The massive steam engine and its four carriages were gaudily painted bright green with red swirling trimmings, and a yellow lightning flash adorned its sides. Alongside all the rather more sombre engines and carriages housed at the station, it stood out like a jester at a wake. Quaint was a firm believer in tradition, and he was loathe to repaint the extravagantly decorated train. It wasn’t proper for a circus train to be drab; it was a part of the show’s character all to itself, there to offer the public a glimpse of the spectacle to come—and Dr Marvello’s Circus thrived on spectacle. In fact it was renowned for it across many parts of Europe. The perfect synergy of traditional circus acrobatics, magical displays, feats of endurance, and the strange and the fanciful. The circus had performed to the likes of sultans and tsars, kings and queens, and always thrilled an audience. Of course, there was no such person as Dr Marvello. It was merely a theatrical pseudonym created to add an air of mystery to the circus. Cornelius Quaint had inherited the name when he inherited the circus, and he was quite unwilling to change it.
The man himself was sitting in his office in a loose white cotton shirt and black waistcoat. An array of twenty or so colourfully dressed folk sat around him in a semi-circle as he held audience. His office near the front of the train was usually a warm and inviting room—with theatrical posters on the walls, old magicians’ equipment and costumes, keepsakes and heirlooms from his career. On this day, however, its atmosphere was dominated by an abundance of tears, sniffles and subdued silence as Quaint relayed the information about the loss of Twinkle, and of Prometheus’s fate. As he had imagined, this double blow tore right at the heart of his family.
‘I wish I had more to tell you, folks, but that’s it,’ Quaint said, elbows on the table in front of him, bridging his fingers into a steeple.
He took a long, slow look around the room at the faces of those he had come to admire and respect. Every one of them had a vital part to play in his circus; every one was an essential cog in the machine. But Quaint was entertaining a thought that would see many of their abilities tested.
‘However…I must tell you that tonight I intend to visit Crawditch myself and launch a search for the fiend who murdered Twinkle. This task will be fraught with danger, and I envisage conflict with the locals, the police…or both. I cannot ask any of you to come with me on this venture.’
‘Nor could you stop us, Mr Quaint,’ chirped a Chinese fellow from the back of the office. His identical twin sat next to him, and patted him on the back in firm agreement with his brother.
‘Thank you, Yin…I hoped you would say as much,’ Quaint said.
‘It’s Yang, sir,’ said the Chinese man.
‘My apologies, Yang. I do wish you two would wear name badges,’ Quaint said warmly, his black eyes twinkling in the half-light. ‘It would make identifying you somewhat easier!’
A beautiful woman with dark-brown tresses and large dark-brown eyes, wearing a peach-coloured sequinned dress, raised her hand in the middle of the room.
‘Mr Q, I’ve got a question. It’s about what happened to Twinkle,’ she said, her voice faltering as she spoke. ‘I don’t understand…of all people, why do the police think that Prometheus did it?’
‘Because they have no other suspects, Ruby,’ replied Quaint. ‘As far as they’re concerned, they have their murderer—now all they have to do is find the evidence.’
Ruby raised her hand again. ‘Just tell us what we can do to help, Mr Q. Anything you need us to do, and we’ll do it. We’re a family after all, right?’
‘That is very sweet of you, Ruby, thank you. In fact, I aim to take you up on it,’ Quaint nodded sharply, his affection for his team reaffirmed. ‘Our first task this night is to be reconnaissance only. I don’t have enough confidence of our footing to do anything more risky. We have a starting point, my friends, but we will need to act with haste if we wish to find anything that could help Prometheus.’ Quaint stood up from his chair and clapped his hands loudly. ‘Now, if you would please return to your duties.’ Quaint watched his troops depart his office until only a handful was left, and then he stepped in front of the door. ‘Not you, Ruby, Jeremiah, Yin and Yang—I need a word.’
After Quaint’s office was emptied of the various performers, crew members and technicians, the circus owner stood with his arms crossed, surveying the four remaining performers. The stunning woman in the sequinned dress, a middle-aged man with a balding pate and long sideburns, plus the Chinese twins, all waited behind in their seats, as did another woman who was seated at the rear of the room. Her face was concealed behind a dark lace veil, held in place by a golden headband adorned with a variety of tiny charms and trinkets. She sat bolt upright in her chair, silently observing the room. This woman watched Quaint intently, stroking the charms on her golden bracelet as if she were biding her time patiently to speak.
