Craddock

by Paul Finch

  Then start to follow.

  Craddock strode on, but felt the presence behind even more sharply. He heard no rasping of breath, no squishing of feet. It made no attempt to call to him. The rags it wore didn’t rustle. But it pursued him steadily, gaining all the time. A voice in Craddock’s head told him to turn around and confront it, but all of a sudden he couldn’t. Twenty yards, ten yards – it drew steadily nearer. Now Major Craddock knew fear in its truest sense. He tried to increase his speed, yet it was difficult in these boggy conditions. If anything, he was slowing down, each footfall sinking into a quagmire. He reasoned with himself that this could not be the dread thing he’d heard about, that it was surely some other ordinary traveller marooned in the marshes.

  “Brithnoth is a walking malediction,” Madam Godhigfu had said. “Physical contact with him is said to be fatal.” Even Doctor Benedict, that strait-laced pillar of medical propriety, had uttered ominous phrases: “It would have to be terror beyond imagining … terror beyond imagining.”

  Craddock’s gloved hand stole under his greatcoat and gripped the hilt of his revolver. He clicked back the hammer, even while the gun was still holstered, intending to rip it free and make a wild turn, barrel blazing – though bullets, he felt sure, would be useless. The stalker was less than five yards behind. He could feel it: a chill like the depths of winter; an aching sense of loss, but also of rage and uncontrollable hatred.

  With no other choice, Craddock halted and drew the gun from its harness. Suddenly he felt weary and sick. Sweat stood on his brow in globules. But in seconds, he knew that leprous talons would clutch him by the shoulders, and then his flesh, and his organs, and even his bones and marrow, would wither and die, as the Saxon witch had foretold. Fleetingly, he wondered if it would be better to put the barrel in his own mouth. But no – he wouldn’t do that. He would never do that!

  So he spun around – just as mud splashed over him in a frenzy, kicked by hacking hooves. There was noise and fury, and a stench of horse sweat.

  Craddock staggered sideways, his concentration shattered.

  “Woa boy, woa!” came female voice. “I say, aren’t you the police gentleman who’s staying at the Wake-on-the-Water?”

  Craddock glanced up, bewildered. In the fog of his fear, he hadn’t noticed that he’d come to a junction of footways, and had almost stepped into the path of a pony and trap. A woman was at the reins, but he was too shaken to register her. Instead, he fumbled his revolver out of sight, then turned and stared back along the muddy track.

  It was completely deserted. Nothing stirred, only veils of gusting mist.

  “Hello?” said the woman again. “Is everything alright?”

  Craddock finally looked round, and realized that he knew her. She was the attractive lady from the inn. The light of the lantern swinging alongside her showed that, even in this inclement weather, she’d preserved her sense of style; she wore a woolen shawl and blue three-quarter length jacket over an elaborate chequered dress. Her red-gold curls were confined by a petite bonnet tied beneath her chin with ribbons.

  “Er … I am that police gentleman, ma-am,” he stuttered. “Might I be of assistance?”

  She smiled delightfully. “I rather wondered if I might? You’re quite a way from King’s Fen, and it’s rather dark and dangerous out here at this hour.”

  “Er … yes, I believe you’re right.” Craddock was still distracted; he glanced behind him again. “I’m afraid I underestimated the distance I had to go. Went for a stroll, you know. Seem to have overstepped the mark somewhat.”

  “It’s a good thing I came along. Hop aboard.”

  Craddock nodded his thanks and climbed onto the driving-bench beside her.

  She offered him a dainty hand in a white lace glove. “Jemima Corelli.”

  “Craddock … James Craddock.”

  With a snap of the reins, Jemima Corelli set her pony in motion again. They jolted on the treacherous path, but were soon making good time.

  “Delighted to get to speak to you, Mr. Craddock,” she said. “I’m holidaying, would you believe … from London.”

  Despite everything else that had happened, the major was surprised by that. “In February?”

