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

by D. M. Mitchell

  Croker shrugged apologetically. “You have me all wrong, sir. I merely make conversation, though I do say I appear to have upset you. Touched a raw nerve or two, perhaps?”

  Wilkinson gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles working hard. He touched the bulk of the revolver sitting heavy in his coat pocket. Another squall hit the window. “Leave me be, Croker. I warn you.” With this he left the inn, someone complaining at the gust of wind that tore through the open door.

  Croker waited a few moments then indicated with an abbreviated nod to a bearded man sat with a mug of ale in a quiet corner of the room, half-concealed by oily shadows. Croker went outside. Wilkinson’s dark form was hurrying away, his heels clicking on the cobbles. He heard the door to the inn open behind him and turned to see the bearded man raising his collar against the wind. His face was largely hidden by the dark, the light from the window streaking his cheek with a thin rim of gold. He passed only a cursory glance at Croker and then headed off in the same direction as Wilkinson.

  Croker creased his nose at the foul weather, took out a cigar and walked jauntily back into the inn.

  * * * *

  He was bent over against the wind and rain, his clothing already soaked through, but he was hardly aware of the discomfort. Wilkinson’s mind was racing. This Croker had him worried. Who on earth was he? How came he to know, or to hint that he knows, so much? He took the revolver from out of his pocket, the cold metal soon dripping wet. God, this has to end soon, he thought. He could take no more.

  Footsteps behind him. He stopped and turned; the cobbled street was empty now, everyone having long ago sought their own shelter. He was too highly strung, he thought, jumping at shadows now. He raced on, his own house not far away, his head swimming with the brandy.

  Footsteps, clearly this time, nailed boots rapping on the stone. Heavy. A man’s. He turned to catch sight of a shadowy figure dart incongruously into cover. There could be little doubt he was being followed. A thief, perhaps? Or was his imagination running away with him, his mind in such a disordered state it was seeing demons where there were none. He walked on, swiftly. Thunder grumbled and lightning flashed across the sky momentarily lighting up a boiling heaven. He reached the door to his cottage and thankfully slipped inside, shrugging off his wet coat and tossing it over the back of a chair. He ran cold, wet hands through his black hair, shivering. He felt he was on the verge of madness.

  The place was in darkness, but he could just make out the white, ghostly shapes of empty canvases propped up against walls, mocking him for the artist he was, or had once been. He’d had a bright career ahead of him. A shining career. Feted by the great and good. But all that disappeared when he met them. He groped his way drunkenly to the next room, heading for the small cabinet where he kept a small stash of wine and spirits. He uncorked a bottle, put the neck to his lips and guzzled greedily. He stood there, gasping for breath, trying to steady his nerves, trying to think things through.

  The sound of the wind grew louder, as if the door had been opened. Then the distinct, soft thud of the door rattling against its frame, shutting off the outside noise again. His heart pounded and he took out the revolver, aimed it at the doorway. Had he left the door open, not closed it properly in his haste to get inside? Was the wind rocking it back and forth? He stepped slowly forward. “Who’s there?” he said, his voice sounding inordinately loud in the small confines. “Show yourself!”

  Nothing. What are you afraid of? There isn’t anything there, you fool! You are indeed going mad!

  Then a large figure burst into the room from the shadows and in a ragged blast of lightning Wilkinson caught sight of a blade being raised. He stepped aside instinctively but was hit bodily by the man who had lunged at him, missing him with the knife but lashing out with a meaty fist to catch Wilkinson on the cheek. He was knocked to the floor and hit his shoulder against a table. The man growled something incomprehensible and launched himself at Wilkinson. He raised the revolver and let off a wild shot. The flash lit up his attacker’s demonic face, rage suddenly transformed to shock at the sight of Wilkinson’s gun. He paused, as if expecting to have been hit, but on realising Wilkinson had missed he threw himself at him again, the knife lodging itself into a table leg close to the artist’s panic-riddled face.

