BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (24 page)

Robert Caldwell had emerged from the bushes, had made his way to the pool and was bending over the dead body of his charge. ‘My boy!’ he said plaintively, knowing his lucrative involvement with Lansdowne had come to an unexpected and sudden end.

He rose to his feet in time to see Blackdown racing across the clearing. He raised his pistol, fired at the running man and missed. Blackdown swung his arm round, aimed briefly at Caldwell and shot him dead.

Blackdown knew the men would not stay afraid of him for long. They’d soon regroup and set about him with a renewed vigour. He cast away his pistol, having used up all his powder and shot.

A gunshot immediately ahead showed that not everyone was a coward. Blackdown ran headlong towards the place where the flash had come from, and he barged into a man who was trying to reload his musket. As Blackdown bowled the man to the ground, the guard grabbed a knife from its scabbard and slashed out at him, catching Blackdown on the upper arm. Feeling no immediate pain, Blackdown landed a heavy fist into the man’s face, peeling his resisting fingers away from the knife’s haft and forcing the man to give up the blade. With a deft, practiced motion, Blackdown sent the knife plunging into the man’s chest. He died at once.

A second guard came out of the gloom, the bayonet of his musket slicing close to Blackdown’s cheek and sinking into the soft earth. Rolling away, Blackdown grabbed the end of the barrel and yanked hard. The gun was wrenched out of the guard’s hand, and with a terrified expression the guard made a bolt for it, back towards the ridge with his companions.

He had gone no more than four yards up the steep bank when there was a tremendous snap and the man screeched out in agony as the mantrap’s metal jaws flashed out of the undergrowth and sank its teeth into the man’s leg, breaking bone and severing arteries.

Blackdown looked down upon the writhing man. The trapped man’s lips parted in a heart-wrenching scream, his face dropping paler by the second.

‘You should be aware where your own traps are,’ Blackdown advised coldly.

‘Help me!’ the man begged, his back arched in pain.

Blackdown saw the huge amount of blood pumping out of the wound. ‘I cannot help you,’ he said. ‘Your artery is severed and you are already dead. The best you can do is pray for forgiveness.’

Blackdown ducked as a number of bullets crashed into the undergrowth. Through the bushes he made out the shapes of a number of men lined up on the ridge, firing down at him. There were few options left to him, he thought. He might have secured a few extra minutes, but time was fast running out. It had been foolish of him not to have made his escape when he had the chance, and his compassion for the wounded Callisto had barged away his normally cool and clinical resolve.

He studied the figures on the ridge. They would not bolt again, no matter how many heroics he tried. The best he could do was to leave Callisto to his fate and try to escape. He could not take his revenge out on Lansdowne and the mysterious Ravenbard as a dead man.

The thoughts of vengeance gave his tired body fresh impetus.

He took shelter behind the wide trunk of a tree as more shots poured down. When they subsided he grabbed the fallen man’s musket, checked it; it was still loaded. He sucked in calming breaths, preparing for flight.

Then, unexpectedly, all hell broke loose.

There was the crackle of heavy musket fire from somewhere on the ridge, but it did not come from his attackers.

It was immediately apparent to Blackdown that the shots came from a different direction and was aimed at Lansdowne’s men. He saw the figures on the ridge swing their muskets round to face the threat, loading and firing fervently at an unseen enemy.

Blackdown slid out of the cover of the tree trunk. A couple of Lansdowne’s men who had clambered down the bank to chase Blackdown were now making a swift retreat back up the incline to join their comrades. A man screamed and fell backwards, tumbling down the slope again, his musket tossed high into the air and doing a graceful cartwheel into the bushes. Blackdown raced towards the bank, careful of any more mantraps and sweeping his musket back and forth close to the ground as he went. He began to climb up the steep slope, grasping trees and roots to help haul himself up.

The men at the top paid him no heed; they were concentrating on returning the fire from their assailants. Blackdown ducked as a fresh volley sang out overhead and brought down more of Lansdowne’s men.

Who, in God’s name, was attacking?

As Blackdown broached the top of the ridge and heaved himself up and over, one of Lansdowne’s men saw him and aimed his musket. He fired the weapon, the powder flash lighting up the man’s sweating, terrified face for an instant. In his haste the shot missed and, with an unintelligible shout, he lunged at Blackdown with his bayonet. Blackdown parried the musket with that of his own, and then drove his bayonet deep into the man’s stomach. He wrenched it free with a loud sucking noise. The man sank to his knees, clutching his midriff and groaning. Blackdown surveyed the events unfolding all around him.

He was in the middle of a pitched battle. Lansdowne’s men, around twenty of them, were kneeling in a ragged line, obviously trained soldiers, he thought, to make such a stance; they were furiously loading and firing, the thick gun-smoke filling the air like a rolling fog. There were a number of dead and wounded men at their feet. To his right, Blackdown saw about five or six men in masks making a bolt for it, heading for a track where horses and carriages were waiting, some of the frightened animals rearing at the loud cacophony of gunfire. One or two carriages were already rolling away.

