The driver pulled the horse to a halt outside the low, squat door of one of the cottages. He turned stiffly to his passenger. “This is it, sir.”
Denning surveyed the house. It appeared very small, squeezed between cottages on both sides, with rivulets of water running down the stone wall from a low thatched roof that was green with moss. There were barrels, wooden boxes and the tattered remains of old nets stacked precariously against it, looking almost like it had been deposited there by the not insignificant river of rainwater that gurgled down a channel by the side of a crumbling, narrow, stone flag pathway. Glancing down the street he was aware that every house seemed to have its share of objects piled up outside. In the distance he saw the blurry shapes of people going about their business. A mangy old black dog was slumped opposite him, almost lost amongst the pile, its fur hanging from it in long, wet strands; its eyes looked sorrowfully at him. Curiously, there were many limpet shells cast around it, as well as what appeared to be small bones. Some of the shells were being washed away like tiny boats, floating down the gutter in the stream of rainwater.
Above the door lintel was a stone block, which at one time bore a carved name, though the letters had been chipped away, almost hacked off, till all that survived were the barely discernable letters ‘C’ and ‘N’.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Never more so, sir,” he said, springing from the cart like a man half his age. “I’ll get your luggage.”
The door swung open as Denning eased himself down. A small, rounded woman filled the aperture. She wore a beaten straw bonnet, tied under her chin with blue ribbon; a time-worn, blue woollen checked shawl was draped over her shoulders from which her short, brown arms protruded; an apron was strapped around her ample waist, and a pair of old leather boots, long and almost pointed, poked from beneath her full skirt. Her face looked as craggy as the weather-hewn cliffs, red and aged by years of exposure to the seasons and salt air. When she smiled at Denning he was reminded of a deep empty cave. She beckoned Denning come in with a swift flapping of her hand.
“Come! Come!” she said. “You’ll catch your death!” Her voice rose and fell, as if she were almost singing the words.
“Such a weight for such a slender fellow,” said the driver, lugging a heavy trunk to the floor. It hit the ground with a thud.
“Please be careful with those!” said Denning, turning and following the woman who’d scuttled back inside. He narrowly avoided cracking his skull on the low lintel, ducking just in time. He felt the heat hit him, and compared to the chill outside it was almost overpowering.
“I’ve made you up a fire,” she said, pointing to a small black iron range, coal burning brightly in the grate. “It’s turned chillier earlier than usual,” she said. “More like winter. Strange times.” She bustled over to a table in the centre of the room. “I’ve also prepared you a cold supper, thinking you’d be hungry after your long journey from London.” She pulled back a cloth to reveal a plate of ham, eggs, fish and bread. “As arranged with Mr Wilkinson,” she said. He muttered thank you but she had already left him to give the fire an energetic poke with the fire iron.
The room was small, the ceiling pressing down low so that he felt he must hunch over, though there was enough room to stand erect. One tiny window framed by flimsy curtains did its best to throw in a little light, the glass distorted and grimy, beneath which had been installed a small stone sink. The walls had more than their fair share of old wooden cupboards, and Denning was reminded of being inside the cabin of an old boat. A chest of drawers in sombre oak, battered, scuffed and scarred, on which stood a jug and bowl and a bible, sat close to the sink. Beside this, its back pressed firmly against the wall, was a thin-railed pine rocking chair. The walls had been lime washed recently, their only decoration being a small, crudely framed print of The Light of the World. The fireplace was constructed of bare brick, its maw taken up by the black range at which the woman was still rattling her fire iron, the mantle above a roughly hewn lump of timber that probably had its origins in some boat or other. A small oil lamp burnt on the mantle, though it struggled to produce much of a glow. He walked to the table. His boots tapped on dark stone flags; the only floor covering was a small rug beneath the fire. A curtain, wide and from ceiling to floor, was hung at the far end of the room and drew his attention.
“There, that’s them all,” panted the driver, depositing the last of the trunks inside the door. “Such a weight!” he said.
