The House of the Wicked

20





The Dead Cannot Lie





He was shown into the drawing room, noticing immediately that virtually every object – tables, chairs, vases, paintings – bore welts of small white numbered tags or pasted labels, as if the room had been subject to an exotic infection. He knew what they were, of course; they were auction labels. Everything was being sold. He spied incongruous gaps where once furniture or porcelain or clock had stood, already sold and whisked away or awaiting their turn somewhere in storage.

It was a curious feeling, Stephen Denning thought. When he had first entered the Hendra residence he had been impressed by its seeming permanence, reflected in the Hendras themselves. And now it was being slowly stripped, soon to become an empty shell. A curious feeling indeed.

The door opened and Jenna walked into the room. She offered a polite smile that lacked any warmth and which passed away quickly. She wore a small bonnet, a plain dress in a dark brown material that looked almost black and appeared to absorb the light. He thought she looked much older than when he’d first met her a month ago. He could not say exactly how, for she was still very much the attractive being who had so enraptured him from the outset. But it was something behind the eyes that aged her.

“Mr Denning, it is a pleasure to see you again,” she said, taking his hand lightly. There appeared to be precious little pleasure on exhibition. She glanced around her. “I am sorry you have to see us like this,” she said. He wondered who the ‘us’ were given that there were only two servants and herself left in the entire house. “As you can see, everything is being sold. The house, its contents, the seines, fixtures, fittings and accessories all. A sobering lesson, is it not, Mr Denning, that one is never too high to be brought low?”

“It is most unfortunate and sad,” he said. “Only a month after your father died…”

“My father’s creditors must be paid. I will have it no other way.” She indicated for him to take a seat and she sat down opposite him. But she appeared distracted. He couldn’t help noticing how she’d lost weight. “I do not wish to be rude, Mr Denning, for you have been most kind and attentive since…” her words trailed away, and again she bore that same vacant expression. “I am rather preoccupied, as you can see…”

“I merely wished to enquire after your health. I will not detain you. How is your head? Does it still give you pain?”

She put a hand instinctively to the base of her skull. “I wear a bonnet for vanity’s sake only; till my hair grows back. The wound troubles me little now.”

Her attention drifted constantly, as if irritated by the rash of white labels, for her gaze appeared to step from one to the other. At times she hardly seemed to be aware that he was in the same room. He wanted to rush to her, to hold her and offer her comfort, to lift that beautiful chin and kiss those pale, trembling lips.

“I cannot comprehend what happened,” he admitted. “But –“

“No, neither can I,” she interrupted. “There are moments I think to myself that it would have been better had I not pursued matters so assiduously, so carelessly. And times I wish I had never lifted that horrid trapdoor. Perhaps then my father would still be alive today. All this…” she said, again lapsing into silence, “…all this but a bad dream.” Then she stiffened, set back her shoulders. “But then that is being selfish and feeling sorry for oneself.”

“What will you do when this is all gone? Where will you go?”

“I cannot stay here in Porthgarrow. That much is certain. The House of Hendra is detested now the truth is out.” She gave a slight shudder that caused her earrings to shake. “I will scrape enough from the sale of the house and its contents to invest in a small place far away from here,” she explained. “My father owned many cottages in the village, too, worth very little but together will return sufficient capital to administer to my immediate needs. I will be returning to Jowan the Connoch family home, giving him a boat and nets for him to take up his old trade, if he so wishes. He is a free man, in more than one sense of the word.” A frail smile lit her lips. “How ironic that the banished returns whilst those responsible for sending him away now find themselves cast into the wilderness. Justice, one might say, Mr Denning.”

“Then it is cruel justice, Miss Hendra,” he said. “My brother Michael has recently come to the village but a day or so ago. I would like you to meet him. Together we might be of assistance…”

She nodded her thanks. “I am certain a man of such high standing as your brother will not wish to be associated with the shame, but I thank you for your offer.” He was about to protest when she held up her hand. “As you know, I am not one to beat about the bush, Mr Denning, so I am sorry if you find my words blunt. But it is the truth. So what brings your brother to Porthgarrow?”

