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

by D. M. Mitchell

  “I need not remind you,” she said, “following your father’s successful by-election win and the Letters Patent from the Queen, his acceptance into the House of Lords is imminent.”

  “You are correct. I do not need reminding,” he said and instantly regretted his shortness.

  She fixed him with a steely glare. “He has worked so hard, Michael. We have worked so hard. I will not have it all ruined by one man.” He did not respond. “You know how advantageous it would be if this man Wilkinson were removed from the equation. And as soon as possible. You can give me your reassurance that this man Croker is reliable?”

  “The noose is a great enforcer of reliability,” he said.

  The thought had been uppermost in his mind as he left the hansom and bade the driver wait for him. It was late, with few people around, and the cabby was nervous at being left alone in this part of London. But he offered the man a sizeable financial incentive and this had been enough to dispel his night fears. Michael Denning knew this area well enough, but he found the dark alleyways where the lamplight couldn’t penetrate more than a little disquieting himself.

  After a while he came to the rear entrance of the police station, little used, in almost complete darkness, and he went up the steps and knocked at the door. The sounds of bolts being drawn back, light spilling out onto the dark yard. A moon of a face peered round the door.

  “Mr Denning…” the face said.

  Michael darted quickly inside. “Sergeant,” he greeted quietly. “Where is he?”

  “This way, sir,” he said, and the policeman led the way down a tight little corridor of dark green and muddy-brown tiles. Gas lamps hissed and flickered. The officer paused by a heavy, green-painted door, unlocked it with a key from a hefty bunch at his belt, and he indicated with a chubby thumb. “He’s in there.”

  Michael Denning slipped the man a roll of banknotes. “I have not been here,” he said.

  The policeman nodded. “Of course, sir, as is the terms of our agreement. I’ll leave you to your business and shall be at the desk if you have need of my assistance. Knock when you wish to leave. You have less than one hour, sir.”

  As the door shut behind him with a dull thump of finality, the man sat disconsolately at a small table in the room’s centre turned to look at his visitor.

  “And who are you?” he asked.

  He feigned confidence, thought Michael Denning. He’d seen it before, and he knew that on the inside this man was nervous, as skittish as a caged rat. The skin under his eyes was dark, as if he’d not slept in a long while, his clothes dishevelled, the combined smell of sweat and fear strong. But there was also something else to this man. A strength, a determination, eyes that spoke of cunning, opportunism. Qualities Michael Denning was pleased to discover.

  “You are Benjamin Croker,” he said, listening to the sound of the key being turned in the lock. He stood opposite the man, arms folded, staring down at him. “Benjamin Croker?” he said again.

  “I believe we have not had the pleasure,” Croker returned, a swagger to the way he made the pretence of adjusting his necktie. He smoothed down his jacket lapels.

  “You will hang, of course, you do know that?”

  Fear rose like a smell from Croker. For a moment his eyes ballooned, betraying the tugging at his stomach. But his composure soon returned. “State your business, so that I may get back to my bed, albeit of inferior quality and infested with the hungry lice of its last occupant. Her Majesty’s police cells are not fitted out to a high specification, I fear.”

  “I am Michael Denning,” he said. His well-manicured hand slid a chair from under the table and he sat down, slowly and with deliberation, the tips of the fingers of his left hand tapping the tabletop. Croker scrutinised every tiny movement. The room was small, windowless and stuffy. Croker fingered his hot neck. “I see by your reaction that you recognise my name.”

  “I know it well enough,” said Croker. “Legal defender to the rich and the famous. Famous now in your own right. Powerful, one might say. Like the rest of you Dennings. A father that has the ear of the Queen, if we are led to believe.”

  Denning smiled. He loathed this kind of man, a product of the lower orders of London, hardened in youth by grinding poverty, schooled early on in crime, as slippery as the eels they habitually ate. But some, like Benjamin Croker, rose above the scum, to become scum of a higher calibre. He was intelligent, calculating, possessed of much knowledge. And connections.

