‘Yes, the business. Well, Mr Ferguson, does your boss have the money to hand?’
‘As his representative I need to see the weapons first.’
‘His representative, eh?’ said Creevy, laughing. His henchmen laughed with him. ‘So your boss is too high and mighty to show his face? Alex Creevy too low a creature to waste his time on? Maybe I ought to get me a representative too, eh, lads?’ His face suddenly steeled and he produced a knife. He thrust it at Blackdown’s neck. Its point drew a bubble of blood. ‘See, this here knife is my representative!’
‘I can see that,’ said Blackdown, unflinching.
‘You’re a rare cove, I’ll give you that, Ferguson,’ Creevy said, stowing away the knife. ‘I like you.’ Blackdown fingered away the spot of blood that had begun to trickle down his neck. ‘But if you don’t have the money to hand you’ll be seeing a lot more of my little sharp-tongued representative.’ He waved peremptorily for Blackdown to follow him as he trudged towards the many steep stone steps that led down to the small, red-roofed town of Whitby.
The harbour was full of boats, the many masts looking like a black forest of denuded fir trees in the morning light. Fishermen were readying their boats preparing to go out to sea; the quays and harbour front were already thronging with people, many of them having risen before dawn as was their habit. Blackdown noticed how they moved swiftly aside to let Creevy and his men pass unobstructed. He commanded both respect and fear, thought Blackdown. But not from him. To Thomas Blackdown, Alex Creevy was nothing more but a common thief and brutal murderer.
They entered a quayside inn, the landlord acknowledging Creevy with a deferential nod. The four men passed through the inn and took a flight of stairs down to its cellar where Creevy lifted a canvas sheet off a stack of long wooden crates, looking for anything like a undertaker’s pile of crude coffins.
‘Let me see the guns,’ said Blackdown, looking about him at the stored beer barrels, at the steps that led upwards to a hatch that opened out onto the street above down which deliveries were made. There was a pungent smell of spilled ale that vied with the sweat-stink of Creevy and his henchmen.
Creevy signalled for one of the men to take the lid off the nearest crate. He took a crowbar and prised it open. It was filled with new muskets wrapped in straw and smelling of gun oil. Blackdown lifted one of the muskets out, testing its weight.
‘Do they meet with your approval?’ said Creevy.
‘You have more?’
‘Many more, and pistols, powder, balls – I cannot give you them all, but I can afford to part with a fair selection without it being noticed.’
‘From where does all this ordnance hail?’ asked Blackdown.
Creevy slammed the lid of the crate down. ‘That is no business of yours. Do you want them or do you not?’
Blackdown rubbed his chin speculatively. ‘Let us talk business,’ he said. He eyed the two henchmen. ‘But not in front of your pet dogs.’
‘The dogs stay,’ said Creevy. ‘Do not think to dictate.’
‘My employer is prepared to take as many of these as you have,’ he said. ‘And he will make you a handsome offer. Do not think to dictate to me, either.’
The two men stared hard at each other. Then Creevy gave a sneer. ‘Leave the cellar,’ he ordered his men.
‘Have them bring a horse and cart to the delivery door outside in ten minutes,’ said Blackdown, nodding in the direction of the trapdoor at the top of the steps. ‘I intend paying you for these and taking them straight away.’
‘Bring your own transport,’ said Creevy.
‘I can take these weapons off your hands and make it worth your while. You know as well as I that guns are a difficult commodity to shift, especially government guns. Consider the horse and cart as part of the bargain. Ten minutes, no more, because I have to be off. It is not wise me being here a moment longer than I have to be. As an outsider I will only arouse suspicion.’
‘I control suspicion in this town,’ said Creevy. ‘I control the parish constables, the night watchmen, the excise men. You need not worry on that account. We are well protected from the law here. No one dares come into Whitby to arrest me, even if they so desired.’
‘Yes, I hear you have a certain standing, Mr Creevy,’ said Blackdown. ‘A standing that even allows you to skip free from murder.’
