Authors: Paul Finch,Neil Jackson
Craddock (13 page)
“
I take it Burnwood and the other chap, Nethercot, are dead?” Ryland asked.
I take it Burnwood and the other chap, Nethercot, are dead?” Ryland asked.
The major nodded.
“
And Corporal Kenton?”
And Corporal Kenton?”
“
He didn’t make it either, I’m afraid.”
He didn’t make it either, I’m afraid.”
Captain Ryland took the tragic news manfully, or unconcernedly depending on one’s view of him. “So, all in all, a remarkable night’s work.” He glanced back at the burning wreck. “No doubt that vessel is still in someone’s ownership. I dare say that, somewhere down the line, there’ll be a bill to pay.”
Craddock followed his gaze. “And I dare say that, for the disposal of George Burnwood, the Home Office will consider it a bill worth paying. Especially when there was no other choice … a position which I’m sure your witness testimony will endorse.” He gazed at the captain. “Put it this way, if it doesn’t,
my
witness testimony will declare that the fire wouldn’t have started at all without the unashamed cowardice of Her Majesty’s Territorial forces.”
my
witness testimony will declare that the fire wouldn’t have started at all without the unashamed cowardice of Her Majesty’s Territorial forces.”
Ryland regarded Craddock with wry amusement. “You needn’t make threats, old man. I’m sure you had your reasons …”
Craddock jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t say anything else, Ryland. Just write your affidavit. And be sure to let me check it before you sign and seal it.” And without waiting for an answer, he turned and strode away.
He was headed towards the tavern when Munro caught up with him.
“
Sir, I’ve known you deliberately leave antecedents reports out of prosecution-files so that ‘put-upon wretches’ as you called them, wouldn’t get too severe a hammering when sentenced.”
Sir, I’ve known you deliberately leave antecedents reports out of prosecution-files so that ‘put-upon wretches’ as you called them, wouldn’t get too severe a hammering when sentenced.”
Craddock shrugged. “Exceptional cases, where individuals were the victims of unfortunate circumstance.”
“
So you admit it … you
can
be flexible?”
So you admit it … you
can
be flexible?”
“
Inflexible policing is ineffective policing. I’ve always been a firm advocate of that, as you know. But even I have a limit.”
Inflexible policing is ineffective policing. I’ve always been a firm advocate of that, as you know. But even I have a limit.”
“
Well, if you don’t mind my saying, sir, you’ve chosen a very peculiar place to draw it. I mean, this … this just can’t be right.”
Well, if you don’t mind my saying, sir, you’ve chosen a very peculiar place to draw it. I mean, this … this just can’t be right.”
“
What can’t exactly?”
What can’t exactly?”
“
What we’re doing. Or rather,
not
doing. About Burnwood. About everything that happened back there.”
What we’re doing. Or rather,
not
doing. About Burnwood. About everything that happened back there.”
“
You’re an idealist, Inspector Munro. I’ve warned you about that.”
You’re an idealist, Inspector Munro. I’ve warned you about that.”
“
No. It’s just that I took an oath … ‘to serve and protect’. And so did you, in case you’d forgotten.”
No. It’s just that I took an oath … ‘to serve and protect’. And so did you, in case you’d forgotten.”
The major strode on. “That’s exactly what we’re doing now.”
“
To serve and protect everyone, sir.
Everyone
.”
To serve and protect everyone, sir.
Everyone
.”
“
Including the really
serious
wrongdoers, I imagine you mean?”
Including the really
serious
wrongdoers, I imagine you mean?”
“
If necessary, yes.”
If necessary, yes.”
Craddock pondered this. “And as such, what would you have me do in this case?”
“
We must tell someone, take the evidence to the authorities.”
We must tell someone, take the evidence to the authorities.”
The major stopped and looked back towards the ship. “There is no evidence now. If there ever was.”
“
But you saw it.”
But you saw it.”
Craddock walked on. “I don’t know what I saw.”
