The House of the Wicked

11





Hevva





Her father still referred to the stables as new, even though they were now eight, nearly nine, years old. Jenna had grown so used to them that she never gave them much thought, or that before them, standing in their place, had been a barn that reputedly went back to Elizabethan times and beyond.

It had not seemed at all odd at the time, her father ordering the demolition of the old structure and erecting on its foundations a row of stables. For one thing she had only been aged about fourteen or so, and a string of horses with the prospect of one of them belonging to her was more than enough to wipe the barn from her affection and her memory, even if it had been significant enough in the first place to occupy either, which it hadn’t.

She stood back and surveyed the stables with a new interest. The stable hand came out of a stall, nodded with dumb politeness to her, a bemused twist to his lips that silently questioned what she was doing.

“Can I help you, Miss Hendra?” he said. “Are you wishing to take Calico out? Only I wasn’t told…”

“I’m trying to remember where the old barn used to be,” she said, “in relation to the stables. It used to stand here, I believe.”

He frowned and briefly followed her white gesturing fingers. “That was before my time, Miss. I didn’t know there had been a barn,” as if he were preparing to be blamed for something. When she said nothing else he took his chance and ducked quickly through another stable door with a backwards glance at her.

If the barn stood there, she thought, picturing it as best as she could, the trapdoor would have been located somewhere near the end of the block of stables, where the small storehouse stood. She went over to it. There were two doors, a single window. The first door she had been through many times. It opened onto a large room that reeked of leather, oil, beeswax and dry straw. Shelves were filled with various items of tack – bridles, harnesses, saddles, blankets – and in a corner were stacked bags of feed. But this time her eyes played over the stone-flagged floor and she surmised that these were the very same flags that had once lined the floor of the barn, either used in-situ or raised and re-laid.

She was searching for evidence of where the trapdoor might have been, blocked in, covered perhaps. It came to nothing. She went out and faced the second door. As she turned the handle it struck her that she had never been in this part of the storehouse, nor had any idea what it was used for.

It was locked. She tugged at the handle needlessly. There was no window to look through, as there was into the other store.

“Are you alright there, Miss?”

“It appears to be locked,” she replied to the stable hand who had been lured out of his turtle shell by the rattling. He drifted to her side, wiping his hands on a soiled cloth.

“It’s always locked,” he said as if it were common knowledge.

“What’s it used for?”

He shrugged. “Nothing, at present. It’s not needed, I suppose.”

“Do you have a key?”

“No, Miss,” he said, as if such a thing would never be allowed. “Mr Kenver has a set, I believe.”

“Then kindly fetch Mr Kenver so that I might enter.”

The young man scuttled off towards the house leaving Jenna to trace a path around the building. Yes, she was certain this was the same spot where the trapdoor to the old well used to be, though why she searched for such a thing at all she could not fathom. Perhaps it was poor Jowan’s waxy, haunted face, his air of desperation as he left her. Perhaps it was because she had too readily dismissed his ramblings. She had become too cold for one so young, she told herself, and paused over what had made her so. Or perhaps it was the pull of a time-polished fondness for Jowan which she scarce wanted to admit. She could not deny she felt a brief, confusing, pulsing thrill when she first met him in the ruins. Or perhaps, darkest of all, the thought that somehow this really was linked to Jowan’s mother’s death, and if so it possibly involved her father.

The stable hand returned with a flustered Kenver.

“I’d like to see inside,” she said.

Kenver, panting and bearing the look of a dog about to be beaten shook his head. “I don’t have a key, Miss Hendra.”

“Do you know where it is?” He nodded as if his head were loose upon his shoulders and about to drop off. “Then please fetch it.”

“I can’t, Miss.”

She sighed in exasperation. “And pray tell me why not, Kenver?”

“The key is in a drawer in your father’s library, Miss, and I would neither enter there without his permission, nor take the key without the same.”

“Follow me,” she said, lifting her skirts and walking to the house. “I will give you permission.”

“I don’t know, Miss…”

“Now, Kenver!” she said, and he hurried in her wake to catch her up.

The library was largely in shadow, the gloomy light from the windows painting the whole in a dull pewter bloom. “Which drawer, Kenver?” she asked. He was standing uncertainly in the doorway, glancing about him for signs of her father. “He is unlikely to come, Kenver, as he is busy with the men. And it is only an old key to an old store house after all. Kenver, which drawer?”

He pointed out a davenport. “There, Miss, that one. Second drawer down.”

