The Equivoque Principle (23 page)

K
EEP 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.’

I
N 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.

‘Not at all, Bishop,’ said Renard. He pulled the hessian sack from behind his back, and offered it to Courtney. ‘Quite the opposite in fact.’

‘But…but, Mr Reynolds…surely you don’t mean–’

‘Look, if you don’t want your bloody elixir, by all means—just let me know and I’ll take it away,’ said Renard in a playful tone.

Courtney nearly choked with anticipation. ‘My Lord! You’ve done it, you’ve actually
done
it,’ he exclaimed, the paleness of his fat, greasy face accentuating his beady little eyes. ‘How? I mean…however did you find it so quickly?’

‘Just a stab in the dark,’ said Renard, as he placed the sack-covered box upon the table in front of the Bishop. He untied the neck, and let the rough material fall open.

The Bishop’s eyes lit up like Roman candles as he saw the dusty box before him. His lip quivered as he traced his fingers over the lid. ‘A very apt engraving,’ he said, examining the silver leaf, figure-of-eight design. ‘The symbol for Infinity—just like the gift that the consumer enjoys.’ The Bishop’s breath was panting furiously now, as if he’d just run up several flights of stairs. ‘How do you open it, Mr Reynolds?’

‘Ah, if you don’t mind, Bishop, I’d rather we concluded our business first,’ said Renard, placing his hand on top of the box’s lid. ‘After all, you’ll soon have eternal life…it’s not like you’re in any rush, is it?’

The Bishop couldn’t tear his eyes away from the box, as if it were calling his name repeatedly. ‘Of course…of course,’ he said distractedly, and he shuffled over to a large oil painting on the wall of Saint Peter at the gates of Heaven. After a few anxious seconds of feeling his finger around the underneath of the frame,
the painting swung slowly outwards, revealing a large metal safe behind it.

‘My thanks to you, Mr Reynolds, for services rendered,’ Bishop Courtney said, handing Renard a small leather briefcase. ‘Without your savvy, I don’t think I would have been able to achieve so much. Can I not convince you to stay awhile to watch me open my prize?’

Renard weighed the briefcase up in his hands. ‘Well, maybe I
will
for a little bit. Perhaps I can get your driver to drop me off in Whitehall?’

‘Whitehall, eh? Yes, I’m sure Melchin would relish the fresh air. Won’t you come closer and join me in toasting our victory?’ said Bishop Courtney, hastily pouring Renard a goblet of wine. ‘To the future!’ he said, lifting his goblet into the air.

‘And your very good health, your Grace,’ said Renard.

‘Indeed! A good health for all eternity,’ chuckled Courtney to himself. ‘This elixir does have properties other than longevity, you see. Once I consume the liquid, I will be infused with God’s light, healing any conditions that I may have, yet ensuring I can never again get sick. It stops time, you might say, to ensure that I shall always remain in the peak of health for all eternity.’

‘You know, once word gets out, everyone’s going to be gunning for you, trying to get their hands on this stuff.’

‘Then I shall have to make sure that I keep it a secret, Mr Reynolds, won’t I? Now, onto business,’ muttered the Bishop. ‘Lord, please be with me. I do this in your name,’ and with a broad grin spreading across his face, he delicately lifted the lid of the wooden box, and peered inside.

The box contained a lush, dark-purple velvet interior, with twelve inlaid pockets. Seated within one such pocket was a single glass vial. Topped with a cork stopper, and decorated with minute
golden ivy leaves, the vial looked like something from a fairytale. The plump Bishop snatched it up with his stubby fingers, and held it towards the light.

‘Only the one vial?’ Bishop Courtney said, poking around inside the box. ‘I…I had expected to find more. The box has twelve indentations.’

‘Well, it ain’t been opened since I left Crawditch—like I said, Bishop—I didn’t want to open the thing and it blow up in my face.’ Renard rubbed a rough hand over his jaw. ‘I got me looks to think of you know, and anyway—what do you need with twelve vials of the stuff? You get eternal life no matter how many you have!’

‘Hmm, well…I suppose you are quite correct, Mr Reynolds…one vial
is
all I need,’ the Bishop said, holding the small glass vial up to the light.

‘Looks just like the other one, you know—the one you’ve got inside your cross,’ said Renard, admiring the sparkling clarity of the liquid inside the vial.

