Quaint slid the card towards Melbury, tidied the remainder of his pack up into his hands, and stacked it to one side on the table. 'Would you like to confirm?' Quaint asked. Of course he had known the card from the moment Melbury's podgy fingers had touched the deck. 'The King of Diamonds, I believe.'
Melbury's heart sank as he flipped over the playing card, and saw the image of the King of Diamonds. He slapped his hands to his face in amazement. 'But how did you-? You were blindfolded!' squawked the flustered Warden, clapping his hands gaily. 'Out of all them cards! How did you do it?'
Quaint smiled, and tapped the side of his nose. 'I'll show you.'
An hour later, and after another tot of rum to steady his nerves, Warden Melbury directed Cornelius Quaint to a large, circular door. He rattled around with a large iron key in its lock; the Warden swung open the door, and led Quaint down a spiralling staircase, deep into the bowels of the prison, to a dusty room, piled high with filing cabinets.
Melbury picked up a large stack of card files, and a mountain of loose papers. 'You should find what you're looking for in 'ere, Mr Quaint. Sorry about the state of this place,' he said, thumping the pile onto a rickety old table.
'Thank you, Warden,' said Quaint, and after a good twenty minutes of trying to decipher what indexing system the prison used to store its files-only to discover that it seemed to be totally random-he found a file marked 'Releases: Oct/Nov '53' and traced his finger along the paper, searching for a name. 'Aha!' he exclaimed suddenly. 'Warden, it says here that Hawkspear's release was authorised on Sunday evening by the office of Bishop Courtney of Westminster Abbey, countersigned by Constable Percy Jennings of Crawditch District Police Force.' Quaint tapped his cheek with his finger, deep in thought. 'If I were a believer in coincidences, Warden, I would be most intrigued.'
Melbury scratched his head. 'Crawditch he came from? Just the other side o' the river that place, innit?' he said, drumming his teeth with his fingernails. 'Well, I s'pose then that means that Hawkspear's release would've have to have been authorised by-'
The Warden was interrupted by Quaint's chair scraping across the floor as he stood swiftly. 'Oh, you needn't bother telling me, Warden Melbury,' he said through clenched teeth. 'I know exactly who authorised it.'
CHAPTER XXXV
The Seeds of Hate
BACK IN HIS office in Crawditch, Commissioner Oliver Dray poured himself a generous amount of whisky and slumped into his chair. The stilted afternoon light stuttered through his window, suffusing its light with a misty sheen. Fog was already beginning to rise, streaming about the streets. The station house was close to the docks, and highly susceptible to the chilled mists carried in from the Thames.
A knock on his office door suddenly alerted the Commissioner, and he quickly stashed his glass inside a drawer. He beckoned the caller to enter, and hastily picked up a handful of forms and papers, trying to look busy. He relaxed considerably as Constable Jennings poked his head around the door.
'How do, guv'nor,' Jennings said with a nod. He stepped inside the room, and pulled up one of the Commissioner's chairs. 'Just thought I'd pop in for a bit. You know, to see what's what, an' all that.'
'What's what, Jennings, is that I'm looking incompetent!' Dray snapped, a ruby flash flourishing in his cheeks. 'Not only have we got this Irish lunatic leaving more bodies in his wake than the pox, but I've been informed that your mate Mr Reynolds's band of so-called "professionals" couldn't even do away with Quaint and his bloody Eskimo.'
Jennings nodded in agreement. 'I'm findin' it all a bit hard to fathom meself. I mean…all these murders-we know exactly who's doin' it, but we're powerless to stop 'em! I know I'm prob'ly out of line here…but how come you're lettin' Mr Reynolds get away wiv it, sir?'
'I wouldn't go so far as say I'm "letting" him,' seethed Dray, 'but what I will say is this; that man is party to some information that I'd rather wasn't made public, know what I mean?'
'Yes, sir…but p'raps it's all gettin' a bit out of hand.'
'Out of bloody hand is right, laddie! Reynolds promised me Quaint would be dead by the week's end, and so far the bastard is still walking!'
Jennings picked at his fingertips. 'I'm sorry, Commissioner, but what's Quaint done to you that makes you hate him so much? The Sarge said you an' him knew each other from ages back.'
