The Raid: A Cumbria Crime Novella by Rachel McLean and Joel Hames, book 3.5 in the Cumbria Crime series - Chapter 1

“What’s your name?” asked the man opposite Sue.

It was dark in here, on the first floor, and although they weren’t wearing masks, Sue couldn’t see his face clearly under his pointy hat. He’d already been there when she’d arrived, so she hadn’t been able to get a decent look at him walking in, either.

Her own age, she guessed. Maybe a little younger.

“My real name?”

“No, no, I mean – I mean your name for this.”

“Marston,” she said. Outside, there was something that might have been an angry roar, followed by the sound of people cheering.

“Marston,” he repeated. “They didn’t give you a first name, then?”

“They didn’t think a man’s name would be appropriate, and they didn’t think a woman’s name would be historically accurate.”

“So it’s just Marston, then. I’m Alexander Milton.”

He stood, walked across, and offered his hand. She shook it.

“Shall we make up a name for you? It feels weird, calling you Marston.”

“Well, I don’t mind telling you my real name. It’s not as if we’re spies or anything.”

‘Alexander Milton’ swivelled his head from side to side dramatically. “No, I suppose we’re not. The only traitor, if the history books are telling the truth, is on the other side.”

“David Freeman,” she said.

“You know your history, Marston.”

“Sue,” she corrected. “And no, but I make it a point to read up on these activities.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these before.”

The same story. The same explanation. It became boring after a while.

“I’ve only recently moved to Whitehaven. I’ve done a lot of live-action roleplay back in Liverpool, but this is my first one here.”

“You’re from Liverpool?” he asked, with what sounded like surprise. She was used to that, too.

“Wirral. And no, I don’t have much of an accent. What’s that?”

The noises outside had grown closer, and now they could hear it clearly, just below them. She checked her watch. Nine thirty-three.

Just a few minutes late, then.

She waited, and then the voices moved away. Someone shouted. Someone sang. Someone, she thought, was vomiting, but that might have been her imagination.

A lot of people seemed to be using the re-enactment of John Paul Jones’s raid on Whitehaven as an excuse to get drunk. And given what had actually happened first time around, that wasn’t entirely unreasonable.

From further away came more shouts. Someone screaming, possibly. Were they getting carried away? Hopefully, they wouldn’t forget the whole point of the evening.

More voices, closer now. Stopping under the window again.

“Be careful when you’re in there,” said a voice on the edge of hearing.

“We know what we’re doing, Captain Jones,” said another, much louder.

“I’m quite sure you do,” agreed the first man, ‘Captain Jones’. “But please bear in mind that this is an office. A workplace. I don’t want anything damaged or lost.” There was a certain pompousness to his voice that set Sue’s teeth on edge. She didn’t like any of them.

“This is the wrong sort of gun,” said a woman.

“No, it’s not,” replied another man. “If you’ve done your reading, you’ll know that these are decent reproductions of the weapons carried by Jones’s men.”

“If you’ve done your reading,” mimicked the woman. “I’ve done plenty of reading. As you know.”

There was a clattering noise. The ladders being positioned. Sue glanced at the window, which was closed but not locked.

The first man spoke again. “Ladies and gentlemen, if we’re to preserve any sense of accuracy, I should be grateful if you’d keep your voices down.”

There was a general grumbling, and he went on.

“It’s bad enough that we’re having to use my office because the original fort isn’t here. And it’s bad enough that we’re having to use ladders. But at the very least, let’s not try to alert the guards upstairs.”

Sue stifled a laugh. Her companion, ‘Alexander Milton’, chortled out loud for a second before he managed to silence himself.

She’d been aware this was an office, although the room they were in, on the first floor, was dusty and bore few signs of recent use. She’d been shown in downstairs and ushered up, hastily, then left to her own devices. Which was fair enough. As one of the guards who were to be surprised and captured by Jones and his men climbing through the window, she didn’t have much of a role in the event.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy it.

