The sergeant actually seems amused at that, seating himself along from Duggan and helping himself to a potato scone quarter. He nudges the plate along at Murphy, since he's eyeing it. "Well, given I'd probably 'ave to shoot one of them wild blacks to get 'im to stay still long enough for me to catch up with 'em, I don't know he'd be all that conversational. Not that I could follow, given that my command of the drowning turkey sounds they call a language extends only so far as finding water, dropping weapons and some things I can't repeat in company," he nods at Miss Cleary, as though excusing himself from instructing Brigitte in aboriginal profanities. Maggie just looks fragile and uncertain.

"I could maybe get us translation," Murphy offers, "-but I never heard the bush people would raid and leave headless sheep, nor a homestead standin' unburnt if they'd killed the folk in it. B'sides, from what we heard Duggan said before...whatever happened here an' at th' tavern, the killer was a fellow from the Calder expedition."

"Who 'ave also, I should point out, vanished," Wilkins says. "You certain there 'asn't been a gang slipped past you, Murphy? Fellow countrymen, perhaps?" He leans back to have Jack in view, seeing how he takes that.

"As sure as I am that we're havin this conversation on a Tuesday," Murphy responds levelly, keeping the redcoat's gaze until the latter glances away as though the stare had been nothing but casual.

Jack takes a piece of scone, eating it slowly, almost nibbling between sips of water, keeping his eyes on food and drink. Relieved of the collar--how can a man come to hate a thing so quick?--he doesn't want to say or do anything that will put it back around his neck.

Besides, he's still so confused. And as frightened of the misplaced time as he is of those phantom kids.

That sense of prophecy reversed returns with the tension, memory and fear wound together and boiling closer to the surface, though nothing takes shape enough to grasp. Brigitte remembers the neat bars of her stitching in Jack's leg. Time moves past them, invisible and intangible whether right or deeply wrong.

The farls are a good distraction of wholesome taste: buttery, well-textured and still warm, expertly-applied salt balancing out the strong taste of potatoes struggling with drought. Murphy approaches to claim one as Cleary comes in; Maggie sees her uncle and sweeps up to fall against him like one storm-hit tree tangled in another's branches.

Cleary hugs her and pats her back. "It's all right, dove, y'don't have to try'n act woman o' the house all the time," he assures her as Maggie dissolves into tears against his shoulder. He holds her as he looks about, a man of enough presence to be there for his niece and present in discussion at once. "No sign of Daniels, then?"

"No, but perhaps you could 'elp me mark off the members of the Calder expedition, just for 'avin the knowledge of who it is 'as got lost," the sergeant breaks in before Murphy can put any question less bluntly. "There'd be Lieutenant Mollingsbroke and one of 'is troopers, Lewry, I think, then Calder 'imself, a native-?"

"Budyirikaranga, 'speaks a lot of languages' or sometin like that," Cleary supplies.

"-and two apprentices from the survey corps, is that it?"

"There was a convict helping with the gear, but one of those apprentices stayed here - took a fever and couldn't go up. He's out with the searchers now. Henry Cotton."

Maggie manages to peel herself off her uncle, muttering "...he was sick here the whole time, as I remember, but...I don't know if I remember, if it's later...I don't understand..."

"Cadlow was the name of the one that went. D'you remember the name of the convict, Maggie?"

"Llewellyn Bowen...he'd been a priest, or whatever Protestants have in that wise," Maggie murmurs. Her uncle nods.

"He was, I remember that. Priest and a wrecker, only he wasn't the one that held the light."

"Could any o' them pass for Duggan, given a woozy head and a bad light?" Murphy asks, putting the pertinent question.

Cleary considers Jack's general outline. "T'be sure Cotton or Bowen could, Cadlow at the outside," he answers. Murphy and Wilkins exchange a look.

"Might we 'ave look over Cotton's possessions, then?" The sergeant angles his head to half-observe Jack. "See if that lad's been doing any strange gardening of late?"

"He took most of them with him, in case they should have to stop out the night," Miss Cleary puts in, palming away the remnants of tears. "I...could see if he left anything to wash..."

