Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'Seven feet tall, with a bushy beard and muscles like an ox. Shouldn't be too hard to find, Oliver, even for your men,' Quaint said sarcastically, even though the situation clearly dictated against it. 'Let me help. If Prometheus is anywhere nearby, or if he's returned to our transport, we'll find him. He is one of ours, after all.'

'Oh, don't think I've forgotten that. Just you make damn sure you bring him back here, Cornelius,' Dray muttered, flattening back the lapels on Constable Tucker's uniform. 'Don't go getting any funny ideas either! Your lot are going nowhere unless I say so, got it?'

'Understood. But you needn't waste your men's time, Oliver. My train's not going anywhere until this mess is straightened out,' Quaint said, feeling Madame Destine's fingers tighten around his arm like ivy around a drainpipe. She leaned towards his ear and tugged him firmly to one side.

'Cornelius, we may have further need of this man, if your temper hasn't burnt all our bridges,' she reminded him. 'So play nice. Exacerbating a grievance with the Commissioner will do us little good in exonerating Prometheus.'

The pair exchanged glances as between a school mistress scolding her favourite pupil. Quaint lowered his eyes, and turned sheepishly towards the Commissioner.

'Look, Oliver…I am sure we'll get a speedy resolution to this unfortunate business,' he said, holding out his hand towards Dray. 'It is a shame we could not meet under less…pressing circumstances.'

'Cornelius…we both know what I owe you,' said Dray, grasping Quaint's open hand. 'A long time ago, a world away from London-you saved my life. But this is just too big to sweep under the carpet. I've got no choice but to react with extreme measures. I have to do what's right by the letter of the law-whether your friend is in the firing line or not! Now, off you go. And if you really want to help your friend…stay out of my way.'

RIGHT THEN, FELLAS, anyone got any questions?' Mr Reynolds asked a roomful of distasteful-looking ruffians, all of them dressed in brown or grey ragged, grime-stained clothes practically the uniform of the common Victorian street criminal.

'Yeah, I got one,' said a broad-shouldered Cockney. 'This Quint bloke-'

'Quaint,' corrected Reynolds. 'Cornelius Quaint. What of him?'

'Quaint, right,' continued the broad-shouldered man. 'You said he's some sort of magician, so what's your beef wiv' 'im, then? What'd he do, saw yer wife in half, or summat?'

Reynolds grinned. 'What a rum bunch you lot are. You mean you actually need to know what the bloke's done before you do him over? What's the world coming to when you can't even find a reliably dishonest bloke to do a little roughing up? You're getting paid, aren't you?' He clamped his hands over his eyes, and slid them down his face in frustration, distorting his voice. 'You're not knights of the bloody realm, fellas, you're bad seeds. Rotten apples! Shouldn't matter what he's done. Maybe he's killed my entire family, maybe he's done nothing-it don't matter! All you need to know is where he is and how heavy you need to get on him.'

'We got it, boss,' said another man, dressed in a scabby tan waistcoat with a fine mesh of grey stubble protruding from his jaw line. 'No problem. How heavy do you want us to get on him?'

'Dead heavy…I want you to make sure that he-' Reynolds suddenly stopped mid-sentence as a doorbell clanged out around the house.

His eyes darted to the array of unscrupulous felons he had lined up in the house-the very same house that he had acquired since the unfortunate demise of its owner-and he pondered, his options falling through his fingers as if he were trying to grasp water. He wasn't expecting any callers, and he skipped over to the drawing room window, peering through the net curtains. Waiting outside, shifting his weight impatiently from one foot to the next was Constable Jennings.

'Everyone stay in here, and don't make a damn sound! It's only the Peelers,' said Reynolds to the shock of his audience. The men immediately shuffled around, looking like dumbstruck lemmings, anxiously searching for the nearest exit. 'This one's my contact. Just keep it shut, the lot of you, and we ain't got a problem, right?'

Mr Reynolds opened the house's front door cautiously, his face softening as he saw Constable Jennings. 'Ah! Well, if it isn't my favorite constable! To what do I owe the pleasure?' he asked. 'All is well, I trust?'

'Good day to you, Mr Reynolds, sir,' Jennings said, nodding politely. 'No problem, it's just…well, I can't stop long, in case someone sees me, like, but I just thought you should know…that giant fella from the circus who we had locked up on account of them murders? Well, you'll never guess what…he's only gone and busted hisself out, hasn't he? The boss is spittin' feathers!'

'I'll just bet he is.' Reynolds's expression didn't falter. 'And where is Cornelius Quaint at this moment? Pulling his hair out, I shouldn't wonder.'

'Last I heard, him and some old French lady were heading back to Grosvenor Park station. I think that's where his circus steam train is held.'

Reynolds's expression quickly changed. 'Did you say a French lady?'

'Yes, sir. Quaint brought her along to the station. Apparently, she's the circus's fortune-teller or summink. Didn't get a good look at her meself…her face was covered with a veil.'

Reynolds's face became a stone-cold glacier as he advanced towards the young constable. 'Say that again!' he demanded.

Jennings stuttered, stepping backwards at Reynolds's intensity. 'What? Oh, I…I just said…she was an old French lady, sir! She-she had a veil over her face! I couldn't make out much about her.'

'Well, I never would have entertained the thought of it.' Reynolds stopped dead in his tracks, and spun around. He leaned his back against the hallway wall, and pinched his temples. 'After all this time…she's still with him, is she? Why did I not see that coming?' He chewed his bottom lip between his teeth, and then his eyes suddenly snapped to attention, as if he'd just been startled from a trance. 'And what of Quaint's plans now, boy?'

'I dunno, Mr Reynolds…all's I been told is that the giant's escaped…pulled the bloody bars out of the wall, he did. Thought you'd want to know that,' said the constable. 'As for Quaint, I ain't got a clue what he's doing, but he'd better pray he finds that mate of his before the Commissioner does.'

'And are your colleagues close to catching this fleeing giant?'

'Not so far. You'd think a bloke 'is size would stick out like a sore thumb, but he's just vanished into thin air. Our lot are busy doing a sweep of the docks and checkin' all the boats and trawlers, but you know what that place is like at this time of day. Most of the fish trade of London is bringing in their catch to Blythesgate Market. The wharf's a bloody madhouse. Our lot 'ave been told by the boss not to come off shift tonight 'til we find that giant -never seen 'im so worked up,' said Jennings, rolling his eyes. 'Anyway, I'd best be off. The boss'll be wondering where I've got to. He only told me to report to you an' come straight on back,' the policeman grinned. 'He's got a lot on 'is plate right now!'

'Oh, I'll just bet he has,' Reynolds said, running his tongue over his front teeth, barely containing his glee. 'Do pass on my regards to your boss…tell Commissioner Dray that he's sticking to his side of our bargain perfectly.'

MADAME DESTINE AND Cornelius Quaint had not been returned from Crawditch long. Whilst Quaint busied himself with working up a plan to search for Prometheus, Destine was unusually gifted with some much appreciated free time. She sat alone on a wooden bench opposite the circus, train in Grosvenor Park station, embroidering a shawl, replaying recent events in her head. She still found it inconceivable that Prometheus had escaped. His actions had made things far worse, and now the finger of blame would lie irrevocably at his feet. As much faith as she had in him, he was certainly not making things any easier-for himself, or for those who sought to clear his name. Clouds of smoke and steam squealed and hissed around her noisily from the train engine, as a man in filthy grey overalls fiddled around with a wrench underneath it. If the noise and dry stench offended Madame's senses, she did not show it.