The Equivoque Principle (22 page)

Quaint wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. The afternoon light had faded completely now, and it was dusk. The cold wind bit at his tears, and his body felt weighed down by all that he had
learned. He felt his age for the first time in many years. Quaint turned around and looked at the woman before him, a woman who had been an unfaltering constant in all his life. Now, it was like looking at a complete stranger. He wanted to run to her, to embrace her, and forgive her—but something inside his heart held him back. Something was tearing him away from her, and there was nothing he could do to regain his footing. Perhaps words were simply not enough.

‘One question that I must know the answer to,’ Quaint said solemnly. ‘What can I do to mend this wound of ours?’

Destine walked towards him.

‘One thing, my sweet boy,’ she said. ‘Hold me.’

Quaint threw himself into Destine’s arms, and squeezed her so tight, never wanting to release her. The tears fell from both their eyes, seemingly from the very pits of their hearts. From deep down within their souls, they wept in unified pain. Their faces were painted with agony, as they released their sadness, together as one. Quaint choked like a baby, his body quivering and jolting as he let the tears flow. It was such a relief, as if he had kept every tragic memory from his whole life bottled away inside him behind an impenetrable wall, and now…that wall was gone.

Destine gasped, grasping him by his cheeks.
‘Mon cher, doux
Cornelius…I was a foolish old woman not to confide in you the very first moment. I had no idea that Antoine survived your previous encounter in Paris…please believe me.’

Quaint pulled away from her. ‘Madame, I…I must go.’

‘Go? Go where?’ Destine called after him. ‘Where are you going? What are you going to do?’

‘Do you really have to ask?’ said Quaint, his cold eyes scowling under his wind-beaten curls. ‘I’m going to Crawditch, of course.’

‘But, you can’t go! Not there! I have foreseen your death, Cornelius.’

‘Oh, really?’ asked Quaint. ‘Well, I have yet to
live
my death, so as far as I’m concerned, it can be averted. I wouldn’t waste another tear on your son’s resurrection, Madame, because after I’ve finished with him—he’ll wish he’d
stayed
dead.’

C
OMMISSIONER?’ CALLED
Sergeant Horace Berry, as he strode out into the exercise yard of the police station. ‘What on earth are you doing out here? Haven’t you heard?’ ‘Haven’t I heard
what
?’ Dray asked, barely turning his head. A thin plume of cigarette smoke wisped from his mouth into the dark, early evening sky.

‘Tucker just told me. There’s been some kind of committee meeting or something. A group of locals have banded together and they’re on their way here right now,’ said Berry. ‘Tucker says they want your head on a plate, sir.’

‘Tell ’em there’s already a queue,’ said Dray.

Sergeant Berry walked around Dray, to stand directly in front of him, so he was unable to avert his eyes. ‘Sir…Oliver…what’s going on? Are you going to speak to those people, or not?’

‘Me? Why me?’

‘Oliver, you’re the Commissioner. This district falls under
your
charge. It’s up to you to set these people right. Surely you can see it from their point of view? They’re half-petrified!’

‘Horace, I’m not in the mood. You deal with it.’

Berry shook his head, pursing his lips as he selected his words carefully. ‘Commissioner…
sir
…those residents—the merchants, and business folk that haven’t already absconded from Crawditch,
of course—have a grievance with our handling of these murders, you
must
be aware of that.’

Dray lifted his eyes to look at Berry. ‘Horace, what can I do about it? Our men are doing the best they can to find that giant, right? If that’s not enough for this damned committee, then why the hell don’t they
all
leave town?’

‘Yes, but what about that Mr Quaint’s thinking…about this Irish fellow? Surely it’s worth checking out? So far we’ve been concentrating all our efforts on Miller.’

‘Horace, Cornelius Quaint is desperate to pin anything on anyone else other than his own people. You heard him, how he stuck up for his strongman, and all the while I’ll bet he knew he was guilty as sin. Hell, he probably even helped the bastard escape!’

