BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery)

by D. M. Mitchell

  ‘I don’t intend dying, Uncle.’ They looked at each other in silence. ‘Lansdowne approaches,’ he said under his breath. ‘Forgive me for what I must do.’ Then Blackdown launched himself at Tresham, grabbing him by the throat with his manacled hands. ‘You traitor!’ he yelled. ‘You damned traitor! You can all go to hell!’

  One of the guards dashed forward and lunged at Blackdown with a rifle butt, hitting him squarely in the side of the head. He was bowled over and landed clumsily on the harsh stone. The guard was about to lash out again when Lansdowne’s voice called out.

  ‘Leave him be!’

  Blackdown groaned, clutching his spinning head. He glanced up at Lord Tresham, who was rubbing his throat and gasping, and passed him a secret wink as Lansdowne strode up to the fallen man.

  ‘He still refuses to join,’ said Tresham.

  ‘So I see. Get him in the carriage; we’re keeping everyone waiting,’ snarled Lansdowne. He watched as Blackdown was dragged away. ‘Ravenbard wants you there, Lord Tresham, to watch proceedings,’ he said without looking at him.

  ‘I refuse,’ Tresham said.

  Lansdowne turned to him. ‘No you do not,’ he said, and wandered purposefully away. ‘You have no choice in the matter.’

  21

  A Soiled, Silken Surface

  The carriage came to an untidy halt. Blackdown could not see his two companions, for the inside of the windowless carriage had been in total darkness. Their bonds had been secured before the door had been slammed shut and locked, so there was little chance of trying to make an escape. The journey appeared to have taken a lengthy time, down roads little more than cattle tracks from all accounts, their bodies thrown wildly against each other with the lurching. But now it had stopped and an unearthly, almost palpable silence descended.

  The door swung open and lamplight flooded in, lighting up Jack Fowler’s terrified face. He backed away, as if trying to conceal himself from the men by shrinking into a corner of the carriage, but a pistol was thrust inside and a voice beckoned them all out. Blackdown was the first to rise and step out. He found himself surrounded by dark, almost formless trees, a shallow breeze rippling through them and causing them to hiss like the rushing of water over rocks. He glanced above the tree line; the sky was cloudless, stars crisp and bright, like holes puncturing the black velvet of heaven. A round, grinning full moon shone like a beacon and silvered the track on which they now gathered. He could smell the familiar tang of autumn, the damp leaves, the wet, musty smell of earth. The faint but acrid smell of wood smoke drifted over to him.

  The three men were surrounded by at least ten armed men, all with scarves covering their lower faces. Without further ado the prisoners were bundled along, men at their head and following behind. As they broached the top of a hill, the trees gave way a little and Blackdown could see the misty flickering of a large fire burning about two miles away, a cloud of dense smoke rising from it, and he caught the rattling of metal against metal, and the thumping of drums, the sounds growing stronger and then weaker with the coming and going of the breeze. The burning of the effigy, he thought darkly.

  He was shoved in the back, told to move, and the three men were led into a black tunnel formed by dense overhanging trees, the lamp lighting the way but failing to pierce the Stygian blackness ahead.

  Presently they saw lights cutting through the gloom and came across two lines of men, each holding a lamp high above their heads. The three men were paraded down the centre of them and brought to a clearing where the masked men from the chamber had regrouped, the man in the wolf-mask at their centre. Blackdown recognised Lord Tresham amongst them, again wearing his white mask. They all stood in silence, but there was a detectable frisson of excitement running through the gathering.

  Lansdowne, until now unseen, stepped out of the darkness and faced the prisoners. His slender form was lit by the shivering lamplight, giving him an ethereal, ghostly appearance, as if he would simply fade and disappear into the dark at any given moment.

  ‘Gentlemen – welcome to the arena. Your proving ground. Your lives will depend upon how you behave in the next hour. You will be taken down and released into Devilbowl Wood. Your task is to traverse its length and emerge alive.’

  ‘Go to hell, Lansdowne,’ Blackdown snarled. ‘And you – Ravenbard – show your damned cowardly face!’

