by Paul Finch
Physical contact with him is said to be death. One touch from his cursed finger, and human flesh withers like fruit on the vine.
Jemima Corelli was doing just that. The shotgun clattered to the floor, her backbone slowly arched as she leaned sideways. Then she crumpled down, like something deflated, like a sack of wine punctured. She was dead before she landed, the eyes rolled white in a face as pale and bloodless as marble.
A second passed, and the thing turned towards Craddock.
The major was too agonised from the fight to try to flee, too exhausted to make any sudden move. Above all, of course, he was paralysed with fear. Even as it shuffled towards him, he hunkered down behind Hereward’s coffin, expecting nothing but destruction. So certain of this was he, that he lay curled like a foetus, his eyes tightly closed – for several moments longer than he might have expected to.
When he finally found the courage to open his eyes again, he was astounded to see that he was alone in the crypt, apart from the bodies of Jemima Corelli and her two henchmen. He sat up and spotted the apparition again, though now it was leaving. He glimpsed it only from behind, as it climbed the stair.
Craddock clambered to his feet, intent on following. Immediately, he noticed that the coffin now lay empty. At first this hardly registered with him, but then it struck home forcefully. He peered into the bare crate for several moments, before staggering across the crypt with renewed energy. When he re-emerged into the church, he again caught only a glimpse of the thing as it passed out through the great west door, though on this occasion he saw that it was carrying something – a bundle of crumbling objects, which it clutched to its pigeon-chest with something like devotion.
Still Craddock wanted to follow, but first he had to check on Hendricks, who lay slumped in the central aisle. At first, he feared the curate was dead, but a light breathing revealed that he was only in a swoon. Evidently, he too had set eyes on the ghastly visitant, and he too had been spared.
Craddock finally stumbled outside into the frozen air. There was no indication now which way the thing might have gone. He hobbled down to the edge of the morass. From this point, even in daylight, it would be anyone’s guess which route it might have taken. But that was suddenly the least of Craddock’s problems.
“You should’ve cleared out while you had the chance,” a cold voice said. “Either that or finished me off.”
Craddock looked round. Charnwood was standing behind him, grinning like an ape. He wasn’t too steady on his feet, and blood streaked the side of his face from his gashed temple, but his eyes were bright with rage, and in his right hand he clasped a thick-bladed knife of terrifying size and sharpness. It looked as though it might normally be used to butcher hogs.
“Normally, I don’t polish folks off unless I’m being paid to,” he said. “But in your case … it’s on the house.”
As he drew the knife back to strike, Craddock flinched instinctively away, arms up to defend himself. But the attack never came.
Craddock glanced up, puzzled.
Charnwood held his posture rigidly for a moment, then staggered forwards a step. His jaw dropped and a glutinous river of blood came bubbling from his mouth. His glassy eyes transfixed Craddock as though he couldn’t understand what was happening to him. Then he toppled slowly over, dropping the knife in the process. A quivering shaft, cut from black ash, stood upright in the middle of his back. A half a yard behind that stood Madam Godhigfu, wrapped and shawled against the chill, but shivering from the effort of the mighty thrust she had just made.
“ ‘Antiquated pig-sticker’ were the words I believe you used,” she said with a raised eyebrow.
“Well … you certainly stuck a pig with it.”
A few minutes later they’d ventured several yards into the fens, but under cover of night it was too risky even for Madam Godhigfu to go farther. The major told her everything, and, though it by turns thrilled, mortified and enthused her, she knew the bogs well enough not to risk life and limb chasing something that simply would not be caught. So they stood there, listening to the breathy muttering of the wetlands: the ploppings, the drippings, the call of a lonesome redshank – but no splashing, no plunging, no tell-tale noise of a fugitive trying to slough his way off to freedom.
“There can be no freedom for him,” Madam Godhigfu finally said. “And once again, the Saxon Church is despoiled. The last true treasure of the English has to make its way to a new, safer resting place.”
