BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (12 page)

‘By whom?’

‘Anonymously, unfortunately. They were in French and were said to have been taken from an enemy baggage train in France just before Napoleon’s capture and exile. They went into great detail about a network of spies, and the leaking of information to the enemy that seemed to betray English plans; plans which had been very real. They also predicted Napoleon’s escape from exile his attempt to take back France and Napoleon’s plans to make peace with Britain and its allies. The papers implicated your father, stating that he would use his influence to turn influential people towards backing a deal with the emperor, and failing that to help force an uprising over here to demand Napoleon’s reinstatement as sole ruler of France. It was all a complicated hoax, as it turned out. Many elements of the papers were discredited and eventually your father’s name was cleared. But your father had been pounced upon by many hounds, his name dragged through the mire, and he wanted revenge.’

‘So who would have wanted to carry out such a hoax?’ Blackdown asked.

Tresham shook his head. ‘We shall never know. That it had been aimed at him with the intention of discrediting him is without doubt, but though every effort has been made we cannot trace the origin of that scandalous affair.’

‘And Jonathan’s death…’ said Blackdown.

‘Ah,’ said Tresham. ‘That came at the height of your father’s attempt to sue all and sundry for their slanderous insults. Instead of diverting his attention from his growing mania, his son’s death merely threw oil on the fire of his desires. He’s been like a man obsessed ever since, and you see the distressing results.’

Blackdown noticed Julianne was wringing her hands on her lap, her face pale. ‘Who would want Jonathan dead?’ he asked her.

Her eyes widened. ‘He was killed by an animal,’ she said. ‘Everyone has said it was so.’

‘So you believe in the Beast of Blackdown, too?’

‘I don’t know what I believe anymore,’ she said. ‘All I know is that Jonathan was taken from me most cruelly. He was my life. We were to be married, even if that meant going against your father’s wishes. He threatened to disown Jonathan and remove his inheritance if the wedding went ahead. But Jonathan still wanted to marry me.’

‘A sad affair. And she has refused many offers since,’ Tresham added. ‘But soon she must try to forget what happened and move on with her life…’

‘Forget Jonathan?’ she said. ‘You ask me to forget him?’

‘Julianne…’ he said, sighing. ‘You are my only child. My precious daughter. You came to me late in life when we thought we may never have a child of our own. It cuts me up so to see you grieving like this, but life goes on…’

‘My life ended with Jonathan’s,’ she said.

‘Don’t say that, dear,’ he said, attempting to take her hand again. But she pulled it out of his reach. He turned to Blackdown. ‘Jonathan was like a son to me, Thomas. Your father like a brother. And now it is all turned to dust. Would that I could bring back your mother and brother from the grave, and turn your father back to the man he once was, but alas it is not in my power.’

‘Why was Jonathan up at Devilbowl Wood that night?’ Blackdown asked.

‘I don’t know,’ said Tresham. ‘But sometimes he would ride the Blackdown land checking to see all was well.

‘My father said he went to meet someone.’

‘Perhaps so,’ said Julianne. ‘But he was met instead by an animal that killed him. There is no more to it. Why bring this up again? It only causes me more pain!’

‘I think that we have talked enough about Jonathan,’ said Lord Tresham. ‘So how is your father, Thomas?’

‘He is the same, perhaps worse. He is dying.’

‘Oh,’ said Tresham, his eyes widening.

‘Consumption,’ said Blackdown without any real emotion.

Tresham shook his head and rubbed his tired eyes. ‘I sought to meet with him on numerous occasions, but he refuses my every advance. I would wish to see my friend before…’

‘He doesn’t have long,’ Blackdown said evenly. ‘But I wouldn’t waste my time on him. He is set in his ways and will not be diverted.’ He reached into his coat. ‘Do you know what this is?’ He produced the black calling card from Jonathan’s trunk.

Tresham took it, turned it over. ‘A curious thing. I see the impression of a she-wolf but no more.’ He handed it to Julianne. ‘Is this familiar to you?’

It stood in contrast to her slender white fingers. She shook her head. ‘What is it?’

‘I found it among Jonathan’s possessions.’

