Tunny tried to calm his racing heart, aware of the strong winds buffeting him, the driving rain. But he sat there, letting the rain soak into his clothes, wanting the unclean sensations to be washed from his pores, till they became a misty remembrance, like a dream that faded beyond recall as the waking mind took hold.
All was not right. He could taste the air and it tasted of something bitter and vile. He looked at the clouds rolling overhead and unexpectedly, gratefully, he saw a patch of bright sky, a glowing ring of calm and light trying to force its way through the rising storm.
In an instant he knew, as all fishermen who’d spent their lives reading the weather knew, that the threat would subside, peace would soon fall, the rain would thin and stop and the wind would run off to cause anxiety elsewhere. Already he felt it easing, the promise of a full blown battering by the elements fading as quickly as it had come on.
It wasn’t the natural way of things. It was as if the dark heavens had been flexing their muscles, a mere show of strength. What did it all mean?
A voice now. Distant. In the wind? He strained to hear it. But it was more a feeling than actually physically heard.
I am here, it said. I am growing stronger. I am come again.
Yes, Tunny understood the full meaning of what Yardarm had told him all those years ago. The Gift was indeed a blessing and a curse.
The wind retreated and he thought he heard the voice again as it raced away down the narrow lanes and passages of Porthgarrow.
I am come again, it whispered.
I am come again!
* * * *
“To be an artist is the pointless pastime of lesser beings, Stephen; degenerate, lazy, effeminate and morally compromised wastrels!”
He couldn’t remember exactly when he’d said it, but that didn’t matter, for every time they met it felt like his father was always saying it, or on the verge of saying it, or thinking it; it was in the sound of his voice, in between the words he spoke, the words he wrote, sitting on the flick of an eyelid and clenched in his hands that he held behind his back. He lived it, breathed it. It was a permanent background noise to their relationship.
And if he could see him now he’d be sorely disappointed all over again, his son ensconced in a mean little cottage in a mean little fishing village on the remote, ragged edges of the country, his financial security in tatters, on his haunches and dangling a piece of fatty ham between forefinger and thumb. All combined, an image that did nothing to counter his father’s acerbic opinions.
“Take it you great lump,” he said, tossing the ham onto the floor. The dog eyed him suspiciously, eyed the meat, then gently picked it up and swallowed it.
He knew it was probably the wrong thing to do, to encourage it, yet he felt sorry for the beast, even a certain affinity. Anyhow, if his father and brother were to be believed he made a habit of doing the wrong thing, so what was one more to add to an ever increasing tally?
He picked another piece of meat from the plate and dropped it under the dog’s nose. This time it took the food with less reluctance.
“There you are, old fellow,” he said, wondering how long the creature had been out of doors. Its coat was in a terribly matted and filthy state, and even through the thick fur he could tell it was a skinny old thing. He bent forward to stroke its head but it growled and he thought better of it. “Suit yourself,” he said, rising to his feet and putting the empty plate on the table. “I’m used to it; your growl is not unlike like that of my father’s.”
That Stephen Denning would pursue a career in law was not so much a family expectation as a state of being. Five generations of Dennings, dusty ancestors galore, as he had been reminded since the first slap which brought breath to his newborn lungs, had taken their place and made their names in the various ranks and permutations of solicitors and barristers, Queen’s Council and judges, and it was unthinkable that he should choose any profession that did not involve a wig and gown at some point. His father, one of the most eminent judges in England, blew like Vesuvius when he heard his youngest son had dreams of becoming an artist. Correction: his youngest son had dreams of avoiding what he thought was a wearisome, archaic and prejudiced profession, and, quite frankly, took a lot of work to get there. It didn’t help that his elder brother, Michael Denning had but five years ago ‘taken silk’, and was becoming quite famous in his own right. This prompted his father to look on his youngest as if he were a changeling, or give that frequent expression of thought which suggested he was pondering what fatherly sins he had committed to be so unjustly punished.
Being the youngest did have its advantages, the principal one being that of his mother. In her quiet, persuasive way, she convinced his father to “Let the horse have its head” - though he sorely resented being compared to a filly standing in her stables. In a fraught meeting reminiscent of an Old Bailey trial, he was told he was allowed to go to France to pursue his art, and what’s more provided with a small monthly allowance, the conditions attached being that the entire affair lasted for no more than two years, that his father (in reality his mother) would choose the studio, and once he got the whole ludicrous fixation purged from his system he would return forthwith and diligently apply himself to studying what had been, he could only assume, preordained by the Almighty Himself. He would not have been surprised if a contract and a pen had been produced.
“You must not tease him so,” said his brother before Stephen Denning left for the ateliers, freedom and temptations of France. “He only wants what’s best for you.”
At such times Michael was the image of their father. Cold, blue eyes, thin-lipped, haughty angle to the head, the way he stood erect with his hands clasped behind him. Pronouncing judgement.
“He thinks of nothing but his own reputation,” he replied.
“You must understand, to him it is such a foolish venture. We have our responsibilities, and, yes, our reputation to think about. Father indulges you because he thinks you will soon be back, suitably chastened and with your tail between your legs.”
