The House of the Wicked

22





A Price to Pay





The wind screamed down the narrow alley like a living thing intent on stopping him, its buffeting causing him to stagger. Rain lashed hard and stinging into his face and he almost lost his footing on the rain-slippery cobblestones. But he was determined to keep the man in his sight, wiped the wet from his face and lurched forward again. They left the village behind them, the cobbles giving way to a rutted earth track pock-marked with puddles into which Wilkinson stumbled blindly, cursing as he did so. His attacker, about twenty yards ahead, turned around briefly, in the lightning flashes his face twisted with fear and exhaustion.

“Stop!” cried Wilkinson breathlessly above the din of the raging storm. “Stop or I will shoot! Stop, damn you!”

But the man set off with renewed urgency, his hand clutching his wounded arm where Wilkinson’s bullet was lodged.

They left the tree-lined track behind and emerged onto the high moor where the gale blew even harder. Wilkinson fired the gun into the air. The man seemed to hesitate in his flight, but picked up the pace again, his movements made ungainly by his oxygen-starved legs. He fired the gun again and at this the man staggered to a halt, turned on the spot, his expression one of a wild and trapped animal, lungs sucking in air, gasping; he thrust out the knife before him, waving it threateningly. Wilkinson came up to him, he too out of breath. The knife swept back and forth, shining with the wet. The man looked desperately about him, but he knew escape was impossible; there was nowhere to run, to hide, on this dark, desolate expanse of elements-blasted moor.

“Throw down your knife!” said Wilkinson. He held out the revolver. The thunder grumbled overhead as if to add weight to his threat. “I am not afraid to use this, as you have found to your cost!”

The man muttered a curse then tossed the blade into the heather. He sank down to his knees, splashing in mud. “Don’t kill me!” he said, holding out a pleading hand. “Don’t go and kill me now!”

“Who are you?” he said. “

“A man down on his luck; a common thief.” He winced in pain and clutched his arm all the tighter. “You shot me. I will bleed to death.” He gave a wracking cough and spat on the ground. “He never said anything about no gun…”

“He?” Wilkinson moved a step closer.

“My mouth runs away with me. I am dying. What do you mean to do with me? I have a poor wife and children to feed. Times, they are hard. Have mercy on me. Have mercy, sir!”

“Stop your pathetic lies. They will do you no good now. Who sent you?”

“I was not sent,” he said, his voice cracking at the sight of the gun hovering near his face.

“On your feet,” he growled.

He did as he was told. Wilkinson went to stand behind him.

“What is it you plan to do with me, sir?” he said shakily.

“Make your way back down into the village,” said Wilkinson levelly.

He stumbled down the track towards Porthgarrow. “You would not be so cruel as to shoot a helpless man in the back, would you, sir?”

“I would.”

They reached Wilkinson’s house on the outer edge of the village. “Inside, if you please.” The pair went through the door, the man leading. Once inside Wilkinson made the man stand against the wall. “Who are you?” he asked.

“Matthew Doble. An undertaker of Penleith, of little consequence,” he replied sullenly.

“This is the truth?”

“Yes, the truth. I have fallen on troubled times, brought about by my gambling.”

“So you thought to add to your tally of the growing dead? Have you not enough to make a profit from with the typhoid running rampant in Penleith without adding an extra one?”

“I have developed a taste for opium,” he said sullenly, “which drives a man to desperation.”

“I would feign pity, but cannot. You understand,” he said sarcastically.

“I will bleed to death if I do not attend to my wound,” he said.

“Then you will bleed to death. But not before you tell me who sent you and why.”

“I cannot.”

“You will spit out the truth or I swear I will shoot you where you stand and claim self defence. The choice is bleak, but it is yours. Are you in Benjamin Croker’s pay? Do you carry out his errand?”

