The House of the Wicked

1

1880





Arrival



A storm was building.

Tumbling, brooding clouds foamed ever upwards, massing into towers so dark and threatening that they appeared solid and unyielding. Sea birds, gulls perhaps, were bundled swiftly along by the wind, rendered mere white flecks of light against the bruised firmament. He felt a cold spot of rain on his upturned cheek.

He watched intently as the old man stood before the ancient Celtic stone cross, the monolith’s edges and carved decoration ground smooth over countless years by the extremes of the high moor weather, the dark stone studded with plates of bright yellow lichen that stood out faintly luminescent in the growing gloom.

He’d given no warning. He’d drawn the horse to a halt as they approached the crossroads, clambered off the cart and strode purposefully over to the cross. It towered over him by four feet or more. That had been almost five minutes ago.

“The weather is taking a turn for the worse!” he called. But the man paid him no heed. He glanced around impatiently, folding his arms against the chilly air, studying the featureless vista; the stunted, low-lying grass, the clumps of dark gorse. Lonely trees, pain-wracked and twisted, were scattered thinly across the desolate landscape.

He shuffled uncomfortably on the hard seat, the wind coming at him in angry bursts.

At length the man put his hat back on, returned to the cart, their eyes meeting briefly as he patted the neck of the horse. He whispered something encouraging to it at which the horse’s ears flickered. Scratching his cloudy white beard he took up his position on the cart, wrapping the reins lightly around his fingers. At the click of his tongue the horse lurched into motion again.

“Is everything alright?”

The old man didn’t turn to face his passenger. “Everything is well, sir,” he said.

They took the road straight ahead, the dull shadow of the cross falling across them as they skirted around it. It looked as natural a part of the landscape as the trees, as if it had grown out of the earth to stand guard at the crossroads for untold millennia. A living presence, he thought.

Which was absurd, of course.

Dense vegetation and high banks gradually replaced the bleak moor. Though they can’t have been on the moor but an hour it had seemed interminable and he mused on the morose feelings it left him with. The sense of being miniscule in the vast, almost featureless landscape. At the mercy of any change in weather. Insignificant. He realised how little he knew of life outside the city. Surely storm clouds had never looked so threatening over London. He was glad they had left the moor behind; glad of the change on the eye. And back there, before the cross? What was the old man doing? He could not get the shape of it out of his mind, a rigid stone sentinel against the sky.

He chided himself for such uncharacteristic sombre thoughts. It had been a long and tiresome journey into the far reaches of Cornwall and he was feeling quite exhausted with it. He’d taken the train from London, give or take a number of changes to Penleith, the last station on the line. It had been arranged that he would be picked up at Penleith and taken to his final destination of Porthgarrow. He had not expected such a tired old cart, or equally old horse to draw it. Wilkinson was having a jest, surely?

“The name’s Tunny, Sir,” said the driver. “Mr Wilkinson sent me to collect you.” The old man had looked at the neat jacket and trousers, the polished brown boots of the city man, as he hoisted his trunks into the cart. “Such a weight!” he’d said.

They were about to set off when a tired black horse pulling a cart crept slowly past, a small knot of people marching solemnly behind. He saw a coffin dressed with flowers, being gently shaken by the movements of the wheels upon the uneven, dirt-packed road. A mean-looking man dressed in sombre black, heavily be-whiskered with eyes sunk into dark, hollowed-out pits, slowly led the cortege.

Tunny removed his hat and they sat silently whilst the cart disappeared round a bend. He noticed that many people on the street walked quickly away from the cart, some holding handkerchiefs to their noses and mouths.

“Typhoid,” said Tunny. “People dropping like flies.”

“A rather fierce looking man taking them to their final resting place,” his passenger mused as Tunny whipped the horse into movement again.

“That’s Matthew Doble, the undertaker. A more troubled man you’re less likely to find in the whole of Penleith,” explained Tunny. “I overhead him say he was praying for a harsh winter to kill a few more people off as he could do with the extra business. He’s privately plagued with too many gambling debts, and some say a raft of other addictions. The typhoid epidemic has made him a happier man, in spite of his sour countenance.”

The delay at the cross had annoyed him. He ached, his eyes were aflame from tiredness and the last thing he wanted now was to be caught out in a storm when he wasn’t dressed for it.

The driver whistled a soft tune to himself, eyes playing over some murky memory, the reins hanging from his hands in a long, lazy curve to the bit of the old horse. The road had deteriorated since crossing the moor and was but a cart track, twin furrows deepened by winter rains, hardened by the summer sun and strewn liberally with rocks. It made for an uncomfortable ride. They passed a group of three men trudging along with their heads down, heavy bundles on their backs; they stood aside to let the cart past. The driver nodded and fingered the brim of his hat in acknowledgement.

