He heard her leave the room. The door shutting loudly behind her. He put a hand to his forehead, feeling the hot sting of tears at his lids as he looked up at the sad, admonishing moon-like face of his dead wife.
He waited a couple of minutes before leaving the library, taking the corridors that led to the rear entrance. He raced quickly across the yard towards the stables, pausing only to see that there was no one about before unlocking the door to the store room and entering.
* * * *
Jenna Hendra, still smarting and mulling over what her father had told her, saw him dart urgently down the corridor. Something was wrong, she thought. Something was causing him to act very strangely. He had never behaved like this. Never. So she followed, careful not to let her see him. Bemused, she watched him enter the store room and close the door behind him. She walked quietly over to the door, listened intently but heard no sound from inside. “Father?” she said softly. There was no response. She knocked. She tried the handle but the door had been locked from the inside.
* * * *
The wind blew wintry and damp, ruffled the hair of the women who reached up and tied their shawls tightly about their heads. They huddled together in compact little groups, grey faces betraying the dread they experienced. They stared coldly at him, suspiciously almost, as he trudged past them, falling quiet till he moved on by. He thought he felt the burning of their stares imprinting on his back like a brand.
A group of people – men, women and children – hurried past him down the slope, bundles on their backs, pans, kettles and other possessions fastened to them, swinging wildly and clanking noisily to their swift steps. Stephen Denning looked back at their swiftly retreating forms.
“Clifftoppers deserting us. The women refuse to stay here,” explained Reverend Biddle, coming up to him, looking quite distressed and clutching the wooden box of his camera to his chest. “The women fear for themselves, the men fear for their women. It is only to be expected, I suppose.”
“I did not think it could be true, till I came here” he said. “It is one thing to talk about such things and study pictures, but another for it to happen the very next day.”
“Quite the coincidence,” said Biddle. He lifted his hat with his spare hand. “You will have to excuse me, Mr Denning.”
“Have you had an accident?”
Biddle looked sadly at his camera. “Unfortunately, yes. I will see if I can repair it but I fear I cannot.” And the next instant the man set off at a pace down the hill.
He would never understand the motives of the man, he thought. He seemed forever distant, more interested in his damn macabre hobby than the fact someone had been murdered last night.
Very soon he came upon the ruins of the monastery and, parting weeds and grasses to make a passage, made out the small canvas mound laid out on the massive stone slab. Two men stood guard close by, fishermen still dressed in their oilskins. A man was on his haunches bent over the body. He recognised him as Tunny.
“You can’t go through there,” someone said harshly to his left. A figure parted itself from the undergrowth. “No one is allowed.” And his voice seemed to say ‘especially you, outsider.’
He didn’t need to go any further. This was close enough for the sight to encourage those terrible memories from Pont Aven to come crashing back into his skull. He felt his legs go weak and he wanted to be sick. He wanted to flee this place, but he was held there, transfixed by the gruesome vision. The man regarded him with suspicion.
* * * *
Tunny cradled the dead woman’s head in his hand, her pale face looking as if she were peacefully asleep. The dark, deep, brutal slash across her smooth young neck screamed otherwise.
“Sad Keziah,” he whispered.” He felt hot emotion bubbling up within him. He had known her since her birth. She had always been so full of life, till the day her husband died and something within her died with him too. He gently laid her head back down and pulled the canvas over her face.
“You’re not supposed to be here, Tunny. No one is,” said the man standing guard. His large beard was moist, glistening. ”The Reverend Biddle, he says it was only decreed in summer last year that in cases of murder the body must not be moved or touched and that everyone is to be kept away so as not to disturb the scene.”
But Tunny was deaf to what the man was saying, plagued instead by his own loud and troublesome thoughts. He should never have told her to come here, with the foolish notion that she may see or hear her husband again. But she had been so distraught, was wasting away with the grief, that he felt he must do something to alleviate the pain she endured. And now she was dead. She would join her husband after all, he thought.
