Craddock

by Paul Finch

  The outline of the cathedral was visible about a mile distant, but the footway looked treacherous. February rain had swollen the water levels around it, so that at many points it was inundated, either gluey with mud, or submerged beneath several inches of standing water. He remembered the curate’s ominous words: “A miry track safe for neither man nor beast”.

  The fellow hadn’t been exaggerating.

  Only with great care did Craddock set out, grateful for his stick and that he was wearing a stout pair of boots. Even at this time of year, the wetlands were busy with wildlife. There was a constant gabble of waterfowl. Duck and grebe skimmed by overhead, and at one point an otter scurried across his path. But the possibility always remained that the route was about to disintegrate beneath his feet, so, half an hour later, he was relieved to find himself on firmer ground.

  St. Brae’s stood before him.

  It too occupied lonely hump of dry land, and, for that reason, it was all the more remarkable that it had ever been built. Anglo-Saxon in origin, rather than medieval, ‘cathedral’ was maybe too grandiose a term for it. It was more of a ‘minster’, a long, narrow building, immensely tall and impressive as befitted its royal celebratory status, but lacking the traditional bell-tower and bereft of decorative sculpture. Though well built – each stone had been so closely set against the next that the joins between them were infinitesimal – it had clearly fallen into severe disrepair, for the later refurbishment was much in evidence. The stained-glass windows were new, while recently built arched buttresses were visible every thirty yards along both north and south walls.

  Craddock strode around its exterior. Lush marsh-grasses grew up to its foundations, and among these were the remnants of sunken graves, alongside bits of scaffolding, broken bricks, the occasional wheelbarrow left overturned and caked in mud. At the north-east end, he found the vicarage. It was a tall house attached to the church by a gravel footpath and, though entirely new, built in the ecclesiastical style from dull, brown bricks. He entered its front garden via a wicker gate, and immediately saw two additional graves. Both had been recently dug and filled. By their neatly-engraved headstones, they contained the remains of Reverend Allgood and his ill-fated deacon, Arrowsmith. Yellow buds of marsh-marigold had started to appear on the two mounds of newly-turned earth.

  It made a pretty if rather melancholy sight; it seemed an inglorious end for two men charged with carrying through so grand a project.

  Craddock paid his respects, before glancing across the marshes and spotting the upper section of another house. It was about a mile distant, but he could make out a thatched roof, small square windows and the pale orange tint of rendered-clay walls. A wisp of smoke hung over its chimney. He regarded it briefly, then yanked the vicarage bell-pull. A jangling came from somewhere inside, but only silence followed. He waited two minutes, at the end of which he rejoined the path and strolled back to the cathedral’s west end. If Hendricks wasn’t at home, it seemed likely that he’d be in the church.

  On entering by the western door, Craddock was immediately struck by the difference between this cathedral and others he’d been in. More used to the modern perpendicular style, with its vast sense of space and towering vaults, he was caught out by St. Brae’s, whose shorter, fatter pillars supported a relatively low roof laid upon thick oak shingles and heavy cross-beams. Again, it bespoke pre-medieval England, reminding him of pictures he’d seen of Saxon long-halls. Aside from that, much else of the traditional church was present, or had been added by the renovators. A stone font, carved with Latin symbols, stood beside the door, while the nave – cross-shafted by morning light – was ranked with timber pews. A central aisle led to the pulpit, the altar and, behind that, a choir area screened off by a tall lattice.

  Craddock strode forwards, his boots clipping on the stone slabs. To the left and right of the altar were the entrances to the transepts, each one containing its own side-chapel complete with statues, murals and triptych. One particular picture-carving caught his eye. It was arrayed over the entrance to the north chapel, and depicted crude figures apparently triumphant with sword and axe; representations of what he assumed were Edward the Elder’s great victories over the Vikings at Tettenhall and Tempsford. Craddock’s classroom days were far behind him, but, courtesy of an enthusiastic master, he had once known a great deal about the early history of his country. Even now, he was vaguely aware from his old lessons that ‘the Elder’, the fiery son of Alfred the Great, had continued his father’s conquests, bringing much of eastern England’s captured land back under the Christian banner, from which it would never again be lost.

  Craddock looked in both chapels. Spiral stairways led up from each. He gazed upwards, and saw high galleries, where there’d probably be space for choristers, maybe even for the organ. But nowhere was there any sign of Curate Hendricks.

  Craddock almost called out, but now something stopped him – there was a chill in the air that owed to more than just February. Despite the handsome décor, there was eeriness here – something strange and intangible. It seemed altogether wrong that so fine a building should located so far from civilisation, and be so empty of worshippers. He proceeded across the altar, through the central aisle of the choir and into the ambulatory behind it. Various doors led off from this, with colourful tapestries suspended between them. He tried the first one and found it locked, which meant that sacred objects were stored in there; it was probably the sacristy. The second one opened to his touch, revealing a small, square room lined with cabinets. An exterior door was set in its far wall. There was also a washbowl and a headless mannequin with ornate robes draped on it. This was the vestry. Craddock looked it over and was about to leave, when he suddenly heard a creak.

