BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (19 page)

Addison slumped forward. ‘I cannot help you there, Master Thomas. I could not find out any more about Mr Ravenbard other than his name at the head of the company. But it appears Lord Tresham intends to sell. It is his land, after all, and he can now do with it what he likes. Yet Julianne is convinced he is being forced to sell it against his wishes.’

‘Forced, you say? Blackmailed by Lansdowne?’

‘Julianne does not know what is afoot, sir. But she says she has not seen her father so agitated and secretive. It is not like him. Nor is it like him to go against his word and resell the Blackdown land to Ravenbard’s canal company for the sake of making Lansdowne a profit. It does not make sense. But there is more. Shortly before his death, Jonathan confided in Julianne that he’d discovered something relating to his father’s spying accusations and the buying and selling of Blackdown land. She believes he was murdered because of his discoveries. She also knows the identity of the person Jonathan was going to see on the night he was killed.’

‘And that was?’

‘Her father. Lord Tresham.’

‘And she never said anything to anyone about that?’

Addison sighed. ‘He is her father, after all, and in truth there is no evidence to indicate that he and Jonathan actually met on that fateful night. Who knows, perhaps Lord Tresham’s decision to release the land and sell to Ravenbard might only have come to him recently, a reaction to your father’s accusations and consequent refusal to acknowledge him or his daughter as a legitimate bride for Jonathan. Lord Blackdown has as much as given him a social slap in the face on many occasions and perhaps he has had enough and seeks to abandon his good intentions. We might have thought Lansdowne’s involvement purely coincidental, had it not been that Julianne’s suspicions were aroused and she has since secretly examined her father’s papers further. It seems Lord Tresham’s relationship with Lansdowne is deeper and more complicated than he’d have anyone believe.

‘Sir, Miss Tresham fears for her father’s life, as she now fears for her own. She came to me as a last resort, and it was she, hearing of your exploits in the army and as a successful thieftaker, who suggested we contact you. But she dared not reveal it was she that instigated the invitation. It had to look like you came at your brother’s request in order that any investigation would not appear to have been started by Miss Tresham or her father. She was confident that once here you would soon discover what was going on, take the lid off things and that would be an end to it, but we did not foresee this happening to you. It appears it is far more complicated a situation than we first imagined and as a result we have put your life in danger as well.’

Blackdown regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Some things start to make sense now. The attack on Blackdown Manor was not aimed entirely at me, but at Lord Tresham and his daughter. A warning, perhaps?’

‘We believe so, Master Thomas.’

‘By Lansdowne?’

He shrugged. ‘That is difficult to know, sir. It goes beyond Sir Peter – there are so many other people involved, it seems.’

‘And do you know who these others are exactly?’

He shook his head. ‘Julianne overheard a conversation between her father and Sir Peter in which quiet mention of a club came to light, to which she thinks Sir Peter and her father are aligned. What the club is or what its purpose we do not know. But it appears members carry a black card embossed with a wolf’s likeness. Like the one Julianne discovered in Jonathan’s coat after his death and slipped into the trunk you inherited.’

‘The Lupercal Club,’ said Blackdown thoughtfully.

‘So it is not a figment of our imagination. You know of it, sir?’

‘I am learning fast, Addison. So it was Julianne who left the card in the trunk?’

‘She had no idea what it was but thought it significant enough for you to examine as part of your investigations.’ He stroked a shaking hand through his thin grey hair. ‘That’s another thing, Master Thomas – about the trunk of clothes and money left to you by Jonathan…’

‘What of it?’

‘I don’t know where it came from. Being regularly consulted in matters of personal and household finance, I was asked to be present when Jonathan gathered signatories for his last will and testament. I remember it being read out before everyone, and then it was signed and sealed. On no occasion did I hear mention of any bequest to you. Neither clothes nor money nor horse were left you by your brother, at least, not in the version of the will I was witness to. I am not aware of another will being made.’

‘Cornelius Reeve, my father’s lawyer, insisted the trunks were left to me by Jonathan,’ said Blackdown, perplexed. ‘And I was bequeathed a tidy sum of money. Where did that come from if not from Jonathan?’ Blackdown thought about the meeting with Reeve that day. How Reeve had insisted his father must not hear of the bequest, that there was nothing for him here any more and he should leave immediately. Cornelius Reeve – or someone for whom he was acting – wanted him away from Blackdown Manor as fast as possible. It might have come from his father in an effort to get him out of his hair faster, but he doubted it. However he looked at it, he had obviously been complicating matters for someone simply by being there. And, it seemed, he was still doing so.

‘Ah, it is a damn puzzle, sir, make no mistake!’ sighed Addison. ‘Please forgive me, Master Thomas. I did not mean for you to end up locked away like this. But we did not know who to turn to. We find we cannot trust anyone around here. Whatever is going on reaches out and has many people in its hideous grasp.’

