The Equivoque Principle

by Darren Craske

  ‘I have spoken to station manager. There will be horse-cab waiting after one hour’s time at front entrance. I will come for you in minute forty-five, Madame, and knock upon your door.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Destine. ‘I shall need at least that long to look presentable.’

  ‘Nonsense, Madame,’ Butter said, slowly making his exit from the room. ‘I shall engage breakfast straight away and deliver just here outside your door. Eggs, toast and hot tea will be ready soon.’

  As Butter had promised, everything had proceeded according to his precise timetable. The man’s organisational skills made him indispensable to the more lackadaisical Cornelius Quaint. The horse-drawn Hansom carriage took nearly forty minutes to reach Hyde Park from Grosvenor Park station, and Madame Destine felt every bump in the road, and every stone underneath its wheels. It was a welcome, if slightly uncomfortable distraction from the myriad thoughts racing through her mind. Once she was away from the station, the fog began to clear from her eyes.

  With Butter to aid her, Madame Destine stepped down from the cab gracefully onto solid ground, decorated with a blanket of brown and green leaves upon the grass. She took a long sniff of the fresh winter air, and was instantly reminded of her home in France. There was a familiar scent on the wind. A crisp breeze skipped playfully around the hems of her long, billowing dress, but it was not something to darken her mood. Destine was safe now, amongst friends, and soon she would be by Cornelius’s side—to her, the most safe and secure place in the whole world.

  After a brisk five-minute walk through Hyde Park, Destine was able to see the site where the circus was in the final stages of construction. The huge yellow-and-red-striped Big Top tent, positioned proudly as soon as they reached the top of The Meadow’s hill, immediately stole her attention. Five smaller tents were scattered like tiny islands around the main tent, all decorated with the same bright colours, and Destine took in the full magnificence of what the circus folk had achieved so far. She could just imagine the circus in the midst of its prime time come the following day, with hundreds of people milling about from stall to stall and tent to tent laughing, cheering and cooing with delight. Butter pointed out Cornelius Quaint, standing in the distance next to a small canvas tent, his hands on his hips, beaming widely.

  He was wearing a short-cut, dark-purple velvet coat, reaching down just past his buttocks, over a thick, wide-collared shirt and a neat black waistcoat. A short, black silk scarf was wrapped around his broad, muscular neck, tucked into the velvet coat. Immaculate he may be, thought Destine, but this week had taken its toll upon him as much as her. In truth, this fact gave her little comfort.

  Above Quaint, a lavishly painted sign reading ‘The Mystical Madame Destine: Fortunes Foretold, Futures Revealed’ was hung above the opening entrance to the canvas tent, and Destine knew she was home.

  ‘Good day, Madame, come on inside,’ said Quaint, motioning Destine inside the tent with a peck on her cheek. ‘I trust you are well rested?’

  ‘I am feeling much better, Cornelius, thank you.’ As Destine got closer she inspected the man and his wounds more closely. She saw the same dappled bruises about Quaint’s face that Butter shared, with a gash to his cheek and a nasty purple-black hue under the rim of his right eye. She silently reprimanded him with a stern glare, and his eyes looked to the floor.

  ‘Don’t look like that, Madame,’ protested Quaint. ‘It was hardly my fault.’

  ‘Some people are a magnet for trouble, like a wasp to jam, remember?’ said Madame Destine, as she pushed past a dark curtain decorated with silver stars and glittering sequins. She stopped suddenly as she noticed the voluminous form of Prometheus, standing waiting for her with his arms wide open. Her eyes sparkled as she lifted her lace veil; and she skipped across the tent to embrace him affectionately, literally throwing herself into him.

  ‘Oh, do come closer, my great big bear, I am so, so pleased to see you,’ she beamed. ‘I thought we would never set eyes upon you again. You have my condolences for Twinkle’s loss. Our little star will forever shine in the heavens above, Prometheus, you can be certain of that. She will be missed greatly by us all.’

  ‘I miss her so much already, Madame,’ Prometheus replied.

  Madame Destine’s jaw dropped and she spun around to Cornelius.

  ‘Sacre bleu! You can speak? What is this trickery?’ she demanded. ‘Cornelius—did you know he can speak?’