“Are they all headed to Porthgarrow? All told I must have counted thirty men, women and children spread along the way.”

“That’s right, Mr Denning,” said the driver. “Pilchard season proper starts on Saturday when they launch the boats. Porthgarrow’s been filling up for days now with all sorts of people coming in to try and get work.”

Stephen Denning glanced back at the retreating group of men, bearded faces shaded by hats, trousers and boots pasted with dust and dried mud.

Fat, heavy drops of rain began to fall, pock-marking the earth. “What’s it like? Porthgarrow?”

The driver creased his eyes. Was about to say something, then caught himself. Thought long and hard again. “Porthgarrow’s Porthgarrow,” he said cryptically. Then added: “It is as it always was.”

Wilkinson – it seemed an age ago now – had told him he’d never forget Porthgarrow. He would, apparently, be instantly captivated by it.

“The very feeling you get when being smitten on that first glance of a beautiful woman to whom you declare you will give your very soul,” he said, that faint curl to his lips which could be interpreted as puckish exuberance, jest, or both, “except with a degree more sincerity and permanence”.

He prepared himself, narrowing his eyes in anticipation and against the rain that had begun to fall harder, whipped around by a cold wind that elected to greet them as the lurching cart broached the crest of a steep hill. His driver companion was sitting hunched forward, a dark formless lump of wet clothing, his face largely hidden by his wide-brimmed hat on which the rain pattered noisily.

“Is it far?” he asked.

“Not far, Mr Denning. Over the brow, down the valley,” the driver said.

The wheels hit yet another stretch of deep ruts and proud rocks and the passenger was shunted violently, having to steady himself against falling over the side. He thought he caught sight of the driver smirking, but when he turned to look directly the old man’s eyes were fixed impassively on the swaying rump of the horse, a drop of rainwater twitching on the tip of his nose. He turned to check whether his belongings were still fastened securely on board, noticing as he did so a weathered stone marker by the roadside; Penleith, twelve and three eighths miles.

Wilkinson would have a lot to answer for if this were not all as he had first presented.

“The light, my friend - ah, the light! I tell you, our European cousins in Italy or the south of France turn as green as that viridian smear on your palette at her very mention!” Wilkinson had enthused.

The light? Denning was not impressed. Ahead was but a turgid, muted fug. The tempestuous clouds now disgorged thin sheets of rain that cloaked the hills. He noticed a small collection of cottages far ahead on the hillside, looking to huddle together for protection, the distance bestowing on them a corpse-like pallor.

“This is the only route in?” Denning asked, his rear now a little sore from the chafing hard seat.

“And out,” the old man returned. He bent his head in thought. “Unless you count the sea, of course, in which case it isn’t.”

He began to whistle that same infuriating, formless tune that he’d been toying with since leaving Penleith.

“It’s a jewel,” Wilkinson had continued. “Imagine if you will, encircling emerald hills, encrusted with a jumble of whitewashed cob cottages that tumble over each other down to the ocean. But not any ocean; this is of such a hue that all your precious stones wrapped around the withered necks and perched on the spindle fingers of the strutting ladies here in London society are rendered but cheap and artificial trinkets.”

Denning applauded theatrically. “Fine words, no doubt encouraged largely by my fine port, of which you’re going to leave me very little. Let me see. How would my esteemed brother, strutting in his fusty wig, approach the facts of the case?” He lowered his voice. “In concluding my cross examination I put it to you, Terrance Steadman Wilkinson, if Porthgarrow is of such world renown, her beauty of such Hellenistic allure, then why do I – and indeed the rest of the world – know nothing of her existence?”

Wilkinson stepped away from the fireplace, slumped down in the leather Chesterfield opposite. “Stephen, where is the beautiful woman who is yet to turn your head? Am I to say she does not exist because your paths haven’t yet crossed?” He rose quickly to his feet again, spun away, suddenly very serious. His face was smooth and round, pale, almost childlike in features, which women found charming and men often mistook for weakness. They would do well not to make that mistake. He had deep, dark eyes that could at once gleam with a jovial light, or sink to fathomless pools of excessive gravity, as they did now. He ran stubby fingers through his thinning, black hair. “I am done with Paris. I am done with London,” his flailing arm punctuating the mention of the cities. “I crave something more tangible, more real. I have not spent all these years learning my craft in order to end my time painting blooms, or stiff portraits of the grey and boring wives of grey and boring diplomats.” He realised what he’d said, turning to glance at the half-finished figure on the canvas. Shrugged sheepishly at Denning.

“Apology accepted,” said Denning.