‘Nothing has ever been proved. I am as innocent as a lamb.’ He grinned. ‘A diabolical lamb,’ he added. ‘But enough small talk. Do you have the money to conclude such a hasty transaction?’ Creevy asked, a spark in his eyes.
‘It depends upon your price, but I have it.’
‘Bring a horse and cart, as he says,’ Creevy ordered his men. ‘And bring it fast.’
Blackdown waited till they’d ascended the stone steps and closed the door behind them. ‘I need to know the provenance of these weapons,’ he said. ‘As you can understand, to be in possession of illegally acquired government-issue muskets can get me and my employer hung. I need to know all is safe to proceed with our transaction and that we will not immediately have government troops hot on our heels.’
Creevy smiled. It was a lopsided affair. ‘All is safe. You have my word.’
It was Blackdown’s turn to smile. ‘You will forgive me, Mr Creevy, but I trust no one where my neck is concerned. Least of all a man like you. How came you by these weapons?’
With a sucking in of breath Creevy gave a shrug. ‘My own employer has long traded with the French…’
‘During the war?’
‘Especially during the war. I have delivered both weapons and wool to the French on his behalf.’
‘That is treason.’
‘That is profit,’ said Creevy. ‘But the war is long past. Forget the war. The weapons you see here is a shipment he asked me to store on his behalf. I do not know what he wants to do with them, but he obviously has his plans. They are not stolen. They come from one of his factories.’
‘And will he not miss the ones you sell to me?’
‘I shall see to it they are not missed,’ said Creevy. ‘I have done it before. A man has to make a living…’
Blackdown asked, ‘Who is your employer?’
‘Now I cannot divulge that.’
‘Cannot or will not?’
‘I cannot, for I do not know who he is. Do you wish to buy the guns or not? I grow tired of this chatter.’
Blackdown steadied the musket in his hands. ‘Alex Creevy, the deal is off. Instead you are under arrest.’
Creevy’s eyes widened and his hand reached into his coat for a concealed pistol. ‘A thieftaker?’ he said. But Blackdown struck out with the butt of the musket, catching Creevy square on the side of the head. He yelped, and staggered, but brought out the pistol in spite of his dizziness.
Blackdown struck him again and the man went down like a sack of potatoes, knocked out cold. The pistol skittered across the stone flags of the cellar. Blackdown picked it up, checked to see if it was loaded, and pocketed it.
‘Yes, I am a thieftaker, you murdering bastard,’ said Blackdown.
He set to work at once, emptying the opened crate of muskets and concealing them behind the beer barrels. He ripped two long pieces from Creevy’s shirt and bound his hands behind his back with one strip, gagging him with the other. Finally, he lifted Creevy’s still form, complaining under his breath at his weight, and laid him in the crate, covering him with straw and hammering the lid back on.
Blackdown waited patiently, sitting on the crate until he heard a knock at the trapdoor. He ascended the steps and unlocked it. The two men followed him back down into the cellar.
‘Take those three crates,’ he demanded casually, ‘and put them carefully on the cart.’
‘Where is Mr Creevy?’ one of them asked.
‘He has gone on ahead to collect his money from my boat moored in the harbour,’ he said. ‘He says you are to accompany me to ensure all is fair and proper and then we will part ways. Come, be about your business and
do not dawdle. I have to catch the tide.’
The men glanced at each other, then obediently hauled the three crates up the steps.
‘And careful with this one,’ he said, patting the lid of the one containing Alex Creevy, ‘for I don’t want any damage done to its contents. Mr Creevy will not be pleased if you manhandle it roughly and break my goods.’
The cart duly loaded, Blackdown took the reins and set off along the narrow Whitby quay and made for the moored boats. He pulled up beside a dour looking fishing vessel, its black hull smelling of fresh tar.
‘Carry the crates on board,’ he ordered.
‘And where is Mr Creevy?’ one of the men asked.
Blackdown pointed to a figure up on deck, his face half hidden by a broad-rimmed hat. The man waved them quickly on and the two men hurriedly carried the crates up the gangplank and placed them on the deck of the boat. The man they thought was Creevy had his back to them, but Creevy’s men smelled a rat as soon as they realised that up close he was not dressed exactly the same as Creevy had been.