‘It is an inconsequential piece of black card, that is all,’ she said, handing it back.

‘It may be, but I suspect it is far more than that.’ He rose to his feet. ‘I must go now, I’m sorry, but it was good to see you, Uncle Tresham. And good to meet my brother’s fiancé. I am sorry it is not under better circumstances.’

‘Will you not stay for something to eat?’ said Tresham.

He smiled at the offer. ‘Thank you, Uncle Tresham, but I have a mermaid to see.’

Commodore Pettigrew’s was just one of many companies that had set up in the large field. Tents and marquees in various sizes and quality were sprawled across the land like a vast, camped army, thought Thomas Blackdown. Colourful flags and banners waved, and men stood hailing through makeshift trumpets by an array of wooden stalls bearing fruit, beads, bread, ribbons and hats. Women wandered amongst the milling people with trays filled with sweetmeats, corn dollies or posies of dried lavender, calling out their wares. Employers’ deputies wandered down lines of men who put themselves up for hire and hoped they’d be picked. Geese were being sold to fatten up for Christmas. Piglets put into bags and handed over in exchange for coins. Fiddlers scratched different tunes and drummers beat their drums, together creating a discordant din that irritated the ears.

People whose lives were harsh and short to say the least were enjoying a brief interlude of joy and escapism, he thought. There was little money to be spent, but the traders were doing their level best in making sure what was spent was spent with them. Blackdown avoided the insistent calling of the various stallholders and made for Commodore Pettigrew’s tents, by far the largest of the companies drawn up on the field. Pettigrew had been given a prominent position at the heart of the festivities and had almost created a separate enclosure inside which all manner of wonders had been arranged.

Standing on a large red-painted box outside his makeshift enclosure was Commodore Pettigrew himself, hailing a tiny crowd of people standing around him. He told them of the wonders to be found inside the tents and booths, how they might have their fortunes told or lay their eyes upon the forbidden mysteries of the world. Behind him was a large canvas screen painted in lurid colours, detailing the said wonders.
The Pig-Faced Lady
,
The Duck Boy
, and, amongst a raft of scarcely believable human oddities,
The Mermaid of the Grand Banks
.

‘Mr Blackdown!’ he called down from his perch. ‘Have you come to regale your eyes with the delights of Commodore Pettigrew’s Human Marvels? Man and beast joined together as God never intended?’

‘I am intrigued by the wonders you offer, Pettigrew,’ he said.

‘For you, the experience is free! Enter and be astounded!’ He gave a low bow and nearly toppled from the box. He righted himself and called to the assembled audience. ‘See, we are graced by the son of nobility! And what is good for nobility is good for you! Come, come! Enter and be amazed! Do not be afraid, but those of a weak disposition should bring salts with them in case your sensitive natures are not attuned to looking upon such sights as these!’

Blackdown entered the tent and was faced with a line of crude booths made out of canvas, each booth painted with a representation of the wonder that lay within. It was gloomy, deliberately so, a number of dim lanterns hanging in strategic positions above the booths. A few people were already filing through, and he heard gasps and saw a woman put her hand to her mouth as she stared into one of the booths. She hurried out through the flap in the tent at the far end. Blackdown paused by the first booth and saw a woman sitting on a gilded chair, pretending to sew. She wore a laced poke bonnet fastened with pink silk.

‘Hoi there!’ shouted a man coming to stand beside him. He stank of beer. ‘Show us your pig’s face!’

The woman slowly turned her head. In place of her nose was a large, wide, fleshy protuberance that came down and almost hid her top lip. Her dark eyes blinked and she cocked her head.

The man gave a groan of displeasure. ‘You are indeed pig-ugly!’ he said and laughed, moving on to the next booth.

The woman stared at Blackdown, her eyes dispassionate. She calmly turned her head and went back to pretending to sew. He sighed at the poor, unfortunate woman, sickened at heart that people like her were forced to parade themselves before drunken, insensitive louts. There was a collection pail just inside the booth. He dropped in a silver coin, if anything to make himself feel better at having ogled her deformities. There but for the grace of God, he thought…

He avoided the other booths and made straight for The Mermaid of the Grand Banks. He paused outside, glancing at the painting on the canvas that told the public she had been captured by a whaler, the last of her kind. A real, live mermaid. He didn’t know what to expect.

