“I now felt increasingly trapped, searching for escape, and I could not look upon you save as my own personal albatross, hanging from my neck like a curse. I did not know when another seizure would take you. It could have been six weeks, six months or six years. It was like sitting in a room with a lighted bomb in its centre waiting for it to explode.
“And explode eventually it did, at Monsieur Jacques in the forest of Bois D’amour in Pont Aven.
“The night the prostitute died…” said Stephen Denning, his head snapping up. “It has haunted me ever since. I cannot shake from my head the look on your face when you came to my room; the terrible state you were in.”
“As it has haunted me,” he said hollowly. “I thought Pont Aven was suitably remote, safer than being in the city, somewhere I could take you whilst I thought the affair through. But it turned into a nightmare. Where were you on that night, Stephen? The night the woman was murdered?”
“Stephen, do not get drawn into this absurdity,” warned Michael Denning. “You encourage his madness by doing so.”
“I ask again, Stephen; where were you on that night?”
“At the hotel. You know this.”
He shook his head. “We both attended Monsieur Jacques,” he said.
“Ludicrous! I know where I was, damn you! You act out some gross fantasy. My brother is right; you are deranged.”
“We both attended,” he reiterated firmly. “That you do not recall it is of no consequence. That is a product of your condition.
“I admit to seeking out any distraction I could and, perhaps a little fearful of my increasing morbidity, insisted you accompany me. I did find this not a little ironic, that you should seek to become my keeper, not least since you were the cause of my ills. We took some food there at a table, and whilst doing so became the focus of attention for a young woman, calling herself Marie. You were flattered by her cheap presence; I merely wanted to be left alone to drown my sorrows and lose myself in a game of cards and I threw myself wholeheartedly into both, soon drinking myself close to a stupor.
“Marie hung close for a long while, thrusting her unwanted attentions on me. Eventually, after she had followed me outside and I again refused her advances, she realised she would get nothing from me and attached herself to you. I ignored the pair of you and went over to join a gaming table. How long I was there I could not tell. An hour, perhaps two or more. My drink-befuddled head lost all track of time. When I looked up there was no sign of you or the girl. Again, I did not think anything of this. Perhaps she had taken you upstairs, I thought. I finished my hand and left the table, contenting myself with another drink from the bar. Then there was the cry of alarm and the discovery of the body of Marie. The knife, which was lying beside her, was the same used at our tables to eat our steak with.
“My first thought was that I had been seen with her, had been alone outside with her, and would be a suspect. I searched frantically for you, to get us away from that place, but there was no sign, and I admit at that point I panicked. I sneaked away then ran into the forest, stumbling quite blindly, like a child, drunk and incapable of rational thought. Twice I paused and thought that I must go back and find you, and twice I ran away from this like a coward. I was lost for some time, an hour or two, but luckily I happened upon the correct path home, for I could have been wandering thus for far longer if not. As I approached the Hotel Des Voyageurs I saw the light on in your room, and at this point my first feeling was one of relief, for you had obviously gotten home safely.
“I came to your room, as you say, in a state of some distress, to find you recovering from one of your episodes, and it was only then that the full import of the night came upon me. You had no recollection of being at Monsieur Jacques. It was as if the evening had never happened. I could not – I did not – want to believe that you had anything to do with the poor young woman’s death; but I saw your clothes that you had removed. I saw that the shirt was splashed with blood, and it was then that my worst fears took a hold of me.
“Whilst your attention was diverted I stole the shirt away, to hide the evidence. It wasn’t my shirt you saw me burning, but yours, Stephen. You murdered the prostitute, and I, forced into doing it, covered the crime up for you. Yet I had to keep this from you. I even gave the impression that I was there at Monsieur Jacques alone, let you believe that somehow I was implicated in the crime. But the truth is far different. And I had to live with that. I have to live with the fact that I have been blackmailed into deliberately covering up the murder of a young woman.”
