The House of the Wicked

The House of the Wicked





He was almost taken aback, in a pleasant sort of way. Surprised, even. The interior of the Hendra house stood in sharp contrast to all that he’d experienced of Porthgarrow so far. True, not quite up to the standards of London, or indeed his own recently vacated and much lamented rooms, but it had that same warming effect on him as downing a large glass of mature cognac.

Denning had been shown to the parlour by a maid. “Mr Hendra and his guests will not be long; they are strolling round his new stables.” She said it as if she couldn’t think of anything less interesting. Judging from her accent she had been recruited from the local populace. He now stood by the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, a log fire smouldering in the grate, knowing it was impolite to stare at another’s possessions but being for the moment quite alone unable to resist the opportunity to take in his surroundings.

Its decoration and furnishings exhibited a certain amount of good taste, even opulence, though that taste lagged behind fashion by at least two or three seasons. Some of the furniture, undoubtedly of a high quality, had seen their heyday a decade or two ago. Above what he supposed to be a substantial Meissen figurine, standing regally on a grand dresser of Sheridan design, there was a naïve, almost crude, painting of a sailing vessel. A pair of brass candlesticks on the same dresser would not have been out of place in his old cottage. As his eyes took in the remainder he realised it was an odd-assortment of old and new, fine and rudimentary. Someone had tried very hard to create an image of wealth and high taste but in the end had not quite succeeded in putting it all together.

The room was lit by the buttery glow from a number of guttering oil lamps topped with crystal shades. The fire huffed and spat quietly in its grate. The pendulum of a tall long-case clock rocked back and forth in an aged, stately manner.

Denning let out a long breath, as if he’d been holding it ever since he arrived in Porthgarrow. Flexed his shoulders to relax them. For the first time since setting foot in the place he felt at ease, once again amongst familiar, comfortable surroundings.

Opposite him layers of rich ruby curtains foamed in a fountain of red either side of a long window that looked out over the cliffs to the sea beyond, now almost lost to the growing night. He made out a faint, luminescent band of white spume at the base of the headland as it curved away into the dark. On the horizon that same, dreary island of rock, reduced to a silhouette but none the less forbidding in its aspect. He could hear the soft sound of the waves teasing the rocks below the house, a constant reminder of the sea’s presence. In the glass there was the blurred, twisted reflection of a flickering oil lamp, appearing to float in the distant sky like a fiery dragon.

The window was but an insubstantial barrier, he mused. Civilised order sitting on the one side; nature’s chaos prowling on the other. Not unlike the human condition, he thought, his regained good humour encouraging a philosophical state of mind.

It did not last. He began to wish he had not let his debts get so large, so that his obligations to Wilkinson might not have been so – so restrictive. He wondered what might be considered a proper lapse of time before he could tell Wilkinson he was leaving Porthgarrow for good. After all, the dream of a pathetic little artists’ colony in a pathetic little cove did not belong to him, and the sum he borrowed might easily be settled from a distance and in some comfort. But until his brother confirmed his affairs were put in order and it was considered safe enough to raise a head above the parapet without getting it blown off by an American’s vengeful Colt, he knew he was confined to this awful place with its outlandish customs and beliefs.

At least here was one oasis of civilisation, he thought. I do not care that it is a little shabby and provincial around the edges, he said to himself, trying to make the best of it.

His attention was pulled to a door that was half open, through which he made out ranks of books. With still no sign of anyone, he stole quietly across a fading Persian rug and poked his head over the threshold. It was indeed a library, decorated in dark, masculine colours of earthy browns and greens. Heavily carved mahogany furniture sat like primitive, hulking beasts against the walls. Books of all types stood in formation - new, gilded leather-bound volumes in shining red or green; ancient mummified tomes clad in scabrous peeling hide that waited like ancient hill-bound oracles promising the dusty wisdom of the world.

He hated libraries. Had a mistrust of books. The thought of having to start at one end and laboriously pick over snaking, turgid sentences to reach the other filled him with a kind of dread. The library reminded him of his father’s mausoleum of a study, from which he had been banned under pain of death, a stern instruction he often ignored, not because he had a desire to be amongst his dry and sacred texts, but by daring to step foot in the room he was defiling this most sanctimonious of spaces. He would even sit in his knobbly, brown studded leather chair that smelt of dry skin and pretend that he was apologising to his youngest son for being such an arrogant and distant pig.

He was sucked further into the room by his interest in a series of portraits. Unexpectedly well executed, he thought. A fine looking, proud middle-aged woman, hands crossed in her lap, deep hazel eyes that spoke of youthful beauty; alongside her a man, large, bluff-looking, craggy like the cliffs outside, a man whose word was final; and a dashing younger man in a red military uniform, gold epaulettes sparking in the light, a sash cutting across his broad chest emphasising rows of glistening buttons, dark hair sweeping down onto a handsome face with a long straight nose and almost feminine eyes and lips.

