BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (9 page)

‘And what of Julianne? Has she married yet?’

He shook his head. ‘She was devastated by the loss of her husband-to-be and I believe, from sources within the Tresham house, has refused any hand since offered her. But is only the gossip of the lower stairs as we have had no real contact with the Tresham’s since then.’

Thomas Blackdown closed the lid of the trunk. Addison handed over another key to him and he inserted it into the second matching trunk. ‘Do you think the Treshams will be open to me paying them a visit?’

‘I think Lord Tresham would jump at the opportunity, sir. I shall arrange it for you.’

‘Thank you, Mr Addison.’

‘But I will not tell your father I did so, sir.’

He smiled. ‘Best not.’ He lifted the lid of the trunk, and was surprised to see that it was empty. Empty except for a small black calling card. He lifted it out of the trunk, turned it over. There was the embossed image of a she-wolf on it, but little else.

‘What is that, sir?’

‘It has all the appearance of a calling card.’

‘Without any writing on it. And in black,’ said Addison. ‘Very strange. Is there nothing else in the trunk, sir?’

‘Not a thing.’ He pocketed the card. ‘Still, I can use the trunk to pack away some of Jonathan’s old clothes. As you can see, I am in need of a wardrobe myself, and beggars cannot be choosers, as they say.’ He rose to his full height. ‘Can you also arrange for the trunks to be delivered to the Blue Boar inn?’

‘That awful place, sir? In the centre of Blackdown?’

‘That awful place, Mr Addison. I am not a lover of such inns, but, as I have said, beggars cannot be choosers and it is the best of the bunch. It is not as bad as you make out.’

Addison’s face fell. ‘To hear a Blackdown speaking so puts a knife into my heart, sir. This is your home. You should, by rights, stay here.’

‘That is not going to happen. And unlike my father, I am not a proud man, Mr Addison. Too much had happened to me to let pride rule my head.’

‘If I can be of any help, Master Thomas…’

‘You have been more than helpful, Mr Addison. But I fear it will bode you ill if father ever finds out you helped me, so we may not meet again directly.’

The old man’s face grew sombre. ‘I hope you can find out who killed Master Jonathan, sir.’

‘I will not rest till it is done, Mr Addison.’

And he realised how like his father he sounded.

The nights were drawing in faster and dropping colder as autumn took hold. The innkeeper had been around lighting candles and made the effort to stoke up a fire, and this, and the half-light, made the old Blue Boar inn look half-decent, thought Thomas Blackdown. Inns had changed a lot, even in ten years or so. Back then there could be four beds to a room and three or more occupants to a bed, travellers lying on lice-infested mattresses with fierce rats for company that could only be chased away by bringing cats or terriers up into the room. But the Blue Boar was on one of the main routes for Exeter and Bristol and every attempt to cater for hungry and weary travellers had been made. The food was better, there were rooms with a single bed, and, with armed servants supposedly watching over things, the likelihood of getting your possessions stolen somewhat reduced, but Blackdown was taking no chances.

He’d arrived at the inn on the horse Jonathan had left him, a fine chestnut gelding called Coppice, a little headstrong, he thought, but they would soon get to know each other. He’d already booked and paid for his room before heading for Blackdown Manor. He checked out the room carefully before taking it. There was a bed, a wooden washstand with jug and bowl, a coat stand by the door, a dusty, and a faded rug at his feet that failed to hide the scarred old boards. The walls had recently been given a good coat of lime-wash.

He strode over to the small window, opened it and looked out. He was on the first floor; a small wooden ledge ran below the window along the face of the building; to his left and right were similar windows. He told the servant that showed him the room that he’d take it. And the empty room next door, too. The servant questioned why he’d need both rooms, but Blackdown stilled his enquiries and told him that he’d pay the young man to watch his door carefully whenever he was out.

The two trunks, now packed with as many clothes, boots and shoes as he could possibly fit in, was delivered by cart to the inn, as arranged by Addison. He went through them, discarding his uniform and selecting a set of fine clothes to wear instead. He could not remember the last time he felt such cloth next to his skin, but his pleasure was dimmed somewhat with the memory of his brother having worn the clothes before him. The boots and shoes he tried on were a little tight, but he was sure the leather would give in time.

He stood before a much fogged looking glass that hung lopsidedly on the wall and did not recognise the man looking back at him. He had always been called handsome, but he had never felt so. His appearance, when caught in a looking glass, seemed to him to be dark and brooding, a face carved mean by the experience of war and loneliness.

Yes, he had been lonely. He had to admit this. He did not allow people to get too close to him, male or female, perhaps because he did not want them to discover who he really was, what kind of a man hid beneath the so-called handsome surface. People are such shallow fools, he thought, to fall for the beautiful surface of the ocean and fail to acknowledge the danger that sits below.