Commissioner Dray rested back into his chair. 'Back when I was no policeman, and he was certainly no bloody circus magician. Yeah, our paths crossed for a short time,' Dray began, removing his whisky glass from his drawer again. 'I used to travel all over the world with my father, y'see, with his shipping business. We went to all sorts of places. The Orient, South America, Bolivia, Ecuador-all over. Quaint had spent most of his life-and a large part of his inherited fortune, I gather-traipsing from one country to the next, searching for what, I don't know. We met in Peru, back in the late twenties, early thirties I think, when he hooked up with our band. We were both a lot younger men, back in those days…I was in my middle twenties, but God knows about Quaint. He's probably always looked like a grizzly old bastard his whole life.'
'So, this Quaint was some kind of…'
'Opportunist,' snapped Dray. 'Or so he used to call himself, whatever that means. We found all these secret caves once, up in the Peruvian mountains, so we thought we'd stick around, searching for anything we could trade on back home. The locals were besotted with gold, you see, and the stuff was everywhere. They had these great big temples just full of the stuff, sitting around gathering dust! The tribe located there were simple folk, content to just sit in the sun and pray. So…seeing as it was all going to waste, my father decided that we'd make good use of all that gold ourselves,' Dray paused, watching the flicker of glee upon the youngster's face ignite.
'Now, my old man, he was a rogue in his youth, an' no mistake, but he was one shrewd operator. He'd been tipped off by a ruthless young French thug-a man who seemed to care even less for the locals than we did. A right nasty piece of work, he was…up until Quaint shot him, but that's another story. So, Father cooked up a deal to take over the tribe, and ship out all the gold back to England, where we'd all be rich men. So, we pitched up our camp, and made ourselves at home. We'd only been there a short time, when Quaint turned up and started shouting the odds at my father.'
'What's up with the bloke? Didn't he want to be rich?' asked Jennings.
'Quaint's the kind of person who loves to get involved, laddie. He'd set himself up as some kind of high authority or something, like he was better'n the rest of us. He stood up on the moral high ground and preached about this and that. How we were "messing with other cultures" and should learn to leave well alone!'
Jennings laughed like a guilty schoolboy.
Dray continued. 'When the final move came to overthrow the village by force, Quaint stood against us-against my father. Everything went haywire, and if it weren't for me, my father would've put a couple of bullets in him for sure. There was a big set-to with the villagers, and Quaint managed to turn the bloody lot of 'em against us. We had to grab what we could and get out of that place.'
'And that was the last you saw of Quaint, eh?'
'Well, you know what they say about bad pennies, Jennings,' said Dray. 'I made a deal with your mate Reynolds. He's supposed to be making sure that the bastard gets what he deserves…in exchange for me keeping our boys off Hawkspear's scent, and out of his business.'
'Right, I've got it now,' said Jennings. 'That Reynolds bloke has been blackmailin' you. Can't you just buy 'im off, like? Can't we just lock 'im up somewhere? Or, better'n that, 'ave someone sort 'im out, good an' proper?'
'It's not that easy, Jennings,' said Dray sharply. 'I've never even met the man-he uses you as his bloody messenger boy. I can't risk that information getting out. It'd be a bloody disaster.'
'So, what's he got on you then? Somethin' from the old days?'
'Not on me, Jennings-on my father. Back in Peru, he was involved in a couple of…I guess you could say "ques
tionable" cargo deliveries…the type that you don't make receipts for.'
'What…like smugglin', you mean?'
Dray scratched at his chin. 'Big strong folk, those Peruvians. They fetch a pretty penny, and the women…very exotic, laddie, y'know what I mean?'
'What, your father was smugglin'…people?' asked Jennings. 'Slaves, you mean?'
'And somehow, this Reynolds fellow has found himself in the possession of evidence against my father. If it ever got out-not only would it kill my father, but it'd probably drag me down with him.'
'Crikey! And ain't your old man some kind of lord?' asked Jennings.
'Sir George Dray, successful businessman, and personal friend to a lot of people in high places, so he is. Royalty, aristocracy, clergy…just about anyone who's got any clout in this damn country these days,' said Dray, forcing a mouthful of whisky down his throat. 'He'd be crucified if this knowledge ever came out.'