This last painting held his concentration the longest, not least from a professional point of view, as it was expertly done and must have cost a considerable amount to commission, but that in this man he saw sensitivity, burning pride, hope and ambition. He dwelt on what his own portrait would have to say about him. He supposed he would not like what he saw; one reason why a likeness of Stephen Denning did not, and would never, exist.

“That is poor Uncle Bartholomew.”

He started at the voice.

“Please forgive me…” he began, but was brought up as certain as if he’d run into a stone wall.

He could not help but be mesmerised by the most beautiful pair of liquid hazel eyes he’d ever encountered. Exquisite lips bowed ever so slightly into a smile and for a moment he was speechless, enraptured by the young woman standing before him. He’d met many pretty women in his time, had painted a great many portraits of them, but none compared to this creature, he thought.

Her hair was fastened back, as was the fashion, so dark a chestnut that in places it was almost raven black; her neck, pale and slender curved elegantly down into a slim, bottle-green evening dress that shone with a silken sheen in the lamplight. He studied her trim straight nose, the smooth arch of her brows, her tiny ears from which earrings of teardrop pearls shivered. So utterly captivated was he that when at last he spoke he sounded like a babe trying to string together its first set of words.

“Forgive me – I – the library,” he faltered.

If she were mildly amused by his confusion, not a muscle on her face gave it away. “I’m Jenna Hendra,” she introduced, holding out a slim hand for him to take. “I take it you must be the famous Mr Stephen Denning.”

Her hand rested soft and warm in his. He pressed her flesh gently. It was there all too short a time for she pulled it from him and pointed at the portrait of the young man. “He was father’s favourite younger brother.”

Denning reluctantly tore away his attention to look at the painting. “It is an excellent portrait. A handsome man.”

“He is no longer with us, I am sorry to say. I was a little too young to know him well, and I have the briefest recollection of him from my childhood. Still, his portrait has been forever there, watching over me, and I look upon it fondly, as a friend, one might say. He was a brave man by all accounts, acquitting himself nobly in China during the last Opium War. Alas his spirit was troubled by the terrible things he witnessed. He returned to the service a broken man and was killed in action, his body never discovered. He was such a sensitive soul. A sad tale, but a lesson that war is not a thing to be entered into lightly.”

“And the other two are surely your mother and father? I can see a distinct resemblance.”

“Yes, my mother and father. Sadly, she’s another I never knew, for she died bringing me into the world. But enough of this maudlin talk – you obviously like books, Mr Denning.”

“Please, call me Stephen,” he said. “Alas, you caught me wandering amongst your rooms. Unforgivably rude, but yes, the truth is I adore libraries, the regiments of books, the secrets and the worlds they hold within.” Ordinarily he found he lied easily, but it sat uncomfortably with him now.

Her face gave away nothing as she glanced from him to the shelves and back again. “I have no time for them myself, Mr Denning,” she said (he was disappointed she didn’t call him Stephen). “They are father’s fancy. My time is too precious for such leisure pursuits, diverted instead to learning about and running the family business.” She was quick to register his faint surprise. “Do women not take on such responsibilities where you come from, Mr Denning?”

He smiled. His sense of attraction to her heightened by her forthrightness. “Yes, some do,” he said haltingly, for he struggled to bring any to mind. “The more independently spirited amongst them.” She appeared to mull over his comment, as if drawing what inferences she could from it. “The Hendra Seine Company,” he said. “I have been here but a single day and already I have heard much about it. A substantial concern. It must be very demanding.”

“I am learning to cope,” she said. “Of course, father would have preferred a son to run the business, as all men do, or a son-in-law to front it, but in the absence of either, it rests with me. Until I should marry, of course, such is the way of things.” He could see the idea did not rest easily with her. “Father has been very good in showing me the ropes. He is pinning his future hopes for the business on me and I will not – I cannot – disappoint him.”

I am certain you will not, mused Denning.

“He sounds a very enlightened man, to give such trust to his daughter,” he said.

“Perhaps.” She appeared a little agitated.

“Is something troubling you, Miss Hendra?”

He saw her steel herself, her jaw tightening. “Mr Denning, it is not a coincidence I happen upon you. I have been waiting to catch you alone before father comes. Can I have your confidence?”

“By all means.”

