Dray unlocked the cell door, and it swung open with a grinding screech of metal against stone. The quartet stared into cell, their eyes adjusting to the darkness slowly and, one by one, they looked to each other for an explanation. An open-mouthed Sergeant Berry looked to Dray, who scowled at Quaint, who in turn then shot a perplexed squint towards Destine. A veil of silent confusion suddenly fell over them.
The cell was completely empty.
Prometheus's discarded woollen cap, lying on the floor next to the iron-grated window and piles of rubble, was the only sign that he had ever been there at all.
CHAPTER XVI
The Strongman's Escape
THE SMALL, BARRED grate that had served as the only inlet for natural air and light in the cell had been forcibly ripped from its concrete moorings from the inside. The circus strongman known as Prometheus had escaped.
'Remind me again of your employee's innocence, Cornelius,' seethed Oliver Dray.
'There has to be some mistake,' gasped Quaint. 'He wouldn't just-'
'Oh, but he has. He won't get far though, I promise you that,' snapped Dray, as he turned on his heel, and barged past Destine and Quaint, dragging Berry with him in his wake.
Quaint squatted down onto his haunches and inspected the metal bars, discarded on the ground along with chunks of crumbled masonry from the wall. He looked to Destine for reassurance that what his eyes were recording was actually taking place, and he had not just set foot in a warped fantasy land. 'So tell me, fortune-teller-did you see this coming?' he asked.
Destine stood at his rear, her veiled face hiding her expression of surprise, but her silence told Quaint all he needed to know.
'I see,' grumbled Quaint. 'What on earth is Prometheus doing? What does he think this will accomplish? Why would he be so stupid? If Dray didn't already have a noose measured up for him, he will have by now. How the hell do we repair this damage?' he said, peering at the window's grate. 'Hang on…what's all this then?' He licked his finger, and gingerly touched the tip of one of the iron bars. He yelped, and withdrew his hand quickly. 'Well, well,' he said under his breath.
'What's all what, Cornelius?' Destine asked.
Quaint ignored her, and stood up sharply. 'I knew there was more to this than met the eye!' he proclaimed, and approached Destine. She froze as he placed his arm on her shoulder, and plucked something from the tight bun at the back of her head. 'Ah, perfect, Madame. Thank you!' he snapped excitedly, and squatted back down onto his knees, inspecting the grate.
'Cornelius…I know you take great delight in perplexing me,' Destine said, teasing her bottom lip with her teeth. 'But what exactly are you doing with my hairpin?'
Quaint ignored her again, and began poking tentatively with the metal pin at the window's grate in silence.
Destine tapped her foot on the floor. 'The Commissioner will have mobilised his lynch mob by now, Cornelius,' she said impatiently. 'Whatever you are doing, it is costing us valuable time!'
'I don't think so, Madame, I think that-aha!' exclaimed Quaint, skipping easily to his feet for a man of his age and stature. With a broad grin, he held the metal hairpin towards Destine's face. 'This mystery seems to have developed a new level of perplexity, Madame. Take a look!' A thin, barely visible wisp of smoke trailed from the tip of the hairpin, stolen quickly by the wind that blew freely into the cell through the hole in the wall. 'Well, what do you see?' he beamed, like an eager child, proudly presenting a painting to his mother.
Destine lifted her veil and stared uncomprehendingly. 'My eyes are not what they used to be. What exactly am I supposed to be looking at, may I ask?'
'Madame, do you not see? Those bars were not simply wrenched from the wall by Prometheus's strength alone. They have been eaten away! Look…eroded…by some sort of acid! It is burning the metal pin as we speak.'
'Acid?' asked Destine, beseeching Quaint's impassioned eyes. 'But how would Prometheus get hold of acid in a police station?'
'Anyone's guess. Perhaps there is a lot more to this than we had imagined.' Quaint turned, and strode towards the open cell door. 'Come, Madame, let us see what havoc Oliver's causing upstairs.'
'Perhaps we should keep this mystery to ourselves for the time being, Cornelius…I am no longer sure whom we can trust.'
With a crash, Quaint and Destine exploded through the thick set of double doors into the main station office and stared at the pandemonium before them. Commissioner Dray was holding court in the centre of the station as his men rushed about to and fro around him, obeying his every command.
'Hurry it up, men! We don't have all day. God knows when he decided to run for it. Didn't anyone hear anything? There's half a damn wall missing!' Proving that rage can be a most powerful fuel, Dray yelled with the vigour of a man half his age. 'Sound the alarm, I want that man found!'
As Quaint approached Dray and Sergeant Berry, he looked around the madhouse that was the station. Policemen were rushing everywhere in panic, their eyes to the floor, desperately trying to comply with Dray's barrage of orders. Raised voices thronged the air, police whistles screamed and Commissioner Dray had Constable Tucker by his jacket lapels up against a wall.
'When was the prisoner last checked, Tucker?' Dray yelled.
'Sir? The giant, you mean?' said a flustered Tucker. 'Well…he was given some breakfast I think, not too long ago.'
'How long, lad?' Dray demanded.
'About an hour maybe,' said the petrified Constable Tucker. 'Could be a bit longer, I…I'm not sure. Why, what's wrong?'
'What's wrong, Tucker, is that he's bloody absconded! Ripped the bleeding bars out of the damn wall, he did. Have you got cotton in your ears, son? Did you not hear anything?' Dray demanded.
'Why, Oliver…did you?' asked Quaint, stepping up behind Dray.
The Scotsman shot a furious look over his shoulder. 'You stay out of this, Cornelius, this is police business. Your friend just signed his own death warrant.' He switched his stare back to his constable. 'Tucker, get all the men we have available out on those streets right now. I want an immediate street by street search for the prisoner. Use whatever force necessary to restrain him and haul his arse back here, sharpish!'
'Seven feet tall, with a bushy beard and muscles like an ox. Shouldn't be too hard to find, Oliver, even for your men,' Quaint said sarcastically, even though the situation clearly dictated against it. 'Let me help. If Prometheus is anywhere nearby, or if he's returned to our transport, we'll find him. He is one of ours, after all.'
'Oh, don't think I've forgotten that. Just you make damn sure you bring him back here, Cornelius,' Dray muttered, flattening back the lapels on Constable Tucker's uniform. 'Don't go getting any funny ideas either! Your lot are going nowhere unless I say so, got it?'
'Understood. But you needn't waste your men's time, Oliver. My train's not going anywhere until this mess is straightened out,' Quaint said, feeling Madame Destine's fingers tighten around his arm like ivy around a drainpipe. She leaned towards his ear and tugged him firmly to one side.
'Cornelius, we may have further need of this man, if your temper hasn't burnt all our bridges,' she reminded him. 'So play nice. Exacerbating a grievance with the Commissioner will do us little good in exonerating Prometheus.'
The pair exchanged glances as between a school mistress scolding her favourite pupil. Quaint lowered his eyes, and turned sheepishly towards the Commissioner.
'Look, Oliver…I am sure we'll get a speedy resolution to this unfortunate business,' he said, holding out his hand towards Dray. 'It is a shame we could not meet under less…pressing circumstances.'
'Cornelius…we both know what I owe you,' said Dray, grasping Quaint's open hand. 'A long time ago, a world away from London-you saved my life. But this is just too big to sweep under the carpet. I've got no choice but to react with extreme measures. I have to do what's right by the letter of the law-whether your friend is in the firing line or not! Now, off you go. And if you really want to help your friend…stay out of my
way.'
CHAPTER XVII
The Twist of the Blade
RIGHT 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.'
CHAPTER XVIII
The Crumbling Wall
MADAME 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 Co
rnelius'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.
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