Henry-Martini carbine, but unlike the others, he looked as though he knew how to use them.
Ryland turned to Craddock. “Corporal Kenton came to us from the Manchester Yeomanry about two weeks ago.”
“ Thank God for Manchester,” Munro said under his breath.
Ryland ignored the remark. “I’ve seen enough of Kenton to know that he’s a useful chap to have around. He doesn’t know the Catherine-Maria any more than you do, however. So don’t expect him to guide you through her.”
“ I wouldn’t dream of it,” Craddock said, moving towards the door. “Come gentlemen, let’s bustle.”
They left their horses tied outside the tavern, and set off over the sand-flats on foot. Captain Ryland and three of his troopers accompanied them, their sabres rattling in the otherwise funereal silence. As they advanced, clutches of horsemen closed in from either side, rider and mount alike wreathed in fogs of sweat and breath.
“ So let me clearly understand this,” Munro said quietly. “We’re entering this hulk without any real support from the military, in complete darkness, minus any sure knowledge of where exactly we’re going once we’re inside, and Burnwood – the deranged killer – will be lying in wait for us?”
Craddock nodded. “It’s still four guns to one. Back in the Colours, those odds would have suited you.”
“ And, of course, it has to be haunted.”
“ Aren’t they always?”
Munro glanced sidelong at the major, but his chief retained a hard, neutral expression. His eyes were locked on the great mass of wood and rigging now looming towards them. Having served side-by-side in India for many years, both men knew better than to dismiss the supernatural out of hand. But the exotic mysteries of the Orient weren’t solely responsible for this open-mindedness. Since they’d come together into the new British police service, Craddock and Munro had uncovered much that was odd and unexplained, and which, even in this rational, orderly world at the bureaucratic heart of Empire, remained an enigma. Not that the paranormal would be their main problem on this particular occasion.
Munro couldn’t think about George Burnwood without a shudder. The mere look of the fellow was enough to send most men scrambling for cover: the thick, squat body; the ox-like shoulders; the hideous dome that was the huge, shaved head; the narrow piggy eyes in a face so heavy with bone, so criss-crossed by old scars that one could be forgiven for thinking it a theatrical mask. But if Burnwood was a thing of horror purely because of his appearance, his criminal record, which involved house-invasions, rapes, beatings and sadistic violence of every description, made him positively demonic. It was all the more confusing that he was intelligent – not just crafty and cunning, as so many of them were – but educated, erudite almost. Munro couldn’t fathom how such a creature had ever been created. He checked the Smith and Wesson in his greatcoat pocket; it was reassuringly weighty. When dealing with George Burnwood, one’s prime objective was not to make a clean and lawful arrest, but simply to survive.
They reached the wreck, and, in the flickering torchlight, were able to look her over properly. The old vessel would certainly never sail again. For one thing, she was rudderless; for another, her monstrous anchor was sunk deep in the estuary floor; its gigantic iron cable, hung with dried seaweed, still rose taut to the hawse-holes under her bows. She was upright rather than tilted, her copper-plated keel buried in a furrow of its own making. Of her three masts, the foremast and the mizzen had long ago been removed. Only fragments of sails were visible. There was no figurehead, no ensign; no Union flag flew over her bows. It was doubtful of course that a flag of any description had flown there since her capture. Even during their heyday, these ships of shame had remained anonymous, bothersome blots on Britain’s idyllic
Ryland turned to Craddock. “Corporal Kenton came to us from the Manchester Yeomanry about two weeks ago.”
“ Thank God for Manchester,” Munro said under his breath.
Ryland ignored the remark. “I’ve seen enough of Kenton to know that he’s a useful chap to have around. He doesn’t know the Catherine-Maria any more than you do, however. So don’t expect him to guide you through her.”
“ I wouldn’t dream of it,” Craddock said, moving towards the door. “Come gentlemen, let’s bustle.”
They left their horses tied outside the tavern, and set off over the sand-flats on foot. Captain Ryland and three of his troopers accompanied them, their sabres rattling in the otherwise funereal silence. As they advanced, clutches of horsemen closed in from either side, rider and mount alike wreathed in fogs of sweat and breath.
“ So let me clearly understand this,” Munro said quietly. “We’re entering this hulk without any real support from the military, in complete darkness, minus any sure knowledge of where exactly we’re going once we’re inside, and Burnwood – the deranged killer – will be lying in wait for us?”
Craddock nodded. “It’s still four guns to one. Back in the Colours, those odds would have suited you.”
“ And, of course, it has to be haunted.”
“ Aren’t they always?”
Munro glanced sidelong at the major, but his chief retained a hard, neutral expression. His eyes were locked on the great mass of wood and rigging now looming towards them. Having served side-by-side in India for many years, both men knew better than to dismiss the supernatural out of hand. But the exotic mysteries of the Orient weren’t solely responsible for this open-mindedness. Since they’d come together into the new British police service, Craddock and Munro had uncovered much that was odd and unexplained, and which, even in this rational, orderly world at the bureaucratic heart of Empire, remained an enigma. Not that the paranormal would be their main problem on this particular occasion.
Munro couldn’t think about George Burnwood without a shudder. The mere look of the fellow was enough to send most men scrambling for cover: the thick, squat body; the ox-like shoulders; the hideous dome that was the huge, shaved head; the narrow piggy eyes in a face so heavy with bone, so criss-crossed by old scars that one could be forgiven for thinking it a theatrical mask. But if Burnwood was a thing of horror purely because of his appearance, his criminal record, which involved house-invasions, rapes, beatings and sadistic violence of every description, made him positively demonic. It was all the more confusing that he was intelligent – not just crafty and cunning, as so many of them were – but educated, erudite almost. Munro couldn’t fathom how such a creature had ever been created. He checked the Smith and Wesson in his greatcoat pocket; it was reassuringly weighty. When dealing with George Burnwood, one’s prime objective was not to make a clean and lawful arrest, but simply to survive.
They reached the wreck, and, in the flickering torchlight, were able to look her over properly. The old vessel would certainly never sail again. For one thing, she was rudderless; for another, her monstrous anchor was sunk deep in the estuary floor; its gigantic iron cable, hung with dried seaweed, still rose taut to the hawse-holes under her bows. She was upright rather than tilted, her copper-plated keel buried in a furrow of its own making. Of her three masts, the foremast and the mizzen had long ago been removed. Only fragments of sails were visible. There was no figurehead, no ensign; no Union flag flew over her bows. It was doubtful of course that a flag of any description had flown there since her capture. Even during their heyday, these ships of shame had remained anonymous, bothersome blots on Britain’s idyllic
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