“Mr Denning, as I have dreams for the business, my father has dreams for me. He has seen to it that I have had the very best education, the best upbringing a woman in my position could hope for, in the hope that one day, as a lady of reasonable social stature, I will marry a gentleman of similar standing. An unfortunate consequence of his ambitions is that he has been thrusting me before every available bachelor of means. Mr Wilkinson has been speaking very highly of you, which has piqued father’s interest; to my utmost embarrassment he has intimated strongly to me that such a man as yourself would prove a good match for his daughter and unfortunately he means to sound you out. I fear I should warn you that if he takes such a blundering tack this evening I hope you can find it within you to forgive his blunt nature. It is a trait of the Porthgarrow man, one that has served him well in business, but not altogether an agreeable one in the polite company he now courts.”

“It is understandable that a father wishes to see his daughter – and especially one so fetching – married to the right gentleman.”

Her eyes changed instantly from warm inviting pools to icy orbs. He made a quick mental note to himself: flattery will not work on this young woman. Rather disconcerting as it had always proven the most effective and oft-used weapon in his emotional arsenal.

“I am a woman of the cove, my heart and soul will always be here. It is not my immediate ambition to become a gentleman’s pretty object to dress as he pleases in the latest city fashions and expensive jewellery; nor will I ever be attuned to those vacuous groups of self-indulgent and superficial people that pass for fashionable society. As for marriage, it will be on my own terms, not father’s, nor any other man’s.” Her lips melted into the faintest of smiles. She cocked her head slightly. “I should close your mouth, Mr Denning, lest a fly comes by and swoops right in.”

He snapped his lips closed, cleared his throat and took in a large breath. He found this woman all the more fascinating. “It is best to know the lie of the land before one sets off across it,” he said. “Forewarned is forearmed, as the saying goes…”

“You will have to forgive me also, Mr Denning. I am, after all, my father’s daughter. Women in this part of Cornwall are renowned for their blunt prows. It is said that Baccan is partly afraid of the women of Porthgarrow, for he cannot control them or feed off their ill doings as he can with a Porthgarrow man.”

“There’s that fellow again!” said Denning. “Tell me, who or what is this Baccan, as I cannot get a straight answer to my question and he appears to be part of the very fabric of this place.”

“To many in Porthgarrow, and certainly the elder amongst us, Baccan is as real as the sun and the sea, a spirit as old as time, something to be feared, respected and paid homage to. He commands the oceans, the tides, the fish; he can summon up a raging storm or create a flat calm. He is in all aspects of Porthgarrow life.” She gave a light, chiming laugh. “But there are many, like me, who see it as little more than a dark story to scare naughty boys and girls into good behaviour.”

“Ah, a silly superstition,” said Denning.

Her face fell instantly serious. “Oh no, Mr Denning, not silly at all. Everything gains its place and status for a reason. Come this way.”

He watched her search amongst her father’s books, admiring the way her slim waist bloomed out into attractive hips. At length she pulled a hefty, leather-bound volume off the shelf, which she handed over to him.

“I am sure father will not mind you borrowing this. It is a collection of local myths, legends and folk tales published some sixty years ago. You will find the legend of Baccan in there. You must also seek out Tunny; he has a cottage in the woods below the crag and there is nothing about such things that he does not know.” She frowned as if unsure how she should continue. “He is our wise man.” She looked at him, expecting him to be amused at the thought. He remained more transfixed by her than registering what she spoke of. “It is a long tradition of the cove. Certain people are said to have the Gift. The people still go to him for cures, reading fortunes, predicting who they shall marry. He inherited his crown from a man called Yardarm Pellow, many years ago, and will hand it over to another when his time comes no doubt. He sits on much local knowledge. After all, it is important that you learn about the place where you have come to live. Mr Wilkinson tells me you and he will be staying in Porthgarrow some time.”

“Oh yes!” he burst enthusiastically, “I plan on staying a long while!”

“Then it is likely we will have many an occasion to get to know one another. Shall we go? I hear father coming.”

Led demurely by her on an invisible leash, he followed her out of the library, she closing the door softly behind him. Wilkinson was entering the parlour, his face beaming, his hair a little wind-ruffled. He saw Denning and if anything his smile stretched even further.

“My dear fellow!” he exclaimed. He turned to the two men following him into the room. The first was a thin, sallow looking individual, wrapped in a thick black coat buttoned up to his neck, the face peering out a dour, heavy-lidded, waxen mask. He looked at Denning with disinterest. The second was none other than the man from the portrait, obviously Mr Hendra himself, Jenna’s father, an imposing crag of a man who dwarfed the others. He seemed to fill the room with his presence, not just the sheer scale of his physical attributes, but with a commanding aura he carried with him. “Stephen, I’d like to introduce you to Mr Hendra and the Reverend Marcus Biddle. Both have been looking forward to meeting you.”

