The Equivoque Principle

by Darren Craske

  ‘Tucker just told me. There’s been some kind of committee meeting or something. A group of locals have banded together and they’re on their way here right now,’ said Berry. ‘Tucker says they want your head on a plate, sir.’

  ‘Tell ’em there’s already a queue,’ said Dray.

  Sergeant Berry walked around Dray, to stand directly in front of him, so he was unable to avert his eyes. ‘Sir…Oliver…what’s going on? Are you going to speak to those people, or not?’

  ‘Me? Why me?’

  ‘Oliver, you’re the Commissioner. This district falls under your charge. It’s up to you to set these people right. Surely you can see it from their point of view? They’re half-petrified!’

  ‘Horace, I’m not in the mood. You deal with it.’

  Berry shook his head, pursing his lips as he selected his words carefully. ‘Commissioner…sir…those residents—the merchants, and business folk that haven’t already absconded from Crawditch, of course—have a grievance with our handling of these murders, you must be aware of that.’

  Dray lifted his eyes to look at Berry. ‘Horace, what can I do about it? Our men are doing the best they can to find that giant, right? If that’s not enough for this damned committee, then why the hell don’t they all leave town?’

  ‘Yes, but what about that Mr Quaint’s thinking…about this Irish fellow? Surely it’s worth checking out? So far we’ve been concentrating all our efforts on Miller.’

  ‘Horace, Cornelius Quaint is desperate to pin anything on anyone else other than his own people. You heard him, how he stuck up for his strongman, and all the while I’ll bet he knew he was guilty as sin. Hell, he probably even helped the bastard escape!’

  ‘How could he, sir? Quaint was with us both at the time. And that’s the funny thing, isn’t it? I mean, we checked the bars on that cell window…they looked like they’d eroded away, been eaten by rust or something, yet the rest of the cells were all fine.’ Horace Berry was trying to appeal to the man he used to know, a man who up until a week ago was level-headed and strong-minded. Since Cornelius Quaint’s arrival and the recent murders, Dray had become anything but strong-minded, and he was certainly not going to do anyone any favours by meeting with the soon-to-be arriving committee. ‘Look, I’ll do my best to fend off this baying crowd, please just do me a favour, will you?’ Berry asked.

  ‘What is it, Horace? What do you want from me, eh? D’you want me to fall honourably onto my sword like those Japanese wotsits?’ said Dray hoarsely, hot breath billowing from behind his clenched teeth.

  ‘What I want is for you to think about how it’s going to look if you don’t even bother to pretend to listen to what those people are asking for…all they want is to feel safe in their beds, Oliver, surely you can understand that?’

  Berry didn’t wait for a reply, and he turned away, glancing briefly over his shoulder at the stranger who stood in the station’s yard. The man looked and sounded for the entire world just like his Commissioner, but this man was different. He was acting in a cold, emotionless manner that was very unlike the man he had known for many years. Berry only hoped that Dray would find his true self soon, for if any more of him were to flake away, how much of Berry’s respect and admiration for him would erode with it? He prayed that his superior would make the right decision when the time came. Sergeant Berry opened the station door, and returned to his duties inside, leaving Dray alone in the chill November wind.

  Dray’s expression was fixated on the mist-shrouded moon above him, and he pondered Berry’s words aloud. ‘The people want to feel safe in their beds? Don’t they know, man? Are they stupid? There aren’t many places left in this world that you can feel safe in any more. Everywhere’s gone to hell.’ Commissioner Dray watched distractedly, as his trail of warm breath curled up into the night sky. His eyes barely registered another misty plume swirling with his own, entwining into the night. Dray heard a long, breathy exhale at his back, and he froze.

  ‘Sure, an’ ye don’t know how right ye are, Commissioner,’ said a strong Irish voice directly behind him. ‘Everywhere has indeed gone t’hell…and I’ve saved ye the best seat in the house.’

  A short time later, Sergeant Horace Berry was alerted to a cacophony of raised voices, screams and yells from outside. Berry rose from his desk, and stared across the station. He threw down his paperwork and scratched at his head.

  ‘Marsh? What the blazes is all that noise?’ he called over to the constable manning the front desk. ‘It’s like a bloody zoo out there.’

