BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery)

by D. M. Mitchell

  Lighted brands were thrust into the pile of wood at the creature’s feet, the flames rushing across the tar that had been doused liberally over the kindling. The fire soon took hold in a series of unholy blue flames that crackled noisily as they energetically raced away, like a multitude of cackling demons celebrating their sudden independence. Reverend Bole saw demons, too, in the grinning faces of the crowd that gathered around the effigy, the flickering light casting juddering shadows over their features and manufacturing for them dark masks of evil. It had the same effect on the snarling face of the demon-best, the strange light causing it to appear as if its muscles came to life, a shower of orange sparks circling its nose as they rose upwards to the black sky like a cloud of devilish fireflies.

  Then they came forward with pots and pans and drums, worn horseshoes on string, lengths of wood, anything they could create a noise with, and began to bang away at them loudly, the people yelling at the top of their voices and creating such a din that Reverend Bole had to step back, and at one point to cover his ears. To the scrapings of two fiddles that raised an ancient jig, the circle of people began to dance steadily anti-clockwise around the growing, growling fire, making their noise and hoping to scare away the demon-beast for another year. It belonged to another, bleaker, darker time, thought Bole, watching the contorted faces of the men women and children, all of whom seemed to be caught up in the escalating frenzy of activity. He saw jugs of cider being passed around, lips wet with the alcohol, energies enflamed by it, and he shook his head at the pitiable sight.

  Beyond the effigy was the dark of a moonlit land, made even darker and unfathomable by the bright, scorching light of the young flames. Something caused Bole to shudder in spite of the heat. Up there, in the bleak hills, something was stirred by this ceremony. He could feel it. Sense it in the very air. And he chastised himself for being drawn into their foolish games.

  He turned away and pushed through the crowd, no one interested in him or his God now, not at this moment. He knew he had lost them until morning.

  Bole saw the carriage being driven in some haste through the town and wondered what fool would be so reckless as to whip up his horses to such a degree in the dark. He thought he made out the uniforms of the Blackdown Horse Patrol on the riders who accompanied the vehicle that lurched through the ruts of the uneven road, but he could not be sure.

  Now a chant-like song rose from the crowd that made his insides freeze. It did so every time he heard it. Even after all these years. A steady, monotonous, almost tuneless spewing of words that everyone knew. All joined in as the banging and clanging grew in intensity, all but drowning out what was being sung. Canute-like, he’d tried to ban the ancient, devilish mantra, replace it with one of God’s good clean hymns of thankfulness and deliverance, but he had failed a long time ago and had to bow to the tide of tradition that bore down irresistibly upon him and drove him back. Some things were just too strong, even for God, he thought. But he would claim back their souls in the morning and the devil would have lost out again for another year. He hoped.

  When he next turned to look at the road, the carriage had disappeared, headed out deep into the night somewhere.

  He was thrown madly from side to side, a man on either side of him giving him sharp encouragement not to knock into them by punching him in his sides. He had some kind of cloth stuffed into his mouth held in place by a gag strapped across his lips, a sack over his head tied with rope around his neck, with more rope binding his hands securely behind his back.

  Thomas Blackdown had wrestled with his bonds till his wrists were raw and bled with the effort, but whoever had tied them was well-practised. In the end he had to resign himself to letting them take him where they will. For the moment. He would take the slightest opportunity to make his break, and when he did so he would kill them all.

  The sight of poor Addison going down haunted him. It fired up a furnace of hatred and revenge for his captors. His bloodlust was up and he knew it would remain so till it was fully satisfied. It scared him with its burning intensity, for he’d experienced it so many times before, but he was powerless before it. And each punch to his already bruised sides enflamed it all the more.

  He had no comprehension of the distance they travelled. That they travelled at speed was without doubt. The pounding of the horses’ hooves and the clattering of the stressed wheels on the uneven ground, the constant jolting and the savage ministrations of his captors soon hammered his senses into a pulp. Presently the road smoothed out and he heard the distinct crunching and squeaking sound of gravel being squeezed from beneath the wheels.