Hendra breezed over to Denning, holding out a meaty hand to shake. He took Denning’s hand in a grasp so forceful it threatened to cut off the circulation in his fingers. “Mr Denning! A real pleasure!” he said, energetically pumping his hand up and down. “Terrance has told me how famous you are! An honour, sir, that you grace my humble house.” His voice had a deep crashing resonance; not unlike the sound of those waves beating themselves against distant rocks, Denning mused.

“I hope I might rise to meet your high expectations of me, Mr Hendra. Terrance can be overly generous in his praise.” He raised a brow at Wilkinson.

“I see that you have met my daughter. I hope you have been treating our guest well, Jenna,” he said. He did not wait for a reply. “My only dear child,” he said. “But what a child, eh, Mr Denning? A noble catch in anyone’s estimation, waiting to be landed by the right man.”

Well, that didn’t take him long, thought Denning. He exchanged glances with Jenna, whose face showed no sign of a reaction to his words.

“I dare say, Mr Hendra.”

“Call me Gerran!” he insisted. “Let’s not stand on ceremony. We must dispense with such formalities tonight!” He turned to the gentleman in the dark, crumpled suit beside him. “Forgive me, I run away with myself like a skiff in a stiff breeze! Let me introduce you to Marcus – held in high esteem and affection within the cove. He has been vicar of this parish for as long as anyone can remember. He has acquired the soubriquet locally of Preacher Biddle on account of his fine sermons!”

The man loped stiffly towards Denning. In spite of what Wilkinson had said, the man had clearly not looked forward to meeting him. His fingers were bone-thin and cold, not unlike the words he chose in greeting. “Mr Denning, charmed,” he said, which of course he wasn’t, then, eyes fixed on Denning over his wire-thin spectacles, he ghosted back to stand in the very spot he’d just occupied.

Denning found it difficult to believe anyone could hold this man in any sort of affection whatsoever.



* * * *



The table was laid with a beautifully woven white cloth, run through with the impressions of leaves and flowers. On it were arranged silver cutlery and fine glassware that sparked under flickering wall lights; a pair of silver candlesticks topped with guttering blue candles stood either side of a low dish of summer flowers placed at the table’s centre. They began by eating raw oysters, followed by a selection of soups, presented with baked sea bass, a lamb entrée, and before dessert the salad course with accompanying cheeses, bread and butter. It was all beautifully prepared, thought Denning, and certainly given as much care as any he’d found in London. Though there was nothing ostentatious about it, it was clear here was a man who enjoyed relative wealth. It was a far cry from the surrounding fishermen’s cottages and people he’d met so far.

They chatted amiably and comfortably over dinner, oiled to some degree by Wilkinson’s infectious enthusiasm for all manner of topics, and the talk bounced effortlessly from one subject to another. All indulged, except for Reverend Biddle, whose main contributions were polite nods and the occasional ‘uhm’ or ‘ahh’, almost as if there were nothing said that could properly light his conversational touch paper. Then, over dessert, Wilkinson invariably turned to that which he held at the very core of his being, his art and their creative intentions whilst lodged in Porthgarrow.

We are quite looking forward to capturing the special world that is Porthgarrow,” he said, “our lively brushes transporting the essence of this marvellous place to the greatest galleries in the capitals of Europe!”

“Bravo!” burst Hendra, swigging a glass of water and refilling up his glass almost to the brim. Denning noticed he had not touched the wine. “Here’s to Europe!” They chinked glasses over the table.

Like a cloud that creeps up stealthily and unseen, passing in front of the summer sun, Biddle rested his cutlery and spoke.

“Death awaits,” he said sonorously, “for all things. For you and I, our dreams, our loves, our passions. And unto dust all will become. Know you that the craft which you hold so dear to your bosom will one day wither, dry and be blown as dust into nothing. And know you that which delivers its final protracted kiss of death?” He stared over the rim of his spectacles at Wilkinson.

Silence dropped like a candle snuffer. Everyone looked at the man.

“I’m afraid I do not quite understand,” said Wilkinson, bemused.

“Art – and by that I include the practical application of oils or watercolour to render a physical representation or likeness – is dying, slowly trampled and crushed beneath the feet of new photographic processes.”

“I say,” said Wilkinson, “that’s rather harsh! I may find myself on the streets if that is so!” He laughed and dabbed his napkin at the corner of his mouth.

Biddle continued. “Forgive me. I myself take an interest in sketching and painting, in my own humble way, and my skills are passable, though not as accomplished as yours I might say.” He raised a finger, which for a moment pointed like a signal to heaven, then drifted to brush the side of his nose as he thought. “It is obvious,” he resumed, “that coal and steam, rude mechanics, steadily diminishes, and perhaps one day will supplant, the need for the horse; does that not mean the march of technology, in this case photography, which brings the accurate representation of an object, landscape or individual into the hands of the many thus deprive the select few – by that I mean the artists – of their hitherto unchallenged and privileged position? In short, will they, like the horse, face a future where they are no longer needed?”

