BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) (7 page)

Thomas Blackdown sighed heavily. ‘I did not know.’

Reverend Bole looked up at the gargoyle. ‘There is more than one way of savaging a man, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Your father had made many enemies, as men in such powerful positions do, and it appears they were waiting their turn in bringing him down. It is not good to be a member of the Blackdown family at this moment, Thomas.’

‘I don’t think it was ever good to be a member of the Blackdown family.’ He shook the man’s hand. ‘Thank you for your time, Reverend Bole. I will make my way to Blackdown Manor.’

‘Don’t judge him too harshly, Thomas.’

Blackdown shrugged and strode purposefully down the path towards the gate, Reverend Bole keeping pace with him. Blackdown caught sight of an old man, dressed in rags and bending down at the foot of an ornate headstone over which stood an impressively carved angel, clasped hands and blank eyes pointing to heaven. Blackdown studied the man. He was desperately thin, and he could now see that part of his clothing was made up of strips of disparate pieces of cloth sewn crudely together. His skull-like face with its sharp cheekbones was partially shaded by a common broad-rimmed straw hat.

‘Is that Patrick Deale?’ Blackdown whispered.

‘That is indeed Patrick Deale. He digs ditches still.’

‘He still mourns his wife?’ He shook his head. ‘I remember his wife died in childbirth when I was but a youngster. Just before I left…’

Bole nodded. ‘Patrick Deane, like your father, misses his wife dreadfully, and he has never been the same since she died. He comes to attend to her grave every day without fail, even in the deepest cold of winter. I have even found him asleep beside it.’

‘It is a grand and expensive monument. Did the anonymous benefactor who paid for its erection ever come to light?’

‘No, he remains anonymous. But its size remains a testament to the huge loss Patrick Deale has felt over the years. Even simple ditch diggers have feelings, Thomas.’

Blackdown saw the old man glance in their direction, and he hurriedly got to his feet and scurried from the churchyard.

‘I cannot deny that,’ he said. ‘It appears tragedy has a ready grip on the lives of many people and prevents them from moving on.’

‘Indeed it does,’ said Bole thoughtfully. ‘Remember,’ he added, ‘try to find it in your heart to forgive a dying man. You too must be able to move on and escape your own particular tragedy. To do that you must be willing to forgive…’

Blackdown grunted his reply.

The approach to Blackdown Manor had been designed to be impressive, and at one time, in its heyday, it had been just that. A straight, elm-lined gravelled road leading from its grand, ornate stone gateway pointed as if in awe to the large manor house a quarter of a mile distant, the family seat of the Blackdowns for eight hundred years.

Thomas Blackdown felt the weight of that tradition bear down on him as he passed through the entrance gates, once gilded and brightly painted, but now rusted, heavily pitted and much weathered. The white-gravelled road that had once seen many a gilded carriage pass over its shining surface had been reduced to a mere dirt track, the twin ruts created by carriage wheels filled with mud and water, the gravel scattered and dirty. The elm trees standing sentinel on either side of the road had been allowed to grow as they would, and their thick grey boughs bent over the road, in parts casting a deep and gloomy shade as if entering dense woodland, nature beginning to encroach on the weed-strewn road and claim it back. Little maintenance had been carried out here, thought Thomas Blackdown. Its decline in these past two decades had been swift and sure, he thought. He hadn’t expected this at all. It stood in sharp contrast to the place he remembered so vividly, as the carriage that carried him away from Blackdown Manor trundled down the road to the main gate and banishment.

The neatly tended gardens and parks beyond the trees had also been allowed to go to ruin. Where once an army of gardeners had toiled there were weeds and bushes and great scrubby mounds of brambles, the odd-statue poking out from beneath prickly canopies and wreathed in bindweed, as if fighting to break free and get to the air.

Blackdown readjusted his knapsack, pausing to look around him at the sad decline. Pausing, perhaps, to delay his inevitable approach to Blackdown Manor, for it appeared before him like a dark, brooding beast sat in its lair of black trees. It was unusually silent, he thought, as he trudged slowly towards the place of his birth; neither the sounds of birds of the singing of the wind through the trees. Deathly silent and still, he mused, only the scrape of his boots on the solid earth and the stones of the ruined road, and the rasping of his breathing as he came to stand before the pillared portico of the house. The huge Corinthian pillars, cracked and stained, were caked in ivy, the stems of which were so thick they must have been here some considerable time.

The many windows lining Blackdown Manor were empty and black, one or two panes broken he noticed, some of them with heavy drapes blocking out the light. It looked a dead place, he thought. As if life had gasped its last and the house was an empty shell, bereft of soul. He climbed the sweeping steps up to the large painted door, its surface green with the damp, and yanked the bell pull. It was stiff and in need of greasing, he thought. When there was no reply, he pulled again, more insistent, and beat at the door with his fist.