“He comes to persuade me to leave, but I feel it is rather an empty errand he runs. I have no wish to leave yet. I find I have reasons that bind me to the place.”

“You do surprise, me, Mr Denning. I hear you have also taken up residence in Mr Wilkinson’s studio.”

“I find it more spacious and comfortable, and unlike the other little place I rented free from the unwholesome associations of the past. It benefits greatly from being on the outskirts of the village. Jowan is welcome to his little home.” He saw her wince a little. “Forgive me, I speak without thinking; it is a fault of mine.”

“It is a great shame about Mr Wilkinson,” she said. “Such a talent and young life wasted so needlessly.”

“Yes, a great shame,” he said. He wanted to change the subject. Wilkinson already occupied his thoughts more than was healthy already. There was too much he felt unexplained. Things that gave him cause for concern and troubled nights. He rose to his feet. “Miss Hendra,” he blurted quickly, “forgive me, too, for resorting to being blunt, but this is not a time for grace.” He hesitated, attempting to calm himself. “Miss Hendra, I have admired you since the moment we first met. You have caused me such distraction that I care not to relate how many hours sleep I have lost over you, nor how many days you have occupied my thoughts to such a degree that it blots out all other thoughts and renders them meaningless. You need not go through this tragedy alone. Miss Hendra, would you do me the great honour of agreeing to become my wife?”

She jumped from her seat and put a hand to her breast in surprise. For a moment she was quite speechless. Then she sank back slowly onto the seat, absently adjusting the ribbon of her bonnet. “Mr Denning, I am flattered,” she said at length, “that a man in your position would consider such a charitable offer.”

“Charitable?” he burst. “There is no charity involved! I love you, Miss Hendra – Jenna. Have loved you so much it has caused me pain not to openly declare it.”

She studied him. Looked into his hopeful, eager eyes and saw that he told the truth; or believed he did. “I thank you for your good opinion of me, Mr Denning. Rest assured I hold you in high esteem. But I do not love you.”

He was not easily dissuaded. “You will come to love me over time. I have love enough for the both of us. I will take care of you and give you the love and comfort you deserve. You have been ill-used by this entire affair. I will not exercise undue hold over you as a husband; you will be free to take up whatever challenges you so desire – I will not be a shackle to you.” He moved forward, took hold of her hands. “Please say yes, Jenna, or at the very least do not reject me this moment and instead think upon the offer and let me leave holding onto a glimmer of hope!”

She quickly regained her composure and steadily retracted her hands from his fervent grasp. “You must understand, Mr Denning, that I am still much distracted by all that has happened to me, my thoughts and feelings clouded by my grief. If you would allow me time to consider…”

“Time? Why, yes, yes – please take all the time you need, as long as you wish. I will take satisfaction that you at least did not dismiss me out of hand and will think seriously on the matter. In the meantime, if I can offer my help in anything…”

The silence between them became a little awkward. Denning suddenly felt the full importance and implications of what he had said. He saw she was uncomfortable with the situation and at length said that he thought it was time to leave her to her tasks.

She accompanied him to the front door. She called after him as he raised his hat and bade goodbye. “Thank you, once again, Mr Denning,” she said. “Stephen…” she added softly.

His heart leapt as she called him by his first name and he lifted his hat again, his steps lighter as he trod down the gravelled path that led away from the house and to the cliff top. From his high vantage point Denning could see out across the bay, the tiny specks of black boats being rowed out to a dark cloud in the water that was a huge shoal of fish. Life went on, he thought, though the mood of the entire village was subdued. It was a close-knit community; events could not affect one without affecting another. And the Hendras had been at the heart of Porthgarrow life for decades. Seine owners, existing and new, were falling over themselves to rip apart the Hendra carcass, to snap up his seines, his entire business, to establish themselves as the new dominant force. Hendra, whilst alive, had at least brought a sense of stability, of order; without him the place appeared to be descending into tribal feudalism.