She rolled her eyes at him, pulling open the drawer, aware of the three portraits of her father, mother and tragic Uncle Bartholomew looming accusingly over her. She became slightly nervous herself, for she had never once approached this davenport without her father’s express permission. But it was only a storehouse key, she thought, pushing aside an accumulation of papers.

“Is this the one?” she said.

At the sudden crack of her voice over the hush Kenver looked poised to bolt in panic.

“I don’t know, Miss. I suppose it is, if there is no other inside. You won’t tell him I told you it was in there, Miss, will you? Only, he’s sure to flay me alive if he finds out. The only reason I know it’s there was because one night, very late, I came across your father coming out of the storehouse. I was there because we had a mare in foal, and I’m fond of the horses, so I was unable to sleep, came down to check on her. I was told a rub made up of – “

“Kenver, must you rabbit on so?” she said, closing up the drawer.

“No, Miss, it is a fault of mine; I rabbit when the nerves get the better of me. It’s just that, well, I stumbles upon him, and he’s not looking too good miss; his head’s all bloodied and he’s hardly able to stand. Are you alright, Mr Hendra, I says. He says he’s taken a fall but will be recovered in due course. But I give him a helping hand to the house where he goes into the library, Miss. He thinks I’m gone, but I stay because I’m concerned for him. He opens that very same drawer and deposits in there the same key as he locks up the storehouse with. That’s how I know, Miss. So please don’t tell him as he will think I have been spying on him and – “

“Don’t be so dramatic, Kenver,” she said brushing past him. He trotted like a cat on hot coals after her.

“Is this wise, Miss?” he said, standing close behind her as she inserted the key into the lock.

“It is only a storehouse, Kenver, not the room that holds the Crown Jewels. Please leave me alone now. I can manage.” He remained fixed. “I said leave, Kenver. That is all.”

She paused till he had skulked off before turning the key and pushing open the door. It was a space similar in size to the store room next door, but completely empty save for a pile of sacking on the stone-flag floor. A cold, musty dampness wrapped its mouldy shawl about her when she stepped inside. It had not been used in a very long time, if ever, she thought, glancing at the many gossamer blankets of cobwebs that floated in the breeze.

She went over to the sacking, pushed at it warily with her foot; she didn’t want to disturb a sleeping rat. The heel of her shoe clunked against wood. Bending, she peeled back the filthy sacking, and there, appearing as she remembered it, was the trapdoor. In its centre was a hefty black iron ring. She heaved on it but the door didn’t budge. On moving away the rest of the sacking she saw that it was held in place by a thick iron clasp and a rusted padlock. How very curious, she thought, lifting the lock. Could this be the lock that took the key Jowan cast away?

“Miss Hendra! Miss Hendra!”

It was Kenver. He came bounding excitedly into the doorway, paused one brief moment on seeing the trapdoor, then said: “Hevva, Miss! They’re calling Hevva!”



* * * *



Tunny’s eyes flashed angrily. “You never once thought to tell me?” he said.

“How could I? I was instructed not to tell anyone.” Mrs Carbis had rarely seen her brother like this.

“And you never questioned why you were asked to take in the boy Jowan for the evening?”

“No,” she said, turning her head away. “We are always being asked to tend some child or other – I did it many times before and I have done it many times since. There was nothing odd in that.”

“And you say it was your brother-in-law, John Carbis, who came and told you to take Jowan from the cottage, and this under Mr Hendra’s instructions?”

She nodded. “John told me not to say a word about Mr Hendra. I had to tell young Jowan his mother had ordered it so. It was for his own good, said John, so I took that to mean his father had been on the ale again. He had a monstrous temper when drunk. Look what happened to his poor wife because of the vile stuff.” She stared helplessly into her brother’s face. It bore the grey look of betrayal. And something deeper, more profound. “What is wrong, Tunny? Where are you going?”

He turned in the doorway. “A piece in another man’s game,” he said vaguely, his finger stabbing his chest. He gave a weary shake of his head and marched away, down the hill from his sister’s cottage towards the harbour.

“Hevva! Hevva!”

Tunny heard the familiar rasping cry from the Huer on the cliff top, bellowed through his large, rusted speaking trumpet; it soon gathered pace, taken up by more company Huers from their own favoured vantage points. The word infected other men, who bound down from the hillsides where they’d been standing watch and they raced through the village yelling the same, frantically waving their arms. Women and barefoot children came as if from nowhere to fill the streets and take up the chant, screaming Hevva excitedly, the cove once again springing to life.

