“Interesting,” said Denning disinterestedly.
“Listen to me. I find I chatter away when you are here for but a singular reason. Please, take a seat and I will bring you that of which we spoke earlier today.”
He had not exactly been relishing this, but, he thought, there was precious little else to do in Porthgarrow of an evening. The Hendras were obviously absorbed in their work, and Wilkinson had disappeared. He did not find the idea of sitting alone in his cottage or the local inn very appealing. He watched Biddle lifting down a leather box from a shelf crammed with similar boxes, amid a precarious stack of books piled onto the shelf so that they resembled stones in a dry stone wall.
“You probably think me mad,” said Biddle, gasping under the weight of the box, “regaling you with tales of creatures and spirits in Baccan’s Maw. But, you must understand, I did see these things. And somehow I know it is connected to something in here,” he nodded at the box.
“You do not strike me as someone who believes in Baccan, or the ghost of Jowan Connoch come back to haunt the cove,” Denning admitted.
He took up a seat opposite Denning, the box resting on his knees. “Of spirits I can believe, but if you ask whether I believe in the ghost of Jowan Connoch in league with Baccan still, then that is another matter. Baccan is all stuff and nonsense, and of the Connoch’s part in things? Well it is likely that the legend of the evil Myghal Connoch is but a relatively recent addition to the tale. Prior to Mackenzie visiting the cove at the turn of the century, in his efforts to re-catalogue the old Cornish stories, Connoch does not appear in any of the old texts that existed before his compilation of 1809. I have come into possession of a single pamphlet from the 1600s…” His head craned to scan his shelves. “Somewhere. Anyhow, it does not once mention a Myghal Connoch or his part in things.”
“So how came it to be added? The people of the cove certainly believe and perpetuate it.”
“Mackenzie, naturally, sought out and spoke to the one man at the time that held all the old local tales in his head, our wise man Yardarm Pellow. It is from this source, as far as I can ascertain, that the Connochs were made an addition to the legend, and from this stems all the hatred, anger and distrust of the family. It is my belief that Yardarm and the Connoch family held some grudge between them, the origin of which is now long ago lost to time; a grudge so deep it blackened the heart of Yardarm to such a degree he concocted the story in revenge. As with so many things, once it appeared in print it became so in reality. It has continued to this day, and Tunny was, and is, the sad vessel for Yardarm’s poison.”
“Have you not informed Tunny and the people of the truth of the matter?”
“He refuses to listen. They all refuse to listen. Try telling a man that what you once believed to be black is now white. And Tunny and Yardarm had a close, trusting bond unlike any other. The people listen to Tunny, often more than they listen to me, though it pains me to admit that the word of God can take second place to that of a pagan spirit.” Biddle opened the box lid, regarded Denning over the rim of his glasses. “I have to warn you, Stephen, some of these images are not for the faint of heart.”
He lifted out a largish glass plate on which was a dull photographic image, gently handing it over to Denning. It was of a man, sitting by the roadside with his back against a tree, his chin pressed down on his chest.
“Is he asleep?” asked Denning.
“Oh no, quite dead. He was found a year ago, a stranger to these parts. He had no identification on him. My final assertion, which I gave to the authorities, was that he came down from Scotland, originally from Arbroath, to find work and here collapsed and died of starvation. I also believe he had trouble holding any job down due to his addiction to drink, which contributed to his sorry state in life and eventual sad end.”
“Really?” he said sceptically. “How can you tell all this?”
“See, the tattoo just visible below the sleeve of his jersey is of an anchor. A common enough symbol chosen by men of the sea. An anchor whose outline is extremely blurred, showing that he had pursued this life since he was very young. He had been a sailor all his life. The gansey he wears – a term given to his knitted sweater – is associated with many coastal communities, and each area has its own distinct pattern. This one I have seen associated with Scotland, and further research into the weave pinned him down to the Arbroath area. Of course, the gansey might not have originally belonged to him but if so it meant that, looking at the wear on the sweater, he’d had it a long time, signifying that he’d left his home town some time ago but not long enough to completely wear it out and discard it. His relaxed position against the tree probably meant he died naturally, with no signs of aggression against him. His clothing is too ragged and poor for him to have anything of any value about him. His features are thin and gaunt; a poorer man you are less likely to find. He succumbed to death by natural causes. Drink, or the results of prolonged drinking, contributed to his death.”
