Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'I would hope so.' Dray slurped his whisky noisily. 'Horace, please don't tell me you dragged me out of bed for this. If you've caught the bloke responsible, well done! Slap the irons on him, and we'll measure his neck for the gallows. Can I not just read your report once it's filed?'

'Well, sir, there are a few…variables we should consider.'

Dray squinted. 'Variables? What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?'

'This latest victim was a dwarf, sir…and the man in custody is a hell of a size, and both are apparently part of a circus crew that's settled over in Hyde Park. Constable Marsh tells me the owner of the circus has already been here early this morning, trying to see his friend, convinced that he was innocent.'

'Aye, and how many times have we heard that, eh?' Dray said.

'Indeed. The suspect is still down in the cells at the moment. I know you weren't due in until later…but I don't think we can afford to sit on this for long.'

'Oh, and why's that?' asked Dray. 'Don't mince your words, Horace; I've known you too long. If you're onto something, then let me in on it! What the hell's got you so bothered?'

Berry rubbed a hand over his forehead, and slid it over his hair. 'These murders have been like a bolt from the blue to the folks round here, Commissioner, and if this gets out, God knows what could happen.'

'Berry, calm down. What are you on about? If what gets out?'

Sergeant Berry toyed anxiously with his earlobe. 'That's the reason why I called you in, sir. Just like the others, this poor girl wasn't just killed; she was mutilated horrifically in a most ungodly manner. Once you see the state of her…you'll understand what's got me bothered.'

'We've both seen murder before, Berry; nothing shocks me about that any more.'

'You might change your mind once you've seen her, sir. I think we've got a real mess on our hands here, and I don't have the slightest clue how we're going to deal with it.' Berry leaned forwards, pressing his hands flat onto Dray's desk. 'Something tells me we're going to see a hell of a lot more bodies turning up.'

CORNELIUS QUAINT WAS sitting in near darkness in his office, the only glimmer of light provided by a single candle positioned on the cluttered table in front of him. Piles of paperwork were stacked up high on his desk awaiting his inspection, but he ignored them this night. His mind was simply not on the job. Admittedly, the circus finances were no fun at all, and there was never a good time to bury one's head amongst figures and sums, but he had at least hoped they would serve as some kind of distraction. Instead they were nothing more than one more thing to put off and do tomorrow. The very thoughts he was trying hard not to entertain remained stubbornly present at the forefront of his mind. The shutters over his carriage windows were down, and an eerie silence had taken hold within the room. It was rapidly approaching two in the morning, and Quaint's burst of energy from the night's adventure at The Black Sheep had subsided, giving way to beleaguered tiredness. As much as he hated to admit it to anyone-least of all himself-he was not a young man any more. He rubbed at the third finger on his left hand and stared into the flickering light of the candle, allowing the golden-amber flame to hypnotise him. He rubbed at his eyes, stifling a yawn. Quaint barely even noticed the gentle knock on his office door before Madame Destine stepped inside, carrying a silver tray with a hot pot of tea and two cups upon it.

'I thought you would still be awake, my sweet.' Destine pushed a stack of papers to one side and placed the tray on the corner of Quaint's desk. 'You do realise that pile won't get any smaller the longer it is left, you know. Unless you are trying to perfect a new magic trick to make all the bills disappear.'

'I think that I would have better luck trying to turn water into wine, Madame,' Quaint said with a wan smile.

Madame Destine seated herself in a wooden chair opposite him, raised her veil and looked at Quaint intently, her eyes taking in every minute detail of his worn face. She leaned forward to pour tea into his cup, never once removing her gaze from him. After a long pause, she spoke: 'Is there something on your mind, mon cheri?'

'No, Madame. Why do you ask?'

She blew gently into her teacup as wisps of steam floated to the ceiling. 'For three reasons; because I know you better than you know yourself, because you cannot hide anything from me, and because I know what the date is today.'

Quaint froze, the teacup suspended in mid-air, inches from his mouth. A hollow silence was borne between them. For a painfully long moment, he tried his best to avoid eye contact with the Frenchwoman, but he knew he couldn't resist a glance eventually. More than that, Destine knew it too, and when he finally looked up from the tea, her blue-grey eyes were already beseeching him for the truth.

'Has anyone ever told you that you would make a marvellous torturer?' Quaint asked.

'Frequently,' replied Destine. 'So there is something on your mind then?'

'Yes, yes! There is something on my mind. Are you happy now?' Quaint said, a little more harshly than he had intended. 'You're right again, as always. I just suppose…the date sneaked up on me a little quicker than I had expected.'

Destine nodded, choosing her delicate words carefully. 'I thought as much. It is never an easy time of year for you, Cornelius, so why does this particular year cause you more anguish than the previous anniversaries of your wife's death?'

The directness of Destine's question made Quaint shudder, as if the words were forbidden, and by saying them aloud, some great taboo had been broken. The melodic control of her voice was like hearing each sentence as a symphony, deconstructed into its purest, most poetic form. Quaint had always said that Destine could read the cargo manifest of a spice merchant's schooner and it would still sound like angels singing. But that was not to say her words did not sting his heart.

Quaint locked eyes with her. 'It's November the twenty-third and with all that has been going on recently, I've hardly even noticed.'

'Perhaps that is a good thing, my sweet. A sign that the healing process has finally begun?' offered Destine. 'It has been so many years now.'

'Twenty-nine, to be exact,' said Quaint. 'But I have been distracted; Madame! This day almost passed by unnoticed, and I feel shame for that fact, as if I'm dishonouring her memory somehow.'

'Poppycock! You remember Margarite in your own way at this time of year, Cornelius…within your heart. There has been much of late to occupy your attention elsewhere. That is not dishonour, my sweet. You have a life to lead, and one that is not frozen in time, locked in the past. As I said, perhaps you are now able to focus more clearly on other things. After all, does this day not normally put you in a most bedevilled mood?'

'Do I not look to be in a bedevilled mood now, Madame?' Quaint leaned back in his chair, forcing the creaking wooden joints to complain. A broad sardonic grin forced itself onto his face. 'I am always bedevilled-it is my lot in life. Even though I have subconsciously pushed these thoughts to the back of my mind, they are not forgotten. Maybe once I finally try and get some sleep tonight they will come back to haunt me once more. My bad dreams always seem to increase tenfold at this time of year.'

'Is that why you are awake at this hour? Are you hoping to run from your nightmares, Cornelius, because I-of all people-can tell you that they have a nasty habit of recurring, usually when you least expect them,' Destine said, as she moved her chair forwards, edging closer to the desk. 'It does no one any good to dwell in the past. For what it is worth, I think all this talk of murder and death of late is the reason not why you forget Margarite's death, but why you allow the symbolism behind it to taint every thought you have. After all, is death not everywhere we look recently?' Destine made a point of a long pause, as she watched the cinders of recognition burn in Quaint's eyes. This was an important message that she was trying to impart, and she hated giving good wisdom to deaf ears. 'Your rage is a great fuel for you, Cornelius…just be cautious that once that fuel is burnt out, your soul is not so spoiled that it cannot function without it.' Destine stirred her teacup noisily, chinking the silver spoon against the saucer, signalling an end to the maudlin conversation.