At that moment there was a loud trumpet call and the familiar beating of a drum. Blackdown’s heart quickened at the sound and for a moment he was transported back to the battlefield. The two men looked down the street to see the troupe of entertainers dancing noisily through the town, handing out handbills to people and pasting more posters up on walls.
‘It is that time of year again,’ said Bole. ‘The town goes a little mad. Too much drink is taken, too much money is spent, and too many hearts are broken. The Blackdown Fair brings as much trouble these days as it does benefits. Though I am sad to hear it is not now called the Blackdown Fair…’
‘It’s not?’
The reverend Bole looked away. ‘By the voice of the people it is to be called the Tresham Fair.’
‘And will my father’s closest friend rename the town, too?’ he said, feeling quite heated under the collar.
‘You must understand there has been much upset, Thomas.’
‘I know a little of it. I received a letter from my brother Jonathan. It is why I am here…’
‘Jonathan? You have been in contact with your young brother?’
‘Just a single letter. When I left home he was but ten years old. His letter dated 1814, three years ago. Jonathan said he needed help and didn’t know who to turn to. He said that my father and he were in desperate trouble. In spite of what went off between father and me, I felt I ought to answer my brother’s urgent call and come home as soon as I could.’
Home. The word sounded strange to him. He had never known a proper home since he was thirteen years old. Since he’d been banished.
‘You do not know about Jonathan?’
‘He tells me in his letter he intends to marry Lord Tresham’s daughter. Did they marry?’
Bole shook his head. ‘They were going to marry, that is true…’
‘Were?’
‘Then you truly do not know what has befallen your brother?’
Thomas Blackdown shook his head. ‘What ails him, Reverend? Is he ill, too, as I have heard my father is ill?’
Reverend Bole looked into the man’s questioning eyes. ‘Thomas, I am afraid that Jonathan has been dead these last three years.’
Blackdown felt his stomach being hollowed out at the news. His younger brother was dead and Blackdown felt his loneliness get a little colder, a little deeper with it.
He hung his head. ‘How did he die?’
‘You are tired, hungry by the look of you – why not come inside and we’ll talk over something to eat?’
Blackdown suspected something was wrong. ‘How did he die?’
Bole cleared his throat. ‘He was murdered, Thomas.’
5
Demons
The crypt beneath the church was as cold as winter. Reverend Bole held up the lantern and its flickering glow lit up the dusty stone.
‘So many dead Blackdowns,’ said Thomas Blackdown looking at the carved names.
‘It is perhaps not a good thing that you come down here yet, Thomas,’ said Reverend Bole.
‘I had to see the place where she rests.’
Bole allowed the silence to grow, space for Blackdown to contemplate. ‘Your mother was a beautiful woman. She would not want you to suffer thus on her behalf.’
‘I killed her,’ he replied, his deep voice overly loud in the claustrophobic confines of the crypt. Then he said quietly, almost in a whisper, ‘I killed her…’
‘You cannot blame yourself.’
‘I am fully to blame. I should not have stolen and been playing with my father’s loaded gun.’
‘You were but a young man, Thomas, your head full of fanciful martial ideas. You wanted to be a soldier, to go and fight wars…’
Blackdown closed his eyes. He could see it as if it happened only yesterday. His mother’s loud, concerned voice catching him unawares as he stood out on the green behind the manor.
‘Thomas! What are you doing with that?’ he remembered her shouting angrily, or words to that effect. Sometimes they were different, depending how he wanted to remember them. It all happened as if in a dream. He knew she hated weapons of any kind. Hated the fact that Blackdown sons traditionally went into the army as officers and fought bloody wars in foreign lands. She did not want that for her sons. It had been a constant bone of contention between husband and wife. But Thomas Blackdown had been fed a diet of military exploits since he’d been a babe, had stood and stared at the many portraits of past Blackdowns in their dashing, brightly coloured uniforms and promised that one day his own portrait would adorn the walls of Blackdown Manor. Yet his mother tried even to ban him from family shoots and would balk at the bloodied feathers of pheasants and partridges the men brought home.