Following an awkward silence it was Hendra who spoke. “Marcus is a keen exponent of the new photographical mediums,” he explained. “He has recently published The Attitudes of the Dead: An Exposition of Truth.”

“How fascinating,” Wilkinson said. “Though I have not heard of it.” There was the slightest trace of humour in his voice. He turned to Denning. “How about you, Stephen?”

“I can’t say it is a volume that I have heard being discussed within my London circle.” He lifted his water goblet to his mouth to hide a smile.

Biddle slowly removed his spectacles and methodically began to polish the lenses on his napkin. “It is privately published, and copies are few. I have a theory. I have long believed we can explain much about a person’s demise, even his life, from studying his or her final attitude in death.”

“What a morbid thought!” said Wilkinson.

Biddle regarded him as if he were an irritating fly at the window. “In my book I have amassed, amongst my own collection of photographic plates, many images of death. Do you know of Roger Fenton or Matthew Brady?” The two men shook their heads. “I presumed as much. Obviously they are not the kind of personage likely to be discussed within your particular London circles.” He gave an acid twist of the lips. “Fortunately, they are well known amongst academic and knowledgeable circles of consequence. They are both military photographers – pioneers in their field – of the Crimean and American Civil Wars respectively. It is a shame that we have so little imagery of the dead during the Crimean War. We British were too sensitive, too reluctant to foist the true horrors of armed conflict on a public who would still rather look upon an artist’s representation in their morning paper than face the real thing. And, of course, certain truths do not sell. Fortunately, the Americans are not chained by such debilitating social niceties. They have given us plentiful photographs of the dead.”

“Death is hardly suitable fare to discuss over bonbons, Marcus, my dear friend,” said Hendra uncertainly, looking to see what his guests’ reaction was. They were both intrigued.

“I believe science is God’s gift to humankind, and every bit as worthy of polite conversation as, say, the work of the Apostles,” countered Biddle. “After my commitment to God’s work, I have dedicated my life also to studying the various final attitudes of the dead, and in doing so unlock the mysteries and meanings locked within. My work has very practical applications, especially in criminal justice, in which it has already proven most useful.” He looked over to Hendra who acknowledged the comment with a begrudging nod.

“But if a person is dead, as far as I can see what more can be said of it by staring at them? I find it rather a ghoulish thought.” said Denning.

“Did not Leonardo da Vinci and Rembrandt dissect and study cadavers,” interjected Jenna, “in order to better represent life?”

Denning shrugged. “True, but…”

“Let me pluck out an illustrative example,” Biddle continued. “I describe to you a photograph of a poor American Confederate soldier, taken by the aforementioned Matthew Brady – a photograph that is not alone in its content. In it we see the soldier lying dead by the roadside, on his back, his legs as straight as a die, his arms crossed over his chest, his shirt ruffled and lifted to reveal his stomach. What meanings can you infer from this?”

They thought about it for a moment or two. It was Wilkinson who answered for both of them. “That the poor fellow was shot and fell dead to the ground, removed to the roadside by his companions to await burial. It is plainly obvious.”

A smile – or perhaps the makings of a smirk – spread over Biddle’s pale, pencil-thin lips. “He was shot and fell to the ground, that much is true. But from it we can see that he did not die immediately. We can also surmise that he knew the nature of his wound to be fatal.”

Wilkinson snorted a little. “To know a man’s thoughts – God may have full access to them, but alas as yet we have not been granted that capacity. And how can you know he did not succumb at once to his wound?”

“We can make an accurate summation. All soldiers know that if they are hit in the gut then they will surely die. It is a veritable law of the battle ground. Our soldier knew this too. Once he was hit he lay there, lifting and ruffling his shirt as he searched for the wound. He found that indeed it was a fatal blow, so knowing he must soon die he lay straight on the ground, even though it must have pained him greatly to do so, crossed his arms over his chest and prepared himself for God to summon up his immortal soul.”

“Poor fellow,” murmured Wilkinson.

“Amen,” said Hendra.

“A simple observation of a ruffled shirt is all that is required to open up the small tale surrounding this man’s death.”

Denning waved it away with his hand. “An artist can capture just as much, if not more. This photographical novelty will soon wear off.”

“I disagree,” Biddle returned. “If this were an artist depicting a similar death he would portray it very differently, undoubtedly as something noble, more palatable to sensitive hearts, changing it here, a dab of pathos there, a wholly individual interpretation that is indeed very decorative but outside of this hardly useful in the modern age.”

Denning, reluctant at the best of times to rise to the defence of anyone or anything, rose, to the surprise of Wilkinson, to the defence of his chosen profession. “Surely art allows mankind to express what it feels. That is the difference between using a mechanical toy and art.” He didn’t care for this man or his macabre interests. He had noted long ago that men of the church and undertakers shared the same morbid aspect and here was mortal proof.

