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

by D. M. Mitchell

The sky held onto a little light at the horizon, but darkness was quickly falling. The boats were still landing the day’s catch and sullen donkeys trundled the hauls up to the waiting women. Lamplight drifted across the beach. Stephen Denning half expected Gerran Hendra to be standing there, watching over proceedings as he had in the past. It somehow felt emptier without him.

  “I have found a certain peace here, Michael,” he admitted as they trudged up the path away from the beach. “I do not expect you to understand that. I know what I have been like in the past. I am aware of my own careless reputation. But Porthgarrow has changed me. It has made me content. And Jenna Hendra has made me happier than I ever thought I could be. To think that one day she and I could be married causes me such gratification, Michael, I cannot even begin to describe.”

  He listened in stony silence. They made their way down the narrow alleyways, up the steep cobbled streets that stretched like wet snakeskin before them, eventually reaching the house Wilkinson had once rented, and into which Stephen Denning, in his absence, had moved in. He had invited his brother to stay with him whilst he visited Porthgarrow. It was certainly more comfy a proposition than the inn. And in many ways it also displayed to his elder brother the simplicity he and gotten used to and intended to adopt from now on. He knew his brother would use all his persuasive powers to get him to change his mind but he was prepared for that. Nothing would alter his chosen course.

  At the door, Michael turned to his younger brother, reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. It was curiously tender, and quite unexpected. He appeared to struggle with himself for a moment or two.

  “Look, Stephen, I can see that perhaps you are fond of the Hendra woman, that you may even be fond of this place, though heaven knows why. You must trust me, therefore, that when I press you to leave it is for your own benefit. In spite of what you may think, I have always tried to be a good and supportive brother to you.”

  “I find it difficult to understand why you simply cannot be happy for me,” he replied, placing a hand on the door handle and pushing open the door.

  “There are things I am not free to divulge; things that have a serious bearing as to why you cannot stay here. It is for your own good, trust me. As a brother.” His eyes were soft, imploring. “Do not make me force you, Stephen.”

  “You have no power over me, Michael. Once the threat of being cut off from father’s fortune is removed you have no further hold over me.”

  “I do…” he said, placing a hand over his brother’s hand, forcing him to stop, to look at him. “I do,” he said again, quieter.

  Stephen Denning began to feel his blood boil again but managed to keep a lid on his emotions. Michael wanted him to react angrily, to take on the role of the older bother calming his impetuous, emotional younger sibling, as he always had; but tonight he would not give him the satisfaction. “Let us not spend our last night here together squabbling on the step,” he said. “You have a coach to catch tomorrow and will need your rest.” He entered the cottage.

  The room was in total darkness. There was an overriding smell of oil paints and linseed. Stephen Denning had discovered a new-found impetus to paint once again, and the simple joy it gave him to go out and sketch, to take his easel and paints down to the beach or onto the cliff top to paint the workers, was something his brother could not comprehend. He’d shown him canvas after canvas, a dozen or more, some still wet and works in progress, and he had viewed them all dispassionately. There was one telling moment, however, when he studied a portrait he’d painted of Jenna Hendra, carried out from memory and sketches, when he looked up from it and said: “This is quite remarkable, Stephen. She is almost real. Quite obviously you have lavished much time and attention on this.” His expression fell suddenly very sad.

  Stephen Denning stumbled in the gloom to a table on which stood an oil lamp. He struck a match and lit it.

  “Please do come in,” said a voice from a dark corner that caught them both by surprise. “It is good to see you have made yourself at home, Stephen. Would you jump into my grave as fast?”

  “Terrance!” he exclaimed, nearly knocking the lamp over as he spun on his heel. His eyes grew accustomed to the dark as the lamp burned brighter. “My God, man! You are dead!”

  Terrance Wilkinson was sat on a chair, his legs crossed, one hand resting on his thigh, the other holding a revolver which he aimed squarely at Stephen Denning’s chest.

