The Equivoque Principle

T
HE HORSE-DRAWN COACH
pulled up outside the row of dilapidated tenement buildings just after midnight. A lone driver sat high at the front of the carriage, holding his lantern tightly in his clammy hands, nervously scanning the streets around him for any sign of life. Wisps of warm breath trailed like spectres from his mouth into the bitter November wind.

‘So this is Crawditch, eh? Can’t say I’m thrilled about being here, Bishop,’ he said anxiously. ‘It’s a bit of a hole, int’ it?’

‘Where else would you find a rat, Mr Melchin?’ said the portly man inside the coach. He pulled a gold pocket-watch from within the folds of his dark-purple robes, and squinted in the half-light of the driver’s lantern. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve no wish to remain in this godforsaken place for long myself,’ he said, peering through the carriage’s window into the ever-present smog.

Ever since the last days of the eighteenth century, steam and smoke had become the belt and braces of modern society. The masses of coal-burning furnaces and chimneys on the London skyline spewed their filth into the air relentlessly, birthing sulphur-dioxide smog that clung to the damp, cobbled streets like a milky shroud.

Across the street, a tall man dressed in a long mud-coloured coat and flat cap detached himself from the shadows of an alleyway and made his way over to the carriage. The fog spiralled and snapped at the edges of his coat as he strode resolutely through its formless blanket. Drawing a lungful of tobacco from a stub of a cigar perched on his bottom lip, this ghoul of a man rapped on the carriage door with bloodied knuckles.

‘Rather off the beaten track aren’t you, Bishop Courtney?’ he asked, the vague light of the carriage’s lantern illuminating the pale scar that tracked down the left side of his long, gaunt face.

‘I am here on the Lord’s business, Mr Reynolds, not by choice,’ said the Bishop dryly, a thin grin spread across his corpulent face. ‘I have need of a man of your talents. Surely you have heard of Queen Victoria’s dictum? She wishes London to regain its rightful place as the jewel in her crown, and districts all over the capital are to be renovated.’

The tall man matched the Bishop’s sly grin with one of his own. ‘I’m well aware of Her Majesty’s plans. She’s been trying to evict the citizens of Crawditch for weeks now. Out with the old, and in with the new. So, what’s that got to do with me?’

‘She has tasked me personally to come here to Crawditch, and appeal to the residents’ better nature, and I do
not
wish to have to explain to her that the rebirth of the British Empire has fallen foul of one insubordinate little district,’ said the Bishop. ‘I want to employ your skills to help rid this cesspool of all its inhabitants.’

Reynolds puffed his cheeks and pushed his flat cap back on his head. ‘You’re not serious, surely? Getting someone like
me
to do your dirty work? That’s not very Christian thinking, Bishop.’

‘The Lord works in mysterious ways,’ said the Bishop, his face entertaining rare warmth. ‘The Queen has set a very…
challenging
schedule, and even the Anglican Church must make questionable
choices now and again. Tell me, Mr Reynolds, can this job be done?’

His pale face clouded in thick tobacco smoke, Reynolds shook his head emphatically. ‘Not easily. Crawditch is held together by stronger stuff than just bricks and mortar, you know. You’d need something pretty drastic to make this lot leave,’ he said, billowing twin plumes of smoke, dragon-like, from his nostrils. ‘But if they could be
scared
away…make them go
voluntarily
, that might do the trick.’

‘I admire the clarity of your vision, Mr Reynolds. If you were given free rein to do as you pleased, could you organise what needs to be done here?’ the Bishop asked delicately, toying with the large ruby ring on his left index finger.

‘I could,’ said Reynolds, his throaty, gargling voice sounding like a bubbling stew-pot. ‘But I’ll need help. Blackstaff prison is a veritable market of men who would do your bidding for the right price. Have you got enough coinage and clout to get a man out of a place like that?’

‘Mr Reynolds, you insult me,’ said the Bishop flatly. ‘Of course I do.’