Quaint began: ‘Folks, here’s my proposition: following a lead given to us by Prometheus himself, tonight we are going to start at The Black Sheep tavern in Crawditch, and search for clues. Prometheus claims he was drugged by whisky given to him by the establishment’s landlord, so finding out what he knows is our objective. We’ll do this quickly and quietly, as we can ill afford the spotlight of the police falling upon ourselves,’ said Quaint with a resolute clap of his hands. The room snapped to attention immediately, and all eyes and ears were transfixed by the man. ‘Ruby and I will enter the establishment at eleven o’clock and with a bit of luck the place won’t be too busy. We don’t want an audience. With Ruby’s looks and the right attire, she’ll hopefully grab the attention of the landlord.’ Quaint pointed to the two young Chinese men. ‘Meanwhile, our acrobatic twins, Yin and Yang, will enter the tavern via the rooftops and search the landlord’s living quarters and office. Searching for what, I don’t know, but somehow that man is linked to what happened to Prometheus—and so logic dictates, he knows something about Twinkle’s killer also…gentlemen, lady…I want to find out just how much he does know—even if we have to squeeze the truth out of his bones.’
The balding man raised his hand. ‘What about me, boss? I’m a clown, for crying out loud. What am I supposed to do, walk in there chucking buckets of water about?’
Quaint smiled. ‘That’s a nice idea, Jeremiah, but no. Yours is a most important role…you’re the distraction. This landlord will no doubt have a glut of scum in residence that would take umbrage with him being roughed up. It’s your job to keep them occupied so that Ruby and I can play our parts.’
‘I find this unsettling, sir,’ said Yin, flicking his thick dark fringe away from his eyes. ‘It is inconceivable that this could happen to someone like Twinkle.’
His brother Yang toyed with his neckerchief. ‘I agree with Yin, Mr Quaint. I cannot think what kind of person would wish to harm her.’
‘I share your sentiments, my friends, and your bewilderment. Twinkle was as close to an angel as I have ever known, and I am not going to stop until I find out who is responsible. What I can say with absolute certainty is that whoever this killer is, he’s as dangerous a man as I can imagine.’
The veiled woman at the back of the office gently coughed into her hand.
‘Madame Destine?’ Quaint asked. ‘You have something you wish to add?’
‘Yes, Cornelius,’ she said, in a thick French accent. ‘But what I have to say must be for your ears alone.’
CHAPTER VIII
The Foreshadow of the Past
ALL RIGHT, MADAME, you have my attention,’ said Quaint, once he and the veiled woman were alone. ‘What’s on your mind?’
The circus fortune-teller known as ‘The Mystical Madame Destine’ lifted her veil and stared at Quaint. Mid-way through her seventies, she was still in immaculate shape, and the curves of her face belied her age by a good twenty years. Her high cheekbones accentuated her catlike eyes as if they were created by a master sculptor, and she batted her eyelids as she waited for Quaint to pull up a chair before she spoke. Like a thick chocolate mousse, the F
renchwoman marinated every word with smooth, rich tones and flavours and, as always, Quaint was enthralled.
‘Cornelius, have I not always tried to guide you away from perilous ventures in your life? Sometimes you choose to listen, most often not. But this time I beg you to take heed.’ Madame Destine breathed a heavy sigh, as if unburdening herself of a great secret. ‘There is more afoot here than simple murder. My gifts of clairvoyance are giving me conflicting thoughts at every turn. Emotion, contradiction, revenge, twisted pathways. The situation we find ourselves in is grave.’
‘Well, of course it is, Madame. One of our family has been murdered, and another is incarcerated at the police station,’ said Quaint, as he rose from his chair and squatted next to Destine’s own, taking her hand in his. ‘Destine, you have been my guardian since I was seven years old. You have been more akin to a mother to me than my own was. You are one of the most gifted fortunetellers in Europe, and my faith in you is unwavering. Both the circus, and myself, are glad to have you on board.’