Biddle’s response was calm and clinical. “A photograph captures the world as God intended it to be seen, not as man feels it should be moulded.”

It was Jenna who was quick to detect the tension that was tightening like a coiled spring between the two men. “A marvellous new mechanical box or a paintbrush and paint; both are instruments that God gave man the power to create and use, and it seems only fair to give equal weight and importance to each. Likewise, might one therefore conclude the creations born out of each of them can be said to be art in their own right?”

Her timely words helped defuse the electric atmosphere, but the remainder of the meal was a more subdued affair. Afterwards the men rose to retire to the drawing room to take coffee, brandy and cigars. Sadly, Denning had to say goodnight to Jenna. “You will be at the launch tomorrow?” he asked as he gave a small bow.

“It is my duty,” she said with a flash in her eye that made Denning almost squirm with delight.

Such a delightful smile, he thought, but tinged with the dangerous. He could not help himself; he was gradually falling under her spell and was reminded of something Wilkinson had said a while ago, about being smitten by a beautiful woman and offering up your body and soul to her. This was all too new for him, his emotions in turmoil, fear and excitement crashing together. He had long since thought himself immune to such feelings, having never experienced anything remotely so powerful before – though he cruelly feigned the experience on many an occasion in order to gain the affection of another. He had been able to step in and out of relationships with impunity, like stepping in and out of a pair of boots; yes, perhaps leaving some of them with the odd-bruising of the heart, only to fade a day or so afterwards. But never anything as strong or as all-consuming as this. He watched her walk away and reluctantly joined the others.

After charging Denning’s and Wilkinson’s glasses Hendra apologised for not joining them in a brandy. “We are both teetotallers,” he explained.

“True,” added Biddle. “To partake is a weakness, a rent in the frail carcass of man through which evil enters to corrupt the core and darken the soul. As a community we abstain from alcohol. Though their lives can be tremendously hard, there is scarce a fisherman local to Porthgarrow that takes to drink. We have no need of such alcoholic crutches whilst we have the Lord.” He cast both men a meaningful look. He swivelled his head to face the clock on the wall. “Alas, I must bid you all goodnight. I have a very early start tomorrow. I am to perform my traditional blessings of the boats at the launch. You will both join us, of course?”

“Most certainly,” said Wilkinson.

“Yes, you must come,” joined Hendra. “It is a fabulous sight.”

Biddle handed Wilkinson and Denning his card. In particular he addressed Denning. “Perhaps we can continue our lively discussion about the relative merits of photography at my house some day. I live close by, within easy walking of the chapel. You will be most welcome.”

Strangely, Denning found the man sounded genuine. He did not know which way to take him. “Thank you, it will be a – pleasure,” he said haltingly.

Once Biddle had left Hendra topped up both their glasses and sat down, drawing on a huge cigar. “Marcus is a very passionate and devoted man. You must forgive his eccentricities, of which you will find there are many.” Slate-blue smoke hung wraith-like around his rubicund cheeks. He quickly changed the subject. “Terrance tells me you are one of the best portrait painters in all Europe,” he said to Denning.

He laughed. “I do not wish to be put on so high a pedestal lest I find myself tumbling down, but I thank Terrance for the accolade.”

Hendra leaned forward in his seat, hands clasped before him, the cigar now removed and lodged between fat fingers. “Let me cut straight to the chase, Stephen. I would be honoured if you would consider painting my daughter’s portrait. Oh, I know men of your talent are very busy, and it is an imposition, but – “

“It would be my honour, sir!” exclaimed Denning. Wilkinson raised a brow; he had never seen Denning approach anything with so much fervour in all the time he’d known him.

“Splendid!” said Hendra, drawing long on his cigar. His exhalation spoke of deep satisfaction. “She is a handsome young woman,” he said. “As a father I wish to capture her as she is now, so that I may hold onto her as I know her, before she is given away to another man forever.” Through the foggy haze he winked at Denning.

Denning caught sight of Wilkinson. Curiously he did not look happy. He was playing agitatedly with the signet ring that he had inherited from his grandfather. He always wore it, for he loved his grandfather, and at times of stress or discomfort Denning noticed he would twirl it quickly around his finger. Perhaps the second glass of brandy – or was it the third? – was bringing out the morose side to him. In fact, now that he thought about it, he scarce paid any attention to Jenna all through dinner, save for the odd-smouldering glance across the table. But Denning was delighted with his lot. He now had an opportunity, a veritable excuse, to get to know the Hendra woman better. However, he fell silent and allowed his face to become thoughtful, a finger raised to his cheek to emphasise it.