The man looked surprised at his mention. The rain lashed hard and solid against the window panes, lightening flashes briefly illuminating the room. Doble licked his dry lips and then bit at the side of his mouth. “Let’s say that he is, and that he found out about some of the things I’ve secretly had to do to get money to feed my cravings; let’s say he tells me I must do something for him or he will reveal all, and that he will also pay me handsomely; let’s say this request was to see you dead and disposed of in the sea never to be found. Let’s say that’s the case and that I admit to that. It’s attempted murder on my part. If I were to admit to nothing of the sort then it is plain and simple burglary, which will go better for me.”

“Aggravated burglary,” said Wilkinson. “That will not go down well for you.” He un-cocked the hammer on the revolver and lowered it. His head lowered as he thought hard. “I will enter into a bargain with you,” he said at length. “It is in two parts. The first: confess all – your name and your instructions as given to you by Croker, and I shall set you free.”

The man cocked his head to one side, unconvinced. “You fool with me,” he said.

“I do not. You have before you a choice. Confess all or I will shoot you dead on the spot before another minute is up.”

He deliberated on what had been said, rubbed his arm; his coat sleeve was dark with blood and mingling with the rain water dripped slowly onto the stone flags.

“You give your word? I shall go free? I believe you will simply pass on my confession to the authorities.”

“I give my word, and no I will not pass this on. The incident will stay between you and I.”

He shrugged. “Why would you do that?”

“That is for me to know.”

“How do I know you will still not shoot me all the same?”

“You don’t.”

“Very well, I confess,” he agreed.

“It’s not quite as simple as that,” said Wilkinson. He went over to a box by the bed and brought back a sheet of paper and a pencil. “Sit,” he ordered, and the man did so, meekly. “Can you write?”

“Tolerably well.”

“The write it all down, in full; how this Benjamin Croker hired you to come to my house and murder me. Then make your mark.” He slid the sheet before him.

He studied the piece of paper on the table. “This will not be passed to the authorities?” he asked again.

“I vouch I will not pass it on,” he said.

“You could hold this over me and use this at any time you so please,” he said, water dripping from his hair and splashing onto the table. A little of it soaked into one corner of the paper.

“That is the price you pay for staying alive. Now write.”

He scribbled furiously then slid the paper over to Wilkinson. “And the second part of our bargain?” he asked uncertainly.

Wilkinson slid the paper back to the man. “Now add that you received these instructions, but that you felt the request so detestable as to come straight to me and inform me.”

“I came to inform you?” he said, confused.

“Thus absolving you of all blame. You did not attack me; you came here to warn me.”

“I don’t understand…” he said.

“Write,” Wilkinson demanded, and the man did as he was bid. He finished and passed him the paper. He scrutinised it then folded it and put it in his pocket. “But you must also do something else for me for this bargain to be fully sealed, as it were.” The man regarded him warily. “As undertaker you have a variety of corpses currently entering your premises, am I right?”

“That is so. A family at a time, it seems.”

“I need you to furnish a corpse, whose general appearance resembles mine. I want you to take it and make sure it is found on the beach, and that people will mistake it for me.”

Doble snorted. “That is a mighty difficult thing to ask of me, sir!” he said.

“If this is done, I will give you one hundred guineas. Enough to satisfy any cravings you suffer, is it not, for some time?”

His brows lifted. “That is indeed significant inducement, sir.” He thought about the practicalities. “I can bring to mind a man recently died. I would have to dress the face,” he said, thinking about it. “So that none may recognise it. If you get my meaning.”

“Dress it as you will.” He took his grandfather’s signet ring from his finger. “I want you to put this on the corpse to aid its identification, is that clear?”

He nodded quickly. “Very clear, sir.”

“And finally I need you to go to Mr Croker and tell him you have disposed of me, as planned. Accept any payment as agreed. He must fully believe I am dead.”

“I can guarantee you will be dead and gone, sir.”

He took out a handkerchief, wiped it in the man’s blood; he growled in pain. “Take this handkerchief by means of a rat’s tail to Mr Croker, as proof you have killed me. It bears my family monogram. Do all this, to the letter, and you shall not suffer as a result of your folly here tonight.” The man rose from the chair, took the bloodstained cloth and swept it into his pocket. “Take this card,” he added. “Contact me when all is done and I will see to the private transfer of your money. Are we clear in everything?”