Stephen Denning gasped incredulously. “You ask me to believe that I committed a murder and have no recollection?” But his hand was shaking. Something stirred in his memory. Something dark, forcing its way to the surface of his mind. As if remembering snatches of a vile, unspeakable nightmare…
Croker gave a light chuckle. “I have read much fiction – and, in truth, I have myself stretched credulity at many points in my career as a journalist – but this fantastical story takes the biscuit!” His calm exterior, however, was showing a sign of strain, for as Wilkinson came up to him, his face was flushed red and he unconsciously fidgeted with his jacket cuffs.
“And so we come on to your involvement, do we not, Croker?” he flashed him a manic smile and swiped his hand through his hair again. He began to pace the room, waving the gun as a peculiar kind of baton keeping time to his words which spilled out in a torrent. “When we parted company, Stephen, I thought the entire affair done with. It was you that decided to sever all connection with me, and I know full well you thought me responsible for the woman’s death, that indeed you felt it was I that owed you a favour. How wonderful is fate, don’t you think? How fickle a mistress she is!”
Whilst Wilkinson’s attention was briefly diverted, Croker reached up and removed his Derby. He brought it to rest in his lap as Wilkinson turned sharply round. Croker brushed a sleeve across his wet forehead and Wilkinson pounced on the movement.
“And sweat you may, Croker! Sweat you may!” he cried jubilantly, the revolver aimed at the ceiling. He was panting madly. “I thought we had done with each other, Stephen. I thought the bargain between your family and I complete. But no, it wasn’t!” he said. “It wasn’t! It wasn’t!”
Stephen Denning passed a glance at his brother. He looked decidedly nervous, his face deathly white. Stephen rubbed at his temples, a dull ache beginning to manifest itself. Pictures played out in his head. Haunting scenarios he could hardly grasp before they faded like mist. Blood red gashes against white skin…
“No it wasn’t!” Wilkinson almost shrieked, then, unnaturally calmly: “It wasn’t over. I was summoned, two years later, to meet with your mother. She – they – had need of my services again. I must help them, she said. You see, you had become overly familiar with the wife of an American Attaché. This affair could not be tolerated. What if something happened to her? What if you were taken by one of your seizures? A common prostitute is one thing; a prominent member of society another. What shall we do with Stephen? Ha!” he said, “You can almost hear the frenzied conversations between your mother and your brother. What shall we do with Stephen? A solution had to be found, of course. You needed to be sent out of the way, somewhere safe again. Porthgarrow, the artists’ colony, my part in it – all planned. You were played like a piece on a chess board, Stephen. And like a fool you believed that a vengeful American husband was chasing you with his revolver! All lies!” he screeched. “All lies to get you down here! And you fell for it hook, line and sinker!” He laughed but I was short and void of any emotion. He stood rigid, his shoulders slumped, apparently drained of energy. “All planned…” he said softly.
“Is this true, Michael?” he asked, his eyes narrowed, lips tight. “Please tell me he is not telling the truth. You did not deceive me?”
Michael Denning held out an imploring hand. “So now you take the word of a lunatic over that of your brother?” There was a tiny crackle of alarm in is voice.
&n
bsp; “I do not know what to believe anymore!” he said angrily. He saw a woman’s pained expression flash in his mind, her mouth open in a silent scream. He squeezed his eyes tight to blot the images out, but they crept back like shadows inside his eyelids to taunt him.
“But that’s not the only reason you and I were sent down to Porthgarrow,” said Wilkinson, “for it served a dual purpose. The second of which was to quietly dispose of me, was it not, Michael?” Wilkinson did not wait for a reply but waved his hand dismissively. “But why do I ask you? All you respond with is untruth piled upon untruth. My father was dying, you see, Stephen, and they knew this. With my father dead they knew they would lose their hold on me, for what then did it matter about his reputation? What if the business suffered, when I cared not a jot for it? Their hold on me was slipping. They needed to get rid of me, and they needed a new keeper for you, Stephen.” He bent down to Croker, whose forehead was awash. “Come, Mr Croker, do you not have anything to say on the matter, as it most assuredly concerns you!”