"You do that, Miss." The sergeant leans forward on the table. "Mister Cleary, I think we ought to consult the notes of your note-taker right presently, seeing 'as 'e might be out until nightfall and I'd rather get on with making some sense from this situation."

Cleary hesitates. "You'll forgive me if I watch the proceedins, sir - he's a criminal and a little touched, that lad, likely one on account o' the other, but I'd have him know I was responsable for anything moved or taken." The sergeant nods understanding.

"I have him set up in the feed store," Cleary says, and if not delayed by act or question will take them to the storehouse and the ladder up to the small, quiet space where salt licks and the horses' precious grain is stashed.


[[All right, assuming no-one had things to add there...Jack, you're with the sergeant because he won't let you out of his sight. Brigitte, do you want to head along to search Thomas' room, or investigate the wash with Maggie?]]

Brigitte stand as they other depart and follows Maggie to check the wash and then she will ask where Thomas room is. She will go and have a look for herself to see if anything is a miss.


-

Maggie leads Brigitte back into the scullery and over to the basket of things to be washed, still intermittently brushing away tears and taking swipes at her nose with her handkerchief. The sun catches brightly in the sheets she moves off the top of the pile as she sets it on the counter; a gentle flare of reflected light that halos her as she digs about.

"Oh, here, these are his...aah!" Maggie startles and drops the shirt she was about to pass to Brigitte on the floor like it's a snake.

The shirt lies there on the hardpack. Hidden at first by the folds, it's now very clear the front is stained a rusty brownish colour. Dirt, not blood, though by Maggie's wide eyes and hard breathing it takes her a few moments to realise that.

"I don't remember him putting that in," she says thickly. "What on earth was he about?"

Brigitte picks up the shirt and takes a closer look at the dirt to see if it is covering anything else. She will then give the room a look over before adding, "Right let us have a look at his quarters."

She leaves off the consoling side of things to get done what they need to. At some point once they were done she would try and give some comfort to the woman.


-

Maggie watches Brigitte give the shirt and then the room a hard stare, about as spooked as Brigitte's horse was earlier. The shirt has dirt scuffs down the sleeves and along the sides, but only the cuffs are stained like the front, as though in contact with dirt and water at once.

It's a bizarre pattern of staining, like Henry Cotton had been wriggling about in the dirt on his belly, or scooping up some damper earth to devour it or pour it over his face. The room around shows no trace of loose earth.

"He...was in the guest room," Maggie offers, and leads out back and into a side door as a shortcut. The landscape shudders with heat around them, causing distant trees to lose their outline and dapple into an uncertainty of sky and solidity like the periphery of a dream. Inside, the parched floorboards creak softly as Maggie moves over to the pertinent door and pushes it open. "Be careful, for it was not so long ago he was sick," she warns, then stands frowning once she's stepped in, since Time is no longer a certainty.

The room is dim, the window pane stretched muslin rather than glass. A single bed sits against the wall under it, the coverlet and oversheet pooled at the bottom as they'd been left. To the left behind Maggie is a simple dresser with a built-in washstand, a sprig of herbs and a shrivelled half of an onion attesting to recent sickness. Another half-onion is wedged between the top of the wooden bedstead and the wall, and it looks like Henry's nightclothes are shoved beneath the pillow. Opposite the bed is a small and slightly uneven chest of drawers.

With her hands on her hips Brigitte surveys the room looking for anything obvious or not right. If nothing jumps out at her she will begin to search, starting with the small chest of draws. She removes each of the drawers contents and the looks under the drawer itself to see if anything is stuck to it. Then under the main chest before moving onto the bed, looking under the mattress and the bed itself for anything pushed under the bed.

She will leave the wash stand to last, checking it over as she had the other pieces of furniture. Lastly Brigitte will stand back and look the room over for any other small hiding places she might have missed.


Brigitte d'Anjou rolled 67 using 1d100.  Spot hidden = 50%.