  “Yes. I’m recently widowed. My family thought it a good idea that I get away.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Please don’t be.” She flashed him another smile. Her teeth were white and even; she had a turned-up pixie nose that was very endearing. “My late-husband and I never saw eye-to-eye on very much.”

  Again, Craddock was surprised. He recalled only devastation at his own bereavement. First it had been hammer-blow of shock, then a cruel, slow-burning agony inside him. There’d been few worse mornings in his life than that Christmas Day of 1850, when he’d returned from the Punjab War to stand before his empty bungalow in Lucknow, still bearing wounds, still caked in the dust of the plains, only to be told that Abigail had passed on six months previously, and that no-one had been able, or willing, to go out and take the news to him. The horror and grief had totally overwhelmed him, so much that he’d responded by resigning his commission angrily, abusively to those who’d tried to talk him out of it, insisting on severing all ties with both Her Majesty’s armed forces and her wretched East India Company.

  “And how is your investigation progressing?” Mrs. Corelli asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Oh, sorry, I …” In that preoccupied moment, Craddock wasn’t sure how much information he could, or should, pass on to a civilian. That she knew anything about him at all was rather perplexing.

  Mrs. Corelli laughed. “Forgive me. The landlord at the Wake-on-the-Water is a rather talkative chap. You’re looking into the deaths of the two clergymen, I understand?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “A very worrying business, I dare say?”

  Craddock thought of the incident by the windmill. “Yes it is, rather.”

  “Have you any interesting leads?”

  “None at the present time.”

  “Forgive me for asking so many questions. I’m a great one for the penny dreadfuls. I tend to find these occurrences fascinating rather than disturbing. Naïve of me, I suppose.”

  “Well … it’s an interesting enough line of work.”

  “But I suspect you’ve seen a great deal of unpleasantness in your time?”

  “Something you learn to live with.”

  Craddock again glanced behind them. He half-expected to see a dark, ragged shape gliding in pursuit. But only a few feet of slushy track were visible.

  “I say, is everything alright?” Mrs. Corelli asked. “You look rather pale?”

  “No … everything’s fine.”

  “You haven’t by any chance seen the infamous Spectre of St. Brae’s?”

  He eyed her warily. She seemed perfectly serious in her question.

  “You’ve heard about that?” he asked.

  “Who hasn’t? I’ve only been here a fortnight, and I’m already an expert. The locals take it very seriously, I must say. The stories of people disappearing out here are legion.”

  “I think that’s more to do with the fens themselves than anything lurking in them.”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Corelli didn’t seem convinced. She gave him another enchanting smile; she really was rather beautiful. “I say … I hope you don’t think me too much of an old chatterbox. It’s been a quiet time for me out here. Meeting an interesting gentleman like you is a rare event.”

  “Chatter away, by all means.”

  “I was wondering what the next stage of your investigation might be?”

  It wasn’t often that Craddock found himself discussing police work with members of the fair sex, especially not with someone as glamorous and apparently as genuinely interested in it as Mrs. Corelli. If he hadn’t still been shaken from the events by the windmill, he’d have been flattered.

  “Tonight, I intend to make some observations at St. Brae’s,” he said.


  “Observations?”

  “It seems to me that the church is the centre of the unusual activity around here. I don’t think it amiss to sacrifice one night’s sleep to further our intelligence.”

  “How exciting.” She pursed her lips. “I don’t suppose? … but no, that would be too ludicrous of me.”

  Craddock said nothing. He’d only known her a couple of minutes, but he didn’t think he’d ever met so forward or vivacious a woman.

  “I bet you can’t imagine the request I was about to make?” she said mischievously.

  “I really can’t.”

  “Good. I get such silly ideas from time to time. Please don’t think wrong of me on this … I have a steady annual income and a pleasing house in Bayswater. But things get so infernally boring. There are times when I yearn for a bit of excitement.”

  “I dare say you’re in the right place for it now,” Craddock said. “But if you were to ask if you could come with me tonight, I’d have to say ‘no’. It’s not that I don’t think you’d be charming company or even very useful, but I have no constables with me and there’s no way I could guarantee your safety.”