  He raised the gun again and fired, the noise deafening. The man screamed in pain and bolted from the room, blundering into things in the dark, knocking canvases and easels aside in his haste to get out. Wilkinson scrambled to his feet and followed, tried to let off another shot as the man exited through the door but found that the chamber was empty. The hammer clicked harmlessly three times before he gave up. He dashed to a set of drawers and scrabbled about inside till he laid his hands on a small cardboard box. He took out a number of cartridges and filled the gun’s chambers.

  * * * *

  Somewhere at the bottom of that black, heartless sea, were strewn the bones of her dear dead husband. On nights like this Keziah Polsue imagined what terror he must have endured as his tiny boat was battered by the storm, the fists of Baccan balled into waves that overturned his craft and plunged him headlong into the cold sea. On nights like this she felt she could hear his calling to her, his voice one of a thousand souls lost over the years to Baccan’s rage. But tonight she would see him again. Tunny had promised her it would be so and so it would come to pass.

  She clasped the tiny bottle to her chest, stared up towards the cliff top, towards night-hidden ruins of the old monastery. Tonight she would see him again, and her heart, long shrivelled by grief and torment, now swelled with joy. At midnight she would be reunited with her husband. It was fitting she should see him on just such a night, the same as the night she lost him to the waves. It was an omen.

  She turned from the sea and headed towards the cobbled road, noticing as she did so the warm glow from the inn’s windows, an indistinct, shadowy form of a man staring out at her; ghostly almost, framed by the light. It had been her husband’s only failing, the drink. This inn became his other love, his mistress. As she scampered past the window she looked up but could not make out any features on the man that studied her behind the glass. But for one heart-halting moment she fancied she saw her husband in him. In her grief she searched for him everywhere, and would bend another man’s form to fit if necessary; hear his voice in that of others; and faintly brush against a male arm simply to feel him next to her again.

  * * * *

  More rocks fell down from the cliff face and down into Baccan’s Maw. They splashed into the sea sending up huge fountains of black water. The creature was terrified. It dare not venture beyond the mouth of the cave. It whimpered at the sounds of the earth tearing itself apart, groaning, grumbling, creaking; the hellish sound of rock grinding upon rock. It did not appear to feel the biting cold through its filthy, raged clothing, crouched onto its haunches, watching in awe and terror as a huge part of the rock face crumbled and fell, hundreds of tons of mud and rock sliding down with a thunderous roar, the sound swamped by that of the storm, the debris tumbling like a mighty river down to the sea below.

  Its screams amplified by the cavern, the creature bolted deeper inside, into the dark belly of the earth where it would find safety, where it would find sanctuary.

  * * * *

  Bats flittered between the trees, darted close above her head. She felt them more than saw the night creatures, for there was little light in and around the ruins of the monastery, the tiny circle of light from her lantern doing little to fight back the shadows. The briefest of glimpses and they were gone. There could be little to tempt them out on a terrible night like this, she thought, their insect prey, like all living things, having been battered by the tempest. Leaves, torn from weather-gnarled limbs, slapped against her face, clung to her clothing as if seeking comfort, looking like bats themselves, carried on the wind to flash through the air. Soon the few trees would be stripped bare of foliage, winter falling upon them. Another long and cruel winter for her to face alone.

/>   Keziah Polsue felt the earth move, or thought she did. A brief tremor that shivered through the soles of her feet. And a distant noise, like thunder, like strong waves dashing against cliffs, but somehow subtly different. And then it was gone. She had imagined it. She shuddered, not least because up here, on the headland, she felt the full force of the gale. Even the clifftoppers had largely vacated their temporary roost and sought more sheltered spots to camp on the outskirts of the village. But she shuddered also at the intensity of the storm, and at the words of the men who’d had to abandon their boats, their catch, hearing them say they had never experienced anything as hard as this in living memory, and doubly lucky that no one had died. Their fear transferred to her. If they were afraid then they were afraid for a genuine reason. Everyone had locked themselves indoors and fastened the shutters to wait out the storm. To protect themselves from Baccan’s growing rage. There were all manner of rumours and suspicions circulating. Old uncertainties grew in strength. Old myths clawed their way out of the graves of time. The streets of Porthgarrow were not safe, they said, and so they had emptied of people.