“Yes, sir; most clear.”

“Now leave me. I don’t ever want to see your wretched face again.”

Matthew Doble rose shakily to his feet. His expression betrayed the fact he still felt he was to be shot and watched the gun closely all the way to the door. Then he was gone and Wilkinson heard the splashing of his boots in the puddles as he scuttled quickly down the road.



* * * *



Michael Denning grunted; it turned into a low, throaty laugh. Then he applauded slowly, theatrically. “Bravo,” Mr Wilkinson! A confession wrung out at the point of a gun from a man of debased character. Truly, I would dearly like to see that raised in a court of law.”

Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed. He calmly opened the chamber of the gun, appeared to check the rounds and then snapped it shut again. All eyes except Stephen’s watched the movements intently. He had his head in his hands, rubbing his fingers through his hair, groaning softly to himself, beginning to rock gently to and fro. Wilkinson’s expression softened at the sight.

“I am sorry, Stephen. It is not of your doing. You cannot know all this. You do not know what you have done, for you do not know what you are.”

“Still you persist…” snarled Michael Denning. “What is it you hope to achieve, Mr Wilkinson? For you must know you will hang if you carry out your threats.”

“I care not about myself anymore,” he said. “My soul has been blackened by being in contact with you and your family. It can never be cleansed.”



* * * *



The gun clattered noisily against the table. He noticed his hand was shaking uncontrollably. He went to a wine bottle, drew out the cork and swallowed many gasping mouthfuls before sinking down to the chair breathlessly. He sat in the dark for a long while, dripping wet, shivering with the cold, tension stiffening his muscles. The tiny carriage clock on the mantle cheerily chimed out another hour and roused him from his stupor. He had no concept of how long he had been sitting there. Eventually he pushed aside the almost empty bottle. This will end tonight, he thought. This cannot continue. I must be brave. I must do what I said I would or be forever a coward.

Wilkinson rose from the table, snatched up the gun and stowed it into his coat pocket. His fingers brushed against the written confession. He went out onto the street, the wind ripping at his coat tails. It was Baccan, he thought drunkenly; Baccan who was goading him, taunting him, mocking him, daring him.

The streets were deserted, of course, for it was in the early hours of the morning. The sky was still as inky-dark as the devil, he thought. Not a speck of light at any of the mean cottage windows. Rain water ran in a fast-flowing stream in the stone gullies at his feet, gushing over his sodden boots. Eventually he came to stand outside Stephen Denning’s cottage, his hand once more dipping into his coat pocket, fingers wrapping around the cold, hard butt of the gun. The gale tore madly at his clothes, as if attempting to rip him away from the door, but he was oblivious to its frantic lashing. He glanced up to the shattered name tablet above the door. The one that once bore the name Connoch. The House of the Wicked.

He caught something move out of the corner of his eye. A dark, skulking shape crawling amongst the crates and netting piled against the wall. It emerged slowly onto the pathway. Baccan’s Hound, he thought, its baleful, black-button eyes regarding him suspiciously. It shook itself and slunk back to its dubious shelter.

Wilkinson put a hand on the rusted door handle and pushed. There was something stopping it. He pounded hard with his fist. “Stephen! Open up!” he cried, the wind snatching his voice and sending it hurtling down the street. “Open up, man! Damn you!”

There was no reply. He pushed against the door and it gave slightly, something scraping on the other side. He put his shoulder against it and shoved till a gap of about a foot opened up. It was then he could see the chair that had been jammed against the door on the other side; an improvised lock. He put his leg around the door and lashed out at it, the chair falling over with a clatter, then stepped inside.

The room was in darkness. He paused to let his eyes grow accustomed. “Stephen?” he said. “I need to speak with you, Stephen. Wake up.”