They were disturbed by a scuffling outside the cell door, and the muffled barking of orders. The door was thrown open wide and suddenly the doorway was crowded with blue-uniformed men spewing through it. Addison rose from the bed, and Blackdown backed away instinctively. In a moment Blackdown was faced with four guns aimed squarely at his chest.

Blackdown recognised the Horse Patrol officer who stepped inside the cell as being the same as quizzed him on the night of Harvey Grey’s death outside the barn. Addison had his hands in the air, his face nervous, his jowls shaking. The cell guard was dragged into the room, his hands also high over his head. He was whimpering loudly before the rank of guns.

‘So you have a visitor, eh, Blackdown?’ said the officer drawing his sabre and prodding Addison in the chest with its tip.

Without another word the officer drove the blade deep into Addison’s chest. The man’s eyes widened incredulously, a gasp issuing from his throat as he crumpled to the floor, the blade coming out of his chest cavity with a distinct sucking sound.

Blackdown lunged forward. ‘You bastard!’ he yelled, but was beaten on the head by the butt of a carbine and he staggered under the blow.

The guard yelped as if kicked.

The officer held out his hand to one of the Horse Patrol. ‘Your knife,’ he said, and was duly given an eight-inch-long blade. He watched as Blackdown received more blows from the men, driving the helpless man to his knees. ‘That’s enough. Do not cripple him. They won’t be best pleased if he arrives too beaten up.’ Calmly, the officer stepped up to the petrified guard. ‘Do you know who I am?’ he asked.

The man nodded quickly. ‘Yes, sir. I recognise you from the times I have seen you in the street. You are Sir Peter Lansdowne’s man.’

The officer sliced the blade through the air and slashed the man’s throat.

‘Wrong answer,’ he said.

The stricken man grasped at his throat as if attempting to hold back the fountain of blood, but he was lying face down at the officer’s feet in a moment or two, his legs kicking out instinctively for a second before slithering to an agonised stop.

The men dragged Blackdown to his feet at the officer’s command. The officer dropped the knife into the pool of blood before the dead guard.

He said, ‘Every picture tells a story, eh, Blackdown? From all accounts it looks like your servant smuggled in a knife for you. You used this to attack and overpower the guard, but not before the guard stabbed your servant with his bayonet. Having brutally killed the guard you made your escape. Ah, it would make a fine melodrama!’ He signalled with a flick of his head. ‘Take him to the coach.’

Blackdown was dragged half-dazed out of the cell. Through a swelling eye he glanced back at Addison’s lifeless form lying on the stone flags.

The ceremony was so old, so embedded in the collective memory, that no one questioned it. The proceedings began when Reverend Bole stepped up to the base of the effigy, lifted his chin and stared up at the towering wooden structure covered in painted sacking and rags, the beast’s dragon-like face with its parted jaws and rows of white wooden teeth appearing to stare right back at him. He turned to the assembled crowd, as custom dictated, and blessed them and their efforts and thanked God for a good harvest, the assembled masses then bending their heads in prayer for a good harvest and a mild winter. But, as always, Bole could sense their desire to get to the real thrill of the evening, which was the lighting of the bonfire, the scaring away of the demon-beast and the consumption of much ale and cider.

It was at such times he feared for the souls of his parish, for this is when something primitive and ancient reared up in their breasts, the pagan ceremony – only half appropriated by the church – stirring up deep and disturbing excitements and barely suppressed beliefs. At such times he felt he could lose them altogether. Sometimes not even God offered an answer to the sufferings of their daily toil, to why they were forced to endure their often miserable, hard-worked lives punctuated only by disease and early death. Little wonder some of them were happy to grasp at anything that offered more. A little too happy, he thought, as they bundled him out of the way and set about their business. All he could do now was watch and pray.

Lighted brands were thrust into the pile of wood at the creature’s feet, the flames rushing across the tar that had been doused liberally over the kindling. The fire soon took hold in a series of unholy blue flames that crackled noisily as they energetically raced away, like a multitude of cackling demons celebrating their sudden independence. Reverend Bole saw demons, too, in the grinning faces of the crowd that gathered around the effigy, the flickering light casting juddering shadows over their features and manufacturing for them dark masks of evil. It had the same effect on the snarling face of the demon-best, the strange light causing it to appear as if its muscles came to life, a shower of orange sparks circling its nose as they rose upwards to the black sky like a cloud of devilish fireflies.

