BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery)

by D. M. Mitchell

  Callisto came round, but his eyes were swollen so much he could hardly see out of them. He felt the sudden impact of pain across his entire body and could not hold back the groan of agony. The mournful sound echoed around bare stone walls. He tried to move his arms but they were pinned back against the wall by chains, with heavy metal manacles fastened around and digging into his wrists.

  His slit-like eyes grew steadily accustomed to the dark, and he made out the metal bars in a small window set into a hefty wooden door. He heard movement beyond the door. He was in a small dark cell, filthy straw beneath him, water dripping down from the stone ceiling, the room filled with an almost overpowering smell of urine and faeces. Callisto attempted to shake his head free of the grogginess but it proved impossible. And the more he moved the more the pain bit into him. He was sure his attackers had broken a rib or two, his every breath tortuous.

  He glanced to his side. There was another man chained to the wall, his clothes barely hanging from him in filthy rags, his head bent as if unconscious. Blood dribbled from his open mouth and gathered in a pool on his groin.

  It was not long before Callisto realised what was happening to him, and his escalating terror overrode his pain. He began to yank ineffectually at his bindings, his bloated eyelids screwing up tight as fresh waves of agony speared into his frame. He began to yell out and curse. He did so until his energy gradually drained from him. He turned to his companion, squinted in the dark and tried to see beyond the bruising to the face and the long hair that hung down in greasy, matted threads. Yes, he recognised the man. It was one of the soldiers Pettigrew had recently recruited as hired help. A man that had supposedly absconded in favour of better work. But Callisto knew that wasn’t the case. Callisto knew all along what had happened to him, and the others, and the knowledge caused a fresh bolt of fear to ripple though his large frame.

  There was the sound of a key grating in a lock and the door swung open. Callisto couldn’t see in detail the three men who entered because they held up a lantern before them and the light blinded him.

  ‘Let me free!’ Callisto demanded.

  The three figures didn’t respond. The lamp was set down before the prisoner, and the shadows on his captor’s face were thrown upwards, his features cast into demonic relief by it. Callisto heard a canvas bag being dropped to the stone floor and the sound of clashing metal from within.

  ‘You were a fool, Callisto,’ said the man who dipped his hand into the canvas bag. It came out bearing a large pair of pliers.

  ‘I have done nothing!’ he defended. ‘Set me free!’

  ‘You know what you have done.’ This time the hand went into the bag and drew out a pair of shears.

  ‘No!’ Callisto cried. ‘Don’t do this! I promise I will never speak of it again to anyone!’

  ‘It is too late for that, Callisto. You will never speak of anything ever again.’

  The man nodded to his bulky companion, who grabbed Callisto’s head in a firm grip and tipped it back. Callisto clamped his mouth shut tight, but the third man stepped forward and shoved his hands into Callisto’s mouth, forcing open his jaws. The man with the pliers reached inside the fighter’s drooling mouth and took a hold of his tongue, pulling it out and clamping the pliers around it. He held it there, drawing blood with the pressure as Callisto fought to pull it back inside his mouth. Calmly, the man took the shears in his free hand and placed the rusted blades with newly sharpened edges over Callisto’s throbbing tongue.

  With a devilish smile the man brought the blades together and sliced off Callisto’s tongue.

  Thomas Blackdown entered his father’s bedroom slowly. He had not been inside this room since the day his mother’s stricken form had been laid on the bed. He wanted to tear himself away; he did not wish to see his father. What was he doing here? What disease of the mind forced him here against his wishes?

  The room had changed little, except that in his youth it had always seemed brighter, even at night, his mother’s presence making it so. Now it was shadowy and depressing, a mere two candles burning by the large bed which seemed to dwarf his father, as if the man was being absorbed by the heavy bed sheets, slowly sinking down into the mattress. Reverend Bole stood up from a seat by the bed on seeing Blackdown enter.

  ‘You came!’ he said, going over to him and taking Blackdown’s hand in both of his. ‘I thought it might be asking too much, but Julianne was insistent she contact you.’

