Read Online BLACKDOWN (a thriller and murder mystery) by D. M. Mitchell - Free Book Online
Authors: D. M. Mitchell
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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.
6
The Devil in Chains
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
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.
6
The Devil in Chains
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
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