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

by D. M. Mitchell

  “I would do as he says, Mr Denning,” advised Croker. “In my profession I have come into contact with many such murderers and ten to one they will make good any threat they deliver.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to send a bullet through that dark heart of yours Croker, so still your tongue. Your time will come. Now please sit down, Stephen, for heaven knows, you will be in sore need of a seat before the night is through.”

  Seeing the crazed contortions across Wilkinson’s face, a heartless determination to pull the trigger, he reluctantly sat back down, his brother avoiding his anxious glance.

  “I have found myself many times thinking where all this began, in my efforts to explain how I came to allow myself to be dragged into this living hell,” Wilkinson continued, almost as if he were talking to himself.” He moved the knife to one side, then briefly picked it up to study it, the gun still aimed in the direction of the three men. He then set the blade down on the floor by the chair’s leg. “Lives have threads which you can trace back, event by event, don’t you find? One thing leads back to another, then another, and so on. The starting point, I suppose, is with my father…” He hesitated. “My late father…” he said, his voice trembling a little.

  “He came from humble beginnings and as such had a very simple way of looking at things. He was not a complicated man. But he was a generous man, increasingly angry at the injustice he saw daily about him – the poverty, exacerbated by the chasm that is our class divide – and, though he had pretensions of respectability and a desire to be accepted thus, it was his ambition to use his fortune for philanthropic purposes. To put a little back, as he so coined it. Thus he generously and freely supported any number of good causes, from soup kitchens to poor schools.

  “His one failing was his abiding innocence, particularly in politics. He donated large sums in support of a small organisation called The Equality League, whose mission, they purported, was to promulgate the message of political equality, and via the political route to help alleviate some of the country’s worse ills. A noble cause, you might say.”

  “The cause may have been,” Croker spoke up, “but the gentlemen were not. If my memory serves me correct they were a bunch of bad coves, make no mistake. It occupied the newssheets for a little while.”

  Wilkinson’s shoulders slumped, his body appearing to weaken. “And as usual blown out of all proportion,” he said. The gun drooped in his hand. “But which my father found out to his cost. The three or four leaders of this so-called Equality League had bought a small supply of guns and ammunition, invested in crude bomb-making equipment, and had stored it all in an attic with the hair-brained intention of assassinating the Queen, no less, and to declare a Republic. It was doomed to outright failure, of course – they possessed hardly a brain between them. They were soon found out when one of them bragged drunkenly and openly in a public house, and summarily dealt with. In all it was a small affair of little consequence. A case you remember well, do you not, Michael?”

  He had been staring down at his boot the entire time Wilkinson had been speaking, his fingers knitted tightly together before him. He raised his head slowly, deliberately. “I was indeed closely involved with the case, yes. But I do not recall the details, if that is what you are after.”

  “That is so unlike you, to be forgetful,” he said.

  “I cannot be expected to remember everything.”

  “But you remember discovering, as you pursued this case, that my father had in the past given funds to the cause, albeit inadvertently. And a man who backs revolution, the murder of the Queen, no matter how innocent he is, no matter how ill-conceived, ill-advised or ludicrous the escapade, if these facts were to emerge, he would be utterly and finally ruined. Would he not?

  “Picture this, then, Stephen: your brother now deliberately withholds this information and sits on it; information I had not an inkling of – not until the day your mother summoned me to a meeting with her. A meeting at which your brother was present.” He jabbed the gun at Michael, whose expression remained impassive, eyes unblinking. “A meeting called to discuss you, Stephen.”

  Stephen Denning shifted on his chair uncomfortably. “I do not understand where this is all headed,” he said. “Michael, is any of this true?” His brother remained silent.

  “You have to admire your mother, Stephen; she is a formidable woman possessed of great strength of mind.” He remembered the meeting vividly. It was branded into his skull…

  * * * *

  Sunlight cast a hot patch on the rug. He could smell the warm fibres. The room was cheery, large and bright. Plants were dotted everywhere, a profusion of them, adding a surreal sense of the outdoors brought inside. Mrs Denning sat with her delicate hands clasped lightly in her lap.

