BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (2 page)

The tang of the sea hung in the morning air. It was carried on a freshening breeze that whipped across the churning waters off the whaling town of Whitby in North Yorkshire and ran up the steep headland to wash over Thomas Blackdown as he hovered impatiently amongst the aged headstones, his keen eyes looking earnestly for any signs of life among the thin, spiky grass and the remains of the dead. Behind him, the old abbey loomed spectral and dark against the lead-grey of the dawn. Thin tendrils of mist from the sea fret crept languidly about his boots but were swiftly being ripped to shreds by the strengthening wind. Soon the sun would be up, and this strange, ephemeral netherworld, neither night nor day, would disappear till sister dusk took its place.

Dawn was a curious time, he thought bleakly. It was a time traditionally set aside for executions. What perverse pleasure do we take by teasing the condemned with the sight of a day they will not see?

And dawn was also a time for duels…

His mind raced back to that fateful morning, similar to this in all but location, when he stood in a mist-shrouded field and took hold of the pistol from a box presented to him by a man in a severe looking long black coat. The man whom Blackdown had accused of wronging him took up the second weapon and they marched through the dew-wet grass till they were the regulation distance from each other, and each turned slowly round, cocking their pistols.

Thomas Blackdown – then a captain in the guards – could still hear that distinct click as the hammer was drawn back; an ominous sound that seemed to shatter the quiet of this peaceful and secluded Belgian field surrounded by broccoli-like florets of trees in autumnal leaf. He remembered staring down the short barrel at the figure in front of him. A senior officer. An officer who thought he could say what he liked without consequence. But Blackdown had always been hot-blooded. His rash challenge to a duel to satisfy his late mother’s name and family’s honour was accepted and so there he stood, implacable and caring not whether he lived or died.

The officer’s pistol exploded and a cluster of pigeons took to the wing, the noise like the rippling of applause. Blackdown did not flinch. The bullet whined harmlessly past his right shoulder, close enough for his flesh to sense its passage through the material of his coat.

Now it was his turn. He could purposely miss, but honour would not be restored by his cowardice. He could aim to wound. But that would not satisfy the anger he felt as he pictured his dead mother’s face. So he pulled the trigger and shot the man dead.

He was brought out of his reverie by a light flurry of sounds. Footsteps tramping meaningfully through the grass. He knew by the footfalls that there were three men. And sure enough three figures emerged through the mist and into the gloom of dawn, the ruins of the old abbey as their backdrop.

‘Are you alone?’ said a voice that carried with it great authority. The voice of a man used to getting what he wanted and didn’t care how he got it.

‘Creevy?’ asked Blackdown.

‘Mr Creevy to you,’ he replied striding up to him. He stood and regarded Blackdown closely. The other two men took up a position on either side of Blackdown, their closeness intimidating. ‘I asked you a question. I don’t like it when people don’t answer my questions. That right, lads?’

‘That’s right, Mr Creevy,’ one of his companions said.

Alex Creevy was aged about forty-five or so, a weather-beaten face that hadn’t been blessed with good looks, though curiously, thought Blackdown, he had the delicate, enticing pale blue eyes of a woman. That was the only delicate thing about him. His dark hair was cropped short and his chin was in need of a shave. He wore clothes that must have cost a pretty packet and he looked ill-at-ease in them.

‘I came alone. You instructed me so,’ said Blackdown.

Creevy’s left eye flickered as if operated by a thought that seemed to bother him. ‘Your name?’

‘You know my name.’

‘Your name?’ he demanded again.

‘Ferguson,’ he lied.

‘Ferguson,’ Creevy echoed. He strode around Blackdown, looking him up and down. ‘Well, Ferguson, I don’t trust you; I have never heard of you and I have never heard of the man you say you work for.’

‘Until recently I had never heard of you, so the feeling is mutual,’ said Blackdown, the man now at his back. He felt unsettled not being able to see him. ‘Do you have the shipment?’

Creevy came back to Blackdown’s front again. ‘I ask the questions,’ he said shortly. ‘You never heard of me?’ he said. ‘You never heard of Alex Creevy?’

