by Paul Finch
There was a momentary silence, then a clumping of feet. The light slowly receded. Munro caught a vague impression of the hussar ascending a three-tread stairway, then vanishing behind a flap of loose material.
The detective’s senses were slowly trickling back into place, but only after several minutes was he able to prop himself up on one elbow and look around. Kenton’s light was still visible through the hanging material, which was apparently gauze or netting. Kenton could also be seen, standing guard out there. Munro felt at his armpit-holster; it was empty. He glanced from side to side, his eyes attuning to the dark.
The cabin he was in was small and low-roofed even by the standards of the others he’d seen. There was a second doorway in it. This stood open, but Munro couldn’t imagine it led anywhere, or else he’d never have been left here in the first place. All the same, he took another minute to regain his strength, then rolled over onto his stomach, gritted his teeth – at least two of his ribs felt broken – and began to slither forwards, finally working his way into the next room. The light didn’t penetrate that far, which meant that at first he couldn’t see much. Gradually however, its dimensions took shape; it was much the same size as the previous one, but there was something different in here, an odour. It was rank, eggy, sulphurous.
Slowly, a chain of thoughts connected.
Sulphur, the gauze curtain over the doorway …
The truth dawned.
Munro rose to his knees, so quickly that pain lanced through him and he had to double over. Despite this, it was a struggle to suppress his excitement. These twin-rooms must once have formed the ship’s magazine. The gauze-curtain would have been kept sodden to reduce the danger of fire; the sulphurous smell was a left-over from the powder kegs that had been stored here.
He wasn’t sure how much of a chance this gave him, but he rose to his feet and began to search around properly, first in the second room, then back in the other one. Both were strewn with pieces of string and sacking; items once probably used to pack and bind cartridges. There were also, as he’d hoped, small traces of spilled powder. He began to scrape as much of this together as he could, though even after several minutes there was only a negligible amount. In addition, it was damp. When Munro had served under Major Craddock in the army, it had been in the 14th Light Dragoons as a cavalry subaltern. On occasion they’d handled explosives, but not to the extent that he’d learned the chemistry of such materials. He didn’t know how much of it he’d need, nor whether its dampness would hinder him. But he knew he had to try.
He tapped at the pocket of his greatcoat, and was relieved to find that he still had his box of matches. He now worked more quickly, depositing all the powder he could in a small mound at the foot of the entrance stairway. So doing, he stepped too eagerly on a loose board, which gave a squeal of protest. Swiftly, he slumped down against the nearest wall. There was a rustle of cloth, and Kenton stuck his head around the gauze. He registered that Munro was conscious, and frowned.
“You can have another kicking, if you want,” he said.
Munro shook his head, a seemingly broken man.
Kenton glared at him, wondering perhaps if there was more here than met the eye. He indicated the guarded hilt of his sabre and the grip of Munro’s revolver, which he’d tucked into the belt beside it. “On top of this lot, of course,” he said, producing the carbine, “I’ve got this here man-stopper. So don’t be thinking about anything heroic.”
Again, the prisoner shook his head. Kenton withdrew behind the curtain. There was a thud as he placed his lantern down.
Munro let several minutes pass before he went back into action. By his reckoning, a relatively small charge at the foot of the stair would devastate the entire doorway, and anyone standing behind the net-gauze would take the brunt. The thought that it might actually kill that person wasn’t pleasant, especially as Kenton had spared Munro’s life. But there was no possibility of sitting here and letting things take their natural course.
The powder was now heaped several inches deep. Munro still wasn’t sure how volatile such a quantity would prove to be, if it was volatile at all, but the only way to find out was to light it, and he began to assemble a fuse: he took four matches, bound them end to end with pieces of string, then slid forwards on his knees and placed it with one end at the top of the mound, resting at an angle. The lower end he lit, before backing away across the room. When he reached the door to the adjoining chamber, he halted. Agonisingly slow moments passed as the tiny flame spread. It was creeping uphill so it should continue to burn, but would it? The fuse was crooked; the air in here saturated.
Munro watched tensely, but, despite all his misgivings, the flame made gradual progress. At any time over the next minute it might reach the powder. He retreated into the next room, where he sought out the furthest corner and crouched down.
And then something odd. Something totally unexpected.
Beyond the curtain Kenton began to talk, as though to challenge someone. But it wasn’t his normal threatening tone. It was in a quavering, high-pitched voice.
“You … hey, I said you!” he bleated. “What are you doing there? Who … hey, keep back … oh, oh Jesus!”
So shrill was this final shout that Munro moved back to the connecting doorway to stare at the curtain. It had been torn aside and Kenton stood there, a black silhouette on the light of his lantern. His back was turned, his carbine clearly aimed at someone. “Get away!” he squealed. “Get away, I said!”
Then the burly hussar – who didn’t believe anything unless he saw it for himself – spun around and faced Munro, and in the small, wavering light, his face was a picture of horror, the skin taut around his bulging eyes and obscenely gaping mouth …
And then the powder blew.
Directly below him.