  “All true,” said Denning.

  “And so, I says to myself, this begs the question, why should such a man be sat here opposite me, a humble fellow, who can scarce afford to pay for a single button upon your finely tailored coat? Or, I asks, why such a man should soil his fine boots upon the tiles of a lowly police station at such an ungodly time at night, entering, as it sounded, by the rear door?”

  Yes, thought Denning, intelligent. “Back to the point in hand. You will hang…”

  Croker shook his head. “There you go again with that old chestnut. Here I am, recently arrested, without even a sniff of the trial to come, and you already have me hung from the gallows. Firstly, there is no evidence of murder. It is all circumstantial. I had no motive.” He said it confidently enough, but Denning’s mere presence, the words he uttered, caused a froth of unease, stuck a needle of doubt into the thin eggshell of his defiance.

  “You still hold onto that as your defence, Mr Croker? That you had no motive to kill the man?”

  “I had no motive, Mr Denning.” Less assured this time, but growled out impatiently nonetheless.

  “You are a freelance correspondent for, amongst others, the Tribune and the Herald.”

  “That much is not in dispute.”

  “We shall see. It is also a fact that you attended the Canterbury music hall on Westminster Bridge Road, where the murder took place.”

  “Alleged murder. I had no motive. Again, that is not under dispute. A man must relax, after all. The halls offer just such an opportunity.”

  “Indeed, relax he must. But that relaxation was rudely interrupted.”

  “I was attacked, without provocation, outside in the alley. He was drunk, he demanded money, I refused.”

  “That’s in the alley, where you were relieving yourself?”

  “Am I on trial already, Mr Denning? Do you cross-examine me?”

  “Please answer, Mr Croker.”

  He shifted uncomfortably on his hard seat, fingered his collar once again. “I have given my statement to the police. I do not need to repeat the same to you.” He sat back, folded his arms in defiance. “And I am arrested under false pretences, which will soon be discovered and I will be free of this shit hole, pardon my French, sir.”

  Denning laughed. “False pretences? It was an attack which resulted in you shooting dead an unarmed man.”

  “Self defence. I thought he had a knife.”

  “Rolled up paper, I believe. A copy of the Times”

  “I wasn’t to know. It had all the appearances of a knife, in the dark.”

  “Do you always carry a gun, Mr Croker? In your case a Remington derringer, I believe. Sometimes called a ‘muff pistol’ as they are often favoured by women. A small weapon, ideal for concealment.”

  “Many people in London carry guns, as you are well aware, in the event they are required for self-defence. London is full to the brim of criminal types.” He gave a knowing wink.

  Michael Denning stroked a finger over his eyebrow, the movement watched with uncommon intensity by Croker. “And this man, of a certain criminal type, was a man you say you had never encountered before that evening?”

  “I swear I never saw him till he lunged at me with his knife – roll of paper. I drew my revolver and shot him. In self defence. I did not mean to kill him. Witnesses attest to the affair.”

  A knock came at the door. They heard the key being turned and the sergeant came in bearing two mugs of steaming tea. “Forgive me, sir,” he said, “but as I had prepared one
for myself I thought you might appreciate a mug too.”

  “Splendid!” he said, taking them off the policeman and setting them on the table. He pushed a mug of grey-brown liquid over to Croker. He stared down at the greasy globs of cream floating on top. The policeman left them, re-locking the door. “Drink,” said Denning.

  “I don’t wish to drink.”

  “You may have need of it, vile as it is.” He withdrew a piece of paper from his coat pocket and began to read. “You are recently retuned from South Africa, where, ostensibly, you covered the war with the Zulu nation. Just nod, Mr Croker, as you appear to be finding it ever more difficult to open your mouth.” He duly nodded. “You must have seen some sights, eh?” A half nod in return, his head averted, as if he knew where this was headed. “And you still say you did not know the dead man?”

  “Say your piece, Denning, and leave me be!” he snarled.

