His father shook his head. ‘I cannot leave this room, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Not at this time.’ His eyes looked up to the wall. Blackdown followed his ardent gaze. The object that snared his attention was the portrait of his mother gazing down serenely on the pair of them. ‘If I am to die it will be here, with my beloved wife’s memory all around me.’
‘I cannot let you stay, father,’ he said, reaching up to cradle his father’s scrawny neck, making an attempt to lift him from his pillows.
The man resisted feebly. ‘I am already a dead man, Thomas. But before I go I have to tell you something…’
Blackdown’s eyes began to fill with tears, partly due to the smoke, but partly due to his helplessness; he knew that he could never carry the sick old man from the room in time. ‘I’m listening, father,’ he said.
‘I need you to forgive me, Thomas,’ he said. ‘I have been too proud, too unforgiving of you and too foolish…’ He coughed and blood-infused saliva dribbled down his chin. Blackdown wiped it away. ‘I should not have banished you,’ he continued. ‘It was wicked of me. Your mother would never have sanctioned such a thing. She loved you perhaps more than she loved me. Jonathan is dead because of my selfishness. I have ruined everything and brought down this house. Your mother would have been so angry with me. Reverend Bole has told me how you tried to defend this house against attack, and put your own life in danger in doing so. You that I have treated so badly coming selflessly to the house’s rescue. So I have spoken with Cornelius Reeve and he has reversed my will. The house, what is left of my fortune, it will all fall to you when I am dead…’ His eyes closed. ‘I can smell smoke…’ he said quietly, releasing Thomas’s hand. ‘Where is that smell coming from…?’
‘The house…’ he began, but thought it best not to say anything more. The old man looked like he was falling asleep.
‘Forgive me, Thomas,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘Please try to forgive me… I am not at heart a cruel man, though you must think me cruel.’
Blackdown squeezed his eyes closed, dislodging a solitary tear. ‘I forgive you,’ he said, his fingers tightening around his father’s enfeebled hand.
He looked to the door. Gossamer tendrils of smoke probed finger-like around the doorframe. Blackdown groaned, realising he could not leave his father here to burn alive.
He took up a cushion, sucked in a deep breath and placed it over his father’s face. He pressed down, hard, with grim determination. The old man sensed something was wrong almost immediately, heaved out a grunt and began to struggle, his fingers clawing weakly at the cushion for what seemed an eternity before eventually falling still on the bed covers. Blackdown held the cushion there a moment longer, afraid of looking into his father’s face. But when he took the cushion away his father was at peace.
So now he had killed both parents, he thought bleakly. His mother’s image stared at him. Did he see accusation or forgiveness in her eyes?
But there was no time to waste. He bound over to the door. The corridor outside was filled with smoke, and a shivering glow at the top of the stairs showed him that the fire had really taken hold and was almost upon him. The ground floor would be well on its way to being totally consumed, he thought, putting his arm over his nose and mouth and coughing into his sleeve. He braved the smoke-filled corridor and found his worst fears to be true; he was trapped at the top of the stairs by the hungry fire with no way down.
He hurriedly retraced his steps back to his father’s bedroom, slammed the door shut on the smoke and dashed over to the windows. Ripping back the curtains he fumbled with the window catch. It was stiff with age and neglect. He sent his elbow into the panes of glass, punched a hole through the window and leant outside. A welcome cool breeze brushed his cheeks as he looked down to the ground, quite a distance away; anyone foolish enough to jump would break more than a few bones in their body, if not their neck.
There was a lead drainpipe to his right. He might just be able to reach it. Blackdown stepped onto the window ledge, stretched out his arm. But the pipe was a foot or so away from his twitching fingers. He eased himself further out onto the narrowest of ledges, the old stone crumbling under his boots and threatening to give way.
He leapt towards the drainpipe.
His hands struggled to find purchase on the smooth metal and he felt himself half-sliding, half-falling down the pipe until he brought himself to a stop, clinging onto the pipe for dear life. He began to ease himself down.
