The equivoque principle cq-1

by Darren Craske

  As he walked towards the exit to the Weir House, Quaint released the brake on the console, and wrenched the long-armed lever attached the machine. Immediately, the weir mechanisms sprang into life. The huge cogs mounted at the rear of the Weir House connected with well-oiled chains and instantly the array of mechanical weirs started up again, all of them spinning wildly. The scream of the weirs as they churned the water was deafening.

  In the small, enclosed area, Renard had nothing to hold onto, and the swirling maelstrom of the current was impossible to swim against. Amidst the thrashing, spiralling water, he tried desperately to grab onto one of the weirs. The spinning metal dome was as sharp as a blade, and it cleanly sliced off four fingers of Renard's right hand. The Frenchman screamed in frenzied pain as rich, red blood seeped into the rust-coloured water. With nowhere to go and no escape, his face knotted into a frantic mask of panic, Renard's body was dragged under the water time and time again. Just seconds later, shreds of clothing floated grimly to the surface.

  Quaint was already out by the horse-drawn coach that Melchin had helpfully left tethered to a nearby lamppost. It was easily a far more superior horse than his last one. Quaint looked at his pocket-watch. It had a long hairline crack across its surface, and he held it to his ear. It had stopped ticking some time ago, and he had no idea how many minutes Destine had left. He prayed that fate was smiling on him. After all, had he not just unravelled and foiled a complicated plot to poison the River Thames, saving thousands of Londoners' lives, and dispatched the architect of that plot to his death? Surely he deserved a little bit of luck as a token of good will.

  His fracas with Renard had taken too long, and Hyde Park was agonisingly far away. Even with Bishop Courtney's purloined horse, it was unlikely that he'd make it in time…but he had to try.

  CHAPTER LII

  The White Knight

  'DESTINE,' CORNELIUS Quaint yelled, leaping from his horse. He ran straight for the fortune-teller's tent, ripped open the door and stepped inside-the antidote clutched in his hand at the ready. He stood in the open doorway, staring in disbelief at the sight laid before him. He shook his head, clamping his eyes shut to deny the image.

  Destine's bed and tent were both completely empty. Quaint fell to his knees, exhausted beyond anything he had ever felt before. He noticed Destine's shawl, discarded on the ground, and he reached out to it. He scooped it up into his hands, and smothered his face into it as if he were trying to claw back a memory. The poison inside of him had abated now, the antidote miraculously conquering the effects just in time…for him anyway. As he looked forlornly around the empty tent it seemed that, despite his best efforts, he was now too late to save Destine. He cupped the shawl to his face, and smelt the familiar lavender perfume. She was gone. She was lost to him for ever and a part of him wished that he had died too. What was the point of all his struggle, all his sacrifice, if Destine were dead?

  Just then Ruby Marstrand darted into the tent. 'Oh! It's you, Mr Quaint. I…I didn't know you were back. I just came to collect a few things.'

  'Where is she?' demanded Quaint, rising to his feet swiftly.

  'We thought Madame would be more comfortable inside the caravan,' Ruby said tearfully. 'She…she's so weak…I've never seen anyone in such agony.'

  'Lead the way, child! We don't have one single second to waste.'

  An elaborately decorated Romany caravan was parked up next to the Big Top tent, a single gas lamp flickering in the window, and Quaint sprinted quickly inside. Destine was laid out on the bed, her golden bracelet attached with its array of lucky charms twinkling in the stillness of the room. Her red-rimmed eyes went wide as she saw the imposing figure of Quaint enter.

  'Madame,' Quaint said breathlessly, kneeling by her bedside. 'Drink this at once!'

  With a great deal of effort, Destine's dry and cracked lips managed to take the liquid, and swallowed it down awkwardly. Quaint scanned her condition, praying that he'd reached her in time. He had remembered what Renard had said about the poison being augmented by water, and he'd topped up the remaining antidote with rainwater, wagering that perhaps that might work for the antidote too. If he had fought against the odds and survived, perhaps there was still hope for her.

  Destine finished her painful swallowing, and Quaint lowered her back down onto the caravan's bed. Her eyelids flickered erratically, and her limp arm flopped onto the floor. Her energy was slipping away. Quaint picked up her hand and rested it upon her chest, kissing her cheek gently. Ruby shuffled closer to Quaint, her eyes raw with tears.

  'Mr Q? Is…is she going to get better?'