  It wasn’t an especially loud creak, or even a drawn-out creak, but he heard it distinctly.

  Against the southern wall, sandwiched between the corner and a case of shelves stuffed with dog-eared hymnals, there was a wardrobe. Craddock saw that this was partly open, and that hanging limply out of the bottom of it was a human foot.

  He approached with caution. The foot wore a muddied shoe, and the small portion of trouser-leg visible above it was equally spattered. But there was no movement, no obvious tension; it wasn’t as if whoever this foot belonged to was trying to stay out of sight.

  Craddock drew the thirty-eight calibre Smith and Wesson revolver from under his greatcoat. It was oiled and clean, and fully loaded. Ordinarily, the British police service was unarmed, but Craddock had seen too many friends and colleagues knifed or beaten or even stamped to death by steel-shod clogs. He cocked the firearm, braced himself, then yanked the wardrobe door open.

  Curate Hendricks was inside, seated on a pile of vestments. He was slouched forwards, head-down, his pale hands limp over his knees like a pair of dead lilies. Craddock reached warily forwards, touching the lifeless neck to feel for the carotid artery – and with a desperate shout, Hendricks came wildly awake.

  “So everything here is alright, is it?” Craddock said coolly. “There’s nothing at all giving you cause for concern?”

  Hendricks looked up from where he hung his head over the basin. He wore a haggard expression and his hair hung in dripping strands. “You must think me the complete fool?”

  “Fear can make a man do many things that appear foolish,” Craddock replied. “I’ve seen it often before … mainly on the battlefield.”

  “On the battlefield, eh? I wish it was as simple as that.”

  “Do you want to tell me about it?”

  The curate dried his hands on a towel. “In short, I hear noises at night.”

  “Where?”

  “Here in the church. More particularly, in the crypt.”

  “Show me.”

  Hendricks pondered this, then appeared to steel himself and went out of the vestry, through the ambulatory, and back into the main body of the cathedral. The door to the crypt was in the south wall. It stood open, as did the barred gateway beyond it.

&nb
sp; “This would normally be closed and bolted,” he said, indicating the corroded mass of iron. “It needs to be replaced, as you can see. At present, it won’t fasten.”

  Craddock nodded, and they proceeded down a dank stair. At the bottom, Hendricks picked up an oil-lamp, lit it and turned up the flame. Its wavering glow showed catacomb-like chambers cut from solid rock. There were four in total, all connected at the centre. Their vaulted ceilings were low, to the point where the curate, who was about two inches taller than the major, had to stoop to pass under them. The air down there was damp and again rank with dust. No original tombs remained, but much rubbish from the renovation was on view: rusty tools scattered over the earthen floors, bags of cement-powder.

  “We found evidence that there’d actually been burials down here.” Hendricks spoke quietly, almost in a whisper, but there was still a sepulchral echo. “The trouble is that some of the ceiling had collapsed. The tombs were just rubble … pieces of bone, bits of sarcophagus. Nothing worth preserving.”

  “What’s through here?” Craddock asked, indicating a cleft in the wall of the east-most chamber. It stood at a slanted angle, and was four feet in height, and about two feet wide.

  “Part of the crypt they never got round to finishing,” Hendricks replied, making his way over and shining his light into the gap.

  Craddock peered in. He had a vague impression of a low, cave-like recess, rugged rock walls, rubble and debris on the floor. Somewhere inside it, water was dripping.

  “We examined it thoroughly on re-opening,” Hendricks added. “It’s must a hole. Whatever it was going to be, it wasn’t completed before the church was abandoned. Another mystery of St. Brae’s, I suppose.”

  “And these noises you’ve heard?”

  Hendricks chewed nervously on his lip. “Thumps. Scratchings. Incoherent whispers.”

  “Odd.”

  Hendricks gave an amused grin, as if this was the understatement of the decade, then made his way back up the steps. Craddock glanced once more around the undercroft, and followed.

  “Normally I take refuge in the vicarage,” Hendricks said, as they re-emerged into the nave. “Last night, I tried to screw my courage down and come and investigate properly, but I’m afraid it got too much for me. No sooner had I heard the first bark of demonic laughter than I took to my heels … dropped my lamp on the stairs, as you saw. I struggled my way through the dark ’til I ended up in the vestry. And that’s where I stayed. Locked away. I must finally have gone to sleep about six o’clock this morning.”

  “You fear ghosts rather than intruders?” Craddock asked him.

  “Who would intrude? Look at this place. We’re in the middle of nowhere.”

  “Granted. But someone came in here and killed Reverend Allgood and his deacon. There must have been a reason.”

  “Try as I may, I can’t disassociate the murders from these ghostly sounds.” Hendricks shuddered at the mere memory of them. His face was ash-pale. “That’s what terrifies me the most.”

  “You need to tell me everything, Hendricks,” Craddock said. “I won’t be shocked. On several occasions I’ve investigated crimes where the perpetrators appeared to be of supernatural origin.”

  Hendricks glanced round at him. “Appeared … or were?”

  “There’s no need to go into detail. But ask yourself this. Why do you think they sent me? I’m first and foremost a police officer … I investigate crime in all its routine forms. But, whether I like it or not, I’m also regarded as having a certain expertise.”