“Porthgarrow is cursed,” said the man at his side. We can never escape Baccan. He came last night, tore away the land, tore away the nets and tore away this woman’s life. He will come again and again. We need your help, Tunny, like never before.”
The old man eyed him, but said nothing. He loped away, his mind so absorbed he didn’t quite see Stephen Denning walking up to him.
“Tunny, have you seen Mr Wilkinson?”
He frowned. “I can’t say that I have,” he returned absently. “Not this morning.”
“Who has done this, Tunny? I hear they are holding someone; is that true?”
“They are blaming young Jowan Connoch – you will not know him; he is the son of the Connoch whose house you rent. He is presently being held a prisoner at the palace until the police get here. They are delayed but will be with us shortly.”
“And this man definitely did this? They are certain; there can be no mistake?”
Tunny studied the ground at his feet through narrow, tired eyes. “I do not believe he is guilty.” He looked at the artist who appeared to be struggling with himself. “Why do you ask?”
He ignored the question. “This Jowan fellow may not be the culprit? The killer could still be at large?”
“It may be so, Mr Denning.”
Strangely, Denning’s mind raced to think only of Jenna Hendra. Was she safe? Was she well? Feelings surged up within him that he could not fathom. “It is strangely similar to something that I witnessed years ago…” he said emptily.
Tunny’s craggy face turned. “The past is always closer to us than we would like to think, Mr Denning. Good and bad.” Like a ghost, he thought darkly, forever haunting us, treading in our steps behind us, never more than a mere breath away.
* * * *
He clasped his derby tight to his head; the breeze was still fresh enough to knock it off and it had cost a pretty packet – too expensive to let roll in the mud of this place, he thought. His free hand he stuffed inside his trouser pocket, watching the scene unfolding around him. A young man was running through the streets with a loud hand bell, ringing for all he was worth and shouting “Hevva! Hevva!” but he noticed there was little response from the sullen fishermen lining the quay outside the inn. They seemed to be more absorbed in something else, dark huddles of men scratching beards and puffing on pipes as if their lives depended on it.
Benjamin Croker ambled over to one such group and asked of them what the trouble was.
“A body has been found,” one of them said, somewhat reluctantly.
“Really?” he said. “How tragic. Accidents happen. How exactly did he die?”
“Not a he, a she,” he was corrected. “And she was murdered.”
He removed the stub of a cigar planted at the corner of his mouth, surprised. “A woman? Where?”
He was directed to the old monastery. He thanked the men for their time and took a stroll up there, and on the way noticed Stephen Denning, talking to the local church man. When they parted he followed the artist, at a distance, for he had not yet introduced himself personally; that would come in good time. But for now he was interested in what he would do next. Denning was stopped by a man some distance from where Croker assumed the body lay, and he stopped also. The artist watching the body, Croker watching the artist.
>
Interesting, he thought, then returned back down the hill. He next wandered over to Wilkinson’s house, paused outside and noticed it was quiet. He smiled thinly. Not a sign of the man. He knocked at the door but received no reply. He thought absently about the dead woman on the hill.
I suppose I should consider it practice, he mused, nodding in satisfaction to himself.
* * * *
15
Soulful Chimes
The man stepped aside reluctantly and swung open the door to let her in. “Mr Hendra will not be best pleased if he found out I let you in to see him,” he said, nervously looking over his shoulder.
She glowered at him and he shrank back from her. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself, keeping the poor man locked up like this.”
Jowan Connoch sat huddled in a dark corner of the cellar, his legs and wrists bound with serpent-like coils of thick rope, which in turn was fastened securely to an iron hoop embedded in the wet stone wall. The place reeked of damp and fish. There was no window; the only light fell in through the half-open doorway. The stone flags were puddled with rank-smelling water.
“What have they done to you, Jowan?” she said, going over to him, putting a soft hand to his bloodied cheek.
The scent of her wafted over him and he raised his head. At first he appeared not to recognise her, then his lips stretched into a frail smile. “You will get dirt on your fine dress, Jenna,” he said, and coughed painfully.
