by Paul Finch
Craddock glanced up. “Free food, free drink, free warmth. You think he’d turn that down on a day like this?”
Munro was clearly in doubt. “Do we even know for sure that he’s a vagrant?”
The major thought again of the seated figure on the mineral line. At the time he’d been certain of what he’d seen; now that almost a month had passed, he was beginning to wonder. “It was always a long shot, I suppose.”
“Shall I stand the men down?” Munro asked.
Craddock stiffened at that suggestion. “Not yet.”
“We’ve been here five hours!”
“Not yet, Captain Munro!”
Further along the balustrade, bored constables glanced around, surprised at the harsh tone.
Munro leaned closer. He whispered: “Jim – it’s Christmas Day and we have a full shift on. At the moment they’re not doing anything. We all want to catch this lunatic, and we will. But he isn’t here. Let me send the lads home?”
Craddock took out his watch and glanced at it. “Give it another half-hour, and we’ll talk again.”
Munro stood back, visibly irritated but unwilling to dispute it further. He had a wife and youngsters of his own, of course. Craddock’s house, meanwhile, would be cold and empty, filled with the desolate gloom of a late December afternoon. The major wondered if he was being overly insensitive with his men, but then he remembered the frozen, twisted bodies, their clawed hands and ghastly faces, and his resolve hardened.
He glanced back at Munro. “I’ve a reason for this, Jack.” He looked at his watch again. “And now is the time for it. Come with me.”
Munro followed as the chief inspector made his way down to the lower levels, and pushed through the mad bustle in the dining area to a separate but adjoining chamber. It was long and low, and overhung with dirty rafters. Various benches and stools were being arranged there by parish orderlies. There were no windows – only a door at the far end, though this was now masked by a white sheet, suspended between the walls like a piece of laundry. A strong light had been positioned behind it, so that a figure moving there appeared as a black phantom.
That figure now peeped around the edge of the sheet. He saw the two officers and came out, promptly stumbling on the uneven paving-stones.
“Gerry Flaherty, sir,” he slurred, with a heavy Irish lilt. He offered them a shaking hand. “Sh – showman extraordinaire. And a happy Christmas to you. Glad to be of service to the po-lice.”
He was clad in a tight, chequered suit, worn and patched at its cuffs and elbows. He was stooped and balding, with wisps of grey hair behind his ears. His face, blotched and reddish, revealed his own fondness for a tipple or two.
“Pleased to have you along, Mr. Flaherty,” Craddock said, shaking his hand. “You recall the modifications we discussed?”
Flaherty saluted. Then hiccuped.
Craddock gave him a dubious stare. “The situation is simple. You will proceed with your show as normal. Ignore our presence as much as is feasibly possible. You won’t even see us unless necessary, which it probably won’t be. There’s nothing else really to tell you.”
“Right you are, sir,” Flaherty said with a broad smile. His breath was soused with whiskey.
“Munro,” Craddock said. “Have Sergeant Repton search the rest of the building. Tell him to stick his nose in every grid and mouse hole. I want the bloody place turned inside out. And get Rafferty and the men to take their positions outside. Join me back here when you’ve finished.”
With an audible sigh, the inspector walked away.
The magic lantern show began five minutes later, the vast majority of the paupers having now filed in, in what could only be described as paroxysms of excitement. There were many more of them than there were seats, so a good number were sitting on the floor or in the aisles. For once, a hush fell over them – few had ever beheld a wonder like this before.
Craddock stood at the back, as unobtrusively as possible, wrinkling his nostrils at the stench of unwashed hair and bodies. He’d watched them carefully as they’d trooped by. From what he’d seen, there was little argument with Munro’s verdict: the killer was not here. All of these were young children, though some faces were so drawn, so marked with sores and crusted in filth that it was often hard to tell. Still, the final test was yet to be made.
Almost on cue, the shadow puppets began to dance on the big white curtain. At first it was the tale of Aladdin and his wonderful lamp. ‘Oohs’ and ‘aahs’ erupted from the audience, as clearly distinguishable Chinamen with pigtails and bandy legs trotted back and forth, bowing to each other against a backdrop of pagodas. Flaherty might have been a drunk, but his skill was undeniable.
