BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery)

by D. M. Mitchell

  People whose lives were harsh and short to say the least were enjoying a brief interlude of joy and escapism, he thought. There was little money to be spent, but the traders were doing their level best in making sure what was spent was spent with them. Blackdown avoided the insistent calling of the various stallholders and made for Commodore Pettigrew’s tents, by far the largest of the companies drawn up on the field. Pettigrew had been given a prominent position at the heart of the festivities and had almost created a separate enclosure inside which all manner of wonders had been arranged.

  Standing on a large red-painted box outside his makeshift enclosure was Commodore Pettigrew himself, hailing a tiny crowd of people standing around him. He told them of the wonders to be found inside the tents and booths, how they might have their fortunes told or lay their eyes upon the forbidden mysteries of the world. Behind him was a large canvas screen painted in lurid colours, detailing the said wonders. The Pig-Faced Lady, The Duck Boy, and, amongst a raft of scarcely believable human oddities, The Mermaid of the Grand Banks.

  ‘Mr Blackdown!’ he called down from his perch. ‘Have you come to regale your eyes with the delights of Commodore Pettigrew’s Human Marvels? Man and beast joined together as God never intended?’

  ‘I am intrigued by the wonders you offer, Pettigrew,’ he said.

  ‘For you, the experience is free! Enter and be astounded!’ He gave a low bow and nearly toppled from the box. He righted himself and called to the assembled audience. ‘See, we are graced by the son of nobility! And what is good for nobility is good for you! Come, come! Enter and be amazed! Do not be afraid, but those of a weak disposition should bring salts with them in case your sensitive natures are not attuned to looking upon such sights as these!’

  Blackdown entered the tent and was faced with a line of crude booths made out of canvas, each booth painted with a representation of the wonder that lay within. It was gloomy, deliberately so, a number of dim lanterns hanging in strategic positions above the booths. A few people were already filing through, and he heard gasps and saw a woman put her hand to her mouth as she stared into one of the booths. She hurried out through the flap in the tent at the far end. Blackdown paused by the first booth and saw a woman sitting on a gilded chair, pretending to sew. She wore a laced poke bonnet fastened with pink silk.

  ‘Hoi there!’ shouted a man coming to stand beside him. He stank of beer. ‘Show us your pig’s face!’

  The woman slowly turned her head. In place of her nose was a large, wide, fleshy protuberance that came down and almost hid her top lip. Her dark eyes blinked and she cocked her head.

  The man gave a groan of displeasure. ‘You are indeed pig-ugly!’ he said and laughed, moving on to the next booth.

  The woman stared at Blackdown, her eyes dispassionate. She calmly turned her head and went back to pretending to sew. He sighed at the poor, unfortunate woman, sickened at heart that people like her were forced to parade themselves before drunken, insensitive louts. There was a collection pail just inside the booth. He dropped in a silver coin, if anything to make himself feel better at having ogled her deformities. There but for the grace of God, he thought…

  He avoided the other booths and made straight for The Mermaid of the Grand Banks. He paused outside, glancing at the painting on the canvas that told the public she had been captured by a whaler, the last of her kind. A real, live mermaid. He didn’t know what to expect.

  He peered into the booth. In the dim light he saw Sarah Jones laid out on a false rock. Her upper torso was clothed in a body stocking, making it appear that she was naked, save for seaweed made out of bright-green cloth that had been draped across her breasts. She wore a wig of the same cloth seaweed. His eyes ran down the length of her body. Her legs were close together, ending in a false fishtail that she flapped lazily. He swallowed when he saw her legs were covered in coarse, scale-like flakes of skin.

  ‘You cannot bear to look upon them. Do you not like my mermaid legs?’ she said, her voice blunt.

  ‘I did not come to see your legs.’

  ‘A woman cannot help being born the way she is. We are not all born the sons of lords, as I said.’

  ‘Why parade yourself so, for the amusement of people like him?’ he said, nodding to the drunken farmhand who was now leering at the Duck Boy.

  ‘It is easy for your kind to preach. You who have never gone hungry.’