‘And Scotland Yard will keep their noses out of it, will they?’

‘Am I not God’s messenger, Mr Reynolds?’ said the Bishop with slight disdain. ‘If the Lord has no interest in what happens in Crawditch, why then should the Metropolitan Police? I will ensure they are kept restrained.’

‘Then I guarantee you, by this time next week, any resident of Crawditch still left alive will be bombarding Parliament, begging to be re-housed,’ said Reynolds. ‘Crawditch will be yours for the taking. When do you want me to start?’

‘Immediately! With the hint of war in the Crimean peninsula at the moment, the Queen has one eye on London and the other on
events in the Black Sea. She is distracted, and now is the perfect time. Until we next speak, Mr Reynolds, you have my permission to recreate hell within Crawditch’s streets,’ Bishop Courtney said gruffly, and he pounded the silver-topped cane on the roof of the coach. ‘Drive on, Melchin.’

The driver instantly cracked his whip, and the horse and carriage moved on, away from the grey, murky streets of Crawditch, and back into the enveloping darkness.

Reynolds watched the coach depart, a black-toothed smile crawling across his mouth. He had much to prepare. Murder was a complicated and serious business, but he was an expert. Removing another thin cheroot of a cigar from his jacket pocket, he forced it abruptly into his thin, lipless mouth. ‘My dear Bishop, if you only knew what kind of hell I’m capable of creating…you might think twice before making a deal with the Devil.’

CHAPTER II
The Strongman

W
ITHIN FORTY-EIGHT
hours of that shadowy meeting, the renowned and respected Dr Marvello’s Travelling Circus had rolled into London in preparation for a forthcoming event in Hyde Park. It would take the better part of two long, weary days to transport equipment from the nearby Grosvenor Park train station, where the circus’s steam train was housed, and the crew were working hard into the night to ensure the show would be ready in time. A large oval area of the park, the same site that had entertained the gleaming spectacle of the Crystal Palace just two years before, was the perfect stage. The engineers were busy constructing the skeletal structure of the Big Top, along with various other smaller encampments. Climbing down from the construction, two technicians strode over to a gangly Asian man wearing a coiled white turban. He was crouched with his arms through the bars of a large metal cage, tenderly stroking the ruff of a muscular tiger as if it were his grandmother’s tabby cat.

‘Oi, Kipo? Is Prometheus about?’ one of the men asked.

Kipo clutched his thick overcoat tightly about his body, and shuffled around to face the men, his face a picture of displeasure. ‘Mr Harry, Mr Bert, why must we come to this place? Spain was
nice, I liked Spain. Spain was warm,’ he said with a shiver. ‘Even Rajah is grumpy in this place.’

The two men looked at each other and grinned.

‘He’s a bloody tiger, man, he’s supposed to be grumpy,’ said Bert, a scruffy man wearing blue overalls, and a large stripe of grease down his cheek.

‘London in November gettin’ to you then, Kipo?’ said Bert’s colleague Harry. ‘Listen, me and Bert could do with a bit of muscle to shift some scaffolds. Have you seen Prometheus about anywhere?’

‘I understand the strongman is visiting the nearby borough of Crawditch, and I shall wager he is far warmer than I,’ said Kipo, and he shuffled away like a penguin, flapping his arms at his sides to keep warm. ‘I am off to my bed to dream of Spain.’

Aiden Miller—‘Prometheus’ to his friends, after the Titan of Greek mythology—was seated in an enclosed booth at the rear of The Black Sheep tavern, at a table built for a much smaller man. Cursed by nature with a body like an ox and an unwelcoming face, the gentle giant had fled from his native Ireland to join Dr Marvello’s Travelling Circus many years before. Adopting the identity of the circus’s strongman, Miller had found a new sense of purpose in his life. If the man had not been mute, he would have said that he was the happiest he had ever been in his whole life.

