‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Quaint, standing to join Prometheus. ‘You’ve been unlucky, but it happens to us all. You have suffered, more than anyone should ever have to, and you have my sympathy. But in life, everyone experiences their fair share of heartache and pain. It is unavoidable. It is not gravity that binds men’s feet to the earth, Prometheus—it is Fate—and she will not be bargained with. She is like the wind, the sea, the rain. Fate is ever-present—and we are all at her mercy.’ Quaint ruffled his thick mop of hair, trying to find the right words of consolation. ‘Just look at me if you want proof of that. Here I am in my mid-fifties, and I’m still crouching in shadows and hiding from the law. Fate has singled me out, and shaped my soul. What has changed in my life?’
‘Perhaps you’ve become better at hiding, Cornelius.’
‘Better at running away, don’t you mean? But I was not going to run out on you, Prometheus—and I still won’t! So…with Lily’s brother incarcerated in Blackstaff prison, at least that’s an end to it all, then. You can move on.’
‘Maybe…except…I’m not sure it has ended, mate,’ said Prometheus. ‘Both the loves of me life’ve been…taken from me…by the same bloody man. Maybe it won’t ever end. Maybe you’re right, what you say about Fate. I’ll bet she’s ’aving a right good laugh at me…expense, so she is! I don’t know how he got out but I’ll find him—that’s for sure. Drivin’ me insane like this—it’s all part of his game.’
‘Prometheus, what are you talking about?’
‘He came to me cell…back at the police station…tauntin’ me, rilin’ me up through the bars from outside, he was.’
‘What? Who was? What do you mean?’
Prometheus ground his teeth, and started pacing in circles. ‘I got so mad…I went for him. Grabbed hold of the bars…and they just snapped right out…taking half the bleedin’ wall with ’em! I know he’s responsible. I just know it!’
‘Prometheus, you aren’t making any sense. Who? Who’s responsible?’ he asked, rounding on Prometheus, standing right in front of him.
He placed his hands upon the giant’s chest to restrain him forcefully, and Prometheus stopped in his tracks. The unstoppable force had met the immovable object, and suddenly the rage that blazed in Prometheus’s eyes faded.
‘It’s Lily’s brother, o’course,’ answered the giant. ‘Th’same bastard who caused all this mess we’re in…Tommy Hawkspear!’
CHAPTER XXIX
The Face in the Mist
BACK ACROSS THE Thames, at Grosvenor Park station aboard the circus train, Madame Destine was alone in Quaint’s office, sifting through the running order for the forthcoming show. The absence of both Twinkle and Prometheus was proving to be difficult to accommodate into the schedule. Destine’s veil was discarded on the back of her chair, and her head was buried in her fragile hands. The pallid light from the lantern on the desk served to exaggerate the woman’s pale complexion. Despite the spark that shone brightly in her misty-blue eyes, she looked drained. The long days of late had certainly taken their toll on her. But there was something else behind it all, like a tenuous memory that no matter how hard she tried to visualise it, she could never give it form.
Madame Destine had been a part of the circus long enough to know that it was pretty much a self-sustaining environment. All the crew and performers knew their roles, and everyone pulled together to make sure the show was a success. Even so, the days before the huge Big Top tent was fully erected, and the lesser exhibit tents were in place, were a strain on everyone. Even though the first show was not until the coming Friday afternoon, there was still a great deal of preparation to be done.
Destine sifted through reams of paper, sipping from a bone china teacup, idly staring out of the window of the train. Down at the platform below, several circus members moved about carrying boxes, tarpaulin and timber. It was now rapidly approaching eleven o’clock, and there was little left of the day. She yawned, suddenly yearning for the comfort of her bed.
Without warning, like a spear of electricity striking her, she sat bolt upright in the chair, her eyes wide, her mouth trembling. For the second time in as many days, Madame Destine was petrified. Her visions were becoming less and less clear, and more and more infrequent, and when they arrived, they came with such ferocity that it was like a million hot needles pricking her skin. This vision in particular, a fleeting slide-show of images lacking in coherence or substance, invaded Destine’s mind’s eye, flooding it with pulsating pictures, scents, sights and sounds.