‘How could he, sir? Quaint was with us
both
at the time. And that’s the funny thing, isn’t it? I mean, we checked the bars on that cell window…they looked like they’d eroded away, been eaten by rust or something, yet the rest of the cells were all fine.’ Horace Berry was trying to appeal to the man he used to know, a man who up until a week ago was level-headed and strong-minded. Since Cornelius Quaint’s arrival and the recent murders, Dray had become anything but strong-minded, and he was certainly not going to do anyone any favours by meeting with the soon-to-be arriving committee. ‘Look, I’ll do my best to fend off this baying crowd, please just do me a favour, will you?’ Berry asked.

‘What is it, Horace? What do you want from me, eh? D’you want me to fall honourably onto my sword like those Japanese wotsits?’ said Dray hoarsely, hot breath billowing from behind his clenched teeth.

‘What I
want
is for you to think about how it’s going to look if you don’t even bother to
pretend
to listen to what those people are asking for…all they want is to feel safe in their beds, Oliver, surely you can understand that?’

Berry didn’t wait for a reply, and he turned away, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the stranger who stood in the station’s yard. The man looked and sounded for the entire world just like his Commissioner, but this man was different. He was acting in a cold, emotionless manner that was very unlike the man he had known for many years. Berry only hoped that Dray would find his true self soon, for if any more of him were to flake away, how much of Berry’s respect and admiration for him would erode with it? He prayed that his superior would make the right decision when the time came. Sergeant Berry opened the station door, and returned to his duties inside, leaving Dray alone in the chill November wind.

Dray’s expression was fixated on the mist-shrouded moon above him, and he pondered Berry’s words aloud. ‘The people want to feel safe in their beds? Don’t they know, man? Are they stupid? There aren’t many places left in this world that you
can
feel safe in any more. Everywhere’s gone to hell.’ Commissioner Dray watched distractedly, as his trail of warm breath curled up into the night sky. His eyes barely registered another misty plume swirling with his own, entwining into the night. Dray heard a long, breathy exhale at his back, and he froze.

‘Sure, an’ ye don’t know how right ye are, Commissioner,’ said a strong Irish voice directly behind him. ‘Everywhere has indeed gone t’hell…and I’ve saved ye the best seat in the house.’

A short time later, Sergeant Horace Berry was alerted to a cacophony of raised voices, screams and yells from outside. Berry
rose from his desk, and stared across the station. He threw down his paperwork and scratched at his head.

‘Marsh? What the blazes is all that noise?’ he called over to the constable manning the front desk. ‘It’s like a bloody zoo out there.’

Marsh shrugged. ‘It’s that crowd, Sarge, although, sounds more like a lynch mob to me. You want me to go out, try and calm ’em down a bit?’

There was suddenly a hammering on the station’s door, as many fists pounded themselves on the hard wood. Berry scowled at the entrance, shooting a look to Marsh.

‘No, let me,’ he said. ‘If I don’t sort them out, they’ll have the bloody doors off their hinges, and we’ll be freezing our socks off all night.’

Berry yanked the door open and was greeted by a horde of people. Some were being comforted by others, and some were pointing harshly at the police station. As he tried to get their attention, he stared across their faces. As well as being angered to the point of rage, there was another, more upsetting expression taking residence upon the townsfolk’s faces. It was an expression of something that Horace Berry had seen before—fear. He held up his hands, imploring the residents for their silence, and gradually, one by one, he managed to calm them to the point where he could be heard.

‘Now, listen to me, everyone,’ Berry said confidently, clapping his hands, trying to get eye contact with as many of the folk as possible. He knew most of their names, and all of their faces. Some were merchants and store traders, some were foremen, builders and dock workers, and others were elderly, or weak-looking residents. Berry blew on his whistle to halt the tumultuous baying.

