dark?”
Ryland shook his head. “My chaps have it surrounded. Even at high tide, the water only gets to a foot or so out there, so we’ve been able to keep a full watch on it all day and all evening. No sign of him at all, thus far.”
Inspector Munro now stepped forwards. He was younger than Craddock, but a stout, stocky chap with a reddish-gray moustache and the gritty, sombre features of the time-served police officer. “You keep saying ‘him’, captain? But there were two of them. Burnwood sprang a known felon from custody … that’s why we’re pursuing him. Our last information was that they were travelling together.”
Ryland seemed concerned about this. “Yes, well it’s rather confusing, I’m afraid. There were two of them, that’s certain. But my men who gave chase felt sure that one of the two men was the other one’s captive.”
Craddock and Munro looked nonplussed.
“ This felon who got sprung?” Ryland asked. “What’s his name again?”
“ Nethercot. Joseph Nethercot.”
“ He’s an older man, I assume?”
“ He’s in his early sixties,” Munro said. “But he was being held on charges of assaulting young girls. He’s a vicious old goat. The magistrates were due to convene tomorrow morning, just to hear this case.”
Ryland considered this as he filched a cheroot from inside his tunic, stuck it between his lips and put a match to it. “Vicious old goat he may be …” he puffed smoke, “but according to my chaps, he was being dragged along by the other fellow, kicked, punched, generally treated like a prisoner.”
The three policemen could only stare at each other, perplexed.
“ What is there to know about this George Burnwood?” Ryland asked.
“ He shot two of my constables, killing one and seriously wounding the other,” Craddock said.
“ And this was while he was attempting to free this character, Nethercot?”
“ That’s correct.” The major paled with anger just recalling the incident. “He simply walked into the police office and opened fire. My desk-clerk, a young man with a wife and child, was killed instantly. Burnwood then forced my custody-officer to open the cell door, after which he fired a single shot into his back. Fortunately, this victim survived, but it wasn’t through any effort on Burnwood’s part.”
“ You’re certain it’s who you think it is?” Ryland asked. “Burnwood, I mean?”
Craddock nodded. “Constable Butterfield, the wounded man, identified him straight away. He’s a known criminal. Robbery and burglary come second-nature to him, though he’s never stooped to anything quite this senseless before.”
“ Sounds a hard man to bring to heel?”
“ Well I’m hoping that’s where you fellows will come in. How many men can you spare me?”
“ You plan to go aboard the Catherine-Maria ?” Ryland sounded surprised.
“ Of course. We’ll search it stem to stern if need be. I’m bringing those two villains to justice.”
The captain took out his cheroot. “You realise what you’re saying? The Catherine-Maria is a wreck. A death-trap.”
“ She was only decommissioned nine years ago,” Munro said. “She can hardly be a death-trap.”
“ She can be if there’s some demented killer hiding in her guts.” Ryland looked at Craddock. “Major, the Catherine-Maria was one of the largest hulks in service, if not the largest. Below decks, she’s a rabbit-warren of cabins, gangways, crawlspaces … she’ll be pitch-black, dank, rotten to the core.”
“ So what are you saying?” the major asked him.
“ It’ll be dangerous! Exceedingly dangerous!”
Craddock glanced at the rest of the hussars, many of whom were eavesdropping on the conversation. It struck him at once how overweight they were, how unshaven, how shabby and ill-fitted their uniforms. Part-timers, he realised, civilians playing at soldiers. Not that this excused Captain Ryland’s attitude; he must once have been a professional, just to hold his
Ryland shook his head. “My chaps have it surrounded. Even at high tide, the water only gets to a foot or so out there, so we’ve been able to keep a full watch on it all day and all evening. No sign of him at all, thus far.”
Inspector Munro now stepped forwards. He was younger than Craddock, but a stout, stocky chap with a reddish-gray moustache and the gritty, sombre features of the time-served police officer. “You keep saying ‘him’, captain? But there were two of them. Burnwood sprang a known felon from custody … that’s why we’re pursuing him. Our last information was that they were travelling together.”
Ryland seemed concerned about this. “Yes, well it’s rather confusing, I’m afraid. There were two of them, that’s certain. But my men who gave chase felt sure that one of the two men was the other one’s captive.”
Craddock and Munro looked nonplussed.
“ This felon who got sprung?” Ryland asked. “What’s his name again?”
“ Nethercot. Joseph Nethercot.”
“ He’s an older man, I assume?”
“ He’s in his early sixties,” Munro said. “But he was being held on charges of assaulting young girls. He’s a vicious old goat. The magistrates were due to convene tomorrow morning, just to hear this case.”
Ryland considered this as he filched a cheroot from inside his tunic, stuck it between his lips and put a match to it. “Vicious old goat he may be …” he puffed smoke, “but according to my chaps, he was being dragged along by the other fellow, kicked, punched, generally treated like a prisoner.”
The three policemen could only stare at each other, perplexed.
“ What is there to know about this George Burnwood?” Ryland asked.
“ He shot two of my constables, killing one and seriously wounding the other,” Craddock said.
“ And this was while he was attempting to free this character, Nethercot?”
“ That’s correct.” The major paled with anger just recalling the incident. “He simply walked into the police office and opened fire. My desk-clerk, a young man with a wife and child, was killed instantly. Burnwood then forced my custody-officer to open the cell door, after which he fired a single shot into his back. Fortunately, this victim survived, but it wasn’t through any effort on Burnwood’s part.”
“ You’re certain it’s who you think it is?” Ryland asked. “Burnwood, I mean?”
Craddock nodded. “Constable Butterfield, the wounded man, identified him straight away. He’s a known criminal. Robbery and burglary come second-nature to him, though he’s never stooped to anything quite this senseless before.”
“ Sounds a hard man to bring to heel?”
“ Well I’m hoping that’s where you fellows will come in. How many men can you spare me?”
“ You plan to go aboard the Catherine-Maria ?” Ryland sounded surprised.
“ Of course. We’ll search it stem to stern if need be. I’m bringing those two villains to justice.”
The captain took out his cheroot. “You realise what you’re saying? The Catherine-Maria is a wreck. A death-trap.”
“ She was only decommissioned nine years ago,” Munro said. “She can hardly be a death-trap.”
“ She can be if there’s some demented killer hiding in her guts.” Ryland looked at Craddock. “Major, the Catherine-Maria was one of the largest hulks in service, if not the largest. Below decks, she’s a rabbit-warren of cabins, gangways, crawlspaces … she’ll be pitch-black, dank, rotten to the core.”
“ So what are you saying?” the major asked him.
“ It’ll be dangerous! Exceedingly dangerous!”
Craddock glanced at the rest of the hussars, many of whom were eavesdropping on the conversation. It struck him at once how overweight they were, how unshaven, how shabby and ill-fitted their uniforms. Part-timers, he realised, civilians playing at soldiers. Not that this excused Captain Ryland’s attitude; he must once have been a professional, just to hold his
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