'Maybe Reynolds is in league with Quaint? Maybe Quaint told 'im all he knows?'
'Blackmail's not exactly Quaint's style, Jennings,' smiled Dray.
'So what can we do, guv?' asked Jennings eagerly.
'Against Reynolds…not one damn thing,' said Dray dourly, running his finger over his teeth. 'Against Quaint though…now that's another thing entirely.'
CHAPTER XXXVI
The Restless Doubt
MADAME DESTINE WATCHED meekly from behind the folds of her tent's entrance, as Prometheus argued furiously with Butter nearby. The discharge of the Irish giant's voice almost blew the tiny fellow off his feet, but to his credit, the Inuit stood his ground.
'That's easy for ye to say, lad, it's not ye's head on the block, is it!' Prometheus yelled. 'How'd ye feel if ye couldn't even close your eyes at night in case the law decides to sneak up on ye?'
'Ye might find this hard t'believe, Butter, but Cornelius ain't right all the time! We don't all see him with rose-tined specs like ye do.' Prometheus spun on his heels and set off down the slope of the lawns. 'Stay here with the Madame…that's where ye can do all the helpin', lad.'
'I heard 'im well enough, laddie,' snarled Prometheus. 'But the locals in Crawditch are knockin' down the police's door, bayin' for me blood. If I don't do this now, what d'you think's goin' to happen? They'll find me, man…they will! I'll be tucked up asleep one night and get a wee knock on me door. They'll chain me up and they'll drag me away…I won't know when and I won't know where.'
'Wait until Mr Quaint returns.'
'No, Butter-I'm goin' back t'Crawditch t'face what's comin' -before it comes after me first. Geddit? At least this way I get t'have a say in me own fate!'
Butter buried his head in his hands. 'Then…take me with you. I might be helping.'
Prometheus stared at the man as if he had just discovered an entirely new species of human being. 'Take ye with me, are y'in-sane, man? A second ago ye were tellin' me how I wasn't s'posed t'be going anywhere-and now you want to come n'all?'
'If I am to come, then when the boss ask why I did not stop you, he will know that I force myself to accompany you for own good.'
'Ye might find this hard t'believe, Butter, but Cornelius ain't right all of the time! We don't all see him with rose tinted specs like ye do.' Prometheus spun on his heels and set off down the slope of the lawns. 'Stay here with the Madame…that's where ye can do all the helpin', lad.'
Butter watched silently as Prometheus's voluminous silhouette walked off into the distance. 'That man is almost as stubborn as the boss,' he muttered under his breath. The Inuit chewed on his lip, considering his options, but within a few minutes, the Irish giant had disappeared completely from view. 'Now Prometheus is able to talk again properly, no doubt he gets himself in even more trouble.'
'Indeed he will, Butter,' whispered Destine, spying unseen and unheard from her tent. 'Prometheus should have heeded Cornelius's warning…for the only thing waiting in Crawditch is death.'
CHAPTER XXXVII
The Enemy Unmasked
AS FAR AS THE Crawditch police were concerned, Prometheus was still number one suspect for the series of murders that had recently taken place, and as the man himself rounded a corner on the outskirts of the district, not far from The Black Sheep tavern, he smiled at a roughly sketched picture of himself-all beard and bald head-tacked to a wooden support beam of a grocery store. The word 'WANTED' was written in bold letters underneath. Various people ghosted past him, and around him, a few looking over their shoulders at the vastness of the man, but no one stuck around long enough to pay him much mind.
It was mid-afternoon, and the Irishman was idly strolling down the centre of Merchant Street, with his concentration focused upon reaching the police station as quickly as he could. For his plan to work, and his name to be cleared, he needed to enter the station willingly, for no one would believe his story if he were captured and brought in. He saw the unmistakable blue-painted double doors of the station up ahead, closed tight against the November wind, and a large pang of uncertainty suddenly formed inside his stomach. He knew he was feet away from freedom, but a part of him also knew that despite what he had said to Butter earlier, one of the most annoying qualities of Cornelius Quaint was that he was seldom wrong.
