BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘You know what I mean,’ he said. The other two men regarded the stranger warily.

  ‘I took it in my claws and sank my teeth into its neck and bit its head off,’ said Blackdown evenly. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I don’t like this,’ said one of the two shepherds. ‘It’s exactly the same as happened before.’

  ‘It’s a dog gone wild,’ said his companion, pushing back his hat and wiping a hand across his sweated brow.

  ‘No dog did this,’ said the man with the gun. ‘Poachers did it. Someone with a grudge against Lord Tresham. Someone like this vagabond here.’

  ‘I take it you’re the gamekeeper called Budge,’ said Blackdown.

  ‘What of it?’

  He shrugged, took a bone-white clay pipe from out of his greatcoat pocket and popped it into his mouth. His teeth closed around it with a click. ‘Lord Tresham’s gamekeeper?’

  ‘Yes. Gabriel Budge. What business do you have here?’ said Budge. ‘We have strict laws against vagrancy.’

  ‘I am not a vagrant, Mr Budge, nor am I a poacher. Your accusations flow out as fast as a man pisses away his beer.’ He took tobacco out of a small bag and stuffed it into his pipe. He nodded at the sheep. ‘That’s not the work of a dog. It’s been savaged by a far larger, more powerful animal. Or appears so at first glance.’

  ‘It’s a man with a grudge, I tell you,’ said Budge. ‘And I’ll find him and bring him to justice. He’ll hang or be sent to one of our penal colonies, I’ll see to that.’

  ‘It’s not a man,’ said Blackdown.

  ‘It’s a dog…’ insisted the shepherd.

  ‘And what makes you an expert?’ said Budge to the stranger.

  ‘Because I’ve seen all sorts of savagery meted out by men, and I have never seen anything like this. What man has claws to slice through flesh like this, and what man has the strength in his arms or jaws to tear apart a carcass in such a manner?’

  ‘I’ve seen foxes ripped apart by a pack of dogs…’ the shepherd interjected.

  ‘A pack,’ said Blackdown. ‘Do you suppose a stray pack of dogs did this?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he replied.

  Again Blackdown shrugged. ‘Believe what you will.’

  ‘You didn’t say what you are doing on Lord Tresham’s land, in Lord Tresham’s wood,’ said Budge.

  The stranger’s eyes narrowed as he hoisted his pack onto his shoulders. ‘This land used to belong to my father, Lord Blackdown. I’m his son, Thomas.’

  ‘Gabriel Budge’s eyes fused into slits. ‘Blackdown has no son called Thomas, I know that much.’

  ‘You know only what you know,’ said Blackdown.

  ‘And even if you were Lord Blackdown’s son you wouldn’t wish to openly admit it, not after the shame he’s brought down on his name. He’s a traitor to his country and deserves to be hung for it.’

  ‘A traitor, you say?’

  ‘You do not know?’ said Budge. He gave a low mirthless chuckle and his companions did the same in response. ‘You cannot be Lord Blackdown’s son if you are not aware of his state of affairs. Everyone from here to London knows of it.’

  ‘I’ve been away fighting.’

  ‘So you say,’ said Budge.

  ‘To save skins like yours,’ he said. ‘My name is Captain Thomas Blackdown, and I care not whether you believe me or not. This land used to belong to my father.’

  ‘A lot of land used to belong to Lord Blackdown,’ said Budge. ‘But it doesn’t any longer. He is a Lord by name only, and only he calls himself that. The rest of society has wiped its hands of him.’ He stepped closer to the stranger. ‘I’ll admit you do have a look of the old man. I only hope he did not pass on his treacherous ways. It is a soiled bloodline.’

  Blackdown’s jaw tightened. Muscles worked away beneath the skin. ‘You forget who you talk about, Budge. The very hills are named after my family, the town of Blackdown the same.’

  ‘Then it’s a pity we cannot name everything afresh.’

  Thomas Blackdown adjusted the weight of his pack. ‘Your tongue will be your downfall, Budge,’ he said and set off at a pace away from them.

  ‘Where do you think you are going?’ said Budge as Blackdown started to march away. ‘I haven’t finished with you.’

  ‘I’ve finished with you,’ he returned sharply.