  ‘Hell?’ Lansdowne grinned. ‘It is you that faces hell, Thomas.’ He held out his arm in a deliberate point. Robert Caldwell lifted his lamp at the command to reveal a small box-like carriage on four wheels nearby. At this the strange carriage rocked violently and a fear-provoking, guttural growl came from within. ‘You will have but fifteen minutes head start and then we release your hunter. He has been starved and is eager for the chase and the kill. Your simple task is to avoid being killed, but for the two of you that are soldiers there is nothing unusual in that.’ He strode over to the prisoners, but in particular addressed Blackdown. ‘Within the confines of the bowl are three small clearings. You have to find them, of course, which will not be easy. Within each clearing you will find a white silk neckerchief hanging from a branch. Collect all three and you will go free.’

  ‘That’s a lie and you know it, Lansdowne,’ Blackdown said, his eyes narrowing. ‘We are meant to die tonight, one way or the other, for the pleasure of your traitorous patrons. No man ever escapes the arena.’

  Lansdowne shrugged. ‘Then it is for you to prove the exception to the rule, Thomas.’ He bent close. ‘We left your tongue in your mouth because there are additional wagers placed on whether you will scream out for mercy. I say you will, and have placed a significant wager to that effect.’

  ‘I promise I will kill you, Lansdowne,’ he said insistently. ‘And you’ll be the one screaming out for mercy.’

  Lansdowne’s smiled faded and he turned around. He stared at the shadowy form of the wolf-masked figure, who gave a slow nod. ‘Ravenbard demands the games begin,’ said Lansdowne.

  ‘Remember my promise…’ said Blackdown as the three men were shoved brusquely towards an opening in the trees, looking like the unfathomable maw of a giant beast about to swallow them whole.

  The ground beneath their feet shelved steeply as they staggered through the narrow passage, the trees arching overhead, unseen brambles tearing at their legs, the moon glimpsed briefly through the ragged treetops. Then the ground levelled out and Blackdown knew they’d reached the base of the huge bowl that gave Devilbowl Wood its name. They were in a small clearing. All men automatically turned to their captors. There were at least eight men, all armed, weapons pointing in their direction. Behind the guards they saw the strange carriage being trundled down the slope by more uniformed men, who brought it to a halt. They heard snarls and shuffling from within, and Jack Fowler gasped in fear at the gut-wrenching sounds. Two men, one of them Robert Caldwell, stood by the carriage, keys dangling from his hands. They hovered near a rusted old lock on what appeared to be a small door.

  The other guard reached into his pocket and withdrew a watch. He calmly opened the case, held it before a lamp and peered at the dial. More men stepped forward and began to untie the prisoners, a bristling wall of firearms aimed at them. ‘You have fifteen minutes,’ said the man with the watch as the ropes and chains were taken from the three men.

  As soon as Fowler was released he turned and fled noisily into the brush. Blackdown and Callisto watched him flee. The prize-fighter stared at Blackdown, who was rubbing life back into his hands.

  ‘Don’t even think about doing anything rash, Blackdown,’ said the guard. ‘You’ll be shot dead in an instant.’ He glanced at his pocket watch. ‘What are you waiting for? Time is running out.’

  ‘I’m memorising your face,’ he replied.

  The guard’s cool demeanour showed evidence of cracking for an instant as he looked deep into Blackdown’s uncompromising eyes. But he lifted his pistol and aimed it squarely at Blackdown’s chest. ‘I could shoot you here and now, tell Lansdowne you tried to
rush me.’

  ‘And spoil their fun?’ Blackdown laughed, which had the effect of unsettling the guard further. He turned to Callisto. ‘Come, let’s see if we can find our friend Fowler before he does himself harm.’

  Blackdown spun on his heel and stepped out of the clearing and into the wood. Callisto followed. The two men plunged into the foliage, Blackdown picking up speed as soon as he was certain he was out of sight of the guards. A few minutes passed and then he paused, turning at last to Callisto, whose face was terrified.

  ‘We’re in one hell of a pickle here, Callisto,’ said Blackdown. He pointed. ‘I have explored this place already. The ridge all around the wood is guarded by Lansdowne’s private army, and set with many mantraps to prevent our escape. We have both seen what this beast-man can do. We are no match for his strength or his cunning. At least, not as individuals. But together we can beat this game of theirs.’