“They cannot do this, truss you up like some wild animal.” She rose indignantly to her feet. “Release this man at once!” she cried. “At once, do you hear me?”
“I hear you miss, but I cannot do as you bid. I am under orders from your father.”
“Damn my father’s orders!” she said. “Do as I tell you or you will pay dearly.”
“Then I will pay dearly whichever way I take things, miss, but it’s a case of balancing which Hendra would be worse for me and in this instance your father wins out.” His face hardened. “Say your piece to him and then leave, as soon as you can, miss.”
“Jenna, please…” said Jowan. She returned to his side and began to unpick at the tight, resisting knots. She failed. “It is no use, Jenna. They want me dead. Didn’t you see the people outside? They would hang me. At least in here I am safe and comfortable, after a fashion.” He attempted a laugh, but his head sank to his chest, as if his neck were too weak to hold it up. “I am too feeble to care. I just need to sleep.”
“You didn’t do it, did you Jowan? Tell me you didn’t do it.”
He blinked, swallowed hard. “You need me to tell you? Do you too have your doubts just like everyone else? Is the entire place against me, you included?”
“I will find out the truth, Jowan, about your mother and father. I will do all in my power to help you.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why would a Hendra help a Connoch?”
“I have my reasons,” she said softly.
“Then you will have to fight against an entire village to do so. Tunny has them set against me. It has been so before I ever set foot back in this place. He has poisoned their minds.”
“That man has done irreparable harm. This nonsense about Baccan must end if this is the sad result. I will not stand to see this injustice.”
He coughed and his entire frame shook. “Baccan? Jenna, I have to tell you something, but you will think me mad.” He uttered a frail, glass-like chuckle. “I begin to think myself mad also.”
She wiped away blood from his wrists with her handkerchief. “Madness?” she said. “It is all around. I know not what this village is coming to.”
“When I arrived in Porthgarrow, and was beaten up there on the cliff, I saw in the gloom below, at the base of Baccan’s Maw, a figure. A strange, animal-like figure. Jenna, I swear it looked up at me. I swear it was Baccan.”
“That is rot. You imagined it.”
“And if Baccan is real, then might it not be true that the old tales of the Connochs are true? Might I not be cursed, as all Connochs have been cursed?”
She shook her head. “You ramble because of your fever. You are not well.”
“You will have to go now,” said the man at the door.
“Don’t worry, Jowan; I will help you,” she said, going to the door. “See to it that this man’s bonds are loosened,” she ordered the guard. “Make him more comfortable. I shall arrange for a doctor to tend to him.” She brushed past the man. “You are callous brutes!” she said.
“He is a murderer!” he retorted, then regretted it on seeing her fiery expression turned on him.
She left the palace. Outside, a small group had gathered, the hatred on their faces clear to see. “Go home!” said Jenna angrily. “Why must you hound this man so? Enough of this nonsense. Where will I find Tunny?”
They backed off a little, a woman informing her that he was seen headed to his cottage. She lifted her skirts and stormed off at a pace with the small crowd staring at her back.
* * * *
He reached the door to his house, his mind swamped with recent events, and was about to enter when a shadow appeared at his shoulder. He turned to see an anxious-looking young man.
“Can I help?” he asked wearily, but the man remained silent, transfixed. Biddle swung open the door, took a hold of the tripod and camera. “I’m sorry, you will have to excuse me, I am very busy.”
“Please…” said the man, the word gushing from him. “I must speak with you.”
“Perhaps it can wait? I have to stow this away and seek out the relatives of the poor unfortunate girl in the ruins.” He made a decided move to enter.
“Please, Reverend, this is important. It concerns the girl and the prisoner Jowan Connoch.”
Biddle studied the man intently over the rim of his spectacles. “What is your name?”
He looked about him, almost nervously. The words appeared to stick in his mouth. “My name is Percy Cotter – one of the clifftoppers, here for the work…” he faltered, blinking rapidly. “I work – worked - for Mr Hendra. We’re leaving Porthgarrow.”