  It was close to midnight now and she was alone, save for the ancient spirits that haunted the old ruins, and though she did not dwell upon the vindictive presence of Baccan it was mainly this, she knew, that kept people behind their doors this night, though the villagers would only allude to such fears in the vaguest terms, because to utter his name only seemed to increase his hold over them.

  She stumbled through bushes that snagged at her dress, bramble fronds that caught her legs, and paused with one hand resting on an ancient carved stone that was once a stone rib running high to a huge vaulted ceiling. In the dark it was easy to lose your bearings. But she made out the sweeping ruins of the great archway, like a single eye framing the heavens, and knew that her goal was a little beyond this.

  Something caught her eye to her right. A shape that slinked through the undergrowth. Or perhaps she had imagined it. She lifted her lantern, streaks of rain picked out in its dull glow. Nothing but bushes agitated by the wind. Her fear rose hot within her. She did not like it here, the place of the long-dead. Beyond the ruins lay the graveyard. She had always been afraid of the headland, though she had spent many an hour up here after her husband had died, staring out to sea in the vain hope she might catch a glimpse of him, headed back to shore, picked up by another boat, alive and well and waving back to her from the prow. But he had never come back. It was all death and decay up here.

  She reached the large stone slab, reputedly the site of the ancient shrine, the spot where Saint Feloc had summoned down the Archangel Michael. Though the place had been in ruins for many hundreds of years, this single stone slab had been revered by the people of Porthgarrow. A place that had attracted so many devout pilgrims had to do so for valid reasons. And the reasons, over the years, had multiplied. People swore they sat on the stone slab and been cured of a variety of ills; she had even heard that couples had made love on it and successfully conceived.

  Tonight she sought relief from the overwhelming, debilitating, razor-edged grief that she could not shake of as readily as those around her thought she should. There was a time when to give vent to such emotions was right and proper, but beyond that it was simply morbid and soul-sapping, she had been told in no uncertain terms.

  She sat on the freezing, rain-puddled slab, her wet knees tucked under her chin. She shivered uncontrollably, her fingers tight around the tiny bottle Tunny had given her. Keziah did not fully believe the contents would let her see her husband, but she desperately wanted to believe, so she uncorked the bottle and downed the bitter-tasting liquid in one long gulp, almost choking, throwing the empty vessel into the undergrowth.

  Thunder rippled across the sky and she started at the hellish sound which appeared to break directly above her head. The liquid sat warm in her stomach. She closed her eyes and listened to the wind racing around the headland, blundering through the bushes and trees like an enraged child. She strained hard to hear, because she thought she caught the sound of a whispered voice in the air – at once soothing and fragile.

  “Is that you?” she said, her own voice but a smoky whisper.

  Her mind had but a little time to register the hand that gripped her hair, her head being yanked violently back, arching her slender neck. Then the brief, white hot pain as a blade slashed across her exposed throat. And finally, a fading, comforting whisper at her ear as she slumped down to the stone, her lifeblood spilling out to mingle with the rain.

  * * * *

  14

  Nightmares of Old

  He was glad to see the sun rising into an almost clear sky, burning off the thin mists that haunted the hollows around the trees. It had for far too long been hidden behind impenetrable cloud, and now its ascent appeared cautious, almost shy. He was glad, too, to feel its warmth. The severe storm of the night before had all but blown itself out, only the last dregs of a chill wind remained to ruffle the grass.

  Tunny slapped the reins down lightly on the horse’s back and the cart gave a jolt. He guided the beast around a tree that had partially blocked the old road out of Porthgarrow. All around was evidence of last night’s beating; twigs, limbs, leaves, stones and even rocks washed into piles by the roadside. It had been so bad that he had sought shelter in the very cottage where he had been called out to tend to the ailments of an aged woman. The roads had been all but impassable, and he had only just managed to creep across one of the flooded fords; instead of a tiny, running trickle of water as usual it now resembled a fast-flowing river.

