The House of the Wicked

14





Nightmares of Old





He was glad to see the sun rising into an almost clear sky, burning off the thin mists that haunted the hollows around the trees. It had for far too long been hidden behind impenetrable cloud, and now its ascent appeared cautious, almost shy. He was glad, too, to feel its warmth. The severe storm of the night before had all but blown itself out, only the last dregs of a chill wind remained to ruffle the grass.

Tunny slapped the reins down lightly on the horse’s back and the cart gave a jolt. He guided the beast around a tree that had partially blocked the old road out of Porthgarrow. All around was evidence of last night’s beating; twigs, limbs, leaves, stones and even rocks washed into piles by the roadside. It had been so bad that he had sought shelter in the very cottage where he had been called out to tend to the ailments of an aged woman. The roads had been all but impassable, and he had only just managed to creep across one of the flooded fords; instead of a tiny, running trickle of water as usual it now resembled a fast-flowing river.

He frowned in puzzlement as he saw a man running towards him round a bend in the road, and then, close on his heels, five or six men giving chase. He drew the horse to a halt, stepping down, and as he did so he recognised the man being chased as Jowan Connoch, face screwed in pain and lathered in sweat, his legs looking as if they could barely support his body. On seeing Tunny he slowed his pace, turned and faced his attackers.

They soon swamped him, his flailing fists making little impression; the men mauled him mercilessly with one blow after another and Jowan crumpled beneath their combined weight, driving him thrashing and kicking to the ground. They didn’t let up their assault; someone delivered a swift kick to his side.

“Stop that!” cried Tunny, running over to the men, dragging a couple of them off. “What are you doing? Leave the man be!”

One man rose from the fray, pushing Tunny away with the flat of his hands. “Get away, old man! It’s none of your business!”

But Tunny did not back off. He grabbed a hold of the man’s arm, spun him round to face him. “Why do you do this? Let the man up. You’ll kill him!”

“Kill him? Aye, we’ll kill him alright! As he murdered our poor Keziah last night!”

“What? You are mistaken, man, surely!”

“No mistake, Tunny. My niece has been murdered. She’s up at the monastery, her young throat cut, and this bastard was the one who carried it out.” He looked down at the fray, his body tense. “I would hang him now as soon as look at him!”

“Keziah?” Tunny murmured. “Not Keziah…” He could not quite take in what he heard. It was he that had advised her to go to the monastery at midnight, in order to help alleviate her grief. And now she was dead.

“Enough!” the man cried. “Let him to his feet. He will pay for his sins soon enough.” Jowan was hoisted up, but his legs buckled and he was held there, hanging almost, between two men. His face was bloodied, one eye closed and swollen. The man went up close. “You murdering Connoch bastard!” he snarled, driving a steel-hard fist into Jowan’s unprotected stomach. The young man cried out and sank down.

“That’s enough!” shouted Tunny, pushing the man away. “What proof do you have of his guilt?”

“He’s a Connoch, Tunny, you know that. That is proof enough. And I saw him threaten you with a knife – it was Keziah who came to me and begged for me to help you, or have you forgotten already how we came to your aid? See, you still have the mark of his knife upon your neck! He has been haunting the monastery for days now. He sought his revenge for the beating we gave him and has enacted it upon my poor niece.”

“Drivel!” said Jowan, spitting out blood.

The man hit him again and Jowan collapsed. The men let him fall to his knees. He remained doubled up, clutching his stomach. “Why did you run if you were innocent?”

He gulped in deep breaths. “To avoid another beating from you and your apes!” he said defiantly. “I have had my fill of them.”

He was about to deliver another blow when Tunny put a hand on his arm. “So you find a man guilty before he is even arrested and tried? Are you now the law?”

“And you’d have the murderer escape? We are to take him and lock him up in a cellar until the police get here. A message has been sent to the constable in Penleith.”

“On whose instruction is he to be held so?”

