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.
'Come on, Butter,' he said with a satisfied smile. 'Let's get these two mongrels back to the station. And if Hawkspear dies on th'way, the rats'll get a feast t'night-if they can stomach his filth.'
CHAPTER XLVI
The Touch-paper Is Lit
SERGEANT BERRY RUBBED his palms roughly into his eye sockets, more to wake himself up than to disperse any tears. His sadness at losing not only his commissioner, but his friend too, was fading rapidly the more he learned from Cornelius Quaint, a man surprisingly yet convincingly in possession of a great many details. The more Berry heard, the more he knew it was all true.
'Curse that man,' he said, slamming his fist onto the desk.
'Which one? Renard or Dray?' asked Quaint dryly, picking at his fingernails. 'There's nothing you could have done, Horace…Renard is highly skilled at this sort of game…the man escaped getting shot in the bloody heart, for God's sake! That's one magic trick I've not quite managed to pull off yet.'
'He sounds like the Devil himself, this Renard fellow,' Horace Berry said.
Quaint toyed with a pencil on the desk. 'Actually, he's more like the person the Devil aspires to be. He's cunning, ferocious and fearless, just the kind of enemy you don't ever want after your blood, Horace.'
'So, what's next then? I mean, if this Hawkspear is working for a man like Renard, and Dray and Jennings both got mixed up in it somehow, that still leaves us with a gaping hole in this whole mess. Murdering innocent folk-what's the point? What's the motive behind it all?' said Berry, scraping his chair against the rough wooden floor as he stood up. He approached a large blackboard affixed to the wall, and snatched up a mottled cloth next to it. As he took the cloth to the board and erased the remnants of handwriting, the brief recollection of Dray's fate sent a flare of nausea through Berry's veins. 'Right, so if we look at the main players in this mystery like a pyramid, with your mate Renard at the apex, and Hawkspear and Oliver at the lower points, there must be a connection of some sort, unless they answered an advert for "Mercenaries and Murderers" in the local rag! So what's their connection?' said Horace, tapping the chalk on the board in time with his words, as if he were thinking aloud. 'You said that Renard knew Dray from way back, when Sir George was up to his tricks with his smuggling, right?' Berry
drew a dotted line in chalk, linking the two names. 'So that's their connection. But, either the Commissioner or Renard needs to have some kind of connection to Hawkspear-to be able to release him from Blackstaff prison is one thing, but out of all the murdering scum there-why pick him? Now, if Oliver was consorting with offenders-especially ones stuck in Blackstaff for a double manslaughter charge-that'd surely get noticed. If you're sent to Blackstaff, you're not likely to rehabilitate, know what I mean? I doubt he'd be that stupid.'
'I like your thinking so far, Horace.' Quaint joined Berry at the blackboard. 'So, that means Renard had the connection with Hawkspear, which makes more sense. Renard was part of Sir George's pack once…so he may have come into contact with the Irishman…except that's not Renard's style. He's a solo operator, he likes to be in control, especially considering Hawkspear's mental state…I mean, gouging crosses into people's chests, and the like-it's unholy, and I doubt Renard would let him off his lead too frequently.'
'What about that prison release paper?' Berry pointed to the note on the desk. 'It's countersigned by someone called Bishop Courtney. Is Renard powerful enough to have contacts within the Church?'
'He's probably on first name terms with the Cardinal himself.'
'And yet he seems to be a bit of a religious nut, if you ask me. I saw the crucifix he carved into your poor dwarf…I suppose that kind of eliminates the possibility that he and a bishop would dally in the same circles.' Berry stubbed the chalk onto the board. 'Hang on a mo, Mr Quaint, you said that Hawkspear was responsible for killing your strongman's love back in Ireland, didn't you? Isn't that why he got sent to Blackstaff in the first place?'
'Yes, that's true, as I have recently discovered…Why do you ask?'
'Well, think about it,' asked Berry, his face alight with excitement as he fiercely stabbed his chalk onto the blackboard again, snapping it in two. 'What if we're sat here looking at this all wrong, Cornelius? It's not what connection these men have to each other- it's the connection they have with someone else.'
