The House of the Wicked

12





Your Humble Servant





The darkness of the storm brought night early to the cove. The swiftly tumbling clouds gave the impression that a great heavy blanket was being drawn across the heavens. Cold wind galloped in from the sea, seeming to lunge and pounce at Stephen Denning as he scampered over the wet cobbles, the rain now coming at him in thin, gauzy sheets. He cursed, resenting the uncomfortable pinpricks of rain on his face.

Pity those poor fools out there, he thought, glancing out across the bay. At the head of the harbour, lit by the glow of many small lamps, the fishermen were leaning out of their boats, feverishly dipping their baskets into the seething, boiling mass of fish trapped within two large circular tuck nets, the water silvered by their cast-off scales. They raised their baskets and tipped the masses of writhing fish into their boats, waiting till they were full enough to speed the catch to shore. It was a scene almost surreal in its aspect, otherworldly – the dark silhouettes of the fishermen, their faces sometimes lit by the oil lamps and painting them in devilish contortions; the reflections of the lamplight on the troubled surface of the sea, on the fish foaming into the boats like torrents of liquid silver; the many voices sounding like keening spirits amid the howling wind and the roaring of the waves beyond the mouth of the harbour.

The tide was in and little remained of the shingle beach. A steady stream of small boats were plying between the tuck nets and the shore, more men and women tending the donkeys and carts that stood waiting in the shallows, hurriedly taking the baskets of fish from the boats and tossing the catch into the carts. The boats, once empty, rowed back for more. As soon as the carts were full the bedraggled donkeys were whipped into activity, dragging the haul to the women waiting in the palace where the fish would be baulked. The women here sang a cheery song to help their labours along as they gutted the fish at lightning speed, placed them in serried ranks and covered each layer with salt, till it slowly became a solid wall of fish.

Denning noticed Hendra’s distinctive form standing by the water’s edge. He wondered if the man had moved from the spot all day. He was inspecting the catch being tumbled from a boat and engaging the men in conversation. He looked agitated, one moment scrutinising the fish, the next the men who laboured in the bay, then to the sea beyond. He turned on his heel and made for shore, trudging up the beach, so absorbed by his thoughts that he failed to notice Denning standing before him.

“It looks like a good day’s work, Gerran,” he said.

The man, as if startled to hear his name, regarded Denning with a glazed expression. Realisation seeped in. “Ah, Stephen, why are you abroad on such a terrible night?”

“I have been invited to spend the evening with the Reverend Biddle, helping him with his work.”

A sudden squall of rain slapped at them. “Any port in a storm, eh?” said Hendra. “Forgive me, I must be on my way to check progress at the palace. And yes, in answer, it has thus far been a good day’s work, if the storm does not force us to recall the boats early. The sea could rise, lifting the tuck nets and releasing the fish from below; or worse still could wreck the nets entirely, a sum of many hundreds of pounds. It is all about timing in this game we play with the sea. We have had such terrible lean years, Stephen, that we can ill afford another one. If Porthgarrow is to survive. The loss of such a haul would be immense. Not least because the men would see it as a sign.”

“A sign? Of Baccan?”

He gave a low laugh. “You are a local man already, it seems.” He nodded graciously. “I really must be on my way.”

“Is it not overly dangerous to the men, let alone the catch?

“Dangerous, Stephen?”

“A storm. It appears, though I am truly ill-informed and inexperienced in matters of the sea, that those tiny boats out there, far beyond the harbour, run quite a risk of being capsized.”

Hendra followed Denning’s gaze. The boats were barely visible, black bobbing specks attempting to ensnare the shoals. “Nothing is without its risk, Stephen.” He touched the rim of his hat. “If you’ll excuse me.” He walked briskly away, bellowing at a man leading a donkey as he passed. “Hurry, man! Hurry that damned beast along!”



* * * *



High above the Devil’s Maw, at a number of points in the cliff face, the exposed layers of hard-packed, mud-grey sediments began to weep. From tiny fissures water trickled as if from gaping wounds, then gushed, the many weeks of continuous rain having percolated down through the thin subsoil on top, and in turn had turned this fragile ancient rock back into primeval mud, and the land above began to move. Creeping slowly, silently, inexorably. A few crumb-like stones trickled down onto the storm-beaten rocks many feet below. A crevice opened up, racing from the top of the cliff to bottom, hairline in places, wide enough to accept a man’s fist in others, seeping liquid as if the rock face were bleeding. Then a boulder was dislodged and crashed down to its brothers with a loud explosive crack as hard surface met hard surface, a sound absorbed by the fury of the churning seas.