  “But you know of his employer, do you not? In a roundabout way, of course. I suppose you will tell me that it is sheer coincidence that the man has been a runner, of sorts, a messenger of dubious personal character, one might say, for a man called Frederick Langset, who in turn is cousin to the master of a certain vessel that operates from Durban, a ship that you are more than familiar with from your time on the continent.”

  “Many ships sail from Durban. Coincidence happens. I know not of which ship you allude to.”

  Michael Denning leaned forward over the table. “I shall speak plain, Mr Croker, for I care not to spend much time in such a dreary place. I have information that suggests, in no uncertain terms, that your privileged position as correspondent with the army gained you an opportunity to make certain connections, to spirit away a large quantity of armaments and munitions, which found their secret way aboard this certain ship. Once they reached London the said weapons were transported across England to Liverpool from where you secured transport across to America. New York, to be precise. Amongst the grateful recipients of this multifarious haul have been certain gang leaders, the likes of which the city is overrun with, it seems. But, interestingly, you also have slippery connections to the lofty world of art, do you not? The Board of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, for instance? You are indeed a man with a foot in both worlds. Does any of this sound vaguely familiar, Mr Croker?”

  Croker’s previous arrogance guttered like a candle in a stiff wind, then was extinguished altogether as Denning concluded and sat back. He glanced to the door uncertainly. He could not fathom how the man came to know such things. He knew of the man’s reputation, of course, but he was the very devil.

  “Your silence is most telling, Mr Croker. So, let me put it to you, as indeed it will be put during your trial, that the meeting in the alley was not a coincidence but instead it was to conclude business, was it not? But a conclusion was proving hard to arrive at, things got a little heated, agreements could not be made, threats ensued, then a struggle, during which you shot the man dead. Whether by accident or design matters not, though I fear I know the real reason, the facts thus presented will lead you directly to the gallows, or at the very least a substantial bout of hard labour for stealing Her Majesty’s armaments.”

  “I have witnesses…” he said meekly.

  “Paid for out of your own purse. I could unravel their ludicrous stories within a few minutes and have them in contempt of court and revealing your efforts to cover up the true events. That wouldn’t look good for you, would it?” He smiled, this time a little more warmly. “Look, I don’t come here to bury you. I can help you. I can see to it that this little incident is dismissed as an act of self defence and you will be a free man once again.”

  “I don’t understand. I can’t afford your services. The evidence…”

  “In return for my help I require your special skills, connections and services to help me. Don’t worry, you will be well paid, but I insist I must have your utmost confidence in the matter.”

  Croker frowned deeply, his fingers tapping energetically on the tabletop. “And, just for the sake of argument, I should refuse?”

  “Then, just for the sake of argument, this visit never took place. You will still go on trial but I will see to it that this…” he held up the paper “…falls under the gaze of the prosecution. You will hang, Mr Croker, you have my word on that. Take it from a man who knows.”

  “That might be construed as blackmail, Mr Denning.”

  “Mr Croker, let us call it mutual support.” His smile fell and he rose from his seat. “Do we have an agreement?”

  Croker sighed, hardly believing what he was hearing. But he was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He grinned broadly and shook Michael Denning’s proffered hand. “Your humble servant, Mr Denning,” he said.

  “Indeed you are,” replied Denning.

  * * * *

  13

  The Graves of Time

  He was in awe at the ferocity of the storm. He had never experienced anything like it. The wind whipped off Stephen Denning’s hat as he emerged from Biddle’s house and sent it scampering down the dark alley and across the cobbles like a small black terrier. He ran after it but gave in when he remembered the excrement that lay underfoot and left it to the wind. Besides, his head was aflame again, his headache becoming worse – presumably brought on by a concoction of those terrible chemical smells in Biddle’s drawing room and that horrible, acidic sherry. He’d felt the first twitches of pain beginning to creep across his temples when he sat down to look at those photographs and it had gotten progressively intense as the evening went on. In the end he had no choice but to excuse himself. He needed to lie down, and quickly before it consumed him. Battling the wind and the rain only added to his discomfort.