“
Oh come now …”
Oh come now …”
The major stopped again, this time angrily. “And you don’t know either! An unidentified sea-animal in a night-black hold? A madman raving with a gun? … what does that leave us with, Jack?”
“
With all respect, sir, you know perfectly well.”
With all respect, sir, you know perfectly well.”
“
All I know is that granting a wholesale pardon to criminals, and removing them to some kind of hospital environment rather than prison, would be the greatest folly mankind has ever inflicted on himself.”
All I know is that granting a wholesale pardon to criminals, and removing them to some kind of hospital environment rather than prison, would be the greatest folly mankind has ever inflicted on himself.”
“
Better the greatest folly than the greatest injustice …”
Better the greatest folly than the greatest injustice …”
“
Who says it’s an injustice? George Burnwood – a demented killer, just to remind you – had a theory. And that’s all it was, a theory. And now consider that theory: that a man’s evil nature is the result of a chemical imbalance inside him? An imbalance we discovered because some disgusting abhorrence that no-one will ever believe existed, found it appetizing?”
Who says it’s an injustice? George Burnwood – a demented killer, just to remind you – had a theory. And that’s all it was, a theory. And now consider that theory: that a man’s evil nature is the result of a chemical imbalance inside him? An imbalance we discovered because some disgusting abhorrence that no-one will ever believe existed, found it appetizing?”
“
It all added up, major. You know it added up. That’s why you shot him – you were eliminating a witness.”
It all added up, major. You know it added up. That’s why you shot him – you were eliminating a witness.”
“
For God’s sake man, think what you’re saying! Think what kind of message you’d be sending out! You’d be legitimising criminals. Making it alright that they do the atrocious things they do. Good Lord, you’d be giving them permission to get on with it!”
For God’s sake man, think what you’re saying! Think what kind of message you’d be sending out! You’d be legitimising criminals. Making it alright that they do the atrocious things they do. Good Lord, you’d be giving them permission to get on with it!”
“
But if it isn’t their fault …”
But if it isn’t their fault …”
“
It doesn’t matter whose fault it is!” Craddock was suddenly wide-eyed. “At the end of the day, it’s never mattered about that! Crime happens. Constantly, everywhere – whatever the reasons for it. And it threatens the common good. And it hurts and damages the innocent. And it costs the tax-payer money. And it causes fear and fury and frustration. And, as such, it must be dealt with!”
It doesn’t matter whose fault it is!” Craddock was suddenly wide-eyed. “At the end of the day, it’s never mattered about that! Crime happens. Constantly, everywhere – whatever the reasons for it. And it threatens the common good. And it hurts and damages the innocent. And it costs the tax-payer money. And it causes fear and fury and frustration. And, as such, it must be dealt with!”
He paused, sweat gleaming on his sooty, bloodied face. “And, unpalatable as that may be, Jack, as police officers, that’s all you and I really need concern ourselves with.”
He set off walking again.
Munro followed, doggedly. “So that’s it? We know the truth, but we’re going to bury it, because it isn’t within our remit to ask questions?”
“
It’s hardly a matter of the truth. More a matter of opinion.”
It’s hardly a matter of the truth. More a matter of opinion.”
“
And yours is the correct one? Are you so sure of that?”
And yours is the correct one? Are you so sure of that?”
The major said nothing else. They’d now reached the tavern. Hussars were clustered outside it, wielding tankards, watching as the distant shape of the
Catherine-Maria
blazed into the night. Irritably, Craddock thrust his way through them and vanished inside.
Catherine-Maria
blazed into the night. Irritably, Craddock thrust his way through them and vanished inside.
It was several minutes before he reappeared, but he only did so then because a wild shouting had arisen on the beach. Cries had gone up that people were still alive on the ship. Craddock hurried down the path, where he rejoined Munro, who, like the rest of them, was dumbfounded by what he was seeing.
Human figures were walking on the burning decks of the Catherine-Maria.