  Blackdown felt all but overwhelmed by emotion. He could smell her presence, he was certain. His eyes searched the room, finding all that was familiar; the cabinet where she kept her perfumes, the drawers that held her silks, the wardrobes that housed her many fashionable and flattering dresses. On the wall her portrait looking imperiously down on him. He had forgotten how attractive she had been. He’d not seen her likeness for over twenty years and his memory of her face had started to blur like a watercolour painting immersed in a bowl of water. He swallowed down the sickening sensations and instead focussed on the man lying propped up on pillows.

  ‘How is he?’ he asked.

  ‘As comfortable as can be,’ said Bole with a great sadness in his voice. ‘But his illness takes him sooner than we expected. You came home none too soon.’

  Blackdown heard the rattle of his father’s breathing passing from his tortured lungs though a restricted throat. ‘I have seen him and now I must go,’ said Blackdown turning to leave.

  Bole grabbed his sleeve. ‘A minute more, Thomas.’

  ‘It would be a minute too long,’ he said. ‘He does not want me here.’

  ‘But you are here…’

  Blackdown closed his eyes for a moment. Yes, I am here, he thought. But I do not know why.

  ‘Jonathan?’ a weak voice floated from the bed. ‘Is that you?’

  Reverend Bole went back to his chair by the bed and took the sick man’s withered hand. ‘Jonathan is no longer with us, Lord Blackdown,’ he said.

  The man opened his eyes, turned to Bole. ‘I thought I heard my son. But my ears turn on me as well as my lungs.’

  ‘Your son is here, Lord Blackdown,’ said Bole, looking across at Thomas.

  ‘I have no other son.’

  ‘Thomas is here to see you, Lord Blackdown,’ said Bole.

  Lord Blackdown pulled his hand free. ‘I told you I have no other son. Get him away from here.’

  Reverend Bole bent close to the old man’s ear. ‘You are dying, sir. Now is the time to make your peace, not only with God but with your son.’

  ‘Don’t be so presumptuous as to tell me what to do, Bole,’ he said, and then coughed. The fit would not ease and Bole handed him a handkerchief. He continued to cough for a full minute or so before it abated. Bole pulled the handkerchief away. The sputum was scarlet with blood. He folded it and put it on a cabinet.

  ‘Lord Blackdown,’ Bole continued, ‘if I cannot appeal to your humanity then let me appeal to your business sense. Your estate is under threat. Without an heir in your will you will die intestate and your lands and possessions forfeit to the Crown. Recognise Thomas as rightful heir to Blackdown Manor and estate before it is too late.’

  ‘Lands and possessions?’ said Lord Blackdown. ‘I have precious few left. They have done for me, Bole. Conspirators unknown but bent on my destruction and I know not why.’

  ‘But would you have the name of Blackdown be reduced to dust? With the loss of Blackdown Manor and the surviving estate your fight to restore your name, the duty you felt towards your ancestors, all will have been in vain.’

  ‘So you’d have me hand it over to a murderer?’

  ‘It was an accident, Lord Blackdown,’ said Bole.

  ‘Leave him to his poisoned thoughts,’ said Blackdown. ‘Do you think I want any part of this accursed land? Do you think I want to acknowledge that man as my true father?’

  ‘Then get out of here!’ Lord Blackdown said, trying to rise up but failing. He sank to his pillow breathless. ‘We are of the same mind!’
r />   Thomas Blackdown took one last, lingering look at the room that used to belong to his mother, at the bed that carried her dead body, and left the room. Reverend Bole came out after him.

  ‘Thomas, wait…’

  Blackdown choked back the emotion, his face when he turned to face Bole a steely mask. ‘There is nothing to wait for. I don’t know why I came back here. It was foolish the first time, and…’ He stuttered into silence.

  ‘You have to forgive him, Thomas.’

  ‘Forgive him?’ He chuckled coldly.

  ‘There is something between you still, I sense it. You are here. That says a great deal.’

  ‘It says I am losing my mind. I have to be leaving now. Thank you for being with my father at this time, though he does not deserve your kindness.’

