Craddock by Neil Jackson, Paul Finch Read Free Book Online

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