Beyond the cliffs, at the churning water’s edge, a thin, ragged figure crouched down, its attention on the rusted remains of a fish-gutter’s knife that had probably fallen from one of the boats and had been given up by the stormy sea. It lay, dark with rust, amongst the pebbles. The creature’s long-nailed fingers grasped the bleached wooden handle, raising the blade up so it might see it better. A finger stroked the blade’s edge, blunted but still keen. Beyond, out to sea, it saw the tiny pinpricks of light from the distant fishing boats, winking on and off to the rise and swell of the waves on which they rode. A loud grinding sound issued from the cliffs and the creature, twitching nervously, turned to watch another huge boulder plummet and shatter. It jumped back fearfully. Fearful too of the chilling sound of the earth beginning to tear itself apart. It lifted its craggy, beast-like head to the sky, its long hair snapping in the wind like the tongues of enraged serpents. The creature opened its spittle-flecked mouth and wailed in terror, fleeing back to the sanctuary of its deep, dank cave.



* * * *



The Revered Biddle’s home was small, and might have been described as comfortable had it not been stocked with every curiosity imaginable. The man’s eclectic interests were laid out for all to see, a haphazard collection of stuffed animals, badger skulls, books, paintings, shells, clocks, dusty old cabinets, ceramic figures, bronzes, carved sticks, lanterns, prints, peacock’s feathers sticking out of a glass jar and many more things besides. They spilled over from his drawing room and into the scullery, and, thought Denning, no doubt continued to spill upstairs into his bedroom and any outbuildings he may possess. It was obvious, though, that none of this was ornamentation. Everything had its function, or at the very least was a means to gaining understanding. Biddle moved aside a small pile of periodicals and newspapers from a chair so that Denning could sit.

“Research,” he explained. “There’s always research to be carried out.” He smiled thinly. “I am so glad you agreed to help me, Stephen.” Denning replied that he would try his best but did not yet know what he was expected to help with. Biddle excused himself and said that he would make them a pot of tea to help matters flow.

“Something stronger for me, perhaps?” asked Denning hopefully. In part he said it to tease the man, for he knew he was teetotal. Surprisingly, Biddle went over to a cupboard and withdrew a dusty old bottle.

“In case of emergencies,” he explained. “Though I do not condone the taking of alcohol, I admit I have resorted to giving a little to help people cope in times of great distress.” He rummaged around till he found a glass. “You may not be in distress, Mr Denning, but here, take a little sherry.” He handed him the drink. “I, on the other hand, will make myself a pot of tea and set two cups so you may wash away the aftertaste of that vile stuff.” He excused himself and left the room.

He smiled his thank you, drank the sherry and grimaced at the bitter taste. Yes, it was indeed vile, but he emptied the glass all the same. Left alone, Denning became aware of a curious chemical smell pervading the room, sitting above all the other musty, dusty smells of accumulated objects. He saw a shelf on which had been arranged a number of bottles and jars in various shades and sizes from which he assumed the smell emanated. Rising he scrutinised the labels: pyroxylin, ether, zinc bromide, nitric acid, silver nitrate, pyrogallic acid, potassium bromide – a veritable store of chemicals that wouldn’t be out of place in a laboratory. He had no idea of their individual properties or function, though he was vaguely aware that silver nitrate was used in the photographic process.

“For my daguerreotypes,” Biddle confirmed coming to his side. “Tea will be with us presently, when the kettle boils. In my distraction I have allowed my fire in the range to go out and I’m having the devil of a job trying to reset it.” He indicated the bottles. “I have a makeshift darkroom set up in the cellar, perfect for lack of light, but a little too damp for my old bones. Are you familiar with the process?”

Denning shook his head. He was in no doubt he was about to find out.

“It is very interesting, very absorbing, very scientific, almost magical in its nature,” he said with enthusiasm. “First you have to prepare your photographic plates, making a collodion emulsion to cover them using a mixture of pyroxylin, alcohol, ether, zinc bromide, silver nitrate and nitric acid.” He tapped each bottle or glass in turn, the chiming sounds almost musical. “Together this creates a silver bromide which has to be left for up to twenty hours to ripen, until the mixture is of a creamy consistency. The mixture is then washed, re-dissolved in a solution of alcohol and ether till it is finally ready to coat the photographic plates.”

“Such a lengthy, one may say tedious, process.”