Having dressed, he went to the window and opened it slightly. Next he took his pillow and tugged out a tiny eiderdown feather. He left the room and turned the key in the door lock, but before he went downstairs he pushed the tiny feather into the keyhole. He made his way down the groaning old stairs and down into the small dining room where he sat at a table and ordered his meal. The low wainscoted room, though dark, had been peppered with sporting prints of hounds and horses, of boxers facing up to each other, and over the mantelpiece the innkeeper had tacked a large card on which had been carefully scribed a list of the forthcoming county hound meets for the next fortnight or so.

The inn had filled up with travellers from a coach bound for Exeter, and the dining room had become a little boisterous with men and women glad to stretch their legs and already a little the worse for wear with the drinks they’d consumed. There was singing and laughter from the tap-room. Some travellers were being shown up to rooms, many of them, Blackdown mused, here for the fair.

A man sat beside Blackdown at the long table. He was probably aged about thirty, thought Blackdown, a little younger than himself, but he was tending towards the fat, red-faced and balding. He grinned at Blackdown and guzzled his small beer noisily.

‘Hard to beat the Blue Boar,’ he said to Blackdown. ‘Chicken, sauce, potatoes, carrots and cheese and eggs, all for a shilling. Down London way it’s far meaner fare and fare more expensive for the privilege.’ He looked at Blackdown. ‘But you’re a man who knows London, I’ll wager, judging by the looks of you. Are you here for the fair?’

‘What is it to you?’ said Blackdown shortly.

‘This man is being civil, is all,’ he replied.

‘This man tries to take a drink in peace,’ said Blackdown.

‘Apologies,’ said the man, lifting his beer. He slurped it down and emptied his tankard. ‘You’re Thomas Blackdown, right?’ he said quietly.

‘I may be.’

‘I know you are. I made enquiries.’

‘It’s none of your business who I am,’ said Blackdown.

The man’s beer-wet lips stretched into a smile. ‘I’ve made it my business. I knew your brother, Jonathan.’

Thomas Blackdown’s eyes gave nothing away. ‘In what way did you know my brother?’

‘I know how he got himself killed, that’s what I know.’

Blackdown’s body stiffened. ‘I know how he was killed. What I need to know is who killed him.’

The man sucked in a breath that seemed to rattle in his throat. ‘I can help you with that, too.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Harvey Grey.’

‘And who is Harvey Grey to know such a thing?’

‘Let me tell you, Mr high-and-mighty Blackdown, this Harvey Grey knows many things, and so it will be wise of you not look down your nose at me in such an ill manner.’ His voice was low, deliberately so. His eyes darted nervously this way and that, scanning the people in the inn. ‘I haven’t got much time. This is not the place to discuss such a thing. I can reveal all. How your brother came to meet his end and who is responsible. Such a tale I can tell you would not believe.’

‘You’ll tell me now!’ snarled Blackdown under his breath. He’d removed a pistol from his coat and had slid it under the table. The end of its barrel now pressed into the man’s side.

‘Which is why I chose to tell you here, amongst a crowd. I’ve heard how cold you can be, but you’re not foolish enough to do anything in a packed place such as this. And shooting me won’t do you any good now, will it? A dead man is hardly likely to talk, is he? You soldiers, you shoot first and think later.’

‘Don’t toy with me, Grey. What is it you’re wanting? I sense there’s more to this.’

‘I need to get away. I need money. I need lots of it. You pay me what I ask and I’ll tell you everything I know about your brother’s death, and about goings-on so fantastic that it will make you drop pale in shock.’ He rose from the table. ‘So put the gun away, Mr Blackdown; it’ll do you no good. Do you like to see a good show?’

‘I hate shows.’

‘I thought as much. I’ll wager there’s little room for pleasure in your heart, is there? Well tonight you will have to swallow your disdain and attend the show being put on by Pettigrew’s company in Shafter’s barn at the northern end of the town. You know of it?’

‘I remember it,’ he said dryly.

‘It begins soon, in an hour or so. Be there. You can’t miss me - I’m playing the Prince Regent in a grand farce. I’ll send someone to fetch you afterwards. Then we’ll talk in detail. If you are not prepared to pay handsomely for this then don’t bother turning up. I have to go now or I shall be missed.’

‘If I find you were involved in Jonathan’s murder then I’ll pay you everything you deserve, make no mistake.’

‘Your threats don’t scare me, Blackdown. They are nothing compared to what awaits me should word get out I said any of this. I have far more to be afraid of than you.’

