The Equivoque Principle (26 page)

‘Sergeant, you’d be surprised what I have learned over the years. No law enforcement agency in the world knows for sure who they are, or where they are. They’re like whispers! Phantoms that no one can ever find,’ Quaint slammed his fist against the door frame. ‘Let me just say this; if the Consortium has plans in Crawditch, then all of us are way out of our depths here. Renard is small fry compared to them.’

Butter stepped forwards, and tugged on Quaint’s arm. ‘Boss -there is another thing the Frenchman said,’ he offered. ‘It was another name. Perhaps this man also member of this Hades? He says someone named “Oedipus” had “nothing on him”.’

The colour drained from Quaint’s face. ‘Oedipus? Butter, are you absolutely certain he used those words?’

‘Yes, boss, definitely. My English is poor, but my memory faultless.’

‘In that case; Butter, get up to that cemetery right now, and see what you can find. Prometheus, help the Sergeant restrain these
men, and Horace—circulate Renard’s description to all of your men—tell them to head to Hyde Park quick smart to the circus site. Time is most definitely of the essence here, gentlemen!’ Quaint snapped, virtually running across the office.

‘Wait, Cornelius,’ called Prometheus, ‘Where’re ye off to in such a hurry?’

‘If I understand Renard’s meaning correctly, my friend,’ said a grim-masked Quaint, ‘I need to get to Destine before it’s too late!’

C
ORNELIUS
Q
UAINT WAS
a man with a mission, and that mission was to find the fastest route back to Hyde Park. He sprinted down the road—his heavy-set frame pounding against the cobbles and sweat falling like salt rain from his hair -and he made a mental note to make sure the circus was somewhere more central next year. Next year? Ha! The thought of it made him smile. The way things were going, he’d be hard pushed to make it to the next sunrise, let alone next year.

Finding Antoine Renard was the task fuelling him now. His hatred went beyond anger, beyond rage. It was something long buried, but now fully exposed. Certain species of wild animals fear man even though they have never met one in the flesh, a genetic mistrust passed on from their predecessors. For Cornelius Quaint, hating Renard was as natural as breathing. Unlike most conflicts, where the origins may have faded over time, the murder of Quaint’s wife was as raw to him that night as it was at the time; he just never allowed his memory the chance to access those thoughts. Now it was so many long years later, and Quaint could taste the same metallic burst of acid at the back of his throat as he pushed his body to the limit in pursuit of Renard.

Quaint knew that Renard had a loathing for his mother, something
that Renard blamed the conjuror for entirely, and hearing of his words, ‘Oedipus had nothing on me’, Quaint was in full understanding of the reference. It meant dire consequences for Destine. Renard was twisted and depraved, but, more than that, the devil was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat, and it was that which chilled Quaint’s blood.

Quaint looked from side to side of the road as he pounded down the moonlit streets. He was barely at Vauxhall Bridge, and he’d been running for twenty minutes flat out. He needed to find a quicker way to get to the park, because the way he was heading, he would soon collapse from exhaustion—and not even his famed stubbornness would help him. His eyes scanned the streets and alleyways as he blazed through them, searching for a bicycle or anything remotely resembling a mode of transport, and then he saw a most refreshing sight: an old rag-and-bone shop, closed for the day many hours previously. Quaint hoped that the tall, wooden gates to the rear of the shop would hold salvation to him.

He wrenched back the slats of wood that served as a fence, and squeezed his not inconsiderable bulk through the gap. But as he reached a large pair of wooden doors, his progress was barred by an indomitable-looking padlock. Fumbling around inside his coat, Quaint removed his pocket-watch. He depressed a button on the top and, with a click, the face opened up like a locket. Curled within the watch was a long, hook-shaped piece of metal, the ideal hiding place for a tool that had come in handy during more than one stage act. Quaint removed the metal probe, and instantly began picking the lock. Fingers trained in the art of escapology deftly navigated the pins, shafts and cogs better than any locksmith ever could and, within thirty seconds, the heavy padlock fell freely onto the floor with a dull chink. Quaint pulled open the doors and stared into the darkness of a musty, straw-strewn warehouse.

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and after what seemed an age; he finally heard a snort echo back at him. His luck was holding out—for the time being, at any rate. That’s the problem with luck, it usually has a habit of running out just when you least expect it to. Like any half-decent rag and bone shop, this particular store hopefully contained something that Quaint could make good use of.

