Craddock

by Paul Finch

  The closer Major Craddock drew to the old vicarage, the more it seemed to suit the person who dwelled there. ‘Darkness’ and ‘disintegration’ were two words that sprang immediately to mind. The structure had distorted through underground sinkage, so its lintels were lop-sided, the bricks below its bay windows had bellied outwards, and many of its stained-glass panes had cracked or fallen loose. A massive growth of ivy up the building’s gable-wall looked repulsive rather than pretty; casements were blocked by it, gutters infested. It hung from the eaves in lank green tendrils.

  Before knocking on the heavy front door, Craddock glanced back along the stone-flagged path. His horse was tied up at the gatepost, and beside it stood Krueger, watching intently. The fellow apparently had no desire to come inside.

  Only after Craddock had swung the knocker several times, did anyone answer. It was a woman, small and thin, with a pinched white face and wearing a black muslin dress, which did nothing for her slight figure. Recognising her as Martha Pettigrew, he took off his topper and introduced himself. She stood there, never once saying a word, and, a few seconds later, still without speaking, admitted him to the house and led him into a maze of dank, musty passages. Everywhere, the lamps were turned low, the windows curtained. What little light there was revealed sparse, shabby furniture, and a carpet that was worn to threads. Mrs. Pettigrew glided through it like a shadow, her footfalls scarcely making a sound. After showing him into a chilly reading-room, she withdrew just as quietly, just as unobtrusively.

  The reverend gentleman was present at a lectern, leafing through what appeared to be a book of psalms. Beside him, the grate was filled with cold ashes; there was only one chair in there – a canvas-covered armchair, which looked damp. Pettigrew was a tall, lean man, with a ravaged face and a powerful gaze. Grey hanks of side-whiskers hung from either cheek. His sermons were entirely as unforgiving as his appearance; the major had only heard one, and remembered it being filled with references to brimstone and damnation.

  “Major Craddock,” the minister said in his bass gravel-voice. “I trust you’re here to inform me that the hooligan Childs has been apprehended and now faces the full hand of the law?”

  “That’s one of the things I’ve come to speak to you about, sir, yes. Perhaps you could just remind me of the circumstances surrounding the incident?”

  Pettigrew affected a look of bewilderment, as if this was surely now an irrelevance. “Your inspector took full notes, did he not? Well, the facts are simple. That scoundrel Childs stepped out into the road and called my carriage to halt. Whereupon, he produced a firearm.”

  “At which point, as I understand,” Craddock said, “your Mr. Krueger also produced a firearm?”

  Pettigrew’s eyes widened further. “Would you have had me shot?”

  “Of course not, sir. But … neither would I have had you supervise the shooting of somebody else.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand ...”

  “I keep a register in my office of every gentleman in the borough who owns a firearm, or uses one in his day-to-day business. Most of them, as you probably imagine, are on the farms or on the estates as keepers. Unfortunately, and rather worryingly, your Mr. Krueger is not on that list.”

  Pettigrew’s face had reddened. “Mr. Krueger is a native of the Transvaal. It’s his habit to go armed.”

  “Then it’s a habit he must break.”

  “Are you giving me instructions, sir?”

  Pettigrew’s voice had risen to a shout, but Craddock was not intimidated. “Yes,” he replied, “which I trust you will relay to your man, Krueger.”

  “How dare you!”

  “I dare because I am chief officer of police in this town … and I will not have anyone threatening the peace here, no matter how God-fearing he or his master might be.”

  Pettigrew slammed his psalm book closed. “I shall write to your superiors!”

  “Do as you wish. In the meantime, disarm your man … or I will do it for you.” Craddock replaced his hat. “Good day.”

  He turned and strode out into the passage, but Pettigrew followed, his tall frame filling the doorway.

  “I suspect you are a man who has very little knowledge of the wider world, major,” he scoffed, “being, as you are, chief officer of police in this poor, petty, polluted backwater.”

  The major turned to look at him, but the reverend’s face lay in deepest shadow.

  “In my ten years in the African bush, I came face to face with the rawest and most brutal of human emotions,” Pettigrew added. “In a barbarous land, I stood tall against barbaric men and beasts. What that I buried a son … a child no less? It didn’t distract me from my duty.”

  “Reverend Pettigrew,” Craddock replied, “in my thirty years on the plains and mountains of the North West frontier, during which time I was forced to endure the horrors of battle at Ramnagar, Chillianwalla and Goojerat, I too faced the worst of human emotions. What that I had to bury my wife … and over four thousand of my men? It didn’t distract me from my duty.” He nodded curtly. “Neither will it distract me now.”

  (iv) Pamphobeteus and Grammostola will lead initially to hypersensitive itching of the skin, followed by nasal blockage, dyspnea, acute bronchospasms and fits of violent and unstoppable coughing. Eyes may run and ache, and there will be a general tenderizing of orifices. Intense bleeding is not uncommon. Occasionally, victims have been known to choke themselves to death; this outcome is by no means certain, but it is distinctly possible.