“Is something wrong, Stephen?” Hendra asked with concern laced though his voice.

“It is nothing insurmountable, I am sure, but I do not have the correct paints and brushes to complete such a portrait. I notice there is a place in Penleith from which I might order the necessary equipment, but it is a distance away and transport is of such limited availability here in Porthgarrow that I am afraid I shall have to delay starting till I can procure the necessary materials. It may be some time.”

“That will never do! That will never do!” said Hendra, wagging his cigar. “Do you ride, Stephen?”

“Of course, but…”

He held up the flat of his hand. “Say no more. Whilst you stay in Porthgarrow you shall have full use of a horse from my stables, and a gig should you need it. Celeste will make a good choice – yes, she is a sturdy, spirited and yet affable creature that will suit your purposes.”

“But I cannot…”

“I will hear no more on the subject. It is my pleasure. Now you may travel where you will. An artist must have the right tools.”

Denning drank deep of his brandy. “You are very generous, Mr Hendra.”

At length Denning rose to his feet, his head clouded by drink. “I am afraid I too will have to retire. It has been a long day and I am fit only for my bed. Tomorrow, Terrance, you must show me your studio. Well, I must try and find my way back home, if I can recall the route!”

Hendra got to his feet. “If you wait a moment I shall summon my man Kenver to help guide you back home. It will never do to have you lost and never found again on your first night here in Porthgarrow!” He sailed out of the room, belching smoke like a steamer.

“It appears Miss Hendra had you all in a flutter, Stephen,” noted Wilkinson, staring into his cognac.

“Is it so obvious that I wear my passion like a buttonhole? Ah, but don’t you think she is a beauty?”

“I find her tolerable, for a woman of her kind. A little plain and ordinary, coarse around the edges, one might say. You’d have difficulty in presenting her to your friends in London. The finish to her is but a tissue-thin gilding; beneath that deceptive sheen is a crude base metal never far from poking through.”

“Pah!” he sneered. “What do I care about friends or what they think?” He thought bitterly how they’d thinned like boiling water poured over ice till they’d all melted clean away, just when he needed them the most. What a waste of good wine, good food, and pretending to like their wives and fiancés till it stuck like a bone in his throat to compliment them. “Jenna is so refreshingly different. I never expected it so. Terrance, I believe I am falling in love.”

His dark eyes rolled ever so slightly. “Again, Stephen?”

“This time it is different. I can feel it is different, right here.” He put a fist to his chest.

“Possibly a touch of indigestion; the dessert had been overly sugared. In a little time it will pass. Stephen, if we are to make something of this venture of ours you must have all your energies focussed on the subject in hand.”

He hated feeling beholden to the man. “What do you hold against her? You scarce acknowledged her all evening. Are you jealous?” Wilkinson looked surprised and stiffened in his seat. “Do you wish her for yourself? Are you jealous that she paid me far more attention than you this evening?”

Wilkinson relaxed again and his reply was a thin smile. He took a hefty swig and swallowed hard. “My dear fellow, you may have every tough Cornish piece of her, gladly.”

Wilkinson peered thoughtfully over his glass at Denning. “Another thing. Did you not bring enough paints with you, Stephen? Mrs Carbis tells me you brought enough trunks to sink a small ship. What can be so special you need to order it from Penleith?”

He grinned mischievously in reply. “I forgot to pack a horse,” he said.

The clock struck eleven.

“You have the very devil in you, Stephen. Be careful of it; it has landed you in trouble before.”



* * * *



In places the darkness was almost complete, the light from the man’s oil lamp beating it back but a little way. Every now and again the thick cloud parted to reveal a thin strip of moon, but it was quickly swallowed again. Denning and the man Hendra called Kenver followed the steep path down from Hendra’s house to the beach where men were still working on the boats. They then began the climb back up, heading towards Denning’s rented cottage. The village was silent, but a few windows burning lights, their footsteps echoing down the narrow chamber formed by the closely packed houses. A stiff, cold breeze shivered the air around them.

“That’s not good,” said Kenver. Denning supposed from his cloudy immature beard that the man must be about his own age, but his manner appeared far older.

“What isn’t?” he said.

“Feels like another storm’s on its way. You could hear the swells in the cove, too. And I don’t like this chill. It entereth into a man it does. Another storm. Had too many o’em already which ain’t good for the start of the season. Last year was bad for the pilchard, but this year…” he tut-tutted loudly. “Watch that there shit, sir,” he said, pointing out a sludgy pile that the lamplight held in sharp relief for a moment or two.

“I must say, it appears further in the dark than it does during the day.”

“True, ‘tis on the outer boundary of Porthgarrow, so a fair enough distance for them whose shanks ain’t accustomed.”

