The Equivoque Principle (24 page)

‘Over many hundreds of years, that gestation has transformed the elixir from a gift of eternal life into a harbinger of death, especially when the solution is combined with water.’ Renard grabbed the Bishop’s scalp and Courtney spluttered again, spraying a shower of blood across the floor. ‘Are you taking all this in, Bishop?’ he taunted, taking great pleasure in watching Courtney quiver. ‘Of course, I’m sure your lot had no idea that the solution inside that vial is extremely susceptible to contamination from bacteria, did they? Like most great scientific discoveries—we stumble upon them by accident.’ Reynolds paused to shuffle his footing away from a small pool of blood, spreading across the floor towards him.

Bishop Courtney’s strength was ebbing away, as if his entire structure was being dissolved inside him. That was the poison doing its best to liquefy his internal organs. Like most intrusive chemical elements, it operated with an almost sentient awareness—picking off its victim slowly, stripping away one piece at a time. The poison savoured death as much as Renard did, and both were
highly proficient at it. Beginning with the base organs such as the kidneys, the poison would force Bishop Courtney’s bowels and bladder into overdrive to compensate for the signals being sent by the brain, before moving onto the liver, lungs, heart and finally the brain.

Renard was enjoying his captive audience, watching the bulky Bishop drag himself along the floor. ‘Can you grasp just what damage someone with a creative mind could accomplish with a weapon such as this,
monsieur?
I doubt it. You’re probably more interested in your own fate,
est-ce que je suis
correct? Well…you’ve just ingested pure, undiluted poison…it may take as long as three hours before you die, and the beauty of this poison is that you’ll be conscious every step of the way.’

Bishop Courtney was a broken man, in mind as well as body, as something pinched away handfuls of him at a time. He was flaking away, yet he knew that every word Renard spoke was the truth.

‘There’s nothing you can do, your Grace…for only the antidote can reverse the chemicals that are raging through your body right now.’

‘You’re…insane,’ Bishop Courtney said weakly.

‘On the contrary, my Lord, as you once told me yourself—I am a man of vision!’ Renard said, preening his hair sarcastically.

‘But, you said…you’d help me…you said…’ pleaded the Bishop.

‘I said a lot of things, Bishop. Surely you are not still blind as to how you have been deceived? Must you spend your last, few painful moments of life trying to work it all out? Do you really believe that the success of this little conspiracy of yours was due solely to your machinations? Come,
monsieur
…you are blind.’

‘Reynolds…how could you?’

‘Surprisingly easily, Bishop. You see, there’s one thing you need to know before you die,’ Renard said, a smile of mock sympathy on his thin, gaunt face. ‘I lie…I deceive…I trick, and I scheme -that’s what I do best. That’s Renard! Now hurry up and die.’

O
BLIVIOUS TO BOTH
Commissioner Dray’s fate and what was currently occurring in the annexe of Westminster Abbey, Cornelius Quaint stood underneath the lamplight of Crawditch police station and stared upwards. His eyes were drawn to dark-red stains of blood daubed across the upper floor of the station. He looked around him, trying to guess what had happened, but the tumultuous atmosphere of shock and desperation painted on the faces of the townsfolk around him suddenly stole his attention.

Quaint stepped inside the police station and witnessed a scene not dissimilar to what was occurring outside. As if he were invisible, no one paid him the slightest bit of notice as he walked around the partition near the enquiries desk, and strolled towards Commissioner Dray’s office. Without knocking, he walked briskly inside.

‘Ollie, what the hell is going on? It’s like a bloody circus in this place, and I should know. What are you doing–’ Quaint suddenly froze mid-sentence as he saw Sergeant Horace Berry, sitting at Dray’s desk, his head in his hands. ‘Sergeant? What’s going on? It’s like a madhouse—out there
and
in here.’

Berry barely looked up, holding a glass of whisky to his lips.
His face was pale, and he looked like he hadn’t slept for a week. ‘Oh it’s you, Mr Quaint…what brings you here?’

Quaint pulled up a chair, spun it around, and squatted astride it, resting his arms on its back. ‘Where’s Oliver? I need to speak with him urgently about what’s going on. I don’t care
how
busy he is—I’m not taking no for an answer!’

‘Well, you’ll have to…because he’s dead,’ said Berry, wiping his nose on his sleeve, leaving a slug’s trail of mucus behind.

Quaint pounded his fist on the table, shaking Berry’s glass. ‘I need to
see
him, Sergeant—it’s
important
, and I don’t have time for this nonsense, I know he’s involved in whatever is going on in this district, and I will
not
be derailed!’

