The equivoque principle cq-1

by Darren Craske

  'Madame?' he gasped. 'Oh, sorry Ruby, I didn't realise you were busy. Shall I come back later?'

  'Oh, Cornelius-it is you!' Destine said, her veiled face unable to hide her anguish. Her voice faltered as she saw him.

  'Well, of course it's me, Madame,' he said, gripping hold of the Frenchwoman's shoulders firmly, as she fell into his embrace. 'You look scared to death, woman. Who were you expecting it to be?'

  Ruby stood from the table and joined Destine's side. 'Ah, well, we thought that maybe it was…Prometheus coming back, you see.'

  'Coming back? Coming back from where?' asked Quaint.

  Ruby looked towards Destine for assistance.

  'Back from where?' repeated Quaint. 'Where is he? One of you must know.'

  'Um, have you asked Butter?' Ruby said, resting her hand on Destine's shoulder. 'Maybe he'll know. We saw him talking to Prometheus earlier, didn't we, Destine.'

  Quaint stared at Ruby's expression. Her toffee-coloured eyes were wide, and her swathe of thick hair was entwined around her fingers, the very image of someone trying their hardest to look innocent. Madame Destine was no different, deliberately avoiding eye contact with him.

  'Very well, ladies,' Quaint said sternly, placing his hands flat on the table in front of him. His bold black eyes zeroed in on Destine and Ruby with an uncompromising glare. 'Tell me everything…'

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  The Warning

  HOW IN GOD'S name did you survive?' yelled Commissioner Dray.

  'God had nothing to do with it,' replied the man called Reynolds, a native French accent suddenly rising to the fore.

  'Yeah, but…but Quaint shot you right through the heart!'

  'Serves me right for not having one, then doesn't it?' smiled Reynolds.

  'First Cornelius Quaint turns up out of the blue, and now this? What is it-the week for skeletons in my wardrobe? I knew someone was pulling my strings, man, but I had no idea it was you,' Dray said, and was forced to steady himself against the wall. 'My God…all this time…you've been alive? Why didn't you tell anyone? Why did you let people believe it?'

  'Oh, come, Oliver, what would you have done if you had known the truth?' Reynolds challenged, his thick, European accent showing itself more freely now that the faeade he had used as a mask was no longer needed. 'Would you really have been pleased to see me? Would you have said: "It has been fifteen years since you murdered for my father, Antoine, how's tricks?" Don't make me laugh!'

  Jennings removed his helmet, and mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. 'Hang on a mo, boss,' he said. 'I'm gettin' a bit out've me depth here. How do you know Mr Reynolds?'

  'Reynolds is merely a nom de plume, Constable,' said Reynold, 'as dear Oliver knows very well. But I did not come here for formal introductions; I came to pass on a friendly warning.'

  Dray responded with a guttural growl. 'So, you've been masquerading as this "Reynolds" character all along? Right under my nose? Using my own constables to do your dirty work? Blackmailing me with my father?' He clawed at his thin strands of hair. 'I just can't understand it…but why go to all that bother? Not just for Cornelius Quaint's benefit, is it? Wouldn't you prefer to see the look on his face when you turn up alive and well after all this time?'

  'Revenge against Quaint is just a bonus for me, Oliver. It is personal,' said the Frenchman, stepping closer to Dray. 'This is business. I'm revealing my identity to you now, should our paths cross again in the near future.' Reynolds swept a thick strand of hair from his forehead. 'Quid pro quo, remember? You're no fool, Oliver; you know how the Hades Consortium operates.'

  Dray inhaled sharply at the words. 'The Hades Consortium has interests here? In…in Crawditch? I…I didn't know. Why did I not know?'

  'The Consortium is not likely to broadcast its involvements. Our projects have strict time schedules to adhere to. It was not necessary for you to know what did not concern you, Oliver. Although you are unaware, I have been trying hard to save your neck all week, monsieur.'

  'But…but why are you here?' asked Dray. 'Why now?'

  The Frenchman's nostrils flared. 'Let's just say that The Consortium requires something of value in this pitiful little borough, and they sent me to negotiate its collection. Of course, when I heard my old friend Cornelius Quaint was en route to London as well…I just had to stick around for a few more days and have a little fun with him.'

