Craddock (6 page)

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Authors: Paul Finch,Neil Jackson

BOOK: Craddock
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“
He’ll break his bloody neck!” Coogan breathed.
“
I very much doubt it,” Craddock said. “Shoot him down.”
The constable glanced at his chief in disbelief. “Sir?”
“
Do as I say, man,” the major retorted. “Shoot the bugger down, now.” He took aim with his own Smith and Wesson, but knowing the weapon wasn’t sufficiently accurate over such a range, refrained from squeezing the trigger.
Uneasily, Munro tried to intervene. “Sir, I’m not sure we can just ...”
“
Damn it, Munro, look at him!” Craddock snarled. “That’s our man.”
High above, the figure was still in its precarious position. Now, however, it was capering rather than balancing, prancing back and forth along the narrow ledge in wild and ludicrous jig. What was more, it was covered in ragged Hessian or sackcloth, tainted green by the looks of it, and pulled over its head in a pointed cowl.
“
That little heathen’s murdered four people,” Craddock shouted. “Shoot him down, Coogan.”
Despite their horror at what they were seeing, the junior officers were still reticent about opening fire on an unarmed person. Men had hanged for less.
“
Sir, I can’t,” Coogan pleaded. “Look, I’ll try and get him down. I’ll go up. I’ll talk to him ...”
Then a ‘Brown Bess’ crashed like thunder in the workhouse yard.
Involuntarily, all three ducked. When they looked up again, they saw Sergeant Rafferty. He’d appeared silently by the corner of the building. His musket was still to his shoulder, still pointed upward, still smoking at the end of its barrel. He wore a strained, almost hypnotised expression.
Attention switched back to the roof. The jig had ceased. The green-hooded figure hunched slowly over, arms clutched across its belly. Without a word, it fell, plummeting silently to earth. It hit the icy flagstones with a dull thump, the way a bundle of laundry might.
Craddock hurried forward, revolver cocked and aimed. Warily, he prodded the pile of rank cloth with his toe. It didn’t move. Slowly, finger tight on the trigger, he hunkered down, reached out, and with trembling hand began drawing back folds of material. Always, though, there was more beneath. Until, at long last, he reached the solid ground.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. The rest of the men came and stood with him. One after another, they kicked at the heap of green sacking, or thrust their guns through it, seeking at least ash or bones or some sign that a living creature had once dwelt there. None of them were successful.

 

It was a dark and lonely Christmas Night, as they all had been since the death of Abigail.
Her husband sat alone in the kitchen of his home, a single candle on the table. He smoked a cigar and poured out brandy. The house was still so cold that he hadn’t bothered to remove his greatcoat or muffler. The hot fluid went down in a single gulp. Craddock filled his glass again.
As he did, there was a clatter of metal from the narrow street outside. A bin, fallen over and rolling, the major mused. He glanced at the window. Frosty starlight shone through. In some high part of the house, a draught was moaning. The major thought nothing of it. He blew out smoke, drank more brandy – anything to stop him brooding on the events of the day. Outside, meanwhile, the bin continued to roll.
If it was a bin.
The police chief glanced at his brandy. And he wondered. Eventually, though, he threw it down and poured himself another. Why worry? There was no Irish blood in
his
veins. As far as he knew.

 

 

THE COILS UNSEEN

 