Then they came forward with pots and pans and drums, worn horseshoes on string, lengths of wood, anything they could create a noise with, and began to bang away at them loudly, the people yelling at the top of their voices and creating such a din that Reverend Bole had to step back, and at one point to cover his ears. To the scrapings of two fiddles that raised an ancient jig, the circle of people began to dance steadily anti-clockwise around the growing, growling fire, making their noise and hoping to scare away the demon-beast for another year. It belonged to another, bleaker, darker time, thought Bole, watching the contorted faces of the men women and children, all of whom seemed to be caught up in the escalating frenzy of activity. He saw jugs of cider being passed around, lips wet with the alcohol, energies enflamed by it, and he shook his head at the pitiable sight.

Beyond the effigy was the dark of a moonlit land, made even darker and unfathomable by the bright, scorching light of the young flames. Something caused Bole to shudder in spite of the heat. Up there, in the bleak hills, something was stirred by this ceremony. He could feel it. Sense it in the very air. And he chastised himself for being drawn into their foolish games.

He turned away and pushed through the crowd, no one interested in him or his God now, not at this moment. He knew he had lost them until morning.

Bole saw the carriage being driven in some haste through the town and wondered what fool would be so reckless as to whip up his horses to such a degree in the dark. He thought he made out the uniforms of the Blackdown Horse Patrol on the riders who accompanied the vehicle that lurched through the ruts of the uneven road, but he could not be sure.

Now a chant-like song rose from the crowd that made his insides freeze. It did so every time he heard it. Even after all these years. A steady, monotonous, almost tuneless spewing of words that everyone knew. All joined in as the banging and clanging grew in intensity, all but drowning out what was being sung. Canute-like, he’d tried to ban the ancient, devilish mantra, replace it with one of God’s good clean hymns of thankfulness and deliverance, but he had failed a long time ago and had to bow to the tide of tradition that bore down irresistibly upon him and drove him back. Some things were just too strong, even for God, he thought. But he would claim back their souls in the morning and the devil would have lost out again for another year. He hoped.

When he next turned to look at the road, the carriage had disappeared, headed out deep into the night somewhere.

He was thrown madly from side to side, a man on either side of him giving him sharp encouragement not to knock into them by punching him in his sides. He had some kind of cloth stuffed into his mouth held in place by a gag strapped across his lips, a sack over his head tied with rope around his neck, with more rope binding his hands securely behind his back.

Thomas Blackdown had wrestled with his bonds till his wrists were raw and bled with the effort, but whoever had tied them was well-practised. In the end he had to resign himself to letting them take him where they will. For the moment. He would take the slightest opportunity to make his break, and when he did so he would kill them all.

The sight of poor Addison going down haunted him. It fired up a furnace of hatred and revenge for his captors. His bloodlust was up and he knew it would remain so till it was fully satisfied. It scared him with its burning intensity, for he’d experienced it so many times before, but he was powerless before it. And each punch to his already bruised sides enflamed it all the more.

He had no comprehension of the distance they travelled. That they travelled at speed was without doubt. The pounding of the horses’ hooves and the clattering of the stressed wheels on the uneven ground, the constant jolting and the savage ministrations of his captors soon hammered his senses into a pulp. Presently the road smoothed out and he heard the distinct crunching and squeaking sound of gravel being squeezed from beneath the wheels.

The carriage came to a shaky halt and he was dragged without ceremony through the door, clattering his head painfully against the low frame as he emerged. A man grasping either arm forced him onwards, half-pushing, half-hauling him along. He climbed stone steps, went through an open door, felt the distinct warmth of the inside of a room and caught the scent of something sweet in the air through the stinking sacking over his head. No one spoke. Their silence unnerving.

Then a steady descent down more stairs, the atmosphere cold and damp. He was held steady as he heard the sound of another door being unlocked, and he was shoved bodily into the room beyond, falling to the floor, his knees coming into contact with hard unforgiving stone. The smell was now one of urine and faeces and desperation.

Blackdown struggled to his feet, turned and growled through his gag in the direction of his captors, but they came at him and pushed him back till he crashed against a stone wall, the wind knocked from him. He felt his hands being untied. As soon as one of them was free he lashed out blindly and felt satisfaction as his fist met the edge of a chin.

He was beaten down, his hands now being held fast, his wrists encased in manacles. Finally they stood back and left him to pull violently at his chains.

‘You’re not going anywhere, Blackdown, so you may as well relax.’

Blackdown recognised the voice as that of Addison’s killer. His anger screamed to be released, but he was helpless and so suppressed it.

Then the door was closed and locked and he was left alone.

Or so he thought.

He heard a slight scuffling noise from his right. The heavy breathing of a man. The clink of chains as someone moved. Then another sound to his left. A pathetic groan of despair.

