The Equivoque Principle

by Darren Craske

  ‘He should do,’ said Reynolds, stepping into the room from the hallway. ‘After all, that is what we’re paying him for, isn’t it? To turn a blind eye? A man in his position is the linchpin in a place like Crawditch. This needs to be kept contained within Crawditch’s jurisdiction.’

  ‘Indeed it does, Mr Reynolds, and a high coup it was indeed for you to ensnare him in the first place. Who knows what you used to convince him, but it worked. We do however need to be mindful that the locals don’t lose confidence in Dray. Thank you, Melchin, off you go,’ said the Bishop, ushering the driver outside the room. ‘I wonder then, Mr Reynolds, if the townsfolk are demanding the Yard’s involvement—how will that balance be affected in Dray’s absence should we do away with him? We don’t want to make things even harder for us than they already are.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ agreed Reynolds, snatching up a glass decanter of dark-red wine and pouring himself a glass. ‘If Dray goes down, he’ll most likely be replaced by his second, one Sergeant Horace Berry. He has been with the Force practically since its inception, no wife, no children.’

  ‘No leverage then? Nothing you can squeeze?’

  ‘And nothing to blackmail him with either, he’s as clean as his regulation whistle. Aside from the threat of physical violence, we’re out of luck if he gets in charge. I’ve been thinking, Bishop…perhaps Oliver Dray works best for us right where he is.’

  ‘Although, I must admit that I was somewhat nervous about having a police commissioner of all people on our side, he has so far kept these crimes localised to Crawditch, as you so rightly surmised. That is vital to my plan…this must remain contained.’ Bishop Courtney wiped a thin slug-trail of perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. ‘I don’t want to stir up a hornets’ nest that’s going to come right back and sting me in the posterior—my eyes are fixed upon the grander agenda.’

  Reynolds focused his gaze upon the Bishop. ‘What is the grander agenda? I’m not sure I’m following it any more. I thought this was all about Queen Victoria’s grand plans of renovation…that’s how you sold it to me. What’s all this stuff about Crawditch and its cemetery got to do with what the Queen wants?’

  ‘Victoria’s decree is but a smokescreen, Mr Reynolds. A cloak behind which my own personal ambitions are hidden. It is not Crawditch itself that I wish to claim…but a right that should be afforded me as Bishop.’

  Reynolds strode to the long windows and rested his hands against the glass. ‘Look, Bishop—it really doesn’t matter squat to me what your grand plan is. You could be raising an army of the undead to storm Buckingham Palace, for all I care—but I’d just like to know what side I’m fighting on, know what I mean?’ Reynolds’s face looked almost bone-white in the moonlight, giving him a ghoulish appearance.

  ‘Very well,’ bowed the Bishop. ‘After all, you’re not like Mr Hawkspear. He is a blunt instrument, whereas you, sir, are a keen edge. You have been a great help to me this past week, and I suppose you deserve to know just what is so important to me.’

  ‘What I seek is power. A power greater than words from dusty old Bibles…I mean true power. It is high time the Church of England reclaimed its place as a position of strength…to become again what it once was…an impregnable fortress of authority across this Empire—an authority far beyond that of mere kings and queens…an authority that is Godlike.’

  Reynolds clapped his hands noisily. ‘An impressive sermon, Bishop,’ he said casually, as he walked over to the table by the Bishop’s side. ‘When we were in the crypt at the cemetery you started to tell me something, but you never finished. Is there something in that crypt that you need, Bishop? You have access to the crypt any time you want, so why not simply walk in there and take what you need? Why do you need the whole of Crawditch emptied first?’

  Courtney stroked the corners of his grin. ‘Like I have said before, Mr Reynolds…you possess a keen intellect. All good questions, and to answer; what I desire is not hidden in that crypt, Mr Reynolds.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘Not any longer, at any rate.’

  ‘I don’t understand…’

  ‘It is in my possession, Mr Reynolds—but it was only half of what I need.’

  ‘You’re speaking in riddles, Bishop.’

  ‘You asked why the Church was so interested in a dingy dockland borough like Crawditch, Mr Reynolds, and why I am so interested in its cemetery. Well, I shall tell you all, if you really wish to know.’