  ‘Yes, Madame,’ confirmed Quaint. ‘It’s getting him to shut up that’s difficult.’

  ‘Madame, c’mere yerself! Aye, an’ it’s good t’see ye again!’ Prometheus said warmly, as he bent down and nuzzled his bristly beard into Destine’s neck.

  The Frenchwoman batted him off playfully. ‘Mon dieu, Prometheus, you smell like a dustbin! You need a bath.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that, Madame,’ agreed Prometheus.

  Destine stepped up onto her tip-toes and ran her hand along his cheek. ‘Since when have you been able to speak, monsieur?’ she asked. ‘You simply must tell me.’

  Prometheus laughed. ‘I thought you knew everything, Madame Fortune-Teller?’

  ‘No, you are confusing me with Cornelius,’ Destine said with a wink towards Quaint. ‘Oh, it is so good to have you home and safe, Prometheus.’ Destine closed her eyes, and buried her head into the Irishman’s expansive chest.

  As emotional as she was at seeing him, his words served to bite at her even more. Her faith in her ability to see into the future had been a nagging worry that had plagued her mind non-stop since she had seen the face in the mist. With Prometheus back amongst those who loved him, surely things would start to get back to normal soon, she thought.

  Soon, Madame Destine was up to speed with all current events, and Quaint had requested that she try her hardest to foresee which direction was the best one for them to take, one that would yield the best results in discovering just what was afoot in Crawditch. Quaint had often put his life into suspended animation until Destine had assisted him in finding the right road to follow. As his ‘compass’, he knew that if she pointed him in a direction, it would always ring true. But now, sitting in her tent, with Cornelius Quaint and Prometheus’s faces appealing for her counsel, Destine was fighting an inner turmoil of her own.

  She recalled her question to Butter from the previous night: ‘Would you betray the trust of someone you loved if you knew it was the only way to keep them alive?’ and those words stung at her conscience. She thanked the stars above that it was she and not Quaint who was able to perceive the emotions of others, for her fear was hidden just beneath the surface, almost on parade for all to see.

  ‘Well, Destine?’ asked Quaint. ‘What should we do? We have a number of possibilities presented to us, but one thing I don’t want to do is deliver Prometheus back into Oliver Dray’s hands! I think it better that I visit Crawditch, if only to find out who wanted me dead—well…frozen first, but then dead—and we also need to poke around at Blackstaff prison to find out more about how this Hawkspear chap escaped. We know he’s involved in this business up to his neck, but we don’t know who’s pulling his strings.’

  ‘Hawkspear’s as close t’the Devil as ye can get, Cornelius, bar the pitchfork and pointy tail, but he don’t have the brains for subterfuge. I’m surprised he’s hidin’ an’ not out in th’middle of the street dancin’, braggin’ about his crimes. He wanted me t’know it was him that killed Twinkle…he knows it’s tearin’ me up…an’ I’ll bet he’s just lovin’ the fact that everyone in Crawditch thinks of me as a killer,’ said Prometheus grimly, teasing his beard with his fingers. ‘Don’t forget I’m still a wanted man right now, Cornelius, so I am. I need t’clear me name, man.’

  ‘Prometheus, I understand how important it is for you, of course I do. We need to listen to the Madame here, and await her advice,’ said Quaint. ‘Destine, if you wouldn’t mind…what are our options?’

  Destine’s voice was tempered, and each syllable floated from her lips like the gentle ca
ress of a butterfly’s wings. ‘Cornelius…I will try my best to aid you, but you must agree to take heed of what I say.’

  ‘Don’t I always?’ Quaint asked, looking the picture of innocence.

  Destine shot him a look that said ‘Are you joking?’ and smiled. ‘You have an uncanny knack of prospecting my advice, Cornelius. You sift out the words that you do not like, and turn a deaf ear to them. What I am to reveal—if anything at all—will only give you the bare bones of what your options are. It will not spell out what to do, step by step, word for word. The future is not like that. If I get the feeling that a particular avenue is your best road to travel, I’ll need your assurance that you’ll listen to me.’

  ‘I’ll listen, of course,’ Quaint said.

  Madame Destine nodded. ‘But can you promise that you will hear me?’ she asked with a knowing flicker of her eyelids.

  Prometheus nudged at Quaint’s elbow.