Huers on the cliff top energetically waved large black canvas paddles, signalling to the men in the boats, directing them onto the approaching shoal. Seine owners craned their necks like geese to catch a glimpse of the distant mass, first appearing as a cloud’s shadow sitting on the ocean, trying to gauge its size, its position in relation to the different stems. They removed hats and mopped brows with handkerchiefs, looking anxiously to the steadily darkening skies beyond, wondering whether they could catch and land the fish before the storm hit; tested the air to see if there were any hope that the storm might veer away and leave them to their work.

Gerran Hendra had joined them in their vigil, but stood purposely apart from them. He knew he could do little more than watch proceedings now. It was in the hands of God. But in the worsening weather he could see that same heavenly hand dipping into the sea, stirring it languidly, raising higher swells with each sweep of His fingers. They would have little time to land the fish, and if the storm was as severe as it threatened it wasn’t safe for the men to be out there when it came upon them. None voiced it, but they didn’t have to, for their quick, darting eyes leaked their fears into the air.

Tunny came to his side.

“What do you make of this weather, Tunny?”

“Did you know that Jowan Connoch has been severely beaten?” said Tunny in reply.

Hendra turned to face Tunny. Offered a shrug. “You think that is unexpected? After all, is he not responsible for this?” He gestured grandly at the foaming black clouds on the horizon. “Feeding Connoch evil to the chained Baccan, so that the devil grows strong again, stirring the clouds and the sea to fury?”

“Do you mock me, Mr Hendra?”

Hendra produced a humourless smile in return. “Ah, but not to worry, for all I need do is toss a limpet shell or two, make an offering of fish, and all will be well again.”

The boats were now starting to row out under the Huers’ directions, sprays of white foam powdering from their prows. “This is happening for a reason, that much I do know, Mr Hendra. I can feel it in the very air around me.”

“I am certain you do, Tunny. Now leave me be. I have work to attend to.”

The old man adjusted his hat. The wind was attempting to lift the brim. He joined Hendra as he watched six oarsmen straining to haul their heavy vessel against the rising swells. “When I told you that young Connoch was in Porthgarrow I little expected that you would dole out a beating on him.”

Hendra licked his lower lip in irritation. “He is trouble. His name is trouble. I have enough to worry about without having the men getting all heated up over all this stuff and nonsense. I thought that had all been sorted years ago, when he was removed. What good will it serve him to return to Porthgarrow after all these years? He can plainly see he is as welcome as a boil on the arse.”

“He seeks the truth to his mother’s murder, for he cannot accept the truth that was given.”

Hendra blinked. His jaw muscles danced. “He knows the truth well enough. What new truth does he hope to discover – that his mother was an angel and his father a saint? A devil and a whore more like!”

Even from the shore there was no mistaking the tremendous oily brown smudge that marred the sea’s surface. The shoal was upon them and it looked a sizeable one. People had gathered excitedly on the beach to watch.

“The men will soon be upon them,” said Tunny. “The nets will be shot, gradually encircling the fish, then tighten and lock them in. They are as good as finished.”

Hendra shot him an uncertain, sideways glance.

“Why did you send me as messenger that night, Mr Hendra? The night I was to discover Jowan’s murdered wife, he kneeling over her, the knife in his hand?”

“I don’t wish to dwell upon the events of that terrible night, Tunny, and it is in your interests that you do not either.” He tugged out his watch from his waistcoat pocket. “And it is so long ago that I forget. Best for you to do the same, Tunny. It is dead and buried.” Here his eyes bore into Tunny’s. “If you get my meaning.”

“Do you also forget sending your secretary, John Carbis, to my sister, to have the boy removed from the cottage earlier in the evening?”

Hendra’s eyes widened, then in an instant narrowed. “What rot do you spout, Tunny? I did no such thing. Do you not have better things to do than bother me – cook up a spell or two, heal a sick horse, tell a fortune, toss a limpet shell at Baccan?” He moved closer to Tunny, his bulk menacing. “Keep your black thoughts and black arts to yourself. There is a time and a place for your mumbo jumbo and this is not it.”

To Hendra’s surprise Tunny grabbed him tightly by the wrist. He yanked hard but Tunny held fast. A trickle of fear iced Hendra’s thoughts and he felt tiny fingers probe inside his skull.

