BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (14 page)

‘I’m not planning on dying just yet, Sir Peter,’ he said.

‘One cannot plan such things,’ he observed, raising a finger. ‘Only God has such power.’

Blackdown bade goodbye and left the carriage. Lansdowne rapped the roof with his cane and the driver whipped the horses into motion. Blackdown watched the carriage trundle away over the uneven surface of the field.

The boy to whom he gave the shilling came dashing breathlessly up to him.

‘Where is the fat man?’ Blackdown asked.

He pointed. ‘He has not gone far. He is at the cockfight. My friend watches him.’

Blackdown followed the boy to a tent on the edge of the field, from within which, as if to greet him, came a veritable a thunderstorm of bellicose jeering and cheering. He thanked the boy, sent him on his way and paid the man at the tent’s entrance. He stepped into the confined space that stank of sweat and spilled beer and cider.

He’d seen many cockfights in his time, and there was nothing much different about this particular cockpit. A little smaller, if anything, but well attended to say the least. The whole was circular, at its centre a circular wall of canvas sheeting had been erected, about six feet in diameter and rising to a height of about two feet; gathered around this a squirming press of bodies, mainly men but not solely, kneeling or sitting on the ground; immediately behind them stood a circle of wooden benches, filled almost to capacity, and behind these another tier, similarly filled. There was an atmosphere of mounting excitement as two men stood facing each other, each of them holding a powerful looking gamecock to their chests. Both birds had had their combs and wattles cut off, their eyes fierce, legs already kicking at the sight of their feathered rival. The men were careful not to get caught by the sharp spurs attached to the birds’ agitated feet.

Cries resounded around the cockpit as bets were made. In the midst of the tumult, the waving, windswept forest of raised fists and canes, Blackdown made out the form of the fat man standing among the crowd on the top tier. Blackdown threaded his way towards him, watching the man’s bulging eyes as the two birds were placed into the cockpit. The loud cheer as the gamecocks launched themselves at each other was tremendous, and Blackdown had to be careful he wasn’t hit by an exuberantly swung cane. He eased himself next to the fat man, who at this point was sweating and swiping a handkerchief across his damp forehead. The man shouted at the birds with the best of them, his hands grasping the crude wooden handrail till his pink hands glowed white with effort and excitement.

Blackdown peered down into the cockpit. The birds were engaged in a frenzied mêlée of flying feathers and lashing claws. Already blood began to splash onto the ground as the spurs on the birds’ legs made savage gashes. But however hurt, the gamecocks would not give up their intense battle, the hatred in their eyes, if such creatures can possess the emotion, thought Blackdown, burned with an intensity that blinded them to everything else. He’d seen similar in men, he thought. In the midst of battle. Men deranged with the bloodletting, a manic glaze in their eyes as they drove their bayonets and swords into the yielding flesh of their fellow man. And he’d done the same. Countless times. But never with relish. Always to survive. Always because it was his duty.

At least that’s what he told himself. He felt a curious energy well up within him at the sight of the fighting gamecocks and he hated himself for it. An ancient, primitive emotion that had no place in the mind of a civilised man, rising like thick oil in water to sit and stain his feelings. Something he could never quite wash away.

Then one of the birds had its throat pierced and blood spouted out in a tiny, scarlet fountain. It ran about still, its eyes fast becoming sightless, its head lolling, and the other bird continued to launch itself at the stricken animal till its owner clawed it away from the bloody scene, its legs still paddling frenetically, its head stretched out trying to reach its mortally wounded opponent. The man held up the victorious gamecock as the other bird finally collapsed into a bloodied, feathered heap. A loud cheer rose up, none more loudly than from the fat man by Blackdown’s side.

‘You bet on the winning cock, I take it,’ said Blackdown close to his ear. ‘Well done, sir!’

The man, his lips spread in a grin so broad it threatened to divide his face in two, turned to Blackdown and nodded, waving a slip of paper. ‘Damn it, sir, if ever a man had luck on his side today then that man is me!’ He faced the cockpit again. ‘Well done! Well done!’ he screamed above the din. Then his face dropped serious and he faced Blackdown again. ‘I know you from somewhere.’

‘I think you do,’ he replied.

The man blinked as his mind trawled through the sludge of his memory. ‘Why, it is you! The first gamecock I won money on today!’ he said. ‘Let me shake your hand,’ he offered, grasping Blackdown’s hand in a moist grip and pumping it up and down. ‘Thanks to your valiant efforts in the ring with the Mighty Callisto I am hundreds of pounds better off!’

‘I thank you for putting your confidence in me,’ said Blackdown.

