BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (17 page)

‘You did for him, Thomas,’ said Tresham examining the hole in the glowing white bone of the skull where the man’s brains should have been.

‘I would have wished to take him alive. He is no use to me dead.’

‘He was no use to the world alive,’ Tresham said. He peered into the man’s face. ‘I don’t know him.’ He asked the servants. ‘Do any of you know this man?’

They said no, their hands over their mouths at the gruesome sight. Reverend Bole came running outside. ‘What is this?’ He walked slowly up to them. ‘My dear God. I knew this night would end badly for someone.’

‘One of your parishioners, reverend?’ Blackdown asked. By the light of the lamp he could see blood splashed onto his coat. He tried to brush it away but the action served only to rub it into the cloth.

Bole shook his head. ‘But he will be known to God.’

‘Some good that will do me,’ said Blackdown. ‘Unless God decides to tell me his name and who he was working for. Reverend, I caught Patrick Deale hiding in the bushes outside the house tonight…’

‘Deale?’ he said, squinting.

‘Why would he be here?’ Blackdown asked.

‘He is a harmless man,’ Bole defended. ‘I wouldn’t pay him any heed. I do not think he will have anything to do with those that attacked the house.’

‘That does not explain his presence,’ Blackdown murmured.

‘I will see to it that he doesn’t trespass,’ Bole said hurriedly.

A little too hurriedly, as if to dismiss him as fast he could, Blackdown thought. But he pushed Deale to the back of his mind and studied the dead body thoughtfully. The death had unnerved him. He thought he had seen the last of his killing days. He had hated the sudden bloodlust that had accompanied the attack on the house and then the shooting of this man, enflamed the more with seeing him drop dead at his feet. But he’d been powerless to stop it. Only now was it subsiding. He bent to the body and rummaged through the man’s pockets but did not come up with anything that would help identify the corpse. He rose to his feet. ‘I need to wash this man from me,’ he said sullenly, taking off his bloodstained coat.

‘You have been wounded, Thomas!’ said Tresham in alarm when he saw the white shirtsleeve coated in blood.

‘It is nothing. A scar to add to many others.’

‘We must get you inside and have it dressed,’ he said, taking Blackdown by the arm. ‘Clear that thing into one of the barns till tomorrow,’ he ordered the servants, who reluctantly began to carry the man away. ‘By God, someone will pay for what they did tonight!’

But Blackdown pulled his arm away. He spoke low so that the servants could not overhear. ‘Uncle, why is Devilbowl Wood being laid with mantraps? Why are officers of Sir Peter Lansdowne’s Horse Patrol guarding the wood?’

‘What? You must be mistaken, Thomas. There is no reason for the Horse Patrol to be on my land.’

‘I saw them, uncle. Tonight, with my own eyes.’

‘You must be mistaken, he reiterated. ‘Perhaps you’ve seen my gamekeeper, Gabriel Budge, and one or two of his lads. Some wild dog or another has been attacking my sheep. I have asked them to set traps to catch the culprit and I have instructed them to patrol the area till it is caught. Sir Peter’s men would not trespass on my land without permission.’

‘I know what I saw, uncle.’

‘Then you saw wrong. What were you doing there anyway?’ His eyes softened. ‘Because it is the place poor Jonathan was found? I understand your feelings, Thomas, but look, dear boy, you are obviously under a great deal of strain. All this business with finding out about your brother’s death, your father’s failing fortunes, and this disagreeable affair between your father and you is the last straw. I think you are ready for a rest. You have had a hard life for one so young. You are tired and when you are tired the mind often tricks the eyes into seeing things that are not really there.’

‘You think I see things? That I am going mad?’ he said incredulously.

He placed a comforting hand on Blackdown’s arm. ‘I infer no such thing, Thomas. But I am worried about your health. It is enough that my best friend is dying; I do not wish his only surviving son to fall ill too. Perhaps you let your imagination run away with you.’

‘I know what I saw,’ he said defiantly. ‘And heard.’

‘Heard?’

He looked into Tresham’s watery eyes. ‘In Devilbowl Wood.’

‘What did you hear?’

With a bleak smile Blackdown shook his head. ‘You are right, uncle. I am tired. I need to clean up and rest before I can determine who it was that attacked us. Unless, of course, I imagined the attack, too.’

