‘Yes, that’s the one. I believe he must have escaped about five or six days ago.’
A broad smile appeared on the Warden’s round and pink face, his chilblained cheeks littered with fine red veins like centipedes. He pushed his black cap further back on his head and poked at his temples. ‘You trying to test me marbles, fella? Or you ’aving yourself a little prank at me expense, eh?’ he asked merrily. ‘Mate, Tommy Hawkspear didn’t escape! He was bloody released!’ chortled the Warden. ‘Just the other day, in fact, an’ a right to do that was, an’ all.’
‘Released?’ said Quaint sharply. ‘But I thought he was supposed to be imprisoned for life? Two murders apparently—his brother and sister.’
‘Well, yeah—supposedly! But he got a Stay of Absolution, didn’t he! Lucky sod too, ’cos he weren’t makin’ many friends ’ere, let me tell you.’
‘A Stay of Absolution? What’s that?’
‘Ah, it’s what we call it when we get a priest in ’ere to request a prisoner’s release,’ said Melbury. ‘They come in, tryin’ to get the crims to join their bloody flock. Only so they can score extra points with ’im upstairs, I reckon. Repent and all your sins will be washed away, and all that guff! A police constable brought the release order with him by hand and, like I said, Hawkspear was one lucky bastard.’ Melbury leaned back in his creaking seat, taking a sip of rum. ‘Like he was gettin’ the right royal treatment, it was!’
Quaint’s eyes flared like black flames. ‘Warden, it’s vital that I track down exactly who sanctioned that prisoner’s release. Do you think you can help me with that?’
Melbury nodded slowly. ‘Oh, aye, for a small fee, maybe I can, mate.’
‘A small fee?’ asked Quaint cautiously. ‘How much?’
‘Not money! I’m talking about your magic tricks! I’ve always had a fascination with you blokes who can perform such feats. I wonder…would you mind teaching me a few things—just for fun, like—I ain’t about to try and compete with you or ’owt!’
Quaint laughed. ‘In return for a look over your release files? Well…I suppose that is a fair trade, although we illusionists do have a strict code of ethics, you understand. I could tell you—but then you would be sworn to secrecy, you cannot divulge secrets of the magic order to a non-magician…Deal?’
Melbury spat into his palm and thrust out his hand. ‘Deal!’
‘Excellent, Warden,’ cheered Quaint. ‘Do you have any playing cards at hand?’
A few minutes later, Cornelius Quaint was sitting opposite Warden Melbury across a round wooden table. Melbury was practically salivating, wiping his bristly face with his sleeve, eager to gain an insight into the spellbinding world of the illusionist. His eyes flicked from Quaint to the table, to the pack of playing cards in his hand, back to Quaint’s face. Like an expectant puppy waiting patiently for a bone, he sat bolt upright in the chair, panting heavily.
‘Warden…this trick is called “The Equivoque Principle”, and its secret is only known to a few souls upon this earth!’ Quaint said, drumming up an air of mystery for the susceptible Warden’s benefit.
‘Oh, aye?’ asked Melbury. ‘And this…EK…WE…VOKE…’
‘Equivoque, yes.’
‘Yep, that’s it! A good ’un, is it?’
‘A good ’un?’ asked Quaint, placing his hand upon his chest, displaying his pride for the illusion. ‘Sir, it is simply the best!’
‘So what does it do then?’ the hungry Warden asked.
‘It is a lesson in the gift of misdirection, Warden…and you will have no protection over its power. The Equivoque Principle, as it is known, was first performed at the turn of the century by Chinese sailors, and then later adopted by my fellow illusionists for the purposes of astonishing entertainment,’ explained Quaint, and he placed the full deck of cards flat on the table. ‘You will be bound to obey my unspoken commands, and present to me everything that I desire to know. Interested?’ Quaint took the anxious look of stupendous excitement on Melbury’s face as confirmation.
‘Am I ever!’ cheered Melbury. ‘When do we begin?’
Cornelius Quaint offered him a playful wink. ‘My dear Warden Melbury…we have already begun.’
The Warden clasped his clammy hands together excitedly, eating up Quaint’s stage persona. ‘The lads are going to love this!’ he cheered.
Quaint circled his hand in the air a foot above the deck of cards. ‘As you can testify, Warden, I have not interfered with the pack in any way. Indeed, this is your very own deck of cards, do you agree?’
