Blackstone and the Heart of Darkness (6 page)

Ashes
to
ashes
,
dust
to
dust...

But not on
this
occasion, the vicar thought, turning his attention back to the plain wooden coffin. Here it was much more a case of a fine healthy frame being reduced to its component parts—with an arm recovered from one spot, a leg recovered from another, and the almost-intact—though bloody and battered—torso found in yet a third location.

It had been a very messy business, all right—but then that was only what you would expect when blasting went wrong.

*

The Number One Evaporation Pan in the Jubilee Salt Works had an elevated position above the street, which made it a perfect vantage point for observing what was going on below, and it was from there that the two watchers had been following the movements of the man from London.

Both men were dressed in frock coats, though the taller man’s was newer and more stylish than the one worn by the smaller man. But their manner of dress was not the major feature that distinguished between them. The taller man had an arrogance about him which suggested that he expected to be obeyed at all times. The shorter of the two, in contrast, had the hang-dog look of a man who would willingly embrace the protection of someone stronger than himself, even if, with that protection, came the prospect of the occasional beating.

The policeman from London had been walking up and down the lane for close to half an hour—as if by covering the same route over and over again he would find the answer to some question that had been troubling him—but now he came to a definite stop in front of the Red Lion Inn, not fifty yards from where the watchers had stationed themselves.

The taller watcher backed away from the observation post, turned and headed for the salt store. The shorter watcher obediently followed him.

Once inside the salt store, the taller watcher selected a block of salt, sat down on it and took a hip flask out of his pocket. He uncorked the flask and took a generous slug of whisky. He did not offer the flask to his companion, nor did the shorter man make any attempt to sit down in his presence.

‘So our worst fears have been proved to be no more than correct,’ the taller watcher said, though there was no evidence of any particular
concern
in his words ‘Tom Yardley did indeed write to his old friend Inspector Blackstone. And now Blackstone is here in the village.’

‘Perhaps he won’t stay,’ the shorter watcher said nervously.

‘Won’t stay?
Why
wouldn’t he stay?’

‘When he learns what’s happened, he may decide there’s no point in being here, and catch the next train back to London.’

The taller watcher laughed. ‘Have you read anything at all about this Inspector Blackstone?’

‘Well, yes, I—’

‘Then you’ll know all about him rescuing that little nigger prince?’

‘Yes.’

‘And how he caught the fire bug who threatened to burn the whole of London down?’

‘Yes.’

‘So having read all that, does he strike you as the kind of man who’s
likely
to just walk away? Because that’s certainly not how he strikes me!’

‘But if you believe he’ll stay, how can you remain so calm?’ the smaller watcher wondered.

‘I can remain calm because I am a planner—because when things happen, it is because I
want
them to happen.’

‘You can’t have wanted
this
!
’

‘True. But “this”—as you call it—may prove to be no more than a minor distraction. I’ve laid my plans very carefully, and thus far I’ve managed to fool the police, the customs-and-excise officials—and this whole village. So why should you assume that I can’t fool him?’

‘Because he’s different! You said so yourself!’

‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ the taller watcher agreed. ‘And possibly you’re right. Possibly he will have the perception and intelligence to see through all the camouflage I’ve thrown up around my little enterprise. In which case, we’ll just have to deal with him, won’t we?’

‘Deal with him?’

‘Stop pretending you don’t know what I mean. When I say “deal with him”, what am I talking about?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘
What
am
I
talking
about?
’

The smaller man looked down his feet. ‘You’re talking about arranging a fatal accident,’ he mumbled.

‘Just so,’ the other man concurred.

*

The blinds that had covered the pub windows had been pulled clear, and now Blackstone heard the bolts on the main door being drawn.

The door was opened by the landlord, a man in his late forties, with sandy hair. As he was pulling the pint of bitter that Blackstone had asked for, the Inspector noticed that he was still wearing a black armband.

‘From your accent, I’d say that you’re not from round here,’ the landlord said, as he slid the foaming pint across the counter.

He sounded as if he were doing no more than making conversation, Blackstone thought. But was he?

Tom Yardley didn’t trust the local police force, and maybe he didn’t trust this landlord, either. So, until he’d spoken to Tom himself, it would perhaps be wisest to give away as little as possible.