  A brief silence passed, and then Hendricks sighed. “In which case, I can tell you about the Spectre of St. Brae’s?”

  Side by side, they strode out through the great west door. At once, the sea-wind, thick with the scents of salt and loam, came at them over the bleak waste of the fens.

  “It’s supposed to roam these marshes,” Hendricks added, as they stood on the step.

  “All of them?” Craddock asked. As far as he was aware, the fens covered at least a hundred square-miles, maybe more.

  “Just the ones around here. The ones in the vicinity of the cathedral. No-one knows why … no-one even knows what it is for sure. It appears as a … well, something. It’s reputedly grotesque.”

  “Reputedly?”

  “No-one’s ever seen it and lived to tell the tale. At least, that’s the story.”

  Craddock considered. “And you think it may have been responsible for the deaths of your predecessors?”

  “Given the unusual circumstances of those deaths, don’t you?”

  “I wouldn’t dismiss it out of hand. But in the majority of murders I’ve investigated, the heinous act has been the work of mortal hands. It strikes me that this spectre might serve as a convenient smokescreen.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “A story to keep people away, a deterrent so to speak. In the case of your Reverend Allgood, it didn’t work, so sterner methods were employed.”

  Hendricks gave this some thought.

  “Is there any reason at all why someone might prefer St. Brae’s to be left a ruin?” Craddock wondered.

  “None. What purpose would that serve?”

  “If this cathedral is re-opened, it will attract visitors. Tourists as well as pilgrims. Won’t the peace of King’s Fen be disturbed?”

  Hendricks almost laughed. “With all respect, major, King’s Fen clings to a way of life that expired everywhere else long before our glorious Industrial Revolution even began. It could do with having its peace disturbed. It needs new commerce, new occupations.”

  “And does everyone round here share that opinion?”

  “The bulk of them don’t care. Like peasants throughout history, they accept whatever they are landed with as God’s will … whether it be to the benefit or the detriment.”

  Craddock strode to the southern corner of the cathedral. Hendricks followed him. From there, they could make out the distant thatched roof of the homestead the major had spied from the door to the vicarage.

  “Who lives over there?” he asked.

  “That’s Madam Godhigfu’s house,” Hendricks said. “She’s a local eccentric … a recluse. She might fit your bill were she thirty years younger. She’s quite elderly and infirm now. She’s also very respectable in her simple rustic way. I doubt she’d stoop to murder.”

  “All the same, I’d like to speak with her. As a potential witness, if nothing else.”

  “It’s quite a slog to get there. The path’s even worse than our causeway. You don’t want me to accompany you, do you?”

  “No.” Craddock was quite firm on that, but not because he was sparing the curate a stiff afternoon’s exercise. Because firstly because he didn’t want one potential witness to contaminate another; and secondly, and perhaps more importantly, because he had other plans for Hendricks.

  “I suggest you use the rest of today to get some sleep,” Craddock said. “You’ll need it. I intend to stay up tonight, to watch the crypt. And I will require your assistance for that.”

  Curate Hendricks hadn’t taken well to the notion that he would be spending the entire night next to the room that had caused him so much terror, but the thought that he’d have a solid fellow like Craddock at his shoulder was of some reassurance. After a brief discussion of plans, he withdrew to the vicarage and his bed, but not before generously sharing the cold luncheon left by his housekeeper.

  By two o’clock that afternoon, Craddock was plodding alone through the marshes. He headed east along narrow trails. A mist was rising over the meres and reed-beds. At one point, he came to the ruins of a windmill. The mist seemed to be spilling out from it, as if some monstrous machine inside the hollow shell was producing the vapour. The major was not given to credulousness, but fleetingly he was unnerved. Such was the atmosphere in this forlorn place that he supposed all sorts of hallucinations were possible. He hurried on without looking back.

  At length – at considerable length it seemed – he finally reached the c
ottage. This too stood utterly alone, the mist ebbing around it. By the look of the house, it was over a century old, and probably hadn’t seen a lick of paint since first constructed. The steep thatched roof looked damp and rotten. The orange walls, made from blocks of clay and straw cast in moulds, leaned so alarmingly that most of the small windows were distorted in their frames. The front entrance had such a crazy angle that it was difficult to see how the door could either be opened or closed. To one side of the cottage, a low wall hemmed a small garden, which had been given over entirely to vegetables. A tall woman was working in this, using a fork to turn the black, peaty soil.

  “Hello there,” Craddock said.

  The woman glanced up. Immediately, she reminded him of the pit-brow lasses he’d seen back in the coalfields of Lancashire. She had a strong but wizened face, and wore a woolen shawl and layers of darned, patched skirts over thick stockings and heavy work-boots. Dirty whitish locks hung from under her headscarf. Her hands were brown and knotted, as though cut from wood. Old scars crossed and re-crossed them. She seemed surprised to see him – to see anyone in fact – but evidently she wasn’t intimidated.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked curtly

  “I’m looking for Madam Godhigfu.”

  “And what might your business be?”

  “I’ll discuss that with your mistress, if you don’t mind.”