  She glanced at him with alarm. “No constables at all?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Won’t that be terribly dangerous for you?”

  “It might at that. But I’m a police officer … it’s part of my job.”

  “Well, I admire you even more now, Mister Craddock. I shall feel a lot safer sleeping at the Wake-on-the-Water, knowing we have a chap like you under the same roof.”

  Craddock might have felt flattered again, but it was disconcerting to think that suddenly he was everyone’s main line of defence here.

  At last they came to firmer ground; the bulky outline of St. Brae’s, candlelight visible in its stained-glass windows, hove into view. Mrs. Corelli dropped the major off by the west door, bidding him good night and good hunting. Craddock thanked her as profusely as his normal terse manner would allow.

  “You’ve been a life-saver to me, Mrs. Corelli,” he said, tipping his hat. “Thank you.”

  Momentarily, the name ‘Corelli’ struck a note with him. Had he heard it before? If he gave it detailed thought, he could probably work out where, though at present this was impossible. Full darkness had now fallen over the fens and even the mist was hidden in its velvet mantle. It wasn’t difficult to understand how terror-stricken Curate Hendricks must have been, stranded night after night in this lonesome spot.

  “Think nothing of it,” Mrs. Corelli replied. “Couldn’t have you dying on the job as well, could we?”

  Craddock watched as she drove away into the darkness, the orb of her lamp a small beacon, which rapidly diminished and at last winked out altogether.

  Inside the cathedral, Hendricks, heavily coated and blowing plumes of smoky breath, made his way with frantic haste from one corner to the next, lighting candles. Every flat surface, even the tiled floor of the ambulatory, was dotted with them. The nave was intensely aglow, as though it was dressed for Christmas Eve.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to extinguish those,” Craddock said.

  Hendricks turned white. “Extinguish them?”

  “All of them. There’s no sense in warning our intruders that we’re here waiting?”

  “So we wait in the pitch-dark?” Hendricks sounded incredulous.

  “We’ve no choice. But don’t worry … I’ll take the crypt door. You position yourself across the nave. Behind that pillar.” Craddock indicated a shadowed alcove on the far side. “Do you have a weapon of any sort?”

  The curate hefted a walking stick. It wasn’t quite what Craddock had intended, but it would have to serve.

  “Major,” Hendricks said, as they went about extinguishing candles. “This is all very well, but what if something dreadful happens?”

  Only three candles were now left, all on the altar table. Icy darkness had reclaimed the rest of the ancient building.

  Craddock shrugged. “Then we’ll know, won’t we?”

  He blew out the remaining flames.

  It was always difficult staying awake for the whole night, but Craddock had many times steeled himself for such a test. Maintaining an intensity of concentration over eight or nine hours, particularly when fatigued, was perhaps impossible for any man, but Craddock had devised a method by which, as he often said, he “would sleep with one eye open”. This tended to mean that he positioned himself comfortably, relaxing into apparent oblivion, though in actual fact he was only partly asleep. He might vaguely dream, might drift lightly through the netherworld only faintly aware of reality, but, should anything notable happen, he’d be alert to it.

  He thus settled behind the curtain, which he drew back from the crypt entrance, and laid his head against the stonework. The church was now glacially cold, but he was well wrapped. Discomfort was inevitable, but Craddock was used to that.

  As he melded himself into position, and the anaesthetizing effects of sleep crept up, the threat of danger seemed to recede, but he couldn’t help thinking about the cathedral’s vast spaces. With dense fog outside, the few silver beams of moonlight would be lost. Human eyes could never attune to the blackness that would result. It would be like a chasm in the Earth, a void. Craddock still wasn’t worried.