  The carriage came to a shaky halt and he was dragged without ceremony through the door, clattering his head painfully against the low frame as he emerged. A man grasping either arm forced him onwards, half-pushing, half-hauling him along. He climbed stone steps, went through an open door, felt the distinct warmth of the inside of a room and caught the scent of something sweet in the air through the stinking sacking over his head. No one spoke. Their silence unnerving.

  Then a steady descent down more stairs, the atmosphere cold and damp. He was held steady as he heard the sound of another door being unlocked, and he was shoved bodily into the room beyond, falling to the floor, his knees coming into contact with hard unforgiving stone. The smell was now one of urine and faeces and desperation.

  Blackdown struggled to his feet, turned and growled through his gag in the direction of his captors, but they came at him and pushed him back till he crashed against a stone wall, the wind knocked from him. He felt his hands being untied. As soon as one of them was free he lashed out blindly and felt satisfaction as his fist met the edge of a chin.

  He was beaten down, his hands now being held fast, his wrists encased in manacles. Finally they stood back and left him to pull violently at his chains.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere, Blackdown, so you may as well relax.’

  Blackdown recognised the voice as that of Addison’s killer. His anger screamed to be released, but he was helpless and so suppressed it.

  Then the door was closed and locked and he was left alone.

  Or so he thought.

  He heard a slight scuffling noise from his right. The heavy breathing of a man. The clink of chains as someone moved. Then another sound to his left. A pathetic groan of despair.

  Blackdown tried to say something through the gag, but he felt in danger of choking on the cloth stuffed into his mouth and had to give up. He wondered why the others in this stinking room stayed silent, and he tested his binding again, but there was no possible way he could release his hands from the manacles. In frustration and fury, Blackdown gave up his futile efforts and instead decided to concentrate on calming his fiery emotions. He sat still and relaxed his breathing, attempted to put a lid on his visions of the unfortunate Addison. Blind rage would not help him. He had to bring the stampeding wild stallions of his thoughts under control and urge them in another, altogether more useful, direction.

  Through the dark of his stinking sackcloth hood he heard his fellow prisoners move and utter plaintive groans of despair.

  He would get out of this, and, by God, he would make those responsible pay.

  It may have been only half an hour or so, but it appeared longer, before he heard the harsh scrape of keys in the door lock. He stiffened, instantly alert. The sound of footsteps on the stone. Three people, he estimated, entering the room. The door closing smartly and heavily behind them. Blackdown felt fingers grabbing at the cord around his neck, leaving a red welt necklace where his throat had been rubbed raw by the tight rope binding. He saw the glimmer of light piercing the coarse weave of the sacking. The hood was yanked away and he blinked at the light of the lantern held before his face.

  A harsh, unshaven craggy face stared straight at him, long greasy hair tied back into a ponytail, the rancid smell of sweat washing from the man and up Blackdown’s flaring nostrils. The face grinned. Calloused hands grabbed Blackdown’s chin. He resisted the
pawing and the man slapped him hard across the cheek.

  ‘Shame to spoil such a good looking face,’ he said, indicating for one of the men standing immediately behind him to bring him the canvas bag he carried.

  Blackdown swivelled his head away, taking in the small, dark confines of the dungeon-like prison cell, and was taken aback to see Callisto chained to the wall next to him. The giant of a man, his wrists in manacles and pinned above his head, regarded Blackdown sorrowfully. The boxer opened his mouth and blood dribbled from it. He stuck out his tongue, or what was left of it, to show him what was in store. Then Callisto looked away helplessly.

  Snapping his head to the other side, Blackdown saw another man, similarly chained, apparently asleep or pretending to be so. He didn’t recognise his fellow prisoner, but he had an idea where he’d come from.

  His attention was drawn immediately to the harsh clanking of metal as the second gaoler put down the canvas bag. All three of the men crowded around Blackdown, who yanked ineffectually at his bindings, his eyes burning fiercely.