  He frowned in puzzlement as he saw a man running towards him round a bend in the road, and then, close on his heels, five or six men giving chase. He drew the horse to a halt, stepping down, and as he did so he recognised the man being chased as Jowan Connoch, face screwed in pain and lathered in sweat, his legs looking as if they could barely support his body. On seeing Tunny he slowed his pace, turned and faced his attackers.

  They soon swamped him, his flailing fists making little impression; the men mauled him mercilessly with one blow after another and Jowan crumpled beneath their combined weight, driving him thrashing and kicking to the ground. They didn’t let up their assault; someone delivered a swift kick to his side.

  “Stop that!” cried Tunny, running over to the men, dragging a couple of them off. “What are you doing? Leave the man be!”

  One man rose from the fray, pushing Tunny away with the flat of his hands. “Get away, old man! It’s none of your business!”

  But Tunny did not back off. He grabbed a hold of the man’s arm, spun him round to face him. “Why do you do this? Let the man up. You’ll kill him!”

  “Kill him? Aye, we’ll kill him alright! As he murdered our poor Keziah last night!”

  “What? You are mistaken, man, surely!”

  “No mistake, Tunny. My niece has been murdered. She’s up at the monastery, her young throat cut, and this bastard was the one who carried it out.” He looked down at the fray, his body tense. “I would hang him now as soon as look at him!”

  “Keziah?” Tunny murmured. “Not Keziah…” He could not quite take in what he heard. It was he that had advised her to go to the monastery at midnight, in order to help alleviate her grief. And now she was dead.

  “Enough!” the man cried. “Let him to his feet. He will pay for his sins soon enough.” Jowan was hoisted up, but his legs buckled and he was held there, hanging almost, between two men. His face was bloodied, one eye closed and swollen. The man went up close. “You murdering Connoch bastard!” he snarled, driving a steel-hard fist into Jowan’s unprotected stomach. The young man cried out and sank down.

  “That’s enough!” shouted Tunny, pushing the man away. “What proof do you have of his guilt?”

  “He’s a Connoch, Tunny, you know that. That is proof enough. And I saw him threaten you with a knife – it was Keziah who came to me and begged for me to help you, or have you forgotten already how we came to your aid? See, yo
u still have the mark of his knife upon your neck! He has been haunting the monastery for days now. He sought his revenge for the beating we gave him and has enacted it upon my poor niece.”

  “Drivel!” said Jowan, spitting out blood.

  The man hit him again and Jowan collapsed. The men let him fall to his knees. He remained doubled up, clutching his stomach. “Why did you run if you were innocent?”

  He gulped in deep breaths. “To avoid another beating from you and your apes!” he said defiantly. “I have had my fill of them.”

  He was about to deliver another blow when Tunny put a hand on his arm. “So you find a man guilty before he is even arrested and tried? Are you now the law?”

  “And you’d have the murderer escape? We are to take him and lock him up in a cellar until the police get here. A message has been sent to the constable in Penleith.”

  “On whose instruction is he to be held so?”

  “Mr Hendra’s,” he said, “which is all the authority I need. Now step away, Tunny, or I swear I will not be responsible for what happens to you.”

  “Where is Hendra?”

  “He is in the ruins, with the body of my niece.”

  Tunny mounted the cart. “You do not harm Jowan further, or, by God, you will answer to me for it!”

  “Do you now side with Baccan, Tunny?” he growled. “This was all his doing – the storm, the loss of the catch and Keziah’s murder. And this man was at the heart of it. He has brought us nothing but misfortune, Tunny. He is in league with Baccan, like every generation of Connoch before him. We need to wipe them out forever.” He put his face close to Jowan’s. “You will hang, Connoch!”