The Equivoque Principle (9 page)

R
IGHT THEN, FELLAS
, anyone got any questions?’ Mr Reynolds asked a roomful of distasteful-looking ruffians, all of them dressed in brown or grey ragged, grime-stained clothes practically the uniform of the common Victorian street criminal.

‘Yeah, I got one,’ said a broad-shouldered Cockney. ‘This Quint bloke—’

‘Quaint,’ corrected Reynolds. ‘Cornelius Quaint. What of him?’

‘Quaint, right,’ continued the broad-shouldered man. ‘You said he’s some sort of magician, so what’s your beef wiv’ ’im, then? What’d he do, saw yer wife in half, or summat?’

Reynolds grinned. ‘What a rum bunch you lot are. You mean you actually need to know what the bloke’s
done
before you do him over? What’s the world coming to when you can’t even find a reliably dishonest bloke to do a little roughing up? You’re getting paid, aren’t you?’ He clamped his hands over his eyes, and slid them down his face in frustration, distorting his voice. ‘You’re not knights of the bloody realm, fellas, you’re bad seeds. Rotten apples! Shouldn’t matter what he’s done. Maybe he’s killed my entire family, maybe he’s done nothing—it don’t matter! All you
need to know is
where
he is and how
heavy
you need to get on him.’

‘We got it, boss,’ said another man, dressed in a scabby tan waistcoat with a fine mesh of grey stubble protruding from his jaw line. ‘No problem. How heavy do you want us to get on him?’

‘Dead heavy…I want you to make sure that he—’ Reynolds suddenly stopped mid-sentence as a doorbell clanged out around the house.

His eyes darted to the array of unscrupulous felons he had lined up in the house—the very same house that he had acquired since the unfortunate demise of its owner—and he pondered, his options falling through his fingers as if he were trying to grasp water. He wasn’t expecting any callers, and he skipped over to the drawing room window, peering through the net curtains. Waiting outside, shifting his weight impatiently from one foot to the next was Constable Jennings.

‘Everyone stay in here, and don’t make a damn sound! It’s only the Peelers,’ said Reynolds to the shock of his audience. The men immediately shuffled around, looking like dumbstruck lemmings, anxiously searching for the nearest exit. ‘This one’s my contact. Just keep it shut, the lot of you, and we ain’t got a problem, right?’

Mr Reynolds opened the house’s front door cautiously, his face softening as he saw Constable Jennings. ‘Ah! Well, if it isn’t my favorite constable! To what do I owe the pleasure?’ he asked. ‘All is well, I trust?’

‘Good day to you, Mr Reynolds, sir,’ Jennings said, nodding politely. ‘No problem, it’s just…well, I can’t stop long, in case someone sees me, like, but I just thought you should know…that giant fella from the circus who we had locked up on account of
them murders? Well, you’ll never guess what…he’s only gone and busted hisself out, hasn’t he? The boss is spittin’ feathers!’

‘I’ll just bet he is.’ Reynolds’s expression didn’t falter. ‘And where is Cornelius Quaint at this moment? Pulling his hair out, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Last I heard, him and some old French lady were heading back to Grosvenor Park station. I think that’s where his circus steam train is held.’

Reynolds’s expression quickly changed. ‘Did you say a French lady?’

‘Yes, sir. Quaint brought her along to the station. Apparently, she’s the circus’s fortune-teller or summink. Didn’t get a good look at her meself…her face was covered with a veil.’

Reynolds’s face became a stone-cold glacier as he advanced towards the young constable. ‘Say that again!’ he demanded.

Jennings stuttered, stepping backwards at Reynolds’s intensity. ‘What? Oh, I…I just said…she was an old French lady, sir! She—she had a veil over her face! I couldn’t make out much about her.’

‘Well, I never would have entertained the thought of it.’ Reynolds stopped dead in his tracks, and spun around. He leaned his back against the hallway wall, and pinched his temples. ‘After all this time…she’s still with him, is she? Why did I not see that coming?’ He chewed his bottom lip between his teeth, and then his eyes suddenly snapped to attention, as if he’d just been startled from a trance. ‘And what of Quaint’s plans now, boy?’

‘I dunno, Mr Reynolds…all’s I been told is that the giant’s escaped…pulled the bloody bars out of the wall, he did. Thought you’d want to know
that,’
said the constable. ‘As for Quaint, I ain’t got a clue what he’s doing, but he’d better pray he finds that mate of his before the Commissioner does.’

‘And are your colleagues close to catching this fleeing giant?’

