The equivoque principle cq-1

by Darren Craske

  'It would not be the first time you have had an enemy, mon cher.'

  'No, but I usually get to see the whites of their eyes before they try and kill me. This one's going to be hard to track down. He's elusive…faceless…like a mirage. I'll tell you this, Madame, wherever Prometheus is, I hope he's not in any danger…and that's why I need you to try and sense him again.'

  Quaint had no idea how Destine was able to do the things she could do, see the things she saw, feel the things she felt. As far as he was concerned, Destine had a gift, and that was that, and he was perfectly happy with his ignorance.

  'As a matter of fact, Cornelius, I was hoping to find time to discuss something with you myself,' Destine said softly. 'My visions are behaving erratically. I am not sure how much we can rely on them. And I have been experiencing strange messages again…about a ghost from the past.'

  'Again? I do wish you would let that drop,' laughed Quaint. 'Look around you, Madame; these aren't the backstreets of Morocco, or the squalid shanties of India. We're in London-a city that I've hardly set foot in for years! I hardly think anyone would have a grudge against me here.'

  'I am starting to believe you,' Destine said.

  'Oh, yes?'

  'Something has been bothering me…a nagging thought really, but it makes me think that perhaps I misinterpreted my previous messages. Taking into consideration how unreliable these visions have been, I am starting to think that this ghost has not risen from your past…but my own.'

  'Madame, that's ridiculous!' said Quaint. 'Not only are you far less likely than I to have enemies, but here in England? Certainly not. If we were sitting outside a coffee house in La Rochelle, surrounded by a gaggle of women, angered at you for your beauty, then yes…I may be prepared to concede that thought. But it is simply not so, Madame.'

  'You seem very certain of my abilities, Cornelius,' Destine said calmly. 'Far more so than I, it seems. As you requested, I have been attempting to gain some connection with Prometheus's emotions since we returned from Crawditch. It has been difficult, with some success. Short bursts, nothing solid. I wanted to try and make a little more sense of them before I told you.'

  'And have you?'

  'Barely,' admitted Destine. 'They are like a foreign language. The feelings are certainly confusing, unlike anything I have previously experienced. I feel so wrong-footed, no matter where I step. I just do not know what to believe.'

  Quaint nodded in understanding. 'Well, that is understandable, Madame. None of us expected to be drawn into this web as we have been. We are all at the mercy of circumstance. I am surprised at Prometheus for one thing…why in God's name did he escape? What was he thinking? Or did someone provoke him-is that who melted the cell's bars? Another party?' Quaint rested his hand upon hers. 'Who knows what happened-and that's why I'm so reliant on what you can receive from Prometheus. I know it is hard for you, Destine, I really do-but if only you could make contact with him…perhaps you could get some clue as to his state of mind.'

  'Cornelius, I told you that I have been trying to sense Prometheus constantly, but it is difficult,' Destine said. 'It is like looking at molten lava, and someone telling me to put my hand into it. They tell me that it will not burn, and yet I do not believe them. I am scared, my sweet…I feel as if my messages are willingly betraying me. I do not know if I can trust them.'

  'Madame…we have no other choice.'

  Destine's lips floundered silently. 'I…I will try, Cornelius…but do not blame me if all I see is nonsense. I know you care for Prometheus a great deal.'

  'You don't need a crystal ball to tell you that.'

  'And you are not alone. We are all feeling as though we are at the mercy of something beyond our power to affect, and we have no choice but to give in.'

  'It is unlike you to be so pessimistic, Madame.'

  Destine fixed him with a stern glare. 'Do not confuse pessimism for an advance warning, Cornelius. Now…I will try and connect to Prometheus.' She took a deep breath, slowly exhaling through pursed lips. Destine's eyelids flickered like the beat of a hummingbird's wings, and she raised her fingertips to her temples. 'He knows I am searching for him, Cornelius,' she said. 'He's opening up to me, allowing my mind to sense him this time. I sense a great turmoil within his mind, a feeling of isolation, but above all…hatred. He hates this Hawkspear most desperately. Give me a moment to make more sense of this, my sweet.'

