‘Yes, well, if we wish to exonerate Prometheus, we must be careful not to add fuel to the fire. Commissioner Dray can be a conflagration all to himself,’ agreed Quaint. ‘Now, whilst Butter and I are absent, I am relying on the fact that everyone knows their roles and responsibilities. Madame Destine is on hand, should you require her assistance. We have promised London a circus this coming Friday, ladies and gentlemen—and I for one intend to deliver.’
‘But Mr Q, how are we supposed to do the show without Prometheus or Twinkle?’ asked Ruby. ‘It just won’t be the same.’
‘We will continue as normal, and hide the cracks as best we can—as Twinkle would have wanted. This circus was her life, and we must honour what she stood for. If I know Twinkle, she would want us to go out there and knock London’s socks off! Prometheus will be found long before Friday’s matinée show, of that I am sure.’
‘Will you still be requiring me, Mr Quaint?’ asked Kipo.
‘Oh, yes! You and Rajah are still very much required,’ said Quaint. ‘I have a most important job for you, as a matter of fact.’
Yin patted Kipo on the back. ‘The boss is taking Rajah out on the town with him to search for Prometheus, isn’t that right, Mr Quaint?’
Quaint stroked his jaw pensively, as Kipo looked on aghast. ‘As tempted as I am to see how Londoners would react to a tiger loose in their midst—Rajah’s staying put, Kipo, so you may relax. He’s a tiger, not a bloodhound, and he happens to be a very visible deterrent should the police decide to come and take a look inside my train,’ Quaint turned on his heels. ‘Now, where’s Mr Barracks?’
‘Down here, boss,’ called the train mechanic, crawling on his hands and knees down under the engine. ‘Up to me eyeballs in muck ’n’ grime as usual.’
‘I should have guessed,’ Quaint chimed. ‘So, what’s your prognosis on our faithful transport then?’
‘Well, Bessie’s been through a lot, boss. She needs a total overhaul, if I’m bein’ honest,’ said the engineer, wiping a glistening trail of sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. ‘I’ll need another day on the manifold, and the transmission’s been shot since we left Edinburgh. She’s held together by sheer stubbornness alone.’
‘I know the feeling,’ said Quaint. ‘Good work, man. Keep at it. I don’t suppose you’ve seen Destine anywhere, have you?’
‘The last I saw, she was on a bench at the far end of the platform,’ answered Barracks. ‘That lady could do with good night’s sleep, if you ask me. She looks shattered.’
Quaint cast his eyes through the smoke of the station platform. He saw Destine sitting detachedly alone in the distance. ‘You noticed that too, eh?’ he asked.
‘Hard not to,’ said Barracks. ‘When a lady glows as brightly as she does, it’s obvious when she loses her shine, you know what I mean?’
‘As a matter of fact, Barracks,’ said Quaint. ‘I do. You know how guarded she is…it is no easy feat getting her to admit it if she feels weary.’
Barracks nodded. ‘You ain’t wrong there, boss. She’s like you; she’ll just keep soldiering on until something breaks. She’s no spring chicken any more, not that I’d have the balls to tell her that, of course,’ Barracks said with a throaty guffaw. ‘You know you’re the only one who can get through to her.’
‘Hmm,’ agreed Quaint. ‘Perhaps it is time that I tried harder, eh?’
Quaint turned away from Barracks and made his way along the platform to where Destine was seated. She looked up in surprise as Quaint approached her.
‘Hello, sunshine,’ he said. ‘How do you feel?’
Destine smiled. ‘How do I feel? Have you been talking to Ray Barracks again?’
‘Always the fortune-teller, eh?’
‘Barracks is a sweet man.’
‘He cares for you a great deal, Madame…but do I detect a little mutual fancy?’
‘Nonsense, Cornelius! I am old enough to be his…well, let’s just say I am more senior in years than he is. I am far too old for romance—let alone Ray Barracks!’
Quaint lifted Destine’s hand and kissed it gently. ‘Love is blind to age, Madame.’
‘So what brings you here, Cupid?’
‘Well…actually, I would appreciate your opinion on something, as it goes.’
‘My opinion seems to be in high demand today,’ Destine said. ‘I am honoured. What can I do for you?’
‘Ah, would you care to take a walk with me?’ asked Quaint. ‘Somewhere out of earshot, I mean.’
He led Destine along the station platform, to a solitary wooden bench, away from the main congregation of circus folk. Quaint rummaged around inside his overcoat and produced a folded piece of paper.
‘What do you make of this?’ he said.
Destine knew instantly what it was, but still felt compelled to ask.
‘Cornelius—is this the note we saw at the police station? The one found near Twinkle’s body? Where on earth did you get it?’
Quaint smiled wanly. ‘No one has quicker fingers than I, Madame.’
‘But that’s stealing! That’s police evidence,’ shrieked Destine into her hands.
‘Yes, I know that,’ said Quaint without batting an eyelid. ‘Evidence that I’m hoping you can make use of. From a sensitive’s point of view, I’m curious as to your take on the sentiment, the emotion behind it all.’
As well as clairvoyant, the Frenchwoman was highly sensitive to the emotions of others, and sometimes felt what they felt, saw what they saw. Usually this translated into faint, almost non-existent feelings, as identical twins such as Yin and Yang had experienced when one of them was in pain. There had been odd occasions when the flash of emotion was so strong that the Frenchwoman was almost rendered unconscious. It was a gift very different from the ability to read fortunes and was far more dangerous, far more uncertain, and Destine only attempted it when it was absolutely necessary.
She traced her fingers across the almost childlike writing of the letter. ‘I sense a high degree of hatred for Prometheus for one thing,’ she said, ‘A very personal hatred.’
‘That’s plainly evident, Madame,’ Quaint nodded. ‘Anything else?’
Madame Destine closed her eyes, commanding her sensitive gift to work. ‘Very personal, very…angry, but that is also obvious,’ she said with certainty. ‘There is nothing more evident, nothing at all. It is cold.’
‘And yet the letter is the epitome of emotion, don’t you think? Is that not your area of speciality? I had hoped you would be able to sense a lot more of the murderer’s resonance from his words…allow me to paint a picture of him.’
Madame Destine nodded thoughtfully. ‘Usually, perhaps I could. But this killer is different—the man we can presume is this Hawkspear—he certainly knows how to leave his scars, doesn’t he? Physically and mentally, it seems.’
Quaint’s black eyes narrowed. ‘He could have been hunting Prometheus from the moment he set foot in Crawditch, and that’s what worries me the most.’ Quaint motioned to the array of people gathered in scattered groups on the platform. ‘In that letter he said he was going to destroy everyone whom Prometheus loves, remember? Perhaps Twinkle was just the first target? When I look at those people over there…I can’t help but think each and every one of them is also a potential victim—myself included.’
‘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.
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