Craddock nodded. “Yes … but it must be some consolation that, on this occasion at least, the invaders were beaten.”
SHADOWS IN THE RAFTERS
Bingham’s Gazeteer of Medical Science (winter edition) …
9(i) Phoneutria envenoming affects the human body in classic neuro-toxic fashion, meaning that the main object of its attack is the central nervous system. This will result in immediate and severe pain – both locally and centrally, a feverish condition, heavy, prolonged sweating, paralysis of limbs and eventual neurogenic shock, which in children and younger adults may lead to death.
It was pay-night, so the Old Dog beer-house was filled to its outer doors.
Pipe-smoke hung heavy and in either room drinking men shouted and jostled each other. The colliers were there in force with their sooty clothes and coal-grained faces, alongside mill-workers decked in clots of cotton, and foundry-men fresh from shift, their faces still bearing the ruddy blotches of spark and flash-burn. There was a clatter of hobnailed boots on floorboards, an endless ‘clinking’ as wages changed hands. Roars of laughter rose to the brown-stained ceiling; on one hand English miners called shame on Big Alex McDonald for siding with the Tory peer Elcho, while the Scots and Irish defended their leader’s drive for safety in the pits. By normal standards, it was good-natured, though as always there was pushing and shoving. Here and there, a woman might appear, shawled and nervous and peeping around shyly for the husband she hadn’t been able to waylay on the door; the resulting fracas when she found him only added to the general fray.
At roughly nine o’clock that night, a man caped in black, wearing a tall black helmet, came soundlessly in. He was broad and pink-faced, with a great set of whiskers and a graven aspect that brooked no foolery. Slowly, bit by bit, the conversation died; the ribald singing ceased. The sergeant of police surveyed the throng, and smiled thinly. There were many in there whose heads he’d once or twice broken, whose wrists he’d clapped in iron, others still who might yet expect it. Nothing killed the spirit of revelry like a guilty conscience.
They watched silently as he strolled among them. The only sound was the scrape of his soles, the creak of his weight on the timbers. But on this occasion, no matter so mundane as defaulting on fine or hammering on wife was of concern to Sergeant Padraig Rafferty. For once his was a more deadly business, and soon he came to the crux of it. A tall fellow in a heavy coat and slouch-brimmed bowler stood alone in a corner, his back turned, both hands jammed into his pockets. A brimming tankard stood on a shelf beside him, but he made no effort to drink. The sergeant trod closer, an alleyway clearing among the men.
“Thomas Childs,” Rafferty said in his low Munster brogue. “Come on now, Thomas lad … let’s be going quietly.”
Even as he spoke, he saw the suspect’s shoulders tensing.
“Easy now, Thomas. I’m unarmed … and that’s the way it should be, isn’t it?”
In fact, Rafferty wasn’t unarmed. He’d already drawn his thick blackthorn staff, and held it behind his back – invisible to Childs, but not to those friends of his who were scattered about the room. All at once, things began to happen.
“Bugger’s lying, Tom!” someone shouted. Hands were laid on Rafferty from either side, which surprised him despite his wide experience. As for Childs – he tore loose from his corner like a tiger, and barged his way across the room, sending men and boys flying. In a second, he’d vaulted the counter and was out through the tap-room.
Rafferty shook himself free, pulled his whistle from its chain and blew a
single blast. More hands grabbed at him as he fought his way through, but the felon was already in the yard at the rear of the building, his hot breath blowing white in the autumn air.
Briefly, Childs halted, weighing his options. A glance down the entry revealed another constable, this one a rotund figure, huffing and puffing his way forwards, entirely blocking the passage. A furious shouting could be heard from inside. Childs opted for the rear wall, stacking some empty crates, scaling them, swinging his lanky body over the topmost bricks and dropping several feet into the rubble-filled alley behind. He was not a young man, and the impact of his weight on the slippery cobbles sent spasms through his ankles. Gasping, he fell to one side – and only then did he realise that someone else was standing close by.