“Thank you,” said Denning hesitantly, fishing in his pocket and handing the man his money.
The driver touched his forehead in a gesture so fast it could have been mistaken for a wave. He went to the door. “Bye sister,” he said. He looked eager to be out of the place.
“Bye Tunny,” she returned.
“Actually,” said Denning, could you possibly take them upstairs before you leave?” He took a little more money out of his pocket. “I’m rather tired.”
“I can’t do that, sir,” he said.
“And why ever not?”
“Why, there aren’t any stairs!” He laughed lightly and went out of the door, closing it behind him.
“Presumably you are Mrs Carbis?” Denning asked.
“Oh yes, that’s me,” she chimed. “Or one of them, as there is many here that go by that name.”
“There is no upper floor? What of my bed?”
She tottered over to the curtain and whipped it back enthusiastically. Behind it stood a small, cast iron bed. “All made up, clean and comfortable, as arranged with Mr Wilkinson.”
“There is but this single room?” he said, somewhat taken aback. “There must be some mistake.”
“Oh no, everything is in order, as arranged with Mr Wilkinson!” she sang. She let the curtain fall back. “It is thick and will keep out the draughts,” she demonstrated, tapping the flat of her hand against the weighty material.
“And my water closet?”
It was the woman’s turn to look puzzled. The realisation flashed across her face. “Outside, down the alley. Shared, mind, but very clean. Emptied regularly.” She lifted the curtain, pointed under the bed politely to a barely visible chamber pot. “And I’ll see to this for you, collect your laundry, fetch water from the well, prepare your meals and make up your fire when you need it. As arranged with Mr Wilkinson.” She went to the door. “Right, sir, if that’s all I’ll be off and leave you to unpack and settle in. Plenty of lockers for you to stow away your things.” She rapped a cupboard by the door with her knuckles. “It’s so nice to see the place with life in it again, after standing these many long years empty.”
“I will not need to unpack as I will not be staying,” he returned shortly. “I will find somewhere bigger. More appropriate.” This was Wilkinson’s idea of a joke. He would soon settle that score with the man, he thought. He knew he liked his comforts. It had been one of his gripes in both Paris and Port Aven, and Wilkinson had loved to tease him over it.
Mrs Carbis appeared stung by the words, looking about her as if what he’d said reflected on her good work. “It’s the season, sir. Porthgarrow is full to the brim. There’s scarce a room to be had anywhere.”
Her face was quite downcast. He felt guilty for bringing it up. Why must he always feel guilty? It was a weakness of his, he thought. “Oh. Then perhaps I shall bide here, for a while,” he conceded.
She gave a satisfied smile in return, turned and walked briskly to the door.
“And what of Mr Wilkinson?” he asked, following her.
“He said I was to let him know you’re here and he’ll be along presently.”
“Mrs Carbis…” he said, but happened to glance down at the door handle. He interrupted her eager goodbyes. “One moment, another thing. I do not see a key in the lock.”
She followed his gaze to the handle. “That’s true,” she said, looking back at him.
“Do you have one?”
A podgy finger tapped her lips and her entire face bec
ame pinched in thought. “We had one, yes.”
“Is it about?” he sighed. “Can you fetch it? I have valuables.” His hand swept out to the trunks and her attention was drawn with it.
“In truth, I’ve not seen it in many a year, Mr Denning,” she answered with an almost chastened bend to her head. “You see, there was a birthing here and to ease it we made sure all the locks were unfastened and all the keys removed.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’ve not seen it since.”
“But I have my paints, my brushes, all my materials and clothes…”
At this she smiled broadly. “And you had me thinking you carried bags of gold and silver in there!” She hit him softly on the arm with the back of her hand. “You shouldn’t tease a woman so! I’ll let Mr Wilkinson know you’re here!” She went out onto the street, giggling. “Gold and silver!” he heard her say, her boots pounding quickly on the cobbles.
He stuck his head round the doorframe. “But, Mrs Carbis, where exactly does Mr Wilkinson live?” he called after her.