Voices called out to him from below, the servants having gathered on the lawn beneath the window. Blackdown was now scrambling down the drainpipe. There was the sound of splintering glass as flames spewed out of the lower windows. Blackdown urged everyone to fall back, away from the house.
To his horror he heard the squeak of nails being pulled from the old stone; felt the drainpipe give an alarming judder as it came away from the wall. He looked down. It was too far to jump, he thought, trying to lower himself down without dislodging the fragile pipe further. But it was no use; the pipe gave a metallic groan and gave way. Blackdown tumbled through the air the last few feet to the ground.
The last thing he was aware of was the line of stone flags beneath the ground floor windows were rushing up alarmingly fast towards him. He closed his eyes and tried to shield his head as he crashed helplessly to the ground.
When he came round he was staring into the face of the Mermaid of the Grand Banks.
He felt pain shoot up through his spine to his neck and gasped breathlessly.
‘Try not to move, Thomas,’ said Sarah Jones. ‘You have had a nasty fall and we are afraid you may have broken bones.’
He raised himself up onto his elbow against her wishes, still feeling dazed. He was lying on grass, the night air filled with smoke. The acrid smell brought the events of the evening pouncing upon his dulled mind. He turned and was dismayed to see the lower floors of Blackdown Manor all but consumed in a white-hot glow, the flames rearing up like infernal fiery steeds to snap at the air, throwing up sheets of spiralling sparks. A line of people, thrown into dark relief against the towering blaze, were passing buckets to each other and tossing water onto the fire. It had little or no effect and Blackdown could see that they were being beaten back by the sheer intensity of the heat and would soon have to give up their valiant efforts to save the property.
‘We saw the blaze from the town,’ said Sarah. ‘Some of Pettigrew’s company joined others from the town and rushed here to see if we could help.’ Her gaze lined up alongside his. ‘I fear we are too late and the fire too fierce to save the house.’
‘Where is Pettigrew?’ said Blackdown, gasping for breath as a fresh wave of pain ran through his bruised frame.
‘The scoundrel has packed up his cart, abandoned us and taken to the road in a panic.’
‘He will be found,’ said Blackdown, rising from the grass, on his knees as he tried to beat the pain and stand upright.
‘What is going on with Pettigrew, Thomas?’ Sarah asked. ‘I have never seen a man’s face show such fear. Why has he run so?’
‘There is no time for that,’ he returned. ‘I need a horse…’
‘You won’t be riding anywhere for a while, Thomas,’ she protested.
As if to underline her statement a massive hand pressed down hard on Blackdown’s shoulder and forced him down again. He looked up angrily at the newcomer. It was Callisto. He stood leaning heavily on a cane, his leg wreathed in bloody, makeshift bandages. He raised his finger in a movement that told Blackdown not to resist.
‘Let me up, you big oaf!’ said Blackdown.
‘Reverend Bole says you must not move till we can be sure you are fit,’ explained Sarah, pointing to the man. He was standing in line, passing down buckets of water, his face red and sweating with the exertion.
‘I have to find my brother…’ Blackdown insisted. ‘So let me up and get out of my way, Callisto, or you will pay for it!’
Callisto smiled and shook his head, standing his grou
nd.
‘Your brother is dead, Thomas,’ said Sarah. ‘The smoke has befuddled your mind.’
‘He is very much alive.’ He pushed Callisto’s hand away. Rose groggily to his feet.
However, he did not get very far, for his attention was diverted to a small body of five horsemen galloping in his direction. He immediately recognised them as the Scots Greys. The massive, breathless horses were soon upon them, one of the cavalrymen slipped from his saddle with an ease born of constant practice.
‘Who among you is Thomas Blackdown?’ asked the burly officer, his face bearing the traces of mud splashes. He knew without anyone replying, for he removed his pistol and pointed it at Blackdown. ‘You are Thomas Blackdown?’ he demanded.
‘Yes I am. What of it?’ He was coughing, his eyes sore and watering from the smoke.
‘You are under arrest!’
‘What?’ said Sarah. ‘You cannot arrest him!’