They each drew a pistol, but before they could even cock their hammers a shot rang out and one of the men was struck by a bullet, collapsing to the deck.
‘Drop the weapon,’ Blackdown said evenly to the remaining man, wisps of smoke curling from his pistol into the air to be stolen by the breeze.
But the man, his alarmed face contorted with the desire to escape, instinctively raised his pistol and took aim at Blackdown.
A volley of shots fractured the air and the man went down in a hail of lead. He lay sprawled on the deck of the boat near his dead companion, a pool of blood spreading out from under his twitching body. He was not yet dead, for he groaned pitifully.
Three marines in the disguise of fishermen lowered their guns.
‘Well done, Blackdown!’ said the man who purported to be Creevy. He strolled casually up to the two stricken men. ‘Let us have a look at the fellow, eh?’
Thomas Blackdown took the lid off the crate. Creevy had come round, his eyes ablaze. He was struggling with his bonds. He stared daggers at the men looking down at him.
The man shook his head and smiled. ‘Alex Creevy, I have a warrant for your arrest.’ He bent to one knee beside the crate. ‘You murdered a fellow excise man and a friend, Creevy, and for that alone you will pay dearly. It is good to see you already have your coffin.’ He rose to his full height and regarded Blackdown. ‘You have done well to get him out. It is a brave man that goes into the lions’ den to capture the master of the pride.’
Blackdown didn’t acknowledge the praise. ‘All I ask is my reward, paid in full and promptly.’
‘It will be done,’ replied the excise man. He squinted as Blackdown walked away, throwing Creevy’s empty gun into the crate beside him. ‘This line of work, the work of a thieftaker, is not usual for a man of your standing,’ he observed.
‘What business is that of yours?’ he replied without looking back. He started to descend the gangplank. ‘Just get me my money.’
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ Mr Blackdown, ‘you are highly skilled at it…’
‘My money…’ he said shortly.
Thomas Blackdown sat at the inn table, peering into an empty tankard and wondering whether he should refill it again. How many had he had? Five? Six? More?
He found he could not get drunk as easily these days. He tried, but he could not wash away the man he was. He sometimes forgot which town or city he was lodging in – where was it today? Bristol. Yes, Bristol. But though he could quite easily blot out all recollection of where he stayed he could not blot out those memories. Memories that had been etched into his mind like acid eats into glass and clouds it. Recollections of war, or bloody battles fought. And recollections of his mother and father – different battles, a different bloody war, but debilitating and painful all the same. Wounds every bit as deep and as fiery as any he’d received serving His Majesty abroad.
But now he was reduced to hunting down and bringing to justice scum like Alex Creevy. Why was that? Necessity? Or perhaps serving a self-inflicted penance for his past sins? But he did get a modicum of satisfaction seeing men like Creevy hang. He’d been there when the scoundrel took the drop. There were men on hand who’d hung from Creevy’s legs as he dangled from the rope, to make him die faster, and those in the crowd who booed at them. He didn’t deserve a fast death, they said. And of course their entertainment would be shorter.
Blackdown lifted the tankard, drained the last few bitter drops and licked his lips.
A slow death. Thomas Blackdown knew all about slow deaths.
He heard someone mention his name at the bar. Asking for him.
‘Who wants Thomas Blackdown?’ he said.
The young man stepped smartly up to him and held out a letter. ‘This is for you, sir. It has found you at last.’
He took the letter, paid the man and looked at the outside of it. It seems it had been passed from place to place trying to find him. When he opened it he saw that it was from his brother Jonathan, and dated over two years ago.
He was taken aback. He had had no correspondence with his family in over twenty years. He read the neat script. His brother said he and his father were in deep trouble, but did not say what kind, but the tenor of the letter was undoubtedly urgent. He begged him come to Somerset at once and help them.
Blackdown was both confused and troubled. After all this time? After all that had gone off between him and his father? A plea from his younger brother to return to Blackdown Manor?
