“John tried to calm him down and succeeded in locking him in the Bolt before seeking me out and notifying me of the terrible deed. The truth of what sparked the event will never be known, but I was now faced with the fact that my deranged brother was now also a murderer, at the very time my business, the future of our family, hung in the balance. I did not know what best to do. It is with regret that I reacted purely by instinct, cruelly dismissive of Mrs Connoch’s death, to protect my own interests. You have to understand, the alternative was utter ruin…” He looked beseechingly at his daughter and she returned this with an iron-cold silence and unblinking eyes. He chewed agitatedly at his lower lip, for what he must relate next he knew to be even more difficult, both to reveal and to admit. He considered whether it was prudent to continue; the murder of Mrs Connoch by her beloved uncle was hard enough for her to hear. But she had to hear everything, he thought blackly. He needed to tell all, for it would not now stay hidden. He was damned.
“It was a decision taken on but a moment’s thought, ill-conceived, irrational, and worse, heartless, for I decided that I would have Mrs Connoch’s still-warm body removed from the barn, all evidence of the murder sponged from the grounds of the house. John at first vehemently protested, and we remonstrated with each other for some time before I forced him to agree. I beat down his resistance with his complicity in the murder, in the concealment of a military absconder. Through his carelessness he had left my brother alone sufficiently long enough for the terrible thing to happen, albeit for but a minute or two.
“Eventually, reluctantly, viewing his position as hopeless, he agreed to help remove her. We planned to take her far away, to hide her in the woods, but the plan changed. Who suggested we remove her to her own home I cannot now say, but in doing so the blame would fall upon Jowan himself and it would rid Porthgarrow of the man and the family forever. I gave the assent, but in truth I did not quite know what I was saying, for I was still much shaken by the affair. John could not manage this by himself. We secured the paid help of two Clifftoppers in my employ – men of such a base nature and possessing such questionable morals that such a task moved them not in the least and their silence could easily be bought.”
“Much shaken?” burst Jenna, the tendons on her neck tightening. “But to even contemplate shifting the blame to an innocent man – it is tragic enough that an innocent woman died that night whilst in the pursuit of justice and compassion. But to shift blame to her husband? That is the work of the very devil!” she exclaimed, averting her head so that he would not see her upset. “My own father – I would never believe you possible of such crimes had not I heard it from your own lips!”
His world was shredding before his eyes. His one true love after his dear wife, the one person on whom he had focussed the essence of his life force, was now rejecting him. And justly so, he thought, and he prepared to beat himself still further with more thorns of revelation.
“I sent John to remove Connoch’s son from the house. Once his sister-in-law had taken him Mrs Connoch’s body was carried by the men and set inside the room.” He paused, then rose, went over to the curtain-draped window. Through a gap he saw the black of night, his eye reflected back in the glass. He felt a cold draught on his face sneaking in through some hidden crack, as if the chill wind of fate blew over him. “I can claim a certain loss of rational faculties, of reason, up till this moment, but beyond this I admit I resorted to cold calculation. At a predetermined time I called for Tunny, and sent him as my messenger to deliver Jowan my ultimatum – to leave Porthgarrow or go to prison. I wanted him, above anyone else, to discover the body, for he would call upon the Connoch legend to drive home Jowan’s guilt and thus shift the blame entirely from the house of Hendra. It was happenstance that saw Tunny discover Jowan leaning drunkenly over the body of his wife, for we thought him run away. This alone sealed Jowan’s fate.”
“I don’t understand – why would Jowan admit to the crime and then take his own life?”
“The men I paid – they went beyond their remit. They hunted him down after he bolted from the house. He had simply gone to stand at his father’s grave, but they took him to the cliff. In my imagining I fashioned a scenario where they struggled and he accidentally fell. The admission of guilt, of course, is pure fabrication. But I now find he was pushed to his death.” He heard her give an anguished intake of breath. The reflected eye did not look like it belonged to him; its blurred form appeared as if the beast Baccan glowered in at the window.
“We had to keep Bartholomew locked up permanently now; we could not afford to let him out in the barn. We removed his weapons, which caused him great distress. Over the months that passed his condition grew ever worse. He could not be approached, except by me. Any attempt to attend to him was met with increasing violence. John – a ship’s carpenter by trade – fashioned a door for additional security, and thus my brother sank steadily downwards, transforming by degrees into the despicable wretch you saw in the cave.
“But there were still questions and rumours about the murder being circulated around the village. Had not Mrs Connoch been seen walking on the path up to the Hendra house? What was Jowan’s motive? I became fearful that the rumours would prise open the truth, yet it was another tragedy that came to my aid. There was a run of storms, the catches thin, and at such times superstition amongst the common people increases. When two boats were sunk with the loss of all hands the villagers saw only Baccan’s part in it. They looked to Tunny for confirmation and help, as they used to in the days of Yardarm Pellow. He was quick to lay the blame at Jowan’s spirit, forever earthbound because of his suicide, buried up in the graveyard on the headland, and from beyond the grave aiding Baccan’s wrath. All it took from me was a mere suggestion that it would be better for everyone if his body had been buried at the crossroads, traditionally where all suicides and murderers were once interred, rather than the consecrated ground of the graveyard on the headland. This one seed took root in people’s minds and spread as easily as a dark weed. Tunny was a ready vessel in which to pour the notion; he worked the people up into such a pitch that eventually a number of the villagers, Tunny leading them, proceeded one night to dig up Jowan’s corpse from the graveyard and bury it beneath the old cross. It remains there to this day.