“That is only the half of it. Once you have exposed the plate you develop it afterwards in a mixture of pyrogallic acid, potassium bromide and ammonium carbonate. The plate stays workable for only about ten minutes after exposure, so speed is of the essence. During the Crimean War developing was carried out in the field in specially converted wagons.”

“Interesting,” said Denning disinterestedly.

“Listen to me. I find I chatter away when you are here for but a singular reason. Please, take a seat and I will bring you that of which we spoke earlier today.”

He had not exactly been relishing this, but, he thought, there was precious little else to do in Porthgarrow of an evening. The Hendras were obviously absorbed in their work, and Wilkinson had disappeared. He did not find the idea of sitting alone in his cottage or the local inn very appealing. He watched Biddle lifting down a leather box from a shelf crammed with similar boxes, amid a precarious stack of books piled onto the shelf so that they resembled stones in a dry stone wall.

“You probably think me mad,” said Biddle, gasping under the weight of the box, “regaling you with tales of creatures and spirits in Baccan’s Maw. But, you must understand, I did see these things. And somehow I know it is connected to something in here,” he nodded at the box.

“You do not strike me as someone who believes in Baccan, or the ghost of Jowan Connoch come back to haunt the cove,” Denning admitted.

He took up a seat opposite Denning, the box resting on his knees. “Of spirits I can believe, but if you ask whether I believe in the ghost of Jowan Connoch in league with Baccan still, then that is another matter. Baccan is all stuff and nonsense, and of the Connoch’s part in things? Well it is likely that the legend of the evil Myghal Connoch is but a relatively recent addition to the tale. Prior to Mackenzie visiting the cove at the turn of the century, in his efforts to re-catalogue the old Cornish stories, Connoch does not appear in any of the old texts that existed before his compilation of 1809. I have come into possession of a single pamphlet from the 1600s…” His head craned to scan his shelves. “Somewhere. Anyhow, it does not once mention a Myghal Connoch or his part in things.”

“So how came it to be added? The people of the cove certainly believe and perpetuate it.”

“Mackenzie, naturally, sought out and spoke to the one man at the time that held all the old local tales in his head, our wise man Yardarm Pellow. It is from this source, as far as I can ascertain, that the Connochs were made an addition to the legend, and from this stems all the hatred, anger and distrust of the family. It is my belief that Yardarm and the Connoch family held some grudge between them, the origin of which is now long ago lost to time; a grudge so deep it blackened the heart of Yardarm to such a degree he concocted the story in revenge. As with so many things, once it appeared in print it became so in reality. It has continued to this day, and Tunny was, and is, the sad vessel for Yardarm’s poison.”

“Have you not informed Tunny and the people of the truth of the matter?”

“He refuses to listen. They all refuse to listen. Try telling a man that what you once believed to be black is now white. And Tunny and Yardarm had a close, trusting bond unlike any other. The people listen to Tunny, often more than they listen to me, though it pains me to admit that the word of God can take second place to that of a pagan spirit.” Biddle opened the box lid, regarded Denning over the rim of his glasses. “I have to warn you, Stephen, some of these images are not for the faint of heart.”

He lifted out a largish glass plate on which was a dull photographic image, gently handing it over to Denning. It was of a man, sitting by the roadside with his back against a tree, his chin pressed down on his chest.

“Is he asleep?” asked Denning.

“Oh no, quite dead. He was found a year ago, a stranger to these parts. He had no identification on him. My final assertion, which I gave to the authorities, was that he came down from Scotland, originally from Arbroath, to find work and here collapsed and died of starvation. I also believe he had trouble holding any job down due to his addiction to drink, which contributed to his sorry state in life and eventual sad end.”

“Really?” he said sceptically. “How can you tell all this?”

“See, the tattoo just visible below the sleeve of his jersey is of an anchor. A common enough symbol chosen by men of the sea. An anchor whose outline is extremely blurred, showing that he had pursued this life since he was very young. He had been a sailor all his life. The gansey he wears – a term given to his knitted sweater – is associated with many coastal communities, and each area has its own distinct pattern. This one I have seen associated with Scotland, and further research into the weave pinned him down to the Arbroath area. Of course, the gansey might not have originally belonged to him but if so it meant that, looking at the wear on the sweater, he’d had it a long time, signifying that he’d left his home town some time ago but not long enough to completely wear it out and discard it. His relaxed position against the tree probably meant he died naturally, with no signs of aggression against him. His clothing is too ragged and poor for him to have anything of any value about him. His features are thin and gaunt; a poorer man you are less likely to find. He succumbed to death by natural causes. Drink, or the results of prolonged drinking, contributed to his death.”

