The House of the Wicked (a psychological thriller combining mystery, murder, crime and suspense)

by D. M. Mitchell

  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, especial
ly 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 mor
ose 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!”