‘Indeed it does, yes…’ agreed Bishop Courtney, ‘the other sibling to the twin.’

‘You can name them Cain and Abel, eh?’ laughed the Frenchman.

‘I didn’t have you down as a man of scripture,’ said Courtney, as he carefully uncorked the tiny stopper, and lifted the vial to his lips, pausing to savour the moment. ‘To your good health, Mr Reynolds,’ he said, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the liquid trickling down his throat. He licked his lips deftly, and opened each eye slowly, looking around his surroundings as if expecting to be transported to another realm.

Renard stepped a little closer. ‘How do you feel, Bishop?’

‘Wonderful!’ The Bishop licked his lips, his eyes twinkling brightly. ‘Simply wonderful,’ he announced, lifting his arms into
the air. ‘I can feel it, Mr Reynolds, like a gentle trickle of energy flowing through my veins. It’s simply
wonderful.’

Eyeing the Bishop carefully, Renard teased at his lower lip with his teeth.

‘Mr Reynolds, come join in my celebrations…I feel alive for the first time in years,’ cheered the Bishop.

‘No thanks.’ Renard stood back and leant against the wall, watching the portly Bishop twirl and swirl about the room like a ballerina, as the portly man’s face beamed with elation, his eyes afire with a spark of something akin to sheer, unadulterated wonder. Almost stumbling over to Renard, he clasped at the gaunt man’s fake priestly robes excitedly. His eyes were wide, and his pupils like pinpricks, and a fine, greasy coating of sweat decorated his corpulent face. It was as if the elixir that coursed through his veins had suddenly lit a fuse inside of him. The man stood in the centre of his apartment, his eyes now closed, just letting the feelings wash over him.

Suddenly, the Bishop was racked by a harsh cough, taking his breath away and bending him over double, and his eyes snapped open. He coughed again, a throaty, phlegm-hackle that made Renard wince. The Bishop stared down into his open hand. A thick, congealed puddle of blood sat there, and the Bishop’s stare widened. He glared at the pool of dark blood, as if it couldn’t possibly have come from his own body.

‘Something’s wrong,’ he gasped, wiping a trail of blood emanating from his mouth. He pulled his handkerchief from his sleeve and dabbed at the blood, but more was coming after each dab. This was no bitten tongue, or weeping ulcer; the Bishop could feel this dark blood seeping from the pit of his stomach. Each cough spewed it up through his throat, and it splattered onto the tiled floor. Staring in bewilderment at the pool below him, the man fell to his knees. ‘Reynolds…help me, something’s wrong with the
elixir. It feels…feels like…it’s burning me up from the inside…eating away at me.’ The Bishop clutched madly at his throat, pulling at his dog-collar, and clawing frantically at Renard. ‘Reynolds! Help me…I beg of you!’

‘Get your hands off,
monsieur
,’ Renard said fiercely, swatting the Bishop’s hands away from him. ‘You’re bleeding all over me.’

‘What are you…doing?
Help
me, man,’ squealed the Bishop indignantly, grasping the crucifix that hung from a leather strap around his neck. ‘Antidote!’ he wheezed, desperately trying to unscrew the cross. ‘Reynolds, listen to me!’

A wide, satisfied smile spread across Renard’s face. ‘Hurts, does it, Bishop?’

‘But I…I don’t understand, man…the elixir…burns like acid.’ The Bishop’s eyes now bulged horrifically, and tiny blood corpuscles burst like miniature red spiders across the iris, flooding the eyeball with a bright crimson wash of colour. ‘What’s…wrong with me? You need to help me…take antidote.’

‘Take antidote? Don’t mind if I do,’ said Renard, as he snatched the crucifix from Courtney’s clammy hands, ripping at the leather strap around the fat man’s neck. ‘You know, Bishop…I’m not so sure about this eternal life thing…it looks awfully painful to me.’

Thick, dark-red blood-tears seeped from the corners of the Bishop’s eyes as they beseeched Renard, imploring the man to help him.

‘But why…Reynolds?’ he said through blood-soaked teeth.

‘I warned you once not to make a deal with the Devil, Bishop…because the odds are always stacked in his favour. You have been taken for a fool, and it is
I
that have done the taking.’

‘What? What are you saying? I…I don’t understand. Have mercy! Why won’t you help me?’ asked the Bishop, spluttering on a mouthful of blood.