  When Major Craddock returned to the police barrack later that day, he found the custody area in uproar. Five or six constables, most in plain clothes, were wrestling with nearly twenty juveniles, all ragged and thin but swearing volubly and shouting their rights. These were the market pickpockets, as villainous a bunch of urchins as the town could supply, a stinking, unwashed rabble, who, between them, accounted for perhaps fifty per cent of the average day’s thieving. Even now, as they were vigorously searched, a variety of wallets, watches and handkerchiefs were being laid on the charge-table.

  The bulk of the children were boys, though there was one girl present, and she stood out clearly, being taller than most and with long straggles of dirty blonde hair. She was perhaps twelve years old, but well-proportioned for all that; she might even have been pretty had her attire not consisted of a grubby, torn petticoat, a flea-infested shawl and mud-caked boots which were several sizes too large.

  “Laura McKye,” said Craddock. “Still selling yourself for a farthing?”

  The girl struck a lewd pose. “A bargain, I calls it.”

  Craddock shook his head. “I don’t know what I call it. You ever heard of clap, Laura? Syphilis?”

  “There are worse things.”

  “Well you’d know, if anyone would.” He turned to Sergeant Rafferty, who was seated behind the table, attempting to list the prisoners’ names and particulars. “What exactly have we got?”

  “Nineteen in all, sir. Every one caught red-handed.”

  Craddock nodded. “Usual faces, I see. Well … this time it’s the beak for them.” At that moment, he noted two boys who seemed different from the others. They stood against the wall and clung nervously together, the older one trying to calm the younger. Both had had their hair shorn to bristles, and wore parish smocks and clogs. Craddock pointed them out. “Who are those two?”

  “New to the game, I reckon, sir,” Rafferty said. “Workhouse runaways. Say they don’t enjoy it there one bit.”

  “Well, that’s something you don’t hear every day.” With weary familiarity, Craddock noted the boys’ pipe-stick limbs and emaciated ribs. “Sergeant Repton?”

  Sergeant Repton, still in plain dress from the morning’s raid, ambled forwards.

  “Those two,” Craddock said quietly. “Separate them from the rest. Leather them, then let them go.”

  The sergeant nodded. “Back to the workhouse, sir?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “They’ll have another
leathering once they get there.”

  Craddock glanced at him. “Well in that case, you must take them to your house. They can live with you.”

  “How’s that, sir?”

  “Just take them back where they came from, Repton!”

  “Sir.” The sergeant moved away.

  “And Repton …”

  He glanced back.

  “The leathering … go easy.”

  Repton nodded.

  Inspector Munro now appeared from the adjoining office.

  “Good morning’s work, sir,” he said. “So you got back from Top Lock uneaten.”

  Craddock related what he’d learned from William Childs. Behind him, meanwhile, the shouts and arguments had reached a new pitch of intensity. Suddenly, there were shrieks and cries. Craddock and Munro glanced around – and saw the workhouse runaways clinging together all the harder, refusing to be led off by Repton.

  “We ain’t goin’, we’re not!” the older one shouted. “We’re staying wi’ t’others …”

  “God’s sake, lad, you’re being let off!” the sergeant said.

  Now Laura McKye intervened, throwing her arms round the two children in sisterly fashion, trying to calm them. “It ain’t them as is doing it, I told you,” she said.

  “Who else then?” asked the younger runaway.

  “We’ll tell the beak what you’re about, we will,” said the older, pointing at Repton.

  Craddock strode forwards. “What’s the problem here?”

  The rest of the young prisoners had fallen silent. Worried, uncertain glances passed between them. The major looked at Repton, who shrugged. Oddly, it was Laura McKye who spoke up.

  “They won’t listen to me, Major Craddock. They reckon it’s you peelers as is doing away wi’ us.”

  “Doing away with you? What are you talking about?”

  She turned to the runaways. “Told you … he doesn’t even know.”

  “He’s making that up,” the elder one hissed back.

  “Laura McKye!” Craddock snapped. “Step away from those two. In fact …” he indicated the door behind the charge-table, “through there, now!”

  The girl hesitated to go. For the first time, a look of bewilderment crossed her smudged features.

  “It’s just an office,” Craddock said, and to prove the point, he led the way.

  Once in there, seeing that he’d spoken the truth, she relaxed a little. Craddock bade her sit in the armchair by the fire, then beckoned Munro in and told him to close the door.

  “Now,” Craddock said, “what’s this nonsense?”

  She sniffed, began twining her fingers in the ribbons at the front of her petticoat. “Some of us … ain’t round no more.”

  The officers glanced at each other.

  “You mean they’re dead?” Craddock asked.

  She shrugged. “Disappeared, like.”

  “Arrested?” Munro said. “ Moved on?”

  She gave a pitying cackle. “Moved on? … Lord ‘elp us! The likes of us? With winter coming?”

  “How many of you have disappeared?” Craddock asked.

  She tried to think. “Well … Charlie Atkins, Ned Turley, Godfrey Simple … how many’s that? Three. More ‘n’ that, though. Ten, eleven perhaps …”

  “Eleven?” said Craddock with disbelief.

  It was appalling to him that as many as eleven children could disappear and nobody notice their absence, yet it was quite easy to believe. This was the way society had gone in the glorious age of Empire.