Glancing up, Childs saw a trim figure in a topper and greatcoat. It was too dark to see any detail, but there was something about the figure’s casual pose that gave its identity away.
“You’ll not be taking me in, major!” Childs snarled, dragging out his flintlock.
Before he’d it primed however, a stick came smartly down and struck it from his grasp.
“Damn you!” he swore, thrusting stung fingers into his mouth.
He leapt to his feet, only for a gloved fist to catch him on the jaw. Childs’s world swam. There was a shrill swish of air, and the stick came down again, this time cracking him on the crown. With a sigh, he crumpled into unconsciousness.
Several moments later, a handful of constables melted out of the shadows, panting. One held up a lantern, his face red and sweaty. “Reckon … reckon you got him, sir.”
Major Craddock nudged the fallen man with his boot. “Bring him along. When he comes round, tell him he’s arrested of highway robbery.”
Major Craddock watched the prisoner for almost a minute without saying anything. The interview-room was dank and cold, condensation glistening on its white-tiled walls. Despite the chill, the police chief had stripped down to his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, and was sitting idly at the table, smoking a fat cigar. The prisoner shifted uncomfortably, but the manacles holding his wrists and ankles gave him little room. His eyes followed the cigar closely, his lips moistening. Craddock noted this, but ignored it, blowing out extravagant plumes of fragrant smoke.
“How long have you been out of the colours?” he eventually asked.
“Nine years,” came Childs’s surly reply.
“Were you in the Crimea?”
Childs nodded. “I was demobbed in ’58.”
Craddock sat back to consider. Though he too was a war veteran, albeit it from an earlier age, they couldn’t have been more different in appearance. Craddock was trim for a fifty-six year old, and still reasonably fit. His white hair and white moustache were elegant rather than ‘aged’, his lush side-locks razored sharp. Childs, on the other hand, had gone badly to seed. Though younger by ten years, his jaw was unshaved, his hair a scraggy mess. In terms of pallor, his was the sickly milk-gray of the long-serving coal-facer, while his physique, though once strong, had now wasted. He gazed at his captor with bloodshot eyes ringed with black grit. On top of his cranium, a sticky patch of crimson hair revealed the spot where he’d been struck. It was not Major Craddock’s custom to let wounds go untreated, even minor ones like this, but occasionally the situation required harsher methods.
He blew out another stream of smoke. “So … you’ve known discipline in your life?”
Childs snorted. “Care to strip my back and look at the evidence?”
“The evidence of today is all to the contrary.”
“I’ve already told you … since the strike, it’s been hard to make ends meet. I had to put bread on the table for the bairns?”
“And you thought the best way to do that was to rob a coach?”
“Aye.”
“Even though you don’t own a horse?”
“It’s a steep road, Farm Lane,” Childs said. “I knew any vehicle passing would be going at a crawl.”
Craddock sniffed. “Which company were you with in your army days?”
“What’s does that matter? I’m no deserter, if that’s what you mean!”
“Which company?”
“11th Hussars.”
“I see. Light-horse. You therefore have some understanding of back-country warfare … stealth, ambush, so to speak?”
Childs stared at him, bewildered but wary. “What former cavalryman doesn’t?”
“Quite. So … do you take me for a complete idiot?”
“I don’t understand you.”
Craddock leaned forwards. “You step onto the queen’s highway with a flintlock pistol in your hand … a relic of a bygone age if ever I’ve seen one, and expect to mount a successful raid on the next vehicle which happens along? Surely knowing that any coachman worth his salt would have ridden you down! Surely aware that the best you could probably hope to stop was an ox-cart laden with lettuces!”
“Reverend Pettigrew’s carriage stopped,” Childs said.
Craddock nodded. “Which was very fortunate, was it not? And very odd.”
“Perhaps he was taken by surprise?”
“I don’t doubt it. And shall I tell you why … because a man he knew very well was attempting to hold him up, without making any effort to cover his face.”
“Desperate times breed desperate measures, major.”