“Are you able to smell his breath as well?” Denning mocked gently.
“No, but I am able to see the empty gin bottle partially hidden by the grass.”
He’d missed that tiny detail. “Which may or may not have belonged to him. And there is nothing there in that scene that the police, or whoever, might not have deducted without reference to a photographic image.”
“True, but they didn’t; the body was whisked away once they assumed foul play wasn’t involved. It lay for nearly a week, his identity unknown to all, and would have been interred into a pauper’s grave and forgotten had I not studied the photograph and given the authorities my findings on the details. He was indeed from Arbroath and his family was located. All was as I predicted. The attitudes of the dead speak volumes, Mr Denning.” He returned the plate to the safety of the box and handed Denning another. “I hope that your sensibilities are not so easily disturbed, Mr Denning.”
Denning sucked in a breath and recoiled a little. The photograph was of a young woman, discernable only by her dress, for her face was all but unrecognisable as such. The skull had been crushed, the face a maze of gashes and covered in dry blood. Similarly, her arm, where it was bare, was covered in gashes. Her body was in a terribly twisted and broken state, lying at sickening angles amid pebbles and small rocks. He was speechless, and quite shocked to see the grotesque delight registering in Biddle’s eyes.
“Technically this was a most difficult image to capture and develop. She was from another village further round the coast, fallen from a boat, drowned and dashed against the cliffs here at Porthgarrow. What you see is the damage the sea and the rocky coast can do to a person. See, the wounds appear almost knife-like, as if she had been set about by a crazed man, and at first it was deemed so.”
“It is awful,” he said, troubled by the image. “The purpose in capturing scenes of such obvious horror evades me.”
Biddle seemed disappointed in Denning’s reaction. “It is what it is. A record. If we did not have records the past would be as smoke. I laid this alongside another, similar image of a young man who was found dead, to allay fears of a mad murderer on the loose, proof that it was nature that inflicted the wounds. It served its purpose.” He took the plate from Denning, rather brusquely, he thought. “But I really serve it up to prepare you for what I asked you to come here to look at. Though this next is not a photograph, it is every bit as horrific.”
Instead of a glass plate he took out a sheet of paper and held it close to his chest as he spoke. “At the time, thirteen years ago, I did not possess my photographic equipment, and, as you will discover, I do not have your undisputed artistic talent, but I tried my best to capture as true to nature the scene, the sight of Jowan Connoch’s wife on the night of her murder.”
He handed it over. The drawing was not as crude as Biddle had made out. In fact it displayed more than a modicum of talent. But, having heard the tale of the murder in the very house he now rented, Denning found the image equally, if not more, disturbing th
an the previous photograph.
Mrs Connoch lay sprawled on her back, the wound on her torso not quite as long as local legend would have, from neck to groin, but large enough; Biddle had captured the bubbling innards very well, he thought dispassionately. He noticed at once she wore only one shoe. The other was lying by the door. There was a table close to her head, the very same that existed in the cottage today, and on it lay a bottle on its side, a candle sticking out of its neck. It was on the edge of the table, close to falling off altogether.
Biddle came to hover at his shoulder. “Though I have looked upon this often there remains something that bothers me still, as it did on the night I drew it. I have seen many dead people, and each pose tells their own sad story. But this – poor Mrs Connoch, she did not deserve to die like this. I knew her. She was a good woman. Loyal to her husband, a devoted mother. Such madness.”
“And this is exactly as you beheld it? Every last detail?”
“Every last detail, replicated as best as I could.”
