BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (15 page)

He made his way stealthily up the steep hill, keeping low and under the dark cover of hedgerows and trees. He had been on many such excursions deep in enemy territory in Spain and France, had been taught by men who knew how to sneak unseen and as silent as a shadow, how to use the ground about you to best advantage. How to creep up on your enemy and slit their throats before they even realised anything was wrong. Tonight brought back many black memories of such times. And it was those recollections and those life-or-death lessons of long ago that made him take undue care with his ascent. How else could he explain his watchfulness?

Below him he saw the lamplights and candles of the town of Blackdown twinkling in the encroaching gloom, like stars in a naked sky, and the distant, luminously glowing interiors of the army of tents set up in the fields far below. Occasionally a muffled voice floated up to him out of the night, but the sounds were so far away that they were all but lost to the quiet rustle of dry leaves and the sighing of the thigh-high parched grass as he swept through it.

He was about two hundred yards from the crest of the hill where Devilbowl Wood began when he saw the first figure. He immediately stopped, crouching low. There was more than one. Another figure parted from the murkiness. Two men, he thought, standing about twenty yards apart. He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus them, but their forms remained indistinct. He set off again, skirting wide to avoid being seen by the two men, dropping into the cover of a small gully formed by the collapse of mediaeval strip fields many years ago, for this land had been farmed and grazed for a thousand years and more and this long occupation had left its mark. He was grateful for it, because from here he could spy on the nearest man. It was plain to see that he was dressed in the uniform of the Blackdown Horse Patrol. Lansdowne’s men.

What were they doing on land that now belonged to Lord Tresham?

He studied the men. They appeared to be doing nothing more than standing guard, one of them leaning on a musket. But standing guard over what?

He moved at a pace away from the men, intending to circle them and head for the wood, but was surprised to come across yet another guard standing to his right, and Thomas Blackdown fell to the ground lest he be seen. How many had been posted here, he thought, and for what reason?

The guard sucked at a pipe and Blackdown could clearly make out the man’s haggard features in the intermittent glow. He assumed there must be more men, but this was no battery of guns or fortress they guarded, this was a field on the edge of a wood. He waited, watching the guard. He knew from experience a man cannot stand around too long without having to stretch his legs, and these men were not from the army and used to it. He knew if he waited long enough the man would move away if only to move closer to his companions to exchange a word or two. Forget bullets; boredom is the worst enemy of the defender, Blackdown mused as the man, true to form, shouldered his musket and began to wander away towards his fellow guards.

He seized the opportunity and made a quiet dash towards the hedgerow that bordered the wood, creeping along its length till he found a means of squeezing through. Devilbowl Wood stood black and fathomless beyond, the moonlight painting the trees at its edge in mercury-like strips. Blackdown paused to let his eyes adjust to the dark.

Look to Devilbowl Wood, said Callisto.

He knew something was happening here. But what exactly? Blackdown felt he was in the dark in more ways than one as he began to push his way through the undergrowth. He knew that he would travel no more than fifty yards or so before the earth plunged downwards into the ancient wooded mine workings, shelving so steeply that it would be difficult to keep his footing, so he trod carefully. He heard more voices and caught the glimpse of lamplight ahead and he dropped to ground. He made out the shadows of men cast by the weak lamps – three of them busy at something in the undergrowth below the massive trunks of ancient trees. From his reckoning the men must be close to where the land fell away into the deep, bowl-shaped hollow that gave Devilbowl Wood its name.

He watched them, studied their every movement. Eventually they moved off awkwardly through the undergrowth, making so much noise as to show they didn’t expect to be discovered. Or care.

Poachers? What was worth poaching that needed an armed guard?

When they’d melted into the dark and the sound of their clumsy footfalls having receded, Blackdown rose from his position and went over to where the men had been working. He took out his sword and gently moved away the covering of a bush. It came into contact with something metallic. He bent down and carefully pulled away the foliage.