  'I don't know, Ruby…I really don't know,' Quaint said, a lump rising in his throat. 'We should let her get some rest and allow the antidote do its work.'

  'She's put up such a fight so far, Mr Q…I only pray she can win the final battle. Things just wouldn't be the same without her.'

  'Do not even contemplate it, Ruby. Madame has an effervescent spirit, and if anyone can survive such torment, it is she. I will pray for her,' Quaint said, as he rose to his feet, and walked outside into the freezing cold. He was numb, unable to feel even the slightest chill. As he stood at the caravan's door, he turned to look at the still form of Destine. 'Live, Madame. Fight!' he whispered. 'Now, more than ever…I need you.'

  CHAPTER LIII

  The Slate Wiped Clean

  SOME TIME LATER, as the scent of sizzling bacon and freshly-cooked bread signalled to the circus encampment that breakfast was being prepared, Quaint was still lying awake and alone in Madame Destine's tent. He still wore his blood-stained white cotton vest, and he hadn't taken his eyes away from a dirty stain of mould on the roof above him for the past three hours. He lifted his hands and looked at them, clenching and unclenching his fists. To his surprise, his wounds from the battle with Renard had almost completely disappeared, leaving his skin itchy in the places where they had once been. His previously scraped knuckles had healed, his arms and legs felt stronger, tauter, and the recurring twinge in his lower back (compliments of the Hungarian Premier's wife) had vanished completely. Quaint felt like a new man, and even the lack of sleep over the past twenty-odd hours was causing him no fatigue. He was in immaculate condition considering the carnage his body had been through.

  Whistling a happy ditty, Butter breezed into the tent, carrying a metal tray full of deliciously smelling fried eggs, black pudding, bread and bacon.

  'Some food, Mr Quaint,' the Inuit said proudly, placing the plate on a small stool in the tent. 'I am overjoyed to see you well, boss. When Prometheus and I finally returned from Crawditch and there was a telling of what happened to Madame, well…I feared the worst things. For you both.'

  'And? How is Destine?' Quaint, asked hurriedly. 'Is there any news?'

  A broad smile illuminated Butter's face. 'She is most well, boss. She is far from fully recovered, but she is awake now, and drinking and eating. She has asked for you.'

  'Thank the Lord she's recovering,' Quaint mumbled. 'When can I see her?'

  'Once you finish your eat. You need it; you have not had so much as a scrap for nearly twenty-four hours, boss.'

  'Time flies when you're having fun, eh?'

  Butter chuckled to himself. 'It is good to see your smile once more, boss. I was beginning to think that perhaps I would never see it again.'

  'You're not the only one.' Quaint fell back onto his camp bed, and rubbed at his eyes. 'My thanks, Butter, for the good news, and the hot food. Both are greeted with welcoming arms.'

  'It is pleasure for me, boss,' said Butter. He placed his arm around Quaint's shoulder and leaned him forwards, plumping up the pillow behind his employer's back. He rushed around the tent, and scooped up the metal tray, placing it upon Quaint's lap. 'You sit up,' he ordered.

  As Quaint shifted his position to sit upright, something struck the china plate on his tray with a metallic 'chink'. He reached down to the ground and plucked up a dented metal object. 'How bizarre,' he said, holding it up to the light. 'Where
on earth did this thing come from?'

  Butter shuffled to his side to get a closer look. 'A bullet?'

  Quaint looked around almost regretfully. 'Can it be…?' His hand moved to his shoulder, and he began to rub it gently. 'I'd almost forgotten all about it. Butter-I've been shot!'

  Butter nearly fainted on the spot, and his eyes flared wildly. 'Where, boss?'

  'Right here!' Quaint pulled his vest to one side, and twisted his neck to get a good look at the bullet wound in his shoulder, courtesy of Antoine Renard. To his surprise, there wasn't much to see; just a purple-grey bruise where the bullet had impacted, and small, spiralling tendrils emanating outwards, like knots in a tree trunk. Rather than a wound less than five hours old, it looked as if the wound had been healing for years. Quaint lifted his arm and rubbed at his itching shoulder. The pain was almost non-existent. How could that be? There was a wound there, albeit only a remnant of one.

  'Boss, are you feeling unwell?' asked a concerned Butter. 'I can see no shot.'

  'Well, no matter, Butter. I'll worry about that another time.' And, indeed, Quaint surely would. 'I must say, my friend, it feels good to be back in settled climates, after recent events. How did things conclude in Crawditch after my departure?'