He did not see Lansdowne bearing down upon him with a drawn sword until it was almost too late.

Blackdown ducked aside, Lansdowne’s blow striking the tree by Blackdown’s head.

‘Damn you, Blackdown!’ Lansdowne screamed. ‘I told Ravenbard you should have been killed!’ He pulled the blade free and swiped it at Blackdown’s head again.

Blackdown backed away, stumbling because he’d been caught off guard and desperately tried to regain his footing. He lifted the musket, blocked a violent blow that saw the sword bite deep into the wood of the gun. Lansdowne was like a madman, his face contorted in a brutish mask of hatred, the impetus of his attack driving Blackdown against the trunk of a tree. More bullets whined overhead from behind Blackdown, hitting the tree he stood against, but in his blind fervour Lansdowne seemed unaware of the danger flying all around him.

Breathlessly, Blackdown swung his musket round to knock Lansdowne’s blade to the side, and bringing the butt of the weapon around he brought it into sharp contact with the side of Lansdowne’s head. The man staggered, momentarily dazed.

But Blackdown’s attention was drawn to the unmistakable figure of Ravenbard, the golden wolf-mask still in place, about to mount a horse. For a moment he glanced over in Blackdown’s direction.

Lansdowne renewed his attack with increased fury, swinging wildly with his sword, forcing Blackdown back again. Seeing they were being overwhelmed and in an increasingly hopeless position, men were giving up their positions and making a dash for it to try and save their own skins, running by the two fighting men without giving them a moment’s notice.

‘It’s over, Lansdowne!’ said Blackdown, pushing against the rain of blows with his musket. ‘Your precious Ravenbard is abandoning you.’

Lansdowne glanced over his shoulder. Saw Ravenbard sliding his foot into a stirrup and gracefully mounting the black horse.

‘Never!’ he replied breathlessly, fighting back. But his energy was on the wane and Blackdown sensed it.

It was all Blackdown needed. Garnering all his strength, with a massive blow he knocked Lansdowne’s blade from his hand. It sank into the tall grasses. Lansdowne backed away as Blackdown levelled his musket at the man, the long bayonet catching the moonlight, a blue fire appearing to travel its lethal length.

‘I ask you to surrender, Lansdowne,’ he ordered breathlessly.

But instead Lansdowne made a grab at a musket carried by one of the guards fleeing by him, wrenched it from him and attempted to turn it on Blackdown. But Blackdown pulled the trigger and Lansdowne’s chest exploded into scarlet as the heavy bullet tore through him.

Lansdowne tottered uncertainly for a second, his eyes looking questioningly at Blackdown before being wiped vacant by approaching death. He sank down to the ground with a gurgling sigh and did not move again.

Ravenbard was spurring his horse into action as Blackdown turned from Lansdowne’s dead body. He saw carriages trying to make a speedy getaway, but in their haste they clogged up the narrow track and it was proving difficult to turn them around. Loose horses belonging to some of the guards were neighing loudly in panic.

Blackdown was about to run towards them when he heard the familiar sounds of many horses’ hooves pounding the soft ground behind him. He spun around just in time to see a uniformed man on a grey charger bearing down on him with his sabre raised.

He fell to the ground with not a moment to spare as the heavy beast dashed by him, almost hitting him, the blade slicing an inch or so above his head. Such a blow, had it made contact, would have cloven his head in two, he thought. He was on his hands and knees and saw more mounted men jumping over hedges and thundering across the field towards him. Behind them he made out the scarlet uniforms, looking almost black in the moonlight, of a considerable number of foot soldiers bringing up the rear.

The cavalry were the Scots Greys, he thought. He recognised the mounted men’s uniforms of scarlet with blue and yellow fronts. What on earth…?

He had no time to consider it further, for the cavalryman swung his horse around and was returning for another go at the fallen man. Blackdown knew the odds were stacked very much against him as the horse thundered towards him, the sabre glinting savagely in the light. There was nowhere to run.

The beast bore down on him and Blackdown swung out with his musket as the rider drew level, catching him on the chest and toppling him from the horse. As the cavalryman hit the earth Blackdown saw two more riders peeling off from the main body to drive in his direction.

‘Friend!’ Blackdown screamed. ‘Friend!’

But their blood was up and they didn’t hear him.

‘Leave him be!’ he heard a voice shout above the din.

Another rider, in plain dress, encouraged his horse to stand in front of the charging men, and they drew up their steaming mounts.

Blackdown looked up at the man who had saved his life.

It was Cornelius Reeve, the lawyer.

‘What the hell is happening?’ demanded Blackdown, confused.

‘This man is Thomas Blackdown,’ said Reeve to the Scots Greys. ‘There is your quarry!’ he pointed at the retreating carriages. ‘Make sure they do not get away!’

The mounted men galloped off. The soldiers who had been firing upon Lansdowne’s men marched up level to them and at Reeve’s command followed the cavalry.