Several minutes later, Munro slid in. He took his place beside Craddock. On the curtain, a boyish figure, seated cross-legged on a rock, was polishing a big lamp.
“Everything’s in order,” the inspector muttered.
Craddock nodded, but said nothing. On the curtain, through a billowing mass of smoke, the genie had now appeared. The well loved tale rolled on through its many convolutions, the two officers watching in silence over the rows of heads.
“I take it there’s a purpose to this?” Munro eventually asked. “It’s almost dark outside. I seriously doubt there’s much more we can do.”
“Patience, if you please,” the major said. “We’ve one more card to play.”
And as he spoke, Flaherty began to play it. On the curtain, the scene abruptly changed. From the emperor’s fabulous palace, the location was suddenly a field somewhere, a couple of withered trees to indicate hard times. As the paupers sat entranced, too unfamiliar with the Aladdin story to realise that a diversion had been made, two bowed figures, struggling to push a plough, appeared. Half way across the screen, they stopped, stood upright and took off their hats, as if to pray. It was lost on the audience, but not on Munro. Instantly he recognised an image of rural Ireland – two peasants had halted in their daily toil to say The Angelus.
After they had finished, they recommenced their work. Now they seemed terribly tired. One collapsed to his knees. Digging in what was clearly supposed to be earth, he held up only thin and twisted roots.
Craddock watched the audience closely. Thus far there wasn’t a peep from them. They were so absorbed, not one of them had moved for several minutes.
On the curtain, meanwhile, the two peasants, now in rags, were crawling to the feet of a tall man in a tailcoat and topper. By his profile, he had a huge jaw, which he held up proudly. Though the two beggars implored him for help, he ignored them, finally turning and striding away. Huddled together in misery, the two figures slumped down to the earth and lay still – but only for a moment or so. Slowly, jerkily, they rose back to their feet, but now they were no longer men. They were skeletons, walking heaps of bones. Frightened gasps came up from the audience, yet as they watched, more skeletons appeared, standing alongside the first two.
“I hope he doesn’t overdo it,” Craddock said quietly.
Munro stared at the curtain, amazed. It was now filled with skeletons, of all shapes and sizes. What was more, many of them were hideous, light shining through narrowed eyes and jagged grins for mouths. As one, like an army almost, they began to advance, growing steadily larger.
Beggar children started to scream and shout. Those at the front threw themselves back. Chairs were overturned.
“Stupid bastard!” Craddock snapped. “This wasn’t what I asked him to do!”
He lunged forward, fighting his way through the packed mass of shrieking, struggling youngsters. On the curtain, the skeletons had assumed demonic proportions, leaning down toward their victims with hooked talons for hands. Munro felt a prickle of fear – no magic lantern man was this talented. With a sudden surge of panic, he hurled himself after the major.
Seconds passed before they were able to reach the screen. Craddock yanked it aside, ready to shout and bawl at the drunken buffoon who had so let him down – only to find a scene of horror.
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Flaherty lay chest down in a heap of stick-and-paper puppets. He had been throttled with such unimaginable force that his head had twisted right round and his face looked up over his back. The policemen were stopped in their tracks. Flaherty’s eyes were wide and bloodshot, filled with burst vessels. Grey froth still bubbled on his blue, grimacing lips. Clearly, he had been killed only moments earlier. As if to confirm this, beyond the table where the spirit lamp burned, a narrow door hung open on the snow-filled yard.
“Quickly!” Craddock shouted, dashing through, drawing the revolver from under his coat.
Munro followed, but outside there was no-one to see – only Constable Coogan, with his shotgun. The constable had been lounging against the far wall, smoking a pipe, which, on seeing his senior officer, he quickly beat out on the bricks.
“Someone just came out this way,” the major said, hastening toward him.
Coogan shook his head, startled.
“Weren’t you awake, constable?” Munro demanded.