‘Spare me, Cornelius,’ said Destine, with a hint of a smile. ‘When you compliment me this much it usually means you are about to tell me something that I do not wish to hear. I take it you are to continue with this folly anyway, despite my warning?’
Quaint snatched up the woman’s hand, and kissed it gently. ‘This is too close to home for me to ignore,’ he said, his dark eyes searching for his guardian’s blessing.
‘No one is asking you to ignore it, Cornelius, but merely temper your response.’
‘Madame, you know me well enough by now. I am a creature of instinct, and I have seen far too many friends and loved ones suffer because I did not act sooner. That will not happen again, this crime cannot go unpunished.’
‘And how does involving this circus mean that it will not?’
‘I did not involve this circus, Destine—the killer did. I would not ask my people to do anything that each and every one of them would not do themselves in an instant. Do you expect me to leave Prometheus to rot?’
‘You aren’t listening to me, Cornelius,’ the Frenchwoman implored, reaching out for Quaint’s arm. ‘I am trying to warn you. There is something entwined within my visions of foresight…an undertone of secrecy. Something bubbling away that I cannot yet make sense of. Forget your pride…if you embark upon this quest I fear you may lose far more.’
‘Pride is an easy thing to lose, Madame.’
‘Cornelius, do not just simply listen to my words—hear them. Hear my counsel, else it be the last I give you,’ snapped Destine. ‘Ignorance of this underlying scent of deceit will be your undoing; I have no doubt of that.’
‘Madame, take a look around you,’ said Quaint, resting both hands upon Destine’s shoulder. ‘There is deceit around every corner, behind every door of every house in every street—even in our Parliament. It’s all around us. Deceit is practically what the present day world is founded upon.’
‘Cornelius, it is not the present that concerns me.’ Destine clasped at his hands, imploring him. ‘I fear that it is your past that is about to catch up with you.’
CHAPTER IX
The Black Sheep
LATER, ONCE THE shroud of night had draped its cold, dark hand across Crawditch’s streets, Cornelius Quaint stood opposite The Black Sheep tavern, and eyed the place with keen interest. He had shrugged off Destine’s warning and continued with his plan, just as the Frenchwoman had guessed he would. Not the type to run from danger, he was more likely to sneak up behind it, tap it on the shoulder and announce himself. He looked around the late night streets of Crawditch. All his people were in position. The black-clad duo of Yin and Yang leapt like cats from one rooftop to the next in a synchronous fluid motion in the pitch darkness as easily as if they were walking down a familiar street. Ruby was standing by Quaint’s side wearing a long, flowing dark-green cloak that covered her body completely, and Jeremiah waited pensively across the street, bathed in waning light from the gas lamp above him.
‘It’s show time,’ said Quaint.
The occupants of The Black Sheep stopped drinking in unison as soon as Ruby strode into the tavern. All eyes were upon her, their necks craning to follow her every move as she approached the bar. The landlord followed suit as Ruby flicked coiled spirals of copper-brunette hair away from her eyes.
‘Evenin’, ma’am,’ he said with a nod of his head. ‘It’s a bit risky for a lady to be out alone at this time of night, innit? Y’know, what with all these murders afoot? Most ladies are rightfully worried.’
‘My father was a merchant seaman, sir, I am not one easily worried,’ Ruby said, her eyelids fluttering a gentle tempo with the beat of her voice. ‘Might you be the proprietor of this establishment, sir?’
The barman nearly swallowed his own tongue. ‘I…I’m Arthur Peach, yes, the…ah…proprietor. Listen, you’re not one of Hilda’s girls, are you? I mean, I know I said I’d pay for what I owe…but business has been slow. Surely she’ll allow me a few more days?’
Ruby unclipped the brooch fastening her dark cloak together, and it fell open at the front. Like a pair of drab theatre curtains, parting to reveal a magnificently decorated stage, her ample cleavage blossomed forth into the man’s view. Her curvaceous breasts descended into tantalising shadow beneath the bodice of an emerald-coloured, low-cut dress, fitted tightly around the waist by a broad red silk sash. Ruby smiled a toothsome smile at the landlord.
