‘And that was the last you saw of Quaint, eh?’
‘Well, you know what they say about bad pennies, Jennings,’ said Dray. ‘I made a deal with your mate Reynolds. He’s supposed to be making sure that the bastard gets what he deserves…in exchange for me keeping our boys off Hawkspear’s scent, and out of his business.’
‘Right, I’ve got it now,’ said Jennings. ‘That Reynolds bloke has been blackmailin’ you. Can’t you just buy ’im off, like? Can’t we just lock ’im up somewhere? Or, better’n that, ’ave someone sort ’im out, good an’ proper?’
‘It’s not that easy, Jennings,’ said Dray sharply. ‘I’ve never even met the man—he uses you as his bloody messenger boy. I can’t risk that information getting out. It’d be a bloody disaster.’
‘So, what’s he got on you then? Somethin’ from the old days?’
‘Not on me, Jennings—on my father. Back in Peru, he was involved in a couple of…I guess you could say “questionable” cargo deliveries…the type that you don’t make receipts for.’
‘What…like smugglin’, you mean?’
Dray scratched at his chin. ‘Big strong folk, those Peruvians. They fetch a pretty penny, and the women…very exotic, laddie, y’know what I mean?’
‘What, your father was smugglin’…people?’ asked Jennings. ‘Slaves, you mean?’
‘And somehow, this Reynolds fellow has found himself in the possession of evidence against my father. If it ever got out—not only would it kill my father, but it’d probably drag me down with him.’
‘Crikey! And ain’t your old man some kind of lord?’ asked Jennings.
‘Sir George Dray, successful businessman, and personal friend to a lot of people in high places, so he is. Royalty, aristocracy, clergy…just about anyone who’s got any clout in this damn country these days,’ said Dray, forcing a mouthful of whisky down his throat. ‘He’d be crucified if this knowledge ever came out.’
‘Maybe Reynolds is in league with Quaint? Maybe Quaint told ’im all he knows?’
‘Blackmail’s not exactly Quaint’s style, Jennings,’ smiled Dray.
‘So what can we do, guv?’ asked Jennings eagerly.
‘Against Reynolds…not one damn thing,’ said Dray dourly, running his finger over his teeth. ‘Against Quaint though…now that’s another thing entirely.’
CHAPTER XXXVI
The Restless Doubt
MADAME DESTINE WATCHED meekly from behind the folds of her tent’s entrance, as Prometheus argued furiously with Butter nearby. The discharge of the Irish giant’s voice almost blew the tiny fellow off his feet, but to his credit, the Inuit stood his ground.
‘That’s easy for ye to say, lad, it’s not ye’s head on the block, is it!’ Prometheus yelled. ‘How’d ye feel if ye couldn’t even close your eyes at night in case the law decides to sneak up on ye?’
‘Ye might find this hard t’believe, Butter, but Cornelius ain’t right all the time! We don’t all see him with rose-tined specs like ye do.’ Prometheus spun on his heels and set off down the slope of the lawns. ‘Stay here with the Madame…that’s where ye can do all the helpin’, lad.’
‘I heard ’im well enough, laddie,’ snarled Prometheus. ‘But the locals in Crawditch are knockin’ down the police’s door, bayin’ for me blood. If I don’t do this now, what d’you think’s goin’ to happen? They’ll find me, man…they will! I’ll be tucked up asleep one night and get a wee knock on me door. They’ll chain me up and they’ll drag me away…I won’t know when and I won’t know where.’
‘Wait until Mr Quaint returns.’
‘No, Butter—I’m goin’ back t’Crawditch t’face what’s comin’ -before it comes after me first. Geddit? At least this way I get t’have a say in me own fate!’
Butter buried his head in his hands. ‘Then…take me with you. I might be helping.’
Prometheus stared at the man as if he had just discovered an entirely new species of human being. ‘Take ye with me, are y’in-sane, man? A second ago ye were tellin’ me how I wasn’t s’posed t’be going anywhere—and now you want to come n’all?’
‘If I am to come, then when the boss ask why I did not stop you, he will know that I force myself to accompany you for own good.’