  ‘I could shoot you if you don’t stop and come back,’ he said. ‘I have the law on my side.’

  Blackdown halted and turned. ‘And would one soldier shoot another in the back?’

  Budge’s eyes widened. ‘How did you know I’d been a soldier?’

  He smiled thinly. ‘I know.’

  ‘I want you out of here,’ said Budge, waving the musket, ‘off Lord Tresham’s land.’

  ‘You really should make your mind up. I have business here and I will not be leaving until it is concluded. And by the way, if you are going to shoot me, make sure in future you choose a gun that has flint in its hammer.’

  Budge looked at the musket and inspected the hammer. True enough it was empty of flint. He realised that in his hurry to accompany the anxious shepherds he’d grabbed the musket he’d been cleaning the previous night. He watched as the man claiming to be Blackdown’s son gave a short wave and headed down the hill towards the valley below.

  ‘It’s a dog,’ said the shepherd.

  ‘Damn you, this isn’t a dog!’ snapped Budge.

  ‘So what does that mean, if it isn’t a dog or the work of a man?’ said the other shepherd.

  ‘How should I know?’ said Budge, still smarting at his embarrassment over the missing flint and watching the back of the stranger. ‘There’s an answer somewhere.’

  ‘It’s just as before,’ said the shepherd, nervously glancing beyond the hedge to Devilbowl Wood.

  ‘We don’t know that,’ said Budge.

  ‘Gabriel,’ said the shepherd pointing emphatically at the sheep, flies gathering in clouds on its decomposing flesh, ‘what more evidence do you need? It’s the beast returned.’

  Gabriel Budge shook his head. ‘You keep those lurid thoughts to yourself, do you hear? Not a word of it is to leak out. Tell that loose-tongued boy of yours if he spills a single word about this to anyone I’ll cut that wagging tongue out of his head with my own knife.’

  ‘It’s the stranger…’ said the shepherd. ‘Strangers always auger ill.’

  ‘That’s foolish superstition and you know it,’ said Budge. ‘Clean this mess up and I’ll inform Lord Tresham myself of the loss of his sheep.’

  ‘And will you mention how we found them, how cut up they were?’

  ‘I will say what I feel is best. Get to your work.’

  Budge looked down the hill. The figure of Thomas Blackdown was a thin dark streak against the lush green of the dawn-soaked hillside.

  4

  The Voice of the People

  The field was occupied by a number of carts and covered wagons, horses tethered nearby in a crude corral made of stakes hammered into the ground and rope slung between them. Campfires were already lit, the smell of wood smoke and horse dung strong in the still morning air. Blackened pots of water hung over the flames to boil.

  As Thomas Blackdown scaled the stile and approached the crude camp, making his way in the direction of the town of Blackdown, tramping across the field to the exit at the far end, he made out a stout man dressed in a fine coat and breeches and wearing a silver-laced hat. He was animatedly addressing a small body of brightly dressed men and women. Blackdown recognised them immediately as a troupe of entertainers. Some of them were being given handbills to dole out, others were putting the finishing touches to their crude makeup or straightening out tawdry, well-worn costumes. The women wore flounced skirts, spangles and gaudy multi-coloured feathers, the men sported embroidered waistcoats and hats decorated with feathers and silk. At the stout man’s orders a small boy with an overly large drum strapped to his shoulders came to stand behind him and began to beat a steady, almost militaristic ta
ttoo. The remainder of the company lined up behind the boy, and as Blackdown drew level with the small crowd the man with the silver-laced hat tipped it and smiled broadly.

  He said, ‘Commodore Pettigrew’s Most Marvellous Company of Entertainers Extraordinaire bids you good morning! And a fine morning it is, too!’

  Blackdown nodded his greeting. He had no liking for the entertainment fraternity. ‘Are you to play in the town?’ he asked.