‘Hello, you old nag,’ Quaint whispered into the darkness. ‘I do hope you’re up for some exercise…I’m in an awful hurry.’

As if in answer to his words, a huge shire horse sauntered out into the yard. Quaint tugged at the rope around his neck, and gently led it to the moonlight to get a better look. It was a magnificent, muscular beast, exhibiting its age with misted eyes and a beard of wayward white hairs protruding from its chin like an old man’s whiskers. The animal was in its latter years, and it was in no particular hurry to go anywhere other than its warm and cosy stable. It would need some coaxing to do Quaint’s bidding, and he spied the depressed look in the animal’s eyes.

‘You look just like I feel,’ Quaint muttered.

Meanwhile, at Quaint’s destination in Hyde Park, the elusive Antoine Renard had arrived. He stood and stared at the huge yellow-and-red-striped circus tent, blowing into his dirty hands for warmth. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and caressed the small, velvet pouch beneath his fingertips. He looked around at the deserted circus tents covered with flags, banners and posters decorating the plot. Renard strolled silently into the area, his eyes flicking left and right searching for his quarry. He knew she’d be here, but he didn’t know how prepared she would be for his arrival. As sensitive to feelings as his mother was, surely his hatred
would announce his presence louder than a foghorn. After walking around the many tents, booths, stalls and cages he saw the tent that called to him: Madame Destine’s tent. It stood out to him like a sore thumb amongst the others, his mother’s scent all over it.

He was about three feet from the canvas door when it suddenly burst open, and standing there waiting for him was Destine—a grim, determined look upon her face. The rain clouds above suddenly broke, as a metaphor underlining the bitterness between these two people. Sheets of water fell straight down from the sky, pelting the grass and bouncing off the nearby canvas tents rat-a-tat-tat.

‘We should have picked nicer weather for our reunion, Mother. Typical England,
ne convenez-vous pas
?’ said Renard. A twisted grin seeped onto his face, drifting across its surface like oil upon water.

‘I see that you did not meet Cornelius on your way here,’ Destine said.

‘What makes you say that?’ her son asked.

‘Because you are still alive,’ Destine lifted her black lace veil, and stared at him with penetrating eyes. ‘What are you doing here, Antoine? Have you not done enough damage; you seek to cause yet more?’

‘Oh, you know me, Mother,’ Renard said, placing his hand upon his chest in a mock heartfelt gesture. ‘I just couldn’t leave without saying
au revoir.’

‘Do not call me “Mother”…you are no son of mine. You are the spawn of a demon, Antoine; you have tainted my life with your poisonous mind. I told you once, all those years past, and I shall tell you now…you are rotten to the core…just like Phillipe.’

Renard took a sudden step forward, causing Destine to flinch, but she bravely held her ground. ‘You aren’t fit to even speak my
father’s name,’ he spat, his scarred face contorting into a violent sneer. ‘His dying wish was only to see you…one last time, to make amends…and you couldn’t even do that for him, could you?’

‘Did he seriously expect me to drop everything to go running
back
to the monster that I was running
from?’
Destine demanded.

‘So…not only did Cornelius Quaint take you from
me
, he took you from
Father
as well. Quaint has a lot to answer for. I have had such fun with him over the past week…it’s such a shame that it has to end.’

‘Cornelius knew nothing of Phillipe’s death…I did not tell him,’ Destine said. ‘But why should I have? Phillipe was dead to me years ago.’

‘You lie! It was Quaint twisting your mind. Why do you always
protect
him?’ Renard’s eyes flared at the thought of Quaint. ‘You see him as a replacement for your abysmal failure of a son,
non?
A chance to rectify your past mistakes?’

‘No, Antoine—it was not
I
who made the mistakes. You are so infected with hate that it taints every word that spills from your mouth—just like your damn father,’ Destine shouted through the curtains of pouring rain. ‘He was nothing but a coward and a monster, Antoine, who subjugated the fears of others for his own desires.’

The tears flowed from her eyes, distorting her voice as she spoke, in fluent French now, in disjointed bursts—trying to ensure each word counted, for it might be her last. Even if she were to scream at the top of her voice no one else would hear her—for the rain spattered like rapid gunfire around them. She was praying silently in her head that Cornelius would turn up like a white knight and rescue her, but she knew he was miles away in Crawditch, far across the river—and heroes were few and far between in the real world. She was on her own, with her son walking
a knife’s edge between sanity and insanity, and her life hanging in the balance.