More shouts from outside, further away. Back in the eighteenth century, half of Jones’s men had gone to the pub instead of advancing the cause of American independence by burning the harbour. It sounded like their modern-day equivalents were following their example. And the man playing Jones might complain about using a ladder, but the American sailors had probably been less stout than their re-enactors. Climbing up on each other’s shoulders would have been a recipe for disaster.

“Carefully now,” she heard. ‘Captain Jones’ again. Then more clattering, more muttered arguments, and a scraping noise. A minute later, the window was open, and they were in.

There were five of them. It was dark anyway, but the raiders were wearing a variety of masks that might have been bought for a Hallowe’en party, for all the resemblance they bore to the disguises Jones’s men would have worn.

Would Jones’s men have bothered with disguises? She didn’t think so. But it was all fun.

“We surrender,” said her colleague. Someone approached her, a slight figure. She made to stand, but the person in front of her waved her back down, and, moving with surprising dexterity, tied her to the chair.

“Is that really necessary?” she asked.

“Sorry,” said ‘Captain Jones’, whose office they were apparently using.

“Hang on,” said her companion, ‘Alexander Milton’. “Not me. I’ve got to head off in a minute.”

“Fair enough,” said someone, and Sue found herself wishing she’d thought of that. She feared she had a long and boring evening ahead of her.

“Can you just loosen these?” she asked, but no one seemed to hear her.

And suddenly, she was alone.

She listened as the footsteps receded. Would anyone remember she’d been left here?

She pulled experimentally against the ropes, but they were too tight. She couldn’t even reach her phone.

The whole thing had been over in less than five minutes, and it had been dark and confusing. A blur. This wasn’t as much fun as she’d hoped.

There was a thud from outside.

From outside the room. Inside the building. What was that?

She listened. Footsteps. Above her. She closed her eyes and tried to remember the building from the outside. Light blue paintwork, the shade they went in for around here. Several floors.

There was someone on the second floor. But all the raiders should have left by now.

She tried to still her breathing and listened carefully. Definitely footsteps. And… was that more than one set?

Yes. Because now she could hear, indistinctly, the murmur of voices.

Then another thud. A series of thuds. On the floor above her, or the walls…

Then a voice, a shout.

There was a moment’s silence, followed by the crunch of something falling in the street outside. Sue shuddered.

It was followed almost immediately by more noises from upstairs. Shuffling. Then more footsteps.

Then silence. Shouts and screams in the distance. But closer to hand, nothing.

Sue pulled against the ropes again. Still too tight.

But the chair was just a thin wooden thing.

She pressed her feet against the ground and tried to stand. The chair came up with her, but it worked.

Her feet were still tied together. It took nearly a minute, but eventually, she reached the window.

The raiders had left it open, and a cool breeze filled the room. Sue leaned forward, aware that the chair would prevent her from overbalancing and falling out of the window.

Were those more sounds, above her? She turned her head to look up, but there was nothing there. It was too dark, anyway. And she knew she was only delaying the moment she had to look down.

She looked down.

She’d known what she was about to see. Ever since she’d heard that crunch.

But knowing what she was about to see, and seeing it…

She opened her mouth and screamed.

There was the sound of footsteps outside. Running. Several sets. And there he was, approaching from the marina end of the street. Her fellow guard. Alexander Milton. She’d been right. He was about her age. He frowned as he ran, looking up at her, then back down at the thing he was running towards.

He’d heard her scream. Thank God.

There was another man, not far behind him. ‘Captain Jones’ himself.

The two of them slowed, then stopped, directly below her.

Directly over the body.

She couldn’t see much of the figure lying on the ground. Just the mask. One of the raiders, then.

The man she knew as Alexander Milton pulled a phone out of his pocket and dialled a number.

“Boss,” she heard. “It’s Tom. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I’m in Lowther Street. And there’s a dead body here.”