  Marsh shrugged. ‘It’s that crowd, Sarge, although, sounds more like a lynch mob to me. You want me to go out, try and calm ’em down a bit?’

  There was suddenly a hammering on the station’s door, as many fists pounded themselves on the hard wood. Berry scowled at the entrance, shooting a look to Marsh.

  ‘No, let me,’ he said. ‘If I don’t sort them out, they’ll have the bloody doors off their hinges, and we’ll be freezing our socks off all night.’

  Berry yanked the door open and was greeted by a horde of people. Some were being comforted by others, and some were pointing harshly at the police station. As he tried to get their attention, he stared across their faces. As well as being angered to the point of rage, there was another, more upsetting expression taking residence upon the townsfolk’s faces. It was an expression of something that Horace Berry had seen before—fear. He held up his hands, imploring the residents for their silence, and gradually, one by one, he managed to calm them to the point where he could be heard.

  ‘Now, listen to me, everyone,’ Berry said confidently, clapping his hands, trying to get eye contact with as many of the folk as possible. He knew most of their names, and all of their faces. Some were merchants and store traders, some were foremen, builders and dock workers, and others were elderly, or weak-looking residents. Berry blew on his whistle to halt the tumultuous baying.

  ‘Please! I understand you’re all very worried…but I want to reassure you that–’ Berry was suddenly distracted as something pelted his shoulder, and he wiped away at it instinctively. As he touched the warm, wet substance he immediately recoiled, staring at his fingers—it was fresh blood. Berry spun around, nearly slipping from the steps in the spilt blood, and stared up towards the roof of the station, higher and higher to examine the source.

  It didn’t take him long to find it.

  Commissioner Dray’s corpse was stripped naked, wearing only his policeman’s uniform jacket and nothing else, hanging from the roof of the police station by his neck. Bathed in the amber light from the station lamp, his internal organs and intestines hung like garlands from a vast open wound, dripping pools of crimson blood onto the front steps of the station. Of all the sights that clung to Sergeant Berry’s memory, this was unlike any other, and its horror stained itself into his brain.

  ‘Tucker! Marsh!’ Berry yelled, as two constables tumbled out of the station looking decidedly flustered. Berry pointed up to the grotesque scene above their heads, and the two young policemen immediately lost their control over the power of speech. ‘Get up there, right now, and get him down, for crying out loud…I’ll disperse these people…and get every available man assembled right here immediately. Get anyone and everyone. Whoever did this is still in the area—go!’

  And, very quickly, all-out madness erupted on the streets of Crawditch.

  Prometheus and Butter shrank back behind a blacksmith’s workshop and watched pandemonium ensue, as hordes of policemen—hastily buttoning up uniforms and flattening down hair -rushed out onto the street at the front of the station. As Sergeant Berry held court and barked an assault of orders at his men, Prometheus glanced down at the small Inuit by his side.

  ‘We were lucky we left when we did, mate,’ he said.

  Butter nodded frantically, his jet black hair flopping into his eyes. He pulled the fringe apart in the middle like a pair of curtains, and looked up hopefully at his gargantuan companion. ‘What’s we do now?’ he asked.
>
  ‘I’m open to any ideas,’ said Prometheus grimly. He squatted down, meeting Butter’s gaze. ‘The main thing is we know who’s behind all this, well, at least we sorta know…and we have to make sure that at least one of us gets through this to inform Cornelius, you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ Butter agreed. ‘What did Frenchman say about working for…“heavenly connections”? What means this?’

  ‘I would assume he means someone in high authority in the Church. And I heard him say something about a “Hades Consortium”, whoever he is.’ Prometheus grabbed Butter’s shoulders. ‘Things’ve gone haywire here. This district wasn’t exactly safe beforehand, lad, but now with Dray’s murder, and his men runnin’ around like headless chickens, they’re still no nearer to catchin’ Hawkspear.’

  ‘I do not think it good where we find ourselves,’ chirped Butter.

  ‘Ye’re a master of the understatement, Butter. Considerin’ the mess things’re in, I really don’t know what t’do for the best.’