Berry held his hands out to Quaint, his palms coated bright red.

‘You see this?’ he asked shakily. ‘It’s blood, that’s what it is…Oliver’s blood…so I hope you can understand that I…
really
cannot deal with you right now. If you don’t mind, I’ve got things to be getting on with.’ He returned his vacant stare back to the tumbler of whisky.

‘You’re not serious,’ said Quaint. ‘Oliver’s…
dead?’

Berry glanced up, his eyes raw and bloodshot.

‘It seems you are,’ said Quaint numbly. ‘My God, when
was
this?’

‘Not long…perhaps an hour or so since we found the body…I’d only been speaking to him minutes beforehand. Someone…somehow got close enough to do it. Stabbed him in the back…then gutted him…his body hanging from the roof outside the station for the whole world to gawp at.’

‘So that’s what that was,’ nodded Quaint. ‘I noticed that on my way in. And what can you tell me about the circumstances?’

‘Circumstances? Mr Quaint, I know
nothing.
No one saw anyone arrive
or
leave the yard. The way things have got in this town of late, it could have been anyone,’ snapped Berry. ‘Last I
knew, Jennings and the Commissioner were out back, having a chat about I don’t know what. I went out to tell Oliver that there was this bunch of residents, formed themselves into some kind of committee or something. They were angry about how little progress we were making, and were on their way here to the station to force Oliver into contacting Scotland Yard—something he was dead set against.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Quaint. He took off his long overcoat and hung it over the back of the chair. ‘Horace, I need to tell you something. You seem like an honest and honourable fellow, and to last as long as you’ve done as a beat copper—then you’re obviously trustworthy.’

‘How’d you work that out?’

‘Otherwise, you’d have done what Ollie did, and get your father to pull some strings in Parliament. If you had an exit, there’s no way you’d stick around as a street bobby, is there? In this day and age?’

‘Maybe I’ve got a liking for cold nights and street scuffles, eh? So, what have you got to tell me, Mr Quaint?’ said Berry, picking up his glass. He downed the half-full tumbler in one gulp, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and pulled another glass from the desk drawer. ‘Have one yourself, why don’t you? It’s Oliver’s Scotch…but he’s hardly likely to complain now, is he?’

Quaint poured a small inch of whisky into the glass and swilled it around in his hands. ‘Berry—listen to me. There is a most dangerous and deadly conspiracy at play here in this district, and my circus has been drawn into it. What the scheme’s exact purpose is, I don’t rightly know at this point; but I do know who the antagonists are.’

‘The what?’ asked Berry, struggling to replace the cap on the whisky bottle.

‘Antagonists, Sergeant. Our adversaries, the main players in
this game, our opponents…but not all of them are who I expected them to be.’

‘Considering that one of your employees is the prime suspect, you mean?’

‘No, Sergeant, because I thought I’d killed him,’ said Quaint. ‘You might remember the name Hawkspear that I mentioned earlier this week—the Irishman who drugged my strongman? Well, it seems he was recently in residence at Blackstaff prison, so I popped along to investigate how he managed to escape, and what forces may have brought him here to Crawditch. I came upon this.’ Quaint unfolded a piece of paper and gently cast it onto the table in front of Berry. ‘I’m sure you’re familiar with a prison release form?’

Berry’s eyes scanned the paper, his scowl increasing the more he read. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said, looking up at Quaint. ‘This says our Jennings authorised Hawkspear’s release…and…who’s this Bishop Courtney character?’

‘Unknown at this time, but I believe him to be an essential element of the plot, perhaps the man pulling everyone’s strings. Tell me, Sergeant, where is Constable Jennings at this very moment?’

‘I…I don’t know, Mr Quaint. Out on his beat looking for Oliver’s killer, I think. Here, you don’t think
he’s
involved in this nasty business, do you? I mean, the lad’s a bit daft, but he’s not capable of murder!’

‘We don’t always know people as well as they would have us believe, do we Sergeant? Jennings countersigned Hawkspear’s release papers with the authority of Commissioner Oliver Dray,’ Quaint tapped the letter on the table in front of Berry, startling the policeman. ‘There’s more, and none of it is going to be easy to hear, I’m afraid. You see, many years ago, Oliver and his father were mixed up in some nasty business abroad.’

‘Sir George? You not saying that he’s involved in all of this mess
too, are you? Murder and the like?’ quizzed Berry. ‘The man’s on the board of every government business, has trading rights for God knows how many ports, practically owns the police, and has royal connections, to boot. He’s a bloody knight of the realm, man. He’s next to a bloody saint! I don’t believe for one second that
he’d
be involved.’

