The House of the Wicked

17





After All These Years





“I must confess, Mr Denning, that I am most concerned for him.” Mrs Carbis’s round form breezed over to a lamp and she lit it. She turned to him, her hands wringing with anxiety at her waist. “Fearing the cold would set in again, I came to light Mr Wilkinson’s fire, and upon knocking I found there to be no reply. But on trying the door, and finding it unlocked, I was so bold as to push it open and put my head around, calling out for him. There was no answer still, so I took the liberty of stepping over the threshold to make sure everything was well with him.” She gestured forlornly to the state of the room with her fat, outstretched hands.

It was clear to Stephen Denning that there had been a violent disturbance here, for a table had been overturned, with Wilkinson’s brushes and paints scattered on the floor amid shards of broken bottles that had hit the stone flags. A splintered chair lay on its side. A prepared canvas had been ripped. He frowned and went into the next room. On top of a neatly made bed that appeared not to have been slept in sat an open trunk, a few clothes scattered here and there.

“And still no sign of him?” he asked.

“Not a single hair, sir,” she returned gravely. “Upon seeing this I became worried, Mr Denning, for Mr Wilkinson is ordinarily such a neat and precise man who prefers to have everything in its proper place. If my eyes do not deceive me it looks like there has been a fight in here, but that is impossible, for Mr Wilkinson is not one I would think given to common brawling.”

“I don’t think your eyes deceive you, Mrs Carbis. It is quite evident there has been a struggle.”

She gave a tiny sigh of alarm. “Upon my word! Which is why I came straight to you. I know you and he are close friends. What do you suppose has happened? Is Mr Wilkinson safe? And where has he gotten to?”

He ignored her barrage of questions and went over to a spot near the upturned table. “Bring me the lamp, will you, please?”

“What if something tragic has befallen him?” she continued, her voice becoming ever shriller as her agitation increased. “Oh, we have never had such a bad run of ill fortune as we have had of late, Mr Denning!” She handed him the lamp.

He held it over a dark patch on the flagstones, bent and dipped a finger into the thick ooze. “Ill fortune indeed, Mrs Carbis,” he said.

She hovered over him. “What is that, Mr Denning? Spilled paint?”

He straightened and shook his head. “It is not paint, I fear, but blood.”

She shrank back in horror from his red-tipped finger. “Oh, my Lord! Oh, my Lord!” she exclaimed. “Is Mr Wilkinson injured?”

“I suppose the answer to that lies in whose body this blood belongs to, Mrs Carbis.” He found more congealed blood on the tabletop; searched the floor carefully and spotted a couple more small drops by the door, and a single, almost insignificant smear on the door itself. “I require you to inform me the moment you see Mr Wilkinson, do you understand? At once. Though I believe he may have left Porthgarrow for good.”

“But he has left behind all his things, Mr Denning. And why leave in such a hurry? I am afraid I do not understand what is going on,” she admitted helplessly.

“Remember,” he said sternly, “you must come to me at once.” He paused. “And under no circumstances must you approach him, for I believe him to be a danger.”

Her eyes widened incredulously. “You jest, Mr Denning! Mr Wilkinson is such a dear lamb!”

“I have never been more deadly serious, Mrs Carbis,” he said.





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She pulled back the second bolt. It resisted stiffly.

“Do not be too hasty, Miss Hendra,” warned Tunny. He put his hand against the door, holding it shut as she prepared to pull at the iron-hoop handle. “Let me enter first,” he added. “We do not yet know what lies on the other side.”

She thought briefly and then offered a quick nod, letting him take her place. He took the lantern from her and gently eased open the old door. The first thing that struck them was the stench. It caused Jenna to put a hand to her nose.

“It is the smell of the night soil being emptied,” she said, “and worse. What can you see, Tunny?”

He held up the lantern. The cave widened out, about twelve feet in height, eight feet in width. But most surprising was that it had been dressed as a room. There was the faint glow from a candle, flickering in some dark corner in the far reaches of the cave; the floor had been freshly strewn with straw; a number of small natural alcoves in the rock walls were set with rough-hewn wooden shelves on which had been arranged old bottles, jars, and even a couple of old, mould-wrapped leather books; there was a three-legged stool by the wall, beside a small table on which rested a pewter plate, sprinkled with scraps of food; above these was a picture hanging from a rusted nail that had been driven into a fissure in the rock. Jenna went over to it and gave a small gasp.

“It is a portrait of me, drawn when I was but a small girl.”

Tunny brought the light closer, revealing the paper behind the badly cracked glass to be heavily foxed and stained with damp. “What does this mean, Tunny?” she said, baffled.

They both started to a noise, a mournful grunt, like the snuffling of a pig, which came from around a bend in the cave. They next heard a faint scuffling, the sound of something moving around on the straw-padded floor.

“What is that, Tunny?” she breathed quietly.

“Stay behind me, Miss,” he advised, holding the lantern before him, but she stuck close by his side as he moved cautiously towards the sounds, reaching the bend. Faint, dancing candlelight threw a monstrous shadow of something onto the wall; it moved slowly, grotesquely, and there came more of the same animal-like grunting. “Who goes there?” said Tunny, his voice loud in the small confines of the cave.