Blackdown tried to say something through the gag, but he felt in danger of choking on the cloth stuffed into his mouth and had to give up. He wondered why the others in this stinking room stayed silent, and he tested his binding again, but there was no possible way he could release his hands from the manacles. In frustration and fury, Blackdown gave up his futile efforts and instead decided to concentrate on calming his fiery emotions. He sat still and relaxed his breathing, attempted to put a lid on his visions of the unfortunate Addison. Blind rage would not help him. He had to bring the stampeding wild stallions of his thoughts under control and urge them in another, altogether more useful, direction.

Through the dark of his stinking sackcloth hood he heard his fellow prisoners move and utter plaintive groans of despair.

He would get out of this, and, by God, he would make those responsible pay.

It may have been only half an hour or so, but it appeared longer, before he heard the harsh scrape of keys in the door lock. He stiffened, instantly alert. The sound of footsteps on the stone. Three people, he estimated, entering the room. The door closing smartly and heavily behind them. Blackdown felt fingers grabbing at the cord around his neck, leaving a red welt necklace where his throat had been rubbed raw by the tight rope binding. He saw the glimmer of light piercing the coarse weave of the sacking. The hood was yanked away and he blinked at the light of the lantern held before his face.

A harsh, unshaven craggy face stared straight at him, long greasy hair tied back into a ponytail, the rancid smell of sweat washing from the man and up Blackdown’s flaring nostrils. The face grinned. Calloused hands grabbed Blackdown’s chin. He resisted the pawing and the man slapped him hard across the cheek.

‘Shame to spoil such a good looking face,’ he said, indicating for one of the men standing immediately behind him to bring him the canvas bag he carried.

Blackdown swivelled his head away, taking in the small, dark confines of the dungeon-like prison cell, and was taken aback to see Callisto chained to the wall next to him. The giant of a man, his wrists in manacles and pinned above his head, regarded Blackdown sorrowfully. The boxer opened his mouth and blood dribbled from it. He stuck out his tongue, or what was left of it, to show him what was in store. Then Callisto looked away helplessly.

Snapping his head to the other side, Blackdown saw another man, similarly chained, apparently asleep or pretending to be so. He didn’t recognise his fellow prisoner, but he had an idea where he’d come from.

His attention was drawn immediately to the harsh clanking of metal as the second gaoler put down the canvas bag. All three of the men crowded around Blackdown, who yanked ineffectually at his bindings, his eyes burning fiercely.

‘Take off his gag,’ said the man with the lantern. He set it down and reached into the bag, drawing out a pair of cruel looking pliers.

One man grabbed Blackdown by the hair and forced his head down while the other untied the knot. The gag slipped away.

Blackdown spat out the cloth that had been forced into his mouth, gasped in a breath and cried out. ‘I’ll kill you for this, you damned filthy bastards!’

He received a punch in the ribs that took the breath from him. His head was hauled backwards by the hair.

‘Enjoy your cursing while you can.’ The man signalled to his companion and Blackdown’s mouth was clawed open, large fingers probing inside and grasping his tongue, drawing it out. He felt the pliers fastening around it and gave a small yelp of pain. He could not draw his tongue back inside his mouth. His eyes widened as he saw the man take a pair of lambing shears out of the bag. ‘No more sweet nothings into the ears of pretty young ladies, eh, Blackdown?’ His grin faded. ‘Hold the bugger still, will you?’ he growled, placing the twin blades over Blackdown’s shivering tongue.

‘Hold that,’ called a familiar voice through the barred window of the door.

The shears fell away and the men released Blackdown. All eyes turned to the door as it swung open. He could not make out the details of the man standing in the doorway, but Blackdown knew who it was.

‘Lansdowne,’ said Blackdown, spitting out the foul taste of the man’s fingers and feeling the painful throb where the pliers had clutched his tongue.

Sir Peter Lansdowne stepped into the feeble pool of light given out by the lantern. With a single flick of his hand he signalled for the three men to leave. They gathered up their implements and scurried, like rats bolting for cover, out of the cell. Lansdowne stood before the prisoner and bent to his haunches in front of him.

‘You shouldn’t have come home, Thomas,’ he said evenly. ‘You should have stayed away. You wouldn’t be in this situation otherwise. But you are here and that, as it turns out, is no bad thing. In fact it is most opportune.’

‘Did you kill my brother?’ Blackdown snarled.

Lansdowne regarded him patiently, rose to his feet again, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘No, Thomas, I can honestly say that I did not kill your brother.’

‘But you know who did?’

‘Perhaps I do, perhaps I do not.’

‘I swear you’re going to pay for this, Lansdowne, so help me God!’

He smiled. ‘God cannot help you now, Thomas. In fact, you are to face the devil himself this very night.’ He turned to the others tied to the wall. ‘You all are. But the Mighty Callisto already knows that, don’t you?’