It was a mantrap. He’d seen many in his time. Large enough to all but sever a man’s leg at the thigh should anyone step unwittingly into it. Their use had been frowned upon by some, but obviously Lord Tresham wasn’t averse to using them, which he found unsettling given Tresham’s usually humane disposition. So was he preventing poaching? This place had never been rich in game, the occasional deer, rabbits and pheasants, but nothing that would warrant this kind of prevention. He rubbed his temple with his finger as if to try and ease out the answers. He decided to follow the small group of men.

It was as he headed in the direction he’d last seen them, cautiously skirting the edge of the bowl, that he came to a sudden halt. He studied the ground in front of him closely, again drawing his sword and probing the bushes. Something didn’t look right. Again the blade came into contact with something made of metal. Peeling apart the undergrowth he discovered yet another mantrap, this time smaller, but equally as lethal. What on earth was going on?

Listening intently he heard the men busy at their task again, not far ahead but unseen except for a ghostly, shifting glow. They were laying traps along the upper rim of the hollow. Along its entire perimeter? Surely not. What purpose would that serve?

He set out in the opposite direction, past the first trap he’d come across, and slowly explored the ground ahead. Sure enough he found another trap. It confirmed his belief that perhaps they had laid them along the entire perimeter of the hollow, or intended to. Were the guards there to watch the backs of the trap-layers or, along with the mantraps, to stop people entering the wood? What was so valuable in Devilbowl Wood that warranted such defences?

It also meant he had to be very careful where he put his feet, for he didn’t know what other form of trap had been placed in the wood. He descended into the bowl, the ground shelving so much that he had to grasp trees to brace himself against a fall. All the while he tested for more traps, but the bank appeared free of them.

He pressed through the dense undergrowth and came to a clearing. The fresh sawdust-smell of newly felled trees reached him and he saw the evidence all about him. Why had this clearing been made? He examined the white stumps of trees. No, not recently made, he thought, but maintained as a clearing over the years. He glanced up to the top of the ridge. A short stretch of trees had been felled here, too, the clearing surely visible from up there. What was going on?

He left the clearing and entered the almost pitch-black of the wood yet again, the moon disappearing behind cloud and causing him to become disorientated for a while. Eventually he came to the clearing he remembered as a child, the one at the wood’s centre, with the forbidding black pool in its middle. The haunted pool. This too had been expanded by the felling of more trees. He narrowed his eyes as he looked up to the top of the ridge again and saw that a line of trees had been removed as in the previous clearing.

He explored the clearing by the huge boulders that lay by the side of the pool but there was nothing more to be gained and it was falling too dark to see by. He decided to head back.

As he clambered back up the steep bank where he first descended, carefully negotiating the mantraps that had been set at the summit, he heard the noise.

From far below, in the inky-blackness of the hollow, where the moonlight hardly penetrated the jungle-like busyness of the wood, Blackdown made out the animal-like sound of something prowling. Padding softly through the bushes. The same sound as he heard on his first night in the wood.

He drew his pistol and cocked it, feeling the hairs stand up on the back of his neck as the creature appeared to come closer to the foot of the declivity. He thought he saw movement, but could not be certain.

Then a growl. A beast-like rumble the likes of which he had never heard before. Hound-like, but with a feline edge. The sound of heavy breathing, two or three short snorts down nostrils. Again the sound of something pressing through the undergrowth, tracing the hollow’s edge, as if whatever it was had followed him and was now undecided what to do. He had the feeling that something sinister was looking up at him from the black pool below. It could see him but he could not see it.

He stared intently into the hollow, the hairs on his arms beginning to rise.

Silence fell. Only the intermittent sound of a leaf brushing against its companion.

Then the creature moved away. He sensed it rather than heard it.

Thomas Blackdown backed slowly away, his heart racing, the sweat beginning to stream down his forehead and trickle down the crease of his back.

He had the intense feeling he’d been staring into the soul-sucking, unseen eyes of the Devil.