  Callisto grunted and searched the undergrowth. He picked up a hefty branch and weighed it in his hand.

  ‘I think we will need more than that,’ said Blackdown, ‘but it is a start.’ He sighed, put a hand on the man’s bare, muscled arm. ‘We’ll make them pay for what they did to you, Callisto. For what they did to my brother.’

  Callisto’s face set granite-hard and he put a finger to his severed tongue without thinking. It was then they heard the loud rustling of leaves, the cracking of branches underfoot. Blackdown held up a hand and they held their breaths. With his hand still held aloft, Blackdown pushed quietly through the undergrowth and Jack Fowler gave a shriek from his temporary hiding place and bolted from cover like a rabbit.

  ‘Fowler, wait!’ Blackdown insisted. ‘We must stick together!’

  But Fowler was gone in an instant, swallowed by the foliage. They heard his blind blundering, his terror-stricken body crashing through the undergrowth.

  ‘He makes more noise than a rampaging elephant,’ said Blackdown. ‘Our time is nearly up. They will be releasing the beast-man any time now. It will not take him long to find us, so you must do as I say, Callisto. When I demand quiet, you will fall as quiet as a mouse, do you understand?’ He waited till Callisto nodded. ‘We must reach the pool at Devilbowl Wood’s centre.’

  Callisto frowned, touched Blackdown on the arm, his expression questioning.

  ‘Trust me, I know what I am doing.’

  ‘Are you certain it is safe?’ the guard asked, failing to hide the trembling in his voice.

  Robert Caldwell glowered at his companion derisively. His unkempt appearance gave the impression of a common farmhand. He had a leather whip in one hand. ‘I am the beast’s master,’ he said, a grin splitting his face. ‘His trainer. He is safe with me, safe with Robert Caldwell – but I would not let him see you. My boy dislikes strangers.’

  The guards backed nervously away, standing some distance behind the carriage. ‘I hope Harvey Grey trained you well in his arts, Caldwell,’ said the guard, attempting to inject a little courage into his voice.

  ‘I know all that he knew and more. I am better at the job than he.’ He slid the key into the lock. The creature within the carriage began to growl, and gave two deep barks like that of a German Shepherd. The carriage rocked with his pacing. ‘I am master of the beast now,’ Caldwell said. ‘He’ll only kill at my command. Lansdowne trusts me with his beast-man and no other. I have powers over the beast that not even Harvey Grey had. Grey knew that. So did Pettigrew. I am the master of this game now, while you – you are but Lansdowne’s lowly foot soldier.’

  ‘As you used to be, too, Caldwell. Do not forget that,’ said the guard, eyeing the man as he turned the key. ‘It’s not so long ago you were a poor redcoat, one of Wellington’s scum.’ There was a resounding snap of metal as the wooden door was unlocked. The guards, as one, took another step backwards and raised their firearms.

  ‘Aye. And I fought long and hard for His Grace, and for my king and country, and look what thanks I got when it was all done with. Living the life of a beggar before Pettigrew took me in and gave me work, a place to shelter. To hell with king and country, that’s what I say! What time is it?’

  The guard looked at his pocket watch. ‘Two minutes to go,’ he said.

  ‘And to hell with two minutes,’ Caldwell said, sliding a bolt and opening the door.

  The clearing fell silent, save for the rustling of the leaves and the men’s heavy, expectant breathing. Nothing stirred from within the carriage.

  Then, in a blur, a large black shape covered in hair bound from the vehicle and ran on all fours to the edge of the clearing. Here it stopped, its upper torso caught in a puddle of moonlight, its craggy head slowly turning to face the men. It bared its teeth and hissed, saliva dripping from the corner of its wide mouth. It lunged unexpectedly towards the men, growling, its hairy muscular form appearing to ripple, and one of the guards gave a tiny, muffled scream of terror. But the beast halted ten yards before Caldwell.

  Caldwell held up the whip. ‘Get back, you brute. Get in there and find them! Kill them, boy! Kill them all!’

  The creature, for the most part bathed in shadow, its eyes reflecting the moonlight, swayed a little as if caught by a strong breeze. It studied Caldwell closely, sniffed the air, a clawed hand clutching the earth. It raised its head and gave a prolonged icy howl, and with that it sprang into the brush and was lost from sight.