“Mr Hendra’s,” he said, “which is all the authority I need. Now step away, Tunny, or I swear I will not be responsible for what happens to you.”

“Where is Hendra?”

“He is in the ruins, with the body of my niece.”

Tunny mounted the cart. “You do not harm Jowan further, or, by God, you will answer to me for it!”

“Do you now side with Baccan, Tunny?” he growled. “This was all his doing – the storm, the loss of the catch and Keziah’s murder. And this man was at the heart of it. He has brought us nothing but misfortune, Tunny. He is in league with Baccan, like every generation of Connoch before him. We need to wipe them out forever.” He put his face close to Jowan’s. “You will hang, Connoch!”

“Go to hell…” spluttered Jowan.

“Enough!” said Tunny. The old man ran a hand through his grey hair. In part what he was witnessing now was of his own making. His and Yardarm’s. “I side with the truth,” he said. “For too long Porthgarrow has sought to hide it. This has gone on long enough. It is eating at people’s hearts like a sickness. Put the man up here, on the cart, at once. And careful with him; you may have broken his bones.” The men looked uncertain. “Now!” he snarled. And they did as they were bid. He cracked the reins down hard and the horse set off, the small group of men keeping pace with the cart as they headed back down the road to Porthgarrow.



* * * *



Gerran Hendra stepped towards the edge of the cliff, reeling at the sight before him. A great portion of the land had given way, slipped down to the sea a hundred and fifty feet below. It was as if a monstrous spade had dug out a sixty-foot chunk of the land and tossed it aside. Instead of a sheer cliff face along this stretch there was in its place a steeply sloping mound of earth, clay, boulders, rocks and stones reaching all the way from the summit of the headland to the beach below. A man could easily clamber down, he thought, the bottom of Baccan’s Maw, the tiny pebbled beach, the caves, accessible for the very first time from land.

“My God,” he said, moving away, taking out a handkerchief and swiping it across his forehead.

Two men came to his side, their faces betraying their amazement. “Baccan!” one of them said. “He did this!”

“”Get away from here!” cried Hendra. “This place is unsafe! It could give way at any moment!” Their eyes widened at his obvious panic. “I want no one to come near here, understand? Not within a hundred yards. Do you hear?” They nodded. “You,” he said, pointing to one of them, “see to it that a fence is put up at once, anything to keep the people away.”

“Yes, Mr Hendra, I’ll do that.” He ran off towards the village.

Hendra turned to the other man. “Stand guard over there. You have my permission to use whatever force needed to keep people away until the site is secured.”

“Is that really necessary, Mr Hendra?”

He turned on him. “Yes, man, of course it is necessary! I say it’s necessary! Do not think to disobey me!”

The man flinched and slunk off to take up his position as ordered. Hendra rushed down the hill, towards the ruins of the monastery. A small crowd had gathered around the canvas-covered body of Keziah Polsue, which enflamed him all the more. He beat a fist against the back of one of the men.

“I thought I told you to keep them away, you dolt!” He then addressed the small gathering, their faces shocked, terrified almost. “What are you all doing here? Go away, now! You are not supposed to be here!” He saw they were transfixed by the pool of blood that had spread thick and dark across the stone slab.

Reverend Biddle came over to him. “They know the girl, Gerran,” he said softly. “I’ll see to it that they are kept away till the police arrive; they are delayed because of the roads.”

“The police. Yes, they will come too,” he said as if in a daze.

“Who could have done this, Gerran?”

“Connoch, that’s who. He is at this moment being taken and held prisoner till the police get here.”

“Young Jowan? You have proof?”

“We shall have our proof.”

Biddle took Hendra’s arm, led him away a little, spoke softly into his ear. “Gerran, we must speak soon on another matter. It concerns the murder thirteen years ago. You see, certain information has come my way that suggests it was not Jowan Connoch who killed his wife.”