They continued up the hill.

“Forgive me, Kenver,” asked Denning. “Why do you think my cottage has remained empty for so long till my arrival?” He was struggling to keep up with the man, starting to wheeze.

“Oh, you wouldn’ get a fisherman, either local to Porthgarrow or from outside settin’ foot in that house. It would bring fearful bad fortune on a man.” He stopped and turned to Denning; when he smiled he had teeth missing. “But you needn’t worry on that account, sir. You’re safe, being an outsider and not a man of the sea.”

“Safe? Safe from what?”

His brows raised in surprise. “Why, has no one ever thought fit to tell you of what took place in that house?”

“It is all new to me.” He sensed Kenver was having an internal tussle as to whether he ought to say any more. “Please,” he encouraged, “it cannot do any harm, after all.”

Kenver’s lively expression signalled his decision and he launched into his story with relish. “A long while ago, the house was owned by a Connoch – Jowan Connoch. It hasn’t been occupied since his wife was found brutally murdered, her poor body sliced from neck to groin, gutted like a big white fish. All that was inside was spewed outside.”

“Good God!” said Denning.

“Good God indeed, sir. It was Jowan did it. An evil man. Blamed too for another such death, a poor fish girl, found in the same sorry state on the cliffs. No mistake, the Connochs is a wretched race, sir, but we have none left in Porthgarrow now. Jowan paid for his sin and is burning even now in Hell’s fires. Like I say, sir, nothin’ for you to be afeared of.”

They arrived at the cottage door and Kenver hoisted his lamp. Denning made out the shape of the smashed nameplate above the door, the remains of letters that he now realised had once spelled Connoch. “The Lord’s curse is on the house of the wicked – that’s what it says in Proverbs,” Kenver said. “Preacher Biddle said as much as he took out his sketchbook and pencilled the poor woman’s image to add to his collection. The house is tainted by the murder. Fishermen take such things seriously and none of them will now venture as much as a single step into the Connoch house.”

“What a horrible thought,” said Denning, his brow creased in disgust, both at the grisly story and at the image of a ghoulish Biddle stooped eagerly over the dead woman. “And you mean your vicar actually took the time to draw the woman’s likeness?”

“Yes sir, told everyone to leave things be till he was satisfied he’d caught her just as she lay. Wasn’t the first time. He’d always done it. Wasn’t many years afterwards he bought himself one of those photo-box-contraptions and he’s been pointing that thing at all and sundry since, living or dead. Sometimes he’s more like a damn alchemist – excuse my language, sir – and his house smells something foul with his use of all those strange chemicals.”

“I find that very disturbing to say the least! Are all your vicars cast in such an ardent mould?”

“His sermons are singularly fiery, ‘tis true. But fire and brimstone keeps a man from straying.”

“I speak not of his religious fervour, only of this extraordinary preoccupation with the pictorial cataloguing of the dead. Do you not think it a little strange for a man of his calling?”

He stopped, screwed up one eye as he appraised Denning then gave a chuckle. “A more powerful Christian there isn’t, sir, but oh yes, Mr Denning, we all find him strange. Mad as a hatter, as the old saying goes.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger and gave a knowing wink. “True, he takes an uncommon interest in dead people, beyond that of your average man of the church. He’s been sketching and then taking those photographical pictures of every corpse hereabouts for many years, swooping as eager as any vulture on hearing of such a tragic consequence, whether ‘tis people that have fallen from boats, drowned and washed ashore, tumbled from cliffs, or – “ He fell silent.

“Or?”

“Or otherwise. Like I say, mad as a hatter. Don’t be surprised if you see him spending many an hour up there in the Huer’s lookout on the cliff top, smoking a pipe – loaded with opium, as many are led to believe – staring out to sea with his spyglass and jotting all sorts of wild imaginings down in his notebooks. We pay no heed now to his many visions, strange utterances and melancholic pastimes. Best to leave him to his own devices, as it were, and take him as we find him. He does deliver a might fine sermon, though, to give him his rightful due.”

That explained a great deal, thought Denning. Biddle was clearly a little unhinged, and had been shipped off by his superiors to this far flung, lonely place many years ago where he would be free to exercise his eccentricities out of sight and out of mind, so to speak. The knowledge gave him a kind of smug gratification.

“The entire fabric of this village is riddled through with rampant superstition and tales of the peculiar,” he said, half to himself.

“So it is, if you say so, sir. Well take care, Mr Denning, and sleep tight.” Kenver tramped away down the road, taking his friendly circle of light with him and leaving Denning to be enveloped by the cold disquieting dark.

He heard a sighing noise and saw the dim outline of the large black dog Mrs Carbis had called Baccan’s Hound.

It stared at him, rather pitifully, Denning thought.



* * * *