Harvey Grey hurried from the inn. Thomas Blackdown’s meal was brought to the table and set down before him. Though the smell of roasted fowl rose up to make his mouth water and reminded him he hadn’t tasted anything decent in weeks, his hunger was pushed aside by his racing thoughts, and he found he could not concentrate on anything as base as eating. He forced the meal down quickly and went outside into the darkened street.

The man might be a fraud, he decided, but there was only one way to find out.

Shafter’s barn, the largest available in the vicinity and traditionally used for such events, had been cleared and the impressions of a crude stage created at the far end. An impression because there was no stage as such; a wooden frame had been constructed over which had been draped tattered green curtains. Paper screens decorated with gaudy paintings of castles and mountains stood at either end to give the semblance of wings. The orchestra consisted of two old men sitting on stools with fiddles at the ready, a small battery of chairs placed before them for those in the audience that wished to pay more for the dubious privilege. Boxes, hay bales and anything else that came to hand provided the only other seating in this makeshift theatre, and those that didn’t find a seat sat on the hay-strewn floor. The whole was lit by lanterns and candles in candle holders, and when these ran out then by candles pressed into lumps of clay.

Thomas Blackdown stood at the back of the barn leaning against one of the walls with his arms folded, and he watched the excited people filing in to the sound of a beating drum and taking up their places. It was rare entertainment for them, and he sensed from the infectious cloud of jollity that hung over field workers and town dwellers alike that for an hour or so they might shrug off their hard everyday lives and escape into another, altogether more colourful world.

Presently the barn door was closed and a single trumpet announced Commodore Pettigrew as he stepped through the curtains to the front of the stage. He gave a large and meandering speech about transports of delight and other such embellishments, most of the words, Blackdown guessed, hardly understood by the majority of spectators, but applauded all the same for their undoubted eloquence, wit and brilliance. He wore the same silver-laced hat, but had put on a bright red coat whose shiny brass buttons glinted magically under the twinkling lights. He told everyone not to miss coming to his ‘marvellous field of entertainments, amusements and delights’ over the next few days, where they were guaranteed to find treasures of the orient, fortune-tellers, a cow that dances like a fine lady, puppets so real they almost breathe, acrobats, magicians and creatures from nightmare and fairytale gathered together in one place for them to marvel at or to curl their toes.

‘Do not miss the pig-faced woman,’ he said in a melodious, sing-song voice, ‘whose limbs are as fair and delicate as any lady, but whose snout pokes from beneath her bonnet; do not miss seeing the Mermaid of the Grand Banks, captured by a whaler; or the duck-boy, whose mother was scared by a mallard that flew into the room during childbirth – a boy born with hands and feet all webbed and enabling him to swim as easily as the mallard that brought about the sad transformation.’ The audience gasped at the prospects and a positive murmur went around the enthralled audience. With that, Pettigrew announced the first act. ‘For your delectation and delight, we, Commodore Pettigrew’s Most Marvellous Company of Entertainers Extraordinaire, take you back to the glorious 18
th
of June 1815, and present an exhilarating and most accurate account of the decisive and much lauded Battle of Waterloo!’

A loud crash on a bass drum, followed by a huge puff of gunpowder, made the audience gasp. There were the sounds of horses hooves rattled out on coconuts, and Napoleon, in she shape of a white-faced dwarf with circles of red on his cheeks, pranced through the gap in the green curtains on a hobbyhorse, much to the delight of the audience who jeered and booed good-humouredly, shouting ‘Down with Boney!’. They laughed when he fell from his horse and struggled to right himself.

Thomas Blackdown rolled his eyes and watched the crude play take shape. The man who played the Duke of Wellington, with a large false nose fastened to his face with string, posed on a box covered with green cloth to make it look like a hill, directing his army of three noble soldiers against Napoleon’s comedic two. Somewhere along the line, the French lost their breeches and had wooden bayonets shoved up their backsides, thus chasing them off the stage to thunderous applause and shouts of ‘God save Old Nosey!’ as the Duke bowed and accepted his many plaudits. Then there followed an audience between the Duke of Wellington and Harvey Grey dressed as the Prince Regent, almost unrecognisable under the heavy makeup and padding that made him look almost round. He was given turnips to eat from a trough, and grunted like a pig as he did so, and the audience cried with laughter at the scene. But they fell quiet when King George stumbled through the curtains, dressed shabbily in a long white robe, his beard reaching to his waist. He stood there briefly and said he might be mad, but no more than his government. He asked the audience how their cattle were doing, and what of the harvest, and that received three cheers and the almost universal cry of ‘God bless you, Farmer George!’

The gaudy tableau finished and a large construction covered by a decorated canvas was pushed to the front of the stage by two burly stagehands. Pettigrew whipped off the canvas and the audience gasped to see a set of gallows, a noose hanging portentously from the crude affair.