The House of the Wicked

18





Begging Forgiveness





The doctor emerged from the room, fastening his Gladstone, his expression grave. The Housekeeper, her face dressed in worry, passed him his hat and coat, which he’d left hurriedly with her whilst he attended to Jenna’s deep cut on her head. Gerran Hendra came rushing to him, Reverend Biddle following close behind.

“Is she going to be well, doctor?” he asked, his cheeks pale, watery eyes flushed with the pink of many sleepless nights. He bade the Housekeeper leave at once. They waited till she had hurried away.

“She has had to have a number of stitches to the back of her head. I am afraid I have had to cut away a little of her hair to carry out the procedure but that will soon grow back. She now wears an unsightly bandage, but judging from her wounds it appears it could have been far worse. She has a variety of bruises around her throat, and small scratches and puncture marks that I have cleaned and attended to. She will feel sore for a day or two yet. She is still in a state of shock and distress, and little wonder.” His old face was deadly serious, and as he fumbled with his Gladstone he glanced at Biddle. “The man – your brother Bartholomew – is dead.” He shook his head. “Gerran, I cannot begin to understand any of this. I have been a doctor to your family since before your wife died. More than that I have been a friend. Yet you never once came to me, not once…” He trailed off, straightened himself, as if shrugging on his profession. “You know I must inform the authorities immediately.”

“Yes, yes,” said Hendra distractedly. “My girl – may I see her now?”

“You may go in, but remember she must have copious rest. Please do not tax her unduly. She has gone through so much already and I fear she needs all her strength to attend to further trials. I have given her something to help her sleep so she may seem sluggish and drowsy.” He turned to Biddle. “Reverend, perhaps we may share a few words before I leave for Penleith?”

Hendra left the two men, tentatively opening the bedroom door. The room was warm, for a tiny fire burned in a small black grate, and it was lit by two oil lamps, the one by the bed casting its buttery glow over Jenna’s still form, her arms beneath the covers. The rest of the room lay in sticky black shadow. On hearing his stealthy approach her eyes flickered open. For a moment she seemed not to recognise him, then as the painful memories seeped in she closed her eyes tightly and averted her head.

“Jenna,” he said, standing close to the bed. He desperately needed to reach out and brush his fingers against her face, as he had many times when she had been a child and lay in the same bed with a fever or some other ailment. Her skin appeared as translucent, as fragile as an egg shell. But he could not bring himself to do it and his poised hand retracted to his side. “Please forgive me, Jenna,” he said.

She turned to look at him. “I cannot begin to conceive what it is you have done, father. Is it true? Is it true that the man now lying dead down there in that horrid cave is Uncle Bartholomew? Tell me this is not true, father.”

He nodded grimly. “It is true.”

“That cannot be,” she said. “My uncle died many years ago, abroad and serving his Queen and country. You told me so. That depraved, filthy wretch cannot be my uncle.”

Hendra grasped the back of a chair and pulled it to the side of the bed. He sat down heavily, his head looking too weighty for his neck, his eyes downcast, the folded skin of his face pale and washed out.

“You must first understand, before I relate what I must, that whatever I did, whatever course of action I took, I took it for you. I kissed your mother’s lifeless lips and vowed that I would do all in my power to love and protect you, and not neglect you as I felt I had done with her. Please, before you condemn me, understand this.”

“Father,” she said, “I could never condemn you – “

He raised a finger to silence her. “Listen me out before you say you can stand behind such a declaration, for I am afraid I have been party to terrible things and now I must pay the price of my sins.” He stared into her eyes. His wife’s eyes. “I cannot bear it that the highest price I must pay is never to see you again.” He stilled her protestations with a finger to his lips. “I intend to leave tonight for Penleith, to hand myself over to the authorities. No, child, do not say a thing. You must hear me out, in full, and not interrupt. I have strength enough to relate this to you but once, and you can never know the pain it gives me to have to do so.”