‘Not
so
far. You’d think a bloke ’is size would stick out like a sore thumb, but he’s just vanished into thin air. Our lot are busy doing a sweep of the docks and checkin’ all the boats and trawlers, but you know what that place is like at this time of day. Most of the fish trade of London is bringing in their catch to Blythesgate Market. The wharf’s a bloody madhouse. Our lot ’ave been told by the boss not to come off shift tonight ‘til we find that giant -never seen ’im so worked up,’ said Jennings, rolling his eyes. ‘Anyway, I’d best be off. The boss’ll be wondering where I’ve got to. He only told me to report to you an’ come straight on back,’ the policeman grinned. ‘He’s got a lot on ’is plate right now!’

‘Oh, I’ll just bet he has,’ Reynolds said, running his tongue over his front teeth, barely containing his glee. ‘Do pass on my regards to your boss…tell Commissioner Dray that he’s sticking to his side of our bargain perfectly.’

M
ADAME DESTINE AND
Cornelius Quaint had not been returned from Crawditch long. Whilst Quaint busied himself with working up a plan to search for Prometheus, Destine was unusually gifted with some much appreciated free time. She sat alone on a wooden bench opposite the circus, train in Grosvenor Park station, embroidering a shawl, replaying recent events in her head. She still found it inconceivable that Prometheus had escaped. His actions had made things far worse, and now the finger of blame would lie irrevocably at his feet. As much faith as she had in him, he was certainly not making things any easier—for himself, or for those who sought to clear his name. Clouds of smoke and steam squealed and hissed around her noisily from the train engine, as a man in filthy grey overalls fiddled around with a wrench underneath it. If the noise and dry stench offended Madame’s senses, she did not show it.

‘Hey, Madame,’ called Barracks the engineer. ‘Don’t s’pose your premonitions’ve given you any hint as to when I’m going to finish Bessie’s repairs, have they?’

Destine smiled over at the man. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news, Raymond?’

‘Ah,’ nodded Barracks. ‘Like that, is it? Righto! Whilst Miss
Ruby is getting the rehearsals ready I’m a pair of hands down workin’ on the ol’ girl. I’d best not waste any more time chattin’ to you then, eh?’ the engineer grinned, returning to his chores underneath the engine. ‘Here, an’ it looks like someone else wants an audience with you now anyway.’

Madame Destine looked up quizzically, and spotted Butter scuttling along the platform towards her. The Inuit had a most uncharacteristically distant look upon his wizened face.

‘Good day to you, Madame,’ he said, above the din of the squealing train. He approached the bench, and planted himself next to Destine upon it. ‘Do you mind if I may speak with you please? There is something concerning to me, and I…I wish for your advice upon its regard.’

‘Of course you may. Your English is improving nicely, Monsieur. Ruby is teaching you very well,’ Destine said, resting her embroidery on the bench next to her. She placed her hand on the little Inuit’s shoulder. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

‘Well, Madame…I suppose…I just want to be more of use to the boss.’

‘More use? Oh, Butter, where has this come from?’ Destine turned to face him, sandwiching his hands within her own. ‘You are being silly! You are a wonderful organiser, a fantastic deputy manager, and most of the crew could not find their socks without you.’

‘That is kind of you to speak, Madame. I suppose…I just hope boss trusts me, that he knows he can rely upon me.’

‘Butter,
mon ami esquimau
, you have Cornelius’s
implicit
trust, believe me! He already relies upon you far more than you could possibly know,
comprenez-moi
? Of late you are far more useful to him than I.’

‘I do not believe that is true, Madame,’ nodded Butter firmly. ‘The boss would be lost without your guidance.’

‘Once perhaps I would have agreed with you…but these days I am afraid my premonitions are not as reliable as they used to be. They seem to delight in perplexing me, rather than inform. I am almost afraid of opening up, afraid of what I may see. They do not provide much to offer Cornelius.’ Destine played with the hem on her veil, tightening her grip to ensure her features were obscured. ‘I do not always share all my visions with Cornelius, Butter…with anyone, come to think of it. Sometimes it is better to keep what I learn to myself…otherwise, will I not ever be the bearer of bad news,
mon ami
?’

As well as adding to the mystery of the fortune-teller, Destine’s veil provided her with a welcome retreat from the telltale signs that could be seen within her eyes. She used the veil as a wall, behind which she could hide her true self. This was an escape much needed in her role as a fortune-teller, a retreat away from all she could see and sense. The veil gave her the power to detach her thoughts and fears from her words. She could quite happily lie in the face of someone, knowing that her eyes would not give away the truth. Not a lie as might be perceived a lie, but a mistruth, sometimes called a white lie, as if that somehow made it more palatable. A lie was a lie, Destine knew that, but just as there are sometimes valid reasons to tell a lie, there are often valid reasons to hide the truth. As she spoke to Butter of her concerns about her own reliability, Madame Destine found her thoughts and words merging as one. She was unable to lie to him, and in an instant the wall had crumbled, and she was suddenly unnerved by her nakedness.