  The man nodded. ‘Every year now for ten years. Every August without fail. The town of Blackdown always gives us a spirited reception. I am the said Commodore Pettigrew, manager and magician both.’ He held out his hand for Blackdown to shake, which he did so reluctantly. ‘We arrived early this morning. Lord Tresham has given us permission to lodge in his field for the next few days.’ At this he turned around to the young drummer boy and slapped him across the head. ‘This is not a funeral dirge, boy! Speed things up! Do you want the good people of the town to think we carry a coffin with us?’ Pettigrew smiled at Thomas Blackdown again. ‘He is new. My last boy died of the pox. He could rattle the sticks against the skins like an angel plays the harp, but this cur is hardly worth the bread he takes from my table. Do you hear that, boy? Practice, practice and still more practice! You are about as far from becoming an angel as a pig is from becoming a prince!’ He chuckled. ‘Though we have a pig for a prince in London, do we not?’ He caught sight of Blackdown’s red uniform beneath the greatcoat. ‘Ah, a man returned from the wars! Heroes all!’ He gave a mock bow. ‘Your humble servant, sir.’

  ‘You say you had permission from Lord Tresham?’ said Blackdown.

  ‘I have proof, in writing,’ he said, suddenly very suspicious.

  ‘I don’t need to see it,’ said Blackdown. ‘Does Tresham own this land also?’

  He nodded. ‘He bought it in the grand sale of Lord Blackdown’s land last year. A sad state of affairs, to be sure. Lord Blackdown was always so kind as to let us lodge in the town, at the inn and thereabouts, but Tresham is having none of it and consigns my company of entertainers to the fields. We, who have played in front of a prince of Persia and a German king no less, find ourselves sharing beds with sheep and cows. But ever resilient, like the rain that slides off a duck’s back we do not let such a slur on our good characters dampen our spirits.’ He gave Blackdown a handbill. ‘Come to see our show tonight, tell your friends, tell your family, tell everyone that Commodore Pettigrew’s Most Marvellous Company of Entertainers Extraordinaire will transport them to new and wondrous worlds of boundless colourful delights and mysteries. And when the booths are set up in the field, a veritable feast of magical sights from the world’s most mystifying and darkest corners will be laid out for hungry eyes to feast upon.’

  Blackdown crumpled up the handbill and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘And what of Blackdown Manor? Does that still belong to Lord Blackdown?’

  Pettigrew eyed the man. ‘Do I know you from somewhere? Have we met before? You look familiar.’

  ‘We have never met. What of Blackdown Manor?’

  ‘Lord Blackdown hangs onto the manor still, but whether he hangs onto his sanity is another matter entirely.’

  ‘He is unwell?’

  ‘Do you know Lord Blackdown?’ asked Pettigrew. He peered at the red jacket beneath the open greatcoat. ‘Your insignia, the piping – the Guards, perhaps? You are with the Guards? 2nd, 3rd? Which regiment is it?’

  Blackdown drew the flaps of the coat together and buttoned it. ‘I’m no longer in the army. Lord Blackdown is unwell, you say?’

  ‘I heard the Guards fought bravely at the chateau of Hougoumont at the glorious Battle of Waterloo. Indeed we have only recently put together a tableau of the true events as related to us by a man who lost both his legs there. We have cannon and horses and trumpets and drums and a dwarf who plays the Emperor Napoleon. We have a most dashing young man to play Wellington, though he wears a large false nose, and at the end he leads our brave army to victory, repelling the French from the field with loud and hearty huzzahs. You must come and see it! It is the most terrifically stirring stuff, guaranteed to strengthen any Englishman’s heart!’

  ‘You know nothing of the horrors of war,’ said Blackdown. ‘It is not all trumpets and glory. It is a great deal of blood and pain.’

  ‘Would you like a part in our tableau, sir?’ said Pettigrew. ‘I can have someone write in a few lines for you. People will pay good money to see a real live hero of Waterloo.’

  Blackdown turned away angrily. ‘I have business to attend to,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have a sword or a gun that you used during the battle that day?’ he called as Blackdown made his way down the field.

  ‘What does it matter if I have?’ he replied shortly.

  ‘Has your sword lopped off any Frenchmen’s heads? Did your pistol fire a ball into a foreigner’s black heart? I will be willing to buy such a thing from you if you have them. People will pay good money to feel the sword or pistol that despatched a Frog or two! Name your price!’ But Blackdown did not turn round. He strode to the stile at the far end of the field. Commodore Pettigrew slapped the boy around the head again and signalled for the troupe to follow him. ‘To the town!’ he cried. ‘And make a damn good show of it, all of you, or, damn your eyes, you’ll have nothing to eat tonight!’