‘You are just like your father!’ Tresham said with a grin. ‘Ever the stubborn mule. In light of what has just happened here tonight, perhaps you should all come and stay at my house.’

‘My father cannot be moved. And if it is me they are after then I will not put your lives in danger by staying with you. Though I thank you for your offer, uncle. I shall have to stay at Blackdown Manor, much as I dislike the thought, in case they decide to attack father.’

‘Then there is still something between you…’ he said quietly.

‘There is nothing between us,’ he returned bluntly. ‘If they attack again then next time I will be ready for them and I will find out who is behind it all. My father means nothing to me.’

‘Then Julianne and I will stay here, too.’

‘Do as you please,’ he said.

He left Tresham alone, walking back to the house holding his bleeding arm.

So very like his father, Tresham thought.

He stared fixedly at the failing embers of the fire. The tiny, exhausted, wraith-like flames still licking at the logs provided the only source of light, save for the fast-fading pale moonlight streaming in through the windows. Large parts of the room lay cloaked in darkness, so dense even his accustomed eyes were unable to penetrate it.

Thomas Blackdown sat in a large padded chair, his greatcoat wrapped around his shoulders. Blackdown Manor had always been too large and too cold, he thought, and as autumn crept over the land the chill inside the old house intensified. It was an abiding memory. The fires in each room being stacked high, driving back the cold, at least from the vicinity of the fireplaces. So many memories had been dislodged by being here, he thought tiredly. Sleep begged him to close his eyes, but he fought it off for reasons he could not put a finger on.

‘What are you doing sitting down here still?’

The candlelight drew his attention to the door. Like a radiant spirit floating in the gloom he saw Julianne Tresham move slowly towards him. And like a spirit she didn’t appear to make a noise. She paused by the side of his chair, lifting the candlestick, the soft light flattering the pale flawless skin of her face all the more. A spark sat on her lower lip, one in each beautiful eye.

‘You shouldn’t be up either,’ he said to her, looking back into the smouldering fire. She was entrancing, he thought. Bewitching almost. He should not be thinking so about his dead brother’s fiancé. ‘It must be early in the morning.’

‘Three, or thereabouts,’ she said. She pulled the shawl she wore tighter about her, stared into the fire also. ‘I could not sleep.’

‘You and your father should have gone home. There is nothing you can do here.’

‘Father insisted we stay,’ she said. ‘He does not want to leave Lord Blackdown yet. Not when he is so close to…’

Blackdown shrugged. ‘Like I said, there is nothing you can achieve by being here.’ He tried to make his words sound cold, but he found it impossible to do so when speaking to her.

‘Have you slept at all?’ she asked.

‘A little,’ he lied.

‘It will be light soon.’ She glanced at the sky through the window.

‘I am used to arising early,’ he said. ‘I have seen so many dawns in my time in the army that now I find it hard to sleep through them. They’ve become a talisman of sorts. I never miss the dawn. It is like an old friend.’

She smiled. ‘So there is feeling for something in that heart of yours.’

He looked at her. ‘You think me cold?’

Julianne nodded. ‘Indeed. But I think it is only the outer layer. Like the icy crust on a river.’

‘What was he like, my brother?’ he said, deflecting the course of the conversation. ‘I only have his letter, and the memories of him as a young boy. I do not know what he was like as a grown man.’

She sat down on the sofa opposite, fingers entwined on her lap. ‘He was a… complicated man,’ she said carefully.

‘Complicated?’

A flickering, nervous smile hovered briefly on her lips. ‘You must understand, all was not what it appears in Jonathan’s relationship with his father. Lord Blackdown would have you believe Jonathan was the apple of his eye and could do no wrong. He would have you believe that Jonathan was the perfect son. But that would be far from the truth. There were many times when both men openly, and loudly, voiced their acerbic opinions of each other. Things would fly about the room, thrown in anger before one or the other would storm out in a rage and neither would speak to the other for weeks on end.’

‘My father could sour good cream with his temperament,’ Blackdown mused.