  Listening intently from within the seclusion of the nearby conifer trees, Prometheus felt a cold chill run up his spine as he heard the words. He knew very well from the intent in the Frenchman's voice that he was anything but a friend to Cornelius. What he was hearing now was a conversation that he needed to pass onto his employer urgently, and his secret position, hidden from sight, was essential. The more he heard and the longer he pushed his luck concealed within the nearby bushes, the more information he would have to pass on. Such was his concentration on his own stealth that he was completely oblivious to the person sneaking up slowly from behind.

  'So, all this Hawkspear nonsense…that's you as well, is it?' Dray questioned.

  'Certainly not.' The Frenchman laughed under his breath. 'Well, he's partly my fault, I suppose, but we're both working for someone else…someone other than The Consortium, someone with heavenly connections.'

  Constable Jennings glanced across from Dray's to Reynolds's faces. 'I'm totally bloody lost, I am. This is all gettin' a bit too confusin' for me.'

  Reynolds grinned at Jennings's naivety. 'Oliver, I wanted to let you know that no matter what my business is here in London -Cornelius Quaint will get his just reward. I have been waiting so very long, patiently biding my time, just for the right moment. I know just how to test him to his limits-and I know what his weaknesses are.' The man flicked his tongue about his lips, savouring the images he took from his words. 'Oedipus had nothing on me!'

  Prometheus's temper had reached critical mass, and he was starting to get white spots before his eyes, he had restrained himself for so long. He clenched his jaw and prepared to leap into the yard, tearing this newcomer limb from limb. Just before he leapt, his muscles like a coiled spring; he felt a firm tug on his sleeve. He spun around sharply. At his side, Butter grinned up at him mischievously, and held his finger to his lips.

  'Right,' said Dray, quaffing a swig of whisky from a silver hipflask. 'So, in exchange for keeping your mouth shut about my family's dealings…what more do you want from me, hmm?'

  'Nothing,' said the gaunt man with a shrug. 'Not a thing. I didn't come here for more demands, Oliver. Like I said; I am only here to offer you a warning.'

  'For free?' scoffed Dray.

  'The Hades Consortium has invested a lot of time and money in your career, Oliver-remember that. They are not about to throw away one of their best assets.' The man walked over towards the tall gate, unlocking the bolts at the top and bottom of the frame. 'Your life is in danger, and soon someone will arrive and try and take it. I have gone to extreme measures to ensure that that someone was not me. You have enemies, Oliver…and they do not bow down to the law. If I were you, I would keep my eyes open, and never walk alone, no matter what time of day or night. I'll be seeing you. Au revoir, monsieur, et bon chance.' He stepped out into the lane that ran parallel behind the station, departing from the yard. The gate swung shut on the yard, leaving a dumbstruck Dray and Jennings to themselves, as if Reynolds had never been there at all.

  Jennings skipped over to the swinging gate and went out into the lane. 'He's gone, sir. Nowhere to be seen,' he said.

  'Like a ghost…' muttered Dray.

  'So tell me…if he weren't Mr Reynolds…who the bloody hell was he anyway?'

  Dray puffed out his cheeks, and made a point of exhaling loudly. 'That man is trouble with a capital "T", lad, and you'd do well to forget about him,' he said, catching Jennings's eyes. 'But I'll tell you this much, laddie…if things were bad for Cornelius Quaint before…they've just got ten times worse.'

  CHAPTER XL

  The Betrayal
/>   CORNELIUS QUAINT STORMED out of the fortune-teller's tent, with Destine trailing after him. 'He's done what?' he raged. 'After I explicitly told him not to? This is intolerable Destine, it really is! I'll have to get there right away.'

  'No, Cornelius, I beg of you-wait,' implored Destine. 'He's been gone for hours, just after you left for the prison. You'll never catch up with him.'

  'Why on earth didn't you try to stop him?'

  'What chance would I have of stopping a thundering titan like him? He is more involved in this than even you are, Cornelius. Do not forget that he stands accused of murdering the woman he loved. He just needs to do something.'

  'Madame, how could I forget?' Quaint paused, rubbing at the back of his head as he tried to think what to do next. 'This is just typical. Just when we actually get somewhere, we end up taking two steps back.'

  'I can see you're angry, Cornelius, but Prometheus is a big boy. He knows what he's doing, of that I am sure.'

