The Equivoque Principle (31 page)

S
OME TIME LATER
, as the scent of sizzling bacon and freshly-cooked bread signalled to the circus encampment that breakfast was being prepared, Quaint was still lying awake and alone in Madame Destine’s tent. He still wore his blood-stained white cotton vest, and he hadn’t taken his eyes away from a dirty stain of mould on the roof above him for the past three hours. He lifted his hands and looked at them, clenching and unclenching his fists. To his surprise, his wounds from the battle with Renard had almost completely disappeared, leaving his skin itchy in the places where they had once been. His previously scraped knuckles had healed, his arms and legs felt stronger, tauter, and the recurring twinge in his lower back (compliments of the Hungarian Premier’s wife) had vanished completely. Quaint felt like a new man, and even the lack of sleep over the past twenty-odd hours was causing him no fatigue. He was in immaculate condition considering the carnage his body had been through.

Whistling a happy ditty, Butter breezed into the tent, carrying a metal tray full of deliciously smelling fried eggs, black pudding, bread and bacon.

‘Some food, Mr Quaint,’ the Inuit said proudly, placing the
plate on a small stool in the tent. ‘I am overjoyed to see you well, boss. When Prometheus and I finally returned from Crawditch and there was a telling of what happened to Madame, well…I feared the worst things. For you both.’

‘And? How is Destine?’ Quaint, asked hurriedly. ‘Is there any news?’

A broad smile illuminated Butter’s face. ‘She is most well, boss. She is far from fully recovered, but she is awake now, and drinking and eating. She has asked for you.’

‘Thank the Lord she’s recovering,’ Quaint mumbled. ‘When can I see her?’

‘Once you finish your eat. You need it; you have not had so much as a scrap for nearly twenty-four hours, boss.’

‘Time flies when you’re having fun, eh?’

Butter chuckled to himself. ‘It is good to see your smile once more, boss. I was beginning to think that perhaps I would never see it again.’

‘You’re not the only one.’ Quaint fell back onto his camp bed, and rubbed at his eyes. ‘My thanks, Butter, for the good news,
and
the hot food. Both are greeted with welcoming arms.’

‘It is pleasure for me, boss,’ said Butter. He placed his arm around Quaint’s shoulder and leaned him forwards, plumping up the pillow behind his employer’s back. He rushed around the tent, and scooped up the metal tray, placing it upon Quaint’s lap. ‘You sit up,’ he ordered.

As Quaint shifted his position to sit upright, something struck the china plate on his tray with a metallic ‘chink’. He reached down to the ground and plucked up a dented metal object. ‘How bizarre,’ he said, holding it up to the light. ‘Where on earth did this thing come from?’

Butter shuffled to his side to get a closer look. ‘A bullet?’

Quaint looked around almost regretfully. ‘Can it be…?’ His
hand moved to his shoulder, and he began to rub it gently. ‘I’d almost forgotten all about it. Butter—I’ve been shot!’

Butter nearly fainted on the spot, and his eyes flared wildly. ‘Where, boss?’

‘Right here!’ Quaint pulled his vest to one side, and twisted his neck to get a good look at the bullet wound in his shoulder, courtesy of Antoine Renard. To his surprise, there wasn’t much to see; just a purple-grey bruise where the bullet had impacted, and small, spiralling tendrils emanating outwards, like knots in a tree trunk. Rather than a wound less than five hours old, it looked as if the wound had been healing for years. Quaint lifted his arm and rubbed at his itching shoulder. The pain was almost non-existent. How could that be? There was a wound there, albeit only a remnant of one.

‘Boss, are you feeling unwell?’ asked a concerned Butter. ‘I can see no shot.’

‘Well, no matter, Butter. I’ll worry about that another time.’ And, indeed, Quaint surely would. ‘I must say, my friend, it feels good to be back in settled climates, after recent events. How did things conclude in Crawditch after my departure?’

‘Sergeant Berry acting as Commissioner until Scotland Yard finds Mr Dray’s successor. He has everything well in order, and the local people are much relieved.’

‘I’ll bet. I don’t know what the Yard is playing at. Horace Berry would make an ideal Commissioner. I might just drop a little note to a few friends of mine; see if they can’t stack the odds in Berry’s favour. And what else have I missed?’

‘Well…seems body of a Bishop Courtney was discovered in residence at Westminster Abbey, The Church is in dark to what happened, and are investigating so I hear.’

‘And what of Tom Hawkspear?’ asked Quaint. ‘What is his fate to be?’

‘He died shortly after you left, boss. Prometheus said about him having “hole in his gut the size you could ride a horse through”. It saddens me for people of Crawditch, justice was not truly done.’

‘Well, that all depends on your perception of justice, Butter. Some might say the manner of Hawkspear’s death was a just reward. We’ll let Hell decide his punishment.’

‘I suppose…and the Constable Jennings is now in prison for aiding conspiracy and treason, to be sentenced in three days.’

‘Excellent!’ said Quaint with a nod, tucking into his warm bread. ‘So, all loose ends are nicely wrapped up then. Just the way I like it. And how do you feel after all the excitement, Butter?’