Denning put a hand to his chin, brought the drawing up closer to his eyes. “That is very odd,” he said.
“What is odd, Mr Denning?”
“Another glass of sherry would help me think.” He picked up the glass and Biddle gladly refilled it almost to the brim. He took a gulp, flicked the corner of his lips dry with his forefinger. “There is but a tiny pool of blood evident, collected beneath her body, yet clearly there are signs that a great deal has spilled from her wound and soaked into her clothing. I am no physician, but I would have expected more.”
Biddle’s eyes widened. “Of course! I did not see that. It would be expected, naturally. There is not so much blood on the floor, but perhaps it has, as you say, merely soaked into her clothes. They are heavy woollen garments and would act as a sponge, surely?” He thought hard. “I cannot bring to mind whether there was much blood elsewhere in the room, save that in which she lay.”
“The candle in the bottle…” said Denning, his brows lowered in concentration.
“Yes, evidence of a struggle. The table was struck as they fought, knocking it over.”
“Perhaps,” he said. “Why is her shoe near the door? Did you see anyone move it? Kick it into this position by mistake?”
“It was there when I arrived. Again, a product of a fierce struggle, kicked off perhaps as she lashed out with her foot at her husband.”
“And the way she lies, that too bothers me,” he said.
Biddle held a finger aloft. “As it bothers me, Mr Denning. Why, it is almost as if she has lain down to go to sleep, her arms straight by her side, her legs straight. Hardly the position of someone who has died a violent death. Yet all the evidence points to such an end. I have not been able to fathom that at all.”
The two men continued to pore over the drawing in silence, Denning draining the glass and curling his nose up at the liquor. Biddle shrugged an apology. Finally Denning tapped the paper with the back of his hand and sat back in his chair, releasing a sigh. “Reverend, I have an explanation, though I am aware it will fly in the face of all that’s been said.”
Biddle went back and sat down in his own chair opposite Denning, hands clasped eagerly before him. “Please, go on.”
“The body of Mrs Connoch appears not to have fallen into that position. More likely she has been dragged across the floor from the door, where her shoe was dislodged. In his haste to carry out the deed, Jowan backed accidentally into the table, knocking over the bottle, at which point he let the body fall, thus leaving the woman in her final position.”
“But that does not make sense. Why would Jowan murder his wife by the door, drag her the few feet over to the table then kneel over her with the weapon, in which position he was discovered. And surely there would have been blood by the door? A trail of it across the floor?”
“The lack of blood is the key to this, Reverend,” said Denning triumphantly, the sherry making his head spin a little and his cheeks flush. “She was not murdered in the house. She met her death elsewhere and was then brought to the house, dragged through the door, across the floor, and dropped in the centre of the room. That would explain why there is so little blood.”
Biddle shook his head. “Why would Jowan – “
“Because he didn’t. Jowan would not murder his wife then bring her mutilated body back to his own home. It does not make sense. Not even for someone as crazed as he was purported to be.”
Biddle blinked, then gave a hefty sigh. “All this time I have puzzled over this picture. You have indeed proved invaluable and a credit to your family trade. You would make a marvellous lawyer if ever you abandon art. But I am still confused – in fact quite troubled by what you imply. Are you saying Jowan may not have killed his wife after all?”
“It appears a strong possibility, though at this distance in time and with only a drawing through which to craft assumptions, I cannot say with any certainty. My own conclusion is that Mrs Connoch was murdered by another hand, for reasons as yet unknown, and that her body was brought back to the house so that Jowan would take the blame.”
“Oh my word!” Biddle gasped, his face draining of colour. His eyes scanned the drawing as if seeing it for the first time.
“Which of course raises another serious issue. If Jowan did not kill his wife, then who did, and why?”