  On the frozen crags of the North West frontier, he and his men had learned to turn the empty night into a shield behind which they might plan and foray. On the high slopes of the Himalayas, the old line and column by which the British Army had subdued half the known world had no role. The disciplined firing-steps, the bayonet charges, the red and gold squares were no use against an enemy who darted between the rocks like a rat, who fired upon you from eagle’s nest sniper-points and only came down when you were unaware, when a small group might butcher your sentries and tow away your guns undiscovered. One had had to learn to ape him, to follow him up the steep gullies in guerrilla bands, to smoke him from his dens and caves with skill and daring rather than overwhelming fire-power. This had been Craddock’s experience after Shere Singh’s mighty Sikh army had finally broken at the battle of Goojerat in the February of 1849. The 14th Light Dragoons had then commenced a murderous twenty-two month mission to hunt down those remnant tribesmen who would not surrender, to destroy their camps and seize what remained of their munitions. Even now, he recalled the perilous climbs through scree and scrub, the crack of muskets as shot rained down from a foe they rarely saw, and, on those occasions when they did see him, the terrible slash of scimitars wielded by expert hands.

  Difficult, terrifying times. Always hungry, always tired, always either too hot or too cold. If captured, you could expect horrific torture. If wounded, you relied solely on the strength of your few comrades. Oddly though, as he sat there, swathed in snug material, Craddock now saw those past events differently. The ice-gashed corries of the Kashmir highlands became the sodden reed-beds of the English fens; lowering boulder-strewn glens became rippling meres and noisome lagoons. The shrieks of death were the same, of course – that never changed. The screams of defiant anger from those determined to cast off foreign hegemony were much the same as they’d always been. The clangour of blade on blade, the gutty chunk of steel shearing flesh rarely altered.

  But other things had.

  Brazen canon-balls no longer tore the air. Instead, earthenware pots filled with burning oil flew spinning from the scoops of catapults. Replacing the whine and ptchung of musket-ball was the whistle of the gray-goose shaft, and the thwack as it broke upon mail-clad hide or linden-wood shield. Craddock watched as skiff-loads of men, laden with mail coats, kite-shaped shields and conical iron helms, rowed themselves over the brown, boiling waters. Ahead of them, from beyond a vast bulwark of earth and rocks and upright sharpened logs, a deluge of missiles descended: stones, spears, pellets from slingshots. Many skiffs foundered and sank, those aboard screeching and gurgling as their weighty arms took them to watery graves. He saw flimsy causeways, built from tarred timber and inflated cat
tle-skins, with phalanxes of knights advancing bravely across them. The clouds of projectiles took a fearful toll here too. Men sank to their knees, blazing head to foot or feathered with arrows. The footing was smashed by boulders, the Normans themselves crushed and broken. With each impact, the tearing of flesh, the sickening crunch of splintered bones – more howls of agony and outrage. The response-artillery now let loose: archery machines and mangonels, great constructs of timber and leather, all sodden with rain or charred by fire.

  And above it all the cacophony, the blaring of horns and pounding of drums, the splashing and plunging and deafening belly-roars. And then the reek: the churned mud of the fens, the rotten miasma of the bogs, and of course the roiling stink of guts and blood and open bowels, of sweat and iron and sizzling human fat …

  “Major !” someone hissed. “Major!”

  Bleary-eyed, Craddock glanced up. A milky light filled the cathedral, the crack of day filtering through its high, narrow casements. Hendricks stood there. He still wore the cloak he’d huddled under during the night, but now it hung loose. His collar was open, his cheeks gray and sallow.

  “Nothing … nothing happened,” he stammered.

  Craddock struggled to stand up. Cramps shot through him. “What time is it?”

  “Nearly seven.”

  “Seven! God-damn!”

  “Like I say, nothing happened.”

  Craddock knew that he’d slept, but was convinced that had anyone tried to pass him during the night, he’d have woken. He hurried down the steps into the crypt, stopping on the way to grab the lantern. By the wavering flame, the undercroft was as still and undisturbed as before. He strode to the farthest wall, casting his light into the unfinished recess. Again, it showed nothing, just rubble and blackness.

  “You’re right,” he finally said. “No-one’s been down here. And that puzzles me.”

  He’d strongly suspected that something would happen during the night. If the intruders were mortal, how would they know not to come here on this particular occasion, and if non-mortal why shouldn’t they come anyway?