In truth he wanted to turn and flee the place. So many emotions welled up that they threatened to choke him. He that had seen and endured so many horrors on the battlefield, now reduced to a weak-kneed wreck at the prospect of meeting his father again.

His hand went to the bell pull, then he retracted it and was about to turn and leave when he heard the locks on the other side of the door being drawn. The door opened a fraction, the movement laborious, cautious almost. The head of an old man gazed out from the darkness, the heavily lined face inordinately pale as if it had been deprived of daylight for years, the hair white and hanging in tufts from a mottled scalp. The eyes narrowed into the tiniest of slits as the man studied the visitor. Then recognition seeped in to widen the eyes, and then gushed in flood-like causing the man’s almost toothless mouth to drop open.

‘Master Thomas?’ he said, his voice incredulous. ‘Is that really Master Thomas?’ The door widened and he came out.

‘It is. Mr Addison, you have changed little,’ he said.

‘Oh Master Thomas!’ said the man, clearly overjoyed. He darted forward and took Blackdown’s hand and pumped it up and down. ‘It has been so long!’ Then he remembered himself and stood back, standing as erect as his bent form would allow. He put his hands behind his back. ‘Forgive me, Master Thomas. I forget myself and my position. I am just so pleased to see you.’

‘And I am pleased to see that some things have not changed and that my father still retains your services. It is good to see you, Mr Addison.’

Addison had been a dominant force in the house, commanding a veritable army of servants under his charge. He liked to run an efficient ship, he used to say, and was so good at his job that he’d been approached by many notables to leave the manor and come and work for them instead, but he maintained his loyalty was always to the Blackdowns and no amount of financial inducements or otherwise tempted him to abandon the family. Generations of Addisons had worked for the Blackdowns as far back as he could remember, he used to boast, and he always said he didn’t want to be the last.

But the old man’s face changed perceptibly from joy to regret. ‘Do you wish to see your father?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ said Blackdown.

‘Does he know of your coming?’

Blackdown shook his head. ‘It will come as a surprise.’

The old man seemed to struggle within himself. ‘Sir, it puts me in a most disagreeable position. The nature of your departure… Your father…’

‘Tell him I forced myself inside,’ he said, smiling, ‘if that worries you.’

‘Oh no, sir! I cannot do that! I respect you too much to say such a thing. Please, do come inside.’

He stepped to one side and held open the door.

The large marble-floored entrance hall was much the same as Thomas Blackdown remembered it. Cold and austere, portrait-lined walls, busts on pedestals. But it had a colder, dead feel to it. He noticed at once the thin film of cobwebs and dust covering everything. ‘Where is everyone?’ Blackdown asked, thinking that at one time such a thing as letting the dust gather would never have been allowed to happen.

‘There are but five of us now, Master Thomas.’ He followed Blackdown’s eyes to a dirty, grey looking Grecian bust. ‘We try our best, but Blackdown Manor is a sprawling, many-roomed affair, as you know, and my old bones are not what they once were…’

‘No matter, Mr Addison,’ he said, seeing how the old man looked embarrassed at the lack of cleaning.

‘Shall I take your coat, sir?’ Thomas Blackdown shrugged off the knapsack and let Addison help him off with his greatcoat. Addison regarded the begrimed red uniform beneath. ‘Master Jonathan told me of your exploits in the army, though it was against your father’s express wishes to discuss you or your whereabouts.’ He put the coat over his arm and tried to lift the knapsack but the weight defied his aged body. ‘You look in robust health, sir,’ he said, smiling. ‘I am glad to see you home from the war safe and well. Master Jonathan would have been so…’ He trailed off and cleared his throat. ‘I will need to tell your father you are here.’

Blackdown nodded. ‘I did not know Jonathan had been killed.’

The old man’s watery eyes blinked slowly. ‘It was a tragedy, sir, I cannot deny that. As it was when you left the house all those years ago. The house lost something of its warmth with your departure, if you don’t mind me saying, sir?’

‘You were always good to me, Mr Addison, something I have never forgotten. Almost like a father to me.’

He looked embarrassed again. ‘That is very kind of you to say so, Master Thomas.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In the drawing room.’

‘I have heard he is ill…’

‘He is not well, Master Thomas, but he has been through so much lately that it is little wonder his health has suffered so. He has taken to spending much time with his lawyer…’ he began falteringly. ‘Cornelius Reeve. A singular man.’

‘You do not approve of him, I take it?’

Addison looked horrified. ‘It is not my place, sir! I am your father’s servant. I shall announce your presence,’ he said, leaving the knapsack on the floor and taking the coat with him.

‘Lord Blackdown,’ said Addison quietly, ‘you have a visitor.’