“In doing so they had secured in everyone’s hearts the fact that Jowan had been responsible, not only for the run of ill fortune, but for the death of his wife. A return of good weather and a plentiful supply of fish cemented the belief once and for all. The majority of villagers had been party to this act, though their chosen deputies carried it out, and unwittingly they had all been pieces in my game, the truth of what happened on the night Jowan’s wife was murdered consigned to silence by the villagers’ own complicity in subsequent events. And, when the fears of the storms subsided and men turned to rational thought, it gave comfort to believe that Jowan was an evil man who deserved such treatment rather than believe they had abused and defiled the body of an innocent man.”
He waited for her to say something, almost willed her to break the silence that fell between them. Her gaze was on some distant, faraway place and she remained deathly silent. The covers rose and fell to her soft breathing. He felt a tightening in his stomach, like a fist grasping his insides and squeezing.
“John continued to help tend to Bartholomew, but the strain of keeping the secret, the guilt he felt, overwhelmed and finally broke his nerve. One night he abandoned all his belongings and set out never to be seen again. I was in continual agony over whether he would reveal Bartholomew’s subterranean existence and his crime, but as the years passed I did not hear any more of John Carbis. I took on full responsibility of looking after my sick brother, nightly going to the Bolt and taking him his food. His character, his appearance became so degraded, so depraved that I fear I lost him altogether, and in the end he was little more than a beast whom I dare approach only with extreme caution; I have been bitten and bruised by him on many an occasion.
> “I declare I considered poisoning him, ending his pitifully wretched existence once and for all, thus freeing us both from our earthly burdens. But I could not. He is – he was – my brother. Murder had already been once done and I could stomach it no more. In truth, I undertook the duty of caring for him as severe penance for my sins, which ate at my conscience every minute of the day and night.
“The barn, never a strong structure, was damaged one night by a gale and partly collapsed. The remainder became unstable. The trapdoor was all but in the open, so I commissioned the building of stables, knocking down the old barn and ensuring one part of the new building lay directly over the Bolt, making it permanently secure and entered only by myself. I had an excuse to go to the stables, if anyone should see me in the dead of night, for I let it be broadcast that horses were my growing passion.
“As the years passed I thought it would remain forever a secret, were it not for young Jowan’s return to the village and the storm that brought down the cliff…”
She stirred. “So is it true, you sent people to beat up Jowan?”
She could not hide the resentment in her voice and he shrank before it, wincing visibly. “I sent people to persuade him to leave,” he returned. “The business is all but sunk again with the twin privations of bad weather and poor catches. I have significant debts that swamp me as readily as any wave. Not only did his presence unsettle the village I was fearful he would chip away at the past till he discovered the truth. I did not intend him any harm, only to frighten him away.” He saw she was crying and he instinctively made a move towards her but she held up a restraining hand.
“Please, do not, father…” she said, choking back her emotion.
With his hands planted firmly behind his back he drew himself to his full height. “I stand guilty also in blaming Jowan for Keziah’s death, when in fact I know full well it was not he that carried out the murder. It was Bartholomew.”
“What?” she said, sitting upright. “That cannot be; he was a prisoner trapped in the caves.”
“Not so. The storm in the night brought down a section of the cliff. I realized at once that it had formed a steep ramp that led down to his secluded beach, and up which Bartholomew must have clambered. He had with him a rusted knife. I can only assume it had been washed up onto shore and somehow he kept it secret from me, perhaps still haunted by assassins and kept for his protection. Once free on the headland he must have been disturbed by Keziah, or mistook her for a possible assailant, and he attacked and killed her. I returned to his cave the instant I found out, and I bound him securely so that he might never escape again, but the deed has been done and cannot be undone.”
“And you would have let Jowan shoulder the blame and face the gallows, as you had blamed his father before him? You locked away an innocent man and stirred up the people to hate him. I am ashamed of you, father. You profess to love me and put me above all other things, but in truth you have put your business before me. I would have gladly loved you with none of the false trappings of wealth,” she said, gesturing around her wildly. “What use all this now? What use money or success? What has it brought us? Shame and ruin! Leave me – go away; I do not know you anymore!”
There was a knock at the door and Reverend Biddle entered. “I heard shouting,” he said apologetically.
“Father is leaving,” she said. “We are finished.”
“Jenna…” Hendra mouthed softly, but he could see she had closed herself off to him. His lips trembled as he turned from her. “Marcus, I am ready to leave.” He paused at the door, was about to face her again then changed his mind and closed the door behind him.
“She is naturally distraught,” said Biddle. “You told her everything?”