“Are you able to smell his breath as well?” Denning mocked gently.

“No, but I am able to see the empty gin bottle partially hidden by the grass.”

He’d missed that tiny detail. “Which may or may not have belonged to him. And there is nothing there in that scene that the police, or whoever, might not have deducted without reference to a photographic image.”

“True, but they didn’t; the body was whisked away once they assumed foul play wasn’t involved. It lay for nearly a week, his identity unknown to all, and would have been interred into a pauper’s grave and forgotten had I not studied the photograph and given the authorities my findings on the details. He was indeed from Arbroath and his family was located. All was as I predicted. The attitudes of the dead speak volumes, Mr Denning.” He returned the plate to the safety of the box and handed Denning another. “I hope that your sensibilities are not so easily disturbed, Mr Denning.”

Denning sucked in a breath and recoiled a little. The photograph was of a young woman, discernable only by her dress, for her face was all but unrecognisable as such. The skull had been crushed, the face a maze of gashes and covered in dry blood. Similarly, her arm, where it was bare, was covered in gashes. Her body was in a terribly twisted and broken state, lying at sickening angles amid pebbles and small rocks. He was speechless, and quite shocked to see the grotesque delight registering in Biddle’s eyes.

“Technically this was a most difficult image to capture and develop. She was from another village further round the coast, fallen from a boat, drowned and dashed against the cliffs here at Porthgarrow. What you see is the damage the sea and the rocky coast can do to a person. See, the wounds appear almost knife-like, as if she had been set about by a crazed man, and at first it was deemed so.”

“It is awful,” he said, troubled by the image. “The purpose in capturing scenes of such obvious horror evades me.”

Biddle seemed disappointed in Denning’s reaction. “It is what it is. A record. If we did not have records the past would be as smoke. I laid this alongside another, similar image of a young man who was found dead, to allay fears of a mad murderer on the loose, proof that it was nature that inflicted the wounds. It served its purpose.” He took the plate from Denning, rather brusquely, he thought. “But I really serve it up to prepare you for what I asked you to come here to look at. Though this next is not a photograph, it is every bit as horrific.”

Instead of a glass plate he took out a sheet of paper and held it close to his chest as he spoke. “At the time, thirteen years ago, I did not possess my photographic equipment, and, as you will discover, I do not have your undisputed artistic talent, but I tried my best to capture as true to nature the scene, the sight of Jowan Connoch’s wife on the night of her murder.”

He handed it over. The drawing was not as crude as Biddle had made out. In fact it displayed more than a modicum of talent. But, having heard the tale of the murder in the very house he now rented, Denning found the image equally, if not more, disturbing than the previous photograph.

Mrs Connoch lay sprawled on her back, the wound on her torso not quite as long as local legend would have, from neck to groin, but large enough; Biddle had captured the bubbling innards very well, he thought dispassionately. He noticed at once she wore only one shoe. The other was lying by the door. There was a table close to her head, the very same that existed in the cottage today, and on it lay a bottle on its side, a candle sticking out of its neck. It was on the edge of the table, close to falling off altogether.

Biddle came to hover at his shoulder. “Though I have looked upon this often there remains something that bothers me still, as it did on the night I drew it. I have seen many dead people, and each pose tells their own sad story. But this – poor Mrs Connoch, she did not deserve to die like this. I knew her. She was a good woman. Loyal to her husband, a devoted mother. Such madness.”

“And this is exactly as you beheld it? Every last detail?”

“Every last detail, replicated as best as I could.”

Denning put a hand to his chin, brought the drawing up closer to his eyes. “That is very odd,” he said.

“What is odd, Mr Denning?”

“Another glass of sherry would help me think.” He picked up the glass and Biddle gladly refilled it almost to the brim. He took a gulp, flicked the corner of his lips dry with his forefinger. “There is but a tiny pool of blood evident, collected beneath her body, yet clearly there are signs that a great deal has spilled from her wound and soaked into her clothing. I am no physician, but I would have expected more.”

Biddle’s eyes widened. “Of course! I did not see that. It would be expected, naturally. There is not so much blood on the floor, but perhaps it has, as you say, merely soaked into her clothes. They are heavy woollen garments and would act as a sponge, surely?” He thought hard. “I cannot bring to mind whether there was much blood elsewhere in the room, save that in which she lay.”