‘Why?’ Renard sneered, an inch from the Bishop’s contorted face. ‘Because I want to watch you
die
, of course!’ and in that instant, as the Bishop stared into the man’s cold, blank eyes, it was as if his entire face changed before him. The Bishop witnessed the mask of Mr Reynolds fade away—and in his place stood Renard; a man twice as fearsome and a hundred times more cunning than a mere alleyway thug.

‘Mr Reynolds, please!’ begged Courtney.

‘Sorry,
monsieur…
there’s no “Mr Reynolds” here,’ grinned Renard. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, the Reynolds persona had shed itself completely now. As the dying Bishop mouthed empty, silent words, hysterically trying to figure out what was happening to him, Renard took great delight in telling him the entirety of his plan. ‘My true name is Antoine Renard, Bishop. I suppose that I should pass on my thanks to you, really. You see, I needed something from you—but I had no idea whether it was as deadly as I had been informed,’ Renard said, his French accent highlighting his machinations in a most roguish fashion. ‘But right now, Bishop, you are currently presenting quite startling proof of the elixir’s power.’

Renard grabbed hold of Courtney’s jaw, squeezing his features into a squashed muddle in the centre of his fat face, as tendrils of blood-tainted spit dripped from the Bishop’s teeth. ‘But not power as some holy gift of immortality…in fact quite the reverse. God’s tools are the Devil’s toys, after all.’

Bishop Courtney snatched his face from Renard’s grasp, and fell to the floor. With a wail of pain, he dragged himself along, finally resting against the door to his apartment. ‘You traitorous monster,’ he slurred. ‘You’ll pay for this betrayal, Reynolds.’

‘That’s
Renard
, my dear Bishop,’ the Frenchman said, smiling with faux warmth. His body language was now a lot more graceful,
more feline, than the thuggish Reynolds, and he strode around the Bishop’s room with renewed confidence, delighting in watching the deformities of agony pass across the priest’s face. ‘It is strange to think that after years of research, my organisation should send me here, back to England where I spent some of my youth. When our scouts heard tales of you Bishop Courtney—one of the Queen’s most trusted advisors, taking an abnormal amount of interest in a little dockland cesspit called Crawditch—well, we just had to take a look for ourselves. Imagine my surprise when I learned what you were seeking.’ Renard pulled a long cheroot of a cigar from his pocket. He grabbed one of the Bishop’s candelabras from the table and lit the cigar, squatting down to blow choking smoke into the Bishop’s face. ‘An elixir of immortality, no less? Your Christian alchemists always did love committed devotees. A lifetime of servitude, and all that,
non?’

‘What…do you want…from me?’ gasped Courtney.

‘What do
I
want?’ questioned Renard, yanking the white cloth from the Bishop’s table, sending wine bottles, goblets and messy plates tumbling onto the tiled floor with a resounding crash. He sat himself upon the table, resting his muddy boots upon an upholstered chair. ‘My dear Bishop…I want
nothing.’
Renard delved into his pockets and pulled out a handful of glass vials, each one identical to the Bishop’s, splaying them out like a fan of playing cards. ‘I have in my possession everything that I need. Your Anglican friends spent decades perfecting this stuff—did you honestly think they only made the
one
vial?’

‘What do you…plan to do?’ seethed the Bishop, reaching for Renard, only to fall flat on his face on the floor. ‘After what you’ve seen…what it can do…it is poison! It…it’s worthless!’

‘Poison it may be, Bishop—but it’s far from worthless. You’re wondering how a godly elixir can become such a potent poison, are you not?’ Renard cocked his head to one side, like a sparrow.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then! Now, I’m useless at all this chemistry stuff, believe me. I’m much more of a physics man, myself. You know, action…’ Renard lashed out with his boot, striking the Bishop’s ribs, ‘…and reaction, you see what I mean? Now,
that
I understand perfectly. But my organisation specialises in this kind of thing, so I don’t
need
to know about it. Did you know that Crawditch cemetery, being positioned so close to the Thames as it is, contains a massive amount of sphagnum peat? I didn’t, but then I didn’t have a clue what “sphagnum peat” is…I thought it sounded like one of those dreadful American prospectors hunting for gold, until one of our scientific types told me that sphagnum is acidophilic moss, incredibly susceptible to the growth of bacteria.’ Renard slid off the table, standing at full height, towering over the Bishop.