  Quaint held his breath silently as he stared into Destine's eyes. It had been a long time since she had showed her true age to him. Her taut skin draped across her cheekbones like wet silk, and she looked pale and worn, but yet still held a timeless beauty like a porcelain sculpture. Ray Barracks was right. She needed a rest.

  Destine was his spiritual centre of gravity, and for nearly fifty years he had never been without her. Since he was seven years old, she had been in his life-initially as his governess, and then later as an essential confidante and advisor. When Quaint inherited Dr Marvello's Circus she became his business partner, assisting him with the financial aspect of the circus, and she was his most valued and trusted friend. Now, looking as frail as she was, and in this climate of murder and subterfuge, Quaint just wanted to snatch her up and lock her away in a cage, to keep her safe from harm.

  'Cornelius,' the Frenchwoman whispered, snatching Quaint from his thoughts. 'His fear is so raw; it is easy to pinpoint his position, or a rough approximation of it. He is very frightened…and very cold, but he is uninjured. He is being pursued…near the waterfront, and I smell…I smell fish?'

  Quaint look baffled. 'Madame, that tells me nothing. The wharf runs along the Thames for miles, and all of it stinks of fish-he could be anywhere.'

  'No…it is more than that. I am being shown the image of a large building situated on the wharf. A warehouse, perhaps? The smell of fish…and ice.'

  'Water, fish and ice?' repeated a thoroughly vexed Quaint.

  'That is what I sense…I can almost taste the stench, it is so abundant.'

  'Wait on!' Quaint suddenly snapped his fingers. 'Ice and fish…on the docks? Of course. It can only mean Blythesgate!' he said gleefully.

  'Blythesgate? What is a "Blythesgate"'?' enquired Destine.

  'It's a fish market,' proclaimed Quaint. 'A couple of miles along the docks from Crawditch-it makes perfect sense! He's got to be hiding in there. Madame, you're a genius.' Quaint glanced at the station clock. 'We shall have to make a move quickly; that place will be abuzz with fisher folk at this time of day.' He strode back down the platform towards his assembled crew. 'Butter?' he called, signalling the Inuit over to his side. 'Hail us a Hansom. We're off, my friend…to Blythesgate fish market.'

  'You're best getting a boat, Mr Q, if it's Blythesgate you're after,' offered Barracks the engineer, overhearing Quaint's words. 'Boat'll get you there ten times faster than any cab.'

  Butter looked up at Quaint. 'We are to get boat, boss?'

  'Yes, we are to get boat,' Quaint snapped back enthusiastically.

  The Inuit scratched at his dark mop. 'Wherever we find ourselves boat, boss?'

  'Oh, don't you worry about that, my little friend,' said Quaint, 'I know a chap not far from here who works with a bloke whose sister married a fellow I used to play polo with who won't mind if we borrow one.'

  Butter's mouth fell open. 'We are to steal one, aren't we?'

  'Absolutely,' replied Cornelius Quaint.

  CHAPTER XXI

  The Trail

  A FEW MINUTES LATER, Quaint and Butter exited the station, and headed towards the Thames embankment, where a number of small dockyards littered the river's edge. The late November wind was trailing a fine spray of cold, salty water in their direction, and Quaint shuddered, tucking his scarf inside his coat.

  'My word, that's a chill wind. I'll bet this weather reminds you of home, doesn't it?' Quaint asked, turning up his collar.

  Butter smiled. 'Not much. There is too much rain here, boss. We have little rain in Greenland. It freeze to snow long before,
' he answered, his memory forcing him to reflect upon his homeland. 'And of the chill, boss, I am long since capable of noticing such things.'

  Quaint stroked his chin. 'Ah, yes. Your imperviousness to cold would be a very useful gift for me right about now, my friend. England is nothing if not damp. Damp enough to get right under your skin, as it always has been. Here we are. Look!' he said, pointing at a flaky painted sign above a rickety fence. 'Barter's Boatyard. This will do very nicely.'