Hendra stood with his gaze upon the floor, his shoulders slumped heavily. At length he raised his head and Biddle followed him downstairs. At the foot of the stairs he stopped and turned to Biddle, holding out a hand. “Marcus, you have long been a dear and trusted friend. If you can find it in your heart, please do your best to forgive me.” They shook hands. “Take care of Jenna for me. See that she comes to no harm.” He went to get his coat, draped it over his arm. “Before I leave, I wish to visit my library one last time. To bid my wife farewell.”
Biddle frowned, then understood. The portrait was more than paint on canvas to Gerran Hendra; it was the last contact with his long-dead wife. “I shall wait here outside,” said Biddle, feeling engulfed by the pressing weight of sadness. “Gerran,” he said as the man walked away. He stopped. “Why didn’t you seek out my help? Why didn’t you once come to me? I would have been there for you.”
He gave a wan smile. “My burden was my burden alone,” he said and Biddle watched him enter the door that led to the library.
A good few minutes passed and Biddle grew uneasy. He went over to the door and knocked. “Gerran?” he said. There was no reply. “Gerran!” he said again, urgency in his voice. He tried the handle but the door was locked.
At that moment a shot rang out.
Kenver, who had been hovering questioningly nearby, came bolting over to Biddle’s side and together they threw their shoulders against the heavy door. It did not give easily. There was a loud splintering of wood and eventually the door burst open.
Gerran Hendra lay sprawled on the floor by his desk, a pistol still in his hand, a pool of dark blood soaking into the carpet from a jagged hole in his head. Biddle dashed to him but it was too late. The man was dead. On the desk was a hastily written letter in a spidery scrawl addressed to his daughter, begging forgiveness.
* * * *
19
Dead Man’s Meat
A tight, angry knot of gulls shrieked belligerently overhead. The speckled brown youngsters were the most confident of all, reckless almost, as they plunged down to peck at the meat of the dead man where their parents were too experienced and fearful to do so. Their fierce, gimlet eyes preferred to watch from a distance.
“Keep those blasted birds away!” shouted the fisherman, slapping the young boy hard on the back of his head. He immediately sprang to his duty and shooed the gulls into flight by running this way and that on the beach, waving a large stick and shouting. They flapped haughtily into the air, screaming their defiance.
Two men approached, their boots sinking into the wet shingle. As they came closer one of them held a handkerchief to his nose, his steps slowing as he approached the corpse.
“Good day, sir,” greeted the fisherman, poking his cap deferentially. “And are you Mr Denning, sir? The artist?”
“He is,” said Reverend Biddle answering for him, as it appeared the sight of the dead man had sucked the words from him. “Is this how you found him?”
“Yes, sir,” said the fisherman. “Exactly as you see him now, give or take a few bites missing, taken by those thieving birds. But you know how gulls are.”
Biddle bent over the dead man whilst Denning hung back, hardly daring to look. The corpse was all but naked, its flesh bloated due to many days exposure to the sea. The face was all but unrecognisable as such, for the skull had been caved in. An eye was missing altogether; the mouth was all but toothless, a gaping, mushy mess. The body was covered in deep gashes, the stomach split open and the innards partially spilled out, at which the gulls had been pecking. One leg was in an unnatural position, broken in many places, and the arms appeared dislocated.
“Seen it a number of times,” explained the fisherman. “That’s what the rocks hereabouts do to a person.”
Biddle turned to Denning. “I am sorry to have to ask you to gaze upon this body, Mr Denning. But is this him? Can you identify him?”
Denning craned his neck but refused to come any nearer. He could smell the foul stench of decay. “The body is so bloated and cut about that I cannot say for definite. It is about his size and shape.” He came round the other side, at a distance. The tide was on the turn and the waves were rolling in about twenty yards from him. “There, on his finger, that signet ring,” he sai
d to the fisherman. “Does it bear any initials?”
The man lifted the dead hand so that it was close to his eye, swiped out at a bluebottle that had chosen to settle on it. “Yes, sir, it does. A letter T and a letter M.”
“Thomas Markham,” said Denning. “Terrance inherited it from his grandfather on his mother’s side. He never took it off.” Denning nodded gravely at Biddle. “You were right. It is the body of Mr Wilkinson. The ring proves it.”
“Sadly, I thought as much,” said Biddle. “A man cannot go missing for no reason and he has been gone nearly a fortnight. He must have lost his footing on the cliff top, fell to his death, or drowned. There can be no other explanation.” He addressed the fisherman: please see to it that he is brought ashore, placed somewhere safe till we can get the usual reports done and notify his family.” He passed the man a few coins. “He does have family?” he asked of Denning.
“He has a father still alive, I believe, though he was ill. He has no wife or children.”
“That, at least, is a blessing,” he said.
“An accident, then, Reverend?” he asked. “You are certain?”
“Most assuredly. It happens.”
“Begging your pardon, Reverend, but will you be wishing to capture his likeness before we have him removed from the beach?” said the fisherman.
Biddle looked at Denning, who nodded his approval. “It can do him no harm,” he said. “He is safe from that.”
The House of the Wicked (a psychological thriller combining mystery, murder, crime and suspense) Page 27