Craddock Read Online Free PDF

laboriously round, a hint of space appearing under the folds of rancid cloth, a space in which at any moment he’d see a face. God alone knew what kind of face, but a face that would explain all.
    The major felt his skin crawl. His horse was now jerking, stamping. The figure was looking up slowly. Any second, any second he’d see it – and then the scream, the colossal, ear-shattering scream, which almost threw Major Craddock from his saddle.
    His horse bolted, throwing itself about, hurling him from side to side, leaping and bucking. It took every inch of his mastery to control it, and all the while, on the tracks above, the Manchester Express blasted thunderously past, whistle shrieking, motion clanking, carriage after carriage roaring along the metals in deafening cacophony.
    And then, just as quickly, it had gone, a swirl of steam behind it.
    Cursing aloud, Craddock yanked back the reins and wheeled his animal about.
    He was alone.
    Of the cowled figure, there was no trace.
    Angrily, the major dismounted and scrambled forward, kicking his way through frosted brambles. But among the clutter beside the up-ended coal truck, there wasn’t a sign anyone had been there. Except, perhaps, for the remnants of a very old fire – a few sticks of white-charred bone. Whether human or animal, he couldn’t tell, but when he stirred them with his crop, they crumbled away to powder, eddying in the breeze.
     
    Two days later, the killer struck again.
    Marion Mary Rourke died in exactly the same manner as James O’Hare and Kathleen McConnolly; strangled with such force that her neck broke. She was found among the snowy headstones in St. Patrick’s churchyard, Scholes. She had clearly been thrown from the adjoining street, because shreds of her skirt and shawl were snagged on the tips of the spiked railings.
    By trade she’d been a pit-brow worker, and thus a sturdy woman. Though reportedly drunk and tottering on the night she was attacked, the evidence suggested that Mrs. Rourke had put up a fight. The fact that one of her clogs was still clutched in her right hand indicated she had been defending herself. Apparently that had not been enough, for the assailant had snapped her right wrist the way a normal person might snap a twig. Perhaps this show of defiance had angered him, hence the hurling of her body over the high churchyard fence.
    Whichever, this third killing in the series differed from the others in that the victim was well known and well liked. The morning the body was discovered by the sexton, a large and unruly crowd began to gather, despite the blizzarding snow. There were shouts and jeers when Major Craddock arrived. One constable had his helmet pushed off. Arrests were made. There were scuffles. Despite the parish priest’s attempts to calm them, the local population was quickly assuming the dimensions of mob. A local cretin, Simple Saemus, was produced. He was slapped, shoved, pushed over into the slush and straw of the gutter. Someone hit him with an iron bar, splitting his eyebrow. Constables Butterfield and McDougal had to draw their staffs and charge, in order to rescue him.
    Bloodied and gibbering, the poor wretch was led away to safety, but not before he grabbed at Major Craddock’s coat. The police chief turned to look at him.
    “ T’wunt me, boss, t’wun’t,” the vagrant stammered. “T’wuz a young un see, t’wuz a young ‘un. Saw ‘un wi’ me own eyes, did. T’wuz a young ‘un.”
    Craddock stared, saying nothing.
    Saemus became frantic. “T’wuz a young ‘un! All dressed up, he was, like a monk u’ Benedick. Danced a jig, too. T’wuz a young un. Can’t trust young ‘uns. Can’t trust any ‘un.”
    Slowly, Craddock took the man’s claw and disentangled it from the lapel of his coat. A bloody print remained. The major turned to Constable Duckworth.
    “ Take this fellow to the barrack. Get him some dry clothes and hot tea. And clean his eye up. Keep him there until I get a chance to