The Equivoque Principle (18 page)

Not without an appreciation of irony, predicting the future takes time and after a gruelling fifteen-minute wait, Quaint was getting restless.

‘Madame, I don’t wish to rush you,’ he said, ‘but time is of the essence here.’

Destine’s eyelids flickered as she removed herself from her entranced state, and looked up at Quaint’s appealing face.

‘Oh…sorry, Cornelius…I…have been given many powerful images and it is taking some time to determine their meaning,’ she said quietly.

‘I understand, Madame…my apologies,’ said Quaint. ‘Well?’

‘You wish to return to Crawditch, Cornelius, but I sense that that place contains nothing of interest for you. You will not learn anything more there. I am sensing many angered and fearful people. Fearful for their very lives, it seems. They aim their hatred at the police, and they are concerned that the killer in their midst remains unfound.’ Destine licked her lips gently. ‘I foresee a great deal of pain centred on the police station, Cornelius. You must avoid that place at all costs.’

Prometheus stepped forward. ‘But
I
don’t! Cornelius, I told ye, man—I need t’go back there and clear me name. The police’re looking for the wrong person, remember? Which means they’ll never catch Hawkspear!’

‘Prometheus, how many
more
times must I explain? Especially now, you must not set as much as a single
footstep
in Crawditch. If Dray is under pressure from the locals, then the first thing he’ll do is set up a public hanging for you. Handing yourself in at this stage won’t help anyone,’ said Quaint abruptly, baring his teeth, such was his passion. ‘Madame, if not Crawditch, then where must I go? Where is the key to all this strangeness?’

‘I sense a dark tower full of the screams of men,’ Destine said in nothing more than a whisper. ‘Within this tower lies the answer to a great many secrets. I cannot tell you more than this.’ Destine
pinched the bridge of her nose, and raised her fingers to her forehead. ‘I feel rather weary all of a sudden. Cornelius, if you have no objections, I would like to rest.’

‘Certainly, Madame, please do,’ agreed Quaint. ‘You have been of great assistance as usual, and I am sorry to cause you distress. At least now, we have a direction to focus upon.’

Quaint and Prometheus stepped outside the tent into Hyde Park. Upon seeing them exit, Butter trotted up to them, an expectant glint in his eyes.

‘We have plan, boss?’ he asked, tugging on Quaint’s long coat tails. ‘Madame Destine was able to help?’

‘Indeed she was, Butter. Things are going downhill fast in Crawditch, my friend, but there is a place that Destine referred to that could hold the key to this mystery. She can only mean Black-staff prison. I shall go there right away.’ He turned to face a glum-looking Prometheus. ‘I don’t want you going anywhere near Crawditch until I return, understand? And Butter?’ said Quaint, spinning to face the Inuit. ‘Keep an eye on the Madame, will you? Until I return, be on your guard. We could get a visit from the law at any time, so Prometheus—keep out of plain sight if you can.’

With that, Quaint turned on his heels, walked across the park towards Cromwell Road, and the exit from Hyde Park that would lead him to the nearside of the Thames. From there he could charter a tug to Blackstaff prison. Discovery of his foe—or foes—was starting to feel as if it were nearly in his grasp, but Quaint did not know whether that made him feel better, or worse.

Laid upon a temporary bed at the rear of her tent, the uncomfortable mattress was the least concerning thought upon Madame Destine’s mind. She had just deliberately misled Cornelius, and dissuaded him from a course of action that would have supplied a great many answers. That betrayal was hanging heavily upon her thoughts. But what could she do? Her voices had spoken, and she had no choice but to listen to them. What use was the gift to perceive the future if you couldn’t avert the tragedies that you foresaw? Destine knew for certain that if Quaint were to proceed to Crawditch as he intended, it would set him upon a road that led in only one direction—his death.

But she also knew that secrets never stay buried for ever. As the fog cleared from this mystery, the truth would certainly soon be revealed, and Destine knew that she could not hide her greatest lie for ever. As she had once told Cornelius, nightmares have a nasty habit of recurring, and usually when you least expect them.