“The candle in the bottle…” said Denning, his brows lowered in concentration.

“Yes, evidence of a struggle. The table was struck as they fought, knocking it over.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “Why is her shoe near the door? Did you see anyone move it? Kick it into this position by mistake?”

“It was there when I arrived. Again, a product of a fierce struggle, kicked off perhaps as she lashed out with her foot at her husband.”

“And the way she lies, that too bothers me,” he said.

Biddle held a finger aloft. “As it bothers me, Mr Denning. Why, it is almost as if she has lain down to go to sleep, her arms straight by her side, her legs straight. Hardly the position of someone who has died a violent death. Yet all the evidence points to such an end. I have not been able to fathom that at all.”

The two men continued to pore over the drawing in silence, Denning draining the glass and curling his nose up at the liquor. Biddle shrugged an apology. Finally Denning tapped the paper with the back of his hand and sat back in his chair, releasing a sigh. “Reverend, I have an explanation, though I am aware it will fly in the face of all that’s been said.”

Biddle went back and sat down in his own chair opposite Denning, hands clasped eagerly before him. “Please, go on.”

“The body of Mrs Connoch appears not to have fallen into that position. More likely she has been dragged across the floor from the door, where her shoe was dislodged. In his haste to carry out the deed, Jowan backed accidentally into the table, knocking over the bottle, at which point he let the body fall, thus leaving the woman in her final position.”

“But that does not make sense. Why would Jowan murder his wife by the door, drag her the few feet over to the table then kneel over her with the weapon, in which position he was discovered. And surely there would have been blood by the door? A trail of it across the floor?”

“The lack of blood is the key to this, Reverend,” said Denning triumphantly, the sherry making his head spin a little and his cheeks flush. “She was not murdered in the house. She met her death elsewhere and was then brought to the house, dragged through the door, across the floor, and dropped in the centre of the room. That would explain why there is so little blood.”

Biddle shook his head. “Why would Jowan – “

“Because he didn’t. Jowan would not murder his wife then bring her mutilated body back to his own home. It does not make sense. Not even for someone as crazed as he was purported to be.”

Biddle blinked, then gave a hefty sigh. “All this time I have puzzled over this picture. You have indeed proved invaluable and a credit to your family trade. You would make a marvellous lawyer if ever you abandon art. But I am still confused – in fact quite troubled by what you imply. Are you saying Jowan may not have killed his wife after all?”

“It appears a strong possibility, though at this distance in time and with only a drawing through which to craft assumptions, I cannot say with any certainty. My own conclusion is that Mrs Connoch was murdered by another hand, for reasons as yet unknown, and that her body was brought back to the house so that Jowan would take the blame.”

“Oh my word!” Biddle gasped, his face draining of colour. His eyes scanned the drawing as if seeing it for the first time.

“Which of course raises another serious issue. If Jowan did not kill his wife, then who did, and why?”



* * * *





At a distance, her form appeared to belong to that of a much younger woman. She wore an elegant embroidered cream dress, her hair tied up neatly onto her head, a silver pin in the form of a discreet white rose fastening it in place. The sunlight caught the gold necklace she habitually wore, a present from his father. Over her crooked elbow was a wicker basket, all but full of cuttings from the garden. She was unaware of his approach at first, bending to a rose bush and gently snipping off a couple of choice blooms. Ignorant of his presence he felt he saw her as she really was, caught in a private and personal tender moment, and, looking upon her aged beauty, understood what had drawn her father to her all those years ago.

Michael Denning stepped onto the expansive lawn to cross over to her. He saw her shoot a glance at him, and he noticed the faintest of changes in her; a stiffening, perhaps, as if preparing herself to receive him, to slip on the mantle of his mother. She loved her garden and had lavished many years honing it to a state of near perfection; taming it, reclaiming it, making it how she wanted it to be. This extended to other aspects of her life. His father was a powerful man in society, but his mother exhibited a strong controlling force in all their lives, always had and always would.

He came to her side. As she moved, the smell of flowers rose sweet and cloying.

“I always feel sad at this time of year,” she said. “The roses have but a little time left to them. One or two final little gasps of colour. And the trees are already showing signs of autumn. The cold of winter is close and there is no more summer left. Autumn is neither summer nor winter but a place in between. Things are alive but almost dead.”

He didn’t respond. For one thing he was not a gardener. And for another he wasn’t certain whether this was just another of her riddles, her troublesome thoughts given a voice.