  'Sergeant Berry acting as Commissioner until Scotland Yard finds Mr Dray's successor. He has everything well in order, and the local people are much relieved.'

  'I'll bet. I don't know what the Yard is playing at. Horace Berry would make an ideal Commissioner. I might just drop a little note to a few friends of mine; see if they can't stack the odds in Berry's favour. And what else have I missed?'

  'Well…seems body of a Bishop Courtney was discovered in residence at Westminster Abbey, The Church is in dark to what happened, and are investigating so I hear.'

  'And what of Tom Hawkspear?' asked Quaint. 'What is his fate to be?'

  'He died shortly after you left, boss. Prometheus said about him having "hole in his gut the size you could ride a horse through". It saddens me for people of Crawditch, justice was not truly done.'

  'Well, that all depends on your perception of justice, Butter. Some might say the manner of Hawkspear's death was a just reward. We'll let Hell decide his punishment.'

  'I suppose…and the Constable Jennings is now in prison for aiding conspiracy and treason, to be sentenced in three days.'

  'Excellent!' said Quaint with a nod, tucking into his warm bread. 'So, all loose ends are nicely wrapped up then. Just the way I like it. And how do you feel after all the excitement, Butter?'

  'I have learned much from this adventure, boss.'

  'We both have, my friend. I have lain awake for hours trying to soak it all in,' said Quaint with a wistful gaze.

  'And how that make you feel, boss?' chirped Butter.

  'Oddly enough, my friend,' Quaint said, as he chomped on a rasher of smoked bacon, 'for the first time in a very long while…I suddenly feel…revitalised!'

  'That is good,' said Butter, smiling warmly. 'Even if you do not look so, I think.'

  'And what do you mean by that remark, you cheeky little scamp?'

  Butter laughed. 'I mean no offence, boss. I refer only to your hair.'

  'My hair?' asked Quaint. 'What on earth are you talking about, Butter? What's wrong with my bloody hair?'

  Butter picked up a small, hand-held mirror from Madame Destine's makeshift dresser next to the bed, and offered it to his employer.

  'Take a peek,' he said.

  Quaint scowled and stared at his reflection as if he were looking at a stranger.

  'Good Lord!' he gasped.

  His formerly brown-grey curls were now silver-white curls.

  'This is terrible!' Quaint said. 'Butter, I look ancient.'

  'Actually, boss, I think it makes you look…'

  'Distinguished?' offered Quaint, optimistically.

  'No,' replied Butter. 'I was going to say…wise.'

  'Wise, eh?' Quaint pulled at his spiralled silver-white curls in the mirror, stretching his jaw and inspecting his teeth as if this were the first time he had viewed his face. 'Hmm, well…I suppose I can cope with "wise". Heaven knows, I have been called far worse.'

  Quaint threw back his loose bed sheets and stood up straight, taking in a deep breath. 'Well, hasn't this week just been full of surprises? I wonder what else we have left to discover, hmm? Now…I need to have a word with Prometheus before show time,' he said, ominously. 'There are a few things I need to say.'

  The conjuror left his tent, and meandered through the congregated pockets of his performers and crew, searching for Prometheus. As he did so, they clapped, cheered and patted him on the back like a soldier returning from war. Quaint was not expecting that, and by the time he had got halfway to the piece of open grass where Prometheus was doing press-ups, he almost felt like turning around-but he kept on going, for the conversation he needed to have with the Irish strongman was of the utmost importance.

  Quaint's shadow drifted over Prometheus's sweating form, and he slowly registered that he had company. He rose to his feet, and greeted Quaint with a wide smile.

  'Mornin' to ye, Cornelius,' he said, cheerily. 'Ye look well.'

  Quaint prodded his ivory locks. 'Apart from the new look, you mean?'

  Prometheus laughed. 'Well, if ye want the truth, I think it makes ye look-'

  'Distinguished?' suggested Quaint hopefully.

  'Yeah…distinguished…that's it,' replied Prometheus, none too convincingly.

  'Prom… I wanted to have a quick word with you,' began Quaint. 'Things have happened so fast this past week. A lot of things have occurred…to us both. I suppose I just…I just wanted to make sure you were all right…with the upcoming show and all.'