At that moment the wind got up and rattled the door savagely in its aged frame, making Croker start. He almost shrieked in fear. Embarrassed, he ran a finger around his collar to loosen it. “Perhaps it is Baccan,” he said, a little of his swagger returning. “Growing strong on the evil doings of man,” he added. Wilkinson fixed him in an icy glare that caused the man to squirm on his seat. “Mr Wilkinson,” he said, I have gone along with this till now, because, I says to myself, this cove is mighty desperate and likely to pull the trigger if I do not; but I take no pleasure in sitting here listening to your endless accusations that puts a man’s good name, reputation and honour to the test. How am I to know what it is you talk about when I am just an innocent doing my job and finding himself held here against his will?”
“Damn you, Croker!” he bellowed. “You were sent here to kill me and take my place as Stephen’s new guardian!”
The man gave a high, nervous chuckle. “Why, Mr Wilkinson that is as foolish a thing as I have ever heard! I am a humble journalist, is all.”
Croker was taken completely by surprise when Wilkinson stepped heavily over to him and lashed the gun across his head, knocking him from the chair to the hard stone floor. His Derby went rolling across the flags. For a moment he remained on all fours, stunned. His fingers went slowly to his cheek and came away smeared scarlet with a dash of blood. He glowered up at Wilkinson, all humour and boastfulness wiped away.
“Where is it to be this time, Michael? Are you sending him out of the way to Africa, India, or America perhaps?” He saw his eye twitch at the last. “Ah, America!” said Wilkinson. “The scarcely populated West, or the cities of the East?”
“He is set to go to New York,” snarled Croker.
Wilkinson Smiled. “Of course. The gangs of New York. A fitting place – crime, corruption, murder.”
“Now let me up, you mad man!” said Croker, “and let’s be finished with this!”
His rage grew again. “Well I too am finished with this charade!” Wilkinson said, his lips quivering, beads of spittle flicking from them. He rammed the pistol hard against Croker’s temple and for a moment it seemed he would either pull the trigger or hit the man with it again. The tension in the room mounted. “Do you deny you sent a man to despatch me? Do you deny that this man…” pointing to Michael Denning “…was behind that request and that you are most likely being blackmailed into replacing me? Can you deny all this?”
Croker swung his head laboriously from side to side, getting up cautiously onto one knee, the dark eye of the pistol following his every move. “I deny it,” he said frigidly, but with brittle conviction.
Wilkinson put a hand into his coat pocket. The sudden action caused Croker to wince and close his eyes briefly. When he next opened them there was a large manila envelope held before him. “I have the man’s full confession,” he said evenly. “In here, in black and white.” He stepped away, indicating that Croker could return to his chair. “The attempt was botched. You should have invested in better,” he said, his bloodless lips twisting into a hard smirk. “And I did not stand idly by. Once I recovered my wits after my attack I gave chase…”
* * * *
22
A Price to Pay
The wind screamed down the narrow alley like a living thing intent on stopping him, its buffeting causing him to stagger. Rain lashed hard and stinging into his face and he almost lost his footing on the rain-slippery cobblestones. But he was determined to keep the man in his sight, wiped the wet from his face and lurched forward again. They left the village behind them, the cobbles giving way to a rutted earth track pock-marked with puddles into which Wilkinson stumbled blindly, cursing as he did so. His attacker, about twenty yards ahead, turned around briefly, in the lightning flashes his face twisted with fear and exhaustion.
“Stop!” cried Wilkinson breathlessly above the din of the raging storm. “Stop or I will shoot! Stop, damn you!”
But the man set off with renewed urgency, his hand clutching his wounded arm where Wilkinson’s bullet was lodged.