  “We have need of your assistance, Mr Wilkinson,” she said.

  “Naturally I would do all that I can to assist you, but I fear I cannot understand how I may be of help to you,” he replied. He glanced over at Michael Denning; he stood silently by the fireplace, as if he were on guard, hands clasped behind his back.

  “I have something to confess, Mr Wilkinson,” she said evenly. “This must remain confidential between you and me. It must remain forever within the bounds of these four walls. Do you give me your word, young man? Can I trust you on this?”

  He nodded, bemused. “But of course.”

  “I have a son, of a similar age to you. A younger brother to Michael called Stephen.”

  “I am sure he is a fine young man.”

  “He is…” she thought hard on the words “…special.”

  “As all children are,” he said.

  “Indeed they are, Mr Wilkinson. But Stephen is special suffers from an unusual condition; a condition even he is unaware of. It has been apparent since he was a little boy. Ordinarily he appeared as any normal boy, though very lazy and unable to focus his attention on anything meaningful for any length of time, a proclivity he has carried with him into adulthood. But there were odd-times when he exhibited a severe change of temperament, so drastic that it were as if it were a different boy altogether. He would become cold, brutal almost. On one occasion we found him with the cat; he had cut off its tail, Mr Wilkinson. By degrees he would return to his normal self and remember none of what had passed.”

  “That is terrible!” he exclaimed. “Did you not let the doctor examine him?”

  “We have privately seen our share of specialists in the mind over the years,” she admitted, “though to no avail. It has been called a division in the mind. A dissociation disorder, prompted by some traumatic experience in his past of which we have no knowledge. There is no cure. However, the episodes, his seizures as we call them, happen very infrequently now he is grown into a man.”

  Wilkinson frowned. “But happen they do? And how do they manifest themselves now?”

  “Mr Wilkinson, as I said earlier, we request your assistance. You are shortly to be studying in Paris, yes?”

  He was surprised. “Yes, how come you to know this?”

  She looked towards Michael. “Suffice to say, we would rather Stephen leave the country for a while, spend a little time abroad. He has declared his interest in pursuing a career in art and recently requests he attend a school there.”

  “May I ask the sudden reason for his departure?”

  “That is rather a sensitive issue that I fear I cannot fully disclose.”

  “And what is it you desire of me?” He was growing uncomfortable with the conversation. The room felt suddenly very stifling and over-warm. He felt sweat begin to trickle down his spine.

  “We should like you to be his…” she mulled over the words again “…his protector. To watch over him. To be his guardian. To ensure that any – any episodes are suitably dealt with.”

  “Covered up, is that your meaning?”

  “In crude terms, yes, Mr Wilkinson.”

  He rose to his feet. “I am sorry, Mrs Denning, but what you ask of me I cannot do. You must
choose some other man for the job.”

  “We have already chosen,” said Michael stepping forward, the first time he’d spoken since introducing him to his mother. “And the man we feel most capable is you.”

  “Then I decline the position.”

  “I ask you to reconsider,” he said firmly. “Please, take your seat, Mr Wilkinson.” He waited patiently whilst he did so. He smiled. “Are you familiar with the affair of the Equality League, Mr Wilkinson?” he asked.

  * * * *

  “I entered your house a free man, Stephen, with the world very much at my young feet, and I left it a prisoner. Shackled to your family. You see, your family rides high in society. It has a great deal at stake. Both father and son famous in their own right. Powerful men, nonetheless. One has the ear of Royalty, the other a forthcoming seat in the House of Lords. But it is a precarious ride, for it would not take much to knock it off its perch, would it? Such is the fickle nature of people. So one must protect one’s family interests at whatever costs. It is a veritable disease, Stephen, which infects even a sad, filthy little village like Porthgarrow. Gerran Hendra died trying to protect his family’s name and good standing; murder was committed and covered up because of it.