‘I do indeed, sir,’ agreed Melbury.
Quaint flicked a quick, last-minute glance at his audience. Appreciation of the spectator’s gullibility was as much a part of The Equivoque Principle’s power as anything, and Warden Mel-bury might just as well have had a target painted on his forehead. When selecting an audience member to come up on stage, the conjuror chose very wisely indeed. Melbury had already made his love of sleight of hand known to Quaint. That was his first mistake. A willing participant whose mind was already convinced of the wonders of magic did half of Quaint’s work for him—in other words, the perfect stooge. Quaint picked up the cards and shuffled merrily, rolling his eyes to the Warden as it were the most mundane part of the act, whereas, in truth—the shuffling of the cards was key to its success. The Equivoque Principle was as much about timing and preparation as misdirection.
After the cards had been well and truly shuffled, Quaint offered them to Warden Melbury. ‘I have split the deck thoroughly, would you concur?’ he asked.
‘Con…cur?’ asked the Warden numbly.
‘Agree…Would you agree?’
‘Yes, yes, I would, Mr Quaint! ’Course I would.’
‘Splendid. Now, I want you to choose a card, any one, from that deck. Do not let me see it, whatever you do. Once you have selected any one of these cards from the pack—even a picture card such as the King of Diamonds, not only will I be able to name it for you—I will also do so blindfolded,’ confirmed Quaint. ‘And are you sure you do not wish to shuffle the cards yourself to be sure? You are perfectly welcome, you know.’
Warden Melbury shook his head adamantly. ‘Nope. S’all right. Carry on, mate.’
Quaint smiled.
That was Melbury’s next mistake.
Quaint fanned the cards out in front of him and looked over at the Warden.
‘Pick a card.’
Melbury sucked on his stout thumb, and conjugated as to his choice—as if it really mattered what card he chose anyway. He coyly stabbed his stout finger onto a card, and looked up excitedly at Quaint.
‘This one!’ he declared.
‘Oh…really?’ Quaint asked flatly. ‘Are you sure you want to choose that one? Not this one over here?’ He pointed to another card.
An element of doubt suddenly crept into Melbury’s mind. He changed his mind, and placed his finger on top of another card, but not the one Quaint was pointing at.
That was Melbury’s third mistake.
‘You are absolutely sure now?’ Quaint asked. Melbury nodded firmly. ‘Excellent. Now, please take a good look at it. Just to make sure I cannot possibly cheat, I will go and stand over in the corner, and blindfold myself.’ Quaint did as he related, and stood in the dank corner of the room. He removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and proceeded to tie it around his head, covering his eyes completely.
Melbury thrust his card up close to his face, peering round the corner of it just to make sure Quaint couldn’t see it. It was the King of Diamonds.
Quaint cleared his throat and continued: ‘Now if you would be so kind as to place your card back in the deck. Anywhere you like…the top, the bottom…anywhere. Remember, I cannot see where you place it, I am totally blindfolded. Once you have done that, Warden Melbury, please shuffle the cards again…as much or as little as you desire. Let me know when you are done.’
His palms sweating, a permanent fixed grin on his face, the Warden did as he was instructed, and grunted
, which Quaint understood to be his way of saying ‘I’m finished.’
‘Are you happy the cards are well and truly mixed, or do you wish to shuffle further?’ asked Quaint, his nose pressed into the corner of the room. He knew Melbury would say no.
‘No,’ said Melbury.
For the psychological aspect of the illusion to be successful, Quaint knew that the more control an audience member thinks he has, the less he has in reality. A good conjuror only gives what he can afford to lose, and Cornelius Quaint was a very good conjuror indeed. Quaint could almost hear the little cogs churning inside Melbury’s head.
‘Are you absolutely sure? I don’t want you to make this too easy for me,’ chimed Quaint.
With that, Melbury looked shocked, and tried as silently as he could to shuffle the cards again without Quaint hearing him. ‘No, it’s fine. I’m ready!’ he proclaimed.
Quaint spun around and removed his blindfold. ‘Wonderful. Thank you, Warden. Now if you wouldn’t mind…’ Quaint rejoined the table, and held out his hand to Melbury. The Warden handed him back the deck of cards.