Blackdown shook his head slowly. ‘I know of you now.’

‘Yes, you do,’ said Creevy.

Yes I do, thought Blackdown. Alex Creevy was a smuggler, and a pretty successful one at that. He operated a number of boats, plying between the many quiet inlets of the North Yorkshire coast and France. In this part of the country, smugglers were held in high regard by most of the local people, heroes pitted against the law, and if you didn’t hold with their ways then you didn’t say anything bad about them, least of all Alex Creevy. He ruled the roost amongst the smuggling fraternity, and ruled it with a hard, violent hand. Blackdown knew only too well Creevy’s propensity for violence.

A local man, an aggrieved merchant who had been forced to pay protection money to Creevy, had confessed to an excise man he was willing to give evidence on Creevy and his activities. As the excise man was escorting the merchant to court they were both waylaid by Creevy and his men – though none afterwards could prove it was them. They broke every bone in the officer’s body, tortured him for twelve hours before cutting off his private parts and stuffing them in his mouth, and finally slitting his throat. The unfortunate merchant was beaten up and thrown into a well and left for dead. They came back two days later and were surprised to hear his weak, pitiful cries for help. They threw large rocks down the well and killed him.

Creevy was not a man to take lightly.

‘Search him for weapons,’ said Creevy, and one of the men gave Blackdown a rough frisk.

‘He’s not carrying anything, Mr Creevy,’ the man said at length.

Creevy nodded. ‘No gun? You come to see me unarmed?’

‘I have no need of one.’

‘No? That’s very trusting of you. I have the power to have you killed, right here, right now.’

‘I have heard.’

‘And no one will think ought of it.’

‘I’m pleased for you, but we must attend to business.’

Creevy was trying to work out whether the man standing impassively before him was very brave or very foolish. In the end he shrugged, none the wiser.

‘Yes, the business. Well, Mr Ferguson, does your boss have the money to hand?’

‘As his representative I need to see the weapons first.’

‘His representative, eh?’ said Creevy, laughing. His henchmen laughed with him. ‘So your boss is too high and mighty to show his face? Alex Creevy too low a creature to waste his time on? Maybe I ought to get me a representative too, eh, lads?’ His face suddenly steeled and he produced a knife. He thrust it at Blackdown’s neck. Its point drew a bubble of blood. ‘See, this here knife is my representative!’

‘I can see that,’ said Blackdown, unflinching.

‘You’re a rare cove, I’ll give you that, Ferguson,’ Creevy said, stowing away the knife. ‘I like you.’ Blackdown fingered away the spot of blood that had begun to trickle down his neck. ‘But if you don’t have the money to hand you’ll be seeing a lot more of my little sharp-tongued representative.’ He waved peremptorily for Blackdown to follow him as he trudged towards the many steep stone steps that led down to the small, red-roofed town of Whitby.

The harbour was full of boats, the many masts looking like a black forest of denuded fir trees in the morning light. Fishermen were readying their boats preparing to go out to sea; the quays and harbour front were already thronging with people, many of them having risen before dawn as was their habit. Blackdown noticed how they moved swiftly aside to let Creevy and his men pass unobstructed. He commanded both respect and fear, thought Blackdown. But not from him. To Thomas Blackdown, Alex Creevy was nothing more but a common thief and brutal murderer.

They entered a quayside inn, the landlord acknowledging Creevy with a deferential nod. The four men passed through the inn and took a flight of stairs down to its cellar where Creevy lifted a canvas sheet off a stack of long wooden crates, looking for anything like a undertaker’s pile of crude coffins.

‘Let me see the guns,’ said Blackdown, looking about him at the stored beer barrels, at the steps that led upwards to a hatch that opened out onto the street above down which deliveries were made. There was a pungent smell of spilled ale that vied with the sweat-stink of Creevy and his henchmen.

Creevy signalled for one of the men to take the lid off the nearest crate. He took a crowbar and prised it open. It was filled with new muskets wrapped in straw and smelling of gun oil. Blackdown lifted one of the muskets out, testing its weight.