Her breathing was rapid, a tear dislodged from her eye to streak down the side of her nose, but she did not wipe it away, almost as if she refused to admit her upset. “I am ready.”

“That’s my Jenna,” he said, forcing the faintest of smiles that quickly faded upon his bloodless lips. He gathered his thoughts in silence for a moment or two, as if steeling himself to bear the consequences of what he must say.

“It really begins with your Uncle Bartholomew’s return from China and his experiences in the Opium Wars. But in truth I suppose it extends even further back than that, for, if I am to be honest, I must confess Bartholomew was always such a sensitive and troubled soul, given to fits of passion. It came as a surprise to all of us that he said he would take a career as an officer in the army, but he would not hear anything counter to his wishes so take one he must, and take one did. He most notably distinguished himself in China at the taking of the Taku Forts on the banks of the River Pei-Ho. In this instance casualties for the allied army of French and British, Bartholomew told me, were not high, a mere twelve, yet nearly two thousand Chinese perished. But it was the event of his being captured, treacherously and whilst under a flag of truce, by the soldiers of Seng-Ko-Lin-Sin whilst on a march to T’ung-chow, several miles from the capital of Peking, which appears to have accelerated his mind’s decay. Thirty prisoners, including Bartholomew, were treated with every indignity that could be inflicted upon men, and mercilessly tortured in return for the disgrace the enemy felt at losing their forts. Some died of their privations. Your uncle thought his time had come too. He was eventually released but suffered such nightmares from his combined experiences that he would never be the same man again. He could only refer to the haunting images in his head in an abstract manner, but they were evidently very real to him, as if they played out before him as we spoke.

“You will remember him as always jolly – ah, he doted on you, his Goddaughter, and called you his little darling, plying you with sweets and presents, and so to you he will remain ever thus. But his feigned good humour hid a troubled soul. He drank heavily, and I believe he partook heavily of the very opium he went to war over. He could not sleep, would not lay his head on a pillow without a pistol or sword by his side. And if he did, his fitful slumber was populated by unspeakable nightmares. He spoke of murdered innocents slain in mindless violence, of torture and pain, and that death hung forever about him like a cloak. He abhorred war and all that it stood for, could see no gain in killing one another. So affected had he become that he once threatened a maid with a loaded pistol when she happened upon him unexpectedly late one night in the corridor. But he dutifully returned to service, glad of the short respite his leave had delivered.

“Though I was naturally concerned for his welfare, I had other matters to attend to. The business, ever a difficult beast to manage, was struggling. As today catches were dwindling, profits plummeted, so I busied myself in attempting to straighten out my affairs. At one stage it appeared I would lose everything. I was in the middle of negotiations and on the verge of securing rewarding investments from potential partners when Bartholomew returned unexpectedly some months later.

“But this time I hardly recognised him as my brother, he was so changed in appearance and personality. I was taken aback. He was unshaven, unwashed, his clothes those of a pauper. He explained he had absconded from the army and was on the run. He had simply left his regiment and his duties behind. He had no notion of where he had been or how he had arrived back in England. The scandal, as you can imagine, would have led to our immediate ruin, for not only was our name and honour in jeopardy, but what investor would wish to be part of my business then? And neither could the man stay in the home. For as I say, I could not afford for him to be discovered; I had to keep him concealed until such a time as I could consider how best to deal with the situation. But Bartholomew himself sought security, secrecy and anonymity; somewhere he could not be seen. He demanded he be hidden away.

