Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'Exactly,' said Quaint, pointing to a lavish picture of angelic cherubs painted upon the coach's ceiling. 'It's not regal, Prometheus-it's religious. Look around at the art in here. Albert prefers the pomp and circumstance type of decor, not flying angels and cherubic scenes. Anyway, we have been most fortuitous, my Irish friend. Not only are we well concealed inside, we shall reach the park in no time, and we might as well travel in style, eh?' Quaint said, pulling closed the carriage's curtains.

Twenty minutes later, Prometheus and Quaint were standing admiring the stark beauty of Hyde Park. The cold winter wind was shaking the naked branches of the trees, sending grit and dust up into the night air. An unwelcome chill skirted around Prometheus as he spied the expansive, rolling fields, and the lines of trees that bordered the vast green space in front of him. The darkness stole most of the park from his vision, but compared to the stifling closeness of most other districts of London, this wide open space felt like another world to the man-mountain.

'Y'know, Cornelius…I've spent the past few days either locked in a police cell, or hidin' out in the docks…I gotta say, this place is just about as beautiful as I c'n imagine.'

'You should have been here a couple of years ago, my friend,' said a reflective Quaint. 'The Great Exhibition of 1851-an amazing spectacle, full of the exotic and the fantastic. The Crystal Palace was simply sublime. Joseph Paxton outshone himself with that building, to be sure,' he said, picturing the gleaming glass-domed roof, and the expansive halls of wonderment within the grand exhibition hall. 'The culmination of the greatest triumphs that Science had to offer, and we sure knocked the socks off those Frenchies-just don't tell Madame Destine I said that.'

Prometheus laughed. 'Cross me heart. So, where's the circus tent stationed, then?'

'Just up past The Meadow,' steered Quaint, strolling along the hilly plains. 'We know the police are watching the train, but this place is out of Crawditch's jurisdiction. Even so, we had best make sure we keep our eyes and ears open!'

ALOUD RAP ON the door echoed around Bishop Courtney's palatial residence in Westminster Abbey's annexe, and the heavy-set man clasped the glass door knob and briskly yanked the door open.

'What time of night do you call this?' Courtney demanded. 'I said no later than eleven, and it's past midnight, Melchin! What on earth kept you?'

Melchin ambled inside the room with hunched shoulders. 'Sorry, Bishop…I was on me way 'ere, and these two blokes just ran straight out of the bushes, right in the middle of the road.'

'Just make sure it doesn't happen again, Melchin,' interrupted the Bishop curtly. 'So…what news do you have from Crawditch?'

'That, Bishop, is sure t'put a smile on yer face,' Melchin began. 'There's a committee on their way to Crawditch police station tomorrow. A lot of them locals are really jumpy now. So far they reckon they've 'ad about five people or so go missing, although the Peelers're only sayin' there've been them three women you said you wanted 'em to find, like.'

The Bishop nodded. 'Yes, the ones that Mr Hawkspear got a little too…indulgent with during the kill-they were of no use to the body-snatchers. We intentionally let the police find them to light the fuse of fear. I'd be very keen to hear the outcome of that meeting. Anything else of note, Melchin?'

'Yeah, apparently there was some to-do down at the docks tonight, and the coppers found a load of dead blokes, looked like there'd been some kind of scrap. Caused a right bleedin' storm, that did! Word is that the locals want Commissioner Dray to call in Scotland Yard, 'cos of all what's going on. They reckon the place 'as gone to hell…if you'll pardon me reference, your Grace.'

Bishop Courtney gently rocked on the balls of his feet. 'Blasphemy is all relative to your God, Melchin. I am more concerned with what occurs in Crawditch! That committee is exactly what I need…the problem is…Commissioner Dray is no fool. He'll deny their request, of course, if he wishes to retain a semblance of control.'

'He should do,' said Reynolds, stepping into the room from the hallway. 'After all, that is what we're paying him for, isn't it? To turn a blind eye? A man in his position is the linchpin in a place like Crawditch. This needs to be kept contained within Crawditch's jurisdiction.'

'Indeed it does, Mr Reynolds, and a high coup it was indeed for you to ensnare him in the first place. Who knows what you used to convince him, but it worked. We do however need to be mindful that the locals don't lose confidence in Dray. Thank you, Melchin, off you go,' said the Bishop, ushering the driver outside the room. 'I wonder then, Mr Reynolds, if the townsfolk are demanding the Yard's involvement-how will that balance be affected in Dray's absence should we do away with him? We don't want to make things even harder for us than they already are.'

'Certainly not,' agreed Reynolds, snatching up a glass decanter of dark-red wine and pouring himself a glass. 'If Dray goes down, he'll most likely be replaced by his second, one Sergeant Horace Berry. He has been with the Force practically since its inception, no wife, no children.'

'No leverage then? Nothing you can squeeze?'

'And nothing to blackmail him with either, he's as clean as his regulation whistle. Aside from the threat of physical violence, we're out of luck if he gets in charge. I've been thinking, Bishop…perhaps Oliver Dray works best for us right where he is.'

'Although, I must admit that I was somewhat nervous about having a police commissioner of all people on our side, he has so far kept these crimes localised to Crawditch, as you so rightly surmised. That is vital to my plan…this must remain contained.' Bishop Courtney wiped a thin slug-trail of perspiration from his forehead with his handkerchief. 'I don't want to stir up a hornets' nest that's going to come right back and sting me in the posterior-my eyes are fixed upon the grander agenda.'

Reynolds focused his gaze upon the Bishop. 'What is the grander agenda? I'm not sure I'm following it any more. I thought this was all about Queen Victoria's grand plans of renovation…that's how you sold it to me. What's all this stuff about Crawditch and its cemetery got to do with what the Queen wants?'

'Victoria's decree is but a smokescreen, Mr Reynolds. A cloak behind which my own personal ambitions are hidden. It is not Crawditch itself that I wish to claim…but a right that should be afforded me as Bishop.'

Reynolds strode to the long windows and rested his hands against the glass. 'Look, Bishop-it really doesn't matter squat to me what your grand plan is. You could be raising an army of the undead to storm Buckingham Palace, for all I care-but I'd just like to know what side I'm fighting on, know what I mean?' Reynolds's face looked almost bone-white in the moonlight, giving him a ghoulish appearance.

'Very well,' bowed the Bishop. 'After all, you're not like Mr Hawkspear. He is a blunt instrument, whereas you, sir, are a keen edge. You have been a great help to me this past week, and I suppose you deserve to know just what is so important to me.'

'What I seek is power. A power greater than words from dusty old Bibles…I mean true power. It is high time the Church of England reclaimed its place as a position of strength…to become again what it once was…an impregnable fortress of authority across this Empire-an authority far beyond that of mere kings and queens…an authority that is Godlike.'

Reynolds clapped his hands noisily. 'An impressive sermon, Bishop,' he said casually, as he walked over to the table by the Bishop's side. 'When we were in the crypt at the cemetery you started to tell me something, but you never finished. Is there something in that crypt that you need, Bishop? You have access to the crypt any time you want, so why not simply walk in there and take what you need? Why do you need the whole of Crawditch emptied first?'