BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘None, then.’ He said flatly.

  ‘Granted, it is proving to be a long war.’

  ‘And a costly one at that. He has drawn on everything he owns to wage it. And people like you simply encourage it, gleefully lining your own pockets till he lies dead in his grave and the bones of his life are picked clean.’

  ‘It is his will I bend to. He has been a respected and valued client of my firm for many a year. Would you hand him over to the buzzards completely? I was there for him when he was accused of being a traitor. I fought his case when my own standing was in danger of being tarnished by doing so. I was the one who revealed the documents to be elaborate forgeries, designed to besmirch his good name. And I am there for him now in his time of need. He has lost a great deal in his life, Mr Blackdown, and the last thing he wants before he dies is to lose the family name as well. He has instructed me he will fight till his last breath and last penny, whichever comes first.’

  ‘And stripping the house, selling the land, how is that not ruining what we had?’

  ‘A house, a field, they are but possessions. You can buy back possessions; you cannot buy back a gentleman’s name and social standing, Mr Blackdown. I thought you more than anyone would know that.’

  They entered a largish room, a desk and chair at one end, stacks of beribboned documents on shelves, law books lining one wall. Reeve bade Blackdown sit.

  ‘You even have your own place here. Very comfortable,’ said Thomas.

  He ignored him. ‘Your brother…’

  ‘He was murdered and no one was brought to book for it. How can that be, especially with the best lawyers in the country buzzing around his house like flies around shit?’

  ‘We cannot prosecute where there is no accused, Mr Blackdown. You cannot secure a conviction against a phantom.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you believe it was the work of Satan, too?’ He snorted derisively. ‘A man is torn to shreds and nobody knows anything about it? I cannot believe such a thing. Someone somewhere knows something, of that I’m certain.’

  ‘A bear was shot.’

  ‘A toothless bear was shot, and a couple of hounds, to make a show of justice more than anything.’

  ‘You were not here, Mr Blackdown. You cannot know the lengths to which people went in order to bring your brother’s murderer to trial.’

  ‘I know the lengths people will go to cover up tracks, Reeve. Let us assume that it was not the work of some devilish beast, and let’s assume Jonathan died at the hands of a mortal, which is the most likely explanation is it not? If it had been at the hands of a common man he would have been caught by now. They have neither brains nor means, influence or power, to cover up such an act.’

  ‘Influence? Power?’ He smiled. ‘Such a savage act is either the work of an animal or a lowly, debased mind. Influence and power has nothing to do with it. Such acts are the mainstay of the lower orders.’

  ‘And what motive would a man of such a low order possess?’

  ‘Money, revenge, or a man gone mad.’

  ‘The Reverend Bole told me Jonathan’s purse was found on him, and it was still full, so money wasn’t the motive.’

  ‘Perhaps the murderer was disturbed, ran away before he could take the purse. That was one theory.’

  ‘So he kills Jonathan for the money, then takes the time to carve him up. A strong man, too, from all accounts, to tear him limb from limb.’

  ‘Then perhaps there were two or more involved. A gang. There are many roaming the woods these days.’

  ‘And none of them are made any wealthier from it. Money wasn’t the motive here. A lunatic would stick out like a sore thumb, so that theory is thrown out. And revenge? Who would want revenge against Jonathan?’

  ‘Don’t forget your father was branded a traitor at the time. Who knows what a man might do to enact revenge on a man who betrays his country.’

  Thomas Blackdown put a hand to his chin, rubbed at the stubble. ‘Jonathan had arranged to see someone in Devilbowl Wood. I think he knew his attacker.’

  ‘We only have your father’s word that Jonathan had arranged to meet someone, and he was in no rational state of mind at the time,’ said Reeve. ‘He could not be sure afterwards what his son had said to him.’

  ‘So what was Jonathan doing late in the evening in Devilbowl Wood? He had to be there for a reason.’

  ‘I’m afraid we go over old lines, Mr Blackdown. My concern now is with the cases put before me by your father.’

  ‘So we let it lie? We simply blame the Beast of Blackdown?’