‘You have the wrong man…’ Blackdown retorted angrily. He saw that the other cavalrymen had withdrawn their pistols and sabres, their expressions meaning business. ‘It is Cornelius Reeve you should be arresting, not I!’
The cavalryman frowned. ‘I do not know of any man called Cornelius Reeve.’
‘He ordered your men to break up the Lupercal Club, in heaven’s name! He has double-crossed the government.’
‘You are as slippery as an eel, Blackdown. There is no such club. Enough of these games. I make no mistake; it is Thomas Blackdown I seek and Thomas Blackdown I am arresting. Put your hands above your head. You are to come with us, alive or dead, it matters little to me.’ He waved the pistol alarmingly. ‘And if you resist I am ordered to blow your head off!’
‘Arrested on what charge?’ said Blackdown furiously.
‘Murder!’ the officer returned. ‘The murder of Harvey Grey, your servant Addison and a guard at the town gaol.’ He glanced at the inferno. ‘And more besides, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘You are making a gross mistake! It is not me that you need concern yourself with…’
‘Tell that to the judge and the hangman, because as sure as the sun comes up tomorrow, you are going to hang, Thomas Blackdown.’
26
Magic
It was a grey and drab autumnal morning, a crispness in the air over the city of Exeter that presaged Winter’s icy breath. The light was as yet too thin to pour through the small barred window into the cramped prison cell with any vigour. It was a desultory show, thought Thomas Blackdown, almost as if the day could hardly be bothered to rouse itself from its bed.
He had been offered a large breakfast, but declined. It would be his last, he was told. Still he shook his head and said he was not hungry. And true enough he wasn’t. In fact he felt numb all over, as if his body had already mounted the scaffold and had taken the drop. Already dead.
The South Gate prison chaplain was allowed into his cell and urged Blackdown to pray for his soul and make peace with his maker.
I have nothing to say to Him, he replied tersely, and sent the chaplain away and sat on the end of his cold iron-framed bed to await his call and think on the events of the past few months.
The trial had been swift and its results unequivocal. He was found guilty of all charges, of murder and damage to property, and sentenced to hang. It might have been said to have been just a little too rushed. But the results, whether swift or slow, were always going to be the same, he thought. He was always going to hang, and today was the day he would take to the scaffold and have the hangman’s noose placed around his neck.
Eventually, under armed guard, he was marched out of his cell, past rows of similar cells, the old prison, way past its best and failing to hold the increasing amount of wrongdoers, was due to be demolished later that year. You’ll be one of the last to be taken from here and hanged, he was informed. It was a dubious honour, Blackdown thought. He was taken to an open cart, his hands tied behind his back before he mounted the small vehicle. From the gates of the prison he was driven through Exeter to Magdalen Drop, the location in the city where executions had long taken place.
The streets were lined with people, always eager to see a good hanging. There were vendors selling food, and some selling pamphlets glorying in his crimes, concluding with a florid and uncharacteristic full confession he had never made. There were puppeteers, and girls hawking heather, a blind ex-soldier playing the fiddle, while another with an arm missing danced to the tune. But most were interested only in him, in the son of Lord Blackdown who had turned bad and was now due to pay the ultimate price for his mortal sins.
But the crowd was strangely silent. No one cheered or jeered. No one threw rotting vegetables or worse. Some even took off their hats as the cart passed, and bowed their heads or muttered a quiet prayer to themselves. Lord Blackdown had not been unjust, and of his kind had been highly respected about the town. To some of those present, to see first the father and now the son brought low was a sad affair.
The gallows had been erected the previous day for this morning’s grisly ritual and would be taken down as soon as it was over. It was tall and forbidding, Blackdown thought bleakly, and wondered at the many people who had preceded him up those rough-hewn stairs and had stepped off into eternity. The crowd swarmed as far as they could up to the gallows, but were kept at bay by a line of stern-faced red-coated soldiers. A light drizzle shimmered on their shoulders as Blackdown took the steps slowly and faced the hushed crowd of people. He was asked if he had any last words to say, and he almost felt the entire crowd push forward expectantly. Thomas Blackdown shook his head.