He wore a dog-eared and mottled grey frock-coat, and a thick, woollen cap covered most of his bald head. A low hem of dark-brown hair skirted the back of his head, like a fringe that had slipped somewhat. It flourished into a thick, bristling beard that enveloped the lower part of this face, with only his eyes and nose visible under the shade of the cap’s peak. Four untouched tankards
of ale were lined up like soldiers on the table in front of him, and his clay pipe streamed a flume of smoke towards the tavern’s low ceiling. Purposely finding an area of the place built for secrecy, Miller wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. Towering at over seven foot tall—this was no easy task.

A rickety old bar was positioned in the centre of the tavern, and several late-night drinkers were idly ghosting backwards and forwards inside the public house, either not caring, or not daring to look Miller in the eye.

‘He’s a queer one and no mistake, Arthur,’ said a lank-haired man hunched over the bar. ‘I mean, look at the size of the bleeder! He must be all of eight feet tall, if he’s an inch.’

The landlord glanced towards Miller’s booth and nodded. ‘He’s been there for over an hour, Alfie. Bought four ales, and not touched a single drop. Just been reading that letter in his hand, over and over,’ he said. ‘Must be bad news, whatever it is.’

The customer grinned. ‘Probably a note from his bit o’ fluff, tellin’ him she’s run away with someone who looks less like a bleedin’ gorilla.’

The barman and his customer erupted in hearty laughter.

‘That’s a bit rude, if you don’t mind me saying,’ said a small, squeaky voice by the side of the customer.

The customer spun around to face the voice’s owner, but no one was there. He felt a firm tug on the bottom of his long overcoat, and his eyes slowly panned down to face the wide, open face of a dwarf woman with a thatch of tousled blonde hair nestled under a stout straw hat. Large emerald-green eyes peeked up from under the brim, and her scarlet lips glowed like the petals of a summer rose.

‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ said the man incredulously, gawping at the immaculately dressed dwarf.

‘The name’s Twinkle,’ replied the tiny woman.

‘What are you doing in here, lass? This ain’t no place for a young’un,’ said the barman, leaning at full stretch over the bar.

‘Yeah! Go on an’ get home, little girl,’ chorused the customer.

‘I’m no little
girl
, mister,’ Twinkle said, snatching the tail of the man’s coat and yanking it as hard as she could. The customer slipped clumsily from his stool, and landed flat on his back on the sawdust floor. The dwarf swiftly cocked her leg over the man’s body, and flopped all her weight down hard astride his chest. The air whistled from his lungs.
‘I’m
the bleedin’ gorilla’s bit o’ fluff!’

The customer’s eyes bulged in disbelief as they flicked first from Twinkle’s mischievous face, to the large shadow that suddenly blocked out the light. Aiden Miller’s voluminous form towered over the man, his upside-down face grimaced into a cold, stone glare.

‘Let’s just calm down now, eh, big fella? Alfie didn’t mean no harm; the man’s got a loose tongue, is all,’ the barman said, hurriedly grabbing a bottle of whisky from a shelf behind the bar. ‘Here, why don’t you go sit yourself down an’ enjoy a dram or two on the house, eh?’

Miller glared at the quivering customer on the floor for what seemed like an age. Sweat formed in copious amounts on the barman’s greasy forehead as he waited for Miller to make his mind up.

‘Come on, duck, no harm done,’ squeaked Twinkle. ‘Let’s go get drunk.’ And, with a playful grin, the diminutive woman climbed off the customer’s chest, leapt up into Miller’s vast arms, and the couple removed themselves quietly back into the booth. The landlord exhaled a heavy sigh of relief.

With her elbows perched upon the rickety table, the woman called Twinkle slid one of the tankards of ale towards her, battling to lift the tin cup to her lips. She was dressed in a long, flowing gown, with a high collar and puffed shoulders, thinning into tight-fitting long sleeves. She was decidedly overdressed for the grimy backstreet public house, but her pride showed on every inch of her face.

‘So, come on then, spit it out, love. Why all the secrecy? Why couldn’t we just meet back at the train?’ she asked, eying Miller’s dour expression.