He made out the shape of the curtains that hung before the bed, the table, chair. Lightning flashed and by it he saw clothes piled unceremoniously on the floor. Wilkinson padded over to the curtains, drew them back. Stephen Denning lay on his back on top of the blankets, his body deathly still. He grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him.

“Stephen, wake up.” Denning gave a short gasp but did not wake up from his sleep. He shook harder. “Stephen!” he cried, his shaking becoming increasingly furious. But Denning did not wake; he remained perfectly still. Wilkinson grew alarmed by this. He found a lamp nearby, lit it with matches and held it over the prone man. Fast asleep, and yet almost as if in a coma.

Again he caught sight of the clothes piled upon the floor. He approached them cautiously, fearfully, for he’d seen this once before, and his heart began to race. “No, Stephen,” he said in a whisper. “Please not again.” He bent down onto his haunches, placing the lamp on the stone floor by the pile, his hand reaching out and lifting the sodden material of a jacket, beneath this a pair of trousers, a shirt, boots, a pair of black calf skin gloves.

Then a knife slipped from between the folds of the jacket and rattled on the floor. He stared at it. The handle was smeared with blood, looking almost like tar in the dim light. He put a hand to his head and began to pant heavily. “No,” he said. He picked up a leather glove by his finger and thumb. It was sheathed in blood, as was the sleeve of the jacket. He backed away from the clothes, shaking his head, muttering beneath his breath. “Not again! Not again!” Hot tears swelled in his eyes and dribbled down his cold, damp cheek. I am too late, he thought bitterly; I should have acted faster. He looked back to Denning, still in the midst of his seizure. The man who would not be aware of what he had done. What he had become.

Dazed he went to sit on the chair by Denning’s bed, his dripping clothes soon creating a puddle on the worn leather seat. You must do this, he thought. You must do this tonight..

He removed the gun from his pocket, studied it closely as he pulled back the hammer, the click loud. Outside the wind screamed and yelled and battered at the door demanding to be let in. Baccan, he thought. Baccan feeds off you. Off us.

For many minutes he looked down at the unconscious man. Forgive me, he thought. Forgive me, Stephen, but I must do this. He raised the gun and placed it against Denning’s head. His finger tightened on the trigger. One pull, he thought, and it will be over. One pull. One small pull.

He yanked away the gun, rubbing his tired eyes. He could not do it. He couldn’t.

Moments later he rose from his seat and searched beneath the bed where he knew Denning kept some of his cases and trunks. He slid out a suitcase, opened it and tipped out the contents onto the floor. Carefully scooping up the bloodied clothing he put these into the case and shut it up. He hurriedly left the house and made his way onto the path that led out of Porthgarrow. He did not look back.



* * * *



Wilkinson’s eyes were hollow shells that appeared to see nothing before him. “I meant to kill you, Stephen,” he confessed. “To kill you and then disappear, to be presumed dead myself, drowned. I would start a new life elsewhere. But I could not do it. I could not be a murderer. And it would not solve everything. Your mother and brother would have gotten completely away with covering up the deaths of two young women, and what else besides that as yet lies covered in lies and deceit. It would not resolve the great guilt I feel inside for having been a party to this, even against my will.”

He glanced down at the floor. Saw Croker’s Derby sitting there. He bent and picked it up. “Cost a pretty packet, it did, Mr Wilkinson,” said Croker. “May I have it back? A man feels undressed without it. And it does cover up my embarrassing baldness so.”

“Vanity,” mused Wilkinson. He handed it over to him and Croker placed the hat on his lap. “So I took it upon myself to expose you to the world. All of you.”

“You will be brought down with us!” said Croker, and immediately regretted saying it.

“An admission of guilt, Mr Croker?” said Wilkinson. “It is about time when faced with such overwhelming truths. I am not concerned over my welfare; thank you for asking. I care not for my own skin now. I have a price to pay, if not here then in the hereafter.”

Stephen Denning was rocking in distress, heavy breathing punctuated by plaintive little groans. His face was colourless. His hands shaking. Croker studied him uncertainly. “What is wrong with him?” he asked.