Renard’s lips quivered in the rain as he tried to master his rage. He was like a steaming pot, boiling to the point where it reached critical overload. ‘No wonder Father hated you…why he was glad to see you go. He saw through you, you know…saw through you for what you truly are.’

‘Antoine…if you think your father was anything other than a lying, cheating bastard who put me—and you—through hell, then you are severely mistaken. Or do you not remember the nights you used to cry yourself to sleep after he beat you? Or when you walked in on him beating
me?
Do you know how many times I tried to get away, to get
you
away?’ Each word was spoken through gritted teeth, the emotion barely held in check, but tangible in every syllable. ‘I used to just hold you and weep—hating myself for bringing you into a world of such despicable cruelty. If only my premonitions could have given me warning of what was to become your fate…of the pain that you would eventually cause others.’

Renard glanced up from the ground with seething, vehement eyes. A grumble of distant thunder broke many miles away, symbolising the tumultuous emotions of hate bubbling over inside of his cold, dark heart. ‘Your gifts are dulled on your own flesh and blood, Mother, I know that. For you see, I am something of a seer myself, although not yet in your league, I admit. You have been blinded by your own hatred.’

‘Hate may be a powerful emotion, Antoine…more powerful even than love. They both have the power to blind a sensitive. But you are wrong, it is not hatred that I feel for you, it is sorrow. I was not as blind to you as you think.’

‘If you knew that I would come, then why are you alone?’ Renard tested.

‘For all your crimes…as much as I may deny it, you are still
born of my flesh. You have to let me help you, Antoine,’ Destine pleaded. ‘You have to let me cleanse your father’s anger from your heart once and for all.’

‘Cleanse me? Have you any idea how pathetic you sound? Cleanse me, like I am some filthy wound that cuts the surface of the skin? By now you must realise that I am who I am, what I am, through and through. Each sinew of every muscle and fibre of my being
loathes
you, Mother, I need no cleansing,’ mocked Renard. ‘I didn’t come here to make happy families…I came here to watch you die.’ His hand came from nowhere, striking Destine across the cheekbone, and she fell to the ground.

‘You even hit like your father,’ said Destine, as she wiped a thin crease of blood from the corner of her mouth ‘You may speak these words to me…but it is with your father’s voice. He has poisoned you.’

‘Poison?’ yelled Renard, striding around the fallen Destine like a lion reviewing its prey for the best angle of attack. ‘What a simply wonderful idea, Mother.’ Renard reached into his jacket pocket, squatting down at Destine’s side. She slowly rolled onto her back, her long wet dress clinging to her as if it were made of tar. ‘Unlike my father,
I
shall have the luxury of watching you die,’ Renard said, baring his teeth. He brandished a small glass vial in his wet hand.

Shards of rain-filtered moonlight bounced off its glass surface, and Destine squinted through the rain. ‘What…is that?’ she whispered.

Renard glared proudly at the half-full vial of clear liquid. ‘Although a fool of a priest believed this to be an elixir of immortality, it is not any longer. Now it is the most potent poison ever concocted by man or nature, and it is the means of your death. I only wish I could spare more, but this stuff is in short supply. You’re only getting dear old Bishop Courtney’s leftovers, but it’s enough to do you harm.’

‘You…you came all this way to poison me? Tell me, Antoine, do you loathe me that much?’ wept Destine. Her son was now truly lost to her, lost to rationality, lost to reason.

‘Don’t flatter yourself, Mother. My business in England brings me just a few short miles from here in Whitehall…you are merely a bonus.’

‘Your business? What
business
do you speak of?’

‘Do you really expect me to sit here and run off at the mouth until your prodigal son turns up? I’m afraid not, Mother…but I
will
let you in on a little secret…soon the River Thames will run with this poison, killing anything it comes into contact with. Mixing the stuff with salt water will augment its potency a hundredfold, and it will spread like wildfire, tainting not just the dockland districts, but it’ll seep everywhere, right into London’s heart. Not even the great Cornelius Quaint can stop what is in motion this time.’

Destine shivered as the icy hand of dread stroked against her spine. If this poison Antoine gloated about could cause so much damage in a body of water the size of the Thames…what horrors would it inflict upon her?