  Reverend Bole looked at his feet. ‘I have tried, Thomas. I do not wish to see all that the Blackdowns worked for crushed out of existence. It has been a good and noble family. I fear the country hereabouts is sinking into despair and that the devil has a hand in this. You are its only hope, Thomas.’

  ‘Me?’ he shook his head. ‘Do not pin any hopes on me, reverend. My father did that and had them dashed.’

  He left Reverend Bole and went downstairs. He was met by Addison who had a piece of paper in his hand. ‘I have the details you asked for, sir,’ he said, pleased with himself.

  ‘Let me see that,’ said Blackdown, taking the paper from the old man.

  ‘The Parthenope’s keel was laid in 1794, a two-decked merchantman. She was last surveyed in Liverpool three years ago in 1814, a ship that was used for the trade with India. She was lost with all hands a few months after she was surveyed. But I did some extra research. Her captain was one David Pettigrew.’

  ‘Pettigrew? A relation to Commodore Pettigrew?’

  ‘Or the name is a large coincidence.’

  ‘What was her cargo?’

  ‘I do not know that, sir, but she was carrying timber, spices, cloth and foodstuff on her last voyage.’

  ‘And it was lost with all hands?’

  ‘Every soul at the bottom of the ocean, sir. Why the interest in this particular ship, sir?’

  Blackdown nodded his appreciation. ‘I don’t know yet, Addison. Get me my coat, please. I will be leaving. I am just going to say my goodbye to Lord Tresham and his daughter.

  Just then they heard the sounds of something like distant thunderclaps and the smashing of windows.

  ‘Gunfire, sir!’ said Addison in alarm.

  Blackdown ran into the parlour. Lord Tresham and Julianne were cowering behind chairs, their faces in shock.

  ‘Someone is shooting at us, by God!’ cried Lord Tresham.

  And as if to prove a point two more windows exploded inwards as lead balls smashed through them and hit furniture and vases behind the frightened Treshams.

  ‘My guns, Addison!’ yelled Blackdown.

  The old man ran off and Blackdown went over to the curtains and peered through the windows into the dark.

  ‘Who is it?’ cried Lord Tresham.

  Blackdown dashed low about the room extinguishing candles, plunging it into darkness.

  ‘I don’t know, but they have picked on the wrong man to shoot at!’

  15

  Ever the Stubborn Mule

  Addison came scurrying back into the darkened room at a crouch. He handed the two pistols to Blackdown, who had his back pressed against the wall near one of the windows.

  ‘Get Lord Tresham and his daughter out of here and somewhere safe. Then load up a couple of my father’s hunting muskets and bring them to me with powder and shot.’

  ‘At once, sir!’ said Addison. He beckoned Lord Tresham. ‘This way, Lord Tresham. I will lead you to safety.’

  The threesome left the room, Julianne calling back over her shoulder as she reached the door, ‘Take care, Thomas.’

  But Blackdown wasn’t listening. Through narrowed eyes he was surveying the moonlit gardens beyond the broken window. He saw the bright flare of powder, and a ball crashed against the wall of the house somewhere. Then another shot went off. He fired in the direction of the first shot, and flame and white powder smoke exploded from the barrel, filling the room with its familiar acrid smell. He ran low across the room to another window, flattening himself against the wall as a ball crashed through the glass, narrowly missing him. More by chance than good aim, he thought. It was hardly likely they saw him in the darkened house. They were taking hopeful pot-shots, and for some unknown reason were concentrating on one set of windows. More shots lit up the dark outside. They were taking cover by the trees and bushes in the garden, he thought.

  Addison came to the door. ‘I have the guns, sir.’

  Thomas Blackdown fired another shot into the night and ran across the room to the door. He handed Addison the pistols. ‘Load them and bring them up to me.’

  ‘Up to you? Where are you going, sir?’

  ‘The roof.’

  The loud wood-crack of more shots rang out, a veritable volley.

  ‘There must be lots of them, sir!’ said Addison, his shaking hands taking the pistols in exchange for the muskets.

  ‘Possibly six,’ said Blackdown. ‘No more.’ He dashed out of the room and made for the stairs, Addison trying to keep up with him but finding it impossible. Blackdown was fast ascending the flight of stairs.