B
LACKSTAFF PRISON WAS
inescapable. Many had tried and all had failed. Constructed in 1841, it was England’s first barge prison, unique in the respect that it was able to relocate to positions along the Thames, or out into the English Channel or the North Sea. Containing just over a hundred and fifty prisoners, the structure was akin to a lighthouse, a tall, circular iron and wood tower affixed to a huge, specially designed barge platform. Very few cells had adequate toilet facilities and none had windows. The fear of incarceration in Blackstaff was the thought that had kept many a wrongdoer on the straight and narrow, and those who were lucky enough to be released from the prison rarely committed a further offence. Its reputation alone was enough of a deterrent.

Cornelius Quaint had called in a few favours to organise this unscheduled visit to Blackstaff. Luckily, Warden Melbury had once seen Quaint perform his act and was a big fan of sleight of hand magic. Quaint was treated like visiting royalty.

The prison was currently moored near Colchester, and the North Sea winds were scratching against the iron-wood hide of the tower. Quaint sat opposite the tobacco-stained, bearded Warden in his dank, grey-painted office, sharing a tin cup of some foul-smelling liquid that the Warden had sworn blind was
Jamaican rum. It was certainly unlike any rum that Quaint had tasted before, but he needed the Warden’s help, and he politely forced down each sip through clenched teeth.

‘Christ, you should ’ave seen it,’ said the Warden, rocking back in his chair. ‘We pulled in, right into the Thames, trying to find shelter, but when you’re as exposed as we are, there ain’t nowhere safe. This place is great as a prison, but in a fierce storm like that, it’s a death-trap!’

‘And how long were you marooned for?’ asked Quaint, appeasing the gruff Warden’s zest for conversation.

‘Four days,’ Warden Melbury barked. ‘My men were pullin’ their bleedin’ hair out.’

Quaint looked around the cramped quarters. ‘I’ll bet. So tell me, Warden, how many men have you got here on your staff?’ he asked, gingerly sipping the rum.

‘Twenty including me, and another twelve more can be called at the east end of the Thames if we need them, but we rarely do. Now and again we might ’ave an emergency…maybe one of the idiots somehow sets their bed sheets alight, or summat like that. Aside from bein’ at the mercy o’ bad weather, Mr Quaint, we don’t really get a lot of entertainment round ’ere.’

‘And Blackstaff’s escape record? What’s that up to nowadays?’ asked Quaint.

‘Same as always, mate—spotless! And if we catch anyone trying to escape—we kill the bastard,’ guffawed the heavy-set Warden, his rosy cheeks glowing with delight at being able to discuss his work with a civilised stranger. Working in the prison was such a monotonous job, with the same old faces day in and day out; the warden welcomed the interruption to his daily repetition. ‘We run a tight ship ’ere, let me tell you! Prisoners are kept in line…they ’ave to be. We’ve got some of the most vile, depraved monsters alive imprisoned here, so it doesn’t bother
me
none if the lads need to get a bit…
physical
now and again, know what I mean?’

Quaint grinned. ‘Actually, it’s one of your most vile, depraved monsters that brings me here, Warden. I’m hoping you can shed a little light on something for me. An Irishman by the name of Hawkspear, I understand that he recently escaped, and I am very interested in how he managed it.’

The Warden scratched at his head, flakes of dandruff falling like snow onto his shoulders. ‘You don’t mean ol’ Tommy Hawkspear, do you?’ he questioned.

‘Yes, that’s the one. I believe he must have escaped about five or six days ago.’

A broad smile appeared on the Warden’s round and pink face, his chilblained cheeks littered with fine red veins like centipedes. He pushed his black cap further back on his head and poked at his temples. ‘You trying to test me marbles, fella? Or you ’aving yourself a little prank at me expense, eh?’ he asked merrily. ‘Mate, Tommy Hawkspear didn’t
escape
! He was bloody released!’ chortled the Warden. ‘Just the other day, in fact, an’ a right to do that was, an’ all.’

‘Released?’ said Quaint sharply. ‘But I thought he was supposed to be imprisoned for life? Two murders apparently—his brother and sister.’

‘Well, yeah—supposedly! But he got a Stay of Absolution, didn’t he! Lucky sod too, ’cos he weren’t makin’ many friends ’ere, let me tell you.’

‘A Stay of Absolution? What’s that?’