‘No, I’m not local,’ he admitted.

‘I’d guess you’re a Londoner,’ the landlord said.

‘And you’d be right.’

‘We don’t get many Londoners in the village.’

‘I imagine you don’t.’

‘If you think I’m being too nosy, you could just tell me to shut up,’ the landlord suggested amiably.

Blackstone sighed. Despite his best efforts, the conversation had reached a point at which he would draw more suspicion on himself by saying nothing than he would by telling a half-truth or two, he decided.

‘I’ve got a little bit of business that I need to attend to in the port of Liverpool,’ he said.

‘Then why aren’t you
in
Liverpool?’ the landlord asked. He chuckled. ‘You don’t think this village is Liverpool, do you? The little canal that runs through here
joins
the mighty River Mersey, but nobody’s actually ever mistaken it
for
the Mersey before.’

Blackstone chuckled himself, as if he were sharing in the landlord’s joke. ‘No, I haven’t made that mistake,’ he agreed.

‘Well, then?’

‘I have a friend in this area, and since I had to be here anyway, I thought I’d take the opportunity to visit him.’

‘A friend?’

‘An old comrade from my days in the army.’

‘Now who might that old comrade be?’ the landlord wondered. ‘There’s quite a number of men from Marston who have served in the army, at one time or another, you know.’

Blackstone sighed again. In seeking to be discreet, he had only succeeded in turning himself into a man of mystery.

Was there any point in keeping his friend’s name a secret any longer? Surely, in a village this size, everybody would know who he’d come to see the moment he talked to Tom. Besides, the important fact to hide was not that Tom was his old comrade, but that he himself was a police inspector, and it was because of that fact that Tom had practically
begged
him to come.

‘You probably know the man I’ve come to see,’ he said jauntily. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if he wasn’t one of your regulars, since he’s a salt-miner, and I’m told that job’s enough to give any man a raging thirst.’

The landlord was looking increasingly uneasy, as if, in his head, he was piecing together the bits of information about Blackstone’s old comrade’s probable age and his occupation.

‘This friend of yours...’ he said, tentatively.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s not Tom Yardley by any chance, is it?’

‘As a matter of fact, it is.’

The landlord’s face turned suddenly mournful. ‘Then I’m sorry to tell you you’ve come too late,’ he said.

‘Too late?’

‘That’s what I said. We’ve just buried the poor bugger.’

Four

Blackstone, standing outside the pub, watched as the villagers came down the bridge, on their way back from the funeral. As the procession drew level with him, one man—a miner by the look of him—peeled free of it and made a beeline for him.

‘Are you that inspector from London?’ the man asked. ‘Because if you are, Tom Yardley’s told me all about how the two of you fought together in Afghanistan, and how you were the best sergeant he’d ever served under.’

‘Did he mention that he saved my life once?’ Blackstone asked. The miner shook his head. ‘Not that I can recall.’

No, he wouldn’t have, Blackstone thought. Not Tom.

‘What if I am “that inspector from London”?’ he said aloud. ‘Why should that be any concern of yours?’

‘Tom told me he’d sent you a letter,’ the miner said. He checked quickly over his shoulder, to see if anyone was listening. ‘And he...and he told me that if anything happened to him before you got here, I was to let you know about it. I was goin’ to write to you tonight, but now you’re here...’

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Blackstone asked.

The miner looked down the street at the slowly retreating column of mourners.

‘I’m supposed to go straight back to work once the funeral’s over,’ he said, apologetically. Then he slashed his hand through the air in an angry gesture, and added, ‘To hell with work.
I
need
a bloody drink.’

The miner’s name was Walter Clegg. He was around the same age as Tom Yardley, but there all resemblance ended. Tom had been a big man, broad-shouldered and inclined to beefiness, while Walter Clegg was small and wiry. And the differences were not only physical. The Tom that Blackstone had known could have become a leader in time, but this man had been born to be a faithful follower.

‘Tell me what happened down the mine,’ Blackstone said, as he placed the two pints and two whisky chasers on a table in the corner of the pub where the other man was waiting for him. Clegg picked up his whisky, and swallowed it in a single gulp. ‘Ever been down a salt mine yourself?’ he asked.