The man winked. ‘I knew there was something about you. I don’t know what it was, but something said to me, back this man and you will not regret it. And so it turned out! What a show, sir! What a damned fine show!’ He wiped his handkerchief across his glistening face and the grin, if anything, widened. ‘Poor Sir Peter Lansdowne. I gave him a bloody nose in my own way, eh?’

Blackdown nodded. ‘It appears you did.’ He reached into his coat pocket and nodded at the gamecock being lifted out of the ring. ‘It appears we are birds of a feather, too.’ He let the man see the top of the black card he’d found in Jonathan’s trunk then slid it quickly back out of sight. He didn’t know if it would work, and perhaps he was taking a chance, for the man might be scared off or simply fail to understand. Blackdown was even now wondering whether he had been mistaken when he thought he saw Lansdowne pass the man a black card.

The man’s grin dropped and he looked feverishly about him. But it was never long in hiding and it sprang up to split his face again. ‘Let me collect my winnings and then will you take a drink with me?’ He leant close to Blackdown’s ear. ‘This is not the place, eh? You are a brave man to expose your card in such a public arena. Do you want to get yourself killed?’

Blackdown followed the man to his carriage and they stepped inside. He produced a decanter filled with brandy from a box beneath his seat padded out with purple velvet, and two glasses. He offered one to Blackdown and filled it up.

‘To Lady Luck,’ said Blackdown. They rattled their glasses together in a toast.

‘To Lady Luck, may her large breasts remain filled with the milk of good fortune and may we long sup at them!’ He downed the brandy in one go and refilled his glass. ‘Please forgive my rudeness – my name is John Strutt.’

‘Thomas Blackdown,’ he introduced, sipping at his brandy.

‘I did not know that you too were a member of the club. But there again I am told by Sir Peter that membership is kept a closely guarded secret, as you can understand.’

‘The Lupercal Club,’ said Blackdown.

‘Aye, here’s to The Lupercal Club,’ Strutt said, raising his glass, ‘and all the deliciously macabre delights it has to offer!’

Blackdown mirrored the man’s actions and drained a little of the brandy. ‘How came you to be in the club?’ he asked.

Strutt’s eyes narrowed till they were like knife slits in the skin of a ham joint. ‘Like everyone else who is a member - through perseverance, sir. Dogged perseverance. And money, lots of it. I made my fortune through sugar, Mr Blackdown. My plantations and slaves are the envy of many, and it has brought me great wealth. But as we both know, money alone cannot buy you into this club, eh?’ He winked again in a manner which Blackdown was finding progressively irksome, but he smiled and nodded his encouragement. ‘Today – oh joyous day! – I have finally been admitted. Today I receive my card!’ He produced it and kissed it lightly. ‘A priceless thing, is it not, this tiny, insignificant piece of black card?’

‘Priceless,’ he echoed.

‘As you know, Almack’s is as easy to get into as a London brothel compared to gaining membership of The Lupercal Club.’

‘So it is.’ Blackdown was well aware just how notorious Almack’s was. First raised by the formidable Lady Cowper, Lady Sefton, Lady Castlereagh, Lady Jersey, Mrs Drummond Burrell, Countess Lieven and Princess Esterhazy, Almack’s was
the
place to be seen and yet one of the most exclusive and hardest of clubs in the whole of London to gain entry to. Even the Duke of Wellington had been turned away at the door by their minions one evening because he was considered improperly dressed. That Strutt considered The Lupercal Club above that of Almack’s was significant.

‘I admit I did not expect a Blackdown to be a member,’ said Strutt. ‘That French spy business, I thought, must have crippled the family. But here you are!’

‘Here I am,’ he said. ‘How did you first hear of the club?’

Strutt licked his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘You are aware we do not mention such things, being members? It is a strict rule.’

Blackdown smiled disarmingly. ‘Come, come, Mr Strutt, we are alone. We are both members sworn to the same secrecy. What can it matter if such a little thing is shared between us in private?’

Strutt’s face was a mirror to his unease. ‘I have only just gotten my membership, Mr Blackdown. It has taken years. And you know as well as I that the punishments for any disclosure about the club, or flouting of the rules of membership, are severe indeed. Do you not remember the assassination of Spencer Perceval?’

‘The Prime Minister who was shot dead by a merchant called Bellingham in the lobby of the House of Commons five years ago? Of course I remember. What has he to do with the club?’

Strutt shook his head, as if trying to clear it of the conflict that was going on up there. ‘Sir Peter told me Perceval had been a member of the club for a short time,’ he whispered, leaning closer to Blackdown. ‘And he transgressed the rules of membership, with fatal consequences. You must know this.’

