove more closely, taking care not to disturb its position. The leather was of excellent quality — kid, if he was any judge, soft and supple despite its current state. The stitching spoke of London craftsmanship, the kind of work that would cost more than most colonists earned in a month. And the stains upon the fingers... yes, unmistakably blood, dried to a rust-brown that spoke of hours since the spilling.

"Look here," he said, pointing to the way the leaves had been disturbed around the glove. "Someone tried to conceal this. Deliberately buried it, but not well enough to escape notice." He looked up at the assembled men, his eyes sharp in the dappled light. "The question is whether that concealment was hasty or merely careless."

Gilchrist had gone very still, his weather-beaten face draining of colour beneath its permanent tan. When he spoke, his voice emerged rough, as though the words had to fight their way past some obstruction in his throat.

"That's the master's glove." He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. "He had them made special-like in Hobart Town. Finest kid leather, he was that particular about them. Wore them when he went riding."

"Did he now?" Broadmoor straightened, studying the gamekeeper's face with renewed intensity. "Strange place for a riding glove, wouldn't you say? Especially one that appears to have been deliberately hidden?"

Gilchrist shifted his weight from foot to foot, his earlier wariness transformed into something closer to fear. His eyes would not settle — darting from the glove to the surrounding trees to Broadmoor's face and back again, as though seeking escape from a trap that was slowly closing around him.

"Perhaps... perhaps I should check the old trapper's trail," he suggested abruptly, his voice carrying a desperate edge. "It's easy to miss if you don't know it's there. The master might have—"

"Mr Gilchrist." Broadmoor's voice cut through the gamekeeper's words like a blade through cloth. "I think it's time you told me what you know about all this. Your unease has been apparent since we entered these woods — since before that, if I'm honest. What aren't you telling me?"

A tense silence fell over the group. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath, the constant rustle of leaves and call of birds falling momentarily still. The other searchers exchanged uneasy glances, sensing that they stood upon the edge of something significant.

Finally, Gilchrist spoke. His voice had dropped to barely more than a whisper, and his eyes fixed upon the bloodstained glove as though he could not bear to look anywhere else.

"Three nights ago, I was doing my evening rounds. Checking the snares, making sure no one had been poaching — the usual business." He paused, his throat working as he swallowed. "I heard voices coming from near the old boundary stone. The master's voice, I recognised it straight off. But the other..." He shook his head slowly. "The other I didn't know. A man's voice, but strange somehow. Wrong."

"Wrong how?" Broadmoor pressed, keeping his tone carefully neutral despite the quickening of his pulse.

"I can't rightly say, sir. It was... flat, maybe. Like someone reading words off a page instead of speaking natural-like." Gilchrist's hands had begun to tremble slightly, and he clasped them together to still the movement. "They were arguing fierce-like, the two of them. The stranger said something about 'time running out' and 'payments due.' And the master — I heard him say something about 'finding another way.' He sounded..." The gamekeeper hesitated, then finished in a voice barely audible, "He sounded afraid, sir. Proper afraid, like I'd never heard him before."

Broadmoor absorbed this information, his mind working through its implications. "And then?"

"Then they must have heard me coming. By the time I reached the boundary stone, they were gone — vanished like morning mist." Gilchrist finally raised his eyes to meet Broadmoor's gaze, and the constable saw genuine fear in their depths. "I looked for tracks, sir, habit of the trade. Found the master's boot prints clear enough, heading back toward the house. But the stranger's..." He shook his head again. "There weren't any. Not a single mark to show which way he'd gone or where he'd come from. Like he'd never been there at all."

The silence that followed this revelation seemed to press against Broadmoor's ears with almost physical weight. Around them, the forest had grown darker as the afternoon continued its slide toward dusk, shadows pooling beneath the trees like dark water rising.

"And you didn't think to report this earlier?" Broadmoor asked, though he kept his voice free of accusation. He had learned long ago that frightened witnesses revealed more when treated gently than when pressed too hard.

"It weren't my place," Gilchrist replied, a flush of shame colouring his weathered cheeks. "The master's business was his own — that's what I've always believed. He's been good to me, sir, given me work and a roof when others might not have looked twice at a Highland man with nothing to his name but a rifle and the clothes on his back." His gaze dropped to the bloodstained glove. "But now... now I'm not so sure that silence was the right choice."

Before Broadmoor could respond, another shout echoed through the trees — this one from the direction of the estate's outbuildings. The search had to continue; darkness would not wait for the convenience of investigation.

"Rogers, mark this location carefully," Broadmoor ordered, his voice brisk with the return of practical purpose. "And handle that glove with care — it's evidence now, and I'll want it examined properly in better light." He turned to Gilchrist, studying the gamekeeper's troubled face. "You'll show me this boundary stone later, Mr Gilchrist. But for now, let's see what they've found at the stables."

