by Paul Finch
Craddock blew out a plume of smoke. “Not quite sure I follow, sergeant.”
They’d emerged onto Chapel Lane, a busy trunk road, and were forced to step back as passing wagons threw up fountains of mud.
“What I’m saying, sir, is – when I left Ireland, I wasn’t running away. I wasn’t taking no responsibility – I wasn’t being a traitor to my own kin.”
Craddock nodded. He hailed a cab, which pulled up, skidding. “And that’s what Roisin Lachlan’s been saying to you?” They climbed in.
“Police barracks, driver. That you’re a traitor?”
“Not as such, sir, no.”
“Then what?”
Rafferty stared out into the traffic. Once again, beads of sweat stood on his brow. “Well – Ireland and Irish folk are sometimes a queer thing for an English gentleman, like yourself, to understand. If I might be so bold, sir. I think some things are best left unsaid.”
He couldn’t seem to meet his superior’s gaze.
“Nothing to do with the case in hand, I hope?” the major said.
“Not really, sir. No.”
“No, Rafferty?”
After a moment’s thought, the sergeant shook his head forcefully. “No, sir. On my mother’s soul!”
Wigan was not the sort of town to be badly distressed by an unsolved double-murder, at least not when winter was drawing near, with all its threats of ‘flu, whooping cough, diphtheria, frostbite. November brought more heavy rain, flood tides on the River Douglas, cave-ins below ground, then ice, sleet and fog, which, thanks to the borough’s mass coal-burning, was thick and sulphurous.
The force constables were gradually despatched back to routine duties, while the ongoing investigation made painfully little ground. In fact, other crimes took precedence: a double-death in Wallgate, the town’s main thoroughfare, when a furious driver ran his cart over two children; a serious assault, when a Saturday night clog fight left a rowdy collier with two cracked shinbones; a violent burglary in a pub off the market-square.
In all these cases, Inspector Munro made good progress, securing arrests and convictions. In the background, amid a welter of statements and reports, Major Craddock continued to work on the slayings. He established that there were no connections between James O’Hare and Kathleen McConnolly. He established that aside from Roisin Lachlan, nobody had seen or heard a thing. He established that no-one suspected anyone. He also established that no-one really cared.
On the first day of December, he put on his greatcoat and gloves and took his horse out for exercise. The animal would enjoy it, even though the early morning wind cut like steel, and the cobbled roads were slippery with frost. They left the station at seven sharp, and rode up through the town centre, already lit with braziers and thick with steam from the cellar gratings. Working folk crowded back and forth along the ginnels, mouths smoking, mittened hands banging together. Ice cracked under iron-shod boots.
The major worked his way through, returning one or two surly ‘good mornings’, then pressed on down the Douglas Valley, crossing an iron bridge and heading through the gloomy rookeries of Scholes. Beyond the roofs and chimneys, the mountainous coal tips were white, almost luminous on the still black sky. It reminded him of Kashmir, and the frozen peaks of the Himalayas.
As he negotiated the metals of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway, his thoughts unavoidably drifted. Sure-footed, his mount picked its way along steep embankments of slag and clinker. To his left, the sprawling mass of mill chimneys, wreathed in shimmering mist as the pale eye of day winked open, gradually fell away into unreality.
He remembered a more merciless sun; a seething, beating sun. He remembered the plains before Goojerat, the battle lines drawing steadily together. He recalled the dense masses of the Sikh army – thirty thousand strong at least, shields and scimitars and jewel-bedecked turbans gleaming in the dust. Then there were the British, perhaps twelve thousand, advancing in stages, step-firing, blowing out huge gaps in the native ranks. The din was amazing. Above the crash and scream of cannonade, was that frightful wailing so typical of sub-continental warfare, the brazen pipes and trumpets, the wild clashing of drums and symbols.
Craddock closed his eyes. It was so romantic when you remembered it in that textbook fashion. But there was no hiding the reality of the aftermath. The stench of blood and bowels and cordite. The fields of twisted, broken bodies, slowly baking in raging heat, swarming with bloated flies. The major hung his head. In comparison, Wigan, for all its squalor and turmoil, was a joyous place to be.