Biddle bade the man enter the house with a sweep of his hand. He followed him in, closing the door. “Let me put this over here,” he said, going to a crowded corner of the room and resting the equipment against the wall next to a grandmother clock. “Pray, what is it that’s giving you such concern?”
“I was there when Mr Hendra knocked over your box of tricks,” said Cotter uncertainly, removing his hat and holding it firmly between both hands.
“An accident,” said Biddle. “Please, don’t stand on ceremony, take a seat.”
“Sir, it is not my intention to stay.” He was obviously finding it increasingly difficult to speak. “Listen, sir, you are a man of the church, are you not?”
“You are a keen observer,” he said.
“I can trust you?”
He frowned. “But of course.”
“Not to reveal who it was that told you what I’m going to tell you now?”
“The conversation remains between us, if that is your wish. You have my full confidence. What is it that troubles you?”
“You are friends of Mr Hendra?”
He raised a brow. “We have been so for many years. Where is this leading, Mr Cotter?”
“Jowan is being blamed for something his father is supposed to have done – that’s what’s at the heart of this.” He motioned to the door, to the world outside. “They find him guilty purely because he is a Connoch. Mr Hendra, he will not listen to any other version of events. It’s as if his mind is made up.”
“And what if he is right?” he said, but his conviction wavered.
“My family have been coming to Porthgarrow most every year since I was very young. So too the year of the murder, thirteen years ago. The very night that Jowan’s father was said to have killed his mother, my elder brother and father were out drinking with his friends. I was only nine years old, and so not allowed out of camp beyond a certain time. I waited till late and t
hen decided to go out and spy on them, being of a mischievous disposition, as children are at that age and eager to see what the older men got up to. I crept out of camp and had reached the graveyard on the way down when I saw a man, standing alone by one of the headstones in the dark. At first I thought nothing of it, but that he was a little drunk, and I was about to leave him to his maudlin mumblings when three men came rushing through the grounds towards him. There was a scuffle and the man was sent to the ground and knocked all but senseless. They then did the strangest thing and pulled him to his feet and proceeded to drag the man through the ruins and onto the cliff top. I retreated under the cover of bushes as they passed me. I heard the man swearing at them to let him go, but they beat him into silence and bundled him along. I was both horrified and confused at what was happening, so I followed them, afraid they may harm the man further. They reached the cliff, above Baccan’s Maw…”
He stumbled into silence, as if he knew he had said too much already. “Mr Cotter, please go on, tell me what happened next,” Biddle urged.
“They took the man to the edge of the cliff…” He paused again. “Then they calmly pushed him over the edge, to his death. They killed him, Reverend.” His eyes darted nervously. “Next day we found out that Jowan Connoch had murdered his wife, and had supposedly admitted to it before throwing himself off the cliff. But, Reverend, that bit isn’t true. He was beaten and murdered without saying a word.”
He stared at him. “Why didn’t you say something at the time, Mr Cotter? Why did you keep it a secret till now? Your story has tremendous implications.”
He shook his head. “Remember, I was very young. Nobody pays much heed to a boy. I kept it a secret at first, because I wasn’t supposed to be out anyhow. But I told my father as soon as I could, when I heard about the woman’s murder, and the falsehood that he had admitted to it and cast himself over the cliff. I told him that Jowan had instead been dragged to his death. But he insisted I had been mistaken and beat me first for disobeying his wish I stay in camp, and again for making such a thing up. I was not to say another word on the subject. And anyhow, the man was a murderer, so no matter how he died justice had been done. Over the years I almost came to believe that I had imagined the entire night, nothing more than a young boy’s flight of fancy. And maybe it was after all.” He appeared to struggle with himself. “The other day, when my brother and I came to young Jowan’s rescue, almost at the same spot his father died, that terrible night came back to haunt me. And here was the same thing happening all over again, I thought.”
The House of the Wicked (a psychological thriller combining mystery, murder, crime and suspense) Page 23