BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) by D. M. Mitchell Page B

Blackdown had to sell off pieces of land to fund his court cases. He soon discovered Lord Tresham had secretly – or so he thought – bought up a lot of the Blackdown land for his own. After that, Lord Blackdown, largely because he was consumed by grief, accused Lord Tresham of profiting from his hardship and of conspiring against him along with all the other turncoats and backstabbers. They have not spoken to each other for three years.’
    ‘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.

8
 
A Gruesome Pillow
     
    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