Then he heard the chuckle. The rasping, papery chuckle.
Curiously, he turned.
Behind him, running parallel to the L&Y, was a secondary cutting, once used to accommodate a mineral line, the rails and sleepers of which had long been removed. Instead, the gully was now filled with brick rubble, broken planks and dead, frozen vegetation. Thirty yards along it, close to an old footbridge, at a point where a wheeled coal tub lay rusting on its side, a figure was seated on a mound of earth, its back turned.
The ex-soldier’s spine prickled when he saw it. It was warming itself by a meagre fire built on a heap of white sticks, but it sat completely still, like something dead. Its clothing, he saw, was of old sacking, but heavy, voluminous even, and greenish in colour. On top, it had been pulled up high into a monk’s pointed cowl. More frightening than this, though, the figure was diminutive in stature. The major could tell that even from this distance.
He felt his heart begin to thump. He cleared his throat to speak, which seemed to take seconds. From the fogged urban spread behind there was suddenly silence. Wintry gusts blew hard on the snowy slag-heaps.
“I say, fellow!” he finally called. “You – what are you doing here?”
It made no reply, didn’t even move.
Craddock eased his horse forward and steered it down the slope, broken ground crumbling beneath its hooves. When he reached the bottom, the air was even colder. Rigid wheel-ruts were slick with grey-green ice. He turned to face the hooded shape again. It was still there. The fire flickered beside it.
“I know you can hear me!” the major said, urging his animal forward. “I’m James Craddock, chief inspector of the borough police. You’d best have an answer.”
Apparently the figure didn’t. It held its posture. Craddock reined up when he was ten feet away. Whatever this thing was, it was indeed small; probably under three feet. Yet Craddock knew it cared nothing for his presence. He was insignificant to it, an insect. Maybe less. The major’s fingers tightened on his riding crop; he sensed his mount growing uneasy, snorting, pawing hard. He thought of black and mangled necks, heads lolling.
“I’ll arrest you,” he said quietly. “So help me God, I’ll arrest you for nothing if I have to. I’ll make the charges stick. They’ll drop you through that trap like a mealy-bag.”
And only then did it turn toward him.
But with infinitesimal slowness.
Scarcely seeming to move, its hooded form twisted laboriously round, a hint of space appearing under the folds of rancid cloth, a space in which at any moment he’d see a face. God alone knew what kind of face, but a face that would explain all.
The major felt his skin crawl. His horse was now jerking, stamping. The figure was looking up slowly. Any second, any second he’d see it – and then the scream, the colossal, ear-shattering scream, which almost threw Major Craddock from his saddle.
His horse bolted, throwing itself about, hurling him from side to side, leaping and bucking. It took every inch of his mastery to control it, and all the while, on the tracks above, the Manchester Express blasted thunderously past, whistle shrieking, motion clanking, carriage after carriage roaring along the metals in deafening cacophony.
And then, just as quickly, it had gone, a swirl of steam behind it.
Cursing aloud, Craddock yanked back the reins and wheeled his animal about.
He was alone.
Of the cowled figure, there was no trace.
/> Angrily, the major dismounted and scrambled forward, kicking his way through frosted brambles. But among the clutter beside the up-ended coal truck, there wasn’t a sign anyone had been there. Except, perhaps, for the remnants of a very old fire – a few sticks of white-charred bone. Whether human or animal, he couldn’t tell, but when he stirred them with his crop, they crumbled away to powder, eddying in the breeze.
Two days later, the killer struck again.
Marion Mary Rourke died in exactly the same manner as James O’Hare and Kathleen McConnolly; strangled with such force that her neck broke. She was found among the snowy headstones in St. Patrick’s churchyard, Scholes. She had clearly been thrown from the adjoining street, because shreds of her skirt and shawl were snagged on the tips of the spiked railings.
By trade she’d been a pit-brow worker, and thus a sturdy woman. Though reportedly drunk and tottering on the night she was attacked, the evidence suggested that Mrs. Rourke had put up a fight. The fact that one of her clogs was still clutched in her right hand indicated she had been defending herself. Apparently that had not been enough, for the assailant had snapped her right wrist the way a normal person might snap a twig. Perhaps this show of defiance had angered him, hence the hurling of her body over the high churchyard fence.