They were stick-like from this distance, but they seemed to be in no distress. Indeed, they didn’t just stroll about the decks, they strolled below as well – in places where the hull had fallen away, revealing white-hot inner chambers that were virtual crematoria. There was horror and disbelief among the watching crowd. Then, slowly, it struck them what they were actually seeing, and the shock subsided to a dull sense of wonderment.
“
I won’t be able to forget what I saw and heard here tonight, major,” Munro said.
I won’t be able to forget what I saw and heard here tonight, major,” Munro said.
“
You will,” Craddock replied. “In time.”
You will,” Craddock replied. “In time.”
Munro’s eyes were locked on the spectral forms. “I doubt
they
will allow me to. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it?
They
allowed us in, gave us their permission. That’s why our explorations went unhampered, it’s why Burnwood was allowed to make his den there...because the living had to discover what the dead already knew.”
they
will allow me to. That’s the truth of it, isn’t it?
They
allowed us in, gave us their permission. That’s why our explorations went unhampered, it’s why Burnwood was allowed to make his den there...because the living had to discover what the dead already knew.”
Slowly, section by section, the old hulk began to collapse, its entire structure gradually disintegrating into a heaped mass of blazing, broken timber. As one, the ghostly forms were swallowed.
Craddock’s expression gave nothing away when he eventually he replied: “The dead can please themselves, Munro. They don’t have to live with the consequences.”
THE WEEPING IN THE WITCH HOURS
Kemp made his way down the path, trying his best to stay out of the dead bull-rushes on either side, and the dark, gurgling menace they concealed. Mugden’s burly outline was visible in the fog just ahead. For some reason, he was standing by the water’s edge.
“’
Arry!” Kemp shouted. “’Arry, what the bollocks you playing at? You’re needed …”
Arry!” Kemp shouted. “’Arry, what the bollocks you playing at? You’re needed …”
But it wasn’t Mugden.
Kemp just had time to stop before the bald-headed figure in the gray sackcloth shroud turned and looked at him. That face would remain printed on Kemp’s psyche for the rest of his life, short though that allotted time-span would actually be. As the thing came towards him, its white, elongated claws extended, he was able to give one hysterical shriek, then he blundered backwards from the path and found himself in the quagmire, where he sank very swiftly. The oozing morass sucked him down with almost human greed. There was nothing to hang onto, and no means by which he could re-surface.
It was over for Kemp.
Yet, even as the black bog closed over his head, his eyes remained fixed on the footpath. And on the indescribable thing that stood there, watching him.
Major Craddock didn’t much like the look of the man sitting opposite. They’d shared the stagecoach all the way from Norwich, and there hadn’t been a single word between them. Craddock wasn’t the most sociable chap, but, even given the foul February weather, his fellow passenger’s aspect was positively icy. He sat ramrod straight in his shabby greatcoat, and stared directly ahead with small green eyes that were more like chips of broken glass. His pallor was ashen, his face broad and heavily boned like an ape’s. An unsightly scar, linked the left corner of his mouth to his left ear. He wore no facial whiskers, but hanks of greasy red hair hung from under his bowler. To Craddock’s practiced police eye, everything about the fellow spoke ‘brute’, ‘villain’, ‘cad’. Of course,
looking
the part was not in itself a criminal offence, so Craddock had no option but to ignore the chap and concentrate on his own purpose, which was curious to say the least.
looking
the part was not in itself a criminal offence, so Craddock had no option but to ignore the chap and concentrate on his own purpose, which was curious to say the least.
He drew the drapes aside and glanced out. Dusk was falling, but the same bleak vista greeted him: the broad, marshy plains of the East Anglian fen-country. Here and there, a reed-fringed river meandered past, or a lake sparkled orange in the setting winter sun. Scenic yes, but, when you’d seen nothing else for several hours, tiresome as well.
Craddock recalled the odd conversation he’d had with Chief Justice Reginald Bowery, at the close of the Lord Lieutenant of Lancashire’s annual Christmas ball:
“
You don’t fancy a working holiday, old chap?” the great man asked over brandy and cigars.
You don’t fancy a working holiday, old chap?” the great man asked over brandy and cigars.