  Reeve sighed, steepled his fingers. ‘That is not the pressing business I have to attend to, much as Jonathan’s death caused such anguish at the time. It would be in your best interest, too, if you did not pursue it so vigorously. You are in danger of taking on your father’s obsessive mantle in chasing a cause, and as you say, it can sometimes do more harm than good.’ He smiled that same indeterminate lawyer’s smile again. ‘And looking at you, I can only assume you do not have the funds to pursue matters.’

  Thomas Blackdown’s jaw stiffened. ‘I do not need lawyers to pursue matters,’ he said. ‘I carry all I need with me.’

  ‘I wish you luck. But back to the matter in hand. I said I had something for you, left you by your brother in his will.’ He drew out a sheet of rolled-up parchment from a drawer, untied the ribbon and laid it out. ‘In his will he bequeathed to you two trunks, which have remained in his room. Also the sum of three hundred pounds and such of his possessions as you deem fit to take, including his wardrobe and his favourite horse, saddles and associated tack, etcetera, etcetera.’ He rolled it back up. ‘Your father is aware of the will, but at the request of Jonathan he does not know about this element of its contents. Jonathan was concerned your father might disapprove of you benefiting in any way from his death and so block the will.’ He took a bag of coins from a cupboard and placed them on the desk. ‘Gold and silver,’ he said, ‘and banknotes, all to the tune of three hundred pounds.’ He rose from his seat and pulled on a bell cord by the window. ‘My advice is to take what is offered you and forget everything that has happened here. You cannot do anything about it, and you are far from welcome. Why stay to inflame matters?’

  Moments later, Addison knocked at the door and came in, breathless from having dashed to Reeve’s call. ‘Yes, sir, Mr Reeve,’ he said.

  ‘Take Mr Blackdown to Jonathan’s room, Addison. He is to collect the two trunks left him by Master Jonathan Blackdown.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Addison, backing out of the room and looking at Thomas to follow.

  ‘I reiterate, Mr Blackdown,’ said Reeve. ‘Take what is given to you and leave Blackdown Manor forever. You must know that Lord Blackdown has long ago removed you from his will and that you have no call on this place after his death, which, as you can see, is not long away. Your presence only makes matters worse for him. It will be best for both of you if you part now and go your separate ways.’

  Thomas Blackdown rose from his seat. ‘And if I take your advice must I pay for it?’ he replied, his lips in a faint sneer. ‘I thank you, but I take no counsel from leeches.’ He went to the door. Paused. ‘And I aim to stay here in the Blackdown Hills till my business is concluded and my brother’s killer brought to trial. You forget, this is the place of my birth, it is my homeland. I am a Blackdown, and no pen and ink scratching away my name from a piece of parchment can wipe that away, much as my father would like to believe. So goodbye for now, Mr Reeve. We’ll no doubt speak again.’

  ‘You fight a hopeless cause, Mr Blackdown.’

  ‘In my life I have fought what seemed many hopeless causes, Mr Reeve.’

  ‘It will be for your own good,’ he said with a hint of intimidation in his words.

  Blackdown sensed the threat and looked at Reeve thoughtfully. ‘Do you fight a cause of your own here?’

  ‘I know the ill feeling in the town and surrounding countryside towards your family. The only cause I fight is to restor
e your family’s name and respect. But if you wish to court that ill feeling it is on your own rash head.’

  ‘Having faced Napoleon’s muskets and cannon balls, do you think I’ll shrink away from what I have to do so readily? You do not know what stuff I am made of, Reeve. But you will find out.’

  Reeve shrugged. ‘Your trunks await removal, Mr Blackdown. What else you do is entirely up to you. Good day.’ He bent his head to papers on the desk, waited till Blackdown had left the room and set about penning a letter. He finished it, sanded it, folded it and set his seal to it. He put it in his pocket.

  Thomas Blackdown might bring them trouble, he thought acidly. But that was easy enough to attend to. A ragged down-on-his-luck ex-soldier like young Blackdown was a mere trifle in the grand scheme of things.

  ‘I’m sorry I locked you out of the room, Mr Addison,’ Thomas Blackdown said to the old man. ‘I needed to speak to my father, but in the event it was a waste of time as he didn’t care to listen. He is too far gone. You know he is dying?’

