Craddock by Neil Jackson, Paul Finch Read Free Book Online Page A

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