  'He thinks he knows what he's doing, you mean! I told him that Crawditch was a dangerous place for him to be, and I warned him about Dray-but he's just ridden roughshod over it. I wanted him kept away from that place because I saw the look of desperation in Dray's eyes-they need him to be their killer, Madame, he's all Dray's got, and he's too perfect a fit to let slip through his fingers…the leopard has not changed his spots after all.'

  Destine placed her hand upon Quaint's shoulder, bringing the man towards her as she did so. 'Cornelius…Prometheus feels his very soul is in torment, and unless he walks right into that police station-and at least tries to get them to listen to him-he will always feel the hunted quarry.'

  Quaint pulled away from her embrace, rubbing at his forehead furiously, as if trying to remove a dirty smudge. 'Hell's teeth, Destine, now of all times-why did he have to go to Crawditch alone? With what I learned at Blackstaff, that district is the last place on earth that Prometheus can expect to see justice.' Quaint rubbed his palms into his eyes, trying to clear the day's remnants from his head.

  Destine moistened her lips, almost petrified to ask the question that formed itself in her mind, but she had to know what Quaint had discovered, perhaps giving her just enough breathing space to try and explain her actions to him. 'And what did you learn, my sweetheart?' she asked.

  'I learned much, Madame. Not only was someone named Bishop Courtney responsible for Tom Hawkspear's release, but also, more importantly than that…it seems I have been extremely foolish. I have misjudged someone very dearly…at the cost of others' lives. It seems there is betrayal on all sides in this caper, it surely knows no limits,' said Quaint, striding away from the tent, the wind whipping at his clothes fiercely. 'I just don't know who I can trust any more.'

  Destine gulped hard, remembering the haunting realisation of her deepest and greatest fear. The fire within Cornelius's eyes was something she had seen many times before.

  'I have uncovered the person responsible for this whole damn mess, Madame,' he countered, 'and you'll not believe the trouble he's gone to, purely to get his revenge upon me, although I can't blame him-considering our history. I had thought never to set eyes upon him again, but it seems Fate had other ideas. Our foe is none other than-'

  'My son,' blurted out Destine. 'Our foe is…Antoine Renard…yes I know,' she said. The words tumbled from her mouth clumsily as if she were unburdening herself of a great weight.

  Quaint spun on his heels, glaring at Destine. If the fire within his eyes was ablaze before, it was positively volcanic now.

  'What…did you just say?' he asked.

  'I know how you must feel, Cornelius, and I share your horror, believe me,' protested Destine, pacing in circles around and around on the grassy verge. 'I had a most terrifying vision of him myself just yesterday that shook me to the core. I…I'm so sorry that I could not tell you sooner…please believe me, but I knew how it would affect you,' The Frenchwoman buried her head in her hands and sobbed a distraught, weighty sob that came from the very depths of her soul.

  Quaint approached her shattered form, mere inches from her face. His voice was calm and quiet, yet bubbling with rage. 'Madame…what is this you're saying to me? Antoine Renard? Now, that's a name not spoken in my presence for a very long time…and you know damn well why.'

  'But…you said…you knew who was to blame,' sniffed Destine.

  'I do…or at least I thought I did. I was about to name Oliver Dray-for it was his man Jennings who countersigned Hawks-pear's release papers. What has this to do with your son? The man's been dead fifteen years!'

  'I had thought so myself…until recently. My premonitions were coming erratically, they made less and less sense, and after each one, I was left feeling exhausted. I had a vision such as this yesterday, a vision unlike any other, Cornelius. I felt an intense punch hit me right in my mind's eye…the last time I felt one as strong was in 1838…the night you shot Antoine dead.'

  'Not dead enough, obviously,' said Quaint.

  He made several attempts to begin a sentence, to say something to Destine that would encapsulate just how he felt about her betrayal, but nothing seemed appropriate. He grabbed handfuls of his coat's material, squeezing them tight into his fists. He yanked, stretched and tugged harshly at the coat, serving as a surrogate for the vocalisation of his anger. Tears flooded his dark eyes, and his lips trembled nervously. He couldn't even look at Destine, for he feared his heart would shatter into a million pieces.

  'Cornelius, please say something,' said Destine, approaching Quaint, but he turned away brusquely, leaving the fortune-teller's hand grasping nothing but air. 'Please…let me explain. I knew that learning of this without confirmation would terrorise you. It would blind you; intoxicate your ability to think clearly.'