“Up Cliff!” she replied as she carried on her way.
Silly woman, he thought, none the wiser, leaving the door ajar to let out some of the heat. He strode over to the curtains, swiping them back and lifting a trunk onto the bed. He opened it, studied the clothes folded neatly within. As he began to unpack he mused on why the house had remained empty for so long, given that every year the village swelled in number and apparently little room was to be had.
The soft sound of the door creaking open caused him to look around.
There, settling before the fire, was the black dog that he’d seen outside, its fur dripping wet, puddles marking its path to the fire.
Denning went over to it. “Shoo!” he said, waving his hands. “Get outside, you brute!”
It raised its matted head, bared yellowed teeth and gave a hearty growl. Denning backed away.
* * * *
Baccan’s Hound
Tunny was a nickname. It had been with him for so long that he scarce recognised the name John as belonging to him. He had no idea where or how it had originated, and the meaning behind it would now never be known.
Nicknames were a tradition – nay, an essential – amongst the men at Porthgarrow, as there were so many shared the same few surnames, and the stock of Christian names thought befitting of the men of the cove so limited, that it was a fact well known in Porthgarrow that one man might call another but four would answer.
Thus Spike, Jib, Curlew, or any number of strange names might be heard in the cove, and the names were deemed as much a part of a man as his teeth or hair, with the exception that, unlike these attributes, he was never in danger of losing his nickname.
Illustrative of this was Yardarm Pellow. He died aged around ninety years, as far as people could reckon, for no one could be sure. He’d served with the navy since he was a boy, acquired the nickname Yardarm on account of him being flogged before it on a number of occasions, came back to the cove as a man in his thirties, then pressed into service again to serve on the Bellerophon ten years later, seeing action at the battle of Trafalgar. He lost the sight in one eye and part of his throat, as a French cannon ball gouged out a screaming path through the deck and sent giant splinters of wood tearing into his face. He used to boast that though he had not himself seen Nelson, he had shaken the hand of a man who had touched the much admired admiral, helping lower Nelson’s corpse into the leaguer of spirits that preserved his body on board Victory during its long and crippled journey home.
Men would beg Yardarm to shake their hands, so they too might touch the hand of the man who touched the hand that touched the Immortal Nelson, in the hope that something of the great sailor would rub off on them. But Yardarm gave the privilege to very few people. Never to boys. But for Tunny he made an exception.
Tunny had been a young boy, about ten years old, and like all young boys they were in awe of Yardarm with his wrinkled, sun-tanned and salt hardened face whose every fold told a story of faraway lands in the sun, of old sea battles won and lost, of storms so huge they swallowed whole fleets, and of hunger so sharp it sucked in a man’s soul. Like many old men in Porthgarrow, as was his custom Yardarm sat on his adopted spot on the harbour wall, where he could stare out to sea, or talk to the other old men who gathered to share exaggerated tales of their youth, and to bemoan the current state of affairs.
Tunny’s friends had dared him to ask to shake hands with Yardarm. They were all a little afraid of him, for his milky blind eye was like that of a dead fish, and his throat carried a fierce, ragged scar, causing his voice to assume a dry, mysterious croak that caused the boys’ hair to bristle. They knew he did not shake hands with just anyone; that he was very particular on whom he bestowed favour, had little time for those who persisted against his wishes or the frequent needling of intrigued youngsters. They say he had a monstrous temper, and if he had a mind he knew how to put a curse on a man, a black craft learnt from his times in the South Seas.
That did not stop the boys from taunting Tunny, calling him a coward for not going and asking the old man, yet shrinking back and hiding beyond the wall as Tunny drew on courage he never knew he had to approach the sailor.
“I beg your pardon, Mr Yardarm, sir,” he said, his throat being sponged dry almost immediately.