  'Cornelius, I've known ye for a long time. I can see through ye just as well as Destine can, me old friend. Ye can say her name, ye know…'

  'Madeline…' said Quaint, reverently.

  'Twinkle, boss. Twinkle was her circus name…her true name,' Prometheus said, drifting away from a group of engineers making last-minute adjustments to a nearby marquee. 'She would want us to remember her as Twinkle.'

  Quaint nodded, and followed him. 'Quite right too. Listen to me…if you don't feel like performing today, I do understand. To be honest…everything has happened so quickly that I've hardly had time to take stock. I swore to myself that I would grieve for Twinkle once my enemies were vanquished…but now I find my time taken up by other matters.' He reached out with his hand, grasping the air. 'I just…didn't want you to think we didn't care, Prom…that I didn't care.'

  Prometheus spun to face him. 'Ah, don't be daft, man! Course I know ye care! I know what she meant t'ye…an' more importantly, so did she. Just 'cos of all that's gone on, doesn't make ye a heartless monster, does it? Look, I know what ye did.' He grinned a broad smile. 'Ye saved the whole of bleedin' London, man! Ye're a hero!'

  Quaint rubbed the back of his neck shyly. 'Well, I don't know about that.'

  'Well, I do!' Prometheus strode over to him, snatched up his hand and shook it hard, the action causing Quaint's teeth to rattle in his mouth. 'Ye did a grand job, so ye did, an' I'm proud t'call ye my friend.'

  Quaint nodded in acquiescence. 'Well…same here. Very proud…just keep it to yourself, all right? I have a reputation to uphold!'

  Prometheus grinned, and folded his broad arms across his expansive chest. 'So…we're goin' t'put on a damn fine show here today for the folk o' London, right? An' we're gonna make Twinkle proud of us too, right?'

  Quaint smiled. 'You took the words right out of my mouth.'

  'I may have been mute all them years, but I wasn't deaf! Just like I heard ye say so many times-we're a family! We stick together, an' we'll pull together…no matter what fate throws our way! We always do.'

  'Absolutely,' agreed Quaint. 'I have to prepare. I'll see you later, Prometheus.'

  The conjuror turned, and walked back through the throng of gaudily dressed performers, his eyes on his feet and his mind elsew
here. How could he tell Prometheus that he was about to leave the circus, that he was abandoning them all? However he said it, no matter how much he sugar-coated the words, it still amounted to a betrayal in his eyes. But as close as he was to his people -things had changed. The world had changed. True evil had arisen in the form of the Hades Consortium, and with its members…he had some unfinished business.

  Fate, it seemed, was in the habit of throwing things in Cornelius Quaint's way.

  CHAPTER LIV

  The Missing Piece

  BY LUNCHTIME THE first matinee show of the circus had begun, and reams of people from all across London's many boroughs peeled themselves away from their chores and employment, and entered Dr Marvello's Travelling Circus. Hyde Park was alight with such uncommon electricity as seemingly everyone from miles around had put their lives on hold and come to the circus.

  Flurries of children and adults alike moved from one tent to the next, marvelling at the spectacles they witnessed as the show in the Big Top started. Destine patrolled around inside the massive tent watching the faces of the audience as the spectacle unfolded. Ruby had the crowd's stomachs in their mouths with her knife-throwing skills. The clowns Jeremiah and Peregrine soaked the first three rows with buckets of cold water. The Chinese twins Yin and Yang scared everyone half to death with their gymnastic exploits, and Prometheus bent steel bars as if they were made of liquorice-with Butter scurrying around doing everything in between. A well-oiled machine, the circus was a self-propagating beast. Everyone knew their part and each played it exceptionally. Shocks and frights were tempered with thrills and laughter like any good circus, and the atmosphere both inside and outside the Big Top was next to paradise. Cheers, screams of excitement and laughter undulated everywhere.

  Destine stood back from the crowds and smiled to herself. Something she had not done in a long while. The circus had an amazing power to invigorate and rejuvenate. Suddenly, all her recent troubles were pushed to the back of her mind, as the performer side of her brain kicked in, and Destine simply allowed herself to go with the flow. She was taking a welcome break from her role as circus fortune-teller and she was feeling agitated, without knowing why. Despite how much pleasure she gained from watching the embryo of the circus blossom into its present state of completion, something was niggling at her. Tiny warm butterflies floated around Destine's body, and her hands tingled. Although this was normality once more (and how she had missed its presence), there was still something missing.