  ‘Take off his gag,’ said the man with the lantern. He set it down and reached into the bag, drawing out a pair of cruel looking pliers.

  One man grabbed Blackdown by the hair and forced his head down while the other untied the knot. The gag slipped away.

  Blackdown spat out the cloth that had been forced into his mouth, gasped in a breath and cried out. ‘I’ll kill you for this, you damned filthy bastards!’

  He received a punch in the ribs that took the breath from him. His head was hauled backwards by the hair.

  ‘Enjoy your cursing while you can.’ The man signalled to his companion and Blackdown’s mouth was clawed open, large fingers probing inside and grasping his tongue, drawing it out. He felt the pliers fastening around it and gave a small yelp of pain. He could not draw his tongue back inside his mouth. His eyes widened as he saw the man take a pair of lambing shears out of the bag. ‘No more sweet nothings into the ears of pretty young ladies, eh, Blackdown?’ His grin faded. ‘Hold the bugger still, will you?’ he growled, placing the twin blades over Blackdown’s shivering tongue.

  ‘Hold that,’ called a familiar voice through the barred window of the door.

  The shears fell away and the men released Blackdown. All eyes turned to the door as it swung open. He could not make out the details of the man standing in the doorway, but Blackdown knew who it was.

  ‘Lansdowne,’ said Blackdown, spitting out the foul taste of the man’s fingers and feeling the painful throb where the pliers had clutched his tongue.

  Sir Peter Lansdowne stepped into the feeble pool of light given out by the lantern. With a single flick of his hand he signalled for the three men to leave. They gathered up their implements and scurried, like rats bolting for cover, out of the cell. Lansdowne stood before the prisoner and bent to his haunches in front of him.

  ‘You shouldn’t have come home, Thomas,’ he said evenly. ‘You should have stayed away. You wouldn’t be in this situation otherwise. But you are here and that, as it turns out, is no bad thing. In fact it is most opportune.’

  ‘Did you kill my brother?’ Blackdown snarled.

  Lansdowne regarded him patiently, rose to his feet again, his hands clasped behind his back. ‘No, Thomas, I can honestly say that I did not kill your brother.’

  ‘But you know who did?’

  ‘Perhaps I do, perhaps I do not.’

  ‘I swear you’re going to pay for this, Lansdowne, so help me God!’

  He smiled. ‘God cannot help you now, Thomas. In fact, you are to face the devil himself this very night.’ He turned to the others tied to the wall. ‘You all are. But the Mighty Callisto already knows that, don’t you?’

  Callisto averted his gaze.

  ‘What are you talking about, Lansdowne?’ Blackdown said, attempting to put a lid on his emotions so he could think clearly.

  ‘I’m going to show you something, Thomas, but you have to give me your promise you will behave, do not try anything foolish or cry out, otherwise you will stay here and I will let them cut out your tongue. The choice is yours.’

  Blackdown gave a short nod, his mind already scouring the situation for any chance of escape. ‘As you will,’ he said compliantly, but feeling a rush of hatred for the man that leaked into his voice.

  Lansdowne signalled for the men to return and unfasten Blackdown from the wall. ‘Keep his wrists manacled and his legs shackled,’ he ordered, ‘and if he tries anything at all you have my permission to beat him to the ground and take him back to the cell.’ He smiled warmly at Blackdown. ‘You’re an intelligent and learned man, Thomas, and I think you are desperate to learn what is going on here. I know you will not give me any trouble.’

  ‘Are you to gloat over me, is that it?’ His arms dropped loose with a clanking of chains and he flexed his fingers and wrists. But the freedom was short lived for the manacles around his wrists were fastened to each other by a padlock, locking his hands together again. The men helped him to his feet, which were shackled at the ankles, and he found he could hardly walk because the short length of chain that bound them together.

  ‘Gloat?’ said Lansdowne. ‘That is below me, Thomas. I merely thought you would like to look upon your fate.’ He walked briskly out of the cell. ‘Bring him,’ he ordered.