“You ask where I have been all this time?” Wilkinson continued, ignoring Croker’s question. “I have been to Paris, where I have secured the written statements of Madame Charpentier, young Frederick and the poor girl Stephen tried to kill that night. They attest to his violence.” He held up the manila envelope. “All in here,” he said. “A confession confirming you desired me dead and arranged it so; statements about Stephen’s murderous propensities; my own statement of guilt in the entire affair and how I covered up the Pont Aven murder on your behalf; and a case full of his bloodied clothes. And finally, this, the murder weapon used to kill Keziah Polsue, found in his room,” he said, pointing out the knife.

There was complete silence, except for Stephen’s laboured breathing, as if oxygen were in short supply. He was sweating profusely.

Michael Denning spoke. “We can still come to some arrangement,” Mr Wilkinson, he said evenly.

But Wilkinson stepped over to Stephen, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Stephen.”

“I wanted to marry Jenna!” he said pathetically. “I have found love at last!”

“You cannot. You must not. You could never marry Jenna – they would have prevented it in any case. But it would not have been safe for her.”

“I love her!” he cried tearfully. “As I have never loved a woman before! Do not take this away from me, Terrance. Please!”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I must do what I have to do. You must understand. It cannot stay hidden any longer. Can’t you see, you are a danger. The sight of those dead women in Biddle’s cottage must have triggered another seizure. Dislodged something dark and deep and in your brain, brought it to the surface. Think on, when might it happen again? And what if Jenna were on the receiving end of your other self?”

Stephen Denning moaned loudly, his head once again in his hands. He began to sob. Croker reached under the brim of his hat. Placed his trembling fingers on the derringer he always had strapped there. Stealthily released it from the band that held it in place.

In an instant Stephen Denning sprang from the chair and grabbed Wilkinson by the throat, pushing him backwards. “No!” he screamed. “No! No! No!”

Wilkinson gasped for breath, pulled at Denning’s hands, but the grip was as hard as iron. He felt his windpipe being crushed. In a panic he brought the gun down hard on Denning’s head. Once, twice. Again and again. The hold loosened and Denning slumped to the floor unconscious at his feet. He stood there for a moment, dazed, gasping for breath. Then he saw that Croker had gotten to his feet. He had the derringer aimed at him.

The two men’s eyes locked onto each other for a second.

Croker pulled the trigger and the shot rang out sharp and high. Wilkinson was hit in the stomach and staggered back, dropping his own gun. Croker fired again and Wilkinson crumpled with a groan rattling in his throat.

Wilkinson lay on his back, his vision blurring, the pain seeping inside him to engulf his entire being in a scorching fire. He thought back to the undertaker as he was about to leave his house. As he turned and spoke a warning.

“Take care with any dealings with Mr Croker,” he said. “He keeps a derringer fixed to the inside of his hat, and a man who does that would not be afraid to use it.”

In spite of his pain he smiled thinly, blood trickling down the side of his mouth. He was aware of a shadow, standing over him, blocking out the light. Then the pain became less severe and the light started to fade altogether.

“Is he dead?” asked Michael Denning.

“He will be shortly,” said Croker, taking the envelope from the dying man’s fingers. He looked inside. “It is empty!” he said, mystified. He instinctively retrieved Wilkinson’s gun which he had dropped to the stone flags. Checked the chambers. The gun was empty. “What is going on, Mr Denning?” he asked.

Michael Denning paused briefly at his brother to check he was alright, then went over to the knife. He lifted it, sniffed it. “This blood is nothing more than paint,” he said.

“Then all the talk of evidence against us is a sham?”

“It would appear so, Croker, intended to flush us out of our cover.” He rose, went to the window. Nobody had heard the shots and he was thankful the house was some distance from the nearest cottage. “I want you to take Wilkinson’s body from here. Remove it to the woods where it will be found. Make it look like suicide. Give him your derringer. Mr Wilkinson will not be bothering us now.”

“And Stephen?”

“I will think of something,” he said.

I must always think of something, he thought acidly.



* * * *