Whichever, this third killing in the series differed from the others in that the victim was well known and well liked. The morning the body was discovered by the sexton, a large and unruly crowd began to gather, despite the blizzarding snow. There were shouts and jeers when Major Craddock arrived. One constable had his helmet pushed off. Arrests were made. There were scuffles. Despite the parish priest’s attempts to calm them, the local population was quickly assuming the dimensions of mob. A local cretin, Simple Saemus, was produced. He was slapped, shoved, pushed over into the slush and straw of the gutter. Someone hit him with an iron bar, splitting his eyebrow. Constables Butterfield and McDougal had to draw their staffs and charge, in order to rescue him.
Bloodied and gibbering, the poor wretch was led away to safety, but not before he grabbed at Major Craddock’s coat. The police chief turned to look at him.
“T’wunt me, boss, t’wun’t,” the vagrant stammered. “T’wuz a young un see, t’wuz a young ‘un. Saw ‘un wi’ me own eyes, did. T’wuz a young ‘un.”
Craddock stared, saying nothing.
Saemus became frantic. “T’wuz a young ‘un! All dressed up, he was, like a monk u’ Benedick. Danced a jig, too. T’wuz a young un. Can’t trust young ‘uns. Can’t trust any ‘un.”
Slowly, Craddock took the man’s claw and disentangled it from the lapel of his coat. A bloody print remained. The major turned to Constable Duckworth.
“Take this fellow to the barrack. Get him some dry clothes and hot tea. And clean his eye up. Keep him there until I get a chance to speak with him.”
The officer nodded, leading the innocent soul away. Craddock glanced back through the gate into the graveyard. Sergeant Rafferty was standing over the sprawled body of the victim, gazing down with an apparently shocked expression. Close by, Inspector Munro was kneeling with a sketch pad and charcoal, copying impressions from any boot-indentations in the snow. Craddock sidled in, keeping clear of the actual murder scene.
“On your mother’s soul, eh, Rafferty?” he finally said, coming to stand beside the sergeant.
Rafferty stiffened. “Aye sir, on my mother’s soul.”
Marion Mary Rourke no longer looked human. She’d already frozen solid, and snowflakes were gathering on the blackened mess of her face. Her head lay virtually at a right angle to her shoulder.
“Ready to talk to me now?” Craddock wondered. “Now that we’ve got another body on our hands? Perhaps ready to tell me what it was you were too embarrassed to tell me before? About what Roisin Lachlan really said.”
Rafferty stumbled for the right words. “I’m an Irishman born and bred, sir – but perhaps I’m too long away from the old country. I didn’t believe it when she told me. I couldn’t believe it. No right-thinking man would.”
“Try me,” the major said.
The sergeant considered, then finally shrugged. “How long did we serve together in India, sir?”
“Thirty years or more. Why?”
“Didn’t we see some strange sights while we were out there? Hear some odd tales?”
“That we did, Rafferty.”
“You remember Calcutta market, sir?”
Craddock nodded.
“And the fakir – floating in the air while he slept? I mean, we saw that, sir. We all saw it with our own eyes.”
“That we did.”
“And the fellow on the bed made from nails? Not a scratch on his back. Not a drop of blood drawn?”
“Aye.”
“And you says to me, ‘There’s more goes on in Heaven and Earth than me and you will ever know, Padraig Rafferty’.”
“I remember that,” the major said.
The sergeant glanced round at his superior. Once again, he bore a haunted look. “Well try this for size, sir.” He cleared his throat, as if not knowing how to start. “There’s an old story – from my own country, sir. One you may have heard, but I doubt it. About the Pooka?”
Craddock shook his head. “The Pooka?”
Rafferty nodded. “A mythical creature. A sort of evil faerie. An imp, if you like. Back in Ireland, they never pick blackberries after September because the Pooka will have pissed on them.”