‘Do they meet with your approval?’ said Creevy.

‘You have more?’

‘Many more, and pistols, powder, balls – I cannot give you them all, but I can afford to part with a fair selection without it being noticed.’

‘From where does all this ordnance hail?’ asked Blackdown.

Creevy slammed the lid of the crate down. ‘That is no business of yours. Do you want them or do you not?’

Blackdown rubbed his chin speculatively. ‘Let us talk business,’ he said. He eyed the two henchmen. ‘But not in front of your pet dogs.’

‘The dogs stay,’ said Creevy. ‘Do not think to dictate.’

‘My employer is prepared to take as many of these as you have,’ he said. ‘And he will make you a handsome offer. Do not think to dictate to me, either.’

The two men stared hard at each other. Then Creevy gave a sneer. ‘Leave the cellar,’ he ordered his men.

‘Have them bring a horse and cart to the delivery door outside in ten minutes,’ said Blackdown, nodding in the direction of the trapdoor at the top of the steps. ‘I intend paying you for these and taking them straight away.’

‘Bring your own transport,’ said Creevy.

‘I can take these weapons off your hands and make it worth your while. You know as well as I that guns are a difficult commodity to shift, especially government guns. Consider the horse and cart as part of the bargain. Ten minutes, no more, because I have to be off. It is not wise me being here a moment longer than I have to be. As an outsider I will only arouse suspicion.’

‘I control suspicion in this town,’ said Creevy. ‘I control the parish constables, the night watchmen, the excise men. You need not worry on that account. We are well protected from the law here. No one dares come into Whitby to arrest me, even if they so desired.’

‘Yes, I hear you have a certain standing, Mr Creevy,’ said Blackdown. ‘A standing that even allows you to skip free from murder.’

‘Nothing has ever been proved. I am as innocent as a lamb.’ He grinned. ‘A diabolical lamb,’ he added. ‘But enough small talk. Do you have the money to conclude such a hasty transaction?’ Creevy asked, a spark in his eyes.

‘It depends upon your price, but I have it.’

‘Bring a horse and cart, as he says,’ Creevy ordered his men. ‘And bring it fast.’

Blackdown waited till they’d ascended the stone steps and closed the door behind them. ‘I need to know the provenance of these weapons,’ he said. ‘As you can understand, to be in possession of illegally acquired government-issue muskets can get me and my employer hung. I need to know all is safe to proceed with our transaction and that we will not immediately have government troops hot on our heels.’

Creevy smiled. It was a lopsided affair. ‘All is safe. You have my word.’

It was Blackdown’s turn to smile. ‘You will forgive me, Mr Creevy, but I trust no one where my neck is concerned. Least of all a man like you. How came you by these weapons?’

With a sucking in of breath Creevy gave a shrug. ‘My own employer has long traded with the French…’

‘During the war?’

‘Especially during the war. I have delivered both weapons and wool to the French on his behalf.’

‘That is treason.’

‘That is profit,’ said Creevy. ‘But the war is long past. Forget the war. The weapons you see here is a shipment he asked me to store on his behalf. I do not know what he wants to do with them, but he obviously has his plans. They are not stolen. They come from one of his factories.’

‘And will he not miss the ones you sell to me?’

‘I shall see to it they are not missed,’ said Creevy. ‘I have done it before. A man has to make a living…’

Blackdown asked, ‘Who is your employer?’

‘Now I cannot divulge that.’

‘Cannot or will not?’

‘I cannot, for I do not know who he is. Do you wish to buy the guns or not? I grow tired of this chatter.’

Blackdown steadied the musket in his hands. ‘Alex Creevy, the deal is off. Instead you are under arrest.’

Creevy’s eyes widened and his hand reached into his coat for a concealed pistol. ‘A thieftaker?’ he said. But Blackdown struck out with the butt of the musket, catching Creevy square on the side of the head. He yelped, and staggered, but brought out the pistol in spite of his dizziness.