-

Maggie watches Brigitte turn their guest's room upside-down in a state of frightened bewilderment, neither trying to help nor stop the Frenchwoman. Brigitte finds that the top drawer contains a bit of months-old correspondance from Henry's sister, the opened seal brittle, some blank folded paper clearly set aside for a reply, and underwear rolled into sausages in the batchelor manner of a student who's learnt to pack efficiently and that a heap of smallclothes does not lend itself to giving a visual warning of the necessity of an impending laundry day. The second drawer has spare trousers and socks, which she also dumps on the bed, and the third nothing more than a lining of gum leaves to discourage moths.

Maggie fiddles with her dampened handkerchief, deeply uncomfortable. She watches closely, however, and once stifles a shriek and siezes the drawer just discarded by Brigitte to trap something hand-sized and sideways-moving on the bed. Maggie looks a bit foxed as to what to do next, but carefully takes things off the bed whilst Brigitte confirms Henry was not in the habit of nailing things to other people's furniture and makes a nervous bundle of undersheet and drawers whilst Brigitte pokes about the mattress.

"I'll...just be takin this outside a moment, with the spider," she lets Brigitte know. "Please don't break anything of the lad's - as far as I saw it all he's done is be laid out sick..." she trails off, since that doesn't explain the shirt, or how it got to the laundry. She takes the spider out.

Though Brigitte is halfway sure something smaller scuttled away under the bed, it's quite possibly just dust. The local wood gives off a pleasant smell while she's under there, better than the old onion and faded soap-broth-sweat scent of the room in general, but the most she sees is what might be a partial heel-print on the boards, as though the youth had sat on his bed and brought the washbowl over to wash dirt from bare feet. The washstand doesn't tell her anything new, though the posy of herbs is dry and brittle like it's been there for weeks.

Maggie returns without the large spider, clutching the sheet and drawer to her chest. She looks at the mess with some anxiety. "If you've not found a knife or some thing the like of that, I think I ought to set this straight again..."

In reply to Margaret Cleary (msg # 118):

"Of course, of course. I was going to all along." She gave Maggie a smile as he begins to put everything back as she had found it. It was a bit of an anti-climax, but it was what it was so when they were finished she followed Maggie out of the guest room.

As a by she asked ""Can you think of anywhere else he spent a lot of time ?"


-

"He was only here because he was sick, else he'd have gone up with the expedition...I only remember him being up and in his right mind yesterday, before that he was just lying there, all burning up and weak as a kitten, sometimes hardly knowing I was there," Maggie says, leading out the back door again with the intention to head over to the grain barn and catch up with the rest. "Yet I don't know what I remember anymore, if we're eleven days ahead of what we ought to be, I really-"

She stops: following her gaze Brigitte sees the same convict who helped with the horses (his name is Scorsey, she thinks, a Matt or Martin) havering in the middle distance, unsure whether to approach his master's niece and Brigitte. Having unintentionally got their attention anyway, the well-tanned fellow pulls off his hat and fiddles with it. "Ay, um..." he trails off on getting close enough to notice Maggie's been crying. "...oh, are you all right, Miss Cleary?"

"I'm...I got some bad news. Do you need someting? There's farls kept warm in the stove for all of you working but you'll have to fetch out the dry meat if you want it."

"I, ah, found a hole, Miss Cleary," Scorsey blurts.

Maggie doesn't quite manage not to stare at him. "A...hole?"

Scorsey turns his hat round and round in his hands, squinting against the light. "I don't know how to explain it right, but it's...it's not right, that hole. It's peculiar. I ought to show your uncle."

Maggie glances at Brigitte, then back to Scorsey. "He's busy at the moment. Does it...does it look like someone dug that hole, lying on their front as it might be?"

"It does, Miss Cleary," the ticket-of-leave man says, relieved.

Maggie looks to Brigitte to see if the older woman thinks it worth going out to take a look.


[[let me know if so and I'll get you a sneaky new sub-thread to do it on.]]
This message was last edited by the player at 01:06, Mon 23 Mar 2020.

"Ah... yes let us have a look at this hole you have found." Brigitte was unsure where this next line of enquiry would take them, but she followed along all the same.

[[GM edit: Brigitte moved to Thread 1a]]
-
This message was last edited by the GM at 15:16, Wed 25 Mar 2020.