  Quaint's voice was shaky, his jaw clenched tight. 'Madame,' he began, turning away from her beseeching stare. 'This is true, then? Is Renard still alive?'

  Madame Destine lowered her head onto her chest, the word 'Yes' barely audible.

  'And…and why did you not sense him before? If he's been involved in this from the beginning, why did your foresight not give you-give me-warning?' blazed Quaint, the tears flowing freely now from his face, following the tracks of his ingrained wrinkles. 'Fifteen years ago…when I pulled that trigger, I thought the man responsible for my wife's death-your blasted devil of a son, Antoine Renard-had finally faced justice, that I'd completed a circle of hate that'd been raging for so long. And now…you're standing there…after keeping this from me for God knows how long, telling me that I have been living naught but a lie!'

  'No, Cornelius, I only suspected his return recently…nothing definite. He appeared on the periphery of my premonitions,' protested Destine. 'I had no way of knowing for sure.'

  'Oh? And what clues do you have now that makes you so sure he's alive?'

  'The vision I had last night…it was him, Cornelius…and as much as I would like to deny it, he's my son. Antoine shares my blood, and he and I do seem to have an unnaturally clairvoyant link. Perhaps our kinship shielded him from me before.'

  'What excellent timing,' snapped Quaint.

  'I do understand your anger, my sweet…as much as I understand how much of a bloody monster he was…and still is.'

  'Don't remind me,' Quaint yelled. 'For it was my trust of you and your bloody monster of a son that invited him into our house, remember? Where was your damn foresight then? Notably absent-as it is now it seems!'

  Quaint stared blankly into Madame Destine's eyes, unable to resist his memory recalling the first time that he had met Antoine Renard, when the Frenchman was nineteen and Quaint was twenty-four. As Destine had been his governess from the age of seven, Quaint was aware that she had a son. He had been educated and raised by his father in Paris whilst Destine estranged herself from her family to live in England-for what reason, Quaint never asked. The subdued, inward-looking boy had left his family home in Paris to seek out his mother.

  Antoine Renard's confidence was shattered by the break-up of his
family, a condition made worse by years of indoctrination by his father. The young man had been raised to hate his mother, in fact only seeking her out to quell his curiosity rather than rectify any broken maternal bonds. But Antoine's own rage was not solely the by-product of his father, for the Frenchman was capable of breeding his own seeds of hate all by himself. He became convinced that Cornelius was the root of his evil, the reason why his mother had left Paris, the reason why she had never come to collect him, the reason why she had created a surrogate son in Cornelius-to replace him.

  This bitter hatred festered, kept just under the surface of Renard's skin. He would search for anything with which to best Cornelius at, be it sports, intellect or duelling and, locked in a constant battle of one-upmanship, he and Cornelius were destined for disaster. The rivalry continued for nearly two years-until one fateful night when Antoine found himself alone with Cornelius's wife Margarite. Seeing Cornelius as his enemy, Antoine savagely assaulted Margarite, then fled the Quaint homestead, with the knowledge that it was one victory he would forever hold over Cornelius.

  Cornelius returned home to find his bloodied wife barely alive, and she died in his arms that same night. It was only many years later that the Quaint family doctor informed the conjuror that Margarite had been pregnant at the time of her death. Pregnant with a child he would never see, never hold, never love. From that moment, a fuse was lit inside Quaint's heart that raged on unchecked as he spent the rest of his young years trekking across the globe on one fruitless quest after another. The search for Renard consumed him.

  Horrified at what her son had become, Madame Destine turned away from Renard and promised to aid Quaint in his quest to bring Renard to justice. It took a further decade of uncovering many deceits and false trails before they found Renard, now working as a murderer for hire across Europe, selling his trade to the highest bidder. With Quaint's and Renard's paths seemingly irrevocably linked, a final confrontation between them was inevitable, and after many close calls and near-misses, in Paris in 1838 Quaint found himself face to face with Renard once again. The two opponents fought, and Quaint shot Renard in the chest. The Frenchman toppled over a wall into the River Seine-seemingly to his death-and Quaint had thought that was the last time he would ever hear the name 'Antoine Renard'. Hearing it again now, spoken by Renard's blood mother, Quaint felt a lancing jolt of pain hit him square in the gut.