The flash came first, then the roar as the charge detonated. A wall of force hit Munro like a battering ram. He was thrown violently backwards into the second chamber, only one image etched on his mind: Corporal Kenton catapulted up against the ceiling, arms and legs flailing, then rebounding downwards, a limp, twisted thing made from tatters and smoke.
When Craddock heard the dull crump of the blast, he was down on the ‘Carpenter’s Walk’, a special gangway that ran along the inner skin of the hull at roughly the level of the waterline. Its original purpose had been so that crewmen might attend quickly to breaches caused by enemy cannon fire, though Craddock was using it to access the hold below. The sound of the explosion stopped him in his tracks. It was faint and muffled, but a violent shudder accompanied it and passed through the entire frame of the ship.
Craddock looked backwards into the gloom, wondering what Munro and Kenton might have got themselves into. Not that there was time to deliberate on this. He pressed on, the lantern held before him. His mission to save Palmer – if such a thing was still possible – had to take precedence. A moment later, he’d lifted a trapdoor and found a wooden ladder dropping into the Catherine-Maria’s lowest, murkiest depths. He went down without hesitation. There was no alternative. Shouting threats into that black chasm would avail him nothing; making angry demands would be greeted by further scornful sniggers, if by anything at all.
It was a ten-foot descent into the hold, and as soon as the major alighted at the bottom, he turned quickly, his gun ready, the lamp held above his head. Initially, there was little to see. The holds on most great ships, especially men‘o’war, were so spacious that they were more like warehouses. This one was no exception, though again bulkhead walls divided it into sections. Craddock walked slowly forwards, his brow moist with sweat. An open doorway loomed about ten yards ahead, and there was a brief sound of movement on the other side.
“Alright Burnwood, I’ve arrived,” he shouted.
There seemed little point in pretending otherwise. Burnwood knew already; he’d been the architect of this; he’d drawn the police chief down as part of some plan. And in one sense that boded well. If the felon had wanted to simply kill Cr
addock, he could have done so half a dozen times already. Not that it wasn’t still a distinct possibility.
“Burnwood … I said I’m here!”
There was still no answer. Craddock took another step forwards and then felt something soft beneath his feet. He looked down, and saw that he was standing on grit, or was it mulch? He was confused. There was sand and shingle mixed with it, but also wood-chippings. He recalled that he’d seen Palmer lying on what had looked like raked earth. And then it struck him.
The ballast at the bottom of the ship; he was walking on top of the ballast.
That proved how deep into the vessel he’d penetrated.
And then a bass male voice sounded from the darkness beyond the door.
“In here, major. I’m waiting.”
Craddock hesitated, wondering if the instant he stepped into view he’d be greeted by a hail of bullets. But again, what alternative was there? From the moment he’d opted to enter this wreck, a face-to-face confrontation had been inevitable. Almost fatalistically, he placed his lantern down – as before, there was no sense making himself too easy a target – then cocked his Smith and Wesson, and advanced to the open doorway.
Beyond it, he was confronted by another, near-identical section of hold, though in this case there was a difference. In the middle, two objects were hanging.
Two men. Both upside down.
Rope and woodwork creaked – just as it did on the gallows.
Craddock felt a bolt of fear, then a terrible rage.
He blundered forwards, gun to the fore.
“Now, major, don’t be hasty,” came the disembodied voice.
Craddock halted. “Burnwood, you are the lowest … ”
“My, you look as though you really want to kill me.”
“Dead or alive, thief, it’s your decision!”
“And will I have that choice when I’m standing on the trapdoor at Lancaster Jail?”
“That isn’t my problem.”
There was a brief silence, then: “This is, I fancy.”
Blue light spurted as a match was struck, and then a candle-flame sprang to life. The broad, shaven-headed form of George Burnwood materialised between the hanging shapes, which were now revealed to be Constable Palmer and Joseph Nethercot. They had indeed been suspended upside-down. Both were unconscious; Nethercot had been severely beaten; his thin, pinched features were black with bruises, streaked with dried blood. But Palmer was in a better state but in greater danger. While balanced the guttering candle in one hand, in the other he gripped the shotgun, and pressed its sawn-off barrels into the side of the constable’s back. The faintest pressure on that trigger, and he would blow young Palmer in two.
Craddock swallowed down panic, but tried to remind himself that, whatever else happened, surrender was not an option. He took careful aim, only for Burnwood to step backwards so that he was partly shielded by Palmer.
“Drop the gun, or I fire,” the major said.
“Then fire.” The felon seemed unconcerned. “I assure you, no matter where you hit me, assuming you do hit me, I’ll have enough left to finish off this protege of yours.”
Something inside advised the major that he should shoot … that he must, that he had no other choice. But Major Craddock, both as an army officer and a police chief, had always stepped prudently. Now was not the time to change the habit of a lifetime. “I’m not withdrawing from here, if that’s what you expect.”
“That’s not what I expect at all,” Burnwood replied. “But drop your weapon all the same.”
“There’s no possibility of that.”
“Lower it then … an inch or so. Give me a little room to manoeuvre.”
“A little room in which to kill my man, you mean? And probably me as well!”
“You’ll have to trust me, major.”
“When you’ve already shot two of my officers?”