The man sitting in his chair, facing the window that looked out onto the dead and choked gardens beyond, didn’t appear to hear at first, as if locked into a room filled with his own private thoughts. ‘Huh?’ he said, hardly moving his head. ‘A visitor, you say?’ He scratched vaguely at a gold button on his black coat with a scrawny, shaky finger. ‘I’m not expecting visitors…’

‘I come unannounced,’ said Thomas Blackdown. He’d followed Addison, and the old servant turned around, surprised to see him standing behind him at the door.

Lord Erasmus Blackdown’s face paled, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly. ‘My son Jonathan?’ he said feebly. ‘My son returned?’ He spun round in his chair, the blanket that covered his white-breeched legs falling to the rug. His eyes looked uncomprehendingly at Thomas.

‘It’s me, father. It’s your son, Thomas,’ he said stiffly.

‘Thomas!’ said the old man, trying to rise from his chair. Addison dashed forward, bent to retrieve the blanket and place it over his master’s legs. Erasmus Blackdown pushed him away. ‘Thomas! I have no son called Thomas! What is he doing here, Addison?’ he roared.

‘I forced my way in,’ said Thomas, glancing at Addison’s alarmed expression.

‘Then you can force your way back out again!’ his father fired. ‘Get out of my sight!’

‘Leave us alone, Mr Addison,’ Thomas ordered. The old man hesitated and Thomas nodded at the door.

‘You do not order my servant around! Stay where you are, Addison! Fetch my pistol, Addison!’

The servant clearly did not know what he should do. Thomas took a gentle hold of the man’s arm and led him to the door. ‘But, Master Thomas…’

‘All will be well,’ he reassured. ‘I need but a little time alone with my father.’

‘Get out of my house!’ said Erasmus Blackdown, attempting to rise from the chair. He fell back down, exhausted, and sat there panting, trying to regain his breath. ‘You are not allowed back in this house!’ he said.

Thomas Blackdown closed the door on Addison’s concerned features and turned to his father. ‘I’m not here for you. I’m here for Jonathan. Had it not been for him I would never have set foot in this sad place ever again. And the last person I wish to see is the man who cast me aside as if I had been dirt on the sole of his shoe.’

‘You’re not even worthy of being called dirt,’ he grumbled, facing the window again. ‘You ruined my life.’

‘And so you thought to ruin mine in revenge.’

‘I care not about you, Thomas. You do not exist for me. You ceased to exist on the day you murdered my wife.’

‘It was an accident, father. And I have paid dearly for my foolishness.’

‘Not as dearly as I would have had it. You ripped the heart out of me that day.’

‘It is plain to see you do not have a heart.’

His father’s eyes burned fiercely. ‘Addison!’ he roared. ‘Addison!’

The door handle rattled as Addison tried to gain entry. ‘I have locked it, father,’ said Thomas, walking over to stand in front of the old man. ‘Now you are forced to confront me.’

Lord Blackdown rolled a gob of spit in his mouth and spat it at Thomas’s boot. ‘There’s my reply.’

‘Such venom,’ he said calmly. ‘It is no wonder you are being eaten up inside with it. It is poisoning your very soul.’

‘What is it that you want from me? Say your piece and be gone.’

‘What happened to Jonathan?’

‘What do you care?’

‘He was my brother.’

The old man’s eyes softened. ‘He was my son.’ He looked up. ‘My only son…’

Thomas Blackdown swallowed. His mouth was dry, his throat parched. His heart was crashing, but he didn’t let his inner turmoil show. ‘He was murdered. I mean to find out who murdered him.’

‘Then you’re on a hiding to nothing, you fool. Do you mean to put the Devil in chains? Because that’s who did that terrible thing to him, the Devil himself! As it was the Devil that turned your heart black and made you pull the trigger on my wife!’ His hand went to his coat pocket and tugged out a gold chain. Hung on the chain was a large round locket. He flicked it open and held it out to Thomas.

‘What is that?’

‘This?’ he said, taking out a lead ball. He held it between index finger and thumb. ‘This is the ball that killed my wife, your mother. I wear it still as a reminder. And many days I swear I have thought about loading it into a pistol and putting it through the black heart of the man that killed her. The man that stands before me now.’

‘Many people in the past have tried and failed.’

He put the ball away and snapped the locket closed. ‘If you stay here I will kill you,’ he said.

‘You killed me the day you banished me from Blackdown. I’m not afraid of death. I’m dead already.’ He stared hard at the old man, feeling a storm-surge of emotions crashing like tremendous waves against each other.

A door opened at the far end of the long room and all eyes turned to it. A slender figure entered the room. He was middle-aged, greying hair cut short with curls pulled forward onto his forehead. He wore an expensively-cut double-breasted coat in dark-blue, knee-length tails, full at the shoulder and tight over the wrists; a white satin waistcoat showed above his fitted white breeches. He strode purposely into the room, his hands behind his back, a picture of elegant importance.