  ‘Oh, I do wish, your Grace…I really, really do,’ pleaded Reynolds sarcastically, like an eager child begging for a toffee.

  The Bishop played along, clearing his throat dramatically. ‘Many, many years ago Crawditch cemetery was selected as a location to store a very special prize, devised by the Church to secure its future and cement itself as the one, true religion to which all must heed. Part of this treasure was buried in the crypt; the other in the cemetery grounds itself.’

  ‘So, the crypt did have some treasure worth finding then, after all?’ asked Reynolds, his beady eyes aflame with interest.

  ‘As I said before, treasure is not always gold or jewels, Mr Reynolds. In this case, the treasure in the crypt happened to be a glass vial containing…an antidote, of a sort.’

  ‘An antidote? That’s treasure to you, is it? A bleedin’ antidote?’

  The Bishop swatted Reynolds’s caustic remark away with a wave. ‘The antidote itself is not the treasure…it is what it is an antidote to, that certainly is. The true prizes that I sought were both purposefully hidden in separate locations. One location contains the primary chemical, and the other a neutralising agent.’

  ‘“Neutralising agent”? This is all getting a bit above me, Bishop…I’m a mercenary, not a chemist. If this “solution” is such a treasure—why’d you need an antidote?’

  ‘In case someone using the treasure should have second thoughts, Mr Reynolds,’ answered the Bishop, ‘for it reverses the effects of that vial’s solution—although why one would wish to do such a thing is beyond me. I suppose the word “antidote” is a bit misleading, for what the primary vial actually contains is a very special and unique elixir!’

  ‘An elixir? What does it do, cure the pox, or something? Turn lead into gold?’

  ‘Nothing as churlish as that, Mr Reynolds.’

  ‘But this…this elixir thing is hidden in the cemetery?’

  ‘Within the cemetery grounds, yes,’ confirmed the Bishop. ‘In an unmarked grave.’

  ‘An unmarked grave? So, how come you don’t just pay the body-snatchers to dig it up then? Why go to this great plan of yours for something so simple?’

  ‘Simple, Mr Reynolds? I can assure you, if it were simple don’t you think I would have the elixir in my hands by now? There are over five hundred unmarked burial sites in that cemetery—and what I seek could be hidden in any one of them.’

  Reynolds smiled as the penny dropped. ‘And I’d guess the locals would have something to say about you digging up their loved ones, eh?’ he asked, purposefully showing the Bishop a furtive smile.

  ‘Which is precisely why I am trying to clear the district,’ snapped Courtney. ‘It has taken me the best part of twenty-three years to finally track down the location of what I seek, but it’s impossible to go any further with the district fully populated…I’d be locked up within five minutes.’

  ‘And then along comes Queen Victoria…with all her talk about reclaiming London as her Empire’s capital, and that just falls like a gift-wrapped present in your lap, eh?’ said Reynolds. ‘Pretty convenient.’

  ‘Have you not heard that the Lord works in mysterious ways, Mr Reynolds?’ Bishop Courtney said. ‘Victoria gave me the perfect excuse for me to continue with my plans, and now…now we are close to its fruition, Mr Reynolds, so very close.’

  ‘And all that stands in your way are a thousand locals, eh?’

  ‘Thanks to Mr Hawkspear, that number is decreasing by the day, but it’s not enough…I need the place empty
of all witnesses.’

  ‘Now I get it,’ grinned Reynolds, ‘Why didn’t you just say so at the beginning? We could have surely come up with something that wasn’t quite so…messy, something a bit more direct. All this subterfuge for something that’s buried in a bloody grave? How do you know some grave robber—or someone from your lot—hasn’t already beaten you to it?’

  ‘I would know…the Church would know, the whole World would know! The Church has closed its mind to the fact that it even exists. They feel it is just a myth, something lost to the legends of the past. They would not seek something of which they know nothing.’

  ‘I don’t want to go digging around for some chemical that could burn my skin off! What on earth is this elixir for?’

