The Equivoque Principle (19 page)

‘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.’

B
ACK 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.’

‘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.’

M
ADAME 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.’