The stable block rose before them as they emerged from the tree line, a solid structure of weathered timber and local stone that spoke of the Jeffries family's investment in their colonial enterprise. Unlike the manor house with its Georgian pretensions, this was a building designed for function rather than display — practical, sturdy, built to withstand the harsh conditions of Van Diemen's Land whilst providing proper shelter for the valuable horses within.

The late afternoon light slanted through the high windows as they entered, creating bars of gold illumination that cut through the dimness within. Dust motes danced in these shafts of light like tiny spirits, and the familiar scents of hay and horse and leather enveloped Broadmoor with an intensity that seemed almost welcoming after the wild strangeness of the woods.

Yet even here, something felt amiss. The horses — half a dozen of them in stalls along both walls — shifted restlessly at the newcomers' arrival, tossing their heads and stamping with an agitation that seemed excessive for animals accustomed to human presence. Their large eyes rolled, showing crescents of white, and their nostrils flared as though scenting something that disturbed them.

"They've been like this since yesterday," said a voice from the shadows at the far end of the stable. A figure emerged into the light — young, perhaps sixteen years of age, with a freckled face that had gone pale beneath its usual ruddiness. The boy wore the rough clothing of a stable hand, his shirtsleeves rolled to reveal forearms already developing the wiry strength of one who worked with horses daily. "Midnight especially. He's been near impossible to settle."

"And you are?" Broadmoor asked, though he suspected he already knew.

"Jonathan, sir. Jonathan Bates. I tend the horses here." The boy's eyes darted nervously between the constable and Gilchrist, who had hung back near the stable entrance with the air of a man who would rather be anywhere else. "I was the one who sent word about... about what I found this morning."

"Show me," Broadmoor said simply.

Jonathan led them to a stall near the end of the row, where a magnificent black stallion stood in evident agitation. The animal's coat gleamed even in the dim light, speaking of careful grooming and excellent care, but its current state told a different story. Sweat had dried on its flanks in distinct patterns, and mud splattered its legs — high enough to suggest hard riding through rough terrain.

"This is Midnight," Jonathan said, his voice barely steady. "The master's favourite. He raised him from a foal, sir — there's not another horse in the colony the master loved more." The boy's hand trembled as he gestured toward the animal. "I found him like this when I came in at dawn. Everything was just as you see it now, sir. I haven't touched a thing, not since I realised... since I understood something was wrong."

Broadmoor examined the horse with a practiced eye, noting the signs of recent hard use. The dried sweat, the mud, the way the animal still breathed slightly harder than a rested horse should. Midnight had been ridden, and ridden hard, sometime in the past day. The question was by whom, and to where.

"Mr Jeffries wouldn't have gone riding in the middle of the night," Jonathan continued, giving voice to the obvious question. "Would he? It doesn't make sense, sir. Not without telling anyone, not without..." He trailed off, his young face troubled by thoughts he seemed reluctant to express.

"Tell me," Broadmoor said, keeping his voice gentle, "have you noticed anything unusual lately? Anything out of the ordinary, no matter how small it might seem?"

Jonathan's fingers twisted in his rough work apron, the nervous gesture of a youth caught between the desire to help and the fear of speaking out of turn. His eyes flickered toward Gilchrist, who stood rigid near the stable door, then back to Broadmoor's face.

"There is one thing, sir." The words came slowly, as though each one required effort to release. "A few nights ago — five, maybe six, I can't be certain — I was up late, checking on a mare that was close to foaling. It was well past midnight when I came out to stretch my legs and get some air."

He paused, swallowing hard before continuing.

"I saw the master in the courtyard, near the mounting block. He was speaking with a man I didn't recognise. A stranger."

Broadmoor felt the familiar quickening of interest that accompanied significant revelation. "Can you describe this stranger?"

Jonathan's brow furrowed with the effort of recollection. His hand found Midnight's velvet nose, stroking it absently as though the contact provided comfort. "He was tall, sir. Taller than the master by a good hand's width or more. And he wore a long coat — dark, heavy-looking, the kind you'd wear for travelling in foul weather. Strange choice for a mild evening, I thought."

"And his face?"

The boy's expression shifted, discomfort replacing concentration. "That's the thing, sir. I couldn't see it properly — the moon was behind clouds, and they were standing in shadow. But there was something..." He hesitated, clearly struggling to articulate what he had observed. "Something not right about it."

"Not right how?" Broadmoor pressed, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

"It was like..." Jonathan's words came haltingly now, as though he was aware of how strange they would sound. "It was like he had two faces, sir. Not truly, not like something from a story. But when he turned his head, his features seemed to... shift, somehow. Like he was wearing something that didn't quite fit properly. Like a mask, maybe, but not any mask I've ever seen. More like his face wasn't sitting right on his head."