Quaint’s stony expression didn’t falter. ‘With all due respect, Sergeant, what you currently believe is irrelevant. I was there all those years ago, and I saw just what Sir George is capable of with my own eyes. During this nasty business, Drays junior and senior involved themselves with an old nemesis of mine, a French mercenary named Renard.’ Quaint paused, as he allowed Berry’s naturally inquisitive mind to soak up the details. ‘Up until yesterday I was convinced that Renard was dead—by my own hand—but I have since discovered to my abhorrent surprise that he is very much alive, and it seems he has rekindled his past connections with Oliver. This has led me to conclude that this whole business with these murders has been the result of a triumvirate of evil -featuring the likes of Police Commissioner Oliver Dray. Antoine Renard and the man who is really responsible for those obscene murders, probably Oliver’s included…Tom Hawkspear.’

Berry rose from his seat, and squinted at Quaint. ‘You’ve been busy, Mr Quaint.’

‘Call me Cornelius, Sergeant. We’re way past polite manners now.’

‘Right…you’re saying Oliver is…
was…
in cahoots with a mercenary and a murderer? You know, I guessed there was bad blood between you two, but considering that he can’t exactly stand up and defend himself, I find this in extremely bad taste, man!’

‘Sergeant, know this: if Renard is in Crawditch, with a paid killer on his books, all hell could break loose to make Dante’s
Inferno look like a dinner party at Buckingham Palace,’ said Quaint. He ran his hands through his thick grey-brown curls, and placed his elbows on the desk in front of him. ‘I know Renard, Sergeant…I know exactly what he can do, and the havoc that can spiral out of his actions. You need to come on board with me quickly on this one, because doing nothing is not an option—you can believe me on that.’

P
ROMETHEUS AND BUTTER
observed silently as Constable Jennings pulled away a wooden board from the disused bakery’s door frame, and made his way through the rear entrance in Montague Street, about half-a-mile from the police station.

‘It seems the constable did indeed lead us
somewhere.
The only question is where?’ Prometheus toyed with his beard thoughtfully as he eyed the boarded-up windows of the bakery. ‘I wonder what awaits us once we go inside, lad.’

Butter froze. ‘We are going inside?’ he asked. ‘Are you sure that is wise?’

‘Probably not,’ Prometheus smiled. ‘But if it makes ye feel any better, why don’t I go in first?’

‘If you are expecting me to argue, you will be disappointed,’ said Butter with a gulp. ‘Remember, if we die, no one can tell the boss about this plot.’

‘Well, I s’pose we’d best not die then, eh?’ Prometheus said, with a smirk hidden under his beard.

The bakery had long since submitted to disrepair, and the windows were covered with wooden boards. A huge chimney left unused for over ten years rose from the centre of the premises, and
its once proud silhouette breached the district’s skyline like a memorial to what once was. In its heyday, the bakery was an essential part of the commercial life of Crawditch, with the Thames bringing barges of grain and the many mills over the water in Whitehall, but the present landowners had cancelled any attempts at restoration, and had stripped everything from the building. Whereas once hundreds of skilled workers busied from place to place inside, now only the rats inhabited the halls, workrooms and warehouses.

Prometheus pushed his bulk through the tight gap in the same wooden boards that the far more slender Jennings had entered. He and Butter found themselves at the foot of a steep stone staircase. Careful not to dislodge any of the debris that littered the steps, they made their way to the top. Prometheus looked around what appeared to be an office, and a massive bathroom area. Most of the sinks were missing from the walls, and exposed pipes were entwined like handfuls of worms everywhere they looked.

Butter tugged on Prometheus’s sleeve and motioned towards a room not far away. They could hear a man’s voice. Although he was unable to tell who it was, Prometheus stepped forward first. Butter stood glued to the spot, looking around him cautiously, and feeling petrified. He stooped down and picked up a crooked metal pipe from the dirt-littered ground. With a little bit more confidence, feeling his fingers gripping the pipe, he skipped lightly after Prometheus.

The voice was getting louder. A distinct London accent could be heard, and Butter identified it as their quarry—Constable Jennings. Prometheus and Butter waited outside the door from where the voice emanated, poised to enter. Butter shifted his grip on the metal pipe and looked up at Prometheus, who nodded down at him.

‘After three,’ Prometheus whispered. ‘One…two…’

‘Is this a private game or can anyone join in, Miller?’ chirped a voice from behind them. Both Butter and Prometheus spun around to face a blade-wielding Tom Hawkspear, just as Constable Jennings wrenched the door open from the other side. ‘Well, well, well. Face to face, at last, eh?’ taunted Hawkspear, stepping closer to Prometheus.