“Let us walk by the lake,” she said. She called it a lake, though the feature with its ornamental fountain in its centre, its rim of reeds and lilies, was hardly a lake and naming it so spoke more of her ambitions than its size. In the distance a gardener was tossing weeds into a wheelbarrow. She stopped to admire a goldfish darting through underwater foliage. “How is your dear brother?” she asked. Not, he noticed, her dear son.

“Settled, as far as Stephen can ever be so.” He could read in her tight lips that she did not approve of his tone. She, of course, could speak of him however she liked but it was not a privilege she granted others. “I have been making arrangements for him, in New York.”

She nodded approvingly. “America is such a huge place,” she said. “Still frightfully undeveloped. I can see the advantages that will give us. Whilst we are on the subject of America, what of the woman?”

“The wife of the American Attaché? Well, she broke down in tears, naturally, when I forced her hand, said that I would reveal all to her husband. She would be in ruin. I told her that Stephen had abandoned her for the charms of another.” He admitted, silently, that he felt sorry for the woman, totally distraught as she received the news. But she did not know – could not know – that he had acted in her best interests.

“And Stephen? He did not suspect that your tale of a vengeful husband was a lie?”

He gave a cold grin. “Stephen has long been fearful for his own skin. He fell for my story as I knew he would. The affair is over.” And tragedy averted, he thought. For now.

She nodded. “So, this other fellow you have…”

“His name is Croker. Benjamin Croker.”

“I don’t wish to know his name or anything about him, except that he is trustworthy.”

Michael Denning smirked at the notion. He didn’t know why but he was growing increasingly irritated by the shoal of goldfish skittering beneath their feet, insisting they should be fed. “People like Croker are never trustworthy. In entrusting him to carry out what we expect, of that I can be certain.” I have him trapped and feeding from my fingers like one of these goldfish, he thought. “His personal circumstances make it difficult for him,” he said, “and his very character binds him tighter still. But in the end it is more of a mutual affair than it ever was with Wilkinson.”

She resumed her walk. He followed. “What news of Wilkinson’s father?”

“He is an old man. He grows weaker, and the people I have spoken to say that it is a matter of a year, no more, before he succumbs to his illnesses.” Neither of them said it, but they knew their hold over Wilkinson would all but disappear with his father’s passing. Indeed, Wilkinson would become a liability. He had already displayed far more reluctance to help them than was comfortable. The man himself had appeared to be at breaking point. It was time to act, his mother had said. It was now time to deal with this Wilkinson issue.

“I need not remind you,” she said, “following your father’s successful by-election win and the Letters Patent from the Queen, his acceptance into the House of Lords is imminent.”

“You are correct. I do not need reminding,” he said and instantly regretted his shortness.

She fixed him with a steely glare. “He has worked so hard, Michael. We have worked so hard. I will not have it all ruined by one man.” He did not respond. “You know how advantageous it would be if this man Wilkinson were removed from the equation. And as soon as possible. You can give me your reassurance that this man Croker is reliable?”

“The noose is a great enforcer of reliability,” he said.



The thought had been uppermost in his mind as he left the hansom and bade the driver wait for him. It was late, with few people around, and the cabby was nervous at being left alone in this part of London. But he offered the man a sizeable financial incentive and this had been enough to dispel his night fears. Michael Denning knew this area well enough, but he found the dark alleyways where the lamplight couldn’t penetrate more than a little disquieting himself.

After a while he came to the rear entrance of the police station, little used, in almost complete darkness, and he went up the steps and knocked at the door. The sounds of bolts being drawn back, light spilling out onto the dark yard. A moon of a face peered round the door.

“Mr Denning…” the face said.

Michael darted quickly inside. “Sergeant,” he greeted quietly. “Where is he?”

“This way, sir,” he said, and the policeman led the way down a tight little corridor of dark green and muddy-brown tiles. Gas lamps hissed and flickered. The officer paused by a heavy, green-painted door, unlocked it with a key from a hefty bunch at his belt, and he indicated with a chubby thumb. “He’s in there.”

Michael Denning slipped the man a roll of banknotes. “I have not been here,” he said.

The policeman nodded. “Of course, sir, as is the terms of our agreement. I’ll leave you to your business and shall be at the desk if you have need of my assistance. Knock when you wish to leave. You have less than one hour, sir.”

As the door shut behind him with a dull thump of finality, the man sat disconsolately at a small table in the room’s centre turned to look at his visitor.

“And who are you?” he asked.