'Like who?' asked Quaint.
Berry stared at Quaint's blank face and raised his eyebrows. 'You!'
'Me?' asked Quaint, jabbing his finger to his chest. 'What do you mean "me"?'
'You, Cornelius-it's you!' snapped Berry. 'You're the link.'
'Nonsense, Horace, I don't even know Hawkspear. I'd never even heard the man's name until yesterday.'
'No, but if he's as connected as you say then I'll bet Renard had,' said Horace Berry, clenching his fists tightly, as he always did when he was on the scent of the truth, and it was teasingly beyond his grasp. He was speaking in a stuttered, robotic fashion, as if his words were being directed by a higher authority. 'You had a history with Oliver, and a running feud with Renard, right? You said so yourself. Renard also had dealings with Oliver and his father you said…which leaves Hawkspear as the odd one out…with no connection to either man in the triangle. Come on, Cornelius, I know you're not trained to think like a detective but you're by no means an idiot.'
'You noticed.'
'Connect the dots-you're the link!'
Quaint suddenly went very quiet. 'Can this be true? My god, Horace…Tom Hawkspear killed Twinkle…which set me and my circus upon this path in the first place. Prometheus was incarcerated for the crime, which led me to involve myself with Oliver once again, stoking up the past as we tried to prove Prom's innocence.' Quaint stood up sharply, and downed his tumbler of whisky in one gulp. 'Do you relly think that I am the trigger for all this insanity, Horasce?'
Berry nodded. 'So it would seem…yes. But there has to be more to it.'
Quaint flopped his massive frame back down into his chair, as his legs almost gave way beneath him. 'Renard used me. He involved my circus purposefully! Like a clockwork mouse…he wound up my key, and has watched me chase my tail in circles this whole week.' He scratched frantically at his mop of curls. 'So, now we know the connection…what's next?'
'You said this Renard character has a hatred of you, so how come it's taken him fifteen years to get his revenge? Why wait that long? And then, why sanction Hawkspear to kill Oliver, if he was on Renard's side?' Berry asked, loosening his collar and pouring another drink. 'And we still don't know what this is all about…I don't believe Hawkspear killed all those women just to get revenge on you, someone he'd never had any personal disagreement with…He took too much pride in his kills for that.'
There was a rap on the door, and Constable Marsh poked his head around it.
'Um, Sarge…Sorry to disturb you, but you're really going to want to see this,' he said, and stepped back.
The door was pushed swiftly open and Prometheus walked in, with Hawkspear over his shoulder, writhing and groaning, closely followed by a guilty-looking Jennings and Butter behind him. Jennings fell to his knees, sobbing. Prometheus slowly lowered Hawkspear's bloodied body directly onto the desk, forcing Berry to hastily snatch up the half-full bottle of whisky from it.
'What's all this?' demanded Sergeant Berry. 'Jennings, lad, you've got some explaining to do!'
Quaint looked to the newcomers. 'Prometheus…Butter, would you care to enlighten us? I'm sure the sergeant is just as anxious as I am to hear what this is alla about.'
'Cornelius, man-thank God you're all right!' Prometheus said, clamping his huge hands on Quaint's shoulders, before turning to Berry. 'Sergeant, ye may remember me…from earlier in the week? I was a prisoner here, do ye recall?'
Berry stared at the seven-foot bearded, bald giant with hands like tennis racquets and a body like a tractor engine. 'How could I forget, eh?' he said with a polite nod.
'The sack of guts bleeding on yer desk is Tommy Hawkspear -the monster responsible for all the killings that've plagued yer wee district here this past week…includin' the murder of Madeline Argyle.' Prometheus paused, gathering up his strength at the mention of Twinkle's name. 'An' yer Commissioner, n'all. I s'pose ye're already acquainted with that snivellin' worm on his knees over there mewin' like a wet cat?'