Meanwhile, the search of Thomas Daniels' room had so far proved fruitless. The space was relatively airy, if crowded: a long loft with boxes and sacks of salt, bran and oats up on the shelves lining it, tight barrels of grain and apples under the unglazed, screen-tacked window at the far end. Daniels' pallet was adapted from a shelf, some stumps and planks at the near left corner of the room, near the fixed ladder that served as a steep stair. The shelf just above and behind it served as a bedside table, with a half-used taper stuck to a dish for a light. A washstand of local wood with an earthenware jug sat across from it and a pail from which the stances for a handle had long broken was visible under the unmade bed. A particularly large, fat fly threw itself with intermittent insistentcy at the window screen.

Cleary had warned them that Daniels should perhaps have been given over to the wardens of Bedlam rather than the tender mercies of the law, though he spoke well of the fellow's capability to work if given the leeway he seemed in need of. The official story was that having become mutually obsessed with a string of strange murders, Daniels had decided to re-enact one of said murders on his friend whilst intoxicated on an unknown substance. Given Daniels' detailed journalling and insistence that he was the innocent victim of a sinister yet vague great conspiracy among the Derbyshire gentry, Cleary suspected the only substance involved had been the poor blood of a lunatic ancestor making itself felt.

The space under the pillow had turned up nothing, nor had Daniels' box of meagre possessions (the ticketer convict seemed to spend his personal allowance mostly on implements of writing and provisions for making notes with little thought for materials for the upkeep of his boots and clothing). Cleary had started to look behind the biggest sacks on the loft's floor and Wilkins was trying to turn up the straw matress when an object previously caught up in the sheets rattled to the floor.

The sergeant caught it and held it up to what light there was. "Now what is that?"

It was a collection of small sticks tied together with obsessive little knots into a form that seemed to carry intense meaning in their precision, though it did not resemble anything. For some reason it made Jack's skin crawl. A little knotted end of grass twine swung with recent movement, back and forth and back and forth, the tip stained with something greasy or viscous of a dark uncertain hue.

If not for the sergeant, Jack would back to the door and flee down the stairs. Instead, he gritted hi teeth and looked away from the somehow insidious tangle of sticks and twine.

It just seems wrong, like so much else today.

The spike of fear brings memories with it, knowledge or nightmares trailing that sudden stab of terror like venom from a snakebite.

"'Scuse me there," Murphy breaks into Jack's thoughts, returning up the ladder with whatever he'd been fetching from his horse. He gently steers Jack aside.

"You make anything of this, Murphy?" the sergeant asks, handing off the object. "Some native gewgaw, is it?"

"Not that I've seen...looks more the sorta thing an English witch might make. What, are you findin' wax poppets up here, too?" Murphy looks from the object to the sergeant, curious.

"He's not so bad as that," Cleary says with some warning. "Though maybe Daniels has taken all his books with him, they're not back here with the apples to be sure," he adds, bemused.


[[if you'd like to search anywhere in particular or roll a general Spot Hidden, let me know.]]

"What's it all mean, though, Murphy? Is it witchcraft then? This is far beyond my knowing."

"I wouldn't be an expert on that, would I?" Murphy says, a little disturbed by the attention on him and whatever thoughts were scratching about his head. He tosses the strange object back on the bed.

---

Content that at least one of those in charge was aware of the existence of the peculiar hole on the property, Scorsey had excused himself to get his due of food whilst the ladies caught up with Cleary.

The storage barn smells comfortingly of hay, grain, starch, and heat-dry wood. At the bottom of the fixed ladder serving for a stair Brigitte is lit by the brightness from the open door to the outside and looking up into a dimmer space where the men seem to be talking about witchcraft. Maggie gestures that Brigitte might head up to join them first, should she wish.

Brigitte climbs up the ladder and tries top catch the last of the conversation as she get up onto the level the men are. She moves forward to take a look at what they are talking about giving a nod to any who acknowledge her presence.

"We found a hole that someone had been digging in a rather disturbing way and it looks as if it was Henry. Perhaps under the delusion of illness, but there is something not right about it."