“I had to shoot them …”
“They were unarmed, you mindless, murdering animal!”
Burnwood remained composed. “I had to do something so serious that you would follow me all the way out here. You’ll notice I didn’t kill them both. I could have done. I could have shot your jailer in the head instead of the back.”
“Am I supposed to thank you for that?”
“No, you’re supposed to listen.” Burnwood shifted position but kept the shotgun pressed into Palmer’s guts. “That’s why I brought you here, to listen. Because that’s what you do, major.”
Craddock was puzzled. The confrontation was not going the way he’d expected. Burnwood held the upper hand, yet he still restrained himself.
“What do you mean ‘I listen’?”
A brief silence followed, and when Burnwood finally answered, he sounded almost reverential. “I know you, Craddock. I know that you’re a decent man. That you’re one of this country’s more enlightened police officers.” He gestured around at the hold, at its cobwebbed shadows, its low-arched timbers dripping with water. “I also know that you’re one of the few men who’d have the courage to come in here after me. At the end of the day, it had to be you … there was no-one else.”
“So you’ve lured me, Congratulations. I’m still arresting you for murder.”
“Of course. But only in a few minutes’ time, when I’ve shown you something.” Burnwood nudged at Nethercot, setting the aged child-molester swinging. “No doubt you’re wondering why I broke this hateful old creature from your police barracks?”
Craddock said nothing, though the question had occurred to him.
“Don’t be too surprised at what you see,” Burnwood said. “This reprobate is no friend of mine. I’ve treated him the way society feels he deserves to be treated.”
“Is he dead?”
“Not yet. Otherwise his blood wouldn’t flow, and I need his blood to flow.”
Craddock tried not to show how puzzled that comment left him.
Burnwood crouched, though he kept the shotgun jammed into Palmer’s side. “This is an experiment,” he said, as he screwed the stub of candle into the ballast. “Not a new experiment, I should add. It’s one I’ve already performed, but now I’m performing it for you.” He felt around inside a pocket of his coat.
“You realise you’re talking like a lunatic?” Craddock told him.
Burnwood nodded. “That’s quite an appropriate statement, if you don’t mind my saying. Two or three years ago, I heard that a new institution had opened at Broadmoor in Berkshire. An asylum exclusively for the confinement of the criminally insane. They tell me it holds some six-hundred inmates?”
“So?”
Burnwood shrugged. “So it isn’t nearly big enough. At least, it won’t be when we’re finished here.”
“Get to the point.”
“You’re aware the Catherine-Maria was once a Frenchie warship?”
“Of course.”
“You’re also aware the Frenchies have some disgusting habits, which we, as good, civilised Englishmen, don’t hold with at all?”
“The point, Burnwood!”
“The point is that one of their very dirtiest habits was burying their dead on board ship … in the ballast, no less.” He indicated the moldering debris beneath their feet.
Craddock couldn’t deny that a faint, foetid smell was rising from it.
“That’s right, major,” Burnwood said. “We’re standing on a graveyard. Unpleasant thought, isn’t it?”
“I’m sure I can live with it.”
“I’m sure you can. But let me elaborate further. This graveyard, which wasn’t even known about when the Catherine-Maria was first captured off Gibraltar, was already so cluttered, so bulging at the seams with the rotten flesh of slaughtered Frenchies, that in a very short time of it entering our penal service, it became unutterably foul. The stench and disease down here made the rest of what was soon being called the most notorious prison-hulk in Britain seem sweet by comparison. And there was never any rush to clean it out. Not until a few years from the end,
when calls for reform were ringing all round the Home Office. By this time I was confined on board the Catherine-Maria. I was sent here in 1853, and held until she was decommissioned in 1857.” His eyes narrowed. “You may recall, major, you yourself sent me down for ten years. I’d broken some night-watchman’s skull while knocking over the Norby & Son blacking factory off Pottery Lane.”
Craddock recalled it well. “In my opinion, Home Secretary Peel made a mistake when he rescinded the death penalty for violent robbery. That watchman was never the same again after your attack on him.”
“Your Chartist father wouldn’t have approved of that opinion.”
“My Chartist father never had to deal with men like you.”
Burnwood shrugged. “Well, it’s good that you’ve raised the subject of the death penalty, because this is partly what we’re here to discuss. But first the story I was telling you … about this particular hulk. While I was a convict here, one of my duties was to dig up this filthy charnel pit, sack the Frenchie carcasses – what was left of them – weigh them down and throw them overboard. It was while I was doing this that I made a remarkable discovery.” He paused, his words hanging. “Shall I go on?”
Despite his suspicious nature, Craddock was curious to know more.
Burnwood continued: “During Boney’s many wars, his battle-fleets travelled the world – Africa, the Indies, South America. Who can say what mysterious oceans they crossed, what strange, forgotten isles they visited, what weird life-forms they encountered.”
“Weird life-forms?” Craddock wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.
“Major, don’t pretend your mind is closed to such things. I’ve made a study of your career. I had to find the right man. The main reason why you fitted that bill so perfectly are those … shall we say, ‘less than conventional’ cases that you’ve investigated.”