Baccan’s Rock looked even more forbidding this evening, he thought, skulking in the bay like a giant beached whale. The weather had not improved greatly, and he supposed it would get worse as autumn gave way to winter. The sea crashed and fumed around the massive rock’s base.

Gerran Hendra had been buried in the churchyard, but even as an outsider he could sense the unease that having a suicide up there caused. There had been strong arguments voiced that he should not be buried in Porthgarrow at all, but all protestations had been stifled. Reverend Biddle had been adamant that he would lie with his forebears, and that God, and God alone, would pass judgement on his soul for the sins committed. Had they not learned their lesson? And they turned sheepishly away, knowing what he meant by the words. They knew that Tunny had taken Biddle to the old cross that stood at the crossroads and pointed out the spot where Jowan Connoch’s corpse had been hurriedly dumped. They knew how he had insisted that he alone should dig up what remained of his body and carry the bones back to the graveyard to rest once again in his original resting place beside that of his father. And how Tunny insisted that he alone should take the blame for the events of that night, for removing Connoch’s body from the grave, and was even now in Penleith awaiting his trial for the crime. He had named no one else as accomplices, preferring to shoulder full responsibility. He was a broken man. They knew all this and so stilled their complaints.

Denning met Reverend Biddle on the path down. He had with him his tripod and camera and had set it up so that it faced out across the bay towards the fishermen.

“Good evening, Reverend,” he said. “Your camera – it is now repaired?”

Biddle doffed his hat. “Good evening, Mr Denning. Indeed it is. I ordered a new lens and have lately had it delivered from Penleith. I had sought to capture the activity in the bay, for I fear the industry we see today will soon be a thing of the past and thus deserving of keeping for posterity to inform later generations. Alas, by the time hevva was called the light had faded and the exposures are now far too long to capture the action. They will register as indistinct blurs so I must stow away my equipment for another day.” He slipped the cap over the brass-mounted lens.

“No more attitudes of the dead, Reverend?” he asked.

He lifted a brow, wondering if Denning mocked him. But it appeared he did not. He smiled thinly in reply. “One tires of death, but death is God’s Will. However, I will continue to pursue my theories when chance presents itself. After all, the dead cannot lie, Mr Denning, and I will seek truth where truth exists.”

“Indeed they cannot, Reverend,” he agreed.

“There is a gentleman down there,” he said, pointing to the harbour, “who asks for your whereabouts. I did not get occasion to ask of him his name for he was in a hurry. But the family resemblance to you was clearly in evidence. Your brother, I assume?”

“Correct, Reverend, my brother Michael. I must introduce you to him.”

“He seemed most agitated”

“It is his natural state. I must search him out or he may burst a blood vessel. Good evening, Reverend.”



* * * *



They sat at a table in a quiet corner of the inn. The food before them was simple but wholesome, thought Stephen Denning, but his brother stared down at his plate of stew with disdain. He rested his knife and fork on the table and lifted the glass of water. As he drank he fixed Stephen in a cold, calculating stare.

The inn was relatively busy, but the voices around them were hushed, the mood sombre. The fire refused to come to life and the room was chilly and soulless. Michael Denning placed his glass on the table and in lieu of a napkin dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief.

“There is a coach leaving Porthgarrow at noon tomorrow. We shall both be on it,” he said unequivocally. “Otherwise we shall be trapped here till the next one arrives.”

“I beg to differ, brother,” he returned. “I have told you; I mean to stay here in Porthgarrow.”

“You will do no such thing! This foolishness has to stop. You are expected home.”

“I am not a child to be thus ordered around, Michael, by you or by mother. I have made up my mind and I intend to stay.”

“You do realise your lurid speculations are a waste of time, Stephen,” he said. “The facts of the case, past and present, are fully resolved at last. This Hendra fellow admitted all. The events have been laid to rest. Now please leave it alone, there’s a good man.”