  “Now think on it: how to deal with a man such as yourself. Can they lock him away in some madhouse? No they cannot. The shame if it got out would be unbearable, particularly as he is not mad in the conventional sense but suffers from periodic shifts in personality. But how to prevent calamity, that is the question? How to ensure he does no harm when he has one of these seizures, there’s the difficulty. What better way than to direct his life in such a way that such an embarrassment can be avoided. To place him where any incident may be lost, unheeded or suitably covered up. And to have someone watch over him at all times to aid this.” He bent down to the knife, picked it up and held it out to Stephen. “I say to you again, Stephen, do you recognise this blade?”

  He shook is head vigorously. He turned and saw a drop of sweat run its way down his brother’s temple, his Adam’s apple jerk as he swallowed. His face drained of colour and had the texture of wax. “Spit out your poison, Terrance,” he said, “and be done with this hellish game you play!”

  “You still hold that I used this to kill the Polsue girl? That I killed the Breton woman, too?”

  “Yes, most definitely!” he spat. “And you will swing for it!”

  “No, Stephen, it was not I who wielded this knife; it was you.”

  Stephen Denning’s mouth dropped open at the suggestion. He gave a wheezy gasp as he tried his best to formulate a reply.

  “Of course,” Wilkinson continued, “you were ignorant of the fact. For in truth, the Stephen Denning that sits here now did not commit murder. But the other Stephen Denning most surely did. He slit the throats of both women. And if I do not put a stop to this now he will do so again, and again.”

  “You lie!” he cried. “You think you can shift blame to me with some absurd theory?”

  “Before you argue otherwise, Stephen, think clearly on one thing: think of your headaches, your seizures. They cause you to black out, yes?”

  He was completely stunned by what he was hearing, and by his brother’s reluctance to say anything. When he answered it was as if it were in a dream. “Yes, I can remember briefly how they come on, but they are unexpected and are tremendously painful. I do not know the trigger. I often pass out; for it is true I cannot recall anything except when I am recovering, which is painful and prolonged. They are rare occurrences, but I dread them.”

  “When did you suffer the last one, Stephen?” he asked gently.

  He thought about it. Then his face froze. “It was…” but he found he could not answer.

  “It was on the night of the murder of the Polsue girl, was it not?”

  “Do not listen to this trash, Stephen,” Michael Denning insisted. “He is playing with your head, twisting the facts to suit his fanatical, scheming little plans. He is quite insane, every bit as capable as you maintained, of killing those women.”

  “But it was a combination of the drink, the chemicals…” muttered Stephen. “That’s what must have brought it on.” He thought back to the night in Biddle’s room, the images of the dead Connoch woman. “Yes, I am certain it was that,” he said.

  Wilkinson eyed the young man, saw the confusion rippling through him. “Perhaps,” he said. “And you still think at the heart of you going to France was for you to become an artist? This was not entirely so. Something happened, some episode, the details of which I am ignorant of to this day, that occasioned your mother to want to ship you over to the continent. And I was to be your protector, your guardian, to keep careful watch over you. The mean backstreets of Paris, with their brothels, their drinking houses and all manner of debauchery, was somewhere where any incidents, should they occur, would be lost.

  “And yet I did not at that time fully comprehend the full nature of your special condition, nor the depths of despair into which I would be plunged. On the contrary, though we were like chalk and cheese I grew to like you, for your own sake, and the role I assumed became less that of a hired guardian and more that of a close friend. The longer I spent with you the more I came to believe the entire thing was a figment of a mother’s overly energetic imagination. By the time we moved into our makeshift studio in Madame Charpentier’s I had all but forgotten about them, and pushed the bizarre encounter with your mother and brother to the back of my mind.”

  Here he massaged his temple, furrowed the skin there, as if to try and dislodge agonizing memories. “You remember Frederick, Madame Charpentier’s little poodle of a man? Her ‘plaything’ as she referred to him? He had grown quite attached to us; to you in particular. One night – it was late but I was not yet in bed – he came running to my room, knocking fervently at the door. He was in a state, distraught, clawing at me and telling me I must come quickly to your room.