“Only one other person knew about Bartholomew’s return, and that was my secretary John Carbis. He understood how we must keep his presence a secret for the time being, especially as I was not only negotiating for my business’s survival but partly because I had imminently to deal with Jowan Connoch’s illegal incursion into our fishing zones. I had to show that I was dealing decisively with this in front of my potential and existing business partners. It was John Carbis who suggested we use the old Jacobite Bolt. Together we converted part of it into passable living quarters. Down there, out of the way, Bartholomew felt more secure, and he was free to rant and rave without causing disturbance or alerting anyone to his presence. The cave exited onto a secluded beach in Baccan’s Maw; a hundred and fifty years ago it was perfectly accessible and an ideal escape route. But the cliffs had collapsed over time and it now provided us with a method of temporarily containing Bartholomew. It was inaccessible by either sea or land, and as Bartholomew only ventured out into the open at dusk or night, there was little chance he would be observed if he went onto the beach. John agreed he would become a guardian for Bartholomew, a duty in which he took some satisfaction as he had always held my brother in high esteem. We each possessed a key to the trapdoor. John would venture most nights secretly to the Bolt with food and drink, and to ensure Bartholomew had all the comforts we could manufacture. Once dark had fallen Bartholomew would be allowed to wander the old barn, if he so desired, under John’s watchful eye. No one ventured out there so there was little danger of anyone seeing him. And John could not bear the thought of the poor man being cooped up like a bat in some dark cave. His existence there was never intended to be long-standing. But with hindsight, and observing his deterioration, now it seems inevitable.

“His madness – for that’s what it was – ate away at his mind like a disease. He grew ever more edgy as the days progressed, ever more alarmed. He refused to be parted from his pistol and sword. He spoke of seeing his torturers hiding in the shadows and he would chase them, howling, out onto the beach, where he was convinced they took to ship to await their chance offshore. Then at other times he was quite lucid, and it seemed absurd that he should be shut away. I concluded that upon immediate termination of the Connoch affair, and the securing of the necessary investments, I would return to resolving the vexing issue of my poor brother in a manner designed to avoid bringing the family’s name into disrespect and ruin. If I could not find a private cure for his ailment I would arrange to have him secretly housed elsewhere.

“However,” he said, the word hissed out in a sigh, his forehead dipping down to rest in his large hand, “I would not have the opportunity, for events would spiral beyond my control. As you know, the deputation of seine owners met with Jowan Connoch to hear his plea and deliver his fate. That same night John Carbis attended to Bartholomew’s needs as usual, but only after the deputation had left the house. He allowed him to wander the barn, believing him quite calm. After all, my brother was not a violent man in spite of his state of mind, and he was not a prisoner; at least not at that time. He understood that he must never be detected and was as shy of company as that of any night creature. I could little foresee that when Jowan fled the house that night, seized by a monstrous rage, it would seal once and for all Bartholomew’s decent into permanent madness and condemn me to a life of guilt, deceit and shame.

“Jowan’s wife came to the house to beg mercy for her husband, to have sympathy for her young family. Yet I did not know this, for she managed to get a message to John that she wished to speak to me in private. What she hoped to achieve, what she might offer in return, I can only guess at, for she was a woman driven by desperation.” He cleared his throat, swallowed and licked his lips as if his mouth had run dry. “Again, with hindsight it may have helped my case with investors to show leniency rather than press with the full weight of the law, but I could not take that chance.

“In any event, John met with her at the rear of the house, where no one would witness the discussion, stating – in my very best interests I have no doubt – that minds were made up; Jowan would go to prison for his crime. He bade her go home and left her to her weeping. Yet she knew John would be able to get my ear and did not give up. She followed him, but in the dark she must have lost sight of him and we assume she stumbled across the old barn where Bartholomew wandered free.

“John said he was brought up by a woman’s muffled scream and rushed back to the barn where only moments before he had observed Bartholomew perfectly at ease sat on a barrel and smoking. Before him was a hellish sight. Mrs Connoch laid dead at Bartholomew’s feet, in his hand his bloodied sword. He was quite senseless, ranting incoherently, speaking wildly of Chinese assassins. It is my belief she came upon him and frightened him with her sudden appearance and scream, and in the dark he perceived her to be one of the many nightmarish visions that haunted his mind and lashed out blindly with his sword. The blow proved fatal, cleaving her from breast to waist.