“I have inspected the cliff fall a number of times. I offered a man a shilling if he would clamber down the new earth bank that led to the beach and to climb back up again. He performed this with great difficulty and at one point I was fearful he would not be able to get back up again.”

“But get back up he did?”

“Why yes, but –“

“And there’s your answer, Stephen.”

“What if this Bartholomew fellow did not commit the crime?”

Michael Denning sighed heavily. “Must you continue with this? I insist you leave this well alone, Stephen. No good comes of picking at old scabs.”

“I have been thinking long and hard about Wilkinson…”

He picked up a fork and speared a small piece of beef, then pointed the morsel at his younger brother. “Wilkinson is dead. I wish to hear no more of your ridiculous theories. Please leave your friend out of this. You have been overly blessed with a rampant imagination and it is time you poured a little cold water over it and saw sense.” He stuffed the meat into his mouth and chewed, giving a fierce little grimace at the tough gristle. “You refused to answer my letters, you refuse to come back to London in spite of the trouble I have taken in securing for you an exciting position in New York, and instead you force me to come down to the back of beyond to search you out and drag you out kicking and screaming. I am not in the best of moods to receive your latest wild imaginings, Stephen.”

“I cannot – I refuse to go back to London. I have proposed to Jenna Hendra.”

His fork rattled against his plate and he paused in his chewing before forcing down the meat. “Then you can un-propose. Have you taken leave of your senses? That is an absurd thing to do. She was out of your league before all this but is now totally ruined and shamed. Polite society would not take kindly to such a creature. You will forget this madness at once. It will pass soon enough when you clap eyes on the next pretty woman.”

“I love her. Truly I do. I care not for polite society if it is full of such sentiment, and I will not hear you speak of her this way!” he retorted.

“You say that now because you are in the grip of lust, no more.”

“Please do not presume to know the inner workings of my heart.”

“So you would risk being cut off? Father and mother will abandon you. Do you want to live in penury for the remainder of your life? She has nothing to offer, and you have but your daubing. A match hardly made in heaven.”

“Yes, I would risk all that. For the first time in my life I have found someone I truly love; someone I desire to spend the rest of my days with, and I will take my chances, as most people less fortunate than we do. I have learnt that life here is simple, hard, and yes, primitive by certain standards; but the people here have something we do not, with all our fine wines and ideals.”

Michael Denning sat back in his chair, his fingers tapping on the table a he thought. Then he gave a light clap. “Bravo, dear brother!” he mocked. “You are in love yet again and have discovered another halcyon existence. But you will come to your senses.” He pushed aside his plate and rose to his feet. He looked up and caught sight of a man in a Derby standing at the bar. “Have you finished here?” he asked of his brother. “Let us continue our discussions at your house. I care not to conduct my business in public, and especially before so base a public as we are surrounded by here.”

Stephen Denning glared at his older brother. Again he saw his father in those damn eyes of his. He would not be dissuaded. He had made up his mind, once and for all. He stood up and faced his brother. “Do not think you will persuade me otherwise, Michael.”

“Let us at least conduct the discussion as civil men,” he replied. “I will listen to everything you have to say Stephen, but not here. Shall we?” he said, indicating the door.

The two men put on their coats and made their way across the inn floor to the exit. Michael Denning cast a quick glance back at the man at the bar. Benjamin Croker nodded briefly at him, raised a mug of beer in quiet salute and then put it to his lips.



* * * *



The sky held onto a little light at the horizon, but darkness was quickly falling. The boats were still landing the day’s catch and sullen donkeys trundled the hauls up to the waiting women. Lamplight drifted across the beach. Stephen Denning half expected Gerran Hendra to be standing there, watching over proceedings as he had in the past. It somehow felt emptier without him.