  “As you can see, very much alive for a dead man. So nice to see you again, Michael,” he said, waving the man further into the room with a quick flick of the barrel. “Please, don’t stand on ceremony, have a seat next to your brother.”

  Michael Denning’s face was in complete shock. He hesitated then did as he was bid. “We appear to have an unwanted guest,” he said dryly, trying to regain his composure.

  “Terrance, what on earth is this all about? Who was the dead man if not you? And where the blazes have you been all this time?”

  “So many questions. Do not worry, Stephen, you will get all your answers. Sit down.”

  “What are you doing with that revolver, man?” He stepped forward but Wilkinson’s face hardened and the gun was thrust out. Stephen Denning halted. “What is going on?” Then realisation seeped in. “You two know each other?”

  “We are well acquainted,” said Wilkinson.

  “I have never seen this man before today,” Michael returned evenly. “Though Stephen has talked about you on a number of occasions. Do you always greet people with a gun? As for creating a first impression it does you no favours, even for a walking corpse.”

  “Amusing,” said Wilkinson flatly. “Stephen, please sit down next to your brother, there’s a good fellow.” When he didn’t respond he said loudly: “Now, Stephen!” and wafted the gun. “My patience has run paper thin.” The man slowly sank to the chair.

  “Perhaps we are to be robbed, Stephen,” he said.

  Wilkinson stared. He appeared gaunt, tired, worn down. His hair had been blown into a tangled mess. His breathing was laboured. A full minute passed in silence.

  “Terrance, this is absurd!”

  “Quiet, Stephen,” he said. He rubbed his temple. The hand that held the gun was shaking. “My father is dead,” he said at length.

  Stephen Denning shook his head, bemused. “That is unfortunate,” he said. “He was a good man, from the little I knew of him…” He could sense his brother’s agitation as the two men locked eyes. “What is going on, Terrance? Michael?”

  “He was indeed a very good man. A respected man…” drawled Wilkinson. “But not without his faults, as all men are.” He rose to his feet. “Now please be quiet. I am expecting another guest.” He took a pocket watch from his waistcoat and scrutinised it. When there was a murmur of protestation he turned on the two men. “I insist!” he said, his eyes wild, the gun thrust alarmingly at them. “Then all will become clear.”

  The time passed slowly. Outside, the wind howled around the eaves of the old house. The tension in the room mounted. “Where were you on the night of the murder, Terrance?” said Stephen Denning when he felt he could take no more. The man remained silent. “And then to let everyone think you were dead….”

  “I have my reasons…” he returned.”

  “Do you not think it suspicious? Do you not see the similarity to the woman who was murdered in Brittany, at Pont Aven?” he said.

  “Leave it be, Stephen,” advised his brother. “Mr Wilkinson, perhaps we can resolve this misunderstanding in another manner…”

  “Misunderstanding!” he said, taking a step closer to him. He sucked air in noisily through his nostrils. “There is something more monstrous than a mere misunderstanding at play here!”

  “The murder was not committed by the madman Bartholomew at all, was it?” said Stephen Denning. “It was you all along, wasn’t it? Carried out in the same manner in which you murdered the woman in France, a knife to the throat. I defended you then, Terrance, against my better judgement, but I saw t
he blood on your shirtsleeves, the ones you were burning in the grate that day. I saw your agitation on the night it happened, the state of your clothes, the mud on your shoes. I could never be certain, but now it all makes perfect sense. You killed the Polsue girl also, but fortune smiled on you that night. The Hendras have inadvertently shouldered the blame for you. So now you intend to kill me, is that it, Terrance, to silence me? To silence us? Well you cannot possibly get away with this.”

  Wilkinson calmly stepped over to him, pressed the barrel hard against his sweating forehead. “I ought to pull this trigger now and be done with it,” he said. “For I cannot take this madness for much longer…” But he lifted the gun, moved back to stand in the corner. He put a finger to his lips for them to remain silent and then studied his pocket watch again.