Reeve dismounted, looked upon the body at Blackdown’s feet. ‘Sir Peter Lansdowne?’ he asked.

Blackdown nodded. ‘You didn’t answer my question. What is happening here? What are you doing leading these men?’

Cornelius Reeve’s expression was difficult to fathom. There was an element of exultation trying to break free from his controlled features. ‘I am not a lawyer, but you have surmised that much, eh?’ He steadied his horse against the shock of the gun blasts. ‘Well, that is not quite true; I was a lawyer by trade but have worked for the Government for many years. In particular, I answer directly to the foreign secretary. My department has long had its eyes on Lansdowne and his links with the traitorous Ravenbard. Their plans for revolution have not been entirely secret. But as this involves many people who hold high standing in society, as indeed they do in Government, we have had to tread very carefully. We received word that John Strutt, a spy also in the employ of the Government, had been uncovered and shot. Your meddling nearly cost us the operation, Blackdown. Alas, it transpires Ravenbard knew about the spy in their midst. And for strange reasons known only to him wanted you to be here tonight and released you from Strutt’s confinement.’

‘They tried to recruit me,’ he said.

He raised a brow. ‘Whatever the reason, we never expected you to survive.’ He nodded at the soldiers. ‘They’re militia, and we managed to secure the services of the Scots Greys who were stationed nearby. After tonight there will be no more Lupercal Club and no threat of revolution. Some of these men will undoubtedly hang for their plotting, especially Ravenbard.’

Much to Reeve’s amazement, Blackdown grabbed the reins from him and with a well practised movement leapt up onto the horse. ‘Forgive me, Mr Reeve, but I have unfinished business to attend to.’

‘Damn your eyes, Blackdown, give me back my horse! I will have you shot!’

‘Ravenbard will not hang unless you capture him. Your men are in danger of letting him slip the net. I have seen the direction he has taken and intend to go after him. If we wait any longer he will escape you.’ He reached down. ‘Your pistol, please, Mr Reeve.’

‘Leave him be, Blackdown. All is taken care of. We have him in our sights; he will not escape.’

‘He is at this moment doing just that. He has killed my brother and has brought about the ruin of my father. Hand me a gun.’

‘I cannot. Now dismount. That’s an order.’ He drew his pistol and pointed it at Blackdown.

‘You mean to let him escape?’ he said, his eyes narrowing.

‘That is no business of yours, Blackdown. ‘I will shoot you…’

‘Then do that!’ he said, swinging the horse around and charging off.

Reeve’s finger squeezed the trigger, but he gave a growl of frustration and lowered the weapon, watching Blackdown dismount some distance away, rummaging among dead bodies. He saw him take up a fallen pistol, check it and remount.

Blackdown spurred the horse on and he galloped off across the field, looking for Ravenbard through the cloying gun-smoke that hung about the ground like a winter mist. There was still some resistance from Lansdowne’s men, mainly in self-defence, but the gunshots were beginning to thin out as men threw down their weapons and surrendered to the Scots Greys or were rounded up before the bayonets of the militia. Some of the coaches had managed to get away and were being chased down by eager cavalrymen, others had been stopped and their dazed occupants – some of them still wearing their masks – had been forced to clamber out at gunpoint, their hands above their heads in submission.

But Ravenbard was nowhere to be seen.

Blackdown let out an irritated grunt as he frantically searched the melee. In which direction would the man choose to dive for cover?

He stared down the track where a number of men had already been arrested. Had Ravenbard chosen this path too? From his vantage point on the top of the hill Blackdown spied the orange flickering of the burning effigy two miles away. True, a man’s first instinct would be to get as far away from here as possible, and as fast as he could. But Blackdown knew this man was far from ordinary. He calculated Ravenbard would make for the town or its environs instead, lie low for a while and make his escape when chance afforded. After all, no one knew who this Ravenbard was – not even the members of the Lupercal Club had seen his face – he could walk among the people and might never fall foul of suspicion. Captured on the road, on the run, there would be little doubt as to his culpability.

He rode down the track a little way, onto the high moor. There was a set of single fresh hoof prints in the dry dirt, but they ended at a gap in the high hedge and cut across the ground to his left. In the direction of the town, as he suspected.

Blackdown steered his horse through the gap, the hoof prints difficult to decipher in the long heather and grass. At length he spotted something glinting in the moonlight. He dismounted and reached into the heather to retrieve the golden mask worn by Ravenbard, obviously cast away in haste. He mounted again, knowing he was on the right track, galvanising his mount into action and galloping towards the town.

He knew the many pathways across the moor, remembered from his youth and the countless hours he’d spent up here on the wind-ravaged high ground above the town of Blackdown. What he found surprising was that Ravenbard seemed to know them too, for as Blackdown followed the trail the prints led him to gateways and gaps in the high hedges that would have taken a lengthy time to find even during the day, but especially so at night; this Ravenbard, it appeared, knew exactly where he was headed.