“What?” he said, starting back. “Of course he did! Why open up old wounds, Marcus, when we have wounds afresh to contend with?”

He gripped his arm tighter. “Gerran, the two crimes may be connected. It could be the same person who did this. You must not try and brand young Jowan with the mark of a past his father may have had no hand in. The time has come to release them from their burden and discover the truth.”

Hendra shook himself free. “Truth? Do not talk nonsense, Marcus! Not at such a time!” He looked up, and beyond the press of bodies saw Biddle’s camera set up on its wooden tripod. “Tell me you are not going to be so cruel as to take this dead woman’s photograph?”

Biddle looked at him over the top of his glasses. His old friend was clearly, and strangely agitated. “Yes,” he said calmly, bending down to the canvas-covered body and taking one corner, preparing to remove it. “I will require you all to go away, please,” he said speaking to the crowd. “This is not a pleasant sight. Go home, you can do no more.”

“You are not to do that, Biddle! Remove that equipment, at once!” Hendra ordered.

“I shall not. This will be an invaluable addition to my work. It may prove decisive in securing the killer.”

“We have the killer!”

“Whoever it may be, Gerran,” he said abstractedly.

“Have you no heart, sir?”

“It is precisely because I have a heart, Gerran. It would be best if you concentrated on getting your men to move the people away.”

“You will not do this, Marcus!” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “I will not allow it!” He stormed over to the tripod. With a meaty swipe of his hand he pushed over the equipment and it crashed against the stones. There was a sharp tinkle of glass as the lens in its brass housing was smashed.

The people looked on in astonishment as Biddle came bounding over, distressed at the sight of his beloved camera lying broken on the ground. “Gerran, what have you done?” He bent to the camera and investigated the bruised wooden body and the thick shards of glass. “It’s ruined!”

Hendra, his chest heaving, looked briefly into the disbelieving eyes of his friend and then turned on his heel. “Keep them away till the police arrive!” he ordered, making his way down the hill.

He had not gotten far when he spotted the familiar forms of a group of his investors and other seine owners urgently racing up the hill towards him, their coat tails flapping in the wind, their hands holding tightly to their hats. He groaned inwardly. “Gerran,” one of them wheezed, the veins on his cheeks fanning out like tiny red fires. “Hevva has been called, can you hear it? There is a gigantic shoal spotted, but none of the men will take to the water. This affair has them all running like frightened rabbits to their houses.”

Hendra looked out to sea but couldn’t see the shoal they spoke of. He glanced over to the Huer’s hut across on the far headland and made out a speck of a man, the frantic waving of the signals. He could hear the distant chiming of hand bells as runners went about the streets, calling the men to their boats.

“It’s true, Gerran. We should not waste time. We lost three seine nets last night at a cost of many hundreds of pounds, and the majority of the catch was lost to the storm. We must take the opportunity to recoup our losses. Order the men to their boats. They’ll listen to you.”

He studied each of their anxious faces. Each had invested a great deal of money in the business. Each had a great deal to lose. “There is a woman lying dead up there,” he said tiredly. “Let them grieve a little.”

They fell quiet for a moment. Then one of them spoke up. “That is all very well, Gerran, but we have a business to run.” The others agreed. “The police will take care of things. That is their job. More importantly, we think you should see if you can knock some sense into those superstitious dullards and get them into their boats.”

He sighed. “I will see what I can do, but I have other urgent business to attend to first.” He left them talking irritably amongst themselves.



* * * *



He awoke from a hellish nightmare, his body awash with sweat, his heart crashing, his temples aflame. Even as his head sprung from his pillow the night visions were fast fading as his waking mind sought to regain control. He’d been in the heart of a storm, the wind slashing at his exposed face like freezing claws; and out of the lightening-bathed night he saw the creature – limbs crippled and deformed, its flesh corrupt, ruptured and weeping black blood. Its pale, vein-streaked body heaved and pulsed, and from a scarred and bloodied mouth emanated a senseless gibberish as it clawed its way over to him. In one of its talon-like hands it brandished a large knife that flashed in the lightening. He could not move. He was pinned by fear. He could feel its hot, foetid breath on his cheek. He turned away from it, wanting to scream. The thunder crashed overhead…

It crashed still. Loud, painful beatings that tore through his sore head.

