BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (27 page)

When he came round he was staring into the face of the Mermaid of the Grand Banks.

He felt pain shoot up through his spine to his neck and gasped breathlessly.

‘Try not to move, Thomas,’ said Sarah Jones. ‘You have had a nasty fall and we are afraid you may have broken bones.’

He raised himself up onto his elbow against her wishes, still feeling dazed. He was lying on grass, the night air filled with smoke. The acrid smell brought the events of the evening pouncing upon his dulled mind. He turned and was dismayed to see the lower floors of Blackdown Manor all but consumed in a white-hot glow, the flames rearing up like infernal fiery steeds to snap at the air, throwing up sheets of spiralling sparks. A line of people, thrown into dark relief against the towering blaze, were passing buckets to each other and tossing water onto the fire. It had little or no effect and Blackdown could see that they were being beaten back by the sheer intensity of the heat and would soon have to give up their valiant efforts to save the property.

‘We saw the blaze from the town,’ said Sarah. ‘Some of Pettigrew’s company joined others from the town and rushed here to see if we could help.’ Her gaze lined up alongside his. ‘I fear we are too late and the fire too fierce to save the house.’

‘Where is Pettigrew?’ said Blackdown, gasping for breath as a fresh wave of pain ran through his bruised frame.

‘The scoundrel has packed up his cart, abandoned us and taken to the road in a panic.’

‘He will be found,’ said Blackdown, rising from the grass, on his knees as he tried to beat the pain and stand upright.

‘What is going on with Pettigrew, Thomas?’ Sarah asked. ‘I have never seen a man’s face show such fear. Why has he run so?’

‘There is no time for that,’ he returned. ‘I need a horse…’

‘You won’t be riding anywhere for a while, Thomas,’ she protested.

As if to underline her statement a massive hand pressed down hard on Blackdown’s shoulder and forced him down again. He looked up angrily at the newcomer. It was Callisto. He stood leaning heavily on a cane, his leg wreathed in bloody, makeshift bandages. He raised his finger in a movement that told Blackdown not to resist.

‘Let me up, you big oaf!’ said Blackdown.

‘Reverend Bole says you must not move till we can be sure you are fit,’ explained Sarah, pointing to the man. He was standing in line, passing down buckets of water, his face red and sweating with the exertion.

‘I have to find my brother…’ Blackdown insisted. ‘So let me up and get out of my way, Callisto, or you will pay for it!’

Callisto smiled and shook his head, standing his ground.

‘Your brother is dead, Thomas,’ said Sarah. ‘The smoke has befuddled your mind.’

‘He is very much alive.’ He pushed Callisto’s hand away. Rose groggily to his feet.

However, he did not get very far, for his attention was diverted to a small body of five horsemen galloping in his direction. He immediately recognised them as the Scots Greys. The massive, breathless horses were soon upon them, one of the cavalrymen slipped from his saddle with an ease born of constant practice.

‘Who among you is Thomas Blackdown?’ asked the burly officer, his face bearing the traces of mud splashes. He knew without anyone replying, for he removed his pistol and pointed it at Blackdown. ‘You are Thomas Blackdown?’ he demanded.

‘Yes I am. What of it?’ He was coughing, his eyes sore and watering from the smoke.

‘You are under arrest!’

‘What?’ said Sarah. ‘You cannot arrest him!’

‘You have the wrong man…’ Blackdown retorted angrily. He saw that the other cavalrymen had withdrawn their pistols and sabres, their expressions meaning business. ‘It is Cornelius Reeve you should be arresting, not I!’

The cavalryman frowned. ‘I do not know of any man called Cornelius Reeve.’

‘He ordered your men to break up the Lupercal Club, in heaven’s name! He has double-crossed the government.’

‘You are as slippery as an eel, Blackdown. There is no such club. Enough of these games. I make no mistake; it is Thomas Blackdown I seek and Thomas Blackdown I am arresting. Put your hands above your head. You are to come with us, alive or dead, it matters little to me.’ He waved the pistol alarmingly. ‘And if you resist I am ordered to blow your head off!’