“I have found a certain peace here, Michael,” he admitted as they trudged up the path away from the beach. “I do not expect you to understand that. I know what I have been like in the past. I am aware of my own careless reputation. But Porthgarrow has changed me. It has made me content. And Jenna Hendra has made me happier than I ever thought I could be. To think that one day she and I could be married causes me such gratification, Michael, I cannot even begin to describe.”

He listened in stony silence. They made their way down the narrow alleyways, up the steep cobbled streets that stretched like wet snakeskin before them, eventually reaching the house Wilkinson had once rented, and into which Stephen Denning, in his absence, had moved in. He had invited his brother to stay with him whilst he visited Porthgarrow. It was certainly more comfy a proposition than the inn. And in many ways it also displayed to his elder brother the simplicity he and gotten used to and intended to adopt from now on. He knew his brother would use all his persuasive powers to get him to change his mind but he was prepared for that. Nothing would alter his chosen course.

At the door, Michael turned to his younger brother, reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. It was curiously tender, and quite unexpected. He appeared to struggle with himself for a moment or two.

“Look, Stephen, I can see that perhaps you are fond of the Hendra woman, that you may even be fond of this place, though heaven knows why. You must trust me, therefore, that when I press you to leave it is for your own benefit. In spite of what you may think, I have always tried to be a good and supportive brother to you.”

“I find it difficult to understand why you simply cannot be happy for me,” he replied, placing a hand on the door handle and pushing open the door.

“There are things I am not free to divulge; things that have a serious bearing as to why you cannot stay here. It is for your own good, trust me. As a brother.” His eyes were soft, imploring. “Do not make me force you, Stephen.”

“You have no power over me, Michael. Once the threat of being cut off from father’s fortune is removed you have no further hold over me.”

“I do…” he said, placing a hand over his brother’s hand, forcing him to stop, to look at him. “I do,” he said again, quieter.

Stephen Denning began to feel his blood boil again but managed to keep a lid on his emotions. Michael wanted him to react angrily, to take on the role of the older bother calming his impetuous, emotional younger sibling, as he always had; but tonight he would not give him the satisfaction. “Let us not spend our last night here together squabbling on the step,” he said. “You have a coach to catch tomorrow and will need your rest.” He entered the cottage.

The room was in total darkness. There was an overriding smell of oil paints and linseed. Stephen Denning had discovered a new-found impetus to paint once again, and the simple joy it gave him to go out and sketch, to take his easel and paints down to the beach or onto the cliff top to paint the workers, was something his brother could not comprehend. He’d shown him canvas after canvas, a dozen or more, some still wet and works in progress, and he had viewed them all dispassionately. There was one telling moment, however, when he studied a portrait he’d painted of Jenna Hendra, carried out from memory and sketches, when he looked up from it and said: “This is quite remarkable, Stephen. She is almost real. Quite obviously you have lavished much time and attention on this.” His expression fell suddenly very sad.

Stephen Denning stumbled in the gloom to a table on which stood an oil lamp. He struck a match and lit it.

“Please do come in,” said a voice from a dark corner that caught them both by surprise. “It is good to see you have made yourself at home, Stephen. Would you jump into my grave as fast?”

“Terrance!” he exclaimed, nearly knocking the lamp over as he spun on his heel. His eyes grew accustomed to the dark as the lamp burned brighter. “My God, man! You are dead!”

Terrance Wilkinson was sat on a chair, his legs crossed, one hand resting on his thigh, the other holding a revolver which he aimed squarely at Stephen Denning’s chest.

“As you can see, very much alive for a dead man. So nice to see you again, Michael,” he said, waving the man further into the room with a quick flick of the barrel. “Please, don’t stand on ceremony, have a seat next to your brother.”

Michael Denning’s face was in complete shock. He hesitated then did as he was bid. “We appear to have an unwanted guest,” he said dryly, trying to regain his composure.

“Terrance, what on earth is this all about? Who was the dead man if not you? And where the blazes have you been all this time?”

“So many questions. Do not worry, Stephen, you will get all your answers. Sit down.”