He peered into the booth. In the dim light he saw Sarah Jones laid out on a false rock. Her upper torso was clothed in a body stocking, making it appear that she was naked, save for seaweed made out of bright-green cloth that had been draped across her breasts. She wore a wig of the same cloth seaweed. His eyes ran down the length of her body. Her legs were close together, ending in a false fishtail that she flapped lazily. He swallowed when he saw her legs were covered in coarse, scale-like flakes of skin.

‘You cannot bear to look upon them. Do you not like my mermaid legs?’ she said, her voice blunt.

‘I did not come to see your legs.’

‘A woman cannot help being born the way she is. We are not all born the sons of lords, as I said.’

‘Why parade yourself so, for the amusement of people like him?’ he said, nodding to the drunken farmhand who was now leering at the Duck Boy.

‘It is easy for your kind to preach. You who have never gone hungry.’

‘I’ve gone hungry,’ he said. He cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me…’

‘At least my Robert loved me for what I am. He looked beyond my affliction. He was going to marry me and together we would get away from this life. But he is gone and I am stuck with it.’

‘I came to tell you I will try to find out what happened to your Robert.’

‘Do you say this out of pity? I don’t need your pity, Blackdown.’

‘I came here because it would not arouse suspicion. I am a casual onlooker.’

A man and woman came to stand beside him and stare at Sarah Jones. The woman giggled. ‘Are those real scales?’ she said.

‘I am a real mermaid,’ said Sarah. ‘Caught off the Grand Banks never to see my home in the sea again.’

‘Stop staring at her breasts so!’ the woman said to her companion, and thumped him on the arm. They moved on.

‘What else do you know of the other men that went missing? The circumstances of their disappearance,’ Blackdown asked when the couple were out of earshot.

‘I thought you said Robert left me for another woman. Does not seeing my legs confirm that belief for you?’ she said coldly.

‘I believe a man can love someone for who they are,’ he said softly.

‘What changed your mind?’

‘Do you want my help?’

She nodded. ‘I know little of the men’s disappearance beyond the fact they were said to have run away.’

‘And where can I find this Mighty Callisto you spoke of, the prize-fighter? He seems sure your life would be in danger by pursuing any enquiries. I’d like to know why.’

‘He will not speak to you, Mr Blackdown,’ she said, sitting up on her false rock. ‘He is a quiet man for all he is built like and ox and twice as ugly.’

‘Where will I find him?’

‘He fights daily. You can’t miss him. He’ll either be in his tent getting ready or fighting in the ring. Mr Blackdown?’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘You don’t think the Beast of Blackdown got my Robert, do you? I have heard so many tales about the beast…’

‘Move on there!’ said a voice at the far end of the line of booths. ‘You’ve had more than your time!’

Blackdown turned to see a large man in the shadows. ‘I’ll move along when I’ve a mind,’ he replied.

‘Please, don’t aggravate him. He is our keeper,’ said Sarah.

‘Your keeper? Are you considered animals to be assigned a keeper?’

‘It is the way. Please…’ she said.

Blackdown looked up to see the man striding purposefully towards him. He noticed the man had a short wooden cudgel hanging from a leather belt.

‘Don’t do anything rash,’ said Sarah in a whisper.

‘If I have any news on your Robert’s disappearance, I’ll let you know,’ he told her. He glanced at the approaching man. ‘Just leaving,’ said Blackdown, tipping his hat to the man and walking away, emerging through the flap into the bright light again.

Callisto’s tent was easy enough to find. It was a small, ragged affair outside of which had been erected a crude boxing ring made up of rope strung between four stakes hammered into the ground. A large image of the boxer had been painted to a piece of canvas and underneath the words
The Mighty Undefeated Callisto! The Wonder of Rome!
A small expectant crowd had already started to gather around the ring. Blackdown went round to the tent’s entrance and slipped inside.