‘No,’ Blackstone admitted.

‘Then before you can make any sense of it, I’ll have to tell you what it’s like down there.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘Salt mining’s not like coal mining. Coal runs in seams, through other rocks. The seam can be narrow, or it can be wide. It can go on for miles, or it can come to a sudden stop not far from where it started. Salt comes in drifts that are twenty-six feet thick—sometimes even more—an’ seem to go on for ever.’

Blackstone nodded. ‘Understood.’

‘Another way it’s different is that we don’t need to put up pit props, like they do in coal mines. When we’re hackin’ our way through the drift, we don’t cut it all away. We leave pillars of salt behind us, to support the roof.’

‘Is it really so important that I should know that?’ Blackstone asked impatiently.

Walter Clegg nodded. ‘Yes, it is—if you’re to make sense of what I’m about to tell you.’

*

The
‘hall’
at
the
base
of
the
main
shaft
is
where
the
stables
that
house
the
pit
ponies
are
located
—
ponies
that
will
never
again
see
the
light
of
day
,
because
they
came
down
here
as
foals
,
and
now
are
too
big
to
be
taken
to
the
surface
ever
again
.

It
is
Tom
Yardley’s
habit
to
bring
a
little
present
for
the
ponies
—
usually
in
the
.
form
of
lumps
of
sugar
—
and
the
first
thing
he
does
when
he
gets
out
of
the
cage
is
pay
the
ponies
a
visit
.

As
he
strokes
the
animals
and
talks
softly
to
them
,
the
rest
of
his
crew
stand
around
smoking
cigarettes
.
Though
they
are
paid
by
the
load
for
their
work
,
they
do
not
begrudge
Tom
his
time
with
the
ponies
,
because
they
have
come
to
appreciate
how
lucky
they
are
to
have
him
as
their
blaster
.

Tom
knows
just
how
much
explosive
charge
to
use
—
and
just
where
to
place
it
so
that
the
rock
crystal
comes
off
the
wall
in
manageable
lumps
,
rather
than
in
huge
chunks
that
it
almost
cripples
them
to
load
into
the
wagons
.
It
is
not
a
talent
that
all
blasters
share
,
and
there
is
not
a
rock-getter
in
the
whole
area
who
would
not
gladly
change
places
with
one
of
Tom’s
crew
.

There
are
several
tunnels
leading
off
the
hall
,
each
one
going
to
a
different
gallery
.
Tom’s
crew
go
down
the
one
that
leads
to
the
gallery
they
have
been
working
for
some
time
.

The
drift
master
,
Mr
Culshaw
,
is
already
at
the
rock
face
,
standing
next
to
the
pile
of
crystal-salt
boulders
that
the
crew
left
behind
them
when
they
clocked
off
the
previous
week
.

‘You
should
have
already
shifted
this
,
’
he
says
,
and
the
look
on
his
face
shows
that
he
is
in
a
foul
mood
this
morning
.

Tom
shrugs
.
‘We
didn’t
have
time
.
’

‘
You
should
have
made
time
.
’

‘My
lads
put
in
ten
hours’
solid
graft
on
Saturday
.
By
the
time
they
were
finished,
they
felt
as
if
their
backs
were
broken
an’
their
throats
were
on
fire
.
I
wasn’t
going
to
ask
them
to
do
any
more
.
’

‘What
about
the
big
order
that
Mr
Bickersdale
’
s
got
to
meet?’

‘That’s
not
our
concern
.
If
he
can’t
meet
it
,
he
should
never
have
taken
it
on
in
the
first
place
.
’

‘
You
understand
nothing
about
doing
business
,
’
Culshaw
says
contemptuously
.

‘Maybe
not
,
’
Tom
Yardley
agrees
.
‘But
I
understand
how
hard
rock-gettin’
is
—
which
is
somethin’
you
seem
to
have
forgotten
yourself
since
your
promotion
to
drift
master.’

‘What
am
I
to
tell
Mr
Bickersdale
when
he
wants
to
know
why
we’re
falling
behind?’
Culshaw
asks
,
almost
wheedling
now
.

‘
Tell
him
that
if he
wants
to
increase
production
,
he
should
put
more
men
into
that
other
mine
of
his
,
’
Tom
suggests
.