Free Craddock by Neil Jackson, Paul Finch

once been used as the galley. A large cast-iron stove occupied a central position, with a cylindrical flue running up from it and vanishing through the ceiling. Topside, the flue probably emerged as a chimney, but like the stove, it was long in disuse. Its metal was caked with soot and had split wide open. Munro raised his lantern. About twenty yards beyond the stove, was the capstan, the gigantic winch once used to haul in the anchor. It was essentially a solid hub with twelve timber poles projecting out around it; opaque cobweb now shrouded it.
    They moved past, the hussar only grunting in response to Munro’s occasional comments. The policeman still wasn’t happy about having Corporal Kenton at his back, though his carbine would doubtless come in handy if they ran into Burnwood.
    After the capstan, they entered what appeared to be some sort of punishment block. A tight walkway ran between two walls of shelving. These shelves had been sub-divided by partitions and fronted with taut wire-mesh. At first glance they were like pens for small animals, but it rapidly became clear that their true purpose had been for the confinement of human beings. An average-sized man might just have been able to lie flat in one of them, though a taller fellow would find his face pressed into the wire. They were brimming with vermin-infested humus. The stench that came out of them was intolerable.
    “ Many of the men who first ran these ships, ran the original slavers,” Munro said, a hand clamped to his nose. “Not perhaps the ideal folk to put in charge of a penitentiary.”
    Again, the hussar only grunted.
    Beyond the shelves, there was an open area divided by rows of posts – tethering posts, Munro realised with a shudder. There was even a steel box, bolted to the floor and with bars fitted across its front; a man held inside it would need to sit in a permanent painful crouch, his head bowed, his knees to his chest. The knowledge of what these things had been used for left a hollow feeling inMunro’s belly. This place had been out of service less than a decade, and with him a sixteen-year veteran of a relatively local police force, it was highly likely that men he personally had arrested had been sent here.
    They bore on – and a monstrous shadow loomed up. Both men reacted sharply, guns cocked and leveled – but it was only the head of the vessel’s chain-pump.
    Munro felt foolish. He apologised to Kenton.
    “ Don’t worry yourself about it, sir. When you’re dealing with a killer of men, it’s best to be on your guard.”
    They had now come to the top of another companionway. Munro peered down, holding his lamp aloft.
    “ Else, who knows what could happen,” Kenton added. And, with the stock of his carbine, he landed a savage blow between Munro’s shoulders.
    The detective toppled forwards. The next thing he knew, he was flying through space at great speed, turning and twisting, rebounding from sharp edges. Then his head was hurting and everything was a daze. He was gazing groggily upwards; at first he saw two Corporal Kentons come stumping down two different stairways.
    “ George only needs your Major Craddock,” came the hussar’s voice. “Reckoned you could be dispensed with.”
    None of this made sense to Munro.
    “ I’m George’s half-brother, in case you were wondering,” Kenton added. “I came here to the West Lancs barracks special. Just for him. He only wanted Craddock. That was his plan.” Kenton stooped and picked something up: it was Munro’s revolver. He cocked it and pointed it. “You, I can deal with any way I like.”
     
    Major Craddock and Constable Palmer were now on what the major assumed was the lower gun-deck. It had been fully adapted for the holding of convicts: chains hung everywhere; there were barred-off sections; rows of poky little cells had been constructed. The place was damp and repulsive. Despite the lanterns, bottomless shadows skulked on all sides. There was the constant