Major Craddock and his two officers were still half a mile inland when they saw the flares over the coast. They spurred their horses on, galloping hard over the remaining stretch of moorland, until the clover and marram grass gave out at a ridge of dunes. The three riders hared up over the top of this, then down onto the vast spread of tidal sand-flats that made up the southern portion of the Ribble estuary. There was no moon that night and a heavy cloud cover blotted out the stars, but another flare went up and bathed the entire district in its hazy, blood-red coronal.
Craddock reined back his horse to take in the view. The bleak plain of the beach rolled away westwards for a mile or so, before disappearing into the sea. This part of the British coast was a geological shelf, infamously flat and far-reaching, its waters running shallow for a considerable distance, encroaching on the shore in broad but gentle wavelets; even on a windy October night it remained serene. In sharp contrast, the beach itself was a crush of activity. The dark shapes of horsemen charged wildly back and forth, many carrying torches. There was a gabble of excited voices, and a shot was fired into the air. It echoed across the bay with sharp and piercing reports.
Inspector Munro eased his animal up alongside Craddock’s“Looks as if the lunatics are running the asylum again,” he said.
Craddock made no reply. The stub of a cigar jutted from under his thick white moustache, but his gray eyes roved dispassionately over the scene of disorder. If he found it displeasing, he didn’t show it; more likely he found it exactly as he’d expected.
He urged his mount forwards. The other two followed, and a short while later they were approached by one of the horsemen. By the white sash and braid on the dark blue tunic beneath his cloak, he was a lieutenant of hussars, but the face under his shako was young and smooth; the side-whiskers he’d affected were like soft baby-down. He saluted and introduced himself as Pontkin. Major Craddock explained who they were and what their business was, and, with some relief they fancied, Lieutenant Pontkin directed them southwards along the beach to where a headland of dunes protruded onto the flats. On top of this, there was a low building.
Craddock and his two men galloped towards it, and found themselves approaching a grim, weather-boarded structure, which on closer inspection displayed an inn-sign, though it was so faded by wind, rain and salt-spray that the name of the establishment was illegible. Several horses were tethered outside, and reddish firelight shone from the interior. Much guffawing and shouting was going on in there. The major dismounted and strode in, stripping off his leather gloves. The other two followed.
Inside, the tavern was crude in the extreme. Nets, crab-shells, pistols, cutlasses and other nautical accoutrements adorned the walls, but the seating was wooden benches, the flooring all rough timber and sawdust. The only light came from the roaring flames in the hearth, but it was sufficient to reveal a dozen hussars lounging about, drawing on their pipes or swilling from tankards, which the landlord – a corpulent individual with red jowls and a canvas apron – was serving them as fast as he was able.
At first, Major Craddock and his two men were barely noticed. Only when one particular hussar – a tall, broad-shouldered chap with a leonine head of shaggy golden curls – spotted them, was there a lull in the joviality. The fellow rose from his seat and approached. Craddock eyed him; the hussar might have been impressive had his richly-tasselled tunic not hung open at the collar and his gray pleated trews not been spattered up the sides with sandy mud.
“
Captain Ryland at your service,” he said.
Craddock shook the proffered hand. “Craddock. Chief Inspector of the Wigan Borough Police. This is Inspector Munro, and this Constable Palmer.”
Ryland surveyed the three newcomers. Only Palmer, a young and fairly new recruit to the service, was in uniform, a heavy cape over his black tunic, his helmet tightly strapped under the chin. Craddock and Munro were in their usual civilian garb, which, given the time of year, included greatcoats and mufflers.
Ryland seemed puzzled. “I was led to believe you were a military man?”
Craddock nodded. “Was. You can call me ‘Major’ if you wish. All my lads do.”
“
Is this all the men you’ve brought?”
“
I’m afraid so.” Craddock removed his topper and brushed his hair flat. “The Wigan borough is a large and busy force-area, especially on a Friday night. In any case, I have you fellows, don’t I?”
“
Yes, I suppose you do.” Ryland turned and indicated the landlord. “Care for a drink while we’re all here? Something to warm you up, perhaps?”
Constable Palmer and Inspector Munro glanced longingly at the counter. Major Craddock, however, spoke for the three of them: “No thank you, captain. We’re on duty. Your cable said you had our fugitive pinned down?”
“
That’s right, yes.” Ryland finished the dregs of his beer, then went to the mullioned window looking towards the sea. “A squadron of my chaps chased him out onto the beach. But he made straight for the
Catherine-Maria.
”
“
Catherine-Maria?”
The name sounded familiar to Craddock.
“
The old prison-ship. You know it, I’m sure.”
Craddock remembered. It surprised him that he’d even forgotten. He joined the captain by the window. “Yes, I know it,” he said.
Ryland pointed due north-west, and the shapeless hulk of the derelict emerged from the dark. She was wedged out there on a sandbar. The scant remains of her masts drew a skeletal pattern on the spangled lights of Lytham township far across the bay. Even at this distance, she dwarfed the minuscule shapes of the horsemen who were ranged in large numbers around her.
Craddock recollected what he knew about the
Catherine-Maria.
A captured French man‘o’war, she’d been pressed into use as a prison-ship some time around 1808. She’d remained in that capacity until 1857, when she’d been taken out of service, as all the prison-ships had. But that was only after half a century of horror stories: reform groups in Liverpool and Manchester had complained bitterly and repeatedly about the appalling conditions on board her, and the deliberate maltreatment of those held there. Major Craddock, though sympathetic by nature, had seen the reality of violent crime up close, and was less inclined to be compassionate to the villainous class, but even he would admit that discomforting numbers of convicts had reportedly perished during their term on the
Catherine-Maria
. The same could be said for any of Britain’s other forty or so ‘hulks’, as they’d been known, though his particular vessel had been the only one located on England’s north-west coast, and as such was the one most familiar.
“
And that’s where he is now?” Craddock said.
“
As far as I’m aware,” Ryland replied. “He went aboard and hasn’t shown his face since.”
“
He couldn’t have slipped away in the dark?”
Ryland shook his head. “My chaps have it surrounded. Even at high tide, the water only gets to a foot or so out there, so we’ve been able to keep a full watch on it all day and all evening. No sign of him at all, thus far.”
Inspector Munro now stepped forwards. He was younger than Craddock, but a stout, stocky chap with a reddish-gray moustache and the gritty, sombre features of the time-served police officer. “You keep saying ‘him’, captain? But there were
two
of them. Burnwood sprang a known felon from custody … that’s why we’re pursuing him. Our last information was that they were travelling together.”
Ryland seemed concerned about this. “Yes, well it’s rather confusing, I’m afraid. There were two of them, that’s certain. But my men who gave chase felt sure that one of the two men was the other one’s captive.”
Craddock and Munro looked nonplussed.
“
This felon who got sprung?” Ryland asked. “What’s his name again?”
“
Nethercot. Joseph Nethercot.”
“
He’s an older man, I assume?”
“
He’s in his early sixties,” Munro said. “But he was being held on charges of assaulting young girls. He’s a vicious old goat. The magistrates were due to convene tomorrow morning, just to hear this case.”
Ryland considered this as he filched a cheroot from inside his tunic, stuck it between his lips and put a match to it. “Vicious old goat he may be …” he puffed smoke, “but according to my chaps, he was being dragged along by the other fellow, kicked, punched, generally treated like a prisoner.”
The three policemen could only stare at each other, perplexed.
“
What is there to know about this George Burnwood?” Ryland asked.
“
He shot two of my constables, killing one and seriously wounding the other,” Craddock said.
“
And this was while he was attempting to free this character, Nethercot?”
“
That’s correct.” The major paled with anger just recalling the incident. “He simply walked into the police office and opened fire. My desk-clerk, a young man with a wife and child, was killed instantly. Burnwood then forced my custody-officer to open the cell door, after which he fired a single shot into his back. Fortunately, this victim survived, but it wasn’t through any effort on Burnwood’s part.”
“
You’re certain it’s who you think it is?” Ryland asked. “Burnwood, I mean?”
Craddock nodded. “Constable Butterfield, the wounded man, identified him straight away. He’s a known criminal. Robbery and burglary come second-nature to him, though he’s never stooped to anything quite this senseless before.”

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