Callisto drank down another mug of cider, the last in a seemingly endless line of them. The Blue Boar inn was full, the smell of unwashed bodies mingling with the smells of tobacco smoke and ale and hanging in the air like a thick yet unseen cloud. It had been faintly comforting when he’d entered but now his stomach was on the verge of bringing up whatever it was the landlord served up as food and the smell was adding its weight to the feeling.

He’d come into the inn under the pretence of getting a drink and something to eat, but he’d found out from Sarah Jones that Blackdown was lodging here. He’d been thinking things over and he decided he needed to pack the game in, start anew somewhere. Perhaps this man Blackdown might be able to help him after all. Perhaps things were not as hopeless as he’d first thought.

Yes he’d partly thrown the fight early, but in truth the young man would have finished him off if he hadn’t. That impressed him. Callisto was a man used to living by his fists, by his sheer weight, and Blackdown had challenged that for the first time in years. Here was a man who was special. Here was a man who might possibly free the Mighty Callisto from his bondage.

He was hoping to find Blackdown at the inn, make it appear as though it was by chance they met. But the man hadn’t shown and he’d used up all his money and he was feeling sick.

Callisto pushed himself up from the table, staggering slightly. Someone called out ‘Timber!’ and laughed, and Callisto turned and threw them a stony scowl that stifled their merriment. Callisto was many things, but he would not be laughed at. He grunted, looked once more about the crowded inn and loped towards the door, feeling the world tilt alarmingly.

More to do with the feelings of light-headedness he’d been feeling for months now than the effects of the drink. He’d had persistent loss of hearing in both ears, frequent dizzy spells, his speech sometimes slurring, and Pettigrew had chastised him, even beaten him with a cane over the back for not staying sober when he had a fight to get on with. But he’d not touched the drink, not like he used to in the old days. There had been a time he could hold it down but that time was long gone. Now a drop of gin caused his stomach to burn up like someone had put a match to it. He guessed the life he’d led, the daily beatings in particular, had somehow contributed to his groggy head, his tortured insides. Recently there had been more than a few punches land on his face, whereas before he’d had the ability to dodge them. He was getting slower, older. And like an old horse with a bent back he knew he was destined for the knacker’s yard as soon as he outgrew his usefulness. Today was a salutary lesson in growing old. He couldn’t do with too many more challengers like Blackdown. He saw his impending fate in Pettigrew’s uncompromising glare.

He knew he was living on borrowed time whichever way he looked at it. He had to get away somehow. It might seem impossible, but stay where he was and he might as well look the Grim Reaper in the eye and call him over. Pettigrew knew he’d said something to Blackdown. He was a sly old devil. You couldn’t fool him. Harvey Grey had tried and failed. So the Mighty Callisto, not so mighty these days, was on borrowed time.

Where the hell was that Blackdown? Damn him!

Callisto stepped outside into the quiet, moonlit street. His boots scuffed up clouds of dry earth. It was still, the air perfumed, he thought, breathing it in deeply and trying to gather his muddled thoughts. Perhaps this had been a bad idea, he said to himself, making his way out to the edge of town, past the old tollgate with its deserted stone tollbooth looking like a skull with empty eye sockets. It was foolish to think Blackdown might be able to help him. Why should he?

Because of what he knew, that’s why. He could tell him what Harvey Grey had tried to. In return for…

Money?

No, in return for freedom.

Ah, freedom! As sweet a word as the air was sweet tonight, he thought. And like the air about him so very difficult to hold in one’s grasp.

Callisto did not hear the four men rush from behind the tollbooth. His hearing that night was not at its best. They pounced upon him and he felt the many blows of wooden cudgels flailing his body. He fought his attackers off, not knowing what was happening but sending out his rock-hard fist to make contact with yielding flesh. Yet his resistance was beaten down, the rain of blows was too much for him and he collapsed onto his hands and knees, seeing blood pour from a cut on his face somewhere, a cut he did not feel, to drip in a black puddle under his uncomprehending and fearful eyes. Finally, one last strike to the back of his head sent him crashing to the ground.

