Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'Very good, my Lord,' said the alumno, bowing his head.

A few moments later, a tall, thin man dressed in black priestly robes and a white dog collar entered the residence, and closed the door firmly behind him.

'Evening, Bishop,' snapped a heavily disguised Mr Reynolds. As well as bogus priestly garb, the man also wore a wicked grin across his gaunt face. 'Burning the midnight oil, I see?'

Bishop Courtney didn't bat an eyelid. 'I thought I told you that you were only to use the Fox identity if there was an emergency, Mr Reynolds. So what news is about to ruin my night?' he asked, nervously twisting his large ruby ring around his finger.

'You're more right than you know, Bishop.' Mr Reynolds's face stiffened, as he approached the large fireplace. 'Not long ago I received a message from my eyes and ears in Crawditch. It seems that Arthur Peach, the landlord of The Black Sheep, has recently received a visit from Cornelius Quaint.'

The Bishop raised an eyebrow. 'Quaint? The conjuror you mentioned?' he said. 'And so what? I don't expect to be disturbed for trivialities, man. You came all the way to Westminster just to tell me that?'

'Not just that, Bishop.' He strode briskly over to the Bishop, his hands held loosely behind his back. 'It seems Quaint put the frighteners on Peach, and he spilled his guts. Now he knows about Hawkspear, and he knows about the whisky! He knows it was drugged. Plus, he's been hanging around the police station, trying to see his employee…the one incarcerated for the murders.'

'Once again, Mr Reynolds, I find myself asking how this affects me? Do you really think that I pay you to be involved in petty details? This man Quaint doesn't know of your involvement in this, does he? Or my own? Then I fail to see how this can be connected to my office and, as such-I don't care a whit about it. This is your plan, remember? Perhaps you should choose your men more carefully in future.'

Reynolds gripped the back of Courtney's chair, his face tense. 'Quaint is no fool. I told you, I have history with him. I know the way he thinks.'

'Unless I am missing something, this man is a mere circus magician, is he not? An old has-been entertainer who now runs a circus? He's hardly a threat, Reynolds. I mean, it's not like he can read minds, is it?'

'Actually, some folk say he can,' said Reynolds grimly. 'He's a terrier, Bishop-once he gets a whiff of something, he'll not rest until he digs out the answers-and with his circus strongman involved to boot, it's practically lit a fuse right under him! We need to be on our guard, my Lord.' The slender man paused, mulling over his next sentence carefully. 'I think we should call off Hawk-spear for a bit…let things simmer down.'

'Absolutely not!' The Bishop's temper rose swiftly. 'Mr Reynolds, may I remind you that Mr Hawkspear is on lease from Blackstaff prison to perform a service for me, and that service is to scare the wits out of everyone who lives in that flea-pit of a borough. You're just letting your nerves get the better of you, that's all. The plan will continue as we agreed-no deviation! So far we only have three corpses on the streets, not nearly enough to send a clear-cut message to those people, and certainly not enough to make them pack up and leave town. Do not forget, I need that district cleared of its inhabitants within the week, Mr Reynolds-or need I remind you of my schedule?'

'What? You think we should just carry on, and hope that Quaint doesn't get wind of our plan? You want me to be continually looking over my shoulder, do you, hoping Quaint's not stood there? That's taking a lot of unnecessary risks, Bishop.'

The Bishop buried his head in his hands. 'All right…let me think. This man you speak of…this Cornelius Quaint chap…if he really is as dangerous as you say, perhaps we can arrange for a little…accident to befall him.' The greasy skin of the Bishop's face caught a glint from the fireplace, as he leaned forward in his chair. 'Get some men together, some good, reliable men lacking in morals and with questionable consciences. Pay them whatever it takes, and see to it that Mr Quaint finds himself in their company.'

SERGEANT HORACE BERRY was seated at his desk in Crawditch police station, idly tapping his knuckles with a pencil. He looked over at the clock on the wall and rolled his eyes in horror. Hearing the station's main doors burst open; Berry was about to stand and get a better look at who had entered, when a bellowing Scottish voice drifted over the tops of the desk partitions. Berry knew instantly that Commissioner Dray had arrived. Considering that it was gone midnight, and now encroaching the early hours of the morning, he would surely be in a ridiculously foul mood-not that the time of day seemed to have any impact on Dray's demeanour. He was just as reliably grouchy in the morning as he was at midday or during nightfall. It was a permanent state for the man.

'Over here, Commissioner,' Berry called, raising his hand in the air.

'I got your summons, Horace, and here I am. It's far too early in the day for all this nonsense, man. Mrs Dray was fast asleep-and you know how much I cherish the moments when that woman keeps her mouth shut! Night-time is the only respite I get from her incessant whining,' Commissioner Dray barked, as he stormed through the empty station office towards a large oak door. 'My office, Horace, and be quick about it, will you?'

Commissioner Dray was soon seated in his high-backed chair in his office. His desk was neat and tidy, with towers of paperwork placed into piles in order of importance. A misty sepia-toned photograph of his wife was placed next to an ornate glass statue of a prancing stag. It wasn't clear which was a symbol of a memorable hunt, and which was just a trophy to be proud of-but Sergeant Berry guessed Mrs Dray didn't fall into either category. The Commissioner was a heavy-set man with large, wide shoulders, a broad neck and podgy, chilblained cheeks. His grey-white hair was rapidly dissipating; a fact that he seemed entirely conscious of, as thin spidery strands were swept across his forehead in a vain attempt to disguise its thinning. Dray chewed at the inside of his cheek distractedly, as he rubbed his hands up and down his arms.

'Christ, it's cold tonight. Freeze the balls off a brass monkey out there, man!' The Commissioner opened his drawer and pulled out a bottle of whisky and two glasses. He placed one next to him and the other on the far side of the desk. 'You want a wee dram, Horace? It'll get the blood flowing, so it will.'

Berry shook his head. 'Not whilst I'm on duty, sir.'

Dray laughed. 'Forget about that, Berry-especially whilst you're on bloody duty!' Dray poured two fingers of whisky into both glasses anyway, despite Berry's protestations. 'Now, what the devil is so important that you send Constable Marsh round to knock me up at one in the morning, eh?' he said with his usual blistering tones.

Berry had known Dray for many years, but still, the man's bombast made his heart miss a beat. 'Commissioner, if I had any choice, I wouldn't have bothered you.'

'Well, I'm here now, Horace, so you may as well spit it out, eh?' Dray said, relaxing his grim face a little, and leaning back in his chair.

'As you might have guessed, sir-it's bad news,' Berry said, removing a piece of paper from his uniform's breast pocket. It was the same crumpled note that he had found near Twinkle's body. 'There was another murder last night. Jennings and myself were called to the outskirts of Crawditch at first light this morning. The victim looked as if she'd fallen foul of the same bloke responsible for the previous two murders in town. At first…' Berry paused to gain Dray's full attention, 'The thing is, Commissioner…we found a man unconscious next to the latest girl at the scene, seemingly worse the wear for drink. You would naturally assume that all the evidence points to him being the perpetrator of not just that young lady's murder, but the other two, as well, wouldn't you? '