‘Please! I understand you’re all very worried…but I want to
reassure you that–’ Berry was suddenly distracted as something pelted his shoulder, and he wiped away at it instinctively. As he touched the warm, wet substance he immediately recoiled, staring at his fingers—it was fresh blood. Berry spun around, nearly slipping from the steps in the spilt blood, and stared up towards the roof of the station, higher and higher to examine the source.

It didn’t take him long to find it.

Commissioner Dray’s corpse was stripped naked, wearing only his policeman’s uniform jacket and nothing else, hanging from the roof of the police station by his neck. Bathed in the amber light from the station lamp, his internal organs and intestines hung like garlands from a vast open wound, dripping pools of crimson blood onto the front steps of the station. Of all the sights that clung to Sergeant Berry’s memory, this was unlike any other, and its horror stained itself into his brain.

‘Tucker! Marsh!’ Berry yelled, as two constables tumbled out of the station looking decidedly flustered. Berry pointed up to the grotesque scene above their heads, and the two young policemen immediately lost their control over the power of speech. ‘Get up there, right now, and get him down, for crying out loud…I’ll disperse these people…and get every available man assembled right here immediately. Get anyone and everyone. Whoever did this is still in the area—go!’

And, very quickly, all-out madness erupted on the streets of Crawditch.

Prometheus and Butter shrank back behind a blacksmith’s workshop and watched pandemonium ensue, as hordes of policemen—hastily buttoning up uniforms and flattening down hair -rushed out onto the street at the front of the station. As Sergeant
Berry held court and barked an assault of orders at his men, Prometheus glanced down at the small Inuit by his side.

‘We were lucky we left when we did, mate,’ he said.

Butter nodded frantically, his jet black hair flopping into his eyes. He pulled the fringe apart in the middle like a pair of curtains, and looked up hopefully at his gargantuan companion. ‘What’s we do now?’ he asked.

‘I’m open to any ideas,’ said Prometheus grimly. He squatted down, meeting Butter’s gaze. ‘The main thing is we know who’s behind all this, well, at least we sorta know…and we have to make sure that at least one of us gets through this to inform Cornelius, you understand?’

‘Yes, I understand,’ Butter agreed. ‘What did Frenchman say about working for…“heavenly connections”? What means this?’

‘I would assume he means someone in high authority in the Church. And I heard him say something about a “Hades Consortium”, whoever he is.’ Prometheus grabbed Butter’s shoulders. ‘Things’ve gone haywire here. This district wasn’t exactly safe beforehand, lad, but now with Dray’s murder, and his men runnin’ around like headless chickens, they’re still no nearer to catchin’ Hawkspear.’

‘I do not think it good where we find ourselves,’ chirped Butter.

‘Ye’re a master of the understatement, Butter. Considerin’ the mess things’re in, I really don’t know what t’do for the best.’

‘Return with me to the train, then. We must tell the boss about the Commissioner…and this Frenchman…he seemed to know the boss also.’

‘The problem is, we were possibly the last people to see the Commissioner alive, and if it gets out that we were hidin’ in the bloody bushes at the time—we’ll be right in the swill, good and proper,’ said Prometheus. ‘And I’ll probably be hanged twice over.’

‘Prometheus, we have done well, yes? We have learned much
whilst we dropped our eaves,’ said Butter emphatically. ‘Boss will be pleased, and we must not let it go wasted, I think.’

Prometheus suddenly flattened himself against the wall, clamping his rough hands over Butter’s mouth. A lone policeman walked briskly past their hiding place, a matter of feet from them, and Prometheus recognised the young man instantly as Constable Jennings.

‘Where’s he off to in such a hurry?’ Prometheus asked his companion.

‘The opposite direction to everyone else,’ noted Butter.

‘I noticed. You don’t need Madame Destine’s powers to know that one’s a bad seed,’ said Prometheus. ‘I think we should follow him…see where it takes us, hmm?’

‘I wish Madame Destine were here right now,’ said Butter.

Prometheus looked down at his friend. ‘Oh, yeah? Why’s that, then?’

‘She would tell us to stay here,’ mumbled Butter. ‘I much better prefer
that
plan.’