  ‘I’ve gone hungry,’ he said. He cleared his throat. ‘Forgive me…’

  ‘At least my Robert loved me for what I am. He looked beyond my affliction. He was going to marry me and together we would get away from this life. But he is gone and I am stuck with it.’

  ‘I came to tell you I will try to find out what happened to your Robert.’

  ‘Do you say this out of pity? I don’t need your pity, Blackdown.’

  ‘I came here because it would not arouse suspicion. I am a casual onlooker.’

  A man and woman came to stand beside him and stare at Sarah Jones. The woman giggled. ‘Are those real scales?’ she said.

  ‘I am a real mermaid,’ said Sarah. ‘Caught off the Grand Banks never to see my home in the sea again.’

  ‘Stop staring at her breasts so!’ the woman said to her companion, and thumped him on the arm. They moved on.

  ‘What else do you know of the other men that went missing? The circumstances of their disappearance,’ Blackdown asked when the couple were out of earshot.

  ‘I thought you said Robert left me for another woman. Does not seeing my legs confirm that belief for you?’ she said coldly.

  ‘I believe a man can love someone for who they are,’ he said softly.

  ‘What changed your mind?’

  ‘Do you want my help?’

  She nodded. ‘I know little of the men’s disappearance beyond the fact they were said to have run away.’

  ‘And where can I find this Mighty Callisto you spoke of, the prize-fighter? He seems sure your life would be in danger by pursuing any enquiries. I’d like to know why.’

  ‘He will not speak to you, Mr Blackdown,’ she said, sitting up on her false rock. ‘He is a quiet man for all he is built like and ox and twice as ugly.’

  ‘Where will I find him?’

  ‘He fights daily. You can’t miss him. He’ll either be in his tent getting ready or fighting in the ring. Mr Blackdown?’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You don’t think the Beast of Blackdown got my Robert, do you? I have heard so many tales about the beast…’

  ‘Move on there!’ said a voice at the far end of the line of booths. ‘You’ve had more than your time!’

  Blackdown turned to see a large man in the shadows. ‘I’ll move along when I’ve a mind,’ he replied.

  ‘Please, don’t aggravate him. He is our keeper,’ said Sarah.

  ‘Your keeper? Are you considered animals to be assigned a keeper?’

  ‘It is the way. Please…’ she said.

  Blackdown looked up to see the man striding purposefully towards him. He noticed the man had a short wooden cudgel hanging from a leather belt.

  ‘Don’t do anything rash,’ said Sarah in a whisper.

  ‘If I have any news on your Robert’s disappearance, I’ll let you know,’ he told her. He glanced at the approaching man. ‘Just leaving,’ said Blackdown, tipping his hat to the man and walking away, emerging through the flap into the bright light again.

  Callisto’s tent was easy enough to find. It was a small, ragged affair outside of which had been erected a crude boxing ring made up of rope strung between four stakes hammered into the ground. A large image of the boxer had been painted to a piece of canvas and underneath the words The Mighty Undefeated Callisto! The Wonder of Rome! A small expectant crowd had already started to gather around the ring. Blackdown went round to the tent’s entrance and slipped inside.

  A large, muscular, bare-chested man, clean-shaven and shiny bald head, was sitting on a small wooden stool staring at his gnarled knuckl
es. He looked up at the intrusion, his eyes narrowing. ‘Who are you?’ he said, his voice dry and deep, his Italian accent plainly audible.

  ‘Thomas Blackdown,’ he replied. ‘I need to speak with you.’

  Callisto rose from his seat. He stood taller than Blackdown. His neck was as thick as a bull’s, thought Blackdown. And his ears had been pounded into shapeless lumps. His nose had long ago been flattened and there were old scars like dried riverbeds clearly visible on his cheeks. But he was no longer young, he thought. In spite of his size he looked like the ageing boxer was drawing on inner reserves in carrying on with the hard life he’d adopted. Muscular legs encased in tight red breeches took a step towards him.

  ‘Get out!’ Callisto said. ‘You shouldn’t be in here!’

  ‘A minute, that is all I ask,’ said Blackdown.

  ‘A minute is too long. Get out!’ Callisto gripped Blackdown by the lapel of his coat and pushed him backwards towards the tent’s entrance.

  Blackdown resisted. ‘What do you know of the soldier Robert Caldwell’s disappearance? Sarah Jones’s beau.’

  Callisto paused and blinked. His grip loosened a fraction. ‘He ran away and left her,’ he said. ‘Can you blame him?’

  ‘She tells me there are others who vanish without trace. What of them?’

  The boxer’s face resembled resistant cold rock. ‘Enough. Get out.’ He pushed Blackdown backwards and out of the tent.

  Blackdown smoothed down his rumpled coat, adjusted his hat, catching one last glower from Callisto as the flap closed on him. Blackdown turned to join the growing crowd. He saw one of Sir Peter Lansdowne’s Blackdown Horse Patrol officers riding up to a carriage pulled by four well-groomed horses. The smartly-dressed driver of the carriage, in gold-lined red livery, pulled the horses to a halt some distance away from the boxing ring and he shooed away a couple of curious people that flocked to the carriage for a better look at the grand occupant. The curtains on the carriage window were drawn back and Blackdown recognised Sir Peter Lansdowne’s face. Lansdowne spoke to the Horse Patrol officer, who stepped down from his mount and stood before the carriage acting as a kind of guard, keeping people at bay.

  Presently another similar carriage pulled up in front of Lansdowne’s, and Lansdowne passed a piece of paper out of the window to the officer. Blackdown frowned. Had he seen a slip of black card being carefully pressed between the folded sheet before it was handed over? The officer immediately ran with the paper over to the window of the other carriage and passed it through the open window to the gloved hand of its unseen male occupant.

  A black calling card?

  Blackdown’s attention was diverted as a man stepped into the boxing ring dressed in blue jacket and white breeches. ‘Gather round!’ he hailed the crowd, ‘and witness the undefeated, Mighty Callisto!’ There were loud cheers from the crowd as Callisto emerged from the tent and threaded his bulk through the ropes and into the centre of the ring. He held his massive arms up in the air. The crowd clapped and called his name. They obviously knew Callisto, and Blackdown assumed the boxer had been to the town many times with Pettigrew’s company. His appearance, and perhaps reputation, brought many more people scampering over to the ring. ‘Here in my hand is a prize of three guineas to any man who can knock down and beat the Mighty Callisto!’ the ringmaster continued, holding aloft a small cloth purse. ‘Nay, I will increase the prize to six guineas – six guineas to any man who can bring down the Wonder of Rome!’

  There were gasps at such a large sum on offer. But there were no takers, though many egged friends on to take the bet.

  ‘I’ll do it!’ said one rash young man, a stiff-built farmhand who clambered through the ropes and began to take off his shirt. He looked back at his companions and winked at a horrified young woman who called him back to no avail.

  ‘A brave young fighter!’ said the ringmaster. He brought the two opponents together. ‘No biting,’ he said. ‘Beyond that all is fair.’

  Callisto’s face was emotionless, as if he didn’t even register the young man’s presence. He took up his position like an automaton, thought Blackdown, his bare fists raised like the heads of twin hammers. The young man, though not of slight build, appeared white and puny by comparison. Blackdown didn’t think much for his chances. And he was right.

  The ringmaster rang a bell and the young man stepped forward, sent a fist flying into Callisto’s powerful midriff. He was surprised when there was no reaction from the boxer. Callisto lashed out three times with his fists into the young man’s face, and twice to his unprotected stomach, and the challenger fell immediately to the floor with blood streaming from his broken nose. He was counted out and his friends rushed into the ring to drag his all but unconscious form from the ring. Someone offered them a bucket of cold water and it was immediately thrown over the stricken man’s face. He gasped and spat out blood and water.

  The promoter held up Callisto’s bough-like arm in victory. ‘Any more challengers? Come, come, is there anyone out there who can take on the Mighty Callisto and win? See, I up the prize money from six to eight guineas!’

  But the crowd was even more reluctant. Callisto, in the meantime, was rubbing his knuckles and flexing his fingers, scrutinising a dash of red that had opened up on one knuckle. His eyes looked up and he saw Blackdown standing by the ring. The fighter immediately averted his head.

  ‘I’ll take up the challenge,’ said Blackdown.

  To the crowd’s applause he slid through the ropes and took off his hat and coat. He glanced over to Lansdowne’s carriage and caught sight of a flurry of further activity as more paper was passed between Lansdowne and the man in the second carriage. What is going on there, he thought?

  ‘Another brave fellow!’ called the ringmaster as Blackdown removed his shirt. A couple of women shouted their admiration, perhaps surprised at how well-built the new challenger was. The ringmaster brought the two men together. ‘No biting, but beyond that anything is fair.’ He stepped away as the two men eyed each other up.

  ‘What do you think you are doing?’ asked Callisto under his breath.

  ‘It seems this is the only way I can talk to you.’

  ‘I will pound you to a pulp,’ said the boxer.

  ‘We’ll see about that.’ He stepped back a couple of paces and brought his fists up to the ready.

  Callisto cracked his knuckles and licked his lips, bringing up his own fists in front of his eyes. ‘It’s a shame to ruin such a beautiful face, Blackdown.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances. Beauty is only skin deep, as they say, Callisto. I’m sure you’re very beautiful under that bull-like leather you call a face.’

  The bell rang and the voices surrounding the ring grew loud. Callisto approached Blackdown, his feet surprisingly light for a man his size. He lunged at Blackdown, but his fist met air as Blackdown sidestepped the blow. He lunged again, and again met nothing.

  ‘Are you to run around like a dancing dog all day, Blackdown?’ he said, his voice like distant thunder.

  In an instant Blackdown darted forward and landed Callisto two blows, one to the midriff and another to his side. Though his face hid it well, Blackdown knew Callisto had felt the latter sharply.

  ‘This dog bites, Callisto,’ he said, grinning.

  Callisto straightened. ‘That mouth will not be smiling soon,’ warned Callisto, ‘and those dog’s teeth will be on the floor soon enough.’ He launched himself at Blackdown and pummelled the challenger’s body with a series of savage blows, some of which Blackdown blocked. A couple hit home and he felt himself momentarily winded and backed away.

  ‘This is too polite,’ said Blackdown, and kicked Callisto between the legs before the man could do anything about it. The boxer’s eyes widened as the pain hit home. Blackdown followed it up with a punch to Callisto’s face and the man staggered backwards, shaking his head.

  Filling with rage, Callisto drove forward again and beat Blackdown back with a rain of iron-hard punches, then grabbed him by t
he neck and pushed him onto the ropes. The crowd cheered, but it was not clear who they favoured. Blackdown sent his head flying into Callisto’s, and their skulls cracked together with a loud retort that elicited gasps from the crowd. Callisto released his hold and swayed uncertainly. Blackdown grabbed the fighter’s neck in an arm lock and drove the stunned man to his knees.

  ‘I’m willing to wager that if I bring you down you will talk with me,’ Blackdown said close to the man’s ear.

  ‘Go to hell!’ he wheezed as Blackdown grabbed Callisto’s arm and pinned it behind him.

  ‘Afraid I’ll win?’ he said.

  Callisto roared and threw Blackdown off, rising to his full height. ‘I’m no coward! I’ll take your wager!’ He sent out a fist which caught Blackdown a glancing blow on the cheek. Had it made full contact he was sure his cheekbone would have crumpled like an eggshell. But he managed to scramble away and face the giant again.

  ‘That’s the last hand you’ll lay on me,’ said Blackdown, his chest heaving and awash with sweat.

  The boxer grinned and came at Blackdown again. But his attempts to land a fist on the man failed as Blackdown dodged the blows, and in return shot out a salvo of punches to Callisto’s side and face. The giant fell down to his knees again and Blackdown sent a savage fist into the small of Callisto’s back, followed by a boot to his contorted face. Callisto rolled over onto his back, groaning in agony, his nose bathed in blood.

  ‘Count him out!’ said Blackdown to the ringmaster, who looked at Callisto as if in a daze. ‘I said count him out!’

  He began to do so, very slowly. Callisto struggled to get to his hands and knees, his limbs shaking as he tried to muster his strength. Blackdown sent another boot into the man’s side and Callisto collapsed again.