‘Ah, it’s what we call it when we get a priest in ’ere to request a prisoner’s release,’ said Melbury. ‘They come in, tryin’ to get the crims to join their bloody flock. Only so they can score extra points with ’im upstairs, I reckon. Repent and all your sins will be washed away, and all that guff! A police constable brought the release order with him by hand and, like I said, Hawkspear was one lucky bastard.’ Melbury leaned back in his creaking seat,
taking a sip of rum. ‘Like he was gettin’ the right royal treatment, it was!’

Quaint’s eyes flared like black flames. ‘Warden, it’s vital that I track down exactly
who
sanctioned that prisoner’s release. Do you think you can help me with that?’

Melbury nodded slowly. ‘Oh, aye, for a small fee, maybe I can, mate.’

‘A small fee?’ asked Quaint cautiously. ‘How much?’

‘Not money! I’m talking about your magic tricks! I’ve always had a fascination with you blokes who can perform such feats. I wonder…would you mind teaching me a few things—just for fun, like—I ain’t about to try and compete with you or ’owt!’

Quaint laughed. ‘In return for a look over your release files? Well…I suppose that is a fair trade, although we illusionists do have a strict code of ethics, you understand. I could tell you—but then you would be sworn to secrecy, you cannot divulge secrets of the magic order to a non-magician…Deal?’

Melbury spat into his palm and thrust out his hand. ‘Deal!’

‘Excellent, Warden,’ cheered Quaint. ‘Do you have any playing cards at hand?’

A few minutes later, Cornelius Quaint was sitting opposite Warden Melbury across a round wooden table. Melbury was practically salivating, wiping his bristly face with his sleeve, eager to gain an insight into the spellbinding world of the illusionist. His eyes flicked from Quaint to the table, to the pack of playing cards in his hand, back to Quaint’s face. Like an expectant puppy waiting patiently for a bone, he sat bolt upright in the chair, panting heavily.

‘Warden…this trick is called “The Equivoque Principle”, and
its secret is only known to a few souls upon this earth!’ Quaint said, drumming up an air of mystery for the susceptible Warden’s benefit.

‘Oh, aye?’ asked Melbury. ‘And this…EK…WE…VOKE…’

‘Equivoque, yes.’

‘Yep, that’s it! A good ’un, is it?’

‘A good ’un?’ asked Quaint, placing his hand upon his chest, displaying his pride for the illusion. ‘Sir, it is simply the best!’

‘So what does it do then?’ the hungry Warden asked.

‘It is a lesson in the gift of misdirection, Warden…and you will have no protection over its power. The Equivoque Principle, as it is known, was first performed at the turn of the century by Chinese sailors, and then later adopted by my fellow illusionists for the purposes of astonishing entertainment,’ explained Quaint, and he placed the full deck of cards flat on the table. ‘You will be bound to obey my unspoken commands, and present to me everything that I desire to know. Interested?’ Quaint took the anxious look of stupendous excitement on Melbury’s face as confirmation.

‘Am I ever!’ cheered Melbury. ‘When do we begin?’

Cornelius Quaint offered him a playful wink. ‘My dear Warden Melbury…we have
already
begun.’

The Warden clasped his clammy hands together excitedly, eating up Quaint’s stage persona. ‘The lads are going to love this!’ he cheered.

Quaint circled his hand in the air a foot above the deck of cards. ‘As you can testify, Warden, I have not interfered with the pack in any way. Indeed, this is your very own deck of cards, do you agree?’

‘I do indeed, sir,’ agreed Melbury.

Quaint flicked a quick, last-minute glance at his audience. Appreciation of the spectator’s gullibility was as much a part of
The Equivoque Principle’s power as anything, and Warden Mel-bury might just as well have had a target painted on his forehead. When selecting an audience member to come up on stage, the conjuror chose very wisely indeed. Melbury had already made his love of sleight of hand known to Quaint. That was his first mistake. A willing participant whose mind was already convinced of the wonders of magic did half of Quaint’s work for him—in other words, the perfect stooge. Quaint picked up the cards and shuffled merrily, rolling his eyes to the Warden as it were the most mundane part of the act, whereas, in truth—the shuffling of the cards was key to its success. The Equivoque Principle was as much about timing and preparation as misdirection.

After the cards had been well and truly shuffled, Quaint offered them to Warden Melbury. ‘I have split the deck thoroughly, would you concur?’ he asked.