“Mr Denning! Mr Denning!”

He put a hand to his head and groaned. “Damn that brew of Biddle’s,” he murmured. It had brought on one of his worst episodes yet. He could scarce lift his head and prise open his eyes; the pain was all but unbearable. A multitude of sharp, intense colours flashed before his eyes, each appearing as a silent gunshot that caused fresh tremors of discomfort. “Stop that damn hammering, Mrs Carbis!” he cried as loudly as he could.

“Mr Denning! Are you awake?”

Mrs Carbis did not wait for an answer. She threw open the door and burst into the room.

“Of course I am awake!” He gave a deep sigh, dragged his curtains across in front of the bed and promptly fell back upon his pillow. “Are you to do this to me every morning? My constitution cannot take it. Please leave me in peace. And don’t mention the word breakfast. I simply need to stay here and die, Mrs Carbis.”

“Oh don’t say that, Mr Denning! Not even in jest!”

He opened one eye, peered through a crack in the curtains at her. “Mrs Carbis, as you can see, I am not yet dressed. Where I come from it is not the done thing to enter a man’s chamber when he is half naked.”

She nodded and turned away. “I’m sorry, Mr Denning, I am late this morning, but it is because there has been a terrible thing happened…”

“What time is it?” he said, his mouth dry, bitter-tasting.

“Time?”

He squeezed his eyes closed, rubbed his fiery temples. “That thing you people seem to have very little conception of.”

“It is very late; almost ten-thirty in the morning, sir.”

He let out a low wheeze. “In London, we do not know such a time in the morning exists. Can you come back later, when I am more awake and – well, frankly a little more decent. Must a man shed all dignity in this village? Close the door on your way out.” He was about to turn over, away from her, when he said: “What terrible thing?”

The cup of her hand went to her mouth. “Poor Keziah, she’s been murdered, last night, up there on the headland.”

He lifted himself onto his elbows. “A murder? You are certain?”

“As certain as the sun rises, Mr Denning. It’s horrible!” She came over to his bed, stood by the curtains. “The whole village is in turmoil because of it. I cannot believe such a thing could happen again, not here, not in Porthgarrow. That’s why I’m late. I was all of a dither and didn’t know what I was supposed to be doing. A woman’s not safe any more!” she cried. “You never know who will be next!”

He sat upright, shards of pain spearing into his head as he did so. “But how did she die? Why would they kill her?”

“Someone has taken a knife to her young throat, Mr Denning!” She mimed the action.

He gasped. Visions of the dead French woman sprang impossibly to mind.

“Have you seen Mr Wilkinson?” he asked.

“He did not answer his door this morning. I presumed he was asleep. Or perhaps he is already up and abroad somewhere. He is an early riser. Why do you ask?”

He dismissed her question with a wave of his hand. “Pass me my clothes before you leave, will you Mrs Carbis?”

“What clothes, Mr Denning?”

“I don’t know; where I left them, on the chair by the table?”

“There are no clothes, Mr Denning,” she said, bemused.

He stuck his head through the gap in the curtains. “They have to be there,” he said sharply. But true to her word they weren’t on the chair. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, as confused as she.

“Shall I prepare you breakfast, Mr Denning?”

“No. I shall take something later, when my head has recovered. Now please leave me whilst I attend to getting dressed.”

He sank back to his pillow, listening to Mrs Carbis opening and closing the door. He tried to fight his dark thoughts but they refused to be beaten. It added to his pain. Eventually the headache had subsided enough for him to put a tentative step out of the bed and onto the cold stone floor. He pulled it away with a grimace when he realised the flagstone was wet. “What on earth?” he said.