‘Tom…what are you playing at?’ the giant said slowly.

‘This? I call it fun. Y’know, Miller…when they told me that I could play along wi’ye as much as I liked, but not kill ye, I nearly didn’t take this job,’ Hawkspear said. ‘I wanted ye dead for what ye did to Lily and Sean. And then the Bishop explained…ye were just the bait. A target for the police t’pin their sights on, leavin’ me free t’maim an’ kill as much as I liked, so I guess I should thank ye for it.’

Constable Jennings clapped his hands excitedly at the unfolding show in front of his very eyes. ‘I should’ve sorted you out the moment we brung you in!’ he said, aiming his pistol at Prometheus’s head. ‘Could’ve saved meself a lot of bother.’

Prometheus growled, his bearded face resembling a grizzly bear. Jennings gulped, and stepped back, deciding that perhaps he should leave the job of taunting the giant to Hawkspear.

‘It’s useless t’pull that face, Miller…your bullish posturin’ ain’t gonna help ye now. This is it for ye,’ said Tom Hawkspear. ‘Ye’ve got a knife and a pistol pointed at ye…and ye’re such a big target, an’all. Hard t’miss, know what I mean?’

Prometheus grinned. ‘Ye know the problem with ye boys?’ he said, his bristling beard twitching as he spoke. ‘Ye’ve got your weapons pointed at the wrong person.’

Constable Jennings had just about enough time to glance down before Butter lunged at his groin forcefully with the metal pole. Jennings hit the deck like a sack of potatoes, and Butter spun on his heels, glaring at Hawkspear.

The Irishman seemed unshaken by the loss of his comrade, and he lifted his blade into the air menacingly. ‘Ye got lucky, ye little elf, but soon ye’ll be just as dead as Miller will be!’ he growled. ‘But it ain’t even a fair fight…I’ve got a blade here, y’know.’

Butter eyes narrowed into thin slits, flashed with a devilish spark. ‘I can see that. It is very nice,’ he said, as he pulled aside is jacket—displaying his tusk-handled knife nestled into his belt. ‘But I have one of my own…and it is bigger than yours.’

Hawkspear’s jaw dropped.

Prometheus took advantage of his confusion, and dived straight for him like a freight train, hitting the Irishman square in the chest at full force. Hawkspear’s body slammed into the door frame, with Prometheus’s sandwiching him. Forcing the circus strongman back with a swish of his knife, Hawkspear grabbed a handful of rubble and threw it with all his might. The cloud of thick dust and grit pelted Prometheus in the face, and he was temporarily blinded. Hawkspear grinned, and rose to his feet.

‘I ain’t as easy t’kill as that, Miller…I’m gonna carve one o’me crosses into her heart, just like I did yet wee girlfriend,’ he said, and threw his weight towards Prometheus, this time slamming the blinded strongman into a wall on the opposite side of the landing. The wall crumbled like chalk as Prometheus’s bulk and Hawkspear’s force of will collided with it, and they both tumbled over the banisters of the staircase, landing in a crumpled heap of arms and legs at the bottom of the stairs.

Butter saw Jennings’s focus was elsewhere, and he barged his weight into him, kicking the pistol out of his reach. He swung his elbow into the young constable’s neck, and as the man went down,
he reached into the constable’s pockets, producing a pair of metal handcuffs. He swiftly snapped them on Jennings’s wrists.

‘Oi! What’s your game?’ whined Jennings.

‘You are a policeman, you should be shamed,’ Butter scolded.

‘Shamed? Bloody ’ellfire! What kind of nutter
are
you? You’re
lecturin’
me?’

‘Hush up, constable, or my friend will rip your arms off,’ Butter replied, hoisting the cuffed Jennings to his unsteady feet.

Prometheus and Hawkspear finally broke free of each other, but Hawkspear was up on his feet first, lashing out with his knife, slashing at the air to force Prometheus back. Again and again, Hawkspear sliced the air between them, but Prometheus never took his eyes from his opponent. As Prometheus stepped back, his heavy boots came into contact with a large stack of broken ceramic tiles, and he fell over backwards. Unable to hold onto anything, he tumbled head over heels down the small concrete steps that led to the outside. His weight shattered the dry, dead wood of the doors with ease, and Prometheus crashed down the steps into the bakery’s yard. Hawkspear watched the giant’s writhing frame as he lay stunned on the ground and leapt towards his prey, his greasy strands of black hair clinging to his forehead with grimy sweat. Hawkspear’s knife was raised for the killing shot, and he lunged…