  ‘On earth?’ said the Bishop with a throaty chuckle. ‘On earth it is nothing less than the touch of God’s hand.’ The Bishop leaned closer to Reynolds, close enough that the gaunt man could feel the warmth of Courtney’s breath against his cheek. ‘Mr Reynolds, that grave holds a prize that has been elusive since the beginning of time…a dream that many have endlessly searched for, only to watch it slip through their fingers…a prize that man has ever sought.’ Courtney rose to his feet, and cleared his throat, like an actor about to deliver the finest performance of his career. ‘Answer me this, Mr Reynolds; what are your feelings on the secret of eternal life?’

  ‘Beyond it being complete horseshit, you mean?’

  ‘But you are at least aware of the notion?’ said Courtney, clapping his clammy hands together. ‘It is far from fancy, Mr Reynolds—it is irrefutable fact. Throughout history, every religion across the world has spoken of such a thing…eternity! Not just of the living soul, but of the physical body itself. Perpetual, interminable life! A chance for mortal man to become…immortal! It’s a tantalising thought for anyone, is it not?’

  ‘I’ve met a lot of people over the years seeking eternal life, Bishop, and not a single one of them ever found it. Misguided fools, the lot of them—and they wasted what lives they had left searching for it.’

  ‘Mystical amulets, Holy Grails and alchemists’ stones, Mr Reynolds? Indeed, they are all works of desperate fiction, and the belief of overactive imaginations. This quest we are currently embarked upon at this moment is one based upon reality.’

  ‘And I suppose you can prove that?’ asked Reynolds.

  ‘Proof? You ask a man of the Church for proof of his word?’ the Bishop said with a sarcastic smile. ‘My, you are a breath of fresh air, Mr Reynolds. As a bishop I’m used to spouting all kinds of rubbish for the avid consumption of unquestioning minds, Mr. Reynolds. But if proof you seek, then how about this; if one were to produce one of these twinned vials, would that surely not prove the existence of the other?’

  As Reynolds watched in awed silence, from under the folds of his deep dark purple robes, the Bishop pulled a six-inch-long, jewel-encrusted silver crucifix attached to a broad leather strap. Holding the cross aloft, he twisted it in half, unscrewing it to reveal a hidden compartment in its base. He tipped the cross upside down, and a small, filigree-decorated, cork-topped glass vial fell into his open hand. Bishop Courtney plucked at it with his thumb and forefinger and tilted it towards the staggered moonlight through the window.

  Reynolds stepped closer, carefully inching himself towards the Bishop, his jaw gaping open. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you? Is…is that it? The elixir of life?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. This is but the reversal solution, Mr Reynolds, practical only if consumed within one hour of the primary solution, but like I said; why on earth would someone wish to reverse immortality?’

  Reynolds sighed noisily. ‘If your alchemists went to the trouble of making an antidote, perhaps they realised that eternal life could be just as much a curse as a blessing.’

  CHAPTER XXXII

  The Consuming Mire

  LIKE A WHISPER ON the wind, Madame Destine heard a voice calling her name in the darkness. She blinked hard, and when she reopened her eyes, she was blinded. She waved her fingers in front of her face, feeling the breeze against her smooth, porcelain cheeks—but she still couldn’t see. It was as if she were in a windowless, wall-less void, surrounded by reams of black curtains, frozen to the core of her being, too scared even to move. Suddenly, she felt herself grabbed by her shoulders. Someone was there in the blackness with her.

  ‘Madame Destine! Madame, please wake,’ said a very anxious voice. ‘It is me…Butter. Please wake up.’

  Something stirred inside Destine, and it was as if she was drowning, but the voice was giving her buoyancy, something in the distance on which to focus her attention. She gritted her teeth and pushed with all her might through the folds of black silk that encapsulated her, breaching through the material, into the real world, gasping for air. She rolled her pale blue eyes, searching the room for a recognizable face. Finding Butter, she fell limply into his arms, and he guided her gently to a seat, laying a crocheted shawl across her shoulders.

  ‘Madame, are you all right?’ Butter asked.

  Destine eyed Butter’s bruised face and split lip. ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

  ‘I arrive not five minutes past and found you lying on floor, face twisted in terrible pain. You weep. Only a few moments ago you awoke,’ said Butter, caressing the Frenchwoman’s hair. ‘You fainted perhaps, Madame?’