  ‘It is the devil’s child!’ said the guard, his voice tremulous.

  Robert Caldwell smiled. ‘He is my child,’ he said with pride. ‘My dear, dear boy!’

  Jack Fowler had experienced much that was horrific in war. As a youngster it had made him physically sick, much to the amusement of his fellow soldiers. But some of them were no more than animals and devoid of feeling, of human compassion, recruited from some of the worst parts of the worst towns and cities – thieves, outcasts, murderers, and the army took them all and put lethal weapons in their hands. He’d seen gut-wrenching instances of the bloody remains of dead and mutilated women and children in Spain and Portugal, massacred by the French army; but he had also seen at first hand the brutality of the British forces, especially towards the enemy. War brought out the beast in many. Jack Fowler was no beast. He had been a farmhand, forced into the army through starvation. He was so emaciated that even the desperate recruiting sergeant offering the king’s shilling almost refused to accept him. Jack Fowler had begged him to take him on, and eventually take him on he did. And so Jack Fowler became a soldier, a proud member of the 95th Rifles, a Greenjacket, his skill with a rifle invaluable to the skirmishing role they played.

  But though Jack Fowler had seen untold horrors, and faced his own nightmares many times on the battlefield, he had never felt the gnawing pulse of overwhelming fear as he did on this night, running for his life through this demonic wood.

  He stopped dead, looking behind him, as if expecting something to leap out of the darkness at him, the sound of his painful breathing far too loud. He was disorientated, lost, unsure where he should go next, what his next move might be. He put his hands to his head and clutched it tight, as if to try and force some sense of order into it, to drive away the chaos of his churning thoughts. He knew from experience that fear was a soldier’s greatest enemy. He also knew that safety lay in numbers, as it did in the steadfast line of British redcoats. He had been foolish in allowing his terror to get the better of him and separate from the other two, especially the man called Blackdown. He was a leader. He seemed to ooze confidence, and that confidence might offer him a way out of this. He ought to trace his steps back and try and find them.

  Like Callisto, Jack Fowler found a stout branch for a makeshift weapon and looked up high to the moon shining above the black canopy of trees, and he tried to gauge his position. But he was no backwoods man and was relying purely on instinct. He began to walk slowly in the direction he come from, or so he hoped, for there were no discernable paths through this ancient woodland, the trunks of the massive, gnarled trees all looking the same. Every minute o
r so he paused and listened, thinking he could hear movement, hoping it was the man called Blackdown and the giant of a man called Callisto. And each time his ears were fooled by the night-rustles of the wood. Very soon he realised he was completely lost and that it had perhaps been folly to try and find his companions.

  His heart thudding wildly with the inescapable fact that he was all but helpless, he abandoned his search and turned about, his fear once more escaping the lid his logic had temporarily put on it. And the faster he ran the more the fear crept like insidious leeches through his system, feeding off his courage till he was one large mass of quaking apprehension.

  Then he saw lights up ahead. At first he thought he was imagining it, but instinctively he was drawn towards the star-like twinkling. He stumbled into a small clearing and halted. The white stumps of newly felled trees shone in the moonlight that flooded the circular glade, the stars and the Moon shining bright above him in a black sky.

  He was drawn also to the lamps fixed to posts on a ridge looking down into the natural crucible that was Devilbowl Wood. As he squinted up he made out the black silhouette of figures standing silently in a line, watching him. Suddenly he felt very vulnerable, out here in the open, invisible eyes watching him expectantly from the ridge. His first thought was to bolt for cover again, but as he turned to run he saw a silk neckerchief hanging from a bough at the edge of the clearing. It swung back and forth in the breeze, like a floating spectre that appeared to beckon him towards it.

  He remembered what they’d been told before they were released into the wood. Collect all three neckerchiefs and you will go free.

  The tiny fire of hope that the word free set alight within him was enough to banish his fear. If he could collect all three he would be set free from this madness. It never occurred to him that he had no idea where the other two neckerchiefs might lay, or how he might go about trying to find them. He was held transfixed by this silent siren and the promise it held.