‘Arrested on what charge?’ said Blackdown furiously.

‘Murder!’ the officer returned. ‘The murder of Harvey Grey, your servant Addison and a guard at the town gaol.’ He glanced at the inferno. ‘And more besides, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘You are making a gross mistake! It is not me that you need concern yourself with…’

‘Tell that to the judge and the hangman, because as sure as the sun comes up tomorrow, you are going to hang, Thomas Blackdown.’

It was a grey and drab autumnal morning, a crispness in the air over the city of Exeter that presaged Winter’s icy breath. The light was as yet too thin to pour through the small barred window into the cramped prison cell with any vigour. It was a desultory show, thought Thomas Blackdown, almost as if the day could hardly be bothered to rouse itself from its bed.

He had been offered a large breakfast, but declined. It would be his last, he was told. Still he shook his head and said he was not hungry. And true enough he wasn’t. In fact he felt numb all over, as if his body had already mounted the scaffold and had taken the drop. Already dead.

The South Gate prison chaplain was allowed into his cell and urged Blackdown to pray for his soul and make peace with his maker.

I have nothing to say to Him, he replied tersely, and sent the chaplain away and sat on the end of his cold iron-framed bed to await his call and think on the events of the past few months.

The trial had been swift and its results unequivocal. He was found guilty of all charges, of murder and damage to property, and sentenced to hang. It might have been said to have been just a little too rushed. But the results, whether swift or slow, were always going to be the same, he thought. He was always going to hang, and today was the day he would take to the scaffold and have the hangman’s noose placed around his neck.

Eventually, under armed guard, he was marched out of his cell, past rows of similar cells, the old prison, way past its best and failing to hold the increasing amount of wrongdoers, was due to be demolished later that year. You’ll be one of the last to be taken from here and hanged, he was informed. It was a dubious honour, Blackdown thought. He was taken to an open cart, his hands tied behind his back before he mounted the small vehicle. From the gates of the prison he was driven through Exeter to Magdalen Drop, the location in the city where executions had long taken place.

The streets were lined with people, always eager to see a good hanging. There were vendors selling food, and some selling pamphlets glorying in his crimes, concluding with a florid and uncharacteristic full confession he had never made. There were puppeteers, and girls hawking heather, a blind ex-soldier playing the fiddle, while another with an arm missing danced to the tune. But most were interested only in him, in the son of Lord Blackdown who had turned bad and was now due to pay the ultimate price for his mortal sins.

But the crowd was strangely silent. No one cheered or jeered. No one threw rotting vegetables or worse. Some even took off their hats as the cart passed, and bowed their heads or muttered a quiet prayer to themselves. Lord Blackdown had not been unjust, and of his kind had been highly respected about the town. To some of those present, to see first the father and now the son brought low was a sad affair.

The gallows had been erected the previous day for this morning’s grisly ritual and would be taken down as soon as it was over. It was tall and forbidding, Blackdown thought bleakly, and wondered at the many people who had preceded him up those rough-hewn stairs and had stepped off into eternity. The crowd swarmed as far as they could up to the gallows, but were kept at bay by a line of stern-faced red-coated soldiers. A light drizzle shimmered on their shoulders as Blackdown took the steps slowly and faced the hushed crowd of people. He was asked if he had any last words to say, and he almost felt the entire crowd push forward expectantly. Thomas Blackdown shook his head.

‘I have no more to say. Let’s get this over and done with.’

Two soldiers stood before him and blocked him off from the crowd, ensuring his hands were tied, and a black bag was seen to be placed over his head. They stood aside and nodded. Blackdown stood stock-still, his body erect.

He waited for the drop.

Sarah Jones and Callisto watched from a distance. The spectacle both terrible and fascinating to watch. Blackdown’s figure was a slender strip of black on the towering gallows. Sarah turned her head into Callisto’s chest. She could not bear to watch.

A carriage had pulled up on the edge of the crowd. Its window had been lowered, and from the dark of its interior a man stared at the distant drama unfolding on the scaffold.