  Butter followed a few paces behind as Quaint strode into the boatyard. They weaved through the carcasses of several old and damaged boats propped up on stilts, and headed determinedly towards the wharf. A rundown shack, with a peeling turquoise-painted door hanging limply from rusty hinges, stood between the wharf and Quaint, and from inside the shack, the golden glow of a gas lamp shone weakly. It was mid-afternoon, but the clouds had congregated across the sky, shrouding much of the daylight. Quaint held his finger to his mouth, signalling quiet, as they crept underneath the shack's window, the gravel underfoot scratching at their soles as they went. Once they were past the outbuilding, Quaint relaxed and looked at a wide selection of rowing boats moored up alongside the wharf.

  'Did I not say this would be easy, Butter?' he said.

  The words had just fallen from his lips when an extremely large Alsatian dog bolted from behind the shack, a fire in his eyes, and a trail of saliva dripping from its jaws. Shards of gravel ricocheted around, smashing against the wall of the shack as the dog tried to get purchase on the ground, incensed to see two intruders in its yard. It didn't even bother barking, but just leapt with all its strength towards Quaint, the thick ruff of fur around its neck looking almost like a lion's mane. Quaint instinctively defended himself, and as the dog's vice-like jaws clamped themselves around his forearm, he let out an uncharacteristic yelp of pain.

  'Christ, this bastard's strong!' Quaint yelled. He thought of his Indian friend Kipo's work in the circus with his tiger, Rajah, and remembered a flash of a conversation that they had shared once. Instead of trying to wrench his arm from the thrashing dog's mouth, Quaint relaxed, and forced his arm instead towards the gnashing jaws. He could see the ferocity in the animal's eyes as it tried to wrestle the tall man to the ground. With his other hand, Quaint delved deep into his pocket, desperately ferreting around for something he could use as a weapon, when suddenly-the animal stopped thrashing. It stopped snarling, and it stopped furiously trying to twist Quaint's arm from its socket. It just froze in mid-motion, its eyes rolled up into the back of its head, as if someone had flipped its OFF switch. Looking down at his bloodied and shredded sleeve, Quaint watched in transfixion as the dog released his forearm limply. As he stared down at the animal, something silver and glistening caught his eye, deep within the canine's open mouth. His eyes travelled up the length of the silver protrusion until they greeted the sight of Butter astride the now very dead dog. One hand tripped tight around the animal's neck, whilst the other grasped the handle of a long-bladed knife that was embedded into the dog's skull. The dog fell to the ground limply as Butter released his grip, sending a smattering of gravel into the air.

  'My thanks, Butter,' said Quaint exhaustedly, examining the state of his gouged arm through his ripped sleeve. Large patches of red blood seeped through the dark-grey material. 'This coat is pure Mongolian Kashmir. A second longer and that beast would have cost me an arm and a leg.'

  'Or perhaps just an arm,' said Butter, his face a roadmap of craggy wrinkles as a smile breached his worn features.

  'I shall have to have a word with Jeremiah about teaching you his sense of humour,' Quaint said. He removed his scarf and tied it firmly around his wound. 'Come on, let's move on. I've no wish to explain to that dog's owner the circumstances of its demise-especially as I'm about to thieve one of his rowing boats as recompense.'

  A minute later-passengers in a small pale-orange boat-Quaint and Butter pushed away at the wharf with the long oars, and the Inuit set about rowing them along the River Thames towards Blythesgate fish market. The afternoon fog was drawing in up the river, and visibility was getting steadily worse. Quaint produced a tinder-box from his coat pocket, striking a flint next to a small, oil-burning lantern. The wan flame flickered into life, albeit reluctantly, as Quaint hung the lantern on its pole at the fore of the boat. It gave them scant light, but hopefully enough for them to be seen through the fog should there be any other boats drifting nearby.

  'Take it steady, Butter,' Quaint said. 'We don't want this peasouper to be our undoing. Let's hope we can still see Blythesgate; we can barely be seen ourselves!'

  But Quaint was mistaken.

  They had been seen.

  They were seen very clearly indeed by a set of piercing eyes that had been watching them with obsessed intensity from the entrance of Barter's Boatyard. The scruffy young lad wiped his mouth with a moth-eaten sleeve, and smiled.

  'Off t'Blythesgate market are we, boss?' said the urchin of a boy, his thick matted black hair brushing against his eye line. 'Mr Reynolds will pay 'andsomely fer that little titbit.'