‘Oh don’t blame your father entirely, Thomas. That would be disingenuous. True enough he cannot forget his dead wife, or forgive so easily how she came to die, and this has coloured his temper – colours it still. He can be crotchety and cantankerous, stuck in old ways, a mule-headed man at times. But Jonathan would purposely stir those qualities in him like a broth, as if he drew satisfaction from it. It was a gradual thing, in my mind, the mutual dislike creeping up on them both over many years. In the end all rules were abandoned, and Jonathan would taunt the old man like he was pulling the tail of a cat. He’d drink too much, gamble more than was wise, spend money recklessly, and take himself to London and heaven-knows-where for months at a time. Perhaps it was Jonathan’s reaction to his mother’s death, who can know? The two men came up against each other like goats on a hillside.’

‘You’re not painting too bright a picture of my brother, Julianne. The man you planned to marry.’

Her eyes were wide, staring into the fireplace. ‘People change,’ she said. ‘Jonathan changed. He became cold, distant, not the man I knew.’

‘So why marry him?’ Blackdown was a little disappointed. He’d built Jonathan up in his head to be something more than the selfish, base creature Julianne brought to life with her heartfelt words.

She turned her face towards him. The last shuddering flames of the fire plated the edge of her jaw in brass. ‘It was no accident I came downstairs to find you,’ she said.

‘No?’

She appeared hesitant, quite nervous with it, her fingers coming together and parting in a dance all of their own. ‘I needed to speak with you alone.’

‘Is everything all right, Julianne?’

She shook her head. ‘All is not right, Thomas.’

‘Are you in trouble?’ He bent closer.

Julianne Tresham peered into Blackdown’s eyes, her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out. Instead she smiled and turned away again. ‘Forgive me, I am tired and too nervous with all that has happened here.’

‘But you wished to speak with me…’

‘It is nothing.’

Blackdown nodded slowly, and said, ‘Your father was brave in standing by his wish to see his only daughter marry my brother. It might have ruined him socially to be associated with the Blackdowns, particularly as my father insists on chasing after revenge and refusing to let the sludge settle to the bottom of the pond.’

‘Yes, very brave of him,’ she mused softly, the faintest of movement from her eyes, the juddering of a muscle in her cheek.

‘What do you know of your father’s association with Sir Peter Lansdowne?’ he asked boldly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘How long has he known your father? How did they meet? What is their relationship?’

‘Business acquaintances first and foremost,’ she replied. ‘They have known each other five or six years, I believe.’

‘Are they close?’ he probed.

‘Close?’ She shrugged. ‘Sir Peter invites us to his houses, my father invites him to ours. We have met socially in London when we stay there for the season. He generally keeps himself to himself. Anyone who says they know Sir Peter Lansdowne well will be lying. That doesn’t stop all the available women that come within his exclusive orbit throwing themselves at him like hopeless jellyfishes onto a beach in the hope of landing him as a husband. He would make a valuable catch. Not only is he quite handsome, but he is a very wealthy and powerful man and has the ear of government and the prince.’

‘And you? Are you interested in him as a husband? Are you one of those jellyfish?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘That is an indelicate thing to ask, Thomas,’ she said. ‘You have been too long in the army and need to have your manners polished.’ She shuffled her shawl into place. ‘No, I am not interested in him, if by interest you mean love; but naturally my father is after seeing me make a good match. That is all I will say on the subject.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘Thomas, it is no use, I cannot keep this to myself any longer – I have to tell you something. The letter you received from Jonathan…’

‘I thought I heard voices!’ said Reverend Bole, easing open the parlour door and stopping Julianne in her tracks. ‘Is no one sleeping tonight?’ His eyes looked heavy and tired.

‘Have you been keeping vigil on father all this time?’ Blackdown asked. ‘He has servants that can do that.’

‘He deserves more than a servant in his final hours. He has asked to see his solicitor, Cornelius Reeve, at once. I am instructed to send someone to drag the poor fellow out of bed and bring him over. Reeve will not be best pleased at the interruption to his sleep. He has a fondness for his mattress.’

‘So the old man breathes still?’ said Blackdown flatly. ‘He hangs on to life like a cat to curtains.’

‘I think it is time to take to my bed,’ said Julianne quickly, rising to her feet.

‘The letter,’ he said quietly. ‘You were going to tell me something about the letter from Jonathan.’