‘I thought membership was secret,’ said Blackdown. ‘Why would Perceval’s name be released so?’

Strutt was fast becoming suspicious. ‘And so it is secret. So secret no member knows the identity of another. I know of no other except you. But Sir Peter used Perceval’s death as a cautionary tale to drive home the importance attached to a member’s complete, unwavering discretion at all times. Even in private.’ He wagged a finger. ‘I warn you to be careful what you say, Mr Blackdown, and of the company you say it in.’ He sat back and refilled his glass. ‘But enough of that. Let us not get maudlin. Let us celebrate the Meet to come!’

‘The Meet?’

Strutt stared at him, then his deadpan face lit up with a knowing grin. ‘Ah, you are a tease, Mr Blackdown! I see your game now! You try to get me to reveal more. Were you sent by Sir Peter to test me, is that it?’ He slapped his thigh hard. ‘Why that is it, isn’t it? Sir Peter inviting me to take a wager on the Mighty Callisto knowing you would be in attendance was no accident. You work with him to put to the test my new allegiance to the club. Damn his eyes!’ he said, shaking his head and laughing. ‘Damn your eyes, too, Blackdown! You almost had me tripped up there. But I resisted, did I not? Did I not prove myself? Well you can go straight back to Sir Peter and tell him that I am as loyal a member as any man can be.’

Blackdown nodded approvingly. ‘You are too sharp for me, Mr Strutt. I shall inform Sir Peter. But under his instructions you are not to mention me, or that this conversation ever took place, not even to him. Is that clear?’

Strutt nodded energetically. ‘Clear, sir! Very, very clear!’

‘The consequences would be severe.’

He held up a hand. ‘You have my word. And will you be at the forthcoming Meet?’ He realised what he’d said and waved the question away. ‘I did not ask you that and you need not answer, of course.’

‘Of course. But I will be at the Meet,’ he said evenly. ‘With the others.’

What Meet was this, he thought? What exactly was the purpose of this Lupercal Club?’

Strutt winked yet again, tapped the side of his nose. ‘Yes, with the other members.’

‘Indeed.’ Blackdown was trying to think of ways to draw more information from the man without giving the game away that he knew absolutely nothing about The Lupercal Club.

‘I take it you will be staying at Sir Peter’s house, too?’ Strutt asked quietly. ‘I have never been inside the house, but I am told there are many additional distractions that sit alongside the Meet. Women of a certain kind that can transport a man almost to heaven with their skills, I am led to believe. Is that true?’

‘You will find out soon enough,’ said Blackdown. If all members converged on Sir Peter’s house, how did they manage to keep their identities secret from each other, he thought? The mystery was thickening, mused Blackdown. ‘When will you be arriving at Sir Peter’s?’ he asked casually.

‘This afternoon. Some have already arrived. The others will travel down in the next day or so, ready for the night of the Meet. I am so excited, Mr Blackdown, that I find I lose control of my limbs with it!’ He demonstrated by giving an exaggerated shaking of the hand that clasped the glass.

Blackdown smiled thinly. ‘What do you know of the ship
Parthenope,
Mr Strutt?’ he asked.

Strutt regarded Blackdown, his eyes narrowing again as if he thought the unusual and unexpected question was somehow a trick. ‘I do not know of any such ship, Mr Blackdown. Should I?’

Blackdown shrugged. ‘Do not let it worry you, Mr Strutt. I thank you for your time and your brandy, but fear I must leave you now.’

‘Do not forget to tell Sir Peter at once that I passed his cunning test,’ he said.

‘And do not forget – never speak of our meeting.’

Strutt gave him ardent assurance and Blackdown stepped out of the carriage with more questions than answers. But Sir Peter Lansdowne’s house deserved a visit, Blackdown thought.

John Strutt bent close to the window and watched the man walk away. He bit at his lower lip in thought. He took out a small wooden box. Within it were pieces of paper, ink, quills and pencils. Strutt laid the paper on the lid of the closed box and began to scribble on the paper with the pencil. Having finished, he folded the paper up and rattled his cane on the top of the carriage. The driver came to the window.

‘Yes, sir?’

Strutt passed the paper to the man, who quickly hid it away in his coat. ‘I need this to get to London as soon as possible. Do you understand?’

‘Perfectly, sir.’

‘See to it.’

Strutt sat back thoughtfully in the carriage seat and drew in a long breath, toying with the ivory end of his polished black Malacca cane.

Thomas Blackdown wandered across the busy field, through the various tents and stalls to its edge, and paused by the large wood and straw image of the Beast of Blackdown that the locals were building. It stood about twenty feet high, a hollow shell at the moment but soon to be clad in old rags and filled with tar barrels to help it burn when the time came to set it on fire on the last night of the festivities. The night of the full moon.