As he sprawled there, his nostrils breathing up his own blood from the ground, his mind began to melt and turn black. He fought its coming, but one might have fought the coming of fog. On the edge of this dark void he heard one of the men say, ‘No, he has to be taken alive! Keep him alive!’

And that was the last he heard, the toe-end of a boot by his eye the last thing he saw before finally succumbing to unconsciousness.

It was late by the time Thomas Blackdown stabled his horse and stepped inside the Blue Boar. His experiences at Devilbowl Wood had both confounded and unnerved him. He was still playing over events when the landlord brought him a letter that had been handed in addressed to him. Strangely, he found it was from Julianne Tresham. It begged Blackdown come to Blackdown Manor as soon as he could, as his father had fallen desperately ill and the doctor had warned that he might not last the next day or so.

He was torn, as if strapped between two great carthorses pulling in different directions. Something deep inside him compelled him to go. But another spoke of it as complete foolishness. Why give his father the pleasure of laying into him once more? He first tore up the letter and cast it onto the fire, but after sitting with his head in his hands for a while gave a groan and asked the groom to saddle up his horse again. He had not expected to set foot inside the house again, but in truth he had his reasons. And chief amongst them was Julianne.

Blackdown Manor was as dour and forbidding as ever it was, he thought as his horse was taken from him and he ascended the steps into the once-grand house. It appeared even gloomier in the dark. He was greeted by Addison, who smiled broadly.

‘I know,’ said Blackdown, ‘I said I would not come back, but here I am. Where is my father?’

‘Upstairs in his chamber, sir. Reverend Bole is up there with him. Lord Tresham and his daughter are in the parlour waiting for you.’

‘Lord Tresham too? Does father know he’s here?’

Addison shook his head. ‘No, sir, and best not to mention his presence either.’

Blackdown nodded. ‘I need you to do something for me, Addison,’ he said, handing over his coat.

‘Anything, sir.’ He weighed the coat in hand, felt the bulkiness in the deep pockets. ‘Pistols, sir?’

‘Jonathan’s pistols, Addison. And be careful with them; they’re loaded. My father’s business used to rely heavily on shipping. I want to find out about a certain ship called the
Parthenope
. Take a look in my father’s library – the
Registry of Shipping
and the
Mercantile Navy List
will be a good starting place. Find out all you can about her.’

‘Very good, sir. Your face looks somewhat battered about, sir, if I might say so. Is life at the Blue Boar that bad?’

Blackdown smiled. ‘Being a Blackdown these days is having its drawbacks; it pays to have the odd-chip or two taken off my features to help disguise me.’

‘Not too many, I hope, sir; it would be a shame to spoil such a pleasant countenance at such a young age. Lord knows, time alone will do that for you soon enough!’

He took the coat away and Blackdown made his way to the parlour. Lord Tresham was sitting quietly by the fire and Julianne was busy lighting candles.

‘It’s so dark in here,’ she said on seeing Blackdown. ‘And so cold, too. Why is it so cold? It’s not that bad outside.’

‘Blackdown Manor has always been somewhat cold,’ he said meaningfully. ‘Perhaps it is its position on an exposed hill. It catches every ill wind that blows.’ He greeted Lord Tresham and shook his hand. ‘I never expected you to be here, Uncle Tresham. Nor you, Julianne. It is late.’

‘Your poor father is close to death’s door, my dear boy. The doctor informed me. He says he has been bled and administered various potions and restoratives, but that they are having little effect upon him. His life is fast ebbing away. I cannot be apart from an old friend in his hour of need.’ He held out his hand for Julianne to take. ‘And it was this lady who persuaded me to come, against my better judgement. She also thought you should be here, too.’

‘I am sure your father loves you, deep inside, Thomas,’ she said.