A large, muscular, bare-chested man, clean-shaven and shiny bald head, was sitting on a small wooden stool staring at his gnarled knuckles. He looked up at the intrusion, his eyes narrowing. ‘Who are you?’ he said, his voice dry and deep, his Italian accent plainly audible.

‘Thomas Blackdown,’ he replied. ‘I need to speak with you.’

Callisto rose from his seat. He stood taller than Blackdown. His neck was as thick as a bull’s, thought Blackdown. And his ears had been pounded into shapeless lumps. His nose had long ago been flattened and there were old scars like dried riverbeds clearly visible on his cheeks. But he was no longer young, he thought. In spite of his size he looked like the ageing boxer was drawing on inner reserves in carrying on with the hard life he’d adopted. Muscular legs encased in tight red breeches took a step towards him.

‘Get out!’ Callisto said. ‘You shouldn’t be in here!’

‘A minute, that is all I ask,’ said Blackdown.

‘A minute is too long. Get out!’ Callisto gripped Blackdown by the lapel of his coat and pushed him backwards towards the tent’s entrance.

Blackdown resisted. ‘What do you know of the soldier Robert Caldwell’s disappearance? Sarah Jones’s beau.’

Callisto paused and blinked. His grip loosened a fraction. ‘He ran away and left her,’ he said. ‘Can you blame him?’

‘She tells me there are others who vanish without trace. What of them?’

The boxer’s face resembled resistant cold rock. ‘Enough. Get out.’ He pushed Blackdown backwards and out of the tent.

Blackdown smoothed down his rumpled coat, adjusted his hat, catching one last glower from Callisto as the flap closed on him. Blackdown turned to join the growing crowd. He saw one of Sir Peter Lansdowne’s Blackdown Horse Patrol officers riding up to a carriage pulled by four well-groomed horses. The smartly-dressed driver of the carriage, in gold-lined red livery, pulled the horses to a halt some distance away from the boxing ring and he shooed away a couple of curious people that flocked to the carriage for a better look at the grand occupant. The curtains on the carriage window were drawn back and Blackdown recognised Sir Peter Lansdowne’s face. Lansdowne spoke to the Horse Patrol officer, who stepped down from his mount and stood before the carriage acting as a kind of guard, keeping people at bay.

Presently another similar carriage pulled up in front of Lansdowne’s, and Lansdowne passed a piece of paper out of the window to the officer. Blackdown frowned. Had he seen a slip of black card being carefully pressed between the folded sheet before it was handed over? The officer immediately ran with the paper over to the window of the other carriage and passed it through the open window to the gloved hand of its unseen male occupant.

A black calling card?

Blackdown’s attention was diverted as a man stepped into the boxing ring dressed in blue jacket and white breeches. ‘Gather round!’ he hailed the crowd, ‘and witness the undefeated, Mighty Callisto!’ There were loud cheers from the crowd as Callisto emerged from the tent and threaded his bulk through the ropes and into the centre of the ring. He held his massive arms up in the air. The crowd clapped and called his name. They obviously knew Callisto, and Blackdown assumed the boxer had been to the town many times with Pettigrew’s company. His appearance, and perhaps reputation, brought many more people scampering over to the ring. ‘Here in my hand is a prize of three guineas to any man who can knock down and beat the Mighty Callisto!’ the ringmaster continued, holding aloft a small cloth purse. ‘Nay, I will increase the prize to six guineas – six guineas to any man who can bring down the Wonder of Rome!’

There were gasps at such a large sum on offer. But there were no takers, though many egged friends on to take the bet.

‘I’ll do it!’ said one rash young man, a stiff-built farmhand who clambered through the ropes and began to take off his shirt. He looked back at his companions and winked at a horrified young woman who called him back to no avail.

‘A brave young fighter!’ said the ringmaster. He brought the two opponents together. ‘No biting,’ he said. ‘Beyond that all is fair.’

Callisto’s face was emotionless, as if he didn’t even register the young man’s presence. He took up his position like an automaton, thought Blackdown, his bare fists raised like the heads of twin hammers. The young man, though not of slight build, appeared white and puny by comparison. Blackdown didn’t think much for his chances. And he was right.