Yardarm was sucking on a thin, bone-white clay pipe. He removed it carefully from his colourless lips. The old man’s head turned stiffly, as if it pained him to perform the simple action. His clouded, sightless eye bored into the boy. His other remained slitted against the sun, so that Tunny could not make out the colour. Yardarm lifted a long, bony finger that scratched under his wiry, grey beard. His hair was drawn back into a pigtail, tied with blue cloth, as in his naval days.
“Yes?” he said, his voice sounding like the sea grinding rocks together. Yet the single word carried with it so much more that Tunny felt he might keel over in a faint.
“Can I please shake the hand that shook the hand of the man who touched Nelson?” His voice quaked, his legs urging him to turn and run.
The old man scrutinised the boy, from his hair to his feet. “Tunny is it?” he asked.
“Yes sir.”
“Why do you wish this?” he said
“I want to be a great sailor, Like Nelson,” he replied, his confidence gradually seeping back.
Yardarm nodded sagely. “You believe it will help you become so?”
“Yes sir.”
“Why?”
The young man thought hard about this. It was no longer a need to look good before his friends, to prove he was strong. He really wanted to shake the hand, but he could not formulate a suitable reply. “I don’t know, sir.”
The old man remained silent for a while. Then his face broke into a lopsided smile, and Tunny could see that the scar on Yardarm’s throat prevented the right hand side of his mouth from rising fully. He swore he also saw the dead eye light up. Yardarm held out his hand. ”Then shake the hand that shook the hand of the man who touched the Immortal Nelson.”
Surprised yet grateful, Tunny held his hand out slowly. Yardarm wrapped bony fingers around it with a strength that surprised the boy, pressed his fingers into the soft young flesh. He held it there, and Yardarm’s smile faded, replaced by a face that was both serious and studious as if he felt something pass from the boy into his ageing frame. He drew closer to Tunny, their faces but inches away from each other. Tunny smelled the old man’s stale breath, reeking of old tobacco, and a little of the fear came back. He tried to pull away but the wizened brown hand squeezed tighter.
“I know about you boy. I heard tales. I think I can see it in your eyes.”
“I don’t know what you…”
“Hush!” he rasped, raising a finger. “Tell me, what do you feel, boy? What do you feel when you touch the hand that touched the hand of the man who laid the Immortal Nelson into his barrel of brandy?”
Tunny’s heart began to beat faster. “I feel something, sir,” he said uncertainly
. “But I have fallen in the cove and am bruised.”
“Where?”
“In my chest, and my back.” He became unaccountably afraid. “I have had enough, Yardarm. Let me go.”
“You know how he died? Nelson?”
He shook his head.
“Shot from on high, the French ball passing down through his shoulder, into his spine. His lungs filling. Drowned in his own blood.” Yardarm’s eyes took on a mysterious gleam. “You feel it, don’t you, boy? In your chest, your back?”
He shook his head, this time wildly. Fighting to remove his hand from Yardarm’s grasp. “Let me go, please, Yardarm! It scares me!”
“You have the Gift. You already see more than others. I knew it. For I had the Gift once. Take care, Tunny. It is both a blessing and a curse.”
He allowed the boy to snatch his hand free. Yardarm gave a dry, crackling laugh. Tunny ran past his friends, not stopping till he reached home. They followed, begged him to tell them what had happened, but Tunny would not reveal to anyone what transpired between himself and Yardarm. He never did. And it would be many years before he understood the true meaning of what the old man had said.
It was in Tunny’s mind now. He left his sister to finish sorting out the young man called Denning, and as he climbed lithely onto the cart his feigned joviality fell from him like a cloak. He felt his very skin creep. It had been all he could do to stop himself bolting from the cottage in a blind panic. He experienced a strange urge, a need to wash, and he gave an involuntary shudder that ran through every fibre of his body. He could not have known how he would be affected. Not after all this time. It was so long ago. But it was as if the cottage walls had absorbed and hung onto its sordid past and it had oozed from them to be soaked up by his receptive body.
The House of the Wicked (a psychological thriller combining mystery, murder, crime and suspense) Page 4