  ‘What? Oh, yes, yes, Destine…I promise,’ said Quaint begrudgingly. ‘I will take heed if you say anything bad. Now come on…don’t keep us all in suspense.’

  ‘Very well, I shall begin.’ Destine rested her fingertips on her temples and closed her eyes. She was thankful that no one in the tent realised just how nervous she was at that moment, or she would have been even more so. The vision of the man in the mist was a heartbeat away, and this was her first attempt at a connection to the future since then. Carefully opening her mind’s eye just a fraction, like the aperture of a camera, Destine allowed the sensations to flow in, a maelstrom of emotions to anyone without her lifetime of training. She allowed herself to float above the cacophony, filtering the white noise to make sense of it all. Sometimes she was flooded with images, sometimes a spoken word, or a snatch of a conversation, and sometimes it was only a vague feeling, like a barely forgotten memory. It was not her ability to see the future that made Madame Destine so special—it was her ability to make sense of and translate what she saw.

  Not without an appreciation of irony, predicting the future takes time and after a gruelling fifteen-minute wait, Quaint was getting restless.

  ‘Madame, I don’t wish to rush you,’ he said, ‘but time is of the essence here.’

  Destine’s eyelids flickered as she removed herself from her entranced state, and looked up at Quaint’s appealing face.

  ‘Oh…sorry, Cornelius…I…have been given many powerful images and it is taking some time to determine their meaning,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I understand, Madame…my apologies,’ said Quaint. ‘Well?’

  ‘You wish to return to Crawditch, Cornelius, but I sense that that place contains nothing of interest for you. You will not learn anything more there. I am sensing many angered and fearful people. Fearful for their very lives, it seems. They aim their hatred at the police, and they are concerned that the killer in their midst remains unfound.’ Destine licked her lips gently. ‘I foresee a great deal of pain centred on the police station, Cornelius. You must avoid that place at all costs.’

  Prometheus stepped forward. ‘But I don’t! Cornelius, I told ye, man—I need t’go back there and clear me name. The police’re looking for the wrong person, remember? Which means they’ll never catch Hawkspear!’

  ‘Prometheus, how many more times must I explain? Especially now, you must not set as much as a single footstep in Crawditch. If Dray is under pressure from the locals, then the first thing he’ll do is set up a public hanging for you. Handing yourself in at this stage won’t help anyone,’ said Quaint abruptly, baring his teeth, such was his passion. ‘Madame, if not Crawditch, then where must I go? Where is the key to all this strangeness?’

  ‘I sense a dark tower full of the screams of men,’ Destine said in nothing more than a whisper. ‘Within this tower lies the answer to a great many secrets. I cannot tell you more than this.’ Destine pinched the bridge of her nose, and raised her fingers to her forehead. ‘I feel rather weary all of a sudden. Cornelius, if you have no objections, I would like to rest.’

  ‘Certainly, Madame, please do,’ agreed Quaint. ‘You have been of great assistance as usual, and I am sorry to cause you distress. At least now, we have a direction to focus upon.’

  Quaint and Prometheus stepped outside the tent into Hyde Park. Upon seeing them exit, Butter trotted up to them, an expectant glint in his eyes.

  ‘We have plan, boss?’ he asked, tugging on Quaint’s long coat tails. ‘Madame Destine was able to help?’

  ‘Indeed she was, Butter. Things are going downhill fast in Crawditch, my friend, but there is a place that Destine referred to that could hold the key to this mystery. She can only mean Black-staff prison. I shall go there right away.’ He turned to face a glum-looking Prometheus. ‘I don’t want you going anywhere near Crawditch until I return, understand? And Butter?’ said Quaint, spinning to face the Inuit. ‘Keep an eye on the Madame, will you? Until I return, be on your guard. We could get a visit from the law at any time, so Prometheus—keep out of plain sight if you can.’

  With that, Quaint turned on his heels, walked across the park towards Cromwell Road, and the exit from Hyde Park that would lead him to the nearside of the Thames. From there he could charter a tug to Blackstaff prison. Discovery of his foe—or foes—was starting to feel as if it were nearly in his grasp, but Quaint did not know whether that made him feel better, or worse.

