BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (10 page)

‘Behold!’ cried Pettigrew. ‘The queen of death! The taker of souls! The gallows! Who would cheat death?’

A pretty woman, with red feathers threaded through her long golden ringlets, was led by two players dressed as soldiers up wooden steps onto the base of the gallows. She had her hands tied behind her back, and before a black bag was placed over her head she cried out: ‘Oh, please forgive my sins! For I have murdered my lover and his blood is on my hands!’

The audience booed her and her head was covered by the black bag, the noose lowered and secured around her slender, vulnerable throat.

‘See how the villainess quakes!’ Pettigrew said dramatically as the two soldiers stood aside. ‘For soon she must meet her maker and answer to Him that sees all!’

Pettigrew put his hand on a lever. The audience went deathly quiet as expectation bloomed around the room like a cold, creeping mould. He yanked the lever and the young woman’s feet plummeted into the base of the gallows. She hung there, the noose taut, her slender, still form swinging slightly, and a groan went up from the audience, a number putting their hands to their mouths in shock. Then the lights were dimmed as the corpse was lowered by the soldiers.

‘But she does not die, for lo! Her ghost walks among the living!’

He pointed to the back of the barn and the young woman with the red feathers in her golden hair appeared in the open doorway.

The audience first gasped their disbelief and then erupted into a roar of approval and applause.

‘How did you do it?’ someone asked as the gallows was covered over and wheeled away.

‘There is no trickery, only magic!’ Pettigrew responded, pleased with the reaction. ‘But behold, our ghost now becomes the knife thrower’s target. She came to the front, taking a bow, and was trussed ceremoniously to a rough cross, a large potato placed on her head and one in each of her outstretched hands.

He watched disinterestedly as the knife-thrower tossed his blades. Watched as the woman gave her bows and went off stage. Blackdown looked around for Harvey Grey but there was no sign of him. Perhaps it had been a hoax after all, he thought.

A boy tugged at Thomas Blackdown’s coattails. He looked down as the young lad placed a piece of paper in his hand and scampered away. Stepping outside into the cool air, Blackdown unfolded the paper and read the uneducated scrawl: MEAT ME AT THE BAK OFF THE BARNE.

Night had drawn its cloak over the land. The hills black against the slightly lighter hue of the sky. Blackdown trudged down by the side of the long barn, the noise from the appreciative crowd inside booming. There was a single lamp burning, hung by a nail onto a stout wooden beam hammered into the ground, but its light did little to put a dent in the encroaching night.

‘Grey?’ he said quietly. There was no response, only the shifting of the leaves on trees beside the barn. Thomas Blackdown pulled out his pistol and cocked it, stealthily going round to the back of the barn. He heard the moan of a cow, hooves trampling soft ground behind a wooden fence, their shapes vague in the gloom. ‘Where the devil are you, Grey?’ he said, his voice seeming overly loud.

A cheer went up from inside the barn.

Something was wrong, he thought.

He went to the wooden beam and lifted off the lantern, shining it before him. He saw something on the ground shift under the thin breeze. He bent down and picked it up. A tiny red feather. His eyes narrowing he pocketed the feather and searched further ahead and came across scuff marks on the ground, pointing in the direction of the fenced-off cows. He followed the trail. The cows backed off at seeing him, the lantern lighting up the whites of their suspicious, glaring eyes.

As they retreated he saw the body lying face down in the mud, a thick dark pool of blood forming a gruesome pillow for its head. Blackdown clambered over the fence, set the lamp down and turned the body over.

It was Harvey Grey.

His throat had been cut, so deep it had almost severed the head from its shoulders.

‘His acting was bad, but it wasn’t
that
bad,’ said Commodore Pettigrew, looking down at the lifeless body of Harvey Grey. ‘Though many have thought it so and threatened just such a punishment.’ He shook his head solemnly, taking off his hat. Others from the theatre company gathered round. He raised his hands. ‘What am I to do without a Prince Regent?’