‘I think you are a little too optimistic on that front, Julianne, but I applause your well-meaning good heart. I have other business I needed to attend to, so I came,’ he added frostily.

‘Will you not go up and see him?’ she asked.

‘He doesn’t want me there.’

‘His condition is grave. He has suffered fevers and night sweats and complains his chest is in agony.’

‘You have not been in to see him, have you?’ Blackdown said.

‘Only for the briefest of time.’

‘You should not. If there are bad humours in the room you may fall ill, too.’ He sat down by the fire, stretched his legs. ‘It can serve no good falling ill yourself. He is a dead man. He has been a dead man for many years.’

She lowered herself down onto a chair, her hands clasped in her lap. ‘Is there no spark of love between you?’

He laughed hollowly. ‘I murdered his wife, my mother. I do not deserve even a spark.’

Father and daughter glanced at each other. ‘I would very much like to see him,’ said Lord Tresham, but I am afraid my presence will tip his frail body over the edge. But you, his only living son – I do not believe he has lost all feeling for you. If ever there was a time for reconciliation then this is it. Before all is lost. Why did you come here if not to see him?’

Blackdown sighed, stared into the flames that tickled the side of a blackened log which refused to catch fire. He glanced up at Julianne. Her eyes were pleading. And strangely alluring with it, too. The way the candlelight was trapped by the whites of her eyes drew him into her hypnotic gaze. She appeared to be fascinated by him, too, for her attention was wholly on him. He had to tear himself away from looking at her.

‘If that is what you wish,’ Blackdown said, rising to his feet and smoothing down his coat.

‘It is not what we wish,’ said Lord Tresham, ‘but what is right and proper.’

Right and proper? Thomas Blackdown smiled inside at the words. What in this world could ever be right and proper?

‘I’ll go up and see him,’ he said, ‘though do not expect a miracle.’

Callisto came round, but his eyes were swollen so much he could hardly see out of them. He felt the sudden impact of pain across his entire body and could not hold back the groan of agony. The mournful sound echoed around bare stone walls. He tried to move his arms but they were pinned back against the wall by chains, with heavy metal manacles fastened around and digging into his wrists.

His slit-like eyes grew steadily accustomed to the dark, and he made out the metal bars in a small window set into a hefty wooden door. He heard movement beyond the door. He was in a small dark cell, filthy straw beneath him, water dripping down from the stone ceiling, the room filled with an almost overpowering smell of urine and faeces. Callisto attempted to shake his head free of the grogginess but it proved impossible. And the more he moved the more the pain bit into him. He was sure his attackers had broken a rib or two, his every breath tortuous.

He glanced to his side. There was another man chained to the wall, his clothes barely hanging from him in filthy rags, his head bent as if unconscious. Blood dribbled from his open mouth and gathered in a pool on his groin.

It was not long before Callisto realised what was happening to him, and his escalating terror overrode his pain. He began to yank ineffectually at his bindings, his bloated eyelids screwing up tight as fresh waves of agony speared into his frame. He began to yell out and curse. He did so until his energy gradually drained from him. He turned to his companion, squinted in the dark and tried to see beyond the bruising to the face and the long hair that hung down in greasy, matted threads. Yes, he recognised the man. It was one of the soldiers Pettigrew had recently recruited as hired help. A man that had supposedly absconded in favour of better work. But Callisto knew that wasn’t the case. Callisto knew all along what had happened to him, and the others, and the knowledge caused a fresh bolt of fear to ripple though his large frame.

There was the sound of a key grating in a lock and the door swung open. Callisto couldn’t see in detail the three men who entered because they held up a lantern before them and the light blinded him.

‘Let me free!’ Callisto demanded.

The three figures didn’t respond. The lamp was set down before the prisoner, and the shadows on his captor’s face were thrown upwards, his features cast into demonic relief by it. Callisto heard a canvas bag being dropped to the stone floor and the sound of clashing metal from within.