“Do not mock me, Mr Hendra. You see, I understand now why you sent me. I was a fool for not seeing it sooner. You knew he and I were enemies. You knew I would gladly deliver the message of your act of mercy to him, that he either left Porthgarrow for good or face jail and ruin. But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there, Mr Hendra…?”

“Unhand me you old charlatan, or I’ll have you arrested for assault!”

“Charlatan, stuff and nonsense, mumbo jumbo – it is good that you speak your mind at last, Mr Hendra.” His fingers tightened even further around Hendra’s resistance. “Evil chokes the air, it is all around me. I sense it – I feel it. And it will bring you low. Your star’s ascendancy has reached its zenith, Mr Hendra, and before the next day is done it will be extinguished forever.” He released Hendra’s hand, leaving a white, bloodless bracelet on his wrist where Tunny had held it.”

“Are you threatening me?” he growled. Tunny ignored him, walked away, the sight of his back enflaming Hendra all the more. “Look at me when I talk to you! You will do as I command or I will make you suffer!”

Suffer? Tunny touched the spot where Jowan’s knife tip had pierced his skin. A tiny, white hot pain as he probed and felt the wetness of fresh blood.

“I need not remind you that there are severe penalties for grave robbing,” said Hendra in a low tone, his voice almost lost amongst the gusts of wind.

Tunny paused for a moment, then carried on his way. The events of that night thirteen years ago did not need Hendra’s reminding, for they were forever etched on his mind.



* * * *



The body was dragged from the grave, rolled onto the sodden earth. Two men took a hold of its legs and began to feed them into the prepared canvas sack, were relieved when they could tie the top over the cadaver’s accusing skull. The other two were frantically shovelling soil back into the grave.

The angry sky threw down a torrent, the rain turned into stinging javelins of icy water by the driving wind. Baccan could rant and rave all he wanted; Tunny saw this as a blessing. It would help wash away all traces of their ghoulish labours. He paused in his digging to draw breath. Turned to see the two men staring blankly at the corpse in its fresh canvas shroud at their feet.

“Why do you wait? Pick it up and throw it onto the cart. We will follow as soon as we have filled in the grave.”

As if a trance had been broken they stooped, one of them taking the shoulders, the other the legs. Tunny watched as they struggled with their load towards the cover of the woods. He knew they were desperately afraid of Jowan Connoch, even though his mortal remains were rotting in their canvas bag. Not till he was sure the men were on their way did he turn to his companion. “Put your back into it. We must be done here soon. There’s more digging to be done before the night is through, and there is precious little of it left to us.”

“We are cured of Jowan’s curse after tonight? You are certain that he can do no more harm to Porthgarrow?”

Tunny had warned them that it was unwise to bury Jowan up here on the headland, amongst the graves of Porthgarrow’s good people, amongst the hallowed dead. That if this were done Jowan would continue in his holy alliance with Baccan from beyond the grave, unless his corpse was removed from Porthgarrow altogether, beyond the village’s outer boundary. But they did not heed his warnings, and true to his predictions they were beset by the vilest storms they had ever seen, the fish driven far away, and finally that terrible night, two boats sunk at sea, all souls on board lost to the storm.

The chapel had filled with grieving widows and mothers, their tormented wails screaming round the aged rafters. The Revered Biddle did his best to calm them, to offer comfort, but his assertions that it was God’s will did not dampen the pressing weight of loss, which quickly turned to anger, increasingly vented upon Mr Hendra, sitting quiet and pale. He took their daily lashings like the hull of a stout old boat.

“They should not have been forced out!”

“They would be alive still if it were not for the pursuit of profit.”

Then Tunny stood and rounded on them. “No earthly hand swamped those boats,” he said. “It is Jowan taking his revenge. His spirit is in league with Baccan still.”

And Biddle turned him out, stamping on his blasphemous, heathen mutterings with words plucked from the Bible. But the people had listened to Tunny and agreed. It was a mistake to bury him amongst the others, and wrong to say that God would be Jowan’s judge, not they, and that he deserved in death all that was due to him as a man of Porthgarrow.

All that was due. Tunny patted the last of the earth upon the grave and the two men took up their shovels and ran from the headland, into the woods. They caught up with the other two as they were scrambling down the last of the hillside, emerging breathlessly onto a narrow track. A fox shrieked in the night and they stiffened at the unearthly sound.

