Craddock

by Paul Finch

  “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?”

  Craddock shrugged. “I haven’t really got the time.”

  “Nonsense. The borough force will function without you for two or three weeks.”

  “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.”

  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.”

  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.”

  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.

  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.

  Or so the Church of England would like to think. The evidence thus far was that it hadn’t quite returned.

  Craddock couldn’t see much of King’s Fen in the early evening darkness, but he had the impression of crooked streets and narrow, gabled buildings made from black wood and whitewashed daub. The Wake-on-the-Water tavern was one of them. By its twisted timbers and outwards-leaning façade, it had turned arthritic in its old age. Craddock fancied it was fifteenth or sixteenth century in origin, and probably hadn’t been refurbished since. However, he was pleasantly surprised by the interior. Velvet curtains clad the mullioned casements, and a fire crackled in the hearth, its flames reflecting from the horse-basses on the panelled walls and the pewter tankards hanging over the bar counter. It was simply furnished with wooden benches and tables, but it smelled clean and dry, and the atmosphere was friendly; a mumble of low conversation came from various groups of seated locals.

  “Evening sir,” someone shouted.

  It was the man behind the bar, a well-built chap with a raw, weather-beaten face and an unruly mop of straw-blonde hair. By his leather apron and rolled-back shirtsleeves, he was the landlord.

  “Craddock,” the major said. “I wrote to you, to arrange lodgings for a couple of weeks.”

  The landlord nodded. “That’s right, sir. The police gent, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so. Not so many come to King’s Fen ’less it’s on official business. Martha!”

  A young woman with a sturdy physique entered from a door behind the bar.

  “Take this gentleman’s baggage up to the second bedroom. Trim the lamps while you’re there, and make up the fire. Oh … and make sure there’s some clean water in the basin.”

  The woman nodded, took charge of Craddock’s portmanteau, and lugged it off towards a narrow stairway.

  “In the meantime, sir,” the landlord asked, “something to warm you up?”

  Craddock considered. “Whiskey would be good, thank you.”

  The landlord obliged, handing over a tumbler of malt. The major sampled it, and a smouldering heat flooded his insides.

  “Will you be requiring dinner tonight, sir?”

  “If possible.”

  “Always possible at the Wake-on-the-Water. Cold chicken do you? We’ve got bread and cheese as well, ham, onions …”

  “It sounds excellent.”

  “I’ll have Martha prepare something when she comes down.”

  Craddock turned and surveyed the others in the tavern. For the most part they were agricultural workers; farm-hands, fowlers, peat-cutters. He saw heavy boots, coarse trousers tucked into muddy gaiters, necker-chiefs, doublets, clay-pipes clamped in wide, grinning mouths. There was one among them, however, who stood out remarkably. She was a woman, seated alone at a table in the centre of the room, apparently engaged in writing letters. It immediately struck Craddock what a fine-looking lady she was: perhaps forty years old, of slim but shapely build, wearing a pale lilac dress with a tight bodice and spread skirt, which showed her feminine form to perfection. Her hair was a ruddy bronze and hung at the nape of her neck in a mass of ringlets.

  Craddock’s wife, Abigail, hadn’t been much older when he’d last seen her. But that had been seventeen years ago, in Lucknow, shortly before the malaria took her. She too had boasted bright reddish hair. A moment passed, and he realised he was staring. The lady had now realised it too, though she didn’t seem offended. In fact, she nodded and gave him a polite smile.

  Craddock nodded back and turned awkwardly away. The landlord was still at the bar.

  “Spall’s the name, sir,” he said, offering a thorny hand. “Harold Spall. I’m landlord here, as you might have guessed. Anything you need, just ask for me.”

  “Thank you,” Craddock replied. “Thank you, I will.”

  Jim Craddock had come into the civilian police service at forty years of age, but had taken to it quickly. After nearly three decades in the harsh world of the 14th Light Dragoons, much of it spent on the North West Frontier, he’d been well suited for the mental and physical challenges of law-enforcement in an age of rebellion and soaring crime. Now in his mid-fifties, he was still strong and fit. But it wasn’t all toughness and aggression where Craddock was concerned. Where other members of his class might bluster and bark their way through life, his methods were more studied. A childhood spent in a Chartist household had made him unusually considerate of others. Oh, he had a bluff exterior and could be as cold and callous as the next embittered war-veteran, but Craddock was, first and foremost, an excellent manager of people and a shrewd judge of character. Two assets which, to date, had served him w
ell in his dual-role as supervisory officer and criminal investigator.