‘I have learned much from this adventure, boss.’

‘We both have, my friend. I have lain awake for hours trying to soak it all in,’ said Quaint with a wistful gaze.

‘And how that make you feel, boss?’ chirped Butter.

‘Oddly enough, my friend,’ Quaint said, as he chomped on a rasher of smoked bacon, ‘for the first time in a very long while…I suddenly feel…revitalised!’

‘That is good,’ said Butter, smiling warmly. ‘Even if you do not look so, I think.’

‘And what do you mean by that remark, you cheeky little scamp?’

Butter laughed. ‘I mean no offence, boss. I refer only to your hair.’

‘My hair?’ asked Quaint. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Butter? What’s wrong with my bloody hair?’

Butter picked up a small, hand-held mirror from Madame Destine’s makeshift dresser next to the bed, and offered it to his employer.

‘Take a peek,’ he said.

Quaint scowled and stared at his reflection as if he were looking at a stranger.

‘Good Lord!’ he gasped.

His formerly brown-grey curls were now silver-white curls.

‘This is terrible!’ Quaint said. ‘Butter, I look
ancient.’

‘Actually, boss, I think it makes you look…’

‘Distinguished?’ offered Quaint, optimistically.

‘No,’ replied Butter. ‘I was going to say…
wise.’

‘Wise, eh?’ Quaint pulled at his spiralled silver-white curls in the mirror, stretching his jaw and inspecting his teeth as if this were the first time he had viewed his face. ‘Hmm, well…I suppose I can cope with
“wise”.
Heaven knows, I have been called far worse.’

Quaint threw back his loose bed sheets and stood up straight, taking in a deep breath. ‘Well, hasn’t this week just been
full
of surprises? I wonder what else we have left to discover, hmm? Now…I need to have a word with Prometheus before show time,’ he said, ominously. ‘There are a few things I need to say.’

The conjuror left his tent, and meandered through the congregated pockets of his performers and crew, searching for Prometheus. As he did so, they clapped, cheered and patted him on the back like a soldier returning from war. Quaint was not expecting that, and by the time he had got halfway to the piece of open grass where Prometheus was doing press-ups, he almost felt like turning around—but he kept on going, for the conversation he needed to have with the Irish strongman was of the utmost importance.

Quaint’s shadow drifted over Prometheus’s sweating form,
and he slowly registered that he had company. He rose to his feet, and greeted Quaint with a wide smile.

‘Mornin’ to ye, Cornelius,’ he said, cheerily. ‘Ye look well.’

Quaint prodded his ivory locks. ‘Apart from the new look, you mean?’

Prometheus laughed. ‘Well, if ye want the truth, I think it makes ye look–’

‘Distinguished?’ suggested Quaint hopefully.

‘Yeah…
distinguished
…that’s it,’ replied Prometheus, none too convincingly.

‘Prom…. I wanted to have a quick word with you,’ began Quaint. ‘Things have happened so fast this past week. A lot of things have occurred…to us both. I suppose I just…I just wanted to make sure you were all right…with the upcoming show and all.’

‘Cornelius, I’ve known ye for a long time. I can see through ye just as well as Destine can, me old friend. Ye can say her name, ye know…’

‘Madeline…’ said Quaint, reverently.

‘Twinkle, boss. Twinkle was her circus name…her true name,’ Prometheus said, drifting away from a group of engineers making last-minute adjustments to a nearby marquee. ‘She would want us to remember her as Twinkle.’

Quaint nodded, and followed him. ‘Quite right too. Listen to me…if you don’t feel like performing today, I do understand. To be honest…everything has happened so quickly that I’ve hardly had time to take stock. I swore to myself that I would grieve for Twinkle once my enemies were vanquished…but now I find my time taken up by other matters.’ He reached out with his hand, grasping the air. ‘I just…didn’t want you to think we didn’t care, Prom…that
I
didn’t care.’

Prometheus spun to face him. ‘Ah, don’t be daft, man! Course I know ye care! I know what she meant t’ye…an’ more importantly, so did she. Just ’cos of all that’s gone on, doesn’t make ye a heartless
monster
, does it? Look, I know what ye did.’ He grinned a broad smile. ‘Ye saved the whole of bleedin’ London, man! Ye’re a hero!’

Quaint rubbed the back of his neck shyly. ‘Well, I don’t know about that.’

‘Well,
I
do!’ Prometheus strode over to him, snatched up his hand and shook it hard, the action causing Quaint’s teeth to rattle in his mouth. ‘Ye did a grand job, so ye did, an’ I’m proud t’call ye my friend.’

Quaint nodded in acquiescence. ‘Well…same here.
Very
proud…just keep it to yourself, all right? I have a reputation to uphold!’

Prometheus grinned, and folded his broad arms across his expansive chest. ‘So…we’re goin’ t’put on a damn fine show here today for the folk o’ London, right? An’ we’re gonna make Twinkle proud of us too, right?’

Quaint smiled. ‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’

‘I may have been mute all them years, but I wasn’t deaf! Just like I heard ye say so many times—we’re a family! We stick together, an’ we’ll
pull
together…no matter what fate throws our way! We always do.’