“Quickly!” said Tunny, moving swiftly by them and entering a thicket where he emerged leading an old donkey tethered to a cart. One of Hendra’s carts. They tossed the body onto the time-scarred wooden boards, covering it with sacking, next flinging their shovels beside it. “We have but three hours before dawn breaks,” he said.

“Listen!” one of the men said. They all went quiet and held their breath. “The wind – it is already dropping off.” He sounded relieved. His actions during the night vindicated.

“Quickly!” Tunny said again. The donkey was slapped hard and the cart dragged along the track, deeper in the night. At length they came upon the high moor, the moonlight silvering the land, a barren sea of mercury. The only thing to break the monotony was the ancient stone cross at the centre of the crossroads, at its base a black tangle of thorny bushes, the pale column rising from it to spear the moon.

Reaching the cross, the men carefully made a channel into the head-high thicket and dug deep into the root-riddled earth. Tunny watched the moon’s transit, paused every now and again to measure the sky’s brightness. “Hurry there!” he said, and his anxiety passed to the men who dug harder and faster.

At last the hole was deep enough and they tumbled the body of Jowan from the cart onto the ground before the thicket.

“Open the bag,” said Tunny.

One man untied the head of the sack, peeled back the canvas to reveal Jowan’s rotting skull. Tunny raised his shovel and with one violent downward thrust severed the head from its body. The sack was rolled into the new grave, his head tossed in after it. The soil was tossed back in and finally the thorns which they’d dug up were replanted, the men’s arms and hands bloodied as they emerged to stand and stare at the cross. It was all but impossible to see that the thicket had been disturbed. Here Jowan could do no more damage, his vengeful spirit trapped for all time at the crossroads, and Porthgarrow would be saved. There would be no more storms like the one that had taken the two boats. The fish would return and Baccan’s grip on the land and the sea would be loosened without the spirit of Jowan to aid him. In time, the thicket of thorns, that hardiest of plants, would inexplicably die, hardly a weed growing in its place, and Jowan’s prison a secret to all but a few people.

Tunny bade a silent good night to the men and returned wearily to his cottage, washed the dirt from his hands. A single bird heralded the new dawn. There was a knock at his door. “Enter,” he said in a voice which betrayed his exhaustion. A figure, large, moving cautiously, stepped into the cottage. “Tunny looked up. “It is done,” he said.

“Good.” The voice belonged to Gerran Hendra. “We will be troubled by this affair no longer.” He dropped a bag onto the table. Coins rattled inside.

“I did not do this for the money!” said Tunny.

Hendra did not reply. He left Tunny glowering at the bag on the table, then at his own trembling hands.



* * * *



Tunny got down from the cart and went and stood in front of the old stone cross. The thicket of thorns had long since died, and the evidence of Jowan Connoch’s grave flattened and hidden by time. The wind came howling across the wide moor, knocked against him like a man’s shoulder.

At the time he felt – he knew – that his motivations had been in Porthgarrow’s best interest. He himself had perpetuated Jowan’s unnatural link with Baccan, had blatantly held him responsible for all that had befallen the village, even after his death. The people had listened to him then, as they listened now. But it was Hendra himself who had put his weight behind the tales, had encouraged them into believing that the loss of the boats, the poor hauls, was still the fault of the dead Jowan Connoch. And it had been he that had bemoaned privately to Tunny of the poor catches, that the men were living in fear of Connoch still and that his business was suffering, and that if this carried on then Porthgarrow would be lost; he that suggested to Tunny perhaps Connoch’ corpse needed to be removed from his new grave into unhallowed soil to stem the evil once and for all. Yes, Tunny had agreed. So had others. It was the only way. As it had been in the past for murderers and suicides. So it came to pass.

But now he was beset by swarms of stinging doubts. He knew he had been but a pawn in a game of Hendra’s making, allowed himself to be carried along with it, both fuelled and blinded by his own hatred of the Connochs. But in what game he could not yet fathom.

And, worst of all, what if Jowan Connoch had been innocent? What if his entire life’s mission to stamp them out of Porthgarrow was also built on nothing more than Yardarm’s own poisonous hatred? What if he were also a pawn in Yardarm’s game? A mere tool honed from impressionable youth with which to enact his vengeance? Even on his deathbed forcing a promise from him. Against his better judgement.

He knelt on the sodden ground at the foot of the cross, placed his hands on the soil. It felt strangely warm. “What have I done?” he murmured. “What have I become?” Thunder growled far away. “Forgive me, Jowan,” he said. His entire world appearing to crumble around him.



* * * *