“But not utter foolishness. Not for a former Hussar who knows the ways of stealth and ambush.”
“I told you,” Childs insisted, “the strike hit us bad. The children cry because they’re hungry.”
“Then why not rob a house? Or wait on some quiet road to accost a pedestrian?”
Childs grinned. “Are you trying to put ideas in my head, major?”
“I’m trying to fathom out why you’re lying to me.”
“I’ve confessed to the crime, what more do you want?”
“Oh … the truth. Why did you really stop Reverend Pettigrew’s chaise?”
“Robbery.”
“Without an escape plan? With no concern as to what might happen when the victim later identified you?”
The prisoner shrugged.
“Do you know what I think, Childs?” Craddock said. “I think robbery was the last thing on your mind when you went up Farm Lane. Do you know why? Because it leads only to Top Lock. There’s scarcely enough traffic on weekdays, but on a Sunday afternoon …”
“I’m a bad thief, what can I say?”
Craddock ignored the comment. “This suggests to me that you weren’t there just to stop any old vehicle, but were after something specific. And the fact you didn’t wear a scarf over your face suggests something else … namely that you wanted the person who’d be driving this specific vehicle to know it was you.”
“And why would I do that?”
Craddock stubbed his cigar on the table, and rose to his feet. “It could be you had business with him, and there was no point pretending you were someone else. On the other hand, it could be that you had it in mind this gentleman would never have any business with anybody else ever again.”
Childs shook his head. “I’ve said all I’m saying. You can beat me if you want, but you won’t get nothing else.”
Craddock opened the room’s heavy steel door. “I don’t intend to beat you, Childs … that would be crude. But I’ll leave you with this thought. As a thief, you’ll go to prison. But Home Secretary Grey is not endlessly merciful. If it comes out you went up Farm Lane not to steal but to murder, there’s no guarantee you won’t get the rope.”
The door clanged shut behind him.
(ii) Lycosa is often mistaken as a benign genus, when in fact nothing could be further from the truth. While Lycosa envenoming may not wreak the same catastrophic effects upon the human body as Phoneutria or Latrodectus, unsightly ulceration of the flesh is common, alongside a localised ‘stinging, prickling’ sensation, which will grow steadily in intensity until virtually unbearable.
Darkness was falling as Major Craddock ma
de his way upstairs, casting deep shadows in the dingy passages of the police barracks. His private office was on the top floor; a tall, narrow room, made narrower still by bookshelves laden with leather-bound tomes, which covered every wall. Since his appointment as chief officer of police, fifteen years earlier, Craddock had made it his business to study every aspect of the convoluted and often self-contradictory English legal system. This had been job enough on his appointment back in 1850, especially in a teeming industrial borough like Wigan, where every social problem of the age could be found a dozen times over in each sooty back-street, but now – in the wake of the reform movement, with its various factory acts and poor laws – there was a wealth of new material to be assimilated. He kept on top of it as much as his busy schedule would allow, though at times like this the more pressing business of criminal investigation occupied him most.
He lit another cigar as he backed into his office, greatcoat folded over one arm. Inspector Jack Munro, formerly Captain John Munro of the 14th Light Dragoons, and Craddock’s direct underling for nearly three decades, was already in there. He was seated by the cluttered desk, leafing through a sheaf of documents.
“The Reverend Pettigrew?” Munro said. “Isn’t he that missionary chap who moved into the old vicarage up at Top Lock?”
Craddock hung his topper and greatcoat on the rack, and slid around the desk. “I believe he was a missionary. Though good God, I wouldn’t like him to try to save my soul. I’ve heard one of his sermons. The only thing missing was a curtain of hell-fire.”
Munro nodded, and continued to read the crime-report. Craddock opened a secret compartment in the lower section of his desk, taking out a bottle of malt whisky and two dusty glasses. He checked the chalk-marked level, then poured out two generous tots, pushing one over to Munro.
“This bodyguard,” the inspector said, “the one who chased Childs off. Who is he?”