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Munro asked in a low voice.

  Craddock nodded. “Fred Childs.”

  “Sir, these urchins … a lot of them sleep under the canal bridges at night. And the canal tow-path’s probably the quickest way to and from Top Lock.”

  “Then there’s that shadow,” Laura added.

  Craddock glanced at her. “What shadow?”

  “That shadow what comes scuttling after us of a night. Fair frightens us to death, it does.”

  “Scuttling?” Munro said.

  “Yeah. Never seen it proper, but you hear it quite a lot. Of a night, like I say.”

  At first, neither officer could speak. Munro was thoroughly confused, but Craddock could only think of one thing: that crazy pitter-patter he’d heard in the ruins at Top Lock – like something walking on more than two feet.

  “Sergeant Rafferty!” he bellowed.

  Rafferty appeared at the door. “Sir?”

  “Take this young lady to the mess, and give her something to eat and drink. While you’re at it, take a full statement from her.” He turned to the girl. “Laura … you will tell Sergeant Rafferty everything you’ve told me, and more. Give him the names of all your friends who’ve disappeared.”

  Rafferty was puzzled. “What about the other pickpockets, sir?”

  “Holding-cells, for the time being. I’ve a horrible feeling we’ve bigger fish to fry.”

  Rafferty stuck his pencil into his pocket, and led Laura from the room.

  “There’s also the matter of Tom Childs,” Munro said. “He’s been in custody a day and a night now, without charge.”

  Craddock sat down to think. “If I charge him with highway robbery, Jack, you know as well as I do, he’ll get fifteen years hard labour. At his age, that’s a death sentence.”

  “We can’t hang onto him indefinitely.”

  “I don’t intend to hang onto him indefinitely. But I’m certainly not releasing him yet.”

  Twenty minutes later, Craddock and Munro were in the doorway to the mess-hall, watching Laura McKye wolf down some bread and butter, and drink noisily from a jug of milk. Rafferty sat on the bench beside her, scribbling details in his pocket-book.

  “Do you think …” Craddock began quietly, “do you think the loss of a man’s child could unhinge him to such a degree …”

  Munro glanced round. “You don’t suspect the Reverend Pettigrew?”

  “Tom Childs does. At least … he suspects Krueger.”

  “That doesn’t necessarily implicate the master.”

  “You haven’t been up there. The servant was too frightened to enter the house, the wife goes about like a wraith … she won’t even speak.” As if he’d suddenly reached a decision, he stepped forwards. “Laura McKye!”

  The girl glanced up.

  “Laura McKye … I have a proposition for you, which might just mean that this morning’s arrests can be put behind us …”

  Craddock pulled the drape aside on the carriage window. She’d only been gone a short while, but Laura already made a solitary figure as she trudged up the slope of broken slag to the distant ruins of the Top Lock colliery. Overhead, the dark clouds of late afternoon were roiling. There was no rain yet, but a distinctly damp chill had set in.

  The very thought of going alone to the derelict site had terrified the girl, and it had taken the major some time to persuade her that help would never be more than a shout away. So fearsome was Top Lock’s reputation among the street-children that the promise she and her fellow pickpockets would be released without charge – on this occasion – had been of restricted bargaining value. Only when Craddock had solemnly informed her that this might be their only chance to find out where the missing youngsters had vanished to, had she finally, warily, consented. It was interesting and perhaps unexpected to note that her concern for her friends was stronger than her concern for herself.

  “She’s a brave one,” he said under his breath.

  Munro was less comfortable. “Sir … with all respect, this is more than a high-risk policy.”

  “What choice do we have, Jack?”

  “But if either one of those men should attack the girl?”

  “We arrest them. And that’s the object. As things are, we’ve nothing to hold them with, no grounds to search … we must try to lure them out.”

  Munro nodded curtly, as if he knew this already but was unhappy with it. He opened the carriage door and clambered out.
“Let’s make sure we don’t lose sight of her.”

  Craddock followed him. Sergeant Rafferty was on the driver’s bench. Behind him, on the roof, perched constables Coogan and Butterfield.

  “Sergeant Rafferty,” Cradodck said, “you will stay here. Bring the carriage up should I signal you. You two … go south to Kirkless Hall, and work your way north along the canal. Comb the entire eastern edge of the Lock, and stay alert. Is that understood?”

  Coogan and Butterfield trooped away.

  Craddock turned to Munro. “Shall we go?”

  Munro was still unsure. “Do you think we’ve brought enough men?”

  Craddock struck off up the slope, stick in hand. “We can’t neglect the rest of the township on a hunch, Jack. Come now, we mustn’t dally.”

  They walked over increasingly rough and rugged terrain. Most of the colliery tip was a blasted, semi-volcanic wilderness, largely comprised of soft clinker, which here and there gave though to deep sink-holes. There were also crevices in the ground, from which sulphurous fumes emerged. Occasionally, the brow fell away entirely into perilous gullies dense with rank vegetation, or down towards the flashes – silent, yellow lagoons, infamously toxic and reputedly bottomless. Way ahead meanwhile, the girl was now a distant ghost on the outskirts of the colliery buildings.