Free Craddock by Neil Jackson, Paul Finch Page B

and Palmer returned fire, their assailant had already got off four or five rounds. Had he been shooting directly at them, he’d have killed them both. As it was, he appeared to have taken aim at the heaps of bulging sacks, which now burst open, spraying their contents into the air. The next thing Craddock and Palmer knew, they were engulfed in clouds of choking, yellowish dust.
    “ What the hell!” the constable coughed, his voice cracking. “Can’t see nothing, sir …”
    Craddock didn’t answer. He fell to a crouch, using his left hand to draw his scarf up over his nose and mouth, and, with his right, taking careful aim. No clear target was now visible, but he pumped four rapid shots through the spreading murk.
    “ G-God!” Palmer stammered. He’d emptied one barrel of his shotgun, but the weapon now hung from his finger by its trigger-guard while he wafted at the polluted air. “I can’t … I can’t breathe!” he screamed.
    “ Don’t panic, Palmer, it’s only brimstone.” Craddock tried to grab him by the collar and yank him down.
    But it was a futile effort. The constable blundered forwards, gagging for breath.
    “ For Christ’s sake,” Craddock yelled. “Get back here! It’s nothing dangerous, it’s used for fumigation. Every ship has it!”
    Palmer wasn’t listening. Nor was he looking. He never even noticed the open hatchway in the deck until he’d fallen through it.
    Craddock cursed. He quickly reloaded his revolver, then went on the offensive, standing up and bullocking his way through the yellow fog towards the bulkhead door, blasting round after round at it. The brimstone was starting to settle, and finally the major was able to see that he was shooting at nothing. The green light had disappeared, as had the gunman who’d emerged from it. Craddock moved to the hatchway, and peered down.
    Twelve feet below, Palmer was lying sprawled on what looked like a bed of raked earth. Whether dead or alive, it was impossible to tell.
    “ Palmer! Palmer … you alright?”
    The prone figure didn’t respond, but someone else did. Another shot was fired at the major, this one from below. He ducked back as the bullet zipped past him, but caught a fleeting glimpse of a bulky shape emerging from the shadows beside the unconscious constable, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him away.
    “ You criminal lunatic!” Craddock bellowed down. He took aim with his revolver, but didn’t dare fire for fear of hitting his own man; both figures swiftly vanished from view. “What the devil do you think you’re playing at? For God’s sake, give it up!”
    The only reply was a distant, hollow laugh.
     
    Munro was vaguely aware that, somewhere close by, shots had been fired, but he was in no fit state to work out what this meant. He fancied he was being carried through a series of black, creaking corridors. When he was finally flung down, he simply lay there. Lamplight swum over him, but he could still hardly move. There was a dull throb in his back, and his head was spinning.
    “ Now, I ain’t got nothing against peelers,” he heard Kenton say, “’cept at Hyde Park back in ’62, when I fair got my head stove in. But if I had a mind to, I could put a bullet through you right now and there’d be no-one the wiser. George says how he doesn’t need you. That’s the only thing I’m here for – to keep you off his back. You can have that easy, or hard. It’s up to you. For now, though, you’re staying here. You keep your head down, and I reckon you might get by. But any trouble, and I do you no problem.”
    There was a momentary silence, then a clumping of feet. The light slowly receded. Munro caught a vague impression of the hussar ascending a three-tread stairway, then vanishing behind a flap of loose material.
    The detective’s senses were slowly trickling back into place, but only after several minutes was he able to prop himself up on one elbow and look around. Kenton’s light was still visible