The giant slid the crumpled note across the table towards her and, with his eyes, he bade her to read it. Twinkle obliged, offering the hulk of a man a supportive wink. Her eyes darted across every word, but her smile faded the more she read.

She glanced up at Miller. ‘This is rum stuff, love. When did you get this?’ Twinkle demanded, with a fire in her voice that belied her stature.

Miller pointed a finger over his shoulder.

‘Yesterday? Whilst we’ve been in London? And you’re only just telling me now?’

Miller’s eyes nodded for him. He lifted the bottle of whisky, and downed half the contents easily in one gulp. He was heavy with sorrow, and not even the sight of Twinkle’s beaming smile cheered him. Chewing nervously at his lip, his bushy moustache twitching from side to side like a metronome, Miller anxiously waited for the reaction he knew was coming.

Twinkle gave his arm a painful pinch, and sucked air in between her teeth. ‘Prometheus, you daft lug! Did you tell Mr Quaint?’ she reprimanded. Looking around her, she lowered her voice into a whisper. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? You
have
to tell the boss, you know that, don’t you? We’ve all got our secrets,
darling, you more than most, I admit, but he needs to be
told.
We’re a family, remember? Tell you what, duck—we’ll go and tell him together, right?’ Twinkle said, as she slurped on the ale. ‘After we’ve had a few more pints, of course.’

A little over ten minutes later, Twinkle slammed down the third of her four tankards and belched loudly, patting her chest with her hand. ‘Pardon me,’ she scolded herself. ‘By crikey, those ales are strong…let’s have some more!’

Miller placed his hand on the top of the fourth tankard, rose from his seat and grinned broadly at Twinkle. He shook his head and tapped his breast pocket, where he kept his watch.

‘Is it time to go already? What rot! You are such a killjoy, y’know that?’ Twinkle chirruped, dejectedly sliding from the bench, and she tripped into Miller’s arms as they headed for the tavern’s door.

The late night air was immediately refreshing, and the winter wind nipped at any exposed flesh. It danced off the waves of the nearby Thames, bringing a moist chill along with the breeze. The docks were empty, but in just a few hours along the wharf at Blythesgate fish market, the trading barges and fishing trawlers would turn the area into a thriving hustle and bustle. Twinkle trotted happily at Miller’s side through the towering claustrophobia of the crowded warehouses towards Grosvenor Park train station.

They unknowingly passed a skulking figure dressed in black, hiding amongst the shadows of a dark doorway, and he watched the giant and the dwarf with interest as they staggered a drunken zig-zag across the road. Not taking his piercing blue eyes from the odd-sized couple, the man observed their every move. He slowly removed himself from the darkness, and crept along the wharf after them.

Ignorant of the attention they had attracted, Miller and Twinkle shuffled along the street. Just then, a pained expression crossed over the giant’s face, and he clutched at his stomach. He was giddy on his feet, unusually so for a man his size and he looked around for something to steady himself upon. His legs began quaking at the knees, threatening to give way at any second. Miller squinted into the misty half-light, staring down at Twinkle as her tiny form shifted in and out of focus. Colours blended into a wash of muddy mire, and suddenly everything around him seemed to lack definition and solidity. He doubled over as a sudden wave of nausea flowed over his body.

‘Oh, my poor sweetie,’ Twinkle said, standing on tip-toes to pat Miller’s back, as the large man-mountain vomited noisily into the gutter.

Miller the strongman lifted his heavy head, his eyes rolling madly, and suddenly collapsed onto his knees. This was unlike any inebriation he had experienced in his life. He felt like he was a marionette, and someone was snipping his strings, one by one. His large frame overpowered him, an unseen pressure forcing him down onto the cold dampness of the cobbled street. The dim of the night stole what little light he could visualise as he grabbed at Twinkle’s dress, desperate to find something solid to hang onto. He mouthed empty, silent words, as he searched deeply into her green eyes, pleading for her help.

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