Thomas turned thirteen and decided he needed to join and make his mark amongst the ranks of men. He stole into his father’s study and borrowed one of the pistols he kept there, used, apparently, in the fall of Quebec alongside General Wolfe.
The feel of it in his hands! The balance, the thought of where it had been and what it had been through! He found a quiet corner of the manor grounds and loaded it with powder and shot, set up a paper target and let off a round or two. He loaded up for a third, and that’s when his mother found him.
He was so startled, so horrified at her angry expression that he held out the pistol apologetically before him as she approached. What happened next he could not say. He had been through the tragic event a thousand times in his head.
The gun went off.
For a moment his mother’s eyes were wide and uncomprehending. The anger disappeared, replaced with a kind of sorrow. She fell softly to the grass, a patch of scarlet opening up in her chest, her blood spilling onto the grass as he tried to lift her, calling to her, trying to prise open her eyes so that she could look at him, but it was to no avail. She did not look at him ever again.
They carried her inside and she hung between life and death for a full day, but finally she died of her wound.
At first debilitated by grief, his father then exploded with rage. Thomas received such a severe beating from him that the doctor thought he would also die. And when he recovered, and the authorities judged it all a tragic accident, his father sent him away so that he would never have to set eyes upon the son who had murdered his true love. And he had never set foot in the Blackdown Hills since that day twenty-three years ago.
He was paid a small allowance for a time. And enough to buy a commission in the army, and Thomas Blackdown wanted to lose himself, lose the wretch he felt he’d become, by wallowing in the misery of war, for that’s what it turned out to be. His mother had been right; there was no glory to be found among the mutilated dead. There was only pain and misery, but that, he thought, is only what he deserved. As he deserved to die for what he’d done to that kind-hearted, loving woman with his foolhardy carelessness. Yet, despite his apparent heroics on the field, the many brave charges he led, the chances he took with his life, not a single ball or bayonet came his way to end his miserable life. God had decided he should live to endure the burning guilt. He had finally got the wars he’d craved for but it did nothing to assuage the self-loathing he felt, and so he’d had his fill of them and now he wanted to be free of the killing. He was no longer a soldier. He was nothing. He was a ghost of a man.
His allowances had been stopped years ago. He came out of the army possessing only the clothes on his back and few possessions. No sense of where he should take his life next. He fell into the life of a thieftaker quite by accident, something to pay the bills, and found he had a skill for it. And then he received the letter from his brother and he felt he must offer his help. Yet it could not be escaped that his father had disowned Thomas, banished him, and so the decision to come back to the Blackdown Hills to Jonathan’s aid had already been complicated by other stinging emotions.
Facing his mother’s tomb the immensity of it all came back to Thomas Blackdown in a flood. And learning that Jonathan was dead heaped another layer of wretchedness upon his
troubled soul.
‘Where does Jonathan lie?’ Blackdown asked.
Reverend Bole pointed out a stone slab in the wall. ‘Behind here.’ There was a simple inscription carved into the stone. He watched as Blackdown ran his hand over the letters. ‘He was a good man, in his way. A little wayward at times, but on the whole…’
‘You said he was murdered,’ Blackdown interrupted flatly. ‘Who did it?’
Bole sucked in a breath. ‘We do not know.’
‘His killer was never found?’
‘It is difficult to know who or what his killer was…’ he began.
‘What his killer was? I don’t understand.’
‘Come, follow me out into the light,’ said Bole, leading the way. He closed the metal gate behind them both and turned the key in the lock. They mounted the stairs, their footsteps sounding hollow on the worn stone.
‘So his killer was never found, is that what you’re saying?’ Blackdown asked as they exited the church and stood in the sunlight, in the dappled shade thrown by an ancient yew.