He feigned confidence, thought Michael Denning. He’d seen it before, and he knew that on the inside this man was nervous, as skittish as a caged rat. The skin under his eyes was dark, as if he’d not slept in a long while, his clothes dishevelled, the combined smell of sweat and fear strong. But there was also something else to this man. A strength, a determination, eyes that spoke of cunning, opportunism. Qualities Michael Denning was pleased to discover.

“You are Benjamin Croker,” he said, listening to the sound of the key being turned in the lock. He stood opposite the man, arms folded, staring down at him. “Benjamin Croker?” he said again.

“I believe we have not had the pleasure,” Croker returned, a swagger to the way he made the pretence of adjusting his necktie. He smoothed down his jacket lapels.

“You will hang, of course, you do know that?”

Fear rose like a smell from Croker. For a moment his eyes ballooned, betraying the tugging at his stomach. But his composure soon returned. “State your business, so that I may get back to my bed, albeit of inferior quality and infested with the hungry lice of its last occupant. Her Majesty’s police cells are not fitted out to a high specification, I fear.”

“I am Michael Denning,” he said. His well-manicured hand slid a chair from under the table and he sat down, slowly and with deliberation, the tips of the fingers of his left hand tapping the tabletop. Croker scrutinised every tiny movement. The room was small, windowless and stuffy. Croker fingered his hot neck. “I see by your reaction that you recognise my name.”

“I know it well enough,” said Croker. “Legal defender to the rich and the famous. Famous now in your own right. Powerful, one might say. Like the rest of you Dennings. A father that has the ear of the Queen, if we are led to believe.”

Denning smiled. He loathed this kind of man, a product of the lower orders of London, hardened in youth by grinding poverty, schooled early on in crime, as slippery as the eels they habitually ate. But some, like Benjamin Croker, rose above the scum, to become scum of a higher calibre. He was intelligent, calculating, possessed of much knowledge. And connections.

“All true,” said Denning.

“And so, I says to myself, this begs the question, why should such a man be sat here opposite me, a humble fellow, who can scarce afford to pay for a single button upon your finely tailored coat? Or, I asks, why such a man should soil his fine boots upon the tiles of a lowly police station at such an ungodly time at night, entering, as it sounded, by the rear door?”

Yes, thought Denning, intelligent. “Back to the point in hand. You will hang…”

Croker shook his head. “There you go again with that old chestnut. Here I am, recently arrested, without even a sniff of the trial to come, and you already have me hung from the gallows. Firstly, there is no evidence of murder. It is all circumstantial. I had no motive.” He said it confidently enough, but Denning’s mere presence, the words he uttered, caused a froth of unease, stuck a needle of doubt into the thin eggshell of his defiance.

“You still hold onto that as your defence, Mr Croker? That you had no motive to kill the man?”

“I had no motive, Mr Denning.” Less assured this time, but growled out impatiently nonetheless.

“You are a freelance correspondent for, amongst others, the Tribune and the Herald.”

“That much is not in dispute.”

“We shall see. It is also a fact that you attended the Canterbury music hall on Westminster Bridge Road, where the murder took place.”

“Alleged murder. I had no motive. Again, that is not under dispute. A man must relax, after all. The halls offer just such an opportunity.”

“Indeed, relax he must. But that relaxation was rudely interrupted.”

“I was attacked, without provocation, outside in the alley. He was drunk, he demanded money, I refused.”

“That’s in the alley, where you were relieving yourself?”

“Am I on trial already, Mr Denning? Do you cross-examine me?”

“Please answer, Mr Croker.”

He shifted uncomfortably on his hard seat, fingered his collar once again. “I have given my statement to the police. I do not need to repeat the same to you.” He sat back, folded his arms in defiance. “And I am arrested under false pretences, which will soon be discovered and I will be free of this shit hole, pardon my French, sir.”

Denning laughed. “False pretences? It was an attack which resulted in you shooting dead an unarmed man.”

“Self defence. I thought he had a knife.”

“Rolled up paper, I believe. A copy of the Times”

“I wasn’t to know. It had all the appearances of a knife, in the dark.”

“Do you always carry a gun, Mr Croker? In your case a Remington derringer, I believe. Sometimes called a ‘muff pistol’ as they are often favoured by women. A small weapon, ideal for concealment.”

“Many people in London carry guns, as you are well aware, in the event they are required for self-defence. London is full to the brim of criminal types.” He gave a knowing wink.