“
I don’t follow, my lord,” Cradock replied. During the course of the evening he’d had no hint that this was coming.
I don’t follow, my lord,” Cradock replied. During the course of the evening he’d had no hint that this was coming.
“
I don’t think you’ve taken any leave for quite a few years, is that right?”
I don’t think you’ve taken any leave for quite a few years, is that right?”
Craddock shrugged. “I haven’t really got the time.”
“
Nonsense. The borough force will function without you for two or three weeks.”
Nonsense. The borough force will function without you for two or three weeks.”
“
I haven’t anywhere to go.”
I haven’t anywhere to go.”
At which point, the chief justice turned conspiratorial. “D’ you know of King’s Fen?”
Craddock nodded. Which chap who read the newspapers, didn’t? “Isn’t that where … ?”
“
Yes … St. Brae’s Cathedral, Cambridgeshire. Where the rector and his deacon were recently found murdered on the altar.” The chief justice considered his next words carefully. “I’d take it as a personal favour, Major, if you would look into the case.”
Yes … St. Brae’s Cathedral, Cambridgeshire. Where the rector and his deacon were recently found murdered on the altar.” The chief justice considered his next words carefully. “I’d take it as a personal favour, Major, if you would look into the case.”
Craddock was baffled. His position as Chief Officer of Police was located in the coal-mining borough of Wigan, south Lancashire, nearly two-hundred miles from King’s Fen.
The chief justice waved such protestations aside.
“
The nearest force down there is in Wisbech,” he said, “which is ten miles away, and that’s ten miles over the fen-land remember, so it might as well be on the moon. In any case, the Bishop of Peterborough, an old college chum of mine, is deeply concerned about this incident. Apparently, there are sensitive issues involved. He’d much rather the investigation was discrete … no hairy-arsed constables clodhopping all over the place, asking ridiculous questions, if you get my drift.”
The nearest force down there is in Wisbech,” he said, “which is ten miles away, and that’s ten miles over the fen-land remember, so it might as well be on the moon. In any case, the Bishop of Peterborough, an old college chum of mine, is deeply concerned about this incident. Apparently, there are sensitive issues involved. He’d much rather the investigation was discrete … no hairy-arsed constables clodhopping all over the place, asking ridiculous questions, if you get my drift.”
None of this comforted Craddock. “Why me, my lord?”
“
Well, you’re the best detective I know. Plus, you have experience of … shall we say, occult-related crimes.”
Well, you’re the best detective I know. Plus, you have experience of … shall we say, occult-related crimes.”
Craddock felt a prickle of unease as he recollected those words.
“
And that’s what we’re dealing with at St. Brae’s?” he asked.
And that’s what we’re dealing with at St. Brae’s?” he asked.
The chief justice turned evasive. “There’s a whiff of that. Best to keep it to yourself, though. Even when you get down there. No sense alarming the great unwashed, what?”
Craddock gazed from the coach window. A tall structure had appeared on the darkling horizon, towering above the flat landscape. Its upper steeples seemed to scrape the star-spangled sky. Without a doubt it was St. Brae’s. Its ecclesiastic outlines were crystal-clear, even as mist flowed around it from the estuaries to the north-east. It was a remote looking building – forlorn, isolated; an edifice of faith in a pagan wilderness. Craddock considered what he so far knew about it. First constructed in the reign of Edward the Elder, to commemorate his victories over the Danes, it had stood for decades as a bastion of Saxon religious power. And then one day it had been abandoned, left empty and derelict. And no-one really knew why. No written reason had ever been found. Rumours held that St. Brae – unknown in the modern world – was one of those many dubious, probably fictional early English saints done away with by the later Norman Church. Or perhaps there were geological reasons – were rising tides a problem, was the sodden ground unstable?Or was it just the case that in a region where there were more animals than humans, there was no requirement for so grand a seat of worship? One thing was certain, it had taken this long – it was now 1866, and 800 years had elapsed since the abandonment – for sanctity to finally return to this forgotten outpost.
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