“John tried to calm him down and succeeded in locking him in the Bolt before seeking me out and notifying me of the terrible deed. The truth of what sparked the event will never be known, but I was now faced with the fact that my deranged brother was now also a murderer, at the very time my business, the future of our family, hung in the balance. I did not know what best to do. It is with regret that I reacted purely by instinct, cruelly dismissive of Mrs Connoch’s death, to protect my own interests. You have to understand, the alternative was utter ruin…” He looked beseechingly at his daughter and she returned this with an iron-cold silence and unblinking eyes. He chewed agitatedly at his lower lip, for what he must relate next he knew to be even more difficult, both to reveal and to admit. He considered whether it was prudent to continue; the murder of Mrs Connoch by her beloved uncle was hard enough for her to hear. But she had to hear everything, he thought blackly. He needed to tell all, for it would not now stay hidden. He was damned.

“It was a decision taken on but a moment’s thought, ill-conceived, irrational, and worse, heartless, for I decided that I would have Mrs Connoch’s still-warm body removed from the barn, all evidence of the murder sponged from the grounds of the house. John at first vehemently protested, and we remonstrated with each other for some time before I forced him to agree. I beat down his resistance with his complicity in the murder, in the concealment of a military absconder. Through his carelessness he had left my brother alone sufficiently long enough for the terrible thing to happen, albeit for but a minute or two.

“Eventually, reluctantly, viewing his position as hopeless, he agreed to help remove her. We planned to take her far away, to hide her in the woods, but the plan changed. Who suggested we remove her to her own home I cannot now say, but in doing so the blame would fall upon Jowan himself and it would rid Porthgarrow of the man and the family forever. I gave the assent, but in truth I did not quite know what I was saying, for I was still much shaken by the affair. John could not manage this by himself. We secured the paid help of two Clifftoppers in my employ – men of such a base nature and possessing such questionable morals that such a task moved them not in the least and their silence could easily be bought.”

“Much shaken?” burst Jenna, the tendons on her neck tightening. “But to even contemplate shifting the blame to an innocent man – it is tragic enough that an innocent woman died that night whilst in the pursuit of justice and compassion. But to shift blame to her husband? That is the work of the very devil!” she exclaimed, averting her head so that he would not see her upset. “My own father – I would never believe you possible of such crimes had not I heard it from your own lips!”

His world was shredding before his eyes. His one true love after his dear wife, the one person on whom he had focussed the essence of his life force, was now rejecting him. And justly so, he thought, and he prepared to beat himself still further with more thorns of revelation.

“I sent John to remove Connoch’s son from the house. Once his sister-in-law had taken him Mrs Connoch’s body was carried by the men and set inside the room.” He paused, then rose, went over to the curtain-draped window. Through a gap he saw the black of night, his eye reflected back in the glass. He felt a cold draught on his face sneaking in through some hidden crack, as if the chill wind of fate blew over him. “I can claim a certain loss of rational faculties, of reason, up till this moment, but beyond this I admit I resorted to cold calculation. At a predetermined time I called for Tunny, and sent him as my messenger to deliver Jowan my ultimatum – to leave Porthgarrow or go to prison. I wanted him, above anyone else, to discover the body, for he would call upon the Connoch legend to drive home Jowan’s guilt and thus shift the blame entirely from the house of Hendra. It was happenstance that saw Tunny discover Jowan leaning drunkenly over the body of his wife, for we thought him run away. This alone sealed Jowan’s fate.”

“I don’t understand – why would Jowan admit to the crime and then take his own life?”

“The men I paid – they went beyond their remit. They hunted him down after he bolted from the house. He had simply gone to stand at his father’s grave, but they took him to the cliff. In my imagining I fashioned a scenario where they struggled and he accidentally fell. The admission of guilt, of course, is pure fabrication. But I now find he was pushed to his death.” He heard her give an anguished intake of breath. The reflected eye did not look like it belonged to him; its blurred form appeared as if the beast Baccan glowered in at the window.