Michael Denning stroked a finger over his eyebrow, the movement watched with uncommon intensity by Croker. “And this man, of a certain criminal type, was a man you say you had never encountered before that evening?”

“I swear I never saw him till he lunged at me with his knife – roll of paper. I drew my revolver and shot him. In self defence. I did not mean to kill him. Witnesses attest to the affair.”

A knock came at the door. They heard the key being turned and the sergeant came in bearing two mugs of steaming tea. “Forgive me, sir,” he said, “but as I had prepared one for myself I thought you might appreciate a mug too.”

“Splendid!” he said, taking them off the policeman and setting them on the table. He pushed a mug of grey-brown liquid over to Croker. He stared down at the greasy globs of cream floating on top. The policeman left them, re-locking the door. “Drink,” said Denning.

“I don’t wish to drink.”

“You may have need of it, vile as it is.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his coat pocket and began to read. “You are recently retuned from South Africa, where, ostensibly, you covered the war with the Zulu nation. Just nod, Mr Croker, as you appear to be finding it ever more difficult to open your mouth.” He duly nodded. “You must have seen some sights, eh?” A half nod in return, his head averted, as if he knew where this was headed. “And you still say you did not know the dead man?”

“Say your piece, Denning, and leave me be!” he snarled.

“But you know of his employer, do you not? In a roundabout way, of course. I suppose you will tell me that it is sheer coincidence that the man has been a runner, of sorts, a messenger of dubious personal character, one might say, for a man called Frederick Langset, who in turn is cousin to the master of a certain vessel that operates from Durban, a ship that you are more than familiar with from your time on the continent.”

“Many ships sail from Durban. Coincidence happens. I know not of which ship you allude to.”

Michael Denning leaned forward over the table. “I shall speak plain, Mr Croker, for I care not to spend much time in such a dreary place. I have information that suggests, in no uncertain terms, that your privileged position as correspondent with the army gained you an opportunity to make certain connections, to spirit away a large quantity of armaments and munitions, which found their secret way aboard this certain ship. Once they reached London the said weapons were transported across England to Liverpool from where you secured transport across to America. New York, to be precise. Amongst the grateful recipients of this multifarious haul have been certain gang leaders, the likes of which the city is overrun with, it seems. But, interestingly, you also have slippery connections to the lofty world of art, do you not? The Board of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for instance? You are indeed a man with a foot in both worlds. Does any of this sound vaguely familiar, Mr Croker?”

Croker’s previous arrogance guttered like a candle in a stiff wind, then was extinguished altogether as Denning concluded and sat back. He glanced to the door uncertainly. He could not fathom how the man came to know such things. He knew of the man’s reputation, of course, but he was the very devil.

“Your silence is most telling, Mr Croker. So, let me put it to you, as indeed it will be put during your trial, that the meeting in the alley was not a coincidence but instead it was to conclude business, was it not? But a conclusion was proving hard to arrive at, things got a little heated, agreements could not be made, threats ensued, then a struggle, during which you shot the man dead. Whether by accident or design matters not, though I fear I know the real reason, the facts thus presented will lead you directly to the gallows, or at the very least a substantial bout of hard labour for stealing Her Majesty’s armaments.”

“I have witnesses…” he said meekly.

“Paid for out of your own purse. I could unravel their ludicrous stories within a few minutes and have them in contempt of court and revealing your efforts to cover up the true events. That wouldn’t look good for you, would it?” He smiled, this time a little more warmly. “Look, I don’t come here to bury you. I can help you. I can see to it that this little incident is dismissed as an act of self defence and you will be a free man once again.”

“I don’t understand. I can’t afford your services. The evidence…”

“In return for my help I require your special skills, connections and services to help me. Don’t worry, you will be well paid, but I insist I must have your utmost confidence in the matter.”

Croker frowned deeply, his fingers tapping energetically on the tabletop. “And, just for the sake of argument, I should refuse?”

“Then, just for the sake of argument, this visit never took place. You will still go on trial but I will see to it that this…” he held up the paper “…falls under the gaze of the prosecution. You will hang, Mr Croker, you have my word on that. Take it from a man who knows.”

“That might be construed as blackmail, Mr Denning.”

“Mr Croker, let us call it mutual support.” His smile fell and he rose from his seat. “Do we have an agreement?”

Croker sighed, hardly believing what he was hearing. But he was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He grinned broadly and shook Michael Denning’s proffered hand. “Your humble servant, Mr Denning,” he said.

“Indeed you are,” replied Denning.



* * * *