He read the letter a number of times. Was on the verge of destroying it more than once and dismissing his brother’s request. It would not be good to open up old wounds.
Open them up? They were still weeping pus, he thought bitterly.
Can you seriously ignore Jonathan’s cry for help?
He sighed heavily, decided he must go at once to Blackdown Manor, and asked for his tankard to be filled right to the top.
2
A Stranger in a Strange Land
The boy had always been afraid of the high moor. It was a place of dark legends, the subject of many a tale told in gloomy whispers around late-night shepherds’ campfires. Tales designed to chill the bones of a young, impressionable boy of ten. The men would laugh heartily at his frightened, wide-eyed expression and taunt him that he looked like a startled deer, his face lit up for all to see by the flames, and he’d feel embarrassed and turn away from their jibes. But even though he knew they were baiting him he sensed the men, too, were fearful and respectful of the high moor.
They had heard the same tales, told to them as young boys around similar campfires, and a little of the boyish fears that had taken root in their eager minds before the crackling logs and glowing embers of their own youth remained forever entwined about their souls. Some of the men, he noticed, were afraid to recount such tales, because to do so, they said, would prise bad luck and evil spirits from their dank, shadowy crevasses. Best to let them lie undisturbed, forgotten.
The boy felt exposed on the high hill, the towering grey clouds rising into the sky like smoke from a faraway, hellish blaze. Though he was only ten years old he had learnt to sense the air, to distinguish it’s many shifting features, and he knew that rain was imminent. He paused, the warm wind ruffling the low grass and heather at his bare feet. Why did he feel so small, like an insect under God’s great thumb? The sky looked so lead-like and heavy, like the roof of some great building that might come toppling down at any moment and crush the life out of him. He wanted to find the sheep quickly and be done with it so he could return to his father. Sheep were always getting themselves lost or into trouble and he was always the one sent to find them.
He stood on the hill’s highest point and scanned the land about him. The Blackdown Hills from this vantage point always seemed to him to be like one of his father’s coarse woollen blankets laid out on the floor; a harsh, sometimes unforgiving land large with ripples and folds. The hills rolled back into the hazy, alm
ost foggy distance, the many valleys cutting deep and shadowy, the whole criss-crossed with ancient trees and hedgerows, a land that had been worked for thousands of years, by so many generations it made his head spin to think about such things. And none was so ancient a place as Devilbowl Wood.
He faced it now. In the fading light the wood lay like a tar-black smear on the land. It stretched away to his left and his right, a silent, sleeping creature, the sound of the gusts of wind ruffling its dark leaves appearing to give the wood life, to make it breathe and sigh. He did not like this place. He had heard so many tales about Devilbowl Wood. Whilst so much of the land had been cleared of trees during the many eons of human occupation, Devilbowl Wood remained largely untouched. It was the last refuge of the spirits that used to inhabit this land before Christianity banished most of them to the recesses of Man’s distant memories. But dwelling here, they said, within the black heart of Devilbowl wood, where the sunlight even on the brightest summer day failed to penetrate, were the remnants of that ancient and fast-fading past, the last refuge of forgotten creatures and gods, vile spirits and unimaginable beasts from Hell.
The wood drew its name from the unusual shape of its topography, and from its grisly history. They said it was the Romans who first cleared the hill of forest and dug deep into the earth to reach the metal ore they needed. They created a huge kidney-shaped hollow half a mile long as they raped the earth. Thus emptied and despoiled, left to its own devices it once again grew thick with trees, but the hollow remained. Then a war was fought over the hill when two kings and two armies battled for a kingdom long forgotten. They fought all day, from the time of morning mists till the full moon rose slowly into the sky and night fell over the battleground.
The army that had held the high ground eventually broke and ran for the cover of the wood at their backs. In their panic they were channelled down into the deep wooded hollow, a thousand men finding themselves encircled, trapped and unable to clamber up the steep banks to escape. The victors lined the hollow’s summit and shot down arrows and spears and killed them, or slew them as they tried to climb out of the depression. By the light of the moon the slaughter continued all night.
BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) Page 2