* * * *
At a distance, her form appeared to belong to that of a much younger woman. She wore an elegant embroidered cream dress, her hair tied up neatly onto her head, a silver pin in the form of a discreet white rose fastening it in place. The sunlight caught the gold necklace she habitually wore, a present from his father. Over her crooked elbow was a wicker basket, all but full of cuttings from the garden. She was unaware of his approach at first, bending to a rose bush and gently snipping off a couple of choice blooms. Ignorant of his presence he felt he saw her as she really was, caught in a private and personal tender moment, and, looking upon her aged beauty, understood what had drawn her father to her all those years ago.
Michael Denning stepped onto the expansive lawn to cross over to her. He saw her shoot a glance at him, and he noticed the faintest of changes in her; a stiffening, perhaps, as if preparing herself to receive him, to slip on the mantle of his mother. She loved her garden and had lavished many years honing it to a state of near perfection; taming it, reclaiming it, making it how she wanted it to be. This extended to other aspects of her life. His father was a powerful man in society, but his mother exhibited a strong controlling force in all their lives, always had and always would.
He came to her side. As she moved, the smell of flowers rose sweet and cloying.
“I always feel sad at this time of year,” she said. “The roses have but a little time left to them. One or two final little gasps of colour. And the trees are already showing signs of autumn. The cold of winter is close and there is no more summer left. Autumn is neither summer nor winter but a place in between. Things are alive but almost dead.”
He didn’t respond. For one thing he was not a gardener. And for another he wasn’t certain whether this was just another of her riddles, her troublesome thoughts given a voice.
“Let us walk by the lake,” she said. She called it a lake, though the feature with its ornamental fountain in its centre, its rim of reeds and lilies, was hardly a lake and naming it so spoke more of her ambitions than its size. In the distance a gardener was tossing weeds into a wheelbarrow. She stopped to admire a goldfish darting through underwater foliage. “How is your dear brother?” she asked. Not, he noticed, her dear son.
“Settled, as far as Stephen can ever be so.” He could read in her tight lips that she did not approve of his tone. She, of course, could speak of him however she liked but it was not a privilege she granted others. “I have been making arrangements for him, in New York.”
She nodded approvingly. “America is such a huge place,” she said. “Still frightfully undeveloped. I can see the advantages that will give us. Whilst we are on the
subject of America, what of the woman?”
“The wife of the American Attaché? Well, she broke down in tears, naturally, when I forced her hand, said that I would reveal all to her husband. She would be in ruin. I told her that Stephen had abandoned her for the charms of another.” He admitted, silently, that he felt sorry for the woman, totally distraught as she received the news. But she did not know – could not know – that he had acted in her best interests.
“And Stephen? He did not suspect that your tale of a vengeful husband was a lie?”
He gave a cold grin. “Stephen has long been fearful for his own skin. He fell for my story as I knew he would. The affair is over.” And tragedy averted, he thought. For now.
She nodded. “So, this other fellow you have…”
“His name is Croker. Benjamin Croker.”
“I don’t wish to know his name or anything about him, except that he is trustworthy.”
Michael Denning smirked at the notion. He didn’t know why but he was growing increasingly irritated by the shoal of goldfish skittering beneath their feet, insisting they should be fed. “People like Croker are never trustworthy. In entrusting him to carry out what we expect, of that I can be certain.” I have him trapped and feeding from my fingers like one of these goldfish, he thought. “His personal circumstances make it difficult for him,” he said, “and his very character binds him tighter still. But in the end it is more of a mutual affair than it ever was with Wilkinson.”
She resumed her walk. He followed. “What news of Wilkinson’s father?”
“He is an old man. He grows weaker, and the people I have spoken to say that it is a matter of a year, no more, before he succumbs to his illnesses.” Neither of them said it, but they knew their hold over Wilkinson would all but disappear with his father’s passing. Indeed, Wilkinson would become a liability. He had already displayed far more reluctance to help them than was comfortable. The man himself had appeared to be at breaking point. It was time to act, his mother had said. It was now time to deal with this Wilkinson issue.
The House of the Wicked (a psychological thriller combining mystery, murder, crime and suspense) Page 19