  ‘Return with me to the train, then. We must tell the boss about the Commissioner…and this Frenchman…he seemed to know the boss also.’

  ‘The problem is, we were possibly the last people to see the Commissioner alive, and if it gets out that we were hidin’ in the bloody bushes at the time—we’ll be right in the swill, good and proper,’ said Prometheus. ‘And I’ll probably be hanged twice over.’

  ‘Prometheus, we have done well, yes? We have learned much whilst we dropped our eaves,’ said Butter emphatically. ‘Boss will be pleased, and we must not let it go wasted, I think.’

  Prometheus suddenly flattened himself against the wall, clamping his rough hands over Butter’s mouth. A lone policeman walked briskly past their hiding place, a matter of feet from them, and Prometheus recognised the young man instantly as Constable Jennings.

  ‘Where’s he off to in such a hurry?’ Prometheus asked his companion.

  ‘The opposite direction to everyone else,’ noted Butter.

  ‘I noticed. You don’t need Madame Destine’s powers to know that one’s a bad seed,’ said Prometheus. ‘I think we should follow him…see where it takes us, hmm?’

  ‘I wish Madame Destine were here right now,’ said Butter.

  Prometheus looked down at his friend. ‘Oh, yeah? Why’s that, then?’

  ‘She would tell us to stay here,’ mumbled Butter. ‘I much better prefer that plan.’

  CHAPTER XLII

  The Stab in the Dark

  KEEP DIGGING, MEN, I want as many of these graves dug up as you can manage, let’s make use of the darkness. Double pay to the man that finds what I need,’ said the now exposed Frenchman Antoine Renard.

  He could not care less whether Quaint knew of his existence now or not, for his plan was nearly completed, but he needed to continue the charade for Bishop Courtney’s sake, and so he had resumed his ‘Mr Reynolds’ persona once more, and was striding across Crawditch cemetery towards the Bishop’s waiting carriage. As usual, Melchin was perched like a pensive vulture waiting for meat at the front of the vehicle. Like slipping into a comfortable pair of slippers, Renard effortlessly shifted from his native French accent, and was now every inch the Cockney scoundrel that he had painted himself to be in front of the Bishop.

  ‘All is set, Bishop. These blokes are hungry enough to dig until they drop for a pocket full of coins, and a hot meal,’ Renard said with a sniff, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. His transformation was nothing short of spectacular, and any detached observer would seek to question both their sanity and their eyesight upon witnessing the display. The Frenchman shared many characteristics with the snake, the least of which being the ability to shed one’s skin.

  Courtney darted his head out of the coach. ‘Jolly good, and should they fall, there are many men waiting to fill their positions.’ The Bishop gave Renard an unexpected pat on the shoulder. ‘You have done very well, Mr Reynolds. Very well, indeed. I shall have to retain you on my staff permanently.’

  Renard grinned. ‘Doubt that, Bishop—you couldn’t afford me.’

  ‘Indeed! But if you manage to find the casket containing that elixir tonight, I shall ensure you are well rewarded. Perhaps even a share of the elixir yourself, eh?’

  ‘Don’t think so, Bishop. I would prefer to see an end to this husk of a life,’ Renard said with a cackle. ‘Death is the only thing I have left to look forward to.’

  The Bishop joined him in a throaty chuckle. ‘Yes, well…I shall take my leave for Westminster. Be sure to inform me immediately should you find the casket, no matter what the time.’

  ‘Yeah, will do,’ said Renard, motioning behind him. ‘They should be all right, this lot, but are you sure this place is safe? I thought the whole point was that you wanted to wait until Crawditch was cleared…last I saw, there were still folk about.’

  ‘Yes, well, the time for restraint has passed now that Hawks-pear has worked his magic, my friend. By now Crawditch will be twinned with hell, and no one will want to stick around long,’ said Courtney, gleefully rubbing his hands together. ‘Don’t worry—all eyes will be on events unfolding down there in that borough, not up here in this graveyard. I will look forward to seeing you soon, Mr Reynolds!’ said the Bishop, and he thumped on the side of the carriage door. ‘On, Melchin.’

  Renard watched silently as the Bishop’s horse and carriage trundled off into the distance. ‘The time to dissolve our business partnership is almost upon us, Bishop Courtney,’ he said to himself. He knew that the next time he saw the man it would be their last meeting.