  CHAPTER XXII

  The Snare

  THE WINTER SKY was as dark as soot by late afternoon, with formless tufts of grey cloud obscuring the smattering of stars. Butter slowed the rowing boat to a crawl, as Quaint spied the docks through a pocket-sized pair of opera glasses. The fog had obviously put off other sailors and this stretch of the Thames was silent as a tomb, with visibility down to a minimum. Butter scanned around him, anxiously waiting for a sign that would indicate their destination.

  'We should be coming up to Blythesgate pretty soon, Butter; I recognise the wharf's buildings. There's the Chinese textile emporium, and there's Arlow's mill,' said Quaint. 'There! Just ahead, that's it. That's Blythesgate!'

  A short time later, Cornelius Quaint and Butter were standing in front of a vast warehouse. Its walls were a hotchpotch of colours and mismatched materials, from corrugated tin and iron, to large sheets of wood and salvaged planks. Trickles of rust seeped like gunshot wounds from the various bolts and nails holding the building together. Quaint stared up as far as the fog would permit him, and he raised the lantern to the door. A battered sign hung loosely from two hooks just above his eye level, creaking in the wind.

  'Blythesgate fish market,' Quaint said. 'Shall we go inside and take a look?'

  'But it is tight-up locked, Mr Quaint,' said Butter, eyeing the massive chain wrapped around the warehouse door.

  'Don't worry, old chap,' said Quaint, with a devilish glint in his eyes. 'We'll no doubt find a more suitable entrance around the rear of the premises.'

  As Quaint and Butter walked to the end of the warehouse, they pushed past a collection of large wooden delivery crates, not unlike tiny coffins. Each one of the crates was damp, stained white from the salty seawater, and reeking of fish from that day's catch. The trawlers would arrive early in the morning in Blythesgate, eager to sell their wares from the long, arduous day at sea and, to ensure their goods were kept fresh, they were packed in crates and covered in ice. The stench from the crates was fairly strong, and Quaint was pleased to move into the shadows of the alleyway that ran along the side of the market warehouse.

  The buildings along the docks were positioned closely to each other to make the most of their highly sought after dockland location. Huge, narrow tenements nestled next to storage warehouses, taverns to entice the seamen, as well as a variety of other more questionable pursuits. The entire stretch along the docks was virtually a different world from the rest of London, designed to cater to the needs of the passing traveller, or sailor, but as time had progressed, a more sinister element had taken up residence there, and more and more buildings had been built to accommodate the rash of interest in sea-faring commerce. Brothels were conveniently tucked away down every alleyway, and opium dens were even easier to find. Taverns were scattered about to pick up the flotsam and jetsam that wanted to empty neither their purses nor their minds on illicit sex or opiate distractions. The wharf w
as a disturbing, dark place once night fell, but Quaint moved confidently about with either ignorance or arrogance as his guide. The alleyway still presented potential for danger even at that time of day, and the wary traveller never dropped his guard. Not yet night-it was almost dark, and soon the local populace would be crawling from wherever they hid themselves during daylight hours.

  Soon Butter and Quaint were in a much wider alleyway, bereft of light, save the slow-rising moon in the sky, barely visible through the crevices of the alleys. The fog was less evident now; the warmth between the buildings keeping it at bay, and Quaint was able to see the rear of the fish market more clearly. An array of large boxes were scattered about, containing the remnants of melted ice, and the same strong smell of fish as the crates at the front of the building. Quaint eyed the crates, his gaze drifting up the warehouse, to a small window above.

  'These boxes have been intentionally placed here. They look as if they've been dragged from the front, according to these tracks in the dirt,' said Quaint to Butter, as he bent down onto his haunches and placed his hand into a crate, pulling out a handful of crushed ice. 'And not too long ago, by the looks of it.'

  'Are you sure, boss?' asked Butter. His eyes travelled up the marketplace wall, past the patchwork slates of iron and wood, to the open window. 'It seem a lot of effort. Why he not just go to train, avoid police there?'

  'I'm banking on Madame Destine's visions being correct, and that Prometheus was being pursued, so he went to ground,' surmised Quaint, as he pulled at his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. 'Destine smelled fish, and this place is just about as good a place to start looking as anywhere. Come on, I'll hoist you up.'