[[GM edit: name error]]
-
This message was last edited by the GM at 23:49, Fri 27 Mar 2020.

"-and 'ow does one dig an 'ole in a disturbing way, madame?" Wilkins asks, peering into the washjug as though he hopes that might tell him something comprehensable.

Murphy silently offers Brigitte the weird and strangely horrible collection of carefully-tied little sticks she seemed to be looking for, seating himself on the bed and looking carefully around from that angle.

"Where was it he was digging?" Cleary asks. "Surely he's not had the boards up in the guest room, has he? -and is Maggie all right?"

"I'm...here, uncle," Maggie says, coming up to join them.



[[Please see room description above. If you'd like to search anywhere in particular or roll a general Spot Hidden, let me know.]]

Brigitte takes the tied sticks and looks it carefully over in her hand. Then she takes in the small room before them looking for anything the others might have missed.

She then begins to search the bed/pallet and then the bedside table.



Brigitte d'Anjou rolled 73 using 1d100.  Spot Hidden = 50%.

I have yet to roll a success with this dice roller.

Brigitte d'Anjou rolled 89 using 1d100.  History 54% for trinket.


-

The bundle of twigs is exactly what it appears to be, though there's something disturbing about the precision of the knots, and the staining at the loose end of the string.

Having been seated on the bed with his thoughts elsewhere, Murphy is a little startled when Brigitte decides to lean right over him in that narrow space to examine the pillow, not having anywhere to escape to. "Ah, ma'am-" he has the grace to do it gently, but he plonks her on his knee like a cat. "Nothin' under there, but look-"

He nods upwards, a small movement but easy to follow with their heads so close.  Charles Murphy might not be handsome, but he's certainly astute.


[[00:36, Today: Secret Roll: Charles Murphy rolled 36 using 1d100.  Murphs, notice things. (60) if you were wondering.]]

Brigitte stood up rather to quickly and nearly hit her head as she stepped away with an apology to Mr. Murphy. She had been to transfixed on her search to realise how inappropriately close she had got.

If Mr. Murphy does not move to the books Brigitte would, taking them down carefully and looking them over.



-
This message was last edited by the player at 09:46, Sun 29 Mar 2020.

Jack's eyes dart here and there in the small space, careful to meet no one else's gaze, almost in a parody of searching. And yet--


Jack Duggan rolled 36 for Spot Hidden 50%.

A scrap of a smile catches at the side of Murphy's mouth with a slightly wistful cast, though he clearly speaks in jest: "Any time, ma'am." Having the room to do so, he shunts aside to let her get a foot on the bed and lean over the sacks on the shelf above to fetch the books down.

Jack, meanwhile, spots that the loop of string heading under the makeshift lamp does not actually belong to it but rather to something underneath: drawing it out shows a little tin disc. There's no saint on there, however, just the legend 'bakewell watch' and '23' impressed with a nail or knife. A mockup of a badge for a sheriff's constable, shinier at the base like it's often been worn suspended by the string, close to its owner's heart. Wilkins had come over with the intent to take the object, but on seeing what it is just gives a mixed frown of perplexed pity and turns his attention to Brigitte and the books now laid on the bed.

One is what might be expected of an obsessive nature, a precious journal volume visibly stuffed to bursting with notes on notes. A brief flick though the latter part shows sketches of stick-assemblages, parts that look like they were scrawled almost without light, a thick, crawling, desperate mass of words. The last entry ('Must catch him') is for the 12th of December, but more distracting than the date is the sketch made on the inside of the back cover to give room for details: it shows a series of concentric circles, off-centre, like a halo around a blot of darkness from which spring seven flames, or tongues, or snakes or handless limbs, reaching in a radiant pattern as though to embrace.

Daniels has written a quote below reading "...so let the flesh be open as mind and hand to the Task, for we are already known to Them." The last word is circled and annotated in a more normal hand 'angels?' cf. t.d. pgs - 1 of Them talking back.

The other volume, the one whose brownish cover is marked by spots of what appears to be blood, has a label pasted to the front. It reads: