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

by D. M. Mitchell

  “Why do you wait? Pick it up and throw it onto the cart. We will follow as soon as we have filled in the grave.”

  As if a trance had been broken they stooped, one of them taking the shoulders, the other the legs. Tunny watched as they struggled with their load towards the cover of the woods. He knew they were desperately afraid of Jowan Connoch, even though his mortal remains were rotting in their canvas bag. Not till he was sure the men were on their way did he turn to his companion. “Put your back into it. We must be done here soon. There’s more digging to be done before the night is through, and there is precious little of it left to us.”

  “We are cured of Jowan’s curse after tonight? You are certain that he can do no more harm to Porthgarrow?”

  Tunny had warned them that it was unwise to bury Jowan up here on the headland, amongst the graves of Porthgarrow’s good people, amongst the hallowed dead. That if this were done Jowan would continue in his holy alliance with Baccan from beyond the grave, unless his corpse was removed from Porthgarrow altogether, beyond the village’s outer boundary. But they did not heed his warnings, and true to his predictions they were beset by the vilest storms they had ever seen, the fish driven far away, and finally that terrible night, two boats sunk at sea, all souls on board lost to the storm.

  The chapel had filled with grieving widows and mothers, their tormented wails screaming round the aged rafters. The Revered Biddle did his best to calm them, to offer comfort, but his assertions that it was God’s will did not dampen the pressing weight of loss, which quickly turned to anger, increasingly vented upon Mr Hendra, sitting quiet and pale. He took their daily lashings like the hull of a stout old boat.

  “They should not have been forced out!”

  “They would be alive still if it were not for the pursuit of profit.”

  Then Tunny stood and rounded on them. “No earthly hand swamped those boats,” he said. “It is Jowan taking his revenge. His spirit is in league with Baccan still.”

  And Biddle turned him out, stamping on his blasphemous, heathen mutterings with words plucked from the Bible. But the people had listened to Tunny and agreed. It was a mistake to bury him amongst the others, and wrong to say that God would be Jowan’s judge, not they, and that he deserved in death all that was due to him as a man of Porthgarrow.

  All that was due. Tunny patted the last of the earth upon the grave and the two men took up their shovels and ran from the headland, into the woods. They caught up with the other two as they were scrambling down the last of the hillside, emerging breathlessly onto a narrow track. A fox shrieked in the night and they stiffened at the unearthly sound.

  “Quickly!” said Tunny, moving swiftly by them and entering a thicket where he emerged leading an old donkey tethered to a cart. One of Hendra’s carts. They tossed the body onto the time-scarred wooden boards, covering it with sacking, next flinging their shovels beside it. “We have but three hours before dawn breaks,” he said.

  “Listen!” one of the men said. They all went quiet and held their breath. “The wind – it is already dropping off.” He sounded relieved. His actions during the night vindicated.

  “Quickly!” Tunny said again. The donkey was slapped hard and the cart dragged along the track, deeper in the night. At length they came upon the high moor, the moonlight silvering the land, a barren sea of mercury. The only thing to break the monotony was the ancient stone cross at the centre of the crossroads, at its base a black tangle of thorny bushes, the pale column rising from it to spear the moon.

  Reaching the cross, the men carefully made a channel into the head-high thicket and dug deep into the root-riddled earth. Tunny watched the moon’s transit, paused every now and again to measure the sky’s brightness. “Hurry there!” he said, and his anxiety passed to the men who dug harder and faster.

  At last the hole was deep enough and they tumbled the body of Jowan from the cart onto the ground before the thicket.

  “Open the bag,” said Tunny.

  One man untied the head of the sack, peeled back the canvas to reveal Jowan’s rotting skull. Tunny raised his shovel and with one violent downward thrust severed the head from its body. The sack was rolled into the new grave, his head tossed in after it. The soil was tossed back in and finally the thorns which they’d dug up were replanted, the men’s arms and hands bloodied as they emerged to stand and stare at the cross. It was all but impossible to see that the thicket had been disturbed. Here Jowan could do no more damage, his vengeful spirit trapped for all time at the crossroads, and Porthgarrow would be saved. There would be no more storms like the one that had taken the two boats. The fish would return and Baccan’s grip on the land and the sea would be loosened without the spirit of Jowan to aid him. In time, the thicket of thorns, that hardiest of plants, would inexplicably die, hardly a weed growing in its place, and Jowan’s prison a secret to all but a few people.

  Tunny bade a silent good night to the men and returned wearily to his cottage, washed the dirt from his hands. A single bird heralded the new dawn. There was a knock at his door. “Enter,” he said in a voice which betrayed his exhaustion. A figure, large, moving cautiously, stepped into the cottage. “Tunny looked up. “It is done,” he said.

  “Good.” The voice belonged to Gerran Hendra. “We will be troubled by this affair no longer.” He dropped a bag onto the table. Coins rattled inside.

  “I did not do this for the money!” said Tunny.

  Hendra did not reply. He left Tunny glowering at the bag on the table, then at his own trembling hands.

  * * * *

  Tunny got down from the cart and went and stood in front of the old stone cross. The thicket of thorns had long since died, and the evidence of Jowan Connoch’s grave flattened and hidden by time. The wind came howling across the wide moor, knocked against him like a man’s shoulder.

  At the time he felt – he knew – that his motivations had been in Porthgarrow’s best interest. He himself had perpetuated Jowan’s unnatural link with Baccan, had blatantly held him responsible for all that had befallen the village, even after his death. The people had listened to him then, as they listened now. But it was Hendra himself who had put his weight behind the tales, had encouraged them into believing that the loss of the boats, the poor hauls, was still the fault of the dead Jowan Connoch. And it had been he that had bemoaned privately to Tunny of the poor catches, that the men were living in fear of Connoch still and that his business was suffering, and that if this carried on then Porthgarrow would be lost; he that suggested to Tunny perhaps Connoch’ corpse needed to be removed from his new grave into unhallowed soil to stem the evil once and for all. Yes, Tunny had agreed. So had others. It was the only way. As it had been in the past for murderers and suicides. So it came to pass.

  But now he was beset by swarms of stinging doubts. He knew he had been but a pawn in a game of Hendra’s making, allowed himself to be carried along with it, both fuelled and blinded by his own hatred of the Connochs. But in what game he could not yet fathom.

  And, worst of all, what if Jowan Connoch had been innocent? What if his entire life’s mission to stamp them out of Porthgarrow was also built on nothing more than Yardarm’s own poisonous hatred? What if he were also a pawn in Yardarm’s game? A mere tool honed from impressionable youth with which to enact his vengeance? Even on his deathbed forcing a promise from him. Against his better judgement.

  He knelt on the sodden ground at the foot of the cross, placed his hands on the soil. It felt strangely warm. “What have I done?” he murmured. “What have I become?” Thunder growled far away. “Forgive me, Jowan,” he said. His entire world appearing to crumble around him.

  * * * *

  12

  Your Humble Servant

  The darkness of the storm brought night early to the cove. The swiftly tumbling clouds gave the impression that a great heavy blanket was being drawn across the heavens. Cold wind galloped in from the sea, seeming to lunge and pounce at Stephen Denning as he scampered over the w
et cobbles, the rain now coming at him in thin, gauzy sheets. He cursed, resenting the uncomfortable pinpricks of rain on his face.

  Pity those poor fools out there, he thought, glancing out across the bay. At the head of the harbour, lit by the glow of many small lamps, the fishermen were leaning out of their boats, feverishly dipping their baskets into the seething, boiling mass of fish trapped within two large circular tuck nets, the water silvered by their cast-off scales. They raised their baskets and tipped the masses of writhing fish into their boats, waiting till they were full enough to speed the catch to shore. It was a scene almost surreal in its aspect, otherworldly – the dark silhouettes of the fishermen, their faces sometimes lit by the oil lamps and painting them in devilish contortions; the reflections of the lamplight on the troubled surface of the sea, on the fish foaming into the boats like torrents of liquid silver; the many voices sounding like keening spirits amid the howling wind and the roaring of the waves beyond the mouth of the harbour.

  The tide was in and little remained of the shingle beach. A steady stream of small boats were plying between the tuck nets and the shore, more men and women tending the donkeys and carts that stood waiting in the shallows, hurriedly taking the baskets of fish from the boats and tossing the catch into the carts. The boats, once empty, rowed back for more. As soon as the carts were full the bedraggled donkeys were whipped into activity, dragging the haul to the women waiting in the palace where the fish would be baulked. The women here sang a cheery song to help their labours along as they gutted the fish at lightning speed, placed them in serried ranks and covered each layer with salt, till it slowly became a solid wall of fish.

  Denning noticed Hendra’s distinctive form standing by the water’s edge. He wondered if the man had moved from the spot all day. He was inspecting the catch being tumbled from a boat and engaging the men in conversation. He looked agitated, one moment scrutinising the fish, the next the men who laboured in the bay, then to the sea beyond. He turned on his heel and made for shore, trudging up the beach, so absorbed by his thoughts that he failed to notice Denning standing before him.

  “It looks like a good day’s work, Gerran,” he said.

  The man, as if startled to hear his name, regarded Denning with a glazed expression. Realisation seeped in. “Ah, Stephen, why are you abroad on such a terrible night?”

  “I have been invited to spend the evening with the Reverend Biddle, helping him with his work.”

  A sudden squall of rain slapped at them. “Any port in a storm, eh?” said Hendra. “Forgive me, I must be on my way to check progress at the palace. And yes, in answer, it has thus far been a good day’s work, if the storm does not force us to recall the boats early. The sea could rise, lifting the tuck nets and releasing the fish from below; or worse still could wreck the nets entirely, a sum of many hundreds of pounds. It is all about timing in this game we play with the sea. We have had such terrible lean years, Stephen, that we can ill afford another one. If Porthgarrow is to survive. The loss of such a haul would be immense. Not least because the men would see it as a sign.”

  “A sign? Of Baccan?”

  He gave a low laugh. “You are a local man already, it seems.” He nodded graciously. “I really must be on my way.”

  “Is it not overly dangerous to the men, let alone the catch?

  “Dangerous, Stephen?”

  “A storm. It appears, though I am truly ill-informed and inexperienced in matters of the sea, that those tiny boats out there, far beyond the harbour, run quite a risk of being capsized.”

  Hendra followed Denning’s gaze. The boats were barely visible, black bobbing specks attempting to ensnare the shoals. “Nothing is without its risk, Stephen.” He touched the rim of his hat. “If you’ll excuse me.” He walked briskly away, bellowing at a man leading a donkey as he passed. “Hurry, man! Hurry that damned beast along!”

  * * * *

  High above the Devil’s Maw, at a number of points in the cliff face, the exposed layers of hard-packed, mud-grey sediments began to weep. From tiny fissures water trickled as if from gaping wounds, then gushed, the many weeks of continuous rain having percolated down through the thin subsoil on top, and in turn had turned this fragile ancient rock back into primeval mud, and the land above began to move. Creeping slowly, silently, inexorably. A few crumb-like stones trickled down onto the storm-beaten rocks many feet below. A crevice opened up, racing from the top of the cliff to bottom, hairline in places, wide enough to accept a man’s fist in others, seeping liquid as if the rock face were bleeding. Then a boulder was dislodged and crashed down to its brothers with a loud explosive crack as hard surface met hard surface, a sound absorbed by the fury of the churning seas.

  Beyond the cliffs, at the churning water’s edge, a thin, ragged figure crouched down, its attention on the rusted remains of a fish-gutter’s knife that had probably fallen from one of the boats and had been given up by the stormy sea. It lay, dark with rust, amongst the pebbles. The creature’s long-nailed fingers grasped the bleached wooden handle, raising the blade up so it might see it better. A finger stroked the blade’s edge, blunted but still keen. Beyond, out to sea, it saw the tiny pinpricks of light from the distant fishing boats, winking on and off to the rise and swell of the waves on which they rode. A loud grinding sound issued from the cliffs and the creature, twitching nervously, turned to watch another huge boulder plummet and shatter. It jumped back fearfully. Fearful too of the chilling sound of the earth beginning to tear itself apart. It lifted its craggy, beast-like head to the sky, its long hair snapping in the wind like the tongues of enraged serpents. The creature opened its spittle-flecked mouth and wailed in terror, fleeing back to the sanctuary of its deep, dank cave.

  * * * *

  The Revered Biddle’s home was small, and might have been described as comfortable had it not been stocked with every curiosity imaginable. The man’s eclectic interests were laid out for all to see, a haphazard collection of stuffed animals, badger skulls, books, paintings, shells, clocks, dusty old cabinets, ceramic figures, bronzes, carved sticks, lanterns, prints, peacock’s feathers sticking out of a glass jar and many more things besides. They spilled over from his drawing room and into the scullery, and, thought Denning, no doubt continued to spill upstairs into his bedroom and any outbuildings he may possess. It was obvious, though, that none of this was ornamentation. Everything had its function, or at the very least was a means to gaining understanding. Biddle moved aside a small pile of periodicals and newspapers from a chair so that Denning could sit.

  “Research,” he explained. “There’s always research to be carried out.” He smiled thinly. “I am so glad you agreed to help me, Stephen.” Denning replied that he would try his best but did not yet know what he was expected to help with. Biddle excused himself and said that he would make them a pot of tea to help matters flow.

  “Something stronger for me, perhaps?” asked Denning hopefully. In part he said it to tease the man, for he knew he was teetotal. Surprisingly, Biddle went over to a cupboard and withdrew a dusty old bottle.

  “In case of emergencies,” he explained. “Though I do not condone the taking of alcohol, I admit I have resorted to giving a little to help people cope in times of great distress.” He rummaged around till he found a glass. “You may not be in distress, Mr Denning, but here, take a little sherry.” He handed him the drink. “I, on the other hand, will make myself a pot of tea and set two cups so you may wash away the aftertaste of that vile stuff.” He excused himself and left the room.

  He smiled his thank you, drank the sherry and grimaced at the bitter taste. Yes, it was indeed vile, but he emptied the glass all the same. Left alone, Denning became aware of a curious chemical smell pervading the room, sitting above all the other musty, dusty smells of accumulated objects. He saw a shelf on which had been arranged a number of bottles and jars in various shades and sizes from which he assumed the smell emanated. Rising he scrutinised the labels: pyroxylin, ether, zinc bromide, nitric acid, s
ilver nitrate, pyrogallic acid, potassium bromide – a veritable store of chemicals that wouldn’t be out of place in a laboratory. He had no idea of their individual properties or function, though he was vaguely aware that silver nitrate was used in the photographic process.

  “For my daguerreotypes,” Biddle confirmed coming to his side. “Tea will be with us presently, when the kettle boils. In my distraction I have allowed my fire in the range to go out and I’m having the devil of a job trying to reset it.” He indicated the bottles. “I have a makeshift darkroom set up in the cellar, perfect for lack of light, but a little too damp for my old bones. Are you familiar with the process?”

  Denning shook his head. He was in no doubt he was about to find out.

  “It is very interesting, very absorbing, very scientific, almost magical in its nature,” he said with enthusiasm. “First you have to prepare your photographic plates, making a collodion emulsion to cover them using a mixture of pyroxylin, alcohol, ether, zinc bromide, silver nitrate and nitric acid.” He tapped each bottle or glass in turn, the chiming sounds almost musical. “Together this creates a silver bromide which has to be left for up to twenty hours to ripen, until the mixture is of a creamy consistency. The mixture is then washed, re-dissolved in a solution of alcohol and ether till it is finally ready to coat the photographic plates.”

  “Such a lengthy, one may say tedious, process.”

  “That is only the half of it. Once you have exposed the plate you develop it afterwards in a mixture of pyrogallic acid, potassium bromide and ammonium carbonate. The plate stays workable for only about ten minutes after exposure, so speed is of the essence. During the Crimean War developing was carried out in the field in specially converted wagons.”