  Lord Tresham called up to him from below. ‘Thomas, what do they want? Who are the damned devils?’

  ‘Later, uncle,’ Blackdown called back, his mind distracted.

  Reverend Bole shouted from outside Lord Blackdown’s bedroom, ‘What is that noise, Thomas? It sounds like gunfire.’

  ‘Get back inside the room, and keep your head down for a while.’

  Blackdown ran down familiar passages, through familiar doors, the memories of his childhood sweeping over him. And it was as if each door he flung open let out a fresh memory to sting his mind, as if every flight of stairs upwards drew forgotten thoughts from the hitherto black, closed dungeons of his brain.

  The lead of the roof shone dully under the strong moonlight, and he made his way down a narrow passageway. Crenulations on his left, the steep pitch of a tiled roof to his right. He remembered being up here as a child. On a clear day you could see for miles, the land as far as the hazy distance allowed belonging to the Blackdowns, or so he liked to think. It wasn’t quite that much, but it had been significant. Now it was much reduced, he thought.

  But tonight he had other things on his mind. He peered down through the false battlements onto the grounds below, bathed in a strong silvery wash of moonlight. Whoever they were down there, he thought, they were not soldiers. To attempt an attack in the revealing light of an all but full Moon, and firing from largely coverless ground, was foolish. He paused, gaining his breath, watching as the various musket flares burst from a number of positions along the gardens. He counted. Three – four – five different men. As he stared he noticed they didn’t shift position and he shook his head. Never keep the same ground, he thought, smiling to himself. And always take the high ground.

  Addison came huffing and puffing over the roof to him. He handed Blackdown the loaded pistols. He had a canvas bag with him. ‘More shot and powder, sir.’

  ‘Good, now we’re ready,’ he replied, a frisson of excitement running through him as he lifted the musket and took careful aim. ‘Be ready to load and load fast, Addison.’

  Patiently he waited till another musket shot cracked out. He settled on the spot where it came from and fired the gun. He tossed it aside to Addison and grabbed the next musket. He fired at the next position he’d memorised. Addison was biting the end of a paper powder cartridge, priming the pan and pouring the remaining black powder down the barrel of the musket.

  ‘You show them, sir!’ he said, almost excitedly.

  A lead ball whistled high over their heads.

  Trying to get our bearing, Blackdown thought. But they were poor marksmen. Blackdown took a pistol in each han
d and discharged them both at the spot from where the last shot had come. He saw a man dash from the cover of his tree and across open ground. ‘The musket, Addison!’ Blackdown called out. ‘The partridge is running!’

  Addison was ramming the empty paper cartridge down over the lead ball he’d slid into the barrel after the powder. He handed the musket over and began to load the next. They both turned to hear footsteps pounding on the roof. It was Lord Tresham. He had a musket in his hand.

  ‘We’ll show those blaggards, eh?’ he said, taking up position and aiming his gun out over the battlements.

  ‘You should be inside, uncle,’ said Blackdown. But he had no time to argue. Blackdown was taking careful aim on the running man and hoping the musket’s accuracy wouldn’t let him down. He pulled the trigger. The hammer crashed, the powder in the pan flaring up, and almost instantly the gun exploded with a loud retort.

  The dark shadow of the man staggered and fell to the grass. He started to crawl and someone else burst from the cover of bushes and raced to help his stricken companion.

  ‘You hit him, by God!’ said Lord Tresham. He took aim and fired down at the two men. Tresham was disappointed to see he hadn’t hit anything. The two men limped across the grass and reached cover again.

  Everyone began loading muskets and pistols, Blackdown especially fast with years of practice in the field. They poured down a steady hail of shot onto the exposed positions of their attackers.

  ‘Addison, get back downstairs and have the stableman have my horse saddled and ready.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Don’t argue, Addison, there’s a good man.’

  The old man scrambled his way over the roof, head bowed low.

  ‘Who are the blighters, Thomas?’ said Lord Tresham. ‘They could have killed any one of us. If this has anything to do with those ludicrous accusations against your father it is monstrous and someone will hang for it!’

  ‘I think their target was me, uncle,’ Blackdown replied.