The shadow lurched at the sound and a shrill mewling ensued. They moved around the bend. The cave here was in dark shadows where the light of the lantern could not penetrate. They saw the candle, in a blackened iron holder, fixed to the cave wall, its flame all but going out. A formless mass, as if it were a shadow itself, separated from the gloom, appearing to uncurl, to straighten and transform.

Tunny edged closer, holding the lamp out. The creature shrank back into the shadows as if to escape the circle of light, the gurgling of fear in its throat like that of a cornered dog. Tunny moved closer still.

The light revealed a man’s brutal, dirt-smeared face, his hair long and matted, a beard equally so, but looking so depraved as to resemble a head more animal than human. His crude attire added to the image, for draped over his hunched shoulders, covering the rags that were his clothes, were the skins of goats and sheep. His feet were bare and soiled, sinking into a thin spread of excrement as he moved, a vile smell rising as he stirred the mixture. Clawed hands with long, untrimmed fingernails tried to shield his face, as he pressed himself tight against the glistening wet cave wall. They noticed at once that his wrists were bound with thickly coiled rope.

There was a filthy mattress on the floor, ripped and slashed as if set upon by a wild beast. Blankets lay in two crumpled mounds on the floor beside it. The man appeared to wither, curl into a ball, and his hands reached out to grasp one of the blankets. He dragged it over to him and attempted to put it over his head as if seeking to hide from the two intruders.

“Who are you?” said Tunny in a hushed voice, taking a tentative step towards him. The creature shrank back as if burnt. It did not reply. Instead, in the quiet of the cave they heard the faint noise of the sea, sounding almost like that of someone breathing. “Who are you?” he asked again, firmer this time.

“No, Tunny,” said Jenna, placing a restraining hand on his arm. “You frighten him. Let me.”

“Careful, Miss…” he aid as she stepped tentatively forward.

“Don’t be afraid,” she said softly. The blanket was now fully over his head and the mewling from beneath it became stronger. He trembled. The smell of the unfortunate creature was overpowering, she thought, but it did not deter her. “We are not here to harm you,” she said. “What is your name?” She reached out a hand.

“Have a care, Miss!” said Tunny. “That is not wise.”

She hesitated briefly at his hushed warning, but then her fingertips closed gently around the filthy material of the blanket and she pulled at it ever so slowly so that it gradually fell away from his head.

In one bound the man lunged towards her, screaming shrilly and clawing with his tied hands at her unprotected face. She stumbled backwards and as she did so boned fingers wrapped tightly around her throat, sharp, jagged fingernails digging into her exposed flesh. She tried to scream but it was choked from her. The weight of the man fell fully upon her, driving her to the stinking ground, his hands lifting her head and driving it hard against the stone floor.

Tunny launched himself at the creature and beat at him, yet he could not release Jenna from its demented grasp. He wrapped an arm around the man’s throat, pulled with all his strength, but he turned, sank his teeth into Tunny’s hand and bit down to the bone. He was hit in the face by a series of manic blows he could not resist and the old man fell stunned to the ground. The man once again locked his fingers around Jenna’s throat, his face contorted in blind fury, white spittle flicking from his flaring lips as he screamed.

Gerran Hendra burst through the door and onto the manic scene, crying out for his daughter. He bound swiftly over and grabbed the man by his matted hair and yanked his head back sharply. He yelled, his cries deafening in the confines, and he lashed out madly at Hendra, knocking him away, once more returning to strangle the breath from Jenna. Hendra took the pistol by its barrel and beat at the man with its butt, mercilessly, breathlessly, but he appeared impervious to the pain and would not release his murderous hold on his daughter.

Hendra cried out in anguish, placed the gun barrel against the man’s temple and pulled the trigger, the shot deafening.

He slumped instantly dead onto the limp body of Jenna, his blood pouring profusely from the gaping wound in his head onto her face. Gerran, in tears, threw away the pistol and hauled the dead man from his daughter. He wiped her face clean of blood and cradled her still head.

“Jenna!” he called. “Jenna, what have I done?”

Reverend Biddle helped Tunny to his feet. The dazed man saw Jenna’s lifeless form and knelt down beside her. He noticed the wound in the back of her head and her blood dripping alarmingly from it.

“Gerran, she is badly injured; we must get her to a doctor at once,” he said.

He could not answer; he was clearly in torment. He looked imploringly at Tunny. “I fear she is dead. Please, Tunny, use your powers to help her! Help my daughter back to life! I’ll give you anything you desire, but I beg you, help me!”

Biddle went over to Jenna and felt the pulse in her neck. “She is alive, Gerran,” he said, “but her pulse is weak.”

“Thank God!” he exclaimed, clutching her daughter close to him, blood smearing his coat. He turned and ran sad eyes over the crumpled form of the dead man. “That it should come to this, after all these years,” he said, sobbing.

“Who is this loathsome creature?” asked Tunny.

Gerran Hendra closed his eyes. “He is my brother. My dear brother Bartholomew.”



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