They left the tree-lined track behind and emerged onto the high moor where the gale blew even harder. Wilkinson fired the gun into the air. The man seemed to hesitate in his flight, but picked up the pace again, his movements made ungainly by his oxygen-starved legs. He fired the gun again and at this the man staggered to a halt, turned on the spot, his expression one of a wild and trapped animal, lungs sucking in air, gasping; he thrust out the knife before him, waving it threateningly. Wilkinson came up to him, he too out of breath. The knife swept back and forth, shining with the wet. The man looked desperately about him, but he knew escape was impossible; there was nowhere to run, to hide, on this dark, desolate expanse of elements-blasted moor.
“Throw down your knife!” said Wilkinson. He held out the revolver. The thunder grumbled overhead as if to add weight to his threat. “I am not afraid to use this, as you have found to your cost!”
The man muttered a curse then tossed the blade into the heather. He sank down to his knees, splashing in mud. “Don’t kill me!” he said, holding out a pleading hand. “Don’t go and kill me now!”
“Who are you?” he said. “
“A man down on his luck; a common thief.” He winced in pain and clutched his arm all the tighter. “You shot me. I will bleed to death.” He gave a wracking cough and spat on the ground. “He never said anything about no gun…”
“He?” Wilkinson moved a step closer.
“My mouth runs away with me. I am dying. What do you mean to do with me? I have a poor wife and children to feed. Times, they are hard. Have mercy on me. Have mercy, sir!”
“Stop your pathetic lies. They will do you no good now. Who sent you?”
“I was not sent,” he said, his voice cracking at the sight of the gun hovering near his face.
“On your feet,” he growled.
He did as he was told. Wilkinson went to stand behind him.
“What is it you plan to do with me, sir?” he said shakily.
“Make your way back down into the village,” said Wilkinson levelly.
He stumbled down the track towards Porthgarrow. “You would not be so cruel as to shoot a helpless man in the back, would you, sir?”
“I would.”
They reached Wilkinson’s house on the outer edge of the village. “Inside, if you please.” The pair went through the door, the man leading. Once inside Wilkinson made the man stand against the wall. “Who are you?” he asked.
“Matthew Doble. An undertaker of Penleith, of little consequence,” he replied sullenly.
“This is the truth?”
“Yes, the truth. I have fallen on troubled times, brought about by my gambling.”
“So you thought to add to your tally of the growing dead? Have you not enough to make a profit from with the typhoid running rampant in Penleith without adding an extra one?”
“I have developed a taste for opium,” he said sullenly, “which drives a ma
n to desperation.”
“I would feign pity, but cannot. You understand,” he said sarcastically.
“I will bleed to death if I do not attend to my wound,” he said.
“Then you will bleed to death. But not before you tell me who sent you and why.”
“I cannot.”
“You will spit out the truth or I swear I will shoot you where you stand and claim self defence. The choice is bleak, but it is yours. Are you in Benjamin Croker’s pay? Do you carry out his errand?”
The man looked surprised at his mention. The rain lashed hard and solid against the window panes, lightening flashes briefly illuminating the room. Doble licked his dry lips and then bit at the side of his mouth. “Let’s say that he is, and that he found out about some of the things I’ve secretly had to do to get money to feed my cravings; let’s say he tells me I must do something for him or he will reveal all, and that he will also pay me handsomely; let’s say this request was to see you dead and disposed of in the sea never to be found. Let’s say that’s the case and that I admit to that. It’s attempted murder on my part. If I were to admit to nothing of the sort then it is plain and simple burglary, which will go better for me.”
“Aggravated burglary,” said Wilkinson. “That will not go down well for you.” He un-cocked the hammer on the revolver and lowered it. His head lowered as he thought hard. “I will enter into a bargain with you,” he said at length. “It is in two parts. The first: confess all – your name and your instructions as given to you by Croker, and I shall set you free.”
The House of the Wicked (a psychological thriller combining mystery, murder, crime and suspense) Page 31