‘Ye might find this hard t’believe, Butter, but Cornelius ain’t right all of the time! We don’t all see him with rose tinted specs like ye do.’ Prometheus spun on his heels and set off down the slope of the lawns. ‘Stay here with the Madame…that’s where ye can do all the helpin’, lad.’
Butter watched silently as Prometheus’s voluminous silhouette walked off into the distance. ‘That man is almost as stubborn as the boss,’ he muttered under his breath. The Inuit chewed on his lip, considering his options, but within a few minutes, the Irish giant had disappeared completely from view. ‘Now Prometheus is able to talk again properly, no doubt he gets himself in even more trouble.’
‘Indeed he will, Butter,’ whispered Destine, spying unseen and unheard from her tent. ‘Prometheus should have heeded Cornelius’s warning…for the only thing waiting in Crawditch is death.’
CHAPTER XXXVII
The Enemy Unmasked
AS FAR AS THE Crawditch police were concerned, Prometheus was still number one suspect for the series of murders that had recently taken place, and as the man himself rounded a corner on the outskirts of the district, not far from The Black Sheep tavern, he smiled at a roughly sketched picture of himself—all beard and bald head—tacked to a wooden support beam of a grocery store. The word ‘WANTED’ was written in bold letters underneath. Various people ghosted past him, and around him, a few looking over their shoulders at the vastness of the man, but no one stuck around long enough to pay him much mind.
It was mid-afternoon, and the Irishman was idly strolling down the centre of Merchant Street, with his concentration focused upon reaching the police station as quickly as he could. For his plan to work, and his name to be cleared, he needed to enter the station willingly, for no one would believe his story if he were captured and brought in. He saw the unmistakable blue-painted double doors of the station up ahead, closed tight against the November wind, and a large pang of uncertainty suddenly formed inside his stomach. He knew he was feet away from freedom, but a part of him also knew that despite what he had said to Butter earlier, one of the most annoying qualities of Cornelius Quaint was that he was seldom wrong.
Prometheus grabbed the door handle, and was just about to open it when he heard the heavy pounding of footsteps coming in his direction. Looking around, he spied a low-lying fence, and leapt over, landing on his backside in the dirt. Pushing through the fence into a wall of large conifer trees, he tried his best to hide himself, aware that if there was one thing a seven-foot-tall man is no good at—it was hiding. His heart pumped like a jackhammer at the sudden flurry of activity, and he pressed his head tight to the wall, praying the enclosing trees would shield him. After a time, Prometheus heard the station door closing, and all was quiet in the main street once again.
Once Prometheus was confident that the officers had gone, he was just about to dart out into the street again when he heard raised voices behind him. He dove back into the branches of the trees as stealthily as he could considering his size, and moved cautiously towards the sounds of the conversation.
He soon reached another fence, and the voices were mere feet away. Something like the inevitable pull of a magnet dragged him towards the chatter. There were two voices, clearly heard. One was a broad Scottish accent, and the other, a far younger, local voice that Prometheus recognised instantly as belonging to one of the constables who had briefly visited him in his cell at the station. He couldn’t remember the name, but he knew that the Scot was the young constable’s superior officer. Prometheus held his breath, and his nerve, and concentrated on the two policemen’s conversation.
‘I thought you said this Reynolds beggar would be here at two o’clock, Jennings?’ questioned Commissioner Dray, standing at the re
ar entrance to Crawditch police station. ‘It’s now getting on for three, and if he doesn’t show up in five minutes, the deal’s off and I walk, you get me?’
Constable Jennings shifted on his feet nervously. ‘He’ll be here, sir. He came to me, remember? He has to turn up!’
As if on cue, Jennings and Dray heard the scuffing of feet, and soon, dressed in a long overcoat and sporting a flat cap pulled down low to hide his scarred face, Mr Reynolds clambered over the station’s yard gate, landing gracefully like a cat on the other side. As if he were another person entirely from the man who had graced the Bishop’s lush apartment in Westminster Abbey, Reynolds seemed to carry himself differently now. The same cocksure attitude was still there, but his back was less hunched, he seemed wirier, and the fire that danced within his pale eyes made him look far more dangerous than Constable Jennings had previously seen. Reynolds approached Dray and held out his hand.