“Sir – no-one came out. I swear.”
“The bloody door’s wide open!” Craddock roared.
“It was open all along, sir, honest,” Coogan stammered. “No-one came out!”
The major and Munro glanced at each other, bewildered. “What the devil is going on here?” the inspector whispered.
“Devil is right,” Craddock said. “I ...”
“Sir, look!” Coogan suddenly hissed. “Up there.”
All three found themselves staring up the high gable wall of the workhouse. To their incredulity, a figure was framed on the darkening sky, balancing along the topmost parapet, perhaps eighty feet above them.
“He’ll break his bloody neck!” Coogan breathed.
“I very much doubt it,” Craddock said. “Shoot him down.”
The constable glanced at his chief in disbelief. “Sir?”
“Do as I say, man,” the major retorted. “Shoot the bugger down, now.” He took aim with his own Smith and Wesson, but knowing the weapon wasn’t sufficiently accurate over such a range, refrained from squeezing the trigger.
Uneasily, Munro tried to intervene. “Sir, I’m not sure we can just ...”
“Damn it, Munro, look at him!” Craddock snarled. “That’s our man.”
High above, the figure was still in its precarious position. Now, however, it was capering rather than balancing, prancing back and forth along the narrow ledge in wild and ludicrous jig. What was more, it was covered in ragged Hessian or sackcloth, tainted green by the looks of it, and pulled over its head in a pointed cowl.
“That little heathen’s murdered four people,” Craddock shouted. “Shoot him down, Coogan.”
Despite their horror at what they were seeing, the junior officers were still reticent about opening fire on an unarmed person. Men had hanged for less.
“Sir, I can’t,” Coogan pleaded. “Look, I’ll try and get him down. I’ll go up. I’ll talk to him ...”
Then a ‘Brown Bess’ crashed like thunder in the workhouse yard.
Involuntarily, all three ducked. When they looked up again, they saw Sergeant Rafferty. He’d appeared silently by the corner of the building. His musket was still to his shoulder, still pointed upward, still smoking at the end of its barrel. He wore a strained, almost hypnotised expression.
Attention switched back to the roof. The jig had ceased. The green-hooded figure hunched slowly over, arms clutched across its belly. Without a word, it fell, plummeting silently to earth. It hit the icy flagstones with a dull thump, the way a bundle of laundry might.
Craddock hurried forward, revolver cocked and aimed. Warily, he prodded the pile of rank cloth with his toe. It didn’t move. Slowly, finger tight on the trigger, he hunkered down, reached out, and with trembling hand began drawing back folds of material. Always, though, there was more beneath. Until, at long last, he reached the solid ground.
Slowly, he rose to his feet. The rest of the men came and stood with him. One after another, they kicked at the heap of green sacking, or thrust their guns through it, seeking at least ash or bones or some sign that a living creature had once dwelt there. None of them were successful.
It was a dark and lonely Christmas Night, as they all had been since the death of Abigail.
Her husband sat alone in the kitchen of his home, a single candle on the table. He smoked a cigar and poured out brandy. The house was still so cold that he hadn’t bothered to remove his greatcoat or muffler. The hot fluid went down in a single gulp. Craddock filled his glass again.
As he did, there was a clatter of metal from the narrow street outside. A bin, fallen over and rolling, the major mused. He glanced at the window. Frosty starlight shone through. In some high part of the house, a draught was moaning. The major thought nothing of it. He blew out smoke, drank more brandy – anything to stop him brooding on the events of the day. Outside, meanwhile, the bin continued to roll.
If it was a bin.
The police chief glanced at his brandy. And he wondered. Eventually, though, he threw it down and poured himself another. Why worry? There was no Irish blood in his veins. As far as he knew.
THE COILS UNSEEN
Major Craddock and his two officers were still half a mile inland when they saw the flares over the coast. They spurred their horses on, galloping hard over the remaining stretch of moorland, until the clover and marram grass gave out at a ridge of dunes. The three riders hared up over the top of this, then down onto the vast spread of tidal sand-flats that made up the southern portion of the Ribble estuary. There was no moon that night and a heavy cloud cover blotted out the stars, but another flare went up and bathed the entire district in its hazy, blood-red coronal.