He saw small puddles leading in a faint trail from the door to the side of his bed and at first thought that it must have been caused by a leak in the roof. But he realised they were boot prints. And on the chair by his bed was another puddle of water, gathered in the aged hollow of the worn leather seat. He stood up, rubbing his temple to smooth away the pain. It was then he noticed the untidy pile of sketchbooks, pencils and inks dumped unceremoniously on the floor a few feet away. That is most odd, he thought, bending down to peer under the bed.

The small suitcase in which he’d stored these things, one he’d stuffed under the bed with another trunk, was missing.



* * * *



Her father was bent over the Davenport in the library, just closing the second drawer down. He spun round sharply on hearing her open the door. Jenna Hendra saw him slip something quickly inside his coat pocket. His face looked flustered, his forehead glistening with sweat.

“Is everything alright, father? You do not look well.”

For a moment he appeared dazed, then his brows lowered. “Do you not know how to knock, Jenna? Are your manners so easily forgotten?”

She closed the door behind her, walking up to him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why must I hear it from one of the servants before my father thinks it proper to inform me? There has been a murder, in Heaven’s name.”

He faced away from her. “I did not wish to upset you. It is a tragic affair. But I have things under control. Everything will be fine. We have the murderer in safe keeping till the police arrive.” He noticed his hand was trembling and gripped his lapel to still it. Above his head his wife’s portrait watched him. How he needed her now, more than ever. To help him through these troubled times. She always knew what was best. She had been his life’s rudder, his compass.

“Why would anyone do such a thing to someone as sweet as Keziah?”

“Because he is a Connoch. That is why.”

Jenna’s eyes widened at the mention of the name. “Jowan? You think Jowan did this?”

“I know he did. We all know he did. Like father, like son. Like the damnable breed they are.”

“But you’re wrong!” She went closer to him, but he seemed to avoid her direct gaze. “He is unwell. When I spoke to him he was so weak as to hardly be able to raise a hand to bat a fly. And he simply does not have it within him to do such a thing.”

He spun on her, anger causing his eyes to balloon. “What? You have met with him?”

“He wanted to see me. He had questions. About the Jacobite Bolt…”

“Listen,” he growled, “you do not know what they are capable of. To a man they are devious and corrupt. I forbid you from speaking with him again. He will fill your head with lies.”

“Where is he being kept? I want to see him.”

“I forbid it!”

“I have a mind of my own, father, and I will speak with him. You are wrong, he is not the murderer. You hold him under false pretences.”

His face reddened. “You will not dare to disobey me, child,” he blew loudly, “or there will be consequences. You will forfeit your birthright. So help me God, you will not inherit this business, for you are proving to be incapable, ruled by your emotions. A woman. Such a person is not fit to run my business.”

Jenna’s expression was first one of shock at the sudden change in him. She had never heard him speak so. She straightened, her eyes cold, her lips set rigid. “Are you afraid of him, father?” She saw him flinch at the words.

“That is absurd.”

“He has been hounded since first he arrived here. He has been beaten, twice, as if people were trying to frighten him off.”

“No less than he deserves. The people here have long memories.”

She glanced down, her fingers clutching the material of her dress. She was angry at his insults, but held it in check. “And have you tried to drive him away?”

He moved towards her, his bulk intimidating, and she backed off a little. “Still your tongue! You forget your place. I will not be questioned by my own daughter.”

“Is it because he brings the past with him? Is that what sits uncomfortably with everyone? You do know what happened to the young Jowan and his sister, don’t you? How they were given to another couple many miles away, separated, discarded as if they were but rubbish. As if all evidence of their existence had been wiped away, the village able to wash its hands clean of them. Why? Why do this to young children who have just lost their mother and father so tragically? Please tell me that you did not have a hand in this.”