‘He went missing, telling your father he had business to attend to. He never came back. A search was carried out and they eventually found Jonathan’s body in Devilbowl Wood. His poor body was hardly recognisable as being human. He’d been cruelly savaged, Thomas.’ He looked agitated, as if gazing on the events again. ‘I was not prepared for the horror of what the scene held in store. It was as though a giant beast had torn his body asunder, slashed him into ribbons with razor claws. He had been eviscerated and his limbs torn from him. It was not for monetary gain, as I saw his purse still on him, and full of coin. Such a thing I never expected to see and I hope to God never to see again.’
The image of the dead sheep came immediately to Thomas Blackdown’s mind. ‘And a search was carried out for his killer?’ he asked.
‘Of course. It was the week of the Blackdown Fair, and the town swarmed with newcomers. Suspicions readily turned to them, and particularly the foreigners in their company. But though many people were questioned no one was found guilty of your brother’s murder. People naturally blamed the Blackdown Beast…’
‘A creature of myth!’ said Blackdown. ‘Foolish superstition!’
Reverend Bole took Blackdown by the arm and led him to the rear of the church. ‘You know the old tales more than most, Thomas,’ he said. He pointed to the aged oak door studded with black nails. ‘Look at those deep black scars in the door, visible still even after all these years.’
‘So are you telling me you believe the tales, too?’
‘Who knows what evil lurks in the shadows, Thomas. We all know of the old tale of the traveller who was chased by the beast one night, how he managed to seek shelter inside the church and slam the door on the creature; how it clawed at the door, enraged, leaving behind these marks as proof of the poor man’s trials.’
‘They are marks. They prove nothing,’ he said. ‘And the stories have been used by generations of churchmen to instil fear of Satan and his minions into the feeble minds of the locals, lest they stray too far from your God.’
‘He is your God, too, Thomas,’ he said. ‘You cannot deny there have been too many sightings of such a creature over the centuries for it to be myth alone. Perhaps there is some truth in it, that some wild exotic animal escaped captivity, its offspring still living within the many acres of dark woodland and on the open moors.’ He stepped back, pointed up to the gargoyles. ‘And there it is, carved in stone by our ancient ancestors for all to see, to fear…’
It was a time-worn statue of a demon, of sorts, hairy and wide-eyed, its open mouth lined with once-sharp teeth, neither human nor animal but lying somewhere in between. The Beast of Blackdown.
‘And you expect me to believe my brother was killed by a mythical creature that is said to haunt the Blackdown Hills?’
The man offered a shrug. ‘I cannot say what or who murdered your brother, but in any case his killer was never found. They shot a toothless bear that had been brought to dance at the fair, and two large dogs that belonged to the Hendersons. No one really believed they were responsible, but something had to be done to assuage people’s fear. It was a long time before things returned to anything like normal around the town of Blackdown.’
‘And it was left at that?’ he said, shaking his head incredulously.
‘Some things are never to be known, and the mystery of your brother’s murder remains just that. God will know. God will see fit to punish those responsible, if indeed it was someone and not something.’
‘Sometimes it is best not to wait for God to do something. I find He often takes his time or simply does nothing,’ he said scathingly.
‘You have altered much, Thomas,’ said Bole. ‘You are not the same young man who left us all those years ago. You carry much bitterness within you.’
‘Time and events change us all,’ he said.
‘Do you wish to speak of things? I am a ready ear…’
He shook his head. ‘I must go and see my father.’
‘Don’t go with anger in your heart, Thomas. You must forgive him.’
‘The way he forgave me?’
‘You must understand, he lost someone very dear to him when he lost his wife, your mother. He has lost a son now. He is sad and alone and in ill health.’
‘Was I not dear to him, too? Was I not his son, too?’
‘Grief made him do to you what he did.’