Jennings clambered to his feet clumsily. 'Sarge…I've been stupid, I know that. But the boss told me to do it! He said I had to do what this Mr Reynolds fella wanted. He was blackmailin' the guv'nor…he had some dirt on 'im from some days in their past, we both 'ad no choice. Reynolds said this bishop character was wantin' somethin' from the cemetery and he was helpin' him get it…I don't know what, and I didn't ask. But I was only follow-in'orders, Sarge, you have to believe me!'
Quaint interrupted: 'Constable, you saw this "Mr Reynolds" character yourself?'
'Yeah, course I did. In the backyard of this very station, no less…shows you how cunnin' the man is! Looks like he ended up stabbin' the guv in the back after all.'
'Describe him to me, this man,' Quaint said.
'What? I…I dunno…tall, he was. Tall and thin, like a scarecrow…spoke French, although not when I knew him, he didn't. Seemed to be all an act with him. He was pretendin' to be a Londoner. I dunno why.'
'Anything else?'
'Apart from the scar, y'mean?' sniffed Jennings.
'A scar? Where?' demanded Quaint.
'Down here,' the Constable muttered, tracing his finger down the left-hand side of his face. 'Right nasty one, an' all, it was.'
'That's Renard, all right.' Quaint said.
'It is?" asked Berry. 'How can you be so sure?'
'Because I'm the one that gave him the scar,' replied Quaint. 'This Bishop you mentioned, Constable…it can only be the same one that countersigned Hawkspear's release papers. What does he look like, Jennings?'
Jennings shrugged. 'Dunno, mate. Never seen 'im. Like I said, 'parently there was somethin' in the cemetery that he's after.'
Quaint clenched his jaw, and pulled on his overcoat. 'Sergeant…I think it'll be worth us taking a trip to this cemetery of yours, don't you?'
'What? Right now? What about this one?' asked Berry, pointing at Hawkspear's groaning body. 'I can't just leave him to die on my desk, but if I lock him up-after what he's do
ne to people round here, not to mention Commissioner Dray-my boys'll have his guts for garters.'
'Then Butter and myself shall go and investigate this cemetery,' nodded Quaint. 'Prometheus, be a good chap and stay here, will you? Keep an eye on Hawkspear. See what else you can get out of him. We're a long way to discovering the entirety of what exactly is going on here, and I'm sick of being kept in the dark.'
'Will do, Cornelius, don't ye worry,' Prometheus agreed. 'I'll do me best to keep him alive-so he can get what's comin' to him. But listen, there's something Butter and I overheard that you might make some sense of. The Frenchman seems to be working for someone else…someone called Hades something.'
Quaint was striding towards the door, and froze mid-step. 'What did you just say?'
'Hades. We overheard it…when Renard was talking to the Commissioner earlier tonight…it sounded like Dray knew who this bloke was too. He was petrified at the mention of his name.'
'Mmmm,' grumbled Quaint, 'He should be.'
'Cornelius, begging your pardon, but do you know who this Hades person is?' asked Sergeant Berry. 'Do we need to focus on him as well as Renard?'
'It's not a person, Sergeant…it is persons. Plural. The Hades Consortium is a group,' answered Quaint. 'They are rumoured to have been in existence in one form or another for hundreds of years, perhaps as long as recorded history itself. Scattered across the world in positions of power, they slumber until their lords and masters require them…and then they arise…leaving devastation in their wake like a hurricane.'
'What are you on about, man?' asked Berry. 'I can't keep up with you.'
'Sergeant, the Consortium is a secret organisation whose primary goal is to cause, and then profit from, the propagation of havoc and unrest across the globe. Politicians, businessmen, entertainers, royalty-the lot, nobody knows for sure who's in and who's not, not even their own members. They make the Freemasons look like a Sunday school group,' said Quaint, pacing around the room. 'The Hades Consortium thrives upon toppling governments, infiltrating vast conglomerates, influencing trading and generally causing massive unrest wherever they cast their shadow. Imagine all the massive crises that have occurred in the past few hundred years, and it's a safe bet that the Consortium has had a hand in it somewhere along the line.'
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