Behind them, something clattered to the floor. Broadmoor turned to see Gilchrist standing over an upturned bucket, his usually steady hands trembling visibly, his face gone the colour of old tallow.

"Begging your pardon," the gamekeeper mumbled, but he made no move to right the fallen pail. His eyes had fixed upon Jonathan with an expression that mixed recognition with something very like dread.

Broadmoor filed this reaction away and returned his attention to the stable boy. "What happened after they saw you?"

"The master came to speak with me private-like," Jonathan said, his voice dropping even lower. "Told me I wasn't to mention the visitor to anyone, especially not to Mrs Jeffries. Said it was a business matter, nothing more than that." The boy's jaw tightened. "But I heard what they were saying before they spotted me, sir. At least some of it. The stranger said something about 'payment' and 'consequences.' And the master... he sounded different than I'd ever heard him. Frightened, maybe. Or desperate."

The horses stirred in their stalls, their agitation seeming to increase as though the very subject of conversation disturbed them. Midnight stamped and snorted, his dark eyes rolling.

"And did you see this stranger again after that night?" Broadmoor asked.

Jonathan nodded slowly, reluctance evident in every line of his young body. "Two nights ago, sir. I didn't see him up close — just a figure standing at the edge of the woods, wearing that same dark coat. He was watching the house." The boy's voice had dropped to barely more than a whisper. "He stood there for hours, sir. Still as a stone. I watched him from the hay loft, too frightened to go closer or raise an alarm. And then, just before dawn, he was gone. Like he'd never been there at all."

The parallel to Gilchrist's account — the stranger who left no tracks, who vanished like morning mist — was not lost on Broadmoor. He glanced at the gamekeeper, who seemed to have shrunk into himself, his earlier wariness transformed into something approaching terror.

"Mr Gilchrist," Broadmoor said carefully, "does this description sound familiar to you?"

The gamekeeper's mouth opened, then closed again. His hand rose toward his rifle, then dropped back to his side in a gesture of helpless uncertainty. "I should check the other outbuildings," he said, the words emerging rough and rapid. "Daylight's fading fast, and there's still ground to cover—"

"Mr Gilchrist." Broadmoor's voice carried the full weight of official authority now, the tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "I think it's time we had a proper conversation about what you know."

But before the gamekeeper could respond — before Broadmoor could press the advantage of the moment — a commotion erupted outside the stable. Running feet, urgent voices, the sound of men calling for the constable with an excitement that spoke of significant discovery.

Rogers appeared in the doorway, slightly breathless from his sprint. "Sir! They've found something at the gamekeeper's cottage. You need to see this right away."

Broadmoor looked between Gilchrist's stricken face and Rogers' urgent expression, weighing priorities with the rapid calculation of long experience. The cottage would not wait — whatever had been discovered there, it demanded immediate attention. But neither would he allow the threads he had begun to gather slip through his fingers.

"Jonathan," he said, turning to the stable boy, "you'll stay here. Speak to no one about what you've told me until I've had a chance for further questions." He fixed the youth with a look that brooked no argument. "No one. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Jonathan replied, his young face pale but resolute.

Broadmoor turned to the gamekeeper, who stood frozen near the stable entrance like a man awaiting sentence. "Mr Gilchrist, you'll accompany us. I believe your cottage may hold some answers we've been seeking — and I suspect you already know what those answers might be."

The party emerged from the stables into the dying light of afternoon. The winter sun had begun its final descent toward the western hills, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose that seemed almost mockingly beautiful given the darkness of the day's discoveries. Behind them, the horses' continued restlessness echoed through the stable like a chorus of wordless warnings.

As they made their way toward the gamekeeper's cottage, Broadmoor could not shake the image Jonathan had painted — a tall figure in a dark coat, standing motionless at the forest's edge, watching the house through the long hours of the night. A stranger whose face seemed wrong, whose footprints vanished like morning mist, whose presence had frightened William Jeffries badly enough to demand silence from his servants.

The boy might have been mistaken, of course. Darkness and distance could play tricks upon the eyes, especially for a young man already unsettled by the strangeness of what he had witnessed. The "shifting" face might have been nothing more than shadow and imagination, the stillness merely patience rather than something more unsettling.

And yet Gilchrist had recognised something in the description. That much was certain. The gamekeeper knew more than he had shared — knew something that had turned his weathered face pale and set his steady hands to trembling.

The cottage waited ahead, crouching at the woodland's edge like a thing apart from the manor's cultivated order. Whatever secrets it held, Broadmoor was determined to uncover them before the day's last light failed entirely.