‘The man is dead,’ said Blackdown, ‘and all you care about is where your next Prince Regent will come from?’

Pettigrew stared deep into Blackdown’s eyes. ‘A dead man is relieved of making a living. A living man has to continue making it. Life must go on.’

There came the sound of laughter and the scraping of violins from inside the barn. Life did indeed still go on, thought Blackdown. ‘He said he wanted to meet me,’ said Blackdown. ‘He had important things to tell me.’

‘Harvey Grey never had anything important to tell anyone,’ said Pettigrew, ‘other than the tales he thought were important, like playing the London stages, which, I’ll wager, were more products of a drink-sodden imagination. But whichever way you look at it, he’s not going to say anything now, is he? And he’s left me in the lurch as well. Inconsiderate, selfish bastard that he was!’

‘Perhaps someone wanted him to keep quiet,’ said Blackdown.

‘He was attacked because he owed people money,’ Pettigrew said flatly. ‘There was never a more ardent, or more hopeless a gambler than Harvey Grey. He’d been threatened before. Seen it with my own eyes. And thus he lies here with his gizzard slit like a goose at Christmas because of his infernal betting. He’d put a wager down on anything, from a racing snail to a cockfight. Well, Harvey Grey, it caught up with you good and proper and I should have put money on the outcome myself, for I would be wallowing in guineas now!’

The sound of horses’ hooves pounding the soft soil of the field caused them all to turn their heads to the sound. Blackdown saw Pettigrew roll his eyes as two riders wearing black leather hats and blue coats studded with glinting brass buttons came thundering up to them. Their mounts were old and heavy-set farm horses that didn’t appear to appreciate the energy they’d had to expend. They snorted disdainfully. One of the men dismounted.

He was relatively young in years, and his ill-fitting uniform seemed to hang on him, making him look even more ungainly than he was. ‘We received word about the murder,’ he said, tying the horse’s bridle to the fence. He stepped closer to the group of people and stared down at the corpse, his nose wrinkling. ‘Who is he?’ he asked.

‘Harvey Grey,’ said Commodore Pettigrew. ‘My Prince Regent…’

The man squinted confusedly at Pettigrew. ‘Is he dead?’

Blackdown laughed hollowly. ‘I don’t think it is a second mouth that has opened up in his throat, do you? Of course he’s dead. Who are you? Parish constables? Night watchmen?’

‘I will not be counted amongst their inferior numbers,’ he said disdainfully. The young man moved closer to Blackdown, his eyes growing colder. ‘I am an officer of Sir Peter Lansdowne’s Blackdown Horse Patrol, and will be treated with the respect that post confers on me. More to the point, who are you, sir?’

‘I don’t know of any Blackdown Horse Patrol,’ said Blackdown.

‘Then you had better learn of it. We are here to keep law and order. Sir Peter Lansdowne had the company formed, following a model that has been successful in London – the Bow Street Horse Patrol.’

‘You fight crime?’ said Blackdown, suppressing a chuckle. He looked at the man’s leather belt which housed a wooden truncheon, a beat-up cutlass and a worn old pistol. ‘I suspect the criminals are shaking in their boots.’

The young man’s face was seen to colour, even in the dim lantern light. He withdrew his truncheon and rapped Blackdown’s chest hard with it. ‘Do not think to mock or cross us,’ he warned.

‘We don’t mean trouble,’ Commodore Pettigrew interrupted.

Blackdown grabbed the truncheon in an instant, released it from the young man’s hand, dropped it to the ground with a clatter and took hold of his arm. He twisted the man around and had a pistol aimed at his head so fast that he gasped aloud with the shock of it. The mounted rider pulled his own pistol from his belt in alarm.

‘Don’t do that!’ warned Blackdown.

The rider slowly slid the pistol back into his belt, holding up his empty hand. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he said.

Blackdown pushed the young man away and put his pistol back into his coat pocket. ‘Don’t ever do that again,’ he said. ‘Don’t ever do that.’