“What are you doing with that revolver, man?” He stepped forward but Wilkinson’s face hardened and the gun was thrust out. Stephen Denning halted. “What is going on?” Then realisation seeped in. “You two know each other?”

“We are well acquainted,” said Wilkinson.

“I have never seen this man before today,” Michael returned evenly. “Though Stephen has talked about you on a number of occasions. Do you always greet people with a gun? As for creating a first impression it does you no favours, even for a walking corpse.”

“Amusing,” said Wilkinson flatly. “Stephen, please sit down next to your brother, there’s a good fellow.” When he didn’t respond he said loudly: “Now, Stephen!” and wafted the gun. “My patience has run paper thin.” The man slowly sank to the chair.

“Perhaps we are to be robbed, Stephen,” he said.

Wilkinson stared. He appeared gaunt, tired, worn down. His hair had been blown into a tangled mess. His breathing was laboured. A full minute passed in silence.

“Terrance, this is absurd!”

“Quiet, Stephen,” he said. He rubbed his temple. The hand that held the gun was shaking. “My father is dead,” he said at length.

Stephen Denning shook his head, bemused. “That is unfortunate,” he said. “He was a good man, from the little I knew of him…” He could sense his brother’s agitation as the two men locked eyes. “What is going on, Terrance? Michael?”

“He was indeed a very good man. A respected man…” drawled Wilkinson. “But not without his faults, as all men are.” He rose to his feet. “Now please be quiet. I am expecting another guest.” He took a pocket watch from his waistcoat and scrutinised it. When there was a murmur of protestation he turned on the two men. “I insist!” he said, his eyes wild, the gun thrust alarmingly at them. “Then all will become clear.”

The time passed slowly. Outside, the wind howled around the eaves of the old house. The tension in the room mounted. “Where were you on the night of the murder, Terrance?” said Stephen Denning when he felt he could take no more. The man remained silent. “And then to let everyone think you were dead….”

“I have my reasons…” he returned.”

“Do you not think it suspicious? Do you not see the similarity to the woman who was murdered in Brittany, at Pont Aven?” he said.

“Leave it be, Stephen,” advised his brother. “Mr Wilkinson, perhaps we can resolve this misunderstanding in another manner…”

“Misunderstanding!” he said, taking a step closer to him. He sucked air in noisily through his nostrils. “There is something more monstrous than a mere misunderstanding at play here!”

“The murder was not committed by the madman Bartholomew at all, was it?” said Stephen Denning. “It was you all along, wasn’t it? Carried out in the same manner in which you murdered the woman in France, a knife to the throat. I defended you then, Terrance, against my better judgement, but I saw the blood on your shirtsleeves, the ones you were burning in the grate that day. I saw your agitation on the night it happened, the state of your clothes, the mud on your shoes. I could never be certain, but now it all makes perfect sense. You killed the Polsue girl also, but fortune smiled on you that night. The Hendras have inadvertently shouldered the blame for you. So now you intend to kill me, is that it, Terrance, to silence me? To silence us? Well you cannot possibly get away with this.”

Wilkinson calmly stepped over to him, pressed the barrel hard against his sweating forehead. “I ought to pull this trigger now and be done with it,” he said. “For I cannot take this madness for much longer…” But he lifted the gun, moved back to stand in the corner. He put a finger to his lips for them to remain silent and then studied his pocket watch again.

The room lapsed into silence again. Long minutes passed. Then they heard the tapping of footsteps on the cobbles, coming closer, pausing by the door. Wilkinson again put a warning finger to his lips. There was a gentle knock at the door. A pause. Then more knocking, harder this time. Wilkinson pointed to Michael Denning with the gun and nodded. Denning cleared his throat and said: “Enter…”

The door opened slowly and a figure emerged cautiously from the dark.

“How nice to see you again, Mr Croker,” said Wilkinson lunging forward to grab the man by the lapel, dragging him into the room and closing the door with a kick of his boot.



* * * *