Craddock reined back his horse to take in the view. The bleak plain of the beach rolled away westwards for a mile or so, before disappearing into the sea. This part of the British coast was a geological shelf, infamously flat and far-reaching, its waters running shallow for a considerable distance, encroaching on the shore in broad but gentle wavelets; even on a windy October night it remained serene. In sharp contrast, the beach itself was a crush of activity. The dark shapes of horsemen charged wildly back and forth, many carrying torches. There was a gabble of excited voices, and a shot was fired into the air. It echoed across the bay with sharp and piercing reports.
Inspector Munro eased his animal up alongside Craddock’s“Looks as if the lunatics are running the asylum again,” he said.
Craddock made no reply. The stub of a cigar jutted from under his thick white moustache, but his gray eyes roved dispassionately over the scene of disorder. If he found it displeasing, he didn’t show it; more likely he found it exactly as he’d expected.
He urged his mount forwards. The other two followed, and a short while later they were approached by one of the horsemen. By the white sash and braid on the dark blue tunic beneath his cloak, he was a lieutenant of hussars, but the face under his shako was young and smooth; the side-whiskers he’d affected were like soft baby-down. He saluted and introduced himself as Pontkin. Major Craddock explained who they were and what their business was, and, with some relief they fancied, Lieutenant Pontkin directed them southwards along the beach to where a headland of dunes protruded onto the flats. On top of this, there was a low building.
Craddock and his two men galloped towards it, and found themselves approaching a grim, weather-boarded structure, which on closer inspection displayed an inn-sign, though it was so faded by wind, rain and salt-spray that the name of the establishment was illegible. Several horses were tethered outside, and reddish firelight shone from the interior. Much guffawing and shouting was going on in there. The major dismounted and strode in, stripping off his leather gloves. The other two followed.
Inside, the tavern was crude in the extreme. Nets, crab-shells, pistols, cutlasses and other nautical accoutrements adorned the walls, but the seating was wooden benches, the flooring all rough timber and sawdust. The only light came from the roaring flames in the hearth,
but it was sufficient to reveal a dozen hussars lounging about, drawing on their pipes or swilling from tankards, which the landlord – a corpulent individual with red jowls and a canvas apron – was serving them as fast as he was able.
At first, Major Craddock and his two men were barely noticed. Only when one particular hussar – a tall, broad-shouldered chap with a leonine head of shaggy golden curls – spotted them, was there a lull in the joviality. The fellow rose from his seat and approached. Craddock eyed him; the hussar might have been impressive had his richly-tasselled tunic not hung open at the collar and his gray pleated trews not been spattered up the sides with sandy mud.
“Captain Ryland at your service,” he said.
Craddock shook the proffered hand. “Craddock. Chief Inspector of the Wigan Borough Police. This is Inspector Munro, and this Constable Palmer.”
Ryland surveyed the three newcomers. Only Palmer, a young and fairly new recruit to the service, was in uniform, a heavy cape over his black tunic, his helmet tightly strapped under the chin. Craddock and Munro were in their usual civilian garb, which, given the time of year, included greatcoats and mufflers.
Ryland seemed puzzled. “I was led to believe you were a military man?”
Craddock nodded. “Was. You can call me ‘Major’ if you wish. All my lads do.”
“Is this all the men you’ve brought?”
“I’m afraid so.” Craddock removed his topper and brushed his hair flat. “The Wigan borough is a large and busy force-area, especially on a Friday night. In any case, I have you fellows, don’t I?”
“Yes, I suppose you do.” Ryland turned and indicated the landlord. “Care for a drink while we’re all here? Something to warm you up, perhaps?”
Constable Palmer and Inspector Munro glanced longingly at the counter. Major Craddock, however, spoke for the three of them: “No thank you, captain. We’re on duty. Your cable said you had our fugitive pinned down?”