“When the spare rooms in the village fill up, those people who came in looking for work and find themselves with no place to stay have traditionally camped out for the season in the woods above the cliffs. They use tents and all manner of makeshift shelters. It can get rowdy – drinking, singing – goings-on you would not care to hear about. We have Irish, Yorkshire women, Scots – foreigners galore. But we need the extra help so much during the season it is an irritation we have to put up with. The people of Porthgarrow tend not to go there, leaving the incomers to themselves. There are less of them nowadays; the catches have been dwindling year on year.”
“Talking of my cottage; why has it remained empty so long? There must have been many who would have been grateful of the place during the season.” He gave a cursory nod to the people on the cliff top.
She appeared to freeze. Her eyes glanced out watchfully to the ocean, where the falling night had welded the sky to the sea in a profound inky blackness, punctuated at intervals by the sounds of angry unseen waves dashing hidden rocks. “People have their reasons,” she said. Before he could interject she carried on: “I cannot cross the beach whilst the men are at work. It is unlucky for a woman to do so.”
He laughed. “Is there nothing that might bring good luck, or is every effort in Porthgarrow expended on avoiding the terrible kind?”
She did not see the humour in it. “You must make your own way Up Cliff until you reach Mr Hendra’s house. The way is plain enough. They are expecting you. Goodnight, Mr Denning. And tread with care on your return; it falls very dark and there are many things in Porthgarrow that can befall the unwary.”
She left him alone with the hushed, ghostlike figures on the beach. He fixed the Hendra house in his sights and set off along the narrow perimeter of the cove.
* * * *
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 s
eek 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.”
The House of the Wicked (a psychological thriller combining mystery, murder, crime and suspense) Page 7