He loved his brother Michael, thirteen years his elder, but still it galled him to hear him talk like that. He knew he would never stand alongside him as an equal in their father’s eyes. For that matter, neither did he want to be seen as such.
“So do you think it’s foolish?”
“Father’s words, not mine.”
“Do you have none of your own?”
“None you’d care to hear, brother.” He shook his head resignedly. “Against my better judgement, but wanting to give you at least half a chance and not wishing to see you starve, I am arranging to supplement your allowance whilst in France,” he said, “but do not let father know. I must, however, have your assurance that you will abide by the terms he has granted you.”
“In heaven’s name, I swear you and father are the one and the same! Do you too think you can buy my submission, that you have my very soul entrapped and at the mercy of your purse? Or are you both so afraid that if I live simply as an artist, foregoing the comforts of life for the pursuance of a higher calling it might reflect on our odious good name?”
“Don’t be so tedious, Stephen. A simple thank you will suffice,” he said, turning to leave. “One’s passage to greatness is made easier by a full stomach and clean shirts, no matter what is romantically supposed in those dire European novels, and please don’t tell me you think you’re actually going to live off the income generated by your painting or I shall die laughing. Rewards are equal to the effort you expend and alas I have yet to see evidence of such an industrious trait in you. Though you might surprise me yet.” He smiled as all elder brothers in positions of established authority smile at their younger siblings.
Stephen Denning scowled, on principle, but accepted the offer.
The rain had stopped. It was no longer rattling on the tiny window panes. He gave a hefty sigh. “My friend,” he said to the dog, “you see before you a young life shipwrecked, and as yet uncertain upon what barbarous coast I
have been washed ashore.” He went to the door, opened it wide and grimaced at the stench. How does one find oneself in such predicaments? he thought wearily. And in particular why should I be the one whose every decision, every action, leads to some situation I did not anticipate nor desire, and from which I have yet again to extricate myself?
He loathed believing in fate, for fate smacked of a coherent order to the universe, a controlling force that took you down a fixed route over which you had no say in the matter. It hinted strongly at a God, and that would never do as he’d since disassociated himself from such beliefs. But no matter how he railed against it, he could not sponge from his mind the conviction that someone, something, somewhere, had set its cruel sights on him. Fate.
He closed the door. The dog looked at him.
It’s as if I saw the rocks, he thought, did my utmost to steer clear, and was pushed screaming onto them in spite of my best efforts. Shipwrecked.
Nautical metaphors being the order of the day, he recalled with a pang that caused his stomach to twitch how he knew a storm was brewing as soon as he saw his elder brother’s angry expression. Michael had called at his studio but two days after Wilkinson had visited. He did not take long in getting to the point of the matter.
“You young fool!” he said, every word emphasised and strung out.
Michael Denning never lost his temper, but he was edging pretty close to it right now. That fact alone unnerved him all the more. He knew something was dreadfully wrong, and pretty certain he was lodged at the centre of it. Again.
“I’m sorry!” he blurted, more out of habit, for as yet it wasn’t clear what had prompted his brother’s unexpected visit, or his alarmingly uncharacteristic outburst.
Michael had been more than supportive of his younger brother. Even when Stephen had ignored his father’s wishes, returning from France to set up a small studio in London, thus signalling an abrupt halt to his meagre allowance, Michael had stepped in to help.
He’d provided a steady stream of contacts and commissions from a social circle the envy of his many peers. Stephen found himself painting the portraits of a good many bankers, back bench politicians, the odd-senior ranking officer of both navy and army, their wives, children and once, but only once because the money was just too tempting, an ugly dachshund named Peter the Great belonging to the wife of a Russian lady who boasted connections to the court of the Russian Tsar.
Thanks to Michael, and unbeknown to their father, Stephen Denning was able to maintain a semblance of success in his chosen profession. A semblance because his expenditure had always exceeded his income, and his many debts were starting to move from a relatively comfortable concern to a rather more discomforting worry. In an increasingly complicated game of catch-me-if-you-can, the proceeds from his current commission would at least keep his debtors happy enough till he could calculate his next move. All of which caused his insides to assume the consistency of lead as his brother put his hands behind his back, like his father, and delivered the bomb that blew a gaping hole into his comfy little life.
“Did you think it would go undetected?” he said.
Stephen Denning’s mind raced energetically – there were just so many things he could mean, and the prospect of any of them being ‘detected’ was more than a little unnerving. In his head he did his best to prioritise misdemeanours, large, medium, small and virtually insignificant, silently begging his brother not to mention the very one he’d put top of his list.
Michael Denning pointed to the portrait of the woman. “Felicity Brandon. You were only supposed to paint her!” he said angrily.
He groaned inwardly. That was the one.
“I don’t know what you mean…” he defended lamely. His brother was far too astute for that. It was why he was terribly good at what he did.
“Don’t you dare, for one moment, try and lie to me!” he returned, his cheeks flaming a livid red. “How could you, Stephen? She is a married woman. And to the attaché of the American ambassador, of all people!” He rolled his eyes.