Craddock looked back to the violated corpse. “We have three unsolved murders, and you think we should be looking for faeries?”
Rafferty followed his gaze. “Roisin Lachlan does. And she saw what happened.”
The major pondered this. “Tell me more.”
“You don’t scoff at our Irish legends, sir?”
Craddock half-smiled. “My mentor was General Gough, Rafferty. You recall him, I take it. Our commanding officer at Goojerat.”
“How could I forget him, sir?”
“He was an Irishman, was he not?”
“He was indeed.”
“Did he not win the war?”
“That he did?”
“And the peace, bringing the Sikh nation under our banner, when all other methods had failed?”
“Aye.”
Craddock nodded. “I respect the Irish, Rafferty. So tell me – the Pooka?”
Again, the sergeant had to think before speaking. “In England you think of the faerie folk as something from a children’s book – pretty woodland spirits doing mischief. In Ireland it’s darker. The Pooka, they used to say, was something to be feared. A bringer of mayhem. A being who existed by his own rules. He especially disliked drunks. He’d prowl at night and if he came across any – he’d strangle them.”
Major Craddock felt a chill pass through him, as if a frozen wind had picked up. He managed to suppress it. “As you say, it’s only a legend.”
Rafferty didn’t seem convinced. “So far only Irish people have been killed.”
“Your Pooka kills only the Irish?” the major said.
The sergeant shuddered. “My Pooka is punishing his own people because they are disgracing themselves in the face of the enemy – the Saxon.”
That made sense, Craddock decided, in a tribal, feudalistic kind of way. But looking again at the mangled remains of Marion Mary Rourke, it still seemed harsh.
“It never occurs to him that maybe his own people are in this wretched state because of the Saxon? Because Irish landlords, loyal to the Saxon, exploited them? Because profit-making exports came first, before famine-relief?”
The sergeant shook his head sadly. “The Pooka only respects integrity, sir. There can be no excuses.”
“I’d like to meet him,” Craddock said.
“But you don’t believe in him.”
“No, I don’t,” the major agreed. “But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a madman in this town who does.” He turned back to the street, where further disorder was brewing. “Sergeant Repton, I
want these roads cleared!” he roared. “Now, d’you hear! Tell these people this is an unlawful assembly. If they don’t disperse, I’ll have the Riot Act read. I’ll call in the Fusiliers, so help me!”
Then he glanced back to Rafferty. “We need ...”
His orders tailed off, for the Irishman had fallen to his haunches and was examining something in the snow. Eventually he picked it up, but gingerly, by its corner.
“A piece of sacking, sir,” he said, holding it out. “Possibly torn off our murderer’s clothes during the fight. And it’s green, sir. It’s emerald green.”
It was the Christmas Day of 1850 when Major Craddock finally returned home from the Punjab War. They’d crushed Shere Singh’s supposedly invincible army the previous February, and had spent the next ten months harrying and pursuing the scattered remnants.
That first day of his well-earned leave was a gloomy one, however. Caked in dust, red and gold tunic in rags, he’d stood on the deserted verandah and stared through an open door into an empty bungalow. No happy words greeted him, there was no delicious smell of wildfowl broiling in curry. The whitewashed villa had been festooned with black curtains of mourning.
Abigail, it seemed, had died the previous June – or so he’d eventually found out, by questioning a nautch girl in the neighbouring village. Craddock would wonder ever after if the Queen’s authorities had seriously attempted to cable him, or were simply lying to cover their embarrassment. Either way, it had finished him in their service.
Now, on another Christmas day, fourteen years later, he stood alone again in a pall of uncertainty. Below him, in the workhouse hall, the clamour for food and drink went on, though he neither saw nor heard it. At length, Inspector Munro appeared beside him.
“As far as we can see, sir, they’re just children.”
Craddock nodded, but said nothing. He gazed down absently.
“Sir,” Munro said quietly, “I think we’ve exhausted this line of enquiry. We’ve checked every fair in the county, every circus. There are no dwarfs missing, no midgets behaving oddly. Even if there were, and he was hiding out among the paupers in Wigan, there’s no guarantee he’d come here for his Christmas dinner.”