He’d seen this final ceremony as a child, and even remembered being afraid of the effigy as it was consumed by the fire, afraid of the great din caused by hundreds of people marching in a wide circle around the monstrous statue, banging metal pots or beating drums, anything to make a noise that would drive away the mythical monster. Great quantities of ale and cider were consumed as ancient rhymes and songs were also delivered to help ward off the beast for another year. How much the people believed in the old legend and how much was simply tradition it was hard to gauge, but this year more than most there seemed an urgency and a seriousness to the building of the demon-beast of Blackdown.

His mind wandered back to his first night in Devilbowl Wood, the sound of something prowling through the undergrowth, the strange footprints. He could not put his finger upon what made him feel so uneasy at the time. But there had been something out there that night. Or perhaps, like those who built the great demon-beast, he had let the sight of those mutilated sheep drive his emotions, unearth deep-seated childhood fears. He was not usually a man to be driven so and he considered it a weakness.

As he turned to leave he saw Commodore Pettigrew walking up to him. His face was clouded over. ‘Mr Blackdown,’ he said coldly, his innate cheerfulness seemingly vanished.

‘Mr Pettigrew.’

‘Are you trying to ruin me? Bad luck seems to follow you around. First the incident with Harvey Grey and now you knock my Callisto to the ground.’

Blackdown noticed the three men that ousted him from Callisto’s tent were hovering nearby. ‘Bad luck appears to dog people within your company, Pettigrew,’ he observed.

‘We are a happy family at Pettigrew’s,’ he defended. ‘And my aim is that we stay a happy family. I do not wish to see you hanging around Sarah Jones or anyone else in my company, do you hear me?’

‘You threaten me?’

He nodded. ‘If that is what will keep you away, yes. You are trouble, Mr Blackdown.’ He angled his head in the direction of his gathered henchmen. ‘I have more at my disposal,’ he said.

‘I’ve seen worse,’ said Blackdown. ‘And brought worse down. You don’t scare me, Pettigrew. If I find you are linked to my brother’s death I will seek you out and kill you myself, and no army of ruffians will stop me.’

Pettigrew swallowed hard. Then he smiled. It was a thin, viperous affair. ‘And you scare me not either, Mr Blackdown. You are but a lone man, and as a Blackdown reviled at that. I have no reason to be afraid of you.’

Blackdown grabbed the man by the collar and yanked him close. The three men started to dash forward but Blackdown pulled out a pistol and aimed it at the lead man, and all three stumbled to a halt. ‘I do not know what is going on here, Pettigrew, but I will get to the bottom of it,’ he said, his mouth but an inch away from Pettigrew’s ear. ‘And if anything happens to Sarah Jones I will hold you responsible and come for you. I’ll cut off your prick and stuff it in your mouth like a sausage, do you hear?’

Pettigrew glowered at Blackdown, but he gave an abbreviated nod and Blackdown let him go. ‘You’re a dead man, Blackdown,’ he said.

‘We all have to die some time,’ he said. ‘If anything happens to Sarah Jones it will be your time.’

The man smoothed his rumpled coat. ‘Keep away from my company and I promise she will be safe,’ he said. ‘Come back here and I cannot vouch for her safety.’

Blackdown eyed Pettigrew and then stowed away his pistol. He turned about and ambled away without saying another word, aware of their eyes burning like a brand on his exposed back.

The moon was all but full. It hung swollen and heavy in the plum-blue sky, sitting low and yellow above the smoky-black outline that was the edge of Devilbowl Wood high on the hill in the distance. The air was warm, filled with the scents of dry grasses and bracken, of approaching autumn, heavy and musky and stirring long-hidden memories he could only grasp uselessly at before they sank again into the recesses of his mind.

Thomas Blackdown dismounted in a thick copse at the base of the hill and tied the horse securely to the trunk of a tree deep within its coagulating shade. He patted the horse’s neck, whispered something calming into its ear and drew two pistols from the bag over its back. He checked to see that they were loaded properly. Slid them into his soldier’s greatcoat pockets. He fastened a sword around his waist, the scabbard bearing the scars and dents of much use. It was a cavalryman’s sword, short, a thing of lethal purpose and as far from ceremonial as it was possible to get. It had been with him since he’d been promoted from lieutenant to captain, presented to him by a clutch of fellow officers. He felt less vulnerable with it tapping lightly at his thigh beneath his long, grey coat. He did not think he would have had occasion to use it again, had wrapped it up and intended to put it away somewhere safe. Intended to forget his warrior past. It seemed that was proving difficult to do.