  They served him now, too. He was engaged at his evening meal when a man strode in from the outside who the major instinctively felt was in trouble. The man wore a heavy, black overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat, and had a lean face, which, though young, was already drawn and haggard. He went straight over to the landlord, not stopping to bang the mud from his ankle-length boots. It was no real surprised when the landlord directed him over to Craddock.

  The man approached unannounced, drew up a chair and sat down. His stringy hair was damp, and his face had a sickly, leaden cast. Beneath his scarf and muffler, a clerical collar was visible.

  “Major Craddock?” he asked. His accent lacked the country burr of the native East Anglian; he sounded educated, and was probably a university man.

  Craddock nodded.

  The newcomer sighed with relief, and offered a limp, moist hand. “I’m Hendricks, the curate from St. Brae’s. Thank God you’ve arrived.”

  Craddock shook hands. “How do you do?”

  The curate now noticed Craddock’s flowered waistcoat and loosely knotted tie. He eyed them with surprise, as though such symbols of fashionable living didn’t accord with the visitor’s supposed rank. “They … they tell me you’re a senior member of the constabulary?”

  “Chief inspector of the Wigan Borough Police,” Craddock confirmed. “You must forgive my civilian dress. In crime investigation, we deem it useful to blend with the public.”

  Hendricks pondered this, then seemed to disregard it as irrelevant. “I’m just glad you’re here. I’ve been holding the fort on my own for rather a while.”

  When he spoke, there was a noticeable nervous tic to his left cheek.

  “There’s no-one else at the cathedral?” Craddock asked. “No new minister’s been appointed?”

  “No-one. St. Brae’s isn’t open for business yet. Not ’til we resolve this dreadful affair.”

  Craddock continued to eat. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Hendricks nodded, and removed his hat. “The Rector of St. Brae’s was a Reverend Allgood. He came down from York three months ago. A very experienced chap, a good organiser … and a volunteer. Seemed ideal. Once refurbishment was complete, he was immediately to commence services … to re-open the diocese basically.”

  “And?”

  Hendricks shook his head. “Two weeks ago … only three days after the last of the contractors had departed, Allgood was found dead on the altar. His deacon, a chap called Arrowsmith, was beside him. He was dead too. The vicarage housekeeper found them.” Hendrick paused, discomforted. “The expressions on their faces were, by all accounts … horrific.” He paused again. “And there lies the mystery, major. Because, despite this, both men had died from natural causes. Certainly that was the doctor’s opinion.”

  Craddock mused. “There were no injuries in evidence?”

  “None whatsoever. Their hearts had simply stopped beating.”

  “Poison?”

  “The doctor looked into that, but found no trace.”

  “So how is this deemed to be a murder case?”

  “Major, when two men, one in his sixties and one in his twenties, both die from natural causes in exactly the same place at exactly the same time … I think some kind of enquiry is needed, don’t you?”

  Craddock had to concede that point.

  Again, Hendricks shook his head. He was clearly mortified by the incident, though it appeared to go a little deeper than that; he was also frightened, was virtually in shock.

  “If it had been Allgood on his own, I’d have understood. He was hefty fellow, given to good living. But the other chap, Arrowsmith … he was young and in robust health, fresh from Oxford, where he’d been a champion rower. It’s all too confusing.”

  Craddock finished his wine, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “Did the doctor produce a medical report?”

  “Oh yes. He was very puzzled, and he put that in writing.”

  “And the coroner at Norwich?”

  “An open verdict.”

  “I understand there is no police office here at King’s Fen?”

  “None, major.”

  “There must have been some initial investigation. Is there any preliminary documentation I can read?”

  Hendricks nodded. “I have it at the vicarage. You’re welcome to look at it whenever you care to.”

  “I probably won’t be coming over there until tomorrow.”

  Hendicks half smiled, as though he hadn’t expected anything else. “I don’t blame you.”

  “Mr. Hendricks … aside from this unfortunate business, is everything else alright?” Craddock eyed the unnerved fellow closely, awaiting the answer with interest.

  “Er … yes.” It plainly wasn’t, but, whatever the problem was, Hendricks didn’t want to go into it. “It’s just … well, it’s rather beyond my experience, all this.”

  “Understandable.”

  Hendricks grimaced. “We’ve been dogged by misfortune from the beginning. As soon as the refurbishment commenced, we had unexplained accidents. Workmen falling from scaffolding, masonry collapsing and injuring people. I might as well tell you, major … hereabouts, St. Brae’s has an evil reputation.”

  Craddock touched a match to his cheroot. “Evil?”

  “What I mean is … well, it stood empty for 800 years. In that time it’s been desecrated by vandals, infiltrated by wild animals. There’ve even been stories of heathen ceremonies ... that was centuries ago, of course. During the witch-hunting era.”