‘I have no more to say. Let’s get this over and done with.’
Two soldiers stood before him and blocked him off from the crowd, ensuring his hands were tied, and a black bag was seen to be placed over his head. They stood aside and nodded. Blackdown stood stock-still, his body erect.
He waited for the drop.
Sarah Jones and Callisto watched from a distance. The spectacle both terrible and fascinating to watch. Blackdown’s figure was a slender strip of black on the towering gallows. Sarah turned her head into Callisto’s chest. She could not bear to watch.
A carriage had pulled up on the edge of the crowd. Its window had been lowered, and from the dark of its interior a man stared at the distant drama unfolding on the scaffold.
Jonathan Blackdown’s face did not register emotion. Even though the man on the scaffold was his brother he did not feel anything for him. His only anxiety was that they get this over with as soon as possible, the death of Thomas ultimately signifying his full freedom. Thomas was the last man living able to point the finger of blame. Not that they took much heed of Thomas’s mad ravings about a dead brother returned to life. His story had been dismissed out of hand, the sentencing sharp and sure.
What are you waiting for, he thought? Pull the damn lever and be done with it. It seemed to be taking a long time. Too long. Was something wrong?
As if in answer, Thomas Blackdown’s body dropped down into the trapdoor and the rope went tight. The crowd gave a hushed gasp like the flopping of waves on a beach, and then burst into applause and cheering.
Jonathan Blackdown smiled. He had to see it. Had to make sure for himself.
He rattled his cane on the roof of his carriage and the driver whipped the horses into motion. He sat back in his leather chair, closing his eyes to the rock of the wheels on the cobblestones. He was bound for the south where he had a boat waiting to take him across to the continent. There were many in France that hated Britain and all it stood for, and would be eager to enact revenge on the victors of the recent war. The fomenting of sedition and revolution, the feeling of power that had come with it, had whetted his appetite for more. And not just for the money. This time he really did think he could topple governments. He had the money now. He had the contacts.
He sat back and smugly imagined himself as another Napoleon.
When he opened his eyes he saw that the carriage was not making for the
inn he’d been renting rooms in, and from where he intended to collect his trunks and travel. Instead it was headed out into open country. He rapped his cane hard on the ceiling.
‘Driver! Driver! What is the meaning of this? What road do you take, you imbecile?’
But there was no response. If anything the carriage picked up speed and jolted the passenger around violently. Jonathan Blackdown pulled down the window and poked his head through. He rattled the side of the carriage with his cane, demanding the driver slow down and stop at once.
Eventually it did, coming to an abrupt halt that almost tossed Jonathan from his seat to the floor of the carriage. Fuming, he opened the door and stepped out. They were on a quiet, deserted track, high hedges laden with sloe berries and the orange glow of rosehips framing either side.
‘What the hell do you think you are doing, man?’ he screamed in rage. His hand went to a pistol he kept in his coat pocket.
‘I wouldn’t draw that if I were you,’ said Thomas Blackdown, looking down from the driver’s seat, a cocked gun in his hand aimed straight at Jonathan’s dumbfounded face, whose cheeks were gradually leached of all colour. ‘You have had an unexpected change of driver,’ he said.
‘You are dead!’ Jonathan said disbelievingly. ‘I saw it with my own eyes!’
Thomas Blackdown grinned icily as he signalled for a number of soldiers to come out of the bushes and from around the hedges. They circled Jonathan, who, dumbfounded, put his hands in the air.
Cornelius Reeve moved from behind the cover of a tree. ‘Good morning, Mr Blackdown, or shall we say Ravenbard? Which would you prefer?’
‘You are with me!’ he cried. ‘You are a double agent!’ Jonathan’s voice was breaking. ‘You were willing to betray your country and are in league with me!’
Reeve raised one brow. ‘In league with Ravenbard?’ He shook his head. ‘I never once betrayed my government, Jonathan. You may have thought me a traitor, but all along I was still working for them, not Ravenbard. That must class me as a double-double agent, what say you, Thomas?’
BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) Page 27