  Addison nodded gravely. ‘He is racked with pain day and night, Master Thomas, but he will not give up his fight. It all conspires to drive him into his grave, but what can I do? I am but his humble servant, though I love the man dearly, as I loved all Blackdowns. To see it come to this breaks my heart, sir. Hundreds of years of tradition about to crumble to dust. He will not give you your birthright – Jonathan told me. But you are a legitimate Blackdown, Master Thomas, and Blackdown Manor should fall naturally into your hands to help secure its safekeeping so that it might last another thousand years.’

  He unlocked a door and swung it open. The furniture was covered in dustsheets, and it had a damp, musty smell to it. He bent to a sheet and whipped it back. ‘Your trunks, Master Thomas, as Master Jonathan stipulated. And through there,’ he said, pointing to another closed door, ‘is where he kept his wardrobe. He was about your size, so you will find much to fit you, if you can bear to wear his clothes, which must be hard to contemplate.’

  Blackdown lifted the heavy padlock on one of the trunks. ‘You have a key?’

  Addison produced a large iron key from his coat and handed it over.’

  Blackdown bent down and unlocked the padlock. He lifted the heavy wooden lid banded with iron hoops. The trunk was filled with clothes, a brass-edged mahogany box containing two fine pistols, and under this a number of folded letters tied into a bundle. He looked at the letters. ‘From Julianne Tresham,’ he said, lifting the bundle to his nose. There was a faint, lingering smell of feminine scent.

  ‘Master Jonathan was besotted with her. No one was happier than Lord Tresham that such a match was to be made. It joined the two old families of Blackdown and Tresham together for the first time. She is a beautiful young woman, ten years or so younger than Master Jonathan was, and I am certain they would have made a fine and happy couple. But your father did not approve of the match at all. In fact he flew into a rage over the suggestion. That caused a mighty rift between your father and your brother, if truth be known.’

  ‘My father and his rages go together like a hand fits in its glove.’ Blackdown placed the bundle back into the trunk. ‘And what happened when all this traitor-thing blew up around my father?’

  ‘Ah,’ said Addison, ‘that caused some consternation, to be sure. Anyone allied with Lord Blackdown was in danger of being brought down with him. But Lord Tresham was having none of it. He wanted Jonathan to marry his daughter and insisted the marriage go ahead. No one fought your father’s cause more readily than Lord Tresham. He remained loyal to your father, even though he blocked the marriage, until Master Jonathan’s death. It was around that time that Lord Blackdown had to sell off pieces of land to fund his court cases. He soon discovered Lord Tresham had secretly – or so he thought – bought up a lot of the Blackdown land for his own. After that, Lord Blackdown, largely because he was consumed by grief, accused Lord Tresham of profiting from his hardship and of conspiring against him along with all the other turncoats and backstabbers. They have not spoken to each other for three years.’

  ‘And what of Julianne? Has she married yet?’

  He shook his head. ‘She was devastated by the loss of her husband-to-be and I believe, from sources within the Tresham house, has refused any hand since offered her. But is only the gossip of the lower stairs as we have had no real contact with the Tresham’s since then.’

  Thomas Blackdown closed the lid of the trunk. Addison handed over another key to him and he inserted it into the second matching trunk. ‘Do you think the Treshams will be open to me paying them a visit?’

  ‘I think Lord Tresham would jump at the opportunity, sir. I shall arrange it for you.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Addison.’

  ‘But I will not tell your father I did so, sir.’

  He smiled. ‘Best not.’ He lifted the lid of the trunk, and was surprised to see that it was empty. Empty except for a small black calling card. He lifted it out of the trunk, turned it over. There was the embossed image of a she-wolf on it, but little else.

  ‘What is that, sir?’

  ‘It has all the appearance of a calling card.’

  ‘Without any writing on it. And in black,’ said Addison. ‘Very strange. Is there nothing else in the trunk, sir?’

  ‘Not a thing.’ He pocketed the card. ‘Still, I can use the trunk to pack away some of Jonathan’s old clothes. As you can see, I am in need of a wardrobe myself, and beggars cannot be choosers, as they say.’ He rose to his full height. ‘Can you also arrange for the trunks to be delivered to the Blue Boar inn?’