The train’s office quickly melted away before her eyes, to be replaced with an out-of-focus image of a large, open-plan building. It was seemingly empty, and the French clairvoyant soaked up the vision in all its detail. Wisps of mist coated the floor up to ankle height, snapping and curling like coiled vipers. A silvery light flooded into the building from outside, casting an electric-blue glare across the barren floor.
In the doorway a fluctuating, undulating image of a man suddenly appeared, his face shrouded in darkness. Destine watched breathlessly as the man walked into the building. He was clenching his fists and cursing madly. Destine couldn’t make out the words, but she felt the emotion of the man all too clearly. It was hatred, pure and simple, coated with a frustrated lust for vengeance. The man approached closer, and with each footstep nearer to where Destine’s spirit form was standing, she felt an unfamiliar sensation. She was suddenly taken by the idea that she needed to run.
Destine slammed her eyes shut tight and attempted to sever the connection—but something was wrong. Something was stopping her. The ghostly spectre of a man continued striding through the ghost-light, and then suddenly stopped stock still on the spot with his back to Destine—and then something happened. Something puzzling, frightening and something utterly impossible…something that had never happened before in all seventy years of Des-tine’s life.
The man noticed her.
He turned his head and looked directly at her.
Somehow, he knew she was there. He was definitely aware of her. A fact that was confirmed as a thin smile crawled onto his face. That wasn’t supposed to happen. This was a vision from the future. Destine was supposed to be a disconnected viewer, observing events yet to pass—it was impossible for her to be drawn into some moment of the present. She brushed the feelings away, but as he began slowly walking towards her, the man’s face drove into sharp focus amongst the wisps of the mist and moonlight. It burned its image into Destine’s brain; so much so, that it was the only, overriding thought that existed there, and it was like being frozen to death from the inside out. An overwhelming wave of fear crawled across Destine’s body. The man was now mere feet from Destine’s position. Close enough for her to smell his breath. A twisted, malevolent sneer washed across his face as he walked into the shafts of blue moonlight. Destine slapped her hands to her face in sheer horror, as the image of the man flooded her senses.
‘C’est impossible!’ she gasped, ‘It cannot be…You’re supposed to be dead!’
CHAPTER XXX
The Walk in the Park
QUAINT SQUINTED AT Prometheus, in a state of total awe. ‘Hawkspear?’ he said. ‘Lily’s brother…is Tommy Hawkspear? He’s the fiend that I’ve been trying to tell the bloody police about! This is madness! I can’t believe that Dray was so blind!’
‘Tommy’s escaped from Blackstaff prison, Cornelius. Somehow…he found out I was in London…sent me a note just before he killed Twinkle. A note swearing he would hurt her…and he made good on his threat, didn’t he, eh?’
‘I’ve seen the note,’ said Quaint. ‘And so have the Police. They found it near Twinkle’s…body.’ Quaint said the word ‘body’ as if he were swearing in front of a priest. ‘I knew there had to be a connection between you and this killer, but not even Madame Destine foresaw this! We’ve been following this jigsaw one piece of the puzzle at a time and now finally I think I’m getting my first glimpse of the picture. My God, Prometheus, if only you hadn’t bloody escaped we
could have been way ahead of ourselves by now. Dray would’ve had no choice but to believe us!’
‘Look…m’really sorry, Cornelius…Seein’ that devil again clouded me mind, an’ me anger just…took control over me, I suppose.’
‘So…Hawkspear drugged you at the tavern that night. He followed you…and then he killed Twinkle right in front of your eyes. Now, more than ever, we need to see Destine to make sense of this! Him just sporadically escaping Blackstaff and coming after you, just as we arrive in Crawditch to watch all hell break loose…the coincidence is staggering!’
Minutes later, fuelled by these revelations, the two men had resumed their course for Hyde Park. Quaint and Prometheus strolled down the centre of a moon-soaked street near Eaton Square, towards Kensington. Dark, foreboding clouds gathered in flocks above, as if spying down upon them. A metal fence cordoned off the centre of the square and sycamore trees decorated a small green area, like a tiny engraving of parkland, shrunk down in scale. Quaint and Prometheus crouched behind a bush next to the railings, and drew a long, restful breath after their long journey. Heavy hands of a thick sycamore branches hung over the railings like a giant eagle’s wing, under which the men were cowering in the darkness. The road they needed to travel down was directly ahead, but it was intersected at crossroads, and they could be seen very clearly in the lamp-lit streets. Quaint could tell they were nearing Kensington. Only the idle rich were gifted with street-lamps.