  Blackdown hobbled after Lansdowne’s slender form, encouraged by the three men, two of whom stood on either side of him, with the other bringing up the rear. The lantern lit up a low-ceilinged, stone-lined corridor, arched at the top, but they all had to duck down for fear of cracking their heads on the rough-hewn stone blocks. They entered another door at the corridor’s end, which led into yet another short passage. They stood before a single door, liberally peppered with iron studs and supported by three massive, corroded iron hinges. Lansdowne asked for the lantern and told the men to wait outside in the other corridor, something that Blackdown noticed they were more than eager to do. Had he really seen fear on their faces as they retreated into the darkness and left the two men alone?

  There was a window cut into the door, and another small opening covered by a bolted sliding door at its base through which Blackdown surmised food would be passed.

  ‘What is in here?’ Blackdown asked.

  ‘Hell,’ Lansdowne replied coldly.

  He held up the lantern to the window and Blackdown, irresistibly drawn by his curiosity, moved closer so that he could take a look. At first he couldn’t see anything inside the room, the weak lantern light failing to properly penetrate the blackness beyond. He caught a glimpse of fresh straw spread on the stone floor, and what looked to be a white strip of discarded animal bone.

  ‘I can’t see a thing,’ Blackdown admitted quietly.

  But at the sound of his voice he heard a rustling from the darkest recess of the cell, the movement of something large and cumbersome, the scratch of something on stone. And then a growl, so low and hellish it make the hairs on his arms stand on end. Held by morbid fascination Blackdown’s eyes strained to make out the shape that seemed to circle the puddle of light, as if afraid of entering it. A large, hairy hand, human but with long, black claw-like nails, crept into view, the extended muscular arm covered in a mass of thick, matted hair. Another growl, like that of a caged wild animal, seeped out of the blackness and caused Blackdown’s insides to freeze. It was the same unearthly growl he’d heard in Devilbowl Wood.

  ‘Come, don’t be afraid,’ Lansdowne whispered at the window, his breath briefly fogging up one of the metal bars. ‘Show yourself, my boy.’

  Fascinated and appalled, Blackdown’s face pressed close to the window. He knew this to the same beast he had encountered in the wood. He felt the same prickling of fear and unease, the same sense that something was studying him closely, something black and foul staring into his very soul.

  In an instant the creature sprang at the door and Blackdown a cried in alarm as a hairy, raging, wolf-like face snarled viciously at the window, its sharpened yellowed teeth
gnashing, its wild eyes ablaze with primitive fury, clawed hands reaching through the bars and trying to strike his face.

  Blackdown fell back at the nightmarish vision, a hand to his mouth in shock and horror.

  Sir Peter Lansdowne laughed, the sound echoing down the corridor like the sound of a scampering, screeching demon.

  19

  Choices

  ‘What the devil is that?’ Blackdown gasped.

  The beast continued to launch itself at the door, rattling it on its solid hinges, throwing its weight against it with such force that Blackdown, against his better judgement, felt it might actually give way at any moment.

  ‘Let me introduce you to my very own Blackdown Beast,’ Lansdowne said.

  ‘What manner of creature is that? It is neither man nor beast!’ he said. ‘I have never clapped eyes on the like before!’

  ‘And hardly likely to again, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Lansdowne. He leant closer to the door. ‘Calm down, boy,’ he said softly, as if speaking to a dog.

  It did no such thing, and in fact became even more enraged.

  ‘Caldwell!’ Lansdowne shouted.

  In an instant one of Blackdown’s guards, the one with the greasy long pigtail, stepped forward and moved to the window. ‘Get back there!’ he ordered. ‘Do as I say!’ The creature shrunk from the door, instantly falling quiet, its eyes supplicant. ‘There’s a good boy!’ said the man. ‘There’s a good boy!’ His job finished he turned to Lansdowne.

  ‘Robert Caldwell here is the only man capable of controlling our little treasure completely. He has a way with animals,’ said Lansdowne. ‘Thank you, Caldwell,’ he said, dismissing him. The man retreated to the shadows again.