He’d been busy on the portrait, attempting to capture her ageing but beautiful lips. The way they parted slightly, moist and still red, as they had when she lay on his pillow and told him she loved him. Then Wilkinson had turned up, totally unexpected. It had unsettled him. He’d not seen the man in nearly three years. Had almost managed to store him in the back of his mind, in the place he kept those dark things he’d rather not think about. And now he was here, in his studio, and that same trembling unease rose like years of disturbed dust.

“Come to Porthgarrow,” he implored, in the same way he always used to, and that too Denning found unsettling. “We might form a modest colony, in time, devoted to the capture of truth and honesty, before it is forever swallowed by the stink of modernity.”

Denning smiled thinly, but it carried no warmth, no humour. “A colony?”

Wilkinson’s brows lowered, then he shook his head. “You mock me, I sense it, Stephen, but this will be the start of something truly great. You may trust me on this.”

“I never trust you.” He said it lightly enough but there was a strong element of truth in it.

He ignored the comment. “It is perfect. Porthgarrow is so remote, so small, that it is ignored by the swarm of artists that descend on places like Newlyn.” He sneered contemptuously. “Pah! Artists, they call themselves? They are but sheep, those Newlyners, following the scent of fashion! And they turn the place into a pastiche, a mockery of itself, with all their false romantic notions of the common worker. Do they shake the middle classes out of their complacency with an accurate portrayal of the plight of the poor? Is this Social Realism? No, it is not. They know that a good painting loaded with sentimentality or escapism sells well and looks fine on the walls of the wealthy.” He drew breath, his passion making his face glow. Observing Denning’s unblinking eyes, he looked at the floor, composed himself. “I have secured a decent place you might rent,” he continued, undaunted. “Inexpensive, basic in its furnishings, I admit, and unused these last ten years, but a fire to drive out the damp will soon put that to rights.”

“Sounds…inviting,” mused Denning.

“I tell you, Porthgarrow is very real, Stephen, an ancient way of life little changed by the smoke and engines of our pitiable modern existence. It is the last bastion of the true and clean and honest. Whilst she - ” he said scathingly, stabbing a hand out to the canvas “ – is all vanity and falsehood.”

“She, my dear Terrance, is Felicity Brandon, the wife of the attaché to the American ambassador, and tomorrow’s supper.” And I will be seeing her again tonight, he thought, this time the smile that spread over his lips carrying with it the remnants of a fond memory.

Wilkinson snorted in disdain, stepping to the canvas and giving it the once over with his critical eye. He bent close, his nose an inch away, then stepped back. “I see that you still use the broad brush technique, learnt in France.”

Some things are hard to forget, thought Denning. Become so much a part of you, engrained. “Too continental for English taste, I’m told,” he said. But it helped disguise the creeping lines on the woman’s face, he thought. She liked to be flattered.

“I commend your work; you capture the skin tone wonderfully, the eyes are exceptionally well rendered, and a few quick slashes of paint and you bring costume to life. No one I know can reproduce a person on canvas like you. But look, she has no soul! She lost that on the day she was born, as did all of her kind. Why do you waste your time on this trivia, Stephen? Honestly, I really can’t comprehend what impels you to paint if there is no meaning behind it. Tell me it isn’t all about the money. I shall die of shame for ever knowing you if it is!”

“This is not descending into one of those awful Parisian tugs of wars, with art the handkerchief in the middle, is it? If so, I fear I must decline. As you can see, I have work to finish, albeit of a lesser calibre than your elevated offerings.”

Wilkinson snatched up the decanter and swilled port into his glass, lifting it to his mouth and taking a huge gulp. He held up his hand in apology. The disarming child in him surfaced again and his eyes widened appealingly. “Sorry, Stephen. I’m sorry,” he gasped. “Forgive me.” He drained the glass, looked to fill it again but changed his mind, putting it down heavily. “We have shared so much, you and me.”

A simple utterance that carried with it many things unsaid. Denning’s smile faded. Yes, they shared so much. And much that he would rather forget. Why had the man come back to haunt him, like an unwanted spirit?

“You have been a steadfast companion. A true companion,” said Wilkinson.

“You mean for years I was a foil for your petulant lunges, a pincushion for your needling, your dog to kick when there were no others, and my ear an open vessel for you to pour in all your bitterness and frustrations. You care not for my art, my family, my father’s profession nor my choice in wines. If I had a wife you would find fault with her, then her pet cat and her mother.”

Why are you here, he thought? Why me? I can fathom no real reason why you should want me to accompany you. We have proved we have nothing in common but our ability to have nothing in common and what’s more would be at each other’s throats within the week. You know how what happened in Pont Aven made me feel, why I had to leave. Why come back now? What are you scheming?