‘Mr Peach, I am not one of Hilda’s girls, so you may relax,’ she said sweetly. ‘My name is Ruby Marstrand. A mutual friend of ours has requested that I visit you to…repay his thanks for the little job with the whisky last night.’
‘The Irishman?’ asked the barman, scratching at his head. ‘But, Mr Hawkspear already paid me more than enough. Listen, why don’t you-?’
Ruby pressed her finger against his lips. ‘Shhh. Is there somewhere a little more…private that we can go? Mr Hawkspear really is very grateful, you know…and he’s asked me to prove it to you properly…if you get my meaning.’
‘What, you…you mean you want to…with me? What, right now? Here?’ stuttered Peach, his lust silencing the logical, questioning side of his brain.
‘Mr Hawkspear believes in bad rewards for bad behaviour, Mr Peach,’ teased Ruby with a wink. ‘And you have been very, very naughty.’
‘Christ, love, if you ain’t one of Hilda’s girls, then I must surely be the luckiest bleeder in the bar,’ snorted Peach.
‘Not yet, silly, but you soon will be,’ whispered Ruby delicately into Peach’s ear.
‘Oh, right…well,’ the landlord looked around him at the small group of customers down the far end of the tavern, and smeared his cuff across his nostrils. ‘Well, I s’pose no one will miss me for a few minutes, eh?’
‘A few minutes? My, you do know how to spoil a girl’ giggled Ruby. ‘How about over there in the booth?’
At the far end of the tavern, the door opened and Jeremiah entered, cutting a swathe through the fog of tobacco. He was dressed in full clown make-up and costume, and the alcohol-pickled occupants of the bar took second looks to make sure the rum and ale hadn’t addled their senses. The clown demanded the attention in much the same way as Ruby had, but for entirely different reasons. Jeremiah approached a long table populated by some grisly-looking regulars and grinned broadly. Their eyes instantly caught sight of him, and a cacophony of laughter followed.
‘Gawd!’ one of the men laughed. ‘What’s Arthur put in ’is ale tonight?’
One of the men nearly spat his drink across the table. ‘Crikey! Alf, look, it’s your missus come to fetch you home.’
‘Good evening to you, lads. The name’s Jerry the clown,’ Jeremiah beamed. The white greasepaint covered his entire face, except for bright red-painted lips and surprised eyebrows halfway up his forehead. He wore an orange wig, a jaunty bowler hat and a large, bulbous red nose perched on the end of Jeremiah’s own large, bulbous nose. ‘Dr Marvello’s Circus is in town, and I’m just drumming
up a bit of trade, know what I mean? I can see you lads are of a discerning nature when it comes to your entertainment. Well, how’d you fancy some free tickets to the show, eh?’ he said, throwing a handful of bright yellow tickets onto the table. ‘Hey, all of you lot over there, come on. Help yourself!’
Swarming from various parts of the bar, the other patrons ushered themselves over at the mention of the word ‘free’. Crawditch’s residents were not the sort to pass up anything that wouldn’t cost them a penny, and the men huddled together, snatching at the tickets laid on the table. One of them cracked a joke about Jeremiah’s baggy trousers, held up by braces over a yellow and red spotted shirt. Jeremiah flicked at his oversized bow tie, and stamped his feet onto the sawdust-littered floor.
‘Oh, so you’re after a free show right now, are you? Right then,’ he slapped his hands together, and grinned. ‘Did you hear the one about the whore with a wooden eye?’
At the opposite end of The Black Sheep, landlord Arthur Peach couldn’t believe his luck. Ruby led him by his shirt collar to the secluded booths, and he practically stumbled the whole way there, where he suddenly came face to face with a grim-faced Cornelius Quaint. He had slipped in through the tavern’s rear entrance unobserved when all eyes were transfixed by the wondrous image of Ruby. Quaint was reclining in a wooden chair with his dark-grey cloak cast behind him, and his arm rested casually on his knee as if he were expecting this visitor.
‘Here, what’s all this then?’ Peach said nervously to Ruby as he spied Quaint’s bleak face. ‘I wasn’t expectin’ an audience, love.’
The Equivoque Principle Page 4