With a glint in his eye, and a gleaming smile upon his face, Quaint took great pleasure in splaying out all the playing cards face down onto the table in a long line. This was the fun part, the part when he shocked and amazed his audience. To the conjuror of course, he was merely replaying a script, as he had done hundreds of times. In Quaint’s particular case, The Equivoque Principle was the very first trick that he had learned and, truth to tell, it had always been one of his favourites. In the world of the illusionist it was fairly straightforward, and such a staple, tried and tested trick that it was rarely performed. The more colourful magicians and conjurors of Victoria’s age tended to prefer a grand spectacle over skill. Tanks filled with water, women sawn in half, levitation—there was far too much escapology to be found in halls and theatres throughout Europe, and Quaint was reticent to be caught up in that trend. Relying upon trapdoors, rigged machinery and visual fakery was less about skill and more about craftsmanship. The art of sleight of hand prestidigitation would not die out if Quaint had anything to say about it.
‘Now, Warden Melbury…the trick is for me to name your card,’ said Quaint. ‘I was blindfolded, with my back to you, six feet away—so do you agree that there is no way I could have influenced the cards in any way?’ he asked, licking his lips.
‘No way at all, far as I know.’
‘Jolly good. Well…let me see now,’ Quaint said, holding his finger in the air. He made a big effort, for the Warden’s benefit, of pretending to commune with mystical forces, acting as if he were navigating his consciousness through a spiritual mire. After milking Melbury’s lust for magic for a good minute…Quaint suddenly flicked open his eyes, and stabbed his finger down firmly onto a playing card on the table.
‘This is your card, Warden Melbury!’ he announced, grinning broadly.
Melbury glanced down at the card. Surely the conjuror was incorrect?
Quaint slid the card towards Melbury, tidied the remainder of his pack up into his hands, and stacked it to one side on the table. ‘Would you like to confirm?’ Quaint asked. Of course he had known the card from the moment Melbury’s podgy fingers had touched the deck. ‘The King of Diamonds, I believe.’
Melbury’s heart sank as he flipped over the playing card, and saw the image of the King of Diamonds. He slapped his hands to his face in amazement. ‘But how did you-? You were blindfolded!’ squawked the flustered Warden, clapping his hands gaily. ‘Out of all them cards! How did you do it?’
Quaint smiled, and tapped the side of his nose. ‘I’ll show you.’
An hour later, and after another tot of rum to steady his nerves, Warden Melbury directed Cornelius Quaint to a large, circular door. He rattled around with a large iron key in its lock; the Warden swung open the door, and led Quaint down a spiralling staircase, deep into the bowels of the prison, to a dusty room, piled high with filing cabinets.
Melbury picked up a large stack of card files, and a mountain of loose papers. ‘You should find what you’re looking for in ’ere, Mr Quaint. Sorry about the state of this place,’ he said, thumping the pile onto a rickety old table.
‘Thank you, Warden,’ said Quaint, and after a good twenty minutes of trying to decipher what indexing system the prison used to store its files—only to discover that it seemed to be totally random—he found a file marked ‘Releases: Oct/Nov ’53’ and traced his finger along the paper, searching for a name. ‘Aha!’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘Warden, it says here that Hawkspear’s release was authorised on Sunday evening by the office of Bishop Courtney of Westminster Abbey, countersigned by Constable Percy Jennings of Crawditch District Police Force.’ Quaint tapped his cheek with his finger, deep in thought. ‘If I were a believer in coincidences, Warden, I would be most intrigued.’
Melbury scratched his head. ‘Crawditch he came from? Just the other side o’ the river that place, innit?’ he said, drumming his teeth with his fingernails. ‘Well, I s’pose then that means that Hawkspear’s release would’ve have to have been authorised by–’
The Warden was interrupted by Quaint’s chair scraping across the floor as he stood swiftly. ‘Oh, you needn’t bother telling me, Warden Melbury,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I know exactly who authorised it.’
CHAPTER XXXV
The Seeds of Hate
BACK IN HIS office in Crawditch, Commissioner Oliver Dray poured himself a generous amount of whisky and slumped into his chair. The stilted afternoon light stuttered through his window, suffusing its light with a misty sheen. Fog was already beginning to rise, streaming about the streets. The station house was close to the docks, and highly susceptible to the chilled mists carried in from the Thames.