Jonathan Blackdown’s face did not register emotion. Even though the man on the scaffold was his brother he did not feel anything for him. His only anxiety was that they get this over with as soon as possible, the death of Thomas ultimately signifying his full freedom. Thomas was the last man living able to point the finger of blame. Not that they took much heed of Thomas’s mad ravings about a dead brother returned to life. His story had been dismissed out of hand, the sentencing sharp and sure.

What are you waiting for, he thought? Pull the damn lever and be done with it. It seemed to be taking a long time. Too long. Was something wrong?

As if in answer, Thomas Blackdown’s body dropped down into the trapdoor and the rope went tight. The crowd gave a hushed gasp like the flopping of waves on a beach, and then burst into applause and cheering.

Jonathan Blackdown smiled. He had to see it. Had to make sure for himself.

He rattled his cane on the roof of his carriage and the driver whipped the horses into motion. He sat back in his leather chair, closing his eyes to the rock of the wheels on the cobblestones. He was bound for the south where he had a boat waiting to take him across to the continent. There were many in France that hated Britain and all it stood for, and would be eager to enact revenge on the victors of the recent war. The fomenting of sedition and revolution, the feeling of power that had come with it, had whetted his appetite for more. And not just for the money. This time he really did think he could topple governments. He had the money now. He had the contacts.

He sat back and smugly imagined himself as another Napoleon.

When he opened his eyes he saw that the carriage was not making for the inn he’d been renting rooms in, and from where he intended to collect his trunks and travel. Instead it was headed out into open country. He rapped his cane hard on the ceiling.

‘Driver! Driver! What is the meaning of this? What road do you take, you imbecile?’

But there was no response. If anything the carriage picked up speed and jolted the passenger around violently. Jonathan Blackdown pulled down the window and poked his head through. He rattled the side of the carriage with his cane, demanding the driver slow down and stop at once.

Eventually it did, coming to an abrupt halt that almost tossed Jonathan from his seat to the floor of the carriage. Fuming, he opened the door and stepped out. They were on a quiet, deserted track, high hedges laden with sloe berries and the orange glow of rosehips framing either side.

‘What the hell do you think you are doing, man?’ he screamed in rage. His hand went to a pistol he kept in his coat pocket.

‘I wouldn’t draw that if I were you,’ said Thomas Blackdown, looking down from the driver’s seat, a cocked gun in his hand aimed straight at Jonathan’s dumbfounded face, whose cheeks were gradually leached of all colour. ‘You have had an unexpected change of driver,’ he said.

‘You are dead!’ Jonathan said disbelievingly. ‘I saw it with my own eyes!’

Thomas Blackdown grinned icily as he signalled for a number of soldiers to come out of the bushes and from around the hedges. They circled Jonathan, who, dumbfounded, put his hands in the air.

Cornelius Reeve moved from behind the cover of a tree. ‘Good morning, Mr Blackdown, or shall we say Ravenbard? Which would you prefer?’

‘You are with me!’ he cried. ‘You are a double agent!’ Jonathan’s voice was breaking. ‘You were willing to betray your country and are in league with me!’

Reeve raised one brow. ‘In league with Ravenbard?’ He shook his head. ‘I never once betrayed my government, Jonathan. You may have thought me a traitor, but all along I was still working for them, not Ravenbard. That must class me as a double-double agent, what say you, Thomas?’

‘A double-double agent to be sure, Mr Reeve,’ he said. ‘Your undoing was believing Reeve still worked for Ravenbard,’ said Thomas, ‘and you believed it when Reeve got word to you through the established channels informing you of his intention to have me hung for murder. We knew you would be compelled to come out of hiding to see my execution for yourself,’ explained Thomas.

‘Jonathan screamed. ‘I saw you hung! I saw it with my own eyes! You tricked me!’

Thomas Blackdown thought back to the night in the barn when he first saw Sarah Jones apparently hung from the mock gallows. She had helped them with the illusion. Then, with grim irony, he quoted Pettigrew’s words that night to an enthralled audience.

‘There is no trickery, only magic!’ He grinned coldly.