  The room lapsed into silence again. Long minutes passed. Then they heard the tapping of footsteps on the cobbles, coming closer, pausing by the door. Wilkinson again put a warning finger to his lips. There was a gentle knock at the door. A pause. Then more knocking, harder this time. Wilkinson pointed to Michael Denning with the gun and nodded. Denning cleared his throat and said: “Enter…”

  The door opened slowly and a figure emerged cautiously from the dark.

  “How nice to see you again, Mr Croker,” said Wilkinson lunging forward to grab the man by the lapel, dragging him into the room and closing the door with a kick of his boot.

  * * * *

  21

  A Full Confession

  He pressed the gun against his back and shoved him over to the other two men. Croker’s eyes were wide with confusion and growing fear, which appeared to escalate upon seeing both Dennings sat there. “Stephen, I’d like to introduce you to Benjamin Croker. I believe you haven’t yet had the pleasure. But, of course, it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it, Michael?”

  “Mr Wilkinson, you are dead!” squeaked Croker. “I saw your body!”

  “You saw a body, yes. But as you can see it was not mine.” He patted his chest to confirm his corporeal solidity.

  “What is the meaning of all this madness?” said Croker. “Why do you have a revolver aimed at these fellows?”

  “You may stop the act now, Croker,” he said, “it is all out now, or at least will be shortly.”

  “Act? I know not what you get at, Mr Wilkinson…”

  Wilkinson pointed the gun at Croker. “You damn well know what I get at, Croker!” he snapped and the man jumped back a little at his outburst. He turned to Michael Denning who sat stiff-lipped and silent. “Do you wish to explain to Stephen, or shall I? One way or another it will be revealed tonight.”

  Stephen Denning turned to his brother. “What is it he speaks of, Michael? Who is this man?” he asked, indicating Croker.

  “I do not know either of these gentlemen,” said Croker.

  Wilkinson surprised them all by laughing hollowly. “I congratulate you, Michael, on your choice of employee; he has all the intellect of a trained baboon! Croker, even as we speak you have about your person the message I sent to you purporting to be from Michael, asking you to meet him here at this exact time. What other reason would bring you here?” He waited whilst Croker struggled to formulate a reply. “Do not insult my intelligence, Croker. Tell everyone, Croker, why are you in Porthgarrow?”

  He glanced quickly at Michael Denning who did not acknowledge it. “You know full well, for we have discussed it…”

  “To write an article on the poor working class of Porthgarrow. Enlighten us, if you may, what on earth is so interesting to the nation that demands your paper supports your stay in this mud-hole of a village for over a month?” Croker blinked uncertainly then his lips clamped shut. “Good, then we understand each other, Mr Croker. Now then, Michael, I ask you a question. Will you tell all, or shall I?”

  Michael Denning’s brows lowered. He was aware of his brother watching him. “Mr Wilkinson,” he began, “this entire debacle is most… most needless. Perhaps we can settle this elsewhere? It does not have to be so melodramatic.”

  “Ah yes, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” he said. “To brush over all that has happened. Well your family have brushed over too many things too often. So, imagine that you are in your place of work, Mr Denning, a court of law. I put it to you: shall I tell all, or will you?”

  The statement was met with a stony glare. He folded his arms defiantly. ”Do not say anything you may regret later, Mr Wilkinson,” he warned evenly.

  “Regrets are something I have by the score,” he replied, “but this will not be one of them. This is something that should have been done years ago.” He turned to Stephen, whose eyes were wide with incomprehension. “You believe I murdered both the French woman in Pont Aven and the Polsue girl?” he asked.

  “I do,” he answered emphatically. “All the evidence points directly to it.”

  “All the evidence,” he echoed. “You sound like your brother. Perhaps the law is a profession you should try after all.”

  “Why did you do it, Terrance?” he implored. “You had everything a man could ask for: talent, a career, money. Why would you wish to throw it all away by committing such unspeakable horrors? Those poor young women, their throats brutally slashed like so much abattoir fodder. It was barbarous and inhuman. Like a fool I lied for you, denied your presence at that place, said you were with me when all along you had done it. Instead of helping you, denying it as if I meant it, I should have denounced you from the outset. If I had done that then the Polsue girl would still be alive today.”