‘We’re too much out in the open here,’ muttered Quaint. ‘And we’ve got another half-hour’s trek through Kensington. We’re going to have to keep on our toes if we want to get as far as the park unseen. You’re not exactly pocket-sized. We’ll need to use those terraced buildings up ahead as cover. With the docks far behind us we’ve run out of warehouses,’ said Quaint, eying the mass of a man next to him. ‘It’s past midnight, so we should find the roads pretty empty, especially considering the weather.’
‘Aye, Cornelius,’ agreed Prometheus. ‘There’s a storm coming.’
‘In more ways than one, my friend,’ nodded Cornelius.
‘Shh,’ Prometheus held up his hand. ‘D’ye hear that? It’s coming this way!’
A minute or two later, a horse and carriage steered swiftly past them in the darkness, the rattling cackle of the wooden wheels against the cobbled streets announcing its presence long before it was seen with the naked eye. Quaint stared at the sumptuous horse-drawn carriage, a spacious cart with a fine, muscular black horse pulling it. Two gas lanterns hung either side of the coach, and the driver was perched atop it, whipping the reins into frenzy, eager to be off the streets as quickly as the horse would take him.
‘Fate, it seems, has seen fit to offer us a gift, my Irish friend,’ Quaint said.
‘I hope you’ve got money to hire it, ’cos I sure don’t,’ replied the giant.
‘That’s no cabbie, Prom,’ said Quaint. ‘Take a look at those markings. Hansom’s are painted standard black, always have been. No, that’s official Church transport, and I’m not thinking of hiring it…I’m thinking of stealing it.’
With that, Prometheus and Quaint both leapt from the concealment of the shadows, and tore down the street at full pelt after the carriage. Despite his size, Prometheus streaked ahead of Quaint, reaching his arm out at full stretch to try and grab hold of the side of the carriage. His fingers found the groove of the coach door. But as his slapping footsteps resounded against the cobbles in the enclosed street, the mole of a driver glanced over his shoulder.
‘What the bloody hell-?’ squawked the man, as he whipped at the reins furiously, urging the horse to run faster. ‘Get out of it! Go on, gerrof!’
‘Prometheus!’ called Quaint from behind, ‘Get on top of it!’
Prometheus gave a lunge, and threw himself towards the carriage roof. He gripped onto the luggage rack and used his momentum to swing himself up towards the driver. The hunched man tried desperately to bat the giant away with his horsewhip.
‘We ain’t about t’hurt ye, man!’ said Prometheus, hanging onto the carriage’s roof for dear life as his thunderous feet tried to keep pace with the vehicle. ‘We only need a lift—it’s an emergency.’
‘You’re a bloody loon, you are—but you’re a huge loon, and I want no quarrel wiv’ you,’ said the man, slowing his carriage to a crawl. ‘Strictly speakin’, I’m not supposed to do this, y’know -‘specially at this time o’ night. Me boss’ll ’ave me guts fer garters.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Prometheus, climbing inside the transport. ‘We didn’t mean to scare ye, honest. Y’see, me an’ me friend need t’reach Hyde Park quick-smart! It’s a matter of life and death, so it is.’
Quaint eventually caught up with the carriage. He was bent over double, clasping his kneecaps, and panting like he’d just been forced to run a long-distance race at knifepoint.
‘Thank you…for…stopping,’ he gasped to the driver.
‘Di’nt ’ave much choice, did I? Yer bleedin’ mate saw to that.’
‘Where are you off to?’
‘Westminster Abbey…an’ as it goes, I’m goin’ right past the park on me way,’ the driver motioned the exhausted Quaint inside. ‘So get in now, or get left behind, mate.’
‘You are doing a great service,’ said Quaint, clambering into the carriage. ‘You have our thanks, Mister…?’
‘Melchin,’ said the driver, ‘Stanley Melchin.’ And with a crack of his whip, the coach driver rattled off along the street like a rocket.