The young officer of the Blackdown Horse Patrol turned round and glared, rubbing his arm. ‘I could have you taken into custody,’ he said.

‘Try it,’ said Blackdown evenly. He bent down and picked up the truncheon, throwing it at the young man. He caught it awkwardly and nearly dropped it again. ‘Who is this Sir Peter Lansdowne who thinks he can create his own little army of vagabonds?’

‘We are not an army. Nor vagabonds. We are paid to keep order.’ He glowered at Blackdown.

The mounted rider spoke up. ‘Do you not know of Sir Peter?’

‘I have been away many years,’ Blackdown returned.

‘Indeed you have! He’s had a house in the region for ten years or more. He was dismayed at the incidents of highway robbery and other thievery so he decided to do something about it. The Horse Patrol employs ten men, sometimes more, and all out of his own purse.’

‘And we do feel a lot safer,’ said Commodore Pettigrew with a twinkle in his eye.

‘So who discovered the dead man?’ asked the young officer, regaining his composure.

‘Me,’ said Blackdown.

‘Did you find him as he is?’

‘If you mean dead, then yes. I was meant to find him alive.’

‘What was your business with him?’

‘A business that is none of your business,’ said Blackdown.

‘How do we know you did not kill him?’

‘You don’t.’ He eyed the officer. ‘But I’m telling you it wasn’t by my hand that he died. A cut to his throat by my blade wouldn’t have been so messy.’

‘Grey was in debt,’ said Pettigrew quickly, trying to defuse the situation. ‘He died because he couldn’t pay his debts. He has been threatened before and it has caught up with him at last.’

The young man nodded. He walked around Harvey Grey’s corpse, rubbing his chin in thought. ‘Did anyone see anything?’

‘The first we heard of it was when we were alerted by this man.’ Pettigrew nodded at Blackdown.

‘We’ll search the area. His killer cannot be far away. Cover up this poor man with something and I’ll arrange for his body to be removed.’ He looked up at Blackdown. ‘You’re a stranger here, though you do look familiar.’

‘I’m a Blackdown,’ he said. ‘Thomas Blackdown.’

The man’s lips spread into a grin. ‘A Blackdown, eh? So you are related to that traitorous Lord Blackdown?’

‘His son. And I’ll not have you speaking so about him. His name was cleared.’

The man didn’t say anything in reply. He mounted his horse and looked upon Blackdown with a modicum of contempt. ‘You’re not welcome around here, Blackdown. None of you are. It would be in your interest if you left the town.’

‘People keep telling me that,’ Blackdown replied. ‘I grow bored of hearing it.’

‘I’ll arrange for the body to be removed to the morgue,’ said the officer.

‘Is that it?’ said Blackdown. ‘That’s all there is to it? Keeping law and order isn’t as onerous as I’d first thought.’

‘Keep your mouth shut, Blackdown,’ he said, ‘and take your leave of this town.’

‘This is still
my
town,’ he returned. ‘Or my family’s town. Take care what you say.’

‘You’re finished, Blackdown. The family is finished. You’ve had your reign and now it’s time to hand over the crown to others better suited. Others that are not lovers of the French.’

Thomas Blackdown remained outwardly calm. He strode over to the officer’s horse, stroked its muzzle. It blew air down its nostrils at the touch and nuzzled into his calming hand. ‘Have you had a busy night?’ he asked the young man. ‘Only I see there is mud on your boot. And is that a spot of blood?’

The man glanced down. ‘There is much blood splashed around here,’ he said, yanking hard on the reins and pulling the horse’s head away from Blackdown’s fingers. And with that the two horsemen galloped away into the night.

‘Well don’t stand around here gawping!’ said Pettigrew to the onlookers. ‘The show must go on! Back inside with you!’ He threw his hands up in exasperation. ‘What am I to do without a Prince Regent? He gets the biggest laughs.’ He eyed Blackdown. ‘I did not know I’d been addressing one of the Blackdowns, sir.’