  Wilkinson listened patiently, made no attempt to interrupt. “Yes, their throats slit,” he said quietly. “Savage, mindless, despicable murders. That I cannot deny.”

  “He reached deep into his coat pocket and withdrew a brown paper parcel. He un-wrapped it carefully whilst the eyes of the three men were fixed on his every action. “And what have we here?” he said, letting the paper drift to the floor. He held up a small carving knife, clutching the tip of the handle between his thumb and index finger, the blade pointed downwards. “The steel,” he pointed out, “is quite clean, is it not? But see, the wooden handle is much stained by blood.”

  Stephen Denning gasped. “You even carry the murder weapon! How can you deny it now?”

  He ignored him. Instead he lifted the blade so that it hung before his face. “Does it not interest you, why the blade is clean and the handle so bloodied? After all, should it not be the other way around?” He looked up and saw Croker make the slightest of moves towards the door. “I wouldn’t do that,” said Wilkinson. “I may be deranged, but I am deranged and alert.” Croker stiffened. “The answer is quite simple,” he continued. “If the knife had been carried for some time afterwards the rain would have washed away the blood from the blade, for it came down in torrents that night. Only the blood that had run onto the hand and beneath it would remain, thus protected from the rain. For the blood to have stayed on the knife it would have had to have been discarded somewhere dry.” He held the weapon out. “Do you recognise this knife, Stephen?” he asked.

  He was taken by surprise at the question. “No, why? Should I?”

  “It came from your cottage. There is, in the drawer, a set of similar knives, made distinctive by the carving of the handle, to which set this knife also belongs.”

  “You used a knife from my own cottage?” he burst. “Why tell me this? What perverted pleasure can you possibly gain by parading this ghastly trophy before us?”

  Wilkinson placed the knife on the chair and ran a hand through his black hair, sighing heavily. His dark eyes looked jaded, his face ashen. Croker and Michael Denning shuffled uncomfortably.

  “Stephen,” he said at length, “how came we to meet?”

  “We met in Paris,” he said. “At the studio of Charles-Marc-Gabriel-Gleyre. And now I wish I had never set my eyes upon you, for you are the very devil!”

  “We met by accident? A chance encounter?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “T
here you are wrong, my friend. It was no mere accident; it was planned from the outset.”

  “Mr Wilkinson,” Michael Denning suddenly interrupted. “We have had our fill of this game now. You find yourself already in serious trouble, holding us here against our will at the point of a gun. If we can come to some mutual understanding we may be able to resolve this situation amicably and with no harm coming to anyone. You understand my meaning?”

  He shook his head vigorously. Stray locks of his hair, wet with sweat, fell to his forehead. “Oh no, Michael, you will not be allowed to wriggle off the hook now. You are very much caught.” He turned to his Stephen. “You see how your brother squirms? Does that not intrigue you at all? It should, for he and your mother are at the very heart of all this.”

  “My mother? You are quite mad, Terrance!” he said incredulously. He reached out and touched his brother’s arms. “Please, I beg of you, tell me what is going on? Is any of what he says true?”

  “Not a shred. Quite mad, as you say.” He smoothed an eyebrow with his finger. “I have witnessed similar behaviour in those whose brains have been addled by opiates or some such substance.”

  Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed and the tendons in his neck grew agitated, but he calmly turned to Stephen again. “Your mother chose the atelier, did she not?”

  “Of course, but you know this; I told you that at the time. And she chose it for perfectly valid reasons.”

  “Those reasons, I can assure you, were not to better progress your artistic abilities, but to ensure you and I met. You see, I know this as she and I arranged it together.”

  Stephen Denning sprang from the chair, almost knocking it over. “I cannot take this drivel any longer!” You spout perfect nonsense! Now release us at once, I say and be done with this folly!”

  “Sit down, Stephen,” he ordered.

  “I refuse!”

  He went up close to him and put the gun against his heaving chest. “You will sit down at once or I shall pull this trigger!” he growled.