Reverend Biddle adjusted the legs of his wooden tripod and adjusted the camera. It would be a good photograph. The light was excellent. The resulting image would benefit from being in sharp relief.
The body of Terrance Wilkinson was resting against a rock, half sat, half lying; his stomach and chest were covered in blood. Two distinct wounds. In his hand was a small derringer with which he had taken his own life. A couple of bees, tempted out by the warm weather, floated around his legs.
Poor man, thought Biddle. To take one’s own life one must be desperately low, he thought. But who was the man discovered dead on the beach and wrongly mistaken for Wilkinson, and how did he come to be in possession of his grandfather’s ring? A thief, perhaps? Or made as a gift by Wilkinson as he divested himself of all worldly goods in preparation for his transition to the next life? These artists are such morbid types, he thought. Perhaps it was inevitable. He had always seemed such a distant, introspective young man.
He took the photograph, thanked the men around him, a police officer and two locals, who moved to take care of the body. He carried his hefty equipment back down the hill, hurrying, for he knew there was precious little time to carry out the development of his image before the chemicals went off.
As he passed Wilkinson’s old house, he saw Jenna Hendra outside. She looked agitated. “Can I help you, Jenna? Do you seek Stephen?”
“Yes,” she said. “I need to speak with him about a personal matter we discussed recently.”
“I am afraid he has left with his brother, on the noon coach to Penleith. They assured me they would not be returning. The artists’ colony has died with the death of Mr Wilkinson. They were close friends, you know, and Mr Wilkinson’s demise has affected Stephen deeper than we could both know, particularly as he has had to endure his loss twice over. I saw him getting on the coach and he was a shadow of the man he was. He looked positively ill.” He settled the tripod more comfortably against his shoulder. “Mr Denning did not think to inform you he was leaving? I find that most unusual. He had a close attachment to you. Or perhaps I imagined it.”
She shook her head. “He did not think to inform me.” She smiled thinly. “Yes, Reverend Biddle, you imagined his close attachment. So too did I, it appears.” She turned and descended down the hill towards the village.
A sad figure she cuts, he thought. But she will rise. It is in her blood.
* * * *
As Reverend Biddle opened his door he was greeted by Mrs Carbis who rushed up to him breathlessly. She carried a small leather suitcase. “Reverend! Reverend!” she said, coming up to him, wheezing. “I have been waiting to catch you. I have something for you.”
“For me? What is it?”
“A suitcase,” she said needlessly, holding it out to him. “It was left last night outside my door, covered with a piece of canvas to keep it dry, and with a message attached saying that it must be sent to you immediately upon discovery. I do not know who left it.”
He thanked the woman and carried the case into the house. He set it aside whilst he busied himself in developing the image. A while later he sat and looked at the photograph. Two wounds. The second fatal. The first in the stomach would not bring immediate death, but a slow lingering torture before the victim succumbed to the wound. Why shoot oneself in the stomach first, he thought?
Then he remembered the suitcase Mrs Carbis had given him. He picked it up and set it upon the table. When he opened it he was surprised to see a pile of bloody clothing, a knife with blood congealed on the handle. He started at the gruesome objects, then regained his composure and picked up a manila envelope. Inside it was a bundle of sheets of paper containing some correspondence or other. Beside this was another folded sheet of paper. He opened it and read it. It was from Terrance Wilkinson.
My Dear Reverend Biddle.
If you have received this case, I am most likely already dead. I know that I could not live and live with the terrible deeds I have been a part of. As you look upon the contents, I draw your attention to the night we discussed the photograph of the dead Confederate soldier who knew he must die and thus prepared for his own death.
You see before you my own preparation.
Yours,
Terrance Wilkinson
* * * *
Dear Reader,
Thank you for purchasing The House of the Wicked.
If you enjoyed this novel, I would be grateful if you could take the time to let other people know and put a review on Amazon. I personally read them all and take every review very seriously. As readers your thoughts and insights are extremely valuable.
Yours,
Daniel Mitchell
Also by D. M. Mitchell & available on Kindle:
Max
A date for your diaries! Coming to Kindle in December 2012:
The King of Terrors
Table of Contents
Prologue
1: Arrival
2: Jowan Connoch
3: The Cottage
4: Baccan’s Hound
5: The Return
6: The House of the Wicked
7: Baccan’s Maw
8: The Man in the Derby
9: The Jacobite Bolt
10: The Land of the Dead
11: Hevva
12: Your Humble Servant
13: The Graves of Time
14: Nightmares of Old
15: Soulful Chimes
16: Generations Long Dead
17: After All These Years
18: Begging Forgiveness
19: Dead Man’s Meat
20: The Dead Cannot Lie
21: A Full Confession
22: A Price to Pay
23: Final Preparations
The House of the Wicked (a psychological thriller combining mystery, murder, crime and suspense) Page 33