  The town of Blackdown was hardly a town at all. It was nestled in the deepest of the local valleys, and had grown up along a single drovers’ road that had been in use since before Roman times and which led to Exeter in the south and Bristol in the north. Its collection of mean, thatched hamstone cottages strung out along the road’s course followed neither rule nor plan. At the town’s so-called centre was the green, and nearby its oldest building, the squat-towered Saint Cuthbert’s church, built by the Normans hot on the heels of their invasion and now serving the town’s few hundred souls. Serving their bodies were two inns and a multitude of other beer-sellers operating from the cramped rooms of houses. During harvest times the population swelled with workers pouring into the town to find work. It held a bustling livestock market every second week, and an even bigger annual fair in August that had grown out of all proportions to the town’s small size. It was so popular it attracted the likes of the troupe that Thomas Blackdown had come across, and many others eager to feed off the fair’s coattails. There were posters pasted on walls advertising the fair and Blackdown managed a bittersweet smile at past memories of the event.

  The first Blackdown was a Norman knight given lands by William of Normandy for his part in the invasion. What the noble’s real name had been nobody was quite sure these days, but the French word had probably been so difficult for the native tongue to get round that it finally became Blackdown for ease of pronunciation. He eventually gave the then village its name, he named the hills after him. He gradually stamped out all the old names and supplanted them with his own, so much so that nobody had any idea what the old names had been. The land became Blackdown; Blackdown became the land.

  Blackdown Manor became the Blackdown family’s seat of power, and had remained so for generations. Their influence extended far and wide. They had the ear of various monarchs through the ages, became lords and ladies, dukes and earls, financed great expeditions abroad, grew fat off looted Spanish gold and silver, this long period of influence coming to an end with the Civil War, the Blackdowns siding with the king and feeling the wrath of Cromwell afterwards. The family was never quite the same after this. Its influence shrank and was never to be as powerful again. It remained, until recently, though, thought Thomas Blackdown, extremely influential in this small corner of Somerset, possessed of much land and wealth.

  But something drastic had happened to alter that.

  He paused outside the church of Saint Cuthbert and looked across the road to the green. There was a carved stone monument to the original Blackdown in its centre that had been standing there for centuries, much weathered but his proud armoured figure standing on his coat of arms still recognisab
le. It had been commissioned to mark the very spot where he knelt and gave thanks to God, and proclaimed he would build a church to honour Him. The very church Thomas Blackdown stood outside now.

  Yet all was not well. The statue had been defaced. Blackdown strode over the still-wet dirt track road to the monument. The face had been hacked off with a chisel. And judging from the paleness of the stone where the pieces had come away it had been done relatively recently.

  ‘It has been there for so long that it is a crying shame to see it so mutilated,’ said the voice behind him.

  Thomas Blackdown turned. ‘Reverend Bole? Erasmus Bole?’ he said. ‘Is it really you, after all these years?’

  The old man grinned and held out a hand to shake. ‘Thomas – I never thought I would see the day when you came back to Blackdown. How long has it been? Eighteen, twenty years?’

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘Twenty-three!’ he said, whistling. ‘So long. So long. You were such a boy then. But you haven’t changed one little bit! I recognised you standing at the gate, and thought I must be imagining things. That is Thomas Blackdown, I said to myself. My eyes do not deceive me. It is the boy returned.’ He shook Blackdown’s hand again, more vigorously. ‘You stole apples from my tree!’ he said.

  ‘I paid for them with a beating from my father. My backside looked as rosy as your apples.’

  The man laughed. ‘Will you come inside, take a drink?’

  ‘I was making my way to the manor,’ he said hesitantly.

  Reverend Bole’s face clouded over. ‘Perhaps a drink first. There may be things you do not know. Things that have happened in all those intervening years.’

  Thomas Blackdown glanced at the disfigured effigy. ‘That I can see. Are we so reviled now after being so long beloved? What has befallen this place? I have learnt that my father’s close friend Lord Tresham has bought up a good deal of my father’s estate. Is this true?’

  The man put an arm around Blackdown’s shoulder. ‘Come inside. Let’s talk.’