‘Con…
cur?’
asked the Warden numbly.

‘Agree
…Would you agree?’

‘Yes, yes, I would, Mr Quaint! ’Course I would.’

‘Splendid. Now, I want you to choose a card, any one, from that deck. Do
not
let me see it, whatever you do. Once you have selected any one of these cards from the pack—even a picture card such as the King of Diamonds, not only will I be able to name it for you—I will also do so blindfolded,’ confirmed Quaint. ‘And are you sure you do not wish to shuffle the cards yourself to be sure? You are perfectly welcome, you know.’

Warden Melbury shook his head adamantly. ‘Nope. S’all right. Carry on, mate.’

Quaint smiled.

That was Melbury’s next mistake.

Quaint fanned the cards out in front of him and looked over at the Warden.

‘Pick a card.’

Melbury sucked on his stout thumb, and conjugated as to his choice—as if it really mattered what card he chose anyway. He coyly stabbed his stout finger onto a card, and looked up excitedly at Quaint.

‘This one!’ he declared.

‘Oh…really?’ Quaint asked flatly. ‘Are you sure you want to choose
that
one? Not this one over here?’ He pointed to another card.

An element of doubt suddenly crept into Melbury’s mind. He changed his mind, and placed his finger on top of another card, but not the one Quaint was pointing at.

That was Melbury’s third mistake.

‘You are absolutely sure now?’ Quaint asked. Melbury nodded firmly. ‘Excellent. Now, please take a good look at it. Just to make sure I cannot possibly cheat, I will go and stand over in the corner, and blindfold myself.’ Quaint did as he related, and stood in the dank corner of the room. He removed a handkerchief from his coat pocket, and proceeded to tie it around his head, covering his eyes completely.

Melbury thrust his card up close to his face, peering round the corner of it just to make sure Quaint couldn’t see it. It was the King of Diamonds.

Quaint cleared his throat and continued: ‘Now if you would be so kind as to place your card back in the deck. Anywhere you like…the top, the bottom…anywhere. Remember, I cannot see where you place it, I am totally blindfolded. Once you have done that, Warden Melbury, please shuffle the cards again…as much or as little as you desire. Let me know when you are done.’

His palms sweating, a permanent fixed grin on his face, the Warden did as he was instructed, and grunted, which Quaint understood to be his way of saying ‘I’m finished.’

‘Are you happy the cards are well and truly mixed, or do you
wish to shuffle further?’ asked Quaint, his nose pressed into the corner of the room. He knew Melbury would say no.

‘No,’ said Melbury.

For the psychological aspect of the illusion to be successful, Quaint knew that the more control an audience member thinks he has, the less he has in reality. A good conjuror only gives what he can afford to lose, and Cornelius Quaint was a very good conjuror indeed. Quaint could almost hear the little cogs churning inside Melbury’s head.

‘Are you absolutely sure? I don’t want you to make this
too
easy for me,’ chimed Quaint.

With that, Melbury looked shocked, and tried as silently as he could to shuffle the cards again without Quaint hearing him. ‘No, it’s fine. I’m ready!’ he proclaimed.

Quaint spun around and removed his blindfold. ‘Wonderful. Thank you, Warden. Now if you wouldn’t mind…’ Quaint rejoined the table, and held out his hand to Melbury. The Warden handed him back the deck of cards.

With a glint in his eye, and a gleaming smile upon his face, Quaint took great pleasure in splaying out all the playing cards face down onto the table in a long line. This was the fun part, the part when he shocked and amazed his audience. To the conjuror of course, he was merely replaying a script, as he had done hundreds of times. In Quaint’s particular case, The Equivoque Principle was the very first trick that he had learned and, truth to tell, it had always been one of his favourites. In the world of the illusionist it was fairly straightforward, and such a staple, tried and tested trick that it was rarely performed. The more colourful magicians and conjurors of Victoria’s age tended to prefer a grand spectacle over skill. Tanks filled with water, women sawn in half, levitation—there was far too much escapology to be found in halls and theatres throughout Europe, and Quaint was reticent to be caught up
in that trend. Relying upon trapdoors, rigged machinery and visual fakery was less about skill and more about craftsmanship. The art of sleight of hand prestidigitation would not die out if Quaint had anything to say about it.