Julianne looked up at Reverend Bole. ‘It does not matter, Thomas. Another time perhaps.’ Then she bent close to him. ‘You do not fool me, Thomas,’ she whispered close to his ear. ‘It is but an icy crust…’ She lifted her guttering candle. ‘Find out who killed Jonathan for me, Thomas,’ she implored, almost under her breath, drifting away from him and passing Reverend Bole in the doorway.

‘Try to get a little sleep,’ Bole said to her insistently. He closed the door quietly after her. ‘So no more signs of our nefarious visitors, eh, Thomas?’

‘Retreated to whatever dark hole they came from,’ he returned.

‘And your arm – how is that?’

Blackdown glanced at his forearm. Blood had leaked through the bandage he’d had applied. ‘It may need a stitch or two.’

‘The doctor will be calling tomorrow – today,’ he said, seeing the dawn light beginning to bleach the treetops in the distance. ‘Perhaps you will let him examine it.’

‘Perhaps,’ he said distantly. ‘Will you be blessing the demon-beast effigy when they light it tonight?’

Bole gave a light chuckle. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘A mind sitting in the dark and quiet often wanders.’

‘There’s the irony of it all, Thomas, my boy; here I am every year asked to bless what is in effect a pagan image. But it has been so long done that no one thinks to change it, or even question it. It is the end of harvest time, the onset of winter, and the people need whatever spiritual help they can get and I am grateful I am on hand to administer it.’

‘Do you believe in the Beast of Blackdown?’ he asked.

‘We have touched on this before. The devil can take many forms, Thomas.’

‘A beast that stalks Devilbowl Wood, slaughters sheep and murders my brother?’

Bole came over to Blackdown. ‘You seek answers. But there are some things we shall never know.’

‘I heard it…’ he said.

‘Heard it?’

‘I heard the creature. Moreover, I sensed it staring at me, reverend. I believe I came across it in Devilbowl Wood.’

‘But in your heart you say this cannot be true, and so you are torn, eh, Thomas? Looking for someone to tell you it’s not true.’

‘So tell me it’s not true.’

‘I can’t, Thomas. Because I don’t know the truth. If God created good, then the Devil creates evil, and that evil might take many different guises. Who is not to say it takes the form of a beast that oftentimes emerges from Devilbowl Wood? I would not be the one to be so rash as to denounce it as pure fantasy born of poor men’s superstitions. In doing so I would be denouncing God as fantasy, and you know that to be untrue.’

He smiled inwardly at Bole’s words. ‘Why does my father want to see Cornelius Reeve?’

‘I don’t know the workings of your father’s mind.’

‘Do you trust this Reeve?’

Bole rolled his tongue over his lips. ‘I make it a rule never to trust dogs, lawyers, politicians or archbishops. Everyone else I view with suspicion.’

‘Reeve grows rich on my father’s foolishness.’

‘The only fault of your father’s is pride. It is the fault of many.’ He eyed Blackdown. ‘And you must understand Reeve has done much to curb your father’s excesses. He is not out to make his fortune. You do not know him properly and yet you paint the man black.’

‘Still, I hate the fleas that suck on the blood of others, no matter who they are.’

‘So speaks a man who appears to have been bitten too many times, eh, Thomas?’

‘You knew Jonathan…’

Bole gave a shrug. ‘We were not close, if that is what you are implying. He never came to church so I rarely saw him except when I had occasion to visit Blackdown Manor, and then only if he was in residence. More often than not he would be away somewhere, and your father was reluctant to discuss him except to curse his damned luck with sons.’ He offered an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, Thomas, but I say it as it is.’

‘I was led to believe by father that Jonathan was a good and dutiful son.’

‘Your father’s memory of Jonathan improved greatly with his son’s death. And I fear he uses it to beat you over the head with.’

‘I am only here to find out who murdered my brother. It seems Jonathan might have made more enemies than I first supposed. What I have learnt tonight makes me wonder whether he deserves my effort.’

Reverend Bole reached out a hand and placed it on Blackdown’s shoulder. ‘You must not condemn Jonathan. People behave as they behave for many reasons.’

‘This entire house is riddled with bitterness and spite,’ he said, rising from his chair. His legs felt stiff and he stretched himself upright. ‘The longer I stay the more infected I become.’