  ‘It’s nothing to be concerned about,’ Destine lied. ‘It was just a bad headache. But what on earth has happened to you?’

  ‘I am well now, Madame, it looks worse than it is.’

  ‘I doubt that. Got into some trouble, did you? And how is Cornelius? Don’t tell me he’s gone and got himself killed?’ Destine asked, half-jokingly.

  ‘Not yet, but tomorrow is another day,’ said Butter.

  ‘So? Tell me what happened.’

  ‘We were in search of Prometheus. Fish market. Heard noises, and were beaten by many unknown assailants, Madame. We became locked in large…er…the boss call it “ice box”. But we survive. Prometheus arrive in the nick of the time!’

  ‘Prometheus? You found him? Oh, thank God! Is he all right? Where is he now? I must see him,’ said Destine excitedly, as she tried to rise from her seat.

  ‘Rest, Madame, is to be your first action, I think,’ said Butter, gently easing her back down again. ‘You do not look so well. Get back your strength.’

  ‘I am fine, mon ami. I have survived much worse than this.’

  ‘The boss has asked me to take you to him; they hiding at circus in Hyde Park until we get there. The boss desperately seeks you for what options to take. Seems lots of bad men in that Crawditch…one even know name of the boss. It is very late now, but in the morning time we shall leave.’

  ‘Of course, let me just get up.’ Again Destine tried to stand, and this time her legs gave out beneath her and she fell clumsily into the high-backed chair. ‘I think that headache took more out of me than I imagined.’

  ‘But that is uncommon, is it not?’ asked Butter.

  ‘Very. Although recently, getting more frequent, perhaps the older I get.’

  Butter cocked his head to one side. ‘Madame…it was a vision, yes? We spoke earlier of your worry over their clarity.’

  ‘I cannot hide anything from you, my friend,’ admitted Destine. ‘Sometimes, if I experience a particularly intense vision, my senses simply cannot cope with the overload—and my mind shuts my body down. I collapse.’

  ‘And this is what occurred today? May I ask…what was it about?’

  ‘It was…something that I wish to keep private for the moment,’ Destine answered, teasing her bottom lip with her teeth. ‘I am sure it was nothing.’

  Butter did not remove his stare from her form. The concerned expression that engraved itself upon his face was obvious to Destine. She turned her head away to hide her own apprehension.

  ‘Do you think this vision is to come true?’ the Inuit asked. His innocent, almost childlike grasp of the English language made it difficult f
or Destine to ignore.

  ‘Let me answer your question with another question, Butter,’ she said, a mask of dread swamping her features. ‘Would you betray the trust of someone you loved if you knew it was the only way to keep them alive?’

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  The Lingering Dread

  BRIGHT AND EARLY the next morning, the lethargic daylight filtered through every window of Dr Marvello’s Travelling Circus train, gilding the occupants in a golden hue. Madame Destine rose silently from her bed, her head still heavy from the previous night’s premonition. She had never experienced one so real, so penetrating that it felt like she would be swallowed by the darkness, consumed by the void. She could still see the image of the grey-blue face when she closed her eyes, and it horrified her, just as the realisation that she recognized him—of that she had no doubt. She was sure that he was aware of her presence in the vision also, and that was possibly more terrifying to the Frenchwoman.

  Usually, when Destine experienced a glimpse of the future, it was as if she was the only audience member in an empty theatre, watching a show designed purely for her viewing. The vision she had experienced the previous night was entirely different. Aside from being more real than she had ever previously felt, it was as if she was an unwilling participant in the unfolding performance. It was as if she was sitting in the front row of the theatre, inches from the stage. It was an unsettling feeling, as if she had somehow taken a step into a much darker, much more uncertain domain, and her confidence was in tatters—not least due to the face of the man. It was a face she knew only too well, but had buried deep inside her memory.

  A loud knock rapped upon her cabin door, and Butter darted his head around the frame. ‘Bonjour, Madame! Are you soon ready for leaving?’ he asked.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly six o’clock, Madame,’ Butter chirruped, with a smile.

  ‘It is unforgivable of you to be so happy at this hour, mon ami,’ Destine teased, stifling a yawn. ‘So, how are we to get to Hyde Park?’