‘Absolutely,’ agreed Quaint. ‘I have to prepare. I’ll see you later, Prometheus.’

The conjuror turned, and walked back through the throng of gaudily dressed performers, his eyes on his feet and his mind elsewhere. How could he tell Prometheus that he was about to leave the circus, that he was abandoning them all? However he said it, no matter how much he sugar-coated the words, it still amounted
to a betrayal in his eyes. But as close as he was to his people -things had changed. The world had changed. True evil had arisen in the form of the Hades Consortium, and with its members…he had some unfinished business.

Fate, it seemed, was in the habit of throwing things in Cornelius Quaint’s way.

B
Y LUNCHTIME THE
first matinée show of the circus had begun, and reams of people from all across London’s many boroughs peeled themselves away from their chores and employment, and entered Dr Marvello’s Travelling Circus. Hyde Park was alight with such uncommon electricity as seemingly everyone from miles around had put their lives on hold and come to the circus.

Flurries of children and adults alike moved from one tent to the next, marvelling at the spectacles they witnessed as the show in the Big Top started. Destine patrolled around inside the massive tent watching the faces of the audience as the spectacle unfolded. Ruby had the crowd’s stomachs in their mouths with her knife-throwing skills. The clowns Jeremiah and Peregrine soaked the first three rows with buckets of cold water. The Chinese twins Yin and Yang scared everyone half to death with their gymnastic exploits, and Prometheus bent steel bars as if they were made of liquorice—with Butter scurrying around doing everything in between. A well-oiled machine, the circus was a self-propagating beast. Everyone knew their part and each played it exceptionally. Shocks and frights were tempered with thrills and laughter like any good circus, and the atmosphere both inside and outside the Big Top was next to
paradise. Cheers, screams of excitement and laughter undulated everywhere.

Destine stood back from the crowds and smiled to herself. Something she had not done in a long while. The circus had an amazing power to invigorate and rejuvenate. Suddenly, all her recent troubles were pushed to the back of her mind, as the performer side of her brain kicked in, and Destine simply allowed herself to go with the flow. She was taking a welcome break from her role as circus fortune-teller and she was feeling agitated, without knowing why. Despite how much pleasure she gained from watching the embryo of the circus blossom into its present state of completion, something was niggling at her. Tiny warm butterflies floated around Destine’s body, and her hands tingled. Although this was normality once more (and how she had missed its presence), there was still something missing.

Cornelius Quaint was nowhere to be seen.

The show’s resident conjuror had made a decidedly swift exit from the stage after astounding the crowds with his illusions, and that was most unlike him. Destine left the canvas-covered cornucopia of delights and walked out into Hyde Park.

It was a surprisingly clear and dry day after the previous night’s torrential rain, and she held her gloved hand to her brow, shielding her eyes from the low-lying sunshine that bathed the entire park in golden hues and amber washes. The leafless, skeletal trees held little shade, and the long shadows of their barren trunks created a crazy-paving effect across the lawns of the park. The French fortune-teller felt the warmth of the sun on her cheeks, and a smile crossed over her lips. She was safe now, thanks to Cornelius. She caressed her hands slowly. They had not looked so vibrant in years, her temperamental arthritis now seemingly evaporated into thin air. She wasn’t certain why that was, but the more she tried to make sense of it, the more it seemed to slip from her grasp. She
needed to find Cornelius; he would know the answers. He’d have to, because surely what Destine thought was occurring could not possibly be true.

Though Madame Destine felt younger than she had done in well over fifty years, there was one nagging concern resting at the forefront of her worries. Since she had regained consciousness she had not experienced even the vaguest hint of any sort of premonition. It was as if everything that had made her special had been suddenly switched off. This knowledge served only to prove to her what had happened—for what use does an immortal have for seeing the future? Believing in eternal life was like believing in fairy tales, and despite the fact that Destine was gifted with an amazing quota of all kinds of otherworldly gifts—there was something so ethereal about immortality that she could scarcely allow her imagination to entertain the thought.

She had shared her thoughts with her best friend Ruby after she recovered from the antidote’s quelling of the deadly poison, receiving more than one quasi-sarcastic remark for her trouble. One of the first questions that the young knife-smith asked was: ‘How do you
know
you can live for ever?’, and, in truth, she had no answer. It was just something she knew to be true, as much as she knew she hated spinach, she knew she liked lavender perfume and she knew she preferred the colour green to the colour blue.

She knew that something inside her had changed irrevocably. Something great and something miraculous…and yet every time she tried to put it into words, she was lost. She needed Cornelius to help her discover why that was, to make sense of it all, and there was another tingle of a wish inside her mind also. If she felt the way she did—if she had these suspicions as to her fate—how did he feel? Was he sharing her delight at this sudden sense of rebirth?

Something caught Destine’s eye up on Stanhope Hill, and she knew it was him instantly, his dark cloak buffeted by the wind like a flag on a pole. He was standing alone, staring down at the festivities of the circus, detracted from it like an outsider. For a man surrounded by the comfort and warmth of his friends and adopted family, Cornelius Quaint felt like the loneliest man on earth…