“We had to keep Bartholomew locked up permanently now; we could not afford to let him out in the barn. We removed his weapons, which caused him great distress. Over the months that passed his condition grew ever worse. He could not be approached, except by me. Any attempt to attend to him was met with increasing violence. John – a ship’s carpenter by trade – fashioned a door for additional security, and thus my brother sank steadily downwards, transforming by degrees into the despicable wretch you saw in the cave.

“But there were still questions and rumours about the murder being circulated around the village. Had not Mrs Connoch been seen walking on the path up to the Hendra house? What was Jowan’s motive? I became fearful that the rumours would prise open the truth, yet it was another tragedy that came to my aid. There was a run of storms, the catches thin, and at such times superstition amongst the common people increases. When two boats were sunk with the loss of all hands the villagers saw only Baccan’s part in it. They looked to Tunny for confirmation and help, as they used to in the days of Yardarm Pellow. He was quick to lay the blame at Jowan’s spirit, forever earthbound because of his suicide, buried up in the graveyard on the headland, and from beyond the grave aiding Baccan’s wrath. All it took from me was a mere suggestion that it would be better for everyone if his body had been buried at the crossroads, traditionally where all suicides and murderers were once interred, rather than the consecrated ground of the graveyard on the headland. This one seed took root in people’s minds and spread as easily as a dark weed. Tunny was a ready vessel in which to pour the notion; he worked the people up into such a pitch that eventually a number of the villagers, Tunny leading them, proceeded one night to dig up Jowan’s corpse from the graveyard and bury it beneath the old cross. It remains there to this day.

“In doing so they had secured in everyone’s hearts the fact that Jowan had been responsible, not only for the run of ill fortune, but for the death of his wife. A return of good weather and a plentiful supply of fish cemented the belief once and for all. The majority of villagers had been party to this act, though their chosen deputies carried it out, and unwittingly they had all been pieces in my game, the truth of what happened on the night Jowan’s wife was murdered consigned to silence by the villagers’ own complicity in subsequent events. And, when the fears of the storms subsided and men turned to rational thought, it gave comfort to believe that Jowan was an evil man who deserved such treatment rather than believe they had abused and defiled the body of an innocent man.”

He waited for her to say something, almost willed her to break the silence that fell between them. Her gaze was on some distant, faraway place and she remained deathly silent. The covers rose and fell to her soft breathing. He felt a tightening in his stomach, like a fist grasping his insides and squeezing.

“John continued to help tend to Bartholomew, but the strain of keeping the secret, the guilt he felt, overwhelmed and finally broke his nerve. One night he abandoned all his belongings and set out never to be seen again. I was in continual agony over whether he would reveal Bartholomew’s subterranean existence and his crime, but as the years passed I did not hear any more of John Carbis. I took on full responsibility of looking after my sick brother, nightly going to the Bolt and taking him his food. His character, his appearance became so degraded, so depraved that I fear I lost him altogether, and in the end he was little more than a beast whom I dare approach only with extreme caution; I have been bitten and bruised by him on many an occasion.

“I declare I considered poisoning him, ending his pitifully wretched existence once and for all, thus freeing us both from our earthly burdens. But I could not. He is – he was – my brother. Murder had already been once done and I could stomach it no more. In truth, I undertook the duty of caring for him as severe penance for my sins, which ate at my conscience every minute of the day and night.

“The barn, never a strong structure, was damaged one night by a gale and partly collapsed. The remainder became unstable. The trapdoor was all but in the open, so I commissioned the building of stables, knocking down the old barn and ensuring one part of the new building lay directly over the Bolt, making it permanently secure and entered only by myself. I had an excuse to go to the stables, if anyone should see me in the dead of night, for I let it be broadcast that horses were my growing passion.

“As the years passed I thought it would remain forever a secret, were it not for young Jowan’s return to the village and the storm that brought down the cliff…”

She stirred. “So is it true, you sent people to beat up Jowan?”