He slumped, defeated. It was pointless defending a hopeless position. “She was lonely,” he replied meekly. “And I was – “
“Lonely!” It was like the booming of a cannon. “I trusted you. When he talked of having his wife’s portrait painted I urged him to consider you. ‘She will be safe in his hands,’ I assured him. I meant entrusting you with the final quality of the image; obviously I cannot now vouch for your trust in anything else. He has powerful connections, Stephen, and he seeks retribution.”
“He knows?” he said, the enormity of the situation now beginning to dawn on him. “He knows about me?”
“My reputation – our family’s good name – is teetering on the brink,” he continued, then, as if his brother’s anxious words had only just reached him: “Knows? Of course he knows!” He held up a hand. “Correction. He suspects, very strongly; very, very strongly.”
What had first been lead in his insides now turned quickly to a churning soup and he felt quite sick. “How?”
“Does that really matter now, Stephen?” He turned away from his brother, and he heard him taking in a long calming breath. When he turned back he had regained his composure and appeared totally unruffled. The transformation was all but instant. He had to admire him for that.
“He says he is going to kill you,” he said steadily. “And who can blame him?”
“Kill me?”
“He is American, after all. He says he has a gun. A Colt.”
“A gun?”
“Stephen,” he sighed in exasperation, “can you simply not repeat all I am saying and listen? Fact: the Americans are a very passionate and unpredictable single-minded people. He is likewise passionate and single-mindedly unpredictable. Fact: he his from pioneering stock whereupon they all carry guns as a matter of course, and to a man possess a long-standing aggressive colonial temperament that abides by shooting first and asking questions later. Adding those facts up I wouldn’t be surprised if he had both the weapon and the suitably aggrieved state of mind to use it.”
“This is England, not some Rocky Mountain backwoods! He can’t do that!”
“Even so, my advice to you is that you leave London immediately whilst I try and find a means of dealing with this debacle, and certainly before father hears of this.”
“Oh God,” he said, his newfound atheism taking a hard swipe. “Not father. He can never find out. Please help me, Michael.” He was just thinking that it couldn’t get any worse when something flashed into his mind that said it possibly could. “I need the money, from that painting,” he said, his voice betraying a tremor that even he felt sounded unmanly. “I have debts, Michael. Significant debts.”
The face remained as impassive as granite. “I would dearly like to say I am surprised, but I am not. You should have thought about that before your indiscretion.” He looked at the nearly completed portrait. “It’s now worthless,” he said, and he didn’t know whether he meant the painting or the relationship. “And I am sorry to have to say that you are cast away to steer your own course from now on. You shall sink or swim by your own actions. I can no longer afford to indulge you.” There was both anger and sadness in his eyes.
Stephen Denning had never felt more wretched, seeing his brother’s pained expression. The one man who had done his utmost to help him, to understand, and he’d let him down.
Guilt, however, was quickly replaced by desperation. He needed a bolthole, and he needed a rapid injection of money to stave off his debtors and prevent his bubbling stew of debts from boiling over.
He learned in no short space of time that from the many friends he had courted, favours, like blood, did not travel both ways. They astutely perceived that this latest damage Denning had inflicted on himself had all the appearance of being socially terminal, and strangely, to a man, had other more pressing commitments demanding and absorbing both time and fiscal prudence. Before long his avenues, once plentiful, shrank eventually to just the one: Terra
nce Steadman Wilkinson. What he long considered the joker in the pack on re-evaluation might just be the ace he needed.
He searched frantically for the calling card Wilkinson had left and which he’d so casually tossed aside as never again needing, took the cheaper horse bus as far as he could to the address in Kensington and prayed the man had not yet left London. He stood open-mouthed and wondered, as he stared up at the pale stone Georgian front, where he had gone wrong and Wilkinson had so obviously gone right. He’d vaguely heard he’d had some success at the Royal Academy, placed ‘on the line’ no less, but, as was his habit, Denning’s interest in the comings and goings of his one-time friend and companion had waned all too quickly.
He was admitted by a butler – quite an expensive-looking butler – and shown to a plush drawing room where he waited as patiently as he could for nearly twenty minutes before Wilkinson appeared, all boundless energy and smiles, which rather irked Denning. He thanked Wilkinson for his offer to come to Cornwall, told him he was delighted to accept. Wilkinson was clearly pleased and celebrated by pouring them both drinks.
“I’m impressed,” said Denning, looking about him. “You never said.”
“My father’s London residence,” Wilkinson explained. “He made his fortune manufacturing biscuits. Sadly, he thinks he can buy acceptance. Of course, he’s very proud of the fact that I’m making quite a name for myself in art – pumped no amount of money into me to ensure I succeeded. Culture, you see; by association he feels it puts him in a good light, in possession of certain high qualities that disguise his humble roots. I say let them think what they will and rot.”
Wilkinson quickly read in Denning’s pale face and tense body that something was wrong. The conversation quickly turned to the subject in hand. “Something is troubling you, my friend.”
The House of the Wicked (a psychological thriller combining mystery, murder, crime and suspense) Page 5