‘I need a list of Grey’s enemies,’ said Blackdown.

‘That would be a very long list. All people were his enemies, except those that were his friends, and he didn’t have any friends.’

‘You must know something, Pettigrew.’

The man grinned. ‘Everyone knows something, Mr Blackdown. But I prefer my neck to remain whole.’ He frowned. ‘You are of noble birth, sir. How would you like to play the Prince Regent for me? I will pay handsomely.’

Blackdown glowered at him. ‘I will pay you handsomely for any information that will lead me to Grey’s killers.’

‘Forget him, he was here and now he is gone. That is the way of things. He walked this land of mere mortals all those years without making his mark on the world, and so it is hardly likely he will make a mark after his death. Are you sure you won’t consider being my Prince Regent? I can make you famous the country over!’

Thomas Blackdown turned his back on the offer.

He hung about the barn till the entertainments were finished, made enquiries of some of the crowd, managed to pin down one or two of the players in the wings, but Blackdown was no wiser when the barn finally emptied of people and the music and general hubbub died down. Pettigrew ordered the taking down of the curtains and screens, and in minutes this scene of bright excitement, music and laughter had reverted to its dull, shabby former self. Blackdown noticed how his questioning of the troupe only seemed to draw them closer together, the overly confident and exuberant voices of earlier now strangely stilled, their attitude towards him distinctly chillier. There was no more to be had there that night.

He made his way down the thinly-populated street and into the inn. He climbed the stairs wearily. At such times a wound he received in his leg from a French musket ball pained him and he cursed. His body bore many such trifling though irksome wounds. His mind considerably more.

He paused with his key outside the door to his room, but bent down and peered into keyhole. The tiny eiderdown feather had disappeared. Someone had used a key to enter the room or had been picking it.

So much for paying someone to watch his room, he thought.

Putting his ear to the door, he listened intently, but heard nothing coming from within.

Without hesitation he went to the empty room next door – the additional room he’d paid for – and opened the door quietly. He made his way over to the window, opened it and clambered softly onto the wooden ledge outside, hoping the timbers were stout enough to take his weight and not so rotten as to collapse and send him hurtling to the ground. The last thing he wanted now was a broken leg. He withdrew his pistol, cocked it and eased himself the short distance along the ledge to the opened window of his room. Carefully peering through the window into the gloom he made out the shape of a dark, hooded figure sitting in a chair facing the door, lit only by the feeble light from a guttering candle on the far wall.

He squinted but made out no more detail. The figure waited patiently. Quietly. As still as a shadow.

He pushed open the window and pointed the gun at the figure’s head. ‘Don’t move, whoever you are, or I swear I’ll blow the brains from your skull.’

In a moment Blackdown had slipped through the window, landing deftly in the room and advancing upon the figure, which turned slowly round to face him.

‘Can’t you use the door like any normal person?’ said the woman, reaching up and pulling down her hood. ‘And put away your pistol. As you can see, I am unarmed.’ She opened her cloak to reveal a thin, low-cut dress, and held out her slender bare arms. Her hair hung in golden ringlets on her shoulders.

‘I recognise you. You are the hanged woman and the knife-thrower’s assistant,’ said Blackdown, un-cocking the hammer. ‘Take off your cloak so that I may see if you carry any of those knives with you.’

She sighed, rose to her feet and let the cloak slip to the floor. ‘Satisfied? Or shall I remove my dress, too?’ There was a wicked glint in her wide, beautiful brown eyes. Her pale, flawless skin was suffused in candlelight and gave the impression that it glowed.

‘Sit,’ he said, putting away his pistol. She did so, and he stood before her, his arms folded. ‘How did you get a key?’

‘I picked the lock.’ She opened her hand. ‘I believe this is yours,’ she said, holding out the tiny eiderdown feather.

Thomas Blackdown went to his pocket and pulled out the red feather he found near Harvey Grey’s body. ‘And I believe this is yours.’