Denning took up his port and slowly put it to his lips. He sipped, staring at Wilkinson’s face over the glass. He could see the man was trying to figure out if he were serious or not.

“My dear friend,” said Wilkinson, waving a hand, “you have never been a pincushion!”

Hidden beyond the impenetrable line of gorse on his right was the cliff edge. He could hear the fierce sea and the muffled pounding of the rocks far below. As they broached the highest point of the headland the gorse dropped away and they passed a solitary stone building, standing starkly on the cliff’s perimeter. There appeared to be a long wooden balcony of sorts, from which there rose what looked uncannily like a set of wooden gallows. Beyond the building there was no telling where the sky ended and the sea began, the two fused together by the growing storm. He was curious, and tempted to ask the building’s purpose, but refrained.

“Is it often like this?” he ventured. The old man glanced querulously at him from under the brim of his hat. “The weather, for August. Is it often so horrid? I was given to expect something a little more agreeable.”

The bead of water was finally wiped from his nose on the sleeve of his coat. “It’s been better,” the driver said slowly, his Cornish accent thick and warming. “And then again, it’s been worse.” He turned his gaze forward and they travelled in silence for a while. “Some would say it bodes ill,” he ventured. “The weather turned on its head like it is.”

“Like an eclipse,” said Denning absently.

“Sir?”

“The moon passing in front of the sun. For centuries they were thought to play a part in man’s destiny. You have heard of eclipses?”

The man’s mouth turned down. A tongue rolled against the insides of his cheek. “I’m a simple man, sir, not given to knowing about ‘clipses and things. And we’re a small village, cut off, you might say, from bigger things.”

He smiled. “Anyhow, my point being there’s no scientific link between the movement of celestial bodies and the fortunes of men. Or the vagaries of the weather, for that matter. It’s mere superstition.”

A frayed old crow was startled from the hedge and it whipped noisily over their heads, large, black and glistening.

The old man’s eyes watched it as it whirled up into the sky to be dragged by the wind, till it was a dot against the roiling grey clouds. “Ever thought it could be God, sir, speaking, in His way. Giving out signs?”

Denning rolled his eyes, a little impatient with the thrust of the conversation. “Superstition,” he said flatly. He didn’t want to be drawn into tiresome theological debates. This was a Methodist stronghold and he didn’t want to begin his stay by upsetting the locals with his radical beliefs.

The driver smiled sagely. “As you say, sir. But that don’t stop people round here believing in them, signs, superstitions, whichever you like.”

The road was now following a deep gully with thickly wooded banks rising up on either flank. They crept carefully down the steep side of the headland. Gaunt trees and bushes, exposed to decades of harsh weather, lay bent and ragged overhead, the oppressive, dark tunnel they formed channelling the cold wind into their faces. Leaves rattled furiously against stems. The cloying damp gloom gave him the sensation that they were leaving one world behind and about to be disgorged into another. They emerged into the light again, but it was as if dusk had arrived early, the hills towering over them on both sides, closing in on them. Strangely the wind had dropped to a timid bluster.

“How interesting,” he remarked.

“Sir?”

“The wind has all but gone.” He looked skyward. The clouds were still being tumbled briskly across the heavens.

The man took in a deep breath that rattled in his throat. “People do say, so the old tale goes, that the Porthgarrow we know was founded by monks many hundreds of years ago, searching for the holy place where Saint Feloc stood on the headland and beseeched Archangel Michael come down from Heaven to subdue an evil spirit that warred against man. Down the valley the monks came, just as you, and found, as you, such a change in the weather that they declared it a miracle and a sign from God. The bay protected by His benevolent hand.”

“Geological serendipity. Probably the curious lie of the land.” He yawned, closing his eyes. He was growing ever more tired. He felt that even the rain and the unforgiving seat might not be able to keep him awake. “The relative shelter provided by the position of the hills, that kind of thing.”

“Aye, might be that, sir. The lie of the land. They built themselves a monastery, on the headland above Porthgarrow, dedicated to Saint Feloc. Pilgrims came from many countries to seek out Saint Feloc’s holy shrine, where it is documented many miracles of healing were performed.”

Denning adjusted his position. “Documented? Well it must be true then,” he said absently.

Tunny appraised the young man from the corner of his eye. “The monastery lasted a good many year, till Old King Henry pulled it down. There’s not a house in Porthgarrow that doesn’t hold a few stones from it, so they say.”

The driver then turned to Denning, tapped him on the arm and he opened his eyes. The man raised his hand and pointed ahead.

“And here she is, Porthgarrow,” he said.



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