Butter cocked his head to one side, and thrust his hands into the pockets of his anorak. ‘I am glad we could speak, Madame, I shall try not to let these bothers take residence in my heart,’ he said.

Destine lowered her head. ‘Good for you, Butter. Everyone has doubts it seems—everyone except Cornelius.’ She smiled warmly
as her mind’s eye entertained an image of the man. ‘He has a natural affinity with over-confidence, Butter, and that sometimes serves to inject us all with questions of our own importance. You will feel better in time,
mon ami.
You will find your place.’ Butter nodded. ‘That is my hope, Madame. And you also?’
‘Oui
, that is my hope,’ confirmed Destine, as she gathered up her embroidery and clutched it close to her chest. ‘Now…I have other matters to attend to. Butter, if you will excuse me, I must return to my quarters. You are wrong to question
your
worth,
mon ami…
I only hope that my own fears prove just as unfounded.’

R
UBY MARSTRAND WALKED
down the steps of the train’s main engine onto the station platform, and swept her hair into a loose ponytail. Her fellow circus troupe were assembled into a long line, and their expressions reflected a myriad of emotions from excitement, to boredom to anxiety.

‘Inspection in five minutes, people,’ bellowed Ruby at the top of her voice through cupped hands. She was a gifted mechanic as well as knife-smith, and was wearing a pair of tatty dungarees and a large, greasy smear of oil down her left cheek. Miraculously, she still managed to retain her natural beauty.

Tapping his feet idly, the lanky Indian animal trainer named Kipo toyed with a metal chain attached to the collar of his very large, very muscular tiger. Next to him—consciously standing as far from the beast as he could without breaking the formation of the line—was Jeremiah the clown, and next to him was his co-performer—a beaming, bearded dwarf clown by the name of Peregrine. Dressed in a crumpled, striped suit, and without his clownish makeup, Jeremiah looked positively dishevelled—the irony of his chosen profession obviously lost on him. His jowls hung low, his eyes carried a heavy grey undercarriage, and he was every inch the opposite of the persona that had graced The Black
Sheep tavern the previous night—much the same as Ruby Marstrand was.

The young knife-smith pointed towards the large, circular clock that hung from the station’s rafters, and yelled at the top of her voice: ‘Yin, Yang—hurry it up, will you? Mr Q wants to see what we’ve got, and we don’t have all day,’ she called to the two Chinese acrobats, perched like pigeons atop the roof of the train above her. ‘You know what the boss always says—’

‘You can never have enough rehearsal time!’ chorused the twins in unison.

‘And I am seldom wrong, gentlemen,’ said Cornelius Quaint as he strode onto the platform next to the line. He had changed his attire, and now wore a long-tailed, dark-grey woollen coat over a loose black suit, topped off with a half-height top-hat. He looked as if he were meeting a lady-friend for afternoon tea, rather than someone about to embark on a desperate search of the surrounding area for Prometheus.

Ruby looked to the floor in embarrassment. ‘Oh, Mr Q, you’re early! I’m just trying to line everyone up like you asked. I’m just about getting there…slowly.’

Quaint saluted her. ‘My thanks, Ruby, you’ve done an admirable job,’ the tall man said with an air of fatherly pride. ‘I’d hoped we’d get more rehearsal time in Hyde Park, but with all that’s going on at the moment…I don’t think we can afford the effort of skipping to and fro across London. Now…let’s take a look at our troops, shall we?’ Quaint gave Ruby a wink, and began to stroll slowly along the line of performers. Not that he ever let on to the crew, but he rather enjoyed watching his performers—his family—stand tall, and stand proud awaiting his word, knowing that he held their faith and respect completely.

Quaint stopped in the centre of the line, and held his hands up to his audience. ‘Now, folks, if we had more breathing space
before Friday’s show, we’d be doing a full dress rehearsal today, but as you know, there are a few distractions, so we’ll go with what we have. You all know your roles far better than I, and you’ve all performed them so many times you could practically do the entire show in your sleep,’ Quaint gestured with his eyes towards Jeremiah’s dwarf assistant. ‘And some of you frequently do from what I hear. Am I right, Peregrine?’