‘Bonjour, Oliver, it’s been a long time,’ he said. The Cockney drawl was suddenly gone, and there was a new, melodic accent to his voice.
‘You!’ Commissioner Dray was stunned at the image of the man before him, and he strode over to Reynolds, pacing around him silently, as if he were a phantom. He took Reynolds’s hand and shook it limply. ‘My God…it…it really is you!’ Dray said, as if all his strength had been sapped by the image of the man, like Samson after Delilah had sheared his hair. He blinked hard; clamping his eyes shut tight, and then opened them quickly -expecting the mirage to disappear. But, to his dread, it remained. ‘But…but I thought…you were dead!’
‘I got better,’ said Reynolds.
Jennings scowled at the man. ‘Boss? What d’you mean dead? This ’ere chap’s my Mr Reynolds…d’you know ’im or somethin’? I thought you said you’d never met him?’ the young constable asked.
‘Oh, I know him all right, lad,’ the Scotsman replied. ‘Does Quaint know that you are still alive, that is the question?’
‘Not yet, Oliver,’ grinned Reynolds, ‘but he soon will.’
CHAPTER XXXVIII
The Conjuror Returns
AT THAT EXACT moment, Cornelius Quaint returned to Hyde Park. The white sky was beginning to turn pale grey, as the invisible sun prepared for the long, chilly night to come. Quaint turned up the collar on his coat, and strode briskly across the park, catching sight of the circus in the distance, now taking on even more shape, practically completed. Quaint made a mental note to congratulate his team.
As he approached Madame Destine’s tent he whistled the national anthem, the tent having no door upon which to knock and announce himself.
‘It’s me, Madame. I have returned, and I’m exhausted. Tell Butter to boil some water, will you…I need a brew. On second thoughts, crack open that cognac I know you’ve got stashed in your tent.’
Destine pulled the tent entrance to once side, and swiftly dragged Quaint inside. Ruby Marstrand was seated at a round table set for two, a crystal ball in the centre of the table. There was an uncomfortable silence tangible in the tent, and Quaint’s curiosity was immediately piqued.
‘Madame?’ he gasped. ‘Oh, sorry Ruby, I didn’t realise you were busy. Shall I come back later?’
‘Oh, Cornelius—it is you!’ Destine said, her veiled face unable to hide her anguish. Her voice faltered as she saw him.
‘Well, of course it’s me, Madame,’ he said, gripping hold of the Frenchwoman’s shoulders firmly, as she fell into his embrace. ‘You look scared to death, woman. Who were you expecting it to be?’
Ruby stood from the table and joined Destine’s side. ‘Ah, well, we thought that maybe it was…Prometheus coming back, you see.’
‘Coming back? Coming back from where?’ asked Quaint.
Ruby looked towards Destine for assistance.
‘Back from where?’ repeated Quaint. ‘Where is he? One of you must know.’
‘Um, have you asked Butter?’ Ruby said, resting her hand on Destine’s shoulder. ‘Maybe he’ll know. We saw him talking to Prometheus earlier, didn’t we, Destine.’
Quaint stared at Ruby’s expression. Her toffee-coloured eyes were wide, and her swathe of thick hair was entwined around her fingers, the very image of someone trying their hardest to look innocent. Madame Destine was no different, deliberately avoiding eye contact with him.
‘Very well, ladies,’ Quaint said sternly, placing his hands flat on the table in front of him. His bold black eyes zeroed in on Destine and Ruby with an uncompromising glare. ‘Tell me everything…’
CHAPTER XXXIX
The Warning
HOW IN GOD’S name did you survive?’ yelled Commissioner Dray.
‘God had nothing to do with it,’ replied the man called Reynolds, a native French accent suddenly rising to the fore.
‘Yeah, but…but Quaint shot you right through the heart!’
‘Serves me right for not having one, then doesn’t it?’ smiled Reynolds.
‘First Cornelius Quaint turns up out of the blue, and now this? What is it—the week for skeletons in my wardrobe? I knew someone was pulling my strings, man, but I had no idea it was you,’ Dray said, and was forced to steady himself against the wall. ‘My God…all this time…you’ve been alive? Why didn’t you tell anyone? Why did you let people believe it?’