Thomas Blackdown grunted his reply. The sound of the drummer in the street was still plain to hear. ‘I would turn around and get away from this place,’ he said. ‘It holds nothing for me now that Jonathan is dead. But it is because of him that I must stay to find out what it was that was causing him such concern. Perhaps it was linked to his death.’
‘I know what was troubling him, Thomas,’ he said. ‘It troubles your father still. I thought you might already know, so I did not broach the subject. It is such a sensitive issue.’
Blackdown turned to the man. Shook his head. ‘It is safe to assume I know nothing of what has been going on here.’
‘Then you are unaware of the accusations?’
‘It seems so,’ he said guardedly. ‘Accusations against whom?’
‘Against your father. He was accused of being a traitor to the country during the war with France. Certain damning documents were found that appeared to prove your father was spying for the French and was himself part of a group of would-be revolutionaries who planned to incite rebellion within the country and topple the monarchy. It was a very serious charge, as you can imagine, punishable by death. In any event, the papers proved false – or were deemed not to be sufficiently reliable enough to use as evidence against your father. The charges were dropped. But the damage was done.
The Blackdown name was dragged through the mud as he fought to clear himself of the charges, and the mud did not go away with the rather inconclusive finding of his innocence. Society shunned him and blackened the family name. Even the townsfolk began to hate him for being a spy and a lover of the French, in spite of there being no real proof he was either. So he vowed he would not rest until his name had been fully cleared. He threw vast sums of money at it, drew on some of the most expensive lawyers he could find to discover who would brand him a traitor in the first place, and to start legal proceedings against newspapers and individuals who openly denounced him, some of them being powerfully rich individuals too. He fights it still. It has almost bankrupted him but he will not let it go, though it makes him ill. He has had to sell possessions and vast amounts of land to finance his folly, for that’s what it has become. He has let his pride become his own little demon, and it sits on his shoulder and urges him on to ever foolish courses of action. The loss of your brother at the height of all this only makes him even more determined to drag those who would have ruined him through the mud, as they did to him. I have tried talking to him, but he does not take counsel from anyone, and if it carries on thus it will drive him into his grave before his time.’
Reverend Bole looked up at the gargoyle. ‘There is more than one way of savaging a man, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Your father had made many enemies, as men in such powerful positions do, and it appears they were waiting their turn in bringing him down. It is not good to be a member of the Blackdown family at this moment, Thomas.’
‘I don’t think it was ever good to be a member of the Blackdown family.’ He shook the man’s hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Reverend Bole. I will make my way to Blackdown Manor.’
‘Don’t judge him too harshly, Thomas.’
Blackdown shrugged and strode purposefully down the path towards the gate, Reverend Bole keeping pace with him. Blackdown caught sight of an old man, dressed in rags and bending down at the foot of an ornate headstone over which stood an impressively carved angel, clasped hands and blank eyes pointing to heaven. Blackdown studied the man. He was desperately thin, and he could now see that part of his clothing was made up of strips of disparate pieces of cloth sewn crudely together. His skull-like face with its sharp cheekbones was partially shaded by a common broad-rimmed straw hat.
‘Is that Patrick Deale?’ Blackdown whispered.
‘That is indeed Patrick Deale. He digs ditches still.’
‘He still mourns his wife?’ He shook his head. ‘I remember his wife died in childbirth when I was but a youngster. Just before I left…’
Bole nodded. ‘Patrick Deane, like your father, misses his wife dreadfully, and he has never been the same since she died. He comes to attend to her grave every day without fail, even in the deepest cold of winter. I have even found him asleep beside it.’
‘It is a grand and expensive monument. Did the anonymous benefactor who paid for its erection ever come to light?’
‘No, he remains anonymous. But its size remains a testament to the huge loss Patrick Deale has felt over the years. Even simple ditch diggers have feelings, Thomas.’
Blackdown saw the old man glance in their direction, and he hurriedly got to his feet and scurried from the churchyard.
BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) Page 5