  “Was the cathedral ever officially deconsecrated?”

  “The truth is we don’t know.” Hendricks shrugged. “There’s so much we don’t know. We don’t even know who St. Brae was … or even if he ever existed. The building was abandoned shortly after the Norman conquest, and it’s been that way ever since.”

  Craddock blew a plume of smoke. “And aside from this evil reputation, is there any particular reason why you’re so frightened?”

  Hendricks stumbled over his next words. “I’m not … frightened … as such, it’s just that … well, I’m not a terribly courageous fellow on the whole.”

  He halted. Craddock nodded for him to continue.

  Hendricks added: “I was only sent here after the tragedy … as I say, to hold the fort. I don’t particularly enjoy it … over there, I mean. On my own. Especially at night. The isolation, the darkness, you understand. There’s only one road connecting to the church … the causeway. And even in fair weather that’s a miry track safe for neither man nor beast. You tend to feel cut off when you’re over at St. Brae’s.”

  “Would it help if I came over with you now?” Craddock asked.

  Hendricks pondered before shaking his head. “It’s kind of you to offer, but it won’t really do any good. I need to face these fears alone. Because that’s all they are, absurd little fears.” He laughed, but it was hollow. “In any case, I’m not entirely alone. I have a woman who comes in the mornings to cook and clean for me.”

  Craddock blew more smoke. “As you wish. I’ll be over there first thing tomorrow, anyway. Though I thought I’d speak to the doctor first … the chap who examined the bodies.”

  “That’s Doctor Benedict.” Hendricks pulled a face. “He has a practice here in the town. I don’t envy you, to be honest. He can be rather abrasive.”

  Craddock gave a thin smile. “That’s alright, Mr. Hendricks. So can I.”

  In actual fact, Doctor Benedict was not as difficult a customer as Craddock had been led to believe. Short and shrewish, in princ-nez and a pointed beard, he was fussy and factual about the examinations he’d made, but also thorough and professional, which was the way the major preferred it. Benedict had even retained photographic plates of the victims’ faces. He displayed these in the storeroom behind his surgery, in the pale morning light from an overhead window.

  It was a sobering moment. The doctor had ordered the dead men photographed specif
ically because of the expressions they’d been wearing, which were truly horrible: masks of agony and fear, their mouths yawning open, their eyes clenched shut, their brows and cheeks set rigid and furrowed. Only once had Craddock seen such a thing before. In Oudh, on the sub-continent, he’d watched two criminals who’d attempted to assassinate the maharaja die the infamous ‘Death of a Thousand Cuts’. It had been a gruesome display and had taken several hours, but these faces very closely reminded him of it.

  “Whatever killed these men was ghastly,” he said, thinking aloud.

  “Whatever killed these men did so by acute heart-failure,” the doctor replied. “Nothing more.”

  “You performed full post-mortems?”

  “Of course.”

  “And did either man have a physical condition that might have caused it?”

  “The older’s chap’s arteries were bunged up with calcium. I doubt he’d have lived too much longer in any case.”

  “And the younger chap?”

  Benedict became pensive. “More difficult. He seemed to be in the pink. But one can’t second-guess the human heart. If it stops, it stops … there’s no arguing with it.”

  “And what might cause it to stop?” Craddock asked. “Assuming the medical ailments were lacking.”

  “Shock would be the obvious thing.”

  “That would be physical shock? Trauma?”

  “Or emotional shock. But that’s rare. Extremely rare.”

  “But it happens?” Craddock said. “There is a possibility that someone could actually be frightened to death?”

  Benedict took off his spectacles. “It would have to be terror beyond imagining.”

  Craddock considered. That wasn’t an especially pleasant thought.

  King’s Fen, like so many habitations in the sodden hinterlands south of the Wash, had originally been constructed on a lone hummock of dry ground, and its development had been restricted by this ever since.

  Though it boasted its own borough-charter, and a market cross where the hawkers and traders sold their wares, it wasn’t much larger than the average village. Beyond its outer ring of houses, the ground fell abruptly into the fens, the reed-beds of which rolled endlessly away to a vast, flat horizon. Though there’d been myriad drainage schemes over the centuries – even now artificial channels were visible here and there – the maze-work of marsh and dyke, deeply overgrown with bogbean and bull-rush, looked much as it had all those centuries ago when Saxon outlaws had hidden there from prowling packs of Norman bounty-hunters. Major Craddock strolled through the town’s cobbled streets, and soon found himself at the head of the causeway, which forged a winding path over this great soggy wilderness.