  ‘That awful place, sir? In the centre of Blackdown?’

  ‘That awful place, Mr Addison. I am not a lover of such inns, but, as I have said, beggars cannot be choosers and it is the best of the bunch. It is not as bad as you make out.’

  Addison’s face fell. ‘To hear a Blackdown speaking so puts a knife into my heart, sir. This is your home. You should, by rights, stay here.’

  ‘That is not going to happen. And unlike my father, I am not a proud man, Mr Addison. Too much had happened to me to let pride rule my head.’

  ‘If I can be of any help, Master Thomas…’

  ‘You have been more than helpful, Mr Addison. But I fear it will bode you ill if father ever finds out you helped me, so we may not meet again directly.’

  The old man’s face grew sombre. ‘I hope you can find out who killed Master Jonathan, sir.’

  ‘I will not rest till it is done, Mr Addison.’

  And he realised how like his father he sounded.

  8

  A Gruesome Pillow

  The nights were drawing in faster and dropping colder as autumn took hold. The innkeeper had been around lighting candles and made the effort to stoke up a fire, and this, and the half-light, made the old Blue Boar inn look half-decent, thought Thomas Blackdown. Inns had changed a lot, even in ten years or so. Back then there could be four beds to a room and three or more occupants to a bed, travellers lying on lice-infested mattresses with fierce rats for company that could only be chased away by bringing cats or terriers up into the room. But the Blue Boar was on one of the main routes for Exeter and Bristol and every attempt to cater for hungry and weary travellers had been made. The food was better, there were rooms with a single bed, and, with armed servants supposedly watching over things, the likelihood of getting your possessions stolen somewhat reduced, but Blackdown was taking no chances.

  He’d arrived at the inn on the horse Jonathan had left him, a fine chestnut gelding called Coppice, a little headstrong, he thought, but they would soon get to know each other. He’d already booked and paid for his room before heading for Blackdown Manor. He checked out the room carefully before taking it. There was a bed, a wooden washstand with jug and bowl, a coat stand by the door, a dusty, and a faded rug at his feet that failed to hide the scarred old boards. The walls had recently been given a good coat of lime-wash.

  He strode over to the small window, opened it and looked ou
t. He was on the first floor; a small wooden ledge ran below the window along the face of the building; to his left and right were similar windows. He told the servant that showed him the room that he’d take it. And the empty room next door, too. The servant questioned why he’d need both rooms, but Blackdown stilled his enquiries and told him that he’d pay the young man to watch his door carefully whenever he was out.

  The two trunks, now packed with as many clothes, boots and shoes as he could possibly fit in, was delivered by cart to the inn, as arranged by Addison. He went through them, discarding his uniform and selecting a set of fine clothes to wear instead. He could not remember the last time he felt such cloth next to his skin, but his pleasure was dimmed somewhat with the memory of his brother having worn the clothes before him. The boots and shoes he tried on were a little tight, but he was sure the leather would give in time.

  He stood before a much fogged looking glass that hung lopsidedly on the wall and did not recognise the man looking back at him. He had always been called handsome, but he had never felt so. His appearance, when caught in a looking glass, seemed to him to be dark and brooding, a face carved mean by the experience of war and loneliness.

  Yes, he had been lonely. He had to admit this. He did not allow people to get too close to him, male or female, perhaps because he did not want them to discover who he really was, what kind of a man hid beneath the so-called handsome surface. People are such shallow fools, he thought, to fall for the beautiful surface of the ocean and fail to acknowledge the danger that sits below.

  Having dressed, he went to the window and opened it slightly. Next he took his pillow and tugged out a tiny eiderdown feather. He left the room and turned the key in the door lock, but before he went downstairs he pushed the tiny feather into the keyhole. He made his way down the groaning old stairs and down into the small dining room where he sat at a table and ordered his meal. The low wainscoted room, though dark, had been peppered with sporting prints of hounds and horses, of boxers facing up to each other, and over the mantelpiece the innkeeper had tacked a large card on which had been carefully scribed a list of the forthcoming county hound meets for the next fortnight or so.