‘Bloody hellfire,’ said the giant, fingering a silk curtain, admiring the interior. His voice had now returned to full effect, and his heavy Irish accent coated every word with a comical, undulating twang. ‘Whose carriage is this then—Prince Albert’s himself? Christ!’
‘Exactly,’ said Quaint, pointing to a lavish picture of angelic cherubs painted upon the coach’s ceiling. ‘It’s not regal, Prometheus—it’s religious. Look around at the art in here. Albert prefers the pomp and circumstance type of décor, not flying angels and cherubic scenes. Anyway, we have been most fortuitous, my Irish friend. Not only are we well concealed inside, we shall reach the park in no time, and we might as well travel in style, eh?’ Quaint said, pulling closed the carriage’s curtains.
Twenty minutes later, Prometheus and Quaint were standing admiring the stark beauty of Hyde Park. The cold winter wind was shaking the naked branches of the trees, sending grit and dust up into the night air. An unwelcome chill skirted around Prometheus as he spied the expansive, rolling fields, and the lines of trees that bordered the vast green space in front of him. The darkness stole most of the park from his vision, but compared to the stifling closeness of most other districts of London, this wide open space felt like another world to the man-mountain.
‘Y’know, Cornelius…I’ve spent the past few days either locked in a police cell, or hidin’ out in the docks…I gotta say, this place is just about as beautiful as I c’n imagine.’
‘You should have been here a couple of years ago, my friend,’ said a reflective Quaint. ‘The Great Exhibition of 1851—an amazing spectacle, full of the exotic and the fantastic. The Crystal Palace was simply sublime. Joseph Paxton outshone himself with that building, to be sure,’ he said, picturing the gleaming glass-domed roof, and the expansive halls of wonderment within the grand exhibition hall. ‘The culmination of the greatest triumphs that Science had to offer, and we sure knocked the socks off those Frenchies—just don’t tell Madame Destine I said that.’
Prometheus laughed. ‘Cross me heart. So, where’s the circus tent stationed, then?’
‘Just up past The Meadow,’ steered Quaint, strolling along the hilly plains. ‘We know the police are watching the train, but this place is out of Crawditch’s jurisdiction. Even so, we had best make sure we keep our eyes and ears open!’
CHAPTER XXXI
The Unfurled Agenda
ALOUD RAP ON the door echoed around Bishop Courtney’s palatial residence in Westminster Abbey’s annexe, and the h
eavy-set man clasped the glass door knob and briskly yanked the door open.
‘What time of night do you call this?’ Courtney demanded. ‘I said no later than eleven, and it’s past midnight, Melchin! What on earth kept you?’
Melchin ambled inside the room with hunched shoulders. ‘Sorry, Bishop…I was on me way ’ere, and these two blokes just ran straight out of the bushes, right in the middle of the road.’
‘Just make sure it doesn’t happen again, Melchin,’ interrupted the Bishop curtly. ‘So…what news do you have from Crawditch?’
‘That, Bishop, is sure t’put a smile on yer face,’ Melchin began. ‘There’s a committee on their way to Crawditch police station tomorrow. A lot of them locals are really jumpy now. So far they reckon they’ve ‘ad about five people or so go missing, although the Peelers’re only sayin’ there’ve been them three women you said you wanted ’em to find, like.’
The Bishop nodded. ‘Yes, the ones that Mr Hawkspear got a little too…indulgent with during the kill—they were of no use to the body-snatchers. We intentionally let the police find them to light the fuse of fear. I’d be very keen to hear the outcome of that meeting. Anything else of note, Melchin?’
‘Yeah, apparently there was some to-do down at the docks tonight, and the coppers found a load of dead blokes, looked like there’d been some kind of scrap. Caused a right bleedin’ storm, that did! Word is that the locals want Commissioner Dray to call in Scotland Yard, ’cos of all what’s going on. They reckon the place ’as gone to hell…if you’ll pardon me reference, your Grace.’
Bishop Courtney gently rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘Blasphemy is all relative to your God, Melchin. I am more concerned with what occurs in Crawditch! That committee is exactly what I need…the problem is…Commissioner Dray is no fool. He’ll deny their request, of course, if he wishes to retain a semblance of control.’
The Equivoque Principle Page 15