He lunged forward and struck his daughter across the cheek. She shrank back, clutching her face, her skin already blooming to red welts. Her eyes were wide in horror, in incomprehension. He had never once raised a hand to her.

Gerran’s stony eyes softened slightly as he saw the look of hurt in Jenna’s face. He glanced at the hand that had hit his daughter, as if it belonged to another man. He sighed heavily, struggling to hold his emotions in check. “I am disappointed in you, Jenna. Everything I have ever done, since your mother’s death, was for you. To give you everything I never had. To leave you with a legacy. I find you now take the word of a Connoch over that of your father and you betray me.” He rose to his full height, broadened his chest and put his hands behind his back. “Leave me alone, Jenna, I have work to attend to.” He turned his back on her. “And I forbid you to talk to Jowan.”

He heard her leave the room. The door shutting loudly behind her. He put a hand to his forehead, feeling the hot sting of tears at his lids as he looked up at the sad, admonishing moon-like face of his dead wife.

He waited a couple of minutes before leaving the library, taking the corridors that led to the rear entrance. He raced quickly across the yard towards the stables, pausing only to see that there was no one about before unlocking the door to the store room and entering.



* * * *



Jenna Hendra, still smarting and mulling over what her father had told her, saw him dart urgently down the corridor. Something was wrong, she thought. Something was causing him to act very strangely. He had never behaved like this. Never. So she followed, careful not to let her see him. Bemused, she watched him enter the store room and close the door behind him. She walked quietly over to the door, listened intently but heard no sound from inside. “Father?” she said softly. There was no response. She knocked. She tried the handle but the door had been locked from the inside.



* * * *



The wind blew wintry and damp, ruffled the hair of the women who reached up and tied their shawls tightly about their heads. They huddled together in compact little groups, grey faces betraying the dread they experienced. They stared coldly at him, suspiciously almost, as he trudged past them, falling quiet till he moved on by. He thought he felt the burning of their stares imprinting on his back like a brand.

A group of people – men, women and children – hurried past him down the slope, bundles on their backs, pans, kettles and other possessions fastened to them, swinging wildly and clanking noisily to their swift steps. Stephen Denning looked back at their swiftly retreating forms.

“Clifftoppers deserting us. The women refuse to stay here,” explained Reverend Biddle, coming up to him, looking quite distressed and clutching the wooden box of his camera to his chest. “The women fear for themselves, the men fear for their women. It is only to be expected, I suppose.”

“I did not think it could be true, till I came here” he said. “It is one thing to talk about such things and study pictures, but another for it to happen the very next day.”

“Quite the coincidence,” said Biddle. He lifted his hat with his spare hand. “You will have to excuse me, Mr Denning.”

“Have you had an accident?”

Biddle looked sadly at his camera. “Unfortunately, yes. I will see if I can repair it but I fear I cannot.” And the next instant the man set off at a pace down the hill.

He would never understand the motives of the man, he thought. He seemed forever distant, more interested in his damn macabre hobby than the fact someone had been murdered last night.

Very soon he came upon the ruins of the monastery and, parting weeds and grasses to make a passage, made out the small canvas mound laid out on the massive stone slab. Two men stood guard close by, fishermen still dressed in their oilskins. A man was on his haunches bent over the body. He recognised him as Tunny.

“You can’t go through there,” someone said harshly to his left. A figure parted itself from the undergrowth. “No one is allowed.” And his voice seemed to say ‘especially you, outsider.’

He didn’t need to go any further. This was close enough for the sight to encourage those terrible memories from Pont Aven to come crashing back into his skull. He felt his legs go weak and he wanted to be sick. He wanted to flee this place, but he was held there, transfixed by the gruesome vision. The man regarded him with suspicion.



* * * *



Tunny cradled the dead woman’s head in his hand, her pale face looking as if she were peacefully asleep. The dark, deep, brutal slash across her smooth young neck screamed otherwise.