‘Oh, come, Oliver, what would you have done if you had known the truth?’ Reynolds challenged, his thick, European accent showing itself more freely now that the faéade he had used as a mask was no longer needed. ‘Would you really have been pleased to see me? Would you have said: “It has been fifteen years since you murdered for my father, Antoine, how’s tricks?” Don’t make me laugh!’
Jennings removed his helmet, and mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. ‘Hang on a mo, boss,’ he said. ‘I’m gettin’ a bit out’ve me depth here. How do you know Mr Reynolds?’
‘Reynolds is merely a nom de plume, Constable,’ said Reynold, ‘as dear Oliver knows very well. But I did not come here for formal introductions; I came to pass on a friendly warning.’
Dray responded with a guttural growl. ‘So, you’ve been masquerading as this “Reynolds” character all along? Right under my nose? Using my own constables to do your dirty work? Blackmailing me with my father?’ He clawed at his thin strands of hair. ‘I just can’t understand it…but why go to all that bother? Not just for Cornelius Quaint’s benefit, is it? Wouldn’t you prefer to see the look on his face when you turn up alive and well after all this time?’
‘Revenge against Quaint is just a bonus for me, Oliver. It is personal,’ said the Frenchman, stepping closer to Dray. ‘This is business. I’m revealing my identity to you now, should our paths cross again in the near future.’ Reynolds swept a thick strand of hair from his forehead. ‘Quid pro quo, remember? You’re no fool, Oliver; you know how the Hades Consortium operates.’
Dray inhaled sharply at the words. ‘The Hades Consortium has interests here? In…in Crawditch? I…I didn’t know. Why did I not know?’
‘The Consortium is not likely to broadcast its involvements. Our projects have strict time schedules to adhere to. It was not necessary for you to know what did not concern you, Oliver. Although you are unaware, I have been trying hard to save your neck all week, monsieur.’
‘But…but why are you here?’ asked Dray. ‘Why now?’
The Frenchman’s nostrils flared. ‘Let’s just say that The Consortium requires something of value in this pitiful little borough, and they sent me to negotiate its collection. Of course, when I heard my old friend Cornelius Quaint was en route to London as well…I just had to stick around for a few more days and have a little fun with him.’
Listening intently from within the seclusion of the nearby conifer trees, Prometheus felt a cold chill run up his spine as he heard the words. He knew very well from the intent in the Frenchman’s voice that he was anything but a friend to Cornelius. What he was hearing now was a conversation that he needed to pass onto his employer urgently, and his secret position, hidden from sigh
t, was essential. The more he heard and the longer he pushed his luck concealed within the nearby bushes, the more information he would have to pass on. Such was his concentration on his own stealth that he was completely oblivious to the person sneaking up slowly from behind.
‘So, all this Hawkspear nonsense…that’s you as well, is it?’ Dray questioned.
‘Certainly not.’ The Frenchman laughed under his breath. ‘Well, he’s partly my fault, I suppose, but we’re both working for someone else…someone other than The Consortium, someone with heavenly connections.’
Constable Jennings glanced across from Dray’s to Reynolds’s faces. ‘I’m totally bloody lost, I am. This is all gettin’ a bit too confusin’ for me.’
Reynolds grinned at Jennings’s naïvety. ‘Oliver, I wanted to let you know that no matter what my business is here in London -Cornelius Quaint will get his just reward. I have been waiting so very long, patiently biding my time, just for the right moment. I know just how to test him to his limits—and I know what his weaknesses are.’ The man flicked his tongue about his lips, savouring the images he took from his words. ‘Oedipus had nothing on me!’
Prometheus’s temper had reached critical mass, and he was starting to get white spots before his eyes, he had restrained himself for so long. He clenched his jaw and prepared to leap into the yard, tearing this newcomer limb from limb. Just before he leapt, his muscles like a coiled spring; he felt a firm tug on his sleeve. He spun around sharply. At his side, Butter grinned up at him mischievously, and held his finger to his lips.
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