A knock on his office door suddenly alerted the Commissioner, and he quickly stashed his glass inside a drawer. He beckoned the caller to enter, and hastily picked up a handful of forms and papers, trying to look busy. He relaxed considerably as Constable Jennings poked his head around the door.
‘How do, guv’nor,’ Jennings said with a nod. He stepped inside the room, and pulled up one of the Commissioner’s chairs. ‘Just thought I’d pop in for a bit. You know, to see what’s what, an’ all that.’
‘What’s what, Jennings, is that I’m looking incompetent!’ Dray snapped, a ruby flash flourishing in his cheeks. ‘Not only have we got this Irish lunatic leaving more bodies in his wake than the pox, but I’ve been informed that your mate Mr Reynolds’s band of so-called “professionals” couldn’t even do away with Quaint and his bloody Eskimo.’
Jennings nodded in agreement. ‘I’m findin’ it all a bit hard to fathom meself. I mean…all these murders—we know exactly who’s doin’ it, but we’re powerless to stop ’em! I know I’m prob’ly out of line here…but how come you’re lettin’ Mr Reynolds get away wiv it, sir?’
‘I wouldn’t go so far as say I’m “letting” him,’ seethed Dray, ‘but what I will say is this; that man is party to some information that I’d rather wasn’t made public, know what I mean?’
‘Yes, sir…but p’raps it’s all gettin’ a bit out of hand.’
‘Out of bloody hand is right, laddie! Reynolds promised me Quaint would be dead by the week’s end, and so far the bastard is still walking!’
Jennings picked at his fingertips. ‘I’m sorry, Commissioner, but what’s Quaint done to you that makes you hate him so much? The Sarge said you an’ him knew each other from ages back.’
Commissioner Dray rested back into his chair. ‘Back when I was no policeman, and he was certainly no bloody circus magician. Yeah, our paths crossed for a short time,’ Dray began, removing his whisky glass from his drawer again. ‘I used to travel all over the world with my father, y’see, with his shipping business. We went to all sorts of places. The Orient, South America, Bolivia, Ecuador—all over. Quaint had spent most of his life—and a large part of his inherited fortune, I gather—traipsing from one country to the next, searching for
what, I don’t know. We met in Peru, back in the late twenties, early thirties I think, when he hooked up with our band. We were both a lot younger men, back in those days…I was in my middle twenties, but God knows about Quaint. He’s probably always looked like a grizzly old bastard his whole life.’
‘So, this Quaint was some kind of…’
‘Opportunist,’ snapped Dray. ‘Or so he used to call himself, whatever that means. We found all these secret caves once, up in the Peruvian mountains, so we thought we’d stick around, searching for anything we could trade on back home. The locals were besotted with gold, you see, and the stuff was everywhere. They had these great big temples just full of the stuff, sitting around gathering dust! The tribe located there were simple folk, content to just sit in the sun and pray. So…seeing as it was all going to waste, my father decided that we’d make good use of all that gold ourselves,’ Dray paused, watching the flicker of glee upon the youngster’s face ignite.
‘Now, my old man, he was a rogue in his youth, an’ no mistake, but he was one shrewd operator. He’d been tipped off by a ruthless young French thug—a man who seemed to care even less for the locals than we did. A right nasty piece of work, he was…up until Quaint shot him, but that’s another story. So, Father cooked up a deal to take over the tribe, and ship out all the gold back to England, where we’d all be rich men. So, we pitched up our camp, and made ourselves at home. We’d only been there a short time, when Quaint turned up and started shouting the odds at my father.’
‘What’s up with the bloke? Didn’t he want to be rich?’ asked Jennings.
‘Quaint’s the kind of person who loves to get involved, laddie. He’d set himself up as some kind of high authority or something, like he was better’n the rest of us. He stood up on the moral high ground and preached about this and that. How we were “messing with other cultures” and should learn to leave well alone!’
Jennings laughed like a guilty schoolboy.
Dray continued. ‘When the final move came to overthrow the village by force, Quaint stood against us—against my father. Everything went haywire, and if it weren’t for me, my father would’ve put a couple of bullets in him for sure. There was a big set-to with the villagers, and Quaint managed to turn the bloody lot of ’em against us. We had to grab what we could and get out of that place.’
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