  Laid upon a temporary bed at the rear of her tent, the uncomfortable mattress was the least concerning thought upon Madame Destine’s mind. She had just deliberately misled Cornelius, and dissuaded him from a course of action that would have supplied a great many answers. That betrayal was hanging heavily upon her thoughts. But what could she do? Her voices had spoken, and she had no choice but to listen to them. What use was the gift to perceive the future if you couldn’t avert the tragedies that you foresaw? Destine knew for certain that if Quaint were to proceed to Crawditch as he intended, it would set him upon a road that led in only one direction—his death.

  But she also knew that secrets never stay buried for ever. As the fog cleared from this mystery, the truth would certainly soon be revealed, and Destine knew that she could not hide her greatest lie for ever. As she had once told Cornelius, nightmares have a nasty habit of recurring, and usually when you least expect them.

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  The Equivoque Principle

  BLACKSTAFF PRISON WAS inescapable. Many had tried and all had failed. Constructed in 1841, it was England’s first barge prison, unique in the respect that it was able to relocate to positions along the Thames, or out into the English Channel or the North Sea. Containing just over a hundred and fifty prisoners, the structure was akin to a lighthouse, a tall, circular iron and wood tower affixed to a huge, specially designed barge platform. Very few cells had adequate toilet facilities and none had windows. The fear of incarceration in Blackstaff was the thought that had kept many a wrongdoer on the straight and narrow, and those who were lucky enough to be released from the prison rarely committed a further offence. Its reputation alone was enough of a deterrent.

  Cornelius Quaint had called in a few favours to organise this unscheduled visit to Blackstaff. Luckily, Warden Melbury had once seen Quaint perform his act and was a big fan of sleight of hand magic. Quaint was treated like visiting royalty.

  The prison was currently moored near Colchester, and the North Sea winds were scratching against the iron-wood hide of the tower. Quaint sat opposite the tobacco-stained, bearded Warden in his dank, grey-painted office, sharing a tin cup of some foul-smelling liquid that the Warden had sworn blind was Jamaican rum. It was certainly unlike any rum that Quaint had tasted before, but he needed the Warden’s help, and he politely forced down each sip through clenched teeth.

  ‘Christ, you should ’ave seen it,’ said the Warden, rocking back in his chair. ‘We pulled in, right into the Thames, trying to find shelter, but when you’re as exposed as we are, there ain’t nowhere safe. This place is great as a prison, but in a fierce storm like that, it’s a deat
h-trap!’

  ‘And how long were you marooned for?’ asked Quaint, appeasing the gruff Warden’s zest for conversation.

  ‘Four days,’ Warden Melbury barked. ‘My men were pullin’ their bleedin’ hair out.’

  Quaint looked around the cramped quarters. ‘I’ll bet. So tell me, Warden, how many men have you got here on your staff?’ he asked, gingerly sipping the rum.

  ‘Twenty including me, and another twelve more can be called at the east end of the Thames if we need them, but we rarely do. Now and again we might ’ave an emergency…maybe one of the idiots somehow sets their bed sheets alight, or summat like that. Aside from bein’ at the mercy o’ bad weather, Mr Quaint, we don’t really get a lot of entertainment round ’ere.’

  ‘And Blackstaff’s escape record? What’s that up to nowadays?’ asked Quaint.

  ‘Same as always, mate—spotless! And if we catch anyone trying to escape—we kill the bastard,’ guffawed the heavy-set Warden, his rosy cheeks glowing with delight at being able to discuss his work with a civilised stranger. Working in the prison was such a monotonous job, with the same old faces day in and day out; the warden welcomed the interruption to his daily repetition. ‘We run a tight ship ’ere, let me tell you! Prisoners are kept in line…they ’ave to be. We’ve got some of the most vile, depraved monsters alive imprisoned here, so it doesn’t bother me none if the lads need to get a bit…physical now and again, know what I mean?’

  Quaint grinned. ‘Actually, it’s one of your most vile, depraved monsters that brings me here, Warden. I’m hoping you can shed a little light on something for me. An Irishman by the name of Hawkspear, I understand that he recently escaped, and I am very interested in how he managed it.’

  The Warden scratched at his head, flakes of dandruff falling like snow onto his shoulders. ‘You don’t mean ol’ Tommy Hawkspear, do you?’ he questioned.