  Renard approached a group of dark-clothed men huddled together, hastily digging at various gravesites. Even with the gang hard at work, the job would take the whole of the night—perhaps longer—and there was now no guarantee how much privacy they would have. Many of the graves had a nondescript, moss-covered headstone, with a name either defaced, or worn over time. It could even take weeks to find the right one containing the elixir—unless, of course, Antoine Renard was very, very lucky. With a sickening grin of pleasure, and his scar twisted into a malevolent sneer, Renard looked around himself. His piercing eyes scanned the graveyard in a sweep. Past the men, past the many stumps of moss-covered granite—something suddenly caught his attention at the far end of the cemetery, near the boundary wall, and he strode over to it. There it was—an unmarked grave; a beaten granite headstone. The years had eroded away all semblance of a monument to a loved one, and now the headstone was merely an emotionless lump of weather-worn rock. As nameless and lacking in identity as the person it represented.

  Renard beamed proudly, as if he’d just found something he had cherished, but lost a long time ago. ‘Now…how to make this look convincing,’ he said under his breath. ‘Oi, you lot!’ he called to the wraith-like men shovelling dirt from graves nearby. They froze at the sound of his voice, and rushed to his side. Renard squatted onto his haunches, and ran his hand gingerly through the layer of fine grass upon the top of the grave, as if it were capable of generating warmth. ‘I want you blokes to dig here,’ he said, pulling a stub of a cigar from his breast pocket. ‘Forget everywhere else, just here!’

  He removed himself from the gravesite over to a stout stone wall, and puffed happily on the cigar, his eyes sparkling as he watched the men attack the earth with their shovels and forks.

  Within five minutes of digging, one of the men shouted in alarm. He lifted a dirty, grime-covered sack into the air. Renard rushed over, and snatched the sack roughly from the man’s hands. He laid it onto the dirt, and unfurled the top. Inside was a small, dark-green wooden box with a strange, filigree figure-of-eight design on the top, etched in gold leaf. Renard’s eyes blazed with interest. The man nearest to him leaned on his spade, and stared down at the nondescript box.

  ‘Is that it, boss? Is that what you’re after?’ asked the dishevelled man. ‘That box?’

  Renard spat the cigar onto the ground and smiled. ‘Avec précision, monsieur… this is what I�
�m after, all right,’ he said gleefully.

  ‘But, hang on,’ said the curious man, ‘you said this job would take us all night, and yet you just plucked a grave right out’ve thin air…you must be the luckiest bleeder around!’

  ‘Ah, mais oui, monsieur, I am very good at predicting the future, voyez-vous? You could say it runs in the family,’ said Renard with a grin, transfixed by the box. ‘Don’t worry, men, I shall make sure you all receive a full night’s pay…it’s not like the Bishop will live long enough to spend his money.’

  CHAPTER XLIII

  The Bishop’s Prize

  IN HIS WESTMINSTER Abbey annexe, the Bishop had just eaten a large supper, and the carcass of a chicken lay ripped and shredded next to an array of metal goblets, empty wine bottles and fresh fruit across the table, looking like the aftermath of a culinary battlefield. He was picking food from between his teeth when he heard a gentle knock upon his residence door.

  ‘Enter,’ he boomed, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief.

  A pensive-looking alumno with a floppy fringe and pinched features poked his head around the door. ‘Hello, Bishop Courtney, ah…Reverend Fox is here again to see you again.’

  The Bishop rose immediately from his chair, and shot a look to the clock on his mantel. ‘Fox? Well, show him in then, boy, and hurry up,’ Courtney snapped.

  The alumno rushed to the door, and scuttled outside like a fleeing rat. Seconds later, dressed in his priestly disguise, the enigma that was Antoine Renard slid his wiry frame into the room.

  ‘Mr Reynolds, you take me aback! I…had not expected to see you so soon,’ said the Bishop, approaching Renard, hurriedly closing the residence door behind him. ‘Surely you haven’t found it already? It’s been all of two hours. There aren’t any…complications, are there? Some further delay?’ he said breathlessly.