Prometheus flicked one eye open and smiled. In fights he rarely needed to employ tactics—his size and strength usually proved ample weapons—but with an enemy like Hawkspear, he had to use more than just his brawn. At the last possible moment, he side-stepped out of the way—as a large javelin of an iron pole pierced Hawkspear right through the stomach. The
Irishman’s howl of agony echoed around the ruins of the yard. The pole went right through the man; it smashed through Hawk-spear’s spine, protruding from the other side of his back. Hawk-spear spat blood, trying frantically to catch his breath. He gripped the metal spear and tried to pull himself off—wailing with pain the whole time, but it was useless. The metal pole was embedded straight through him, pierced like a butterfly in an entomologist’s collection.

‘Ye…lucky bastard, Miller,’ he said weakly.

‘Ye know what they say about us Irish,’ Prometheus said, dusting down his clothes. He walked unsteadily over to Hawkspear, the loose stones slipping from underneath his feet. ‘Ye should have stayed in prison, Tommy…ye didn’t deserve t’walk free for what ye did. Now…ye won’t be walkin’ anywhere.’

‘I ain’t dead yet,’ Hawkspear said, his hair wringing with sweat. He spat a mouthful of dark-red blood in Prometheus’s direction. ‘Ye talk about me walkin’ free? And what…about…ye, Miller? How comes…
ye’re
the one who’s allowed t’walk free, eh? If not for ye…me brother and sister…would still be alive.’

Prometheus grabbed Hawkspear’s sodden hair, and wrenched it back furiously, the jar making the speared Irishman squeal anew in agony. ‘Listen t’me, ye slimy piece of filth, don’t ye dare try an’ justify what ye did t’Lily—t’Twinkle, t’them others! Ye’re going t’burn in hell for what ye’ve done, Tommy—I swear that.’ He released Hawkspear’s head roughly, causing the lank-haired Irishman’s torso to slip further down the spear. His thick dark blood coated the pole like black treacle.

Just then, Butter and Jennings emerged from the bakery door and stepped out into the yard. Once Jennings saw Hawkspear’s coughing and spluttering body speared through the guts, a dark, wet patch appeared on the front of his trousers.

‘My God…is…is he dead?’ Jennings gasped.

‘Not yet,’ confirmed Prometheus. ‘But he soon will be…as will ye, lad.’

Jennings mewed like a newborn kitten, and wept into his hands, as Butter prodded him forwards with his elbow. The constable fell awkwardly onto the gravel at Prometheus’s feet.

‘I see you were victorious,’ Butter said to Prometheus, eyeing Hawkspear’s twitching form. ‘Now what shall we do?’

Prometheus stared intently at his Inuit friend as if he had just spoken a foreign language to him. ‘What do you mean “do”? We watch ’em die, of course.’

‘Surely you cannot mean that?’ asked Butter.

‘Why can I not? It’s nothin’ less than they deserve, lad.’

Jennings’s jaw trembled. ‘I ain’t like ’im over there! He’s a bloody killer! Let me go…and I’ll tell you what I know, eh? What d’you say?’

‘Ye expect
mercy
, constable?’ yelled Prometheus. ‘If ye aided Hawkspear, yer as guilty as he is, so ye are…and ye’ll die by his side.’

Butter’s lithe form skipped across the loose shards of gravel, and clung to Prometheus’s arm tightly. ‘No, Prometheus, this is not right. These men should see justice…not revenge,’ he appealed. ‘We must see them delivered into law’s grasp.’

Prometheus considered his small companion’s words. He looked over at Hawkspear, his body shivering and fidgeting on the pole. He would so dearly love to see the man dead. For what he had done, not just to him, but to Lily and to Twinkle too…death was far too good for him. Butter was right; it was justice that they deserved.

‘Mebbe ye’re right, Butter, lad…’ Prometheus gripped the impaled Irishman by the thigh and shoulder, and tensed his muscles. He bent his knees, and sneered into Hawkspear’s face. ‘Brace yerself, Tommy…this is going t’hurt,’ he said, as he hoisted
Hawkspear into the air. The ripping and slurping of his body as it was pulled from the pole was inaudible over the sound of Hawks-pear’s scream.

Prometheus lifted the man clear of the pole and saw the gaping wound—as big as his fist—glistening in the moonlight. He knew that it meant only one thing—a slow, wretched death in agonising pain. Before long, Hawkspear would be begging for a quick release that would never come. That was perhaps the greatest act of justice.