She could not hide the resentment in her voice and he shrank before it, wincing visibly. “I sent people to persuade him to leave,” he returned. “The business is all but sunk again with the twin privations of bad weather and poor catches. I have significant debts that swamp me as readily as any wave. Not only did his presence unsettle the village I was fearful he would chip away at the past till he discovered the truth. I did not intend him any harm, only to frighten him away.” He saw she was crying and he instinctively made a move towards her but she held up a restraining hand.

“Please, do not, father…” she said, choking back her emotion.

With his hands planted firmly behind his back he drew himself to his full height. “I stand guilty also in blaming Jowan for Keziah’s death, when in fact I know full well it was not he that carried out the murder. It was Bartholomew.”

“What?” she said, sitting upright. “That cannot be; he was a prisoner trapped in the caves.”

“Not so. The storm in the night brought down a section of the cliff. I realized at once that it had formed a steep ramp that led down to his secluded beach, and up which Bartholomew must have clambered. He had with him a rusted knife. I can only assume it had been washed up onto shore and somehow he kept it secret from me, perhaps still haunted by assassins and kept for his protection. Once free on the headland he must have been disturbed by Keziah, or mistook her for a possible assailant, and he attacked and killed her. I returned to his cave the instant I found out, and I bound him securely so that he might never escape again, but the deed has been done and cannot be undone.”

“And you would have let Jowan shoulder the blame and face the gallows, as you had blamed his father before him? You locked away an innocent man and stirred up the people to hate him. I am ashamed of you, father. You profess to love me and put me above all other things, but in truth you have put your business before me. I would have gladly loved you with none of the false trappings of wealth,” she said, gesturing around her wildly. “What use all this now? What use money or success? What has it brought us? Shame and ruin! Leave me – go away; I do not know you anymore!”

There was a knock at the door and Reverend Biddle entered. “I heard shouting,” he said apologetically.

“Father is leaving,” she said. “We are finished.”

“Jenna…” Hendra mouthed softly, but he could see she had closed herself off to him. His lips trembled as he turned from her. “Marcus, I am ready to leave.” He paused at the door, was about to face her again then changed his mind and closed the door behind him.

“She is naturally distraught,” said Biddle. “You told her everything?”

Hendra stood with his gaze upon the floor, his shoulders slumped heavily. At length he raised his head and Biddle followed him downstairs. At the foot of the stairs he stopped and turned to Biddle, holding out a hand. “Marcus, you have long been a dear and trusted friend. If you can find it in your heart, please do your best to forgive me.” They shook hands. “Take care of Jenna for me. See that she comes to no harm.” He went to get his coat, draped it over his arm. “Before I leave, I wish to visit my library one last time. To bid my wife farewell.”

Biddle frowned, then understood. The portrait was more than paint on canvas to Gerran Hendra; it was the last contact with his long-dead wife. “I shall wait here outside,” said Biddle, feeling engulfed by the pressing weight of sadness. “Gerran,” he said as the man walked away. He stopped. “Why didn’t you seek out my help? Why didn’t you once come to me? I would have been there for you.”

He gave a wan smile. “My burden was my burden alone,” he said and Biddle watched him enter the door that led to the library.

A good few minutes passed and Biddle grew uneasy. He went over to the door and knocked. “Gerran?” he said. There was no reply. “Gerran!” he said again, urgency in his voice. He tried the handle but the door was locked.

At that moment a shot rang out.

Kenver, who had been hovering questioningly nearby, came bolting over to Biddle’s side and together they threw their shoulders against the heavy door. It did not give easily. There was a loud splintering of wood and eventually the door burst open.

Gerran Hendra lay sprawled on the floor by his desk, a pistol still in his hand, a pool of dark blood soaking into the carpet from a jagged hole in his head. Biddle dashed to him but it was too late. The man was dead. On the desk was a hastily written letter in a spidery scrawl addressed to his daughter, begging forgiveness.





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