‘Ah, just a bad case of the wind last night, guv. I think it was that mackerel Harry bought,’ Peregrine the dwarf said sheepishly.

Quaint afforded the man his blushes. ‘No need to apologise, Perry! Natural gas is a very healthy bodily product.’

‘It ain’t that healthy when you’re on the bottom bunk underneath it, boss,’ muttered Jeremiah. ‘I’m going to need a clothes peg if I want to get any sleep tonight!’

The line erupted into restrained sniggers, and Quaint clapped his hands to quell the rabble. ‘All right, folks. Part of why you lot are assembled is to make sure you’re all still limber. And that goes double for you two chaps,’ said Quaint, looking at Yin and Yang atop the train carriage. ‘I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to shout into the rafters; get on down here.’

‘Righto, Mr Quaint, on my way down!’ Yin vaulted from the rear of the train, somersaulting in mid-air to land as deftly as a cat by Quaint’s side on the platform.

‘Impressive,’ Quaint said, half-approvingly. ‘And your brother, please.’

‘Look out below!’ yelled Yin’s twin. He and his brother were indeed two peas in a pod, either side of the same coin, but whereas Yin was calm, restrained and thoughtful, Yang had a daredevil streak that flowed through his veins. Whatever Yin did, Yang wanted to do it better, faster, higher. Leaping from the train like a dart into the air, Yang somersaulted, catching one of the station’s iron roof supports, and swung himself around in a complete circle.
He leapt from one girder to the next, more like an ape than a man, his fingers and feet seemingly finding stability everywhere they touched. He leapt into the air and performed a triple twist, to land with a cocky grin just as deftly as his brother on the platform next to Quaint.

‘Save the theatrics, Yang. I can’t have you breaking an ankle before show-time,’ Quaint said testily, glancing over his shoulder. And then more quietly, he said: ‘Nice final twist on the end beam though, son. You’ve been practising.’

The hustle and bustle at Grosvenor Park station, commonplace at virtually any time of the day or night, slowed to a standstill as every other traveller or worker stopped and stared at the sight of the circus folk. Quaint barely acknowledged the gathering audience, and seated himself down on a wooden bench opposite the train. He crossed one leg over the other, and linked his fingers together, his hands sitting loosely in his lap. He looked over towards Ruby, and gave a gentle nod.

‘Begin,’ Cornelius Quaint said.

The word was like a starting pistol going off before a race, and in a second the group of circus folk pulled on the masks of performers, and the rehearsal commenced. Yin and Yang kicked off with a series of back-flips and cartwheels at blinding speeds along the platform. Like sporadic whirlwinds, the Chinese twins never stood in one place long before they were leaping somewhere else. They bounded, flipped, jumped and sprang from one end of the platform to the other with a succession of dizzying acrobatic displays. Quaint spun around in his seat to investigate, as a chorus of undulating cheers and applause echoed around the station. A group of onlookers had gathered around the station, and they were enjoying the free show.

‘We have an audience now, people,’ said Quaint. ‘So make it count.’

Even in the distilled afternoon light of the train station, with its many distractions of noise and smoke, the acrobatic display was still breathtaking—even to Quaint, who had witnessed it countless times. How the two little bumblebees managed to ricochet across the platform with such grace and speed was something of a mystery to the circus owner. As was how they managed never to collide mid-air, but perhaps this was due in part to the Chinese men being twins, as perhaps there was an unspoken, almost telepathic communication linking the two of them. That was the spiritual explanation of course, and one that never sat too comfortably in Quaint’s solid and physical world. Nevertheless, whether the display was the result of something beyond the boundaries of normality, or just the fact that the two had been performing together since the age of six, it was still spectacularly stunning to watch -and Quaint hoped that the forthcoming audience in Hyde Park would be sufficiently entertained.

As he watched the rest of his crew perform, he felt a nagging twinge within his heart. As good as his team were, there were still gaps in the programme, very obvious gaps that only served to reinforce what they were missing.

Twinkle’s presence was irreplaceable. More than just a juggler, comedienne and all-round entertainer, she was the pulsing heartbeat within his circus, and now that heart had been torn out. Praying they were a strong enough community to weather the storm, Quaint knew that a lot of it relied on them finding Prometheus. Whilst not as effervescent as Twinkle, he was virtually an embodiment of the circus’s recent troubles. If he could be found, and normality restored, perhaps they might all have a very real chance of repairing their wounds. But by the same token another question appeared in Cornelius Quaint’s head. If Prometheus should die, would the hearts and minds of all in the circus be far behind?