“Sad Keziah,” he whispered.” He felt hot emotion bubbling up within him. He had known her since her birth. She had always been so full of life, till the day her husband died and something within her died with him too. He gently laid her head back down and pulled the canvas over her face.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Tunny. No one is,” said the man standing guard. His large beard was moist, glistening. ”The Reverend Biddle, he says it was only decreed in summer last year that in cases of murder the body must not be moved or touched and that everyone is to be kept away so as not to disturb the scene.”

But Tunny was deaf to what the man was saying, plagued instead by his own loud and troublesome thoughts. He should never have told her to come here, with the foolish notion that she may see or hear her husband again. But she had been so distraught, was wasting away with the grief, that he felt he must do something to alleviate the pain she endured. And now she was dead. She would join her husband after all, he thought.

“Porthgarrow is cursed,” said the man at his side. We can never escape Baccan. He came last night, tore away the land, tore away the nets and tore away this woman’s life. He will come again and again. We need your help, Tunny, like never before.”

The old man eyed him, but said nothing. He loped away, his mind so absorbed he didn’t quite see Stephen Denning walking up to him.

“Tunny, have you seen Mr Wilkinson?”

He frowned. “I can’t say that I have,” he returned absently. “Not this morning.”

“Who has done this, Tunny? I hear they are holding someone; is that true?”

“They are blaming young Jowan Connoch – you will not know him; he is the son of the Connoch whose house you rent. He is presently being held a prisoner at the palace until the police get here. They are delayed but will be with us shortly.”

“And this man definitely did this? They are certain; there can be no mistake?”

Tunny studied the ground at his feet through narrow, tired eyes. “I do not believe he is guilty.” He looked at the artist who appeared to be struggling with himself. “Why do you ask?”

He ignored the question. “This Jowan fellow may not be the culprit? The killer could still be at large?”

“It may be so, Mr Denning.”

Strangely, Denning’s mind raced to think only of Jenna Hendra. Was she safe? Was she well? Feelings surged up within him that he could not fathom. “It is strangely similar to something that I witnessed years ago…” he said emptily.

Tunny’s craggy face turned. “The past is always closer to us than we would like to think, Mr Denning. Good and bad.” Like a ghost, he thought darkly, forever haunting us, treading in our steps behind us, never more than a mere breath away.



* * * *



He clasped his derby tight to his head; the breeze was still fresh enough to knock it off and it had cost a pretty packet – too expensive to let roll in the mud of this place, he thought. His free hand he stuffed inside his trouser pocket, watching the scene unfolding around him. A young man was running through the streets with a loud hand bell, ringing for all he was worth and shouting “Hevva! Hevva!” but he noticed there was little response from the sullen fishermen lining the quay outside the inn. They seemed to be more absorbed in something else, dark huddles of men scratching beards and puffing on pipes as if their lives depended on it.

Benjamin Croker ambled over to one such group and asked of them what the trouble was.

“A body has been found,” one of them said, somewhat reluctantly.

“Really?” he said. “How tragic. Accidents happen. How exactly did he die?”

“Not a he, a she,” he was corrected. “And she was murdered.”

He removed the stub of a cigar planted at the corner of his mouth, surprised. “A woman? Where?”

He was directed to the old monastery. He thanked the men for their time and took a stroll up there, and on the way noticed Stephen Denning, talking to the local church man. When they parted he followed the artist, at a distance, for he had not yet introduced himself personally; that would come in good time. But for now he was interested in what he would do next. Denning was stopped by a man some distance from where Croker assumed the body lay, and he stopped also. The artist watching the body, Croker watching the artist.

Interesting, he thought, then returned back down the hill. He next wandered over to Wilkinson’s house, paused outside and noticed it was quiet. He smiled thinly. Not a sign of the man. He knocked at the door but received no reply. He thought absently about the dead woman on the hill.

I suppose I should consider it practice, he mused, nodding in satisfaction to himself.



* * * *