  The fishermen had finally given in an as he passed he saw them beaching their massive boats, their faces wet and sullen beneath the light of their struggling lanterns, their bodies bowed against the gale. He could sense their anger, hear vague curses above the roaring seas, aware that they had lost a good portion of their catch to the worsening weather. The women, he noticed, were streaming out of the palace with no more work to be had, the carts all emptied, the fish stacked and salted.

  He had checked the time on leaving Biddle’s house: a quarter past ten o’clock, and everyone, it seemed, had the same intentions as he at this time on this bitter night, to seek warmth and shelter. All but one. A single woman stood on the shoreline, staring out to the black void beyond, the wind snarling around her, snapping at her dress, knocking against her so that she wavered. But he had little time for idle observances and Denning scurried on the seek out the dubious shelter of his own tiny cottage, cursing the weather, cursing Porthgarrow and cursing his damnable bad luck in all things.

  From his place by the inn’s window, Terrance Wilkinson also looked upon the lonely form of the young woman, blurred by the rain hitting the panes. He drank deep of a large glass of brandy, a sudden gust sending a large torrent of water splashing on the window as noisily as if someone tossed handfuls of rice, and obscuring the woman outside altogether.

  The fire in the hearth was kept damped down by the wind, every now and again the smoke being driven down the chimney and back into the room. The inn keeper had moaned loudly that it was too early to have lit a fire in any case, but his customers had moaned equally loudly about the chill so he had been forced to set it. Wilkinson had not responded to this round of ill temper, but merely asked for his glass to be refilled. He desperately wanted – needed – to blot out the world, but it appeared no amount of drink could do that these days.

  The young woman outside turned and walked towards the inn, passed but a few feet under the window through which Wilkinson stared, then she was gone from sight. He was reminded of another, similar young woman. The one in Pont Aven. The one who had been murdered. Guilt knifed into him.

  “Why, it’s Mr Wilkinson again!” spluttered a cheery voice from at his back.

  Wilkinson spun around, at first his bleary eyes not fully comprehending. It was that m
an Croker. He put the glass to his lips and drained the last of the brandy. “I was just leaving,” he said shortly.

  “Leaving? Ah, what a great pity! I thought you and I might enjoy a glass or two together, warm ourselves by the fire. I rather feel you and I got off on the wrong foot when we first met.”

  Wilkinson put his glass down on a table. “I am tired. The only company I seek tonight, Mr Croker, is a bottle of fine wine I have with which to further drown my sorrows. I’ll bid you good night.”

  “That is such sad company, Mr Wilkinson. And to have such sorrows at your age. Forgive me, I couldn’t help but notice you were watching a young woman outside a moment or two ago. Someone you know?”

  “No.”

  “A future model, perhaps? I hear the local common folk make good, honest, down to earth models. Cheap, too. Such women are easily bought, like many women are, especially French women, I hear.”

  Wilkinson frowned. “What is it you get at, Mr Croker?”

  “Why, I allude to nothing, Mr Wilkinson. An idle observation. Look, let us sit and share a glass.”

  “What are you doing here, Croker?”

  “Why, I am renting a room here.”

  “In Porthgarrow, I mean. We seem to meet too often.”

  “It is a small village. As is the world. Why, it as heavily beset by politics as ever it is in the larger world, Mr Wilkinson, don’t you find? One person vying for power here, another there. Are you a political man, Mr Wilkinson? You strike me as a man who would be.”

  “I care not to talk of politics,” he said.

  “No, of course, dry as a bone. Except that Equality League affair – remember that? The absurd plot to murder the Queen in her bed and start a revolution. That’s when politics gets very interesting, if rather sensational, does it not?”

  For a moment Wilkinson said nothing. His eyes narrowed and he moved closer to Croker’s whiskered face. “I don’t know what your game is, Mr Croker, but I warn you to keep your nose out of my business. I don’t wish to speak with you again. Do I make myself clear?”