  “I followed him; your room being at the far end of the corridor it took me but a few seconds to reach the door, which was wide open. I heard a strange gurgling, choking sound, but could not see plainly for the room was in almost total darkness…”

  * * * *

  “Please hurry and do something!” squealed Frederick, his face as white as a sheet. “He will kill her!”

  Wilkinson could not believe what was transpiring before him. Denning was on the floor, kneeling over a woman who was quite naked. He had his hands around her throat and was throttling the life from her.

  “You bitch! You bitch!” he cried as the woman’s eyes rolled up into her head revealing orbs of stark white.

  “Stephen! Stephen! What are you doing, man?” he said, but he was oblivious to anyone in the room.

  Wilkinson leapt forward and pulled him away, but in an instant he had punched Wilkinson in the ribs with a series of manic blows that left him stunned and winded. His face was a cold, heartless mask. He calmly took a poker from the fireplace and raised it above his head with the intention of lashing out at Wilkinson.

  “Stephen! Stop this!” Wilkinson wheezed.

  Denning hesitated. A spark of recognition flashed in his eyes. He threw the poker across the room where it hit a jug and bowl on a side table; it shattered at once, water cascading everywhere. He walked calmly from the room, crashing into Frederick’s terrified body as he did so.

  “What happened here?” Wilkinson asked of the woman who had recovered enough to put a hand to her throat and gave a sharp, hacking cough. He pulled a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her naked shoulders.

  “I came to give Mr Denning a loaf, which I had gotten from the kitchen for him,” said Frederick, his voice as thin as tissue paper, tears glazing his eyes. “And I happened upon this. He would have killed her! I must tell Madame Charpentier at once!”

  “No, wait!” said Wilkinson, but it was too late, Frederick had already taken off at a pace down the corridor and he could hear him rattling down the old staircase. Wilkinson bent to the woman. “What happ
ened?” he asked.

  “He turned on me like a mad dog,” she croaked, grasping her red-rimmed throat, her expression one of fear and anger. “One moment I am soothing his poor head, at his request, the next I find his hands around my neck.”

  He could get no more out of her, for she wanted to escape the room lest Denning returned. As she struggled through the door, still loosely wrapped in the blanket, Madame Charpentier rushed into the room, Frederick at her heel.

  “What devilry goes on here?” she shrieked. “What has he done to my girl?”

  Wilkinson shook his head. “I do not know, Madame,” he replied shakily. But in his mind he did.

  “You will leave at once!” she said, putting an arm around the young woman and telling her to take a glass of gin to calm her nerves and settling the blanket more securely about her trembling shoulders. “Do you hear, me, Mr Wilkinson? Take that monster, Denning, with you. I have seen his type before and I will not suffer it under my roof!”

  Wilkinson begged she reconsider. They had nowhere to go. “It was an accident,” he said in weak defence. “He is plainly not himself.” But it was to no avail.

  “First thing tomorrow morning!” she burst. “And if you take my advice, Mr Wilkinson, you will abandon Mr Denning to steer his own course and not bind up your fate with his!”

  She stormed away. Frederick hung around in the doorway, his hands wringing before him, before meekly answering to her sharp call.

  * * * *

  “You returned that same night, or very early in the morning,” said Wilkinson. “I heard you stumble into your room. I checked on you and you were fast asleep on the bed, fully clothed. You were completely insensible to my entreaties, and remained so. But of course when you awoke you did not remember a thing. The attack, threatening me with the poker, nothing. To you the events of the night had never happened. You complained of a blinding headache, that you be left alone, and were taken by surprise when I told you we had to leave Madame Charpentier’s. I fear you secretly blamed me for it, for you could not fathom what had prompted her to issue such a command. I did not tell you what had transpired, though I was sorely tempted. But to do so would have broken the covenant I had made with your mother, and in doing so would have put my own father at risk. So I kept the incident to myself.