Prometheus grabbed the door handle, and was just about to open it when he heard the heavy pounding of footsteps coming in his direction. Looking around, he spied a low-lying fence, and leapt over, landing on his backside in the dirt. Pushing through the fence into a wall of large conifer trees, he tried his best to hide himself, aware that if there was one thing a seven-foot-tall man is no good at-it was hiding. His heart pumped like a jackhammer at the sudden flurry of activity, and he pressed his head tight to the wall, praying the enclosing trees would shield him. After a time, Prometheus heard the station door closing, and all was quiet in the main street once again.
Once Prometheus was confident that the officers had gone, he was just about to dart out into the street again when he heard raised voices behind him. He dove back into the branches of the trees as stealthily as he could considering his size, and moved cautiously towards the sounds of the conversation.
He soon reached another fence, and the voices were mere feet away. Something like the inevitable pull of a magnet dragged him towards the chatter. There were two voices, clearly heard. One was a broad Scottish accent, and the other, a far younger, local voice that Prometheus recognised instantly as belonging to one of the constables who had briefly visited him in his cell at the station. He couldn't remember the name, but he knew that the Scot was the young constable's superior officer. Prometheus held his breath, and his nerve, and concentrated on the two policemen's conversation.
'I thought you said this Reynolds beggar would be here at two o'clock, Jennings?' questioned Commissioner Dray, standing at the rear entrance to Crawditch police station. 'It's now getting on for three, and if he doesn't show up in five minutes, the deal's off and I walk, you get me?'
Constable Jennings shifted on his feet nervously. 'He'll be here, sir. He came to me, remember? He has to turn up!'
As if on cue, Jennings and Dray heard the scuffing of feet, and soon, dressed in a long overcoat and sporting a flat cap pulled down low to hide his scarred face, Mr Reynolds clambered over the station's yard gate, landing gracefully like a cat on the other side. As if he were another person entirely from the man who had graced the Bishop's lush apartment in Westminster Abbey, Reynolds seemed to carry himself differently now. The same cocksure attitude was still there, but his back was less hunched, he seemed wirier, and the fire that danced within his pale eyes made him look far more dangerous than Constable Jennings had previously seen. Reynolds approached Dray and held out his hand.
'Bonjour, Oliver, it's been a long time,' he said. The Cockney drawl was suddenly gone, and there was a new, melodic accent to his voice.
'You!' Commissioner Dray was stunned at the image of the man before him, and he strode over to Reynolds, pacing around him silently, as if he were a phantom. He took Reynolds's hand
and shook it limply. 'My God…it…it really is you!' Dray said, as if all his strength had been sapped by the image of the man, like Samson after Delilah had sheared his hair. He blinked hard; clamping his eyes shut tight, and then opened them quickly -expecting the mirage to disappear. But, to his dread, it remained. 'But…but I thought…you were dead!'
'I got better,' said Reynolds.
Jennings scowled at the man. 'Boss? What d'you mean dead? This 'ere chap's my Mr Reynolds…d'you know 'im or somethin'? I thought you said you'd never met him?' the young constable asked.
'Oh, I know him all right, lad,' the Scotsman replied. 'Does Quaint know that you are still alive, that is the question?'
'Not yet, Oliver,' grinned Reynolds, 'but he soon will.'
CHAPTER XXXVIII
The Conjuror Returns
AT THAT EXACT moment, Cornelius Quaint returned to Hyde Park. The white sky was beginning to turn pale grey, as the invisible sun prepared for the long, chilly night to come. Quaint turned up the collar on his coat, and strode briskly across the park, catching sight of the circus in the distance, now taking on even more shape, practically completed. Quaint made a mental note to congratulate his team.
As he approached Madame Destine's tent he whistled the national anthem, the tent having no door upon which to knock and announce himself.
'It's me, Madame. I have returned, and I'm exhausted. Tell Butter to boil some water, will you…I need a brew. On second thoughts, crack open that cognac I know you've got stashed in your tent.'
Destine pulled the tent entrance to once side, and swiftly dragged Quaint inside. Ruby Marstrand was seated at a round table set for two, a crystal ball in the centre of the table. There was an uncomfortable silence tangible in the tent, and Quaint's curiosity was immediately piqued.
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