Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

Not without an appreciation of irony, predicting the future takes time and after a gruelling fifteen-minute wait, Quaint was getting restless.

'Madame, I don't wish to rush you,' he said, 'but time is of the essence here.'

Destine's eyelids flickered as she removed herself from her entranced state, and looked up at Quaint's appealing face.

'Oh…sorry, Cornelius…I…have been given many powerful images and it is taking some time to determine their meaning,' she said quietly.

'I understand, Madame…my apologies,' said Quaint. 'Well?'

'You wish to return to Crawditch, Cornelius, but I sense that that place contains nothing of interest for you. You will not learn anything more there. I am sensing many angered and fearful people. Fearful for their very lives, it seems. They aim their hatred at the police, and they are concerned that the killer in their midst remains unfound.' Destine licked her lips gently. 'I foresee a great deal of pain centred on the police station, Cornelius. You must avoid that place at all costs.'

Prometheus stepped forward. 'But I don't! Cornelius, I told ye, man-I need t'go back there and clear me name. The police're looking for the wrong person, remember? Which means they'll never catch Hawkspear!'

'Prometheus, how many more times must I explain? Especially now, you must not set as much as a single footstep in Crawditch. If Dray is under pressure from the locals, then the first thing he'll do is set up a public hanging for you. Handing yourself in at this stage won't help anyone,' said Quaint abruptly, baring his teeth, such was his passion. 'Madame, if not Crawditch, then where must I go? Where is the key to all this strangeness?'

'I sense a dark tower full of the screams of men,' Destine said in nothing more than a whisper. 'Within this tower lies the answer to a great many secrets. I cannot tell you more than this.' Destine pinched the bridge of her nose, and raised her fingers to her forehead. 'I feel rather weary all of a sudden. Cornelius, if you have no objections, I would like to rest.'

'Certainly, Madame, please do,' agreed Quaint. 'You have been of great assistance as usual, and I am sorry to cause you distress. At least now, we have a direction to focus upon.'

Quaint and Prometheus stepped outside the tent into Hyde Park. Upon seeing them exit, Butter trotted up to them, an expectant glint in his eyes.

'We have plan, boss?' he asked, tugging on Quaint's long coat tails. 'Madame Destine was able to help?'

'Indeed she was, Butter. Things are going downhill fast in Crawditch, my friend, but there is a place that Destine referred to that could hold the key to this mystery. She can only mean Black-staff prison. I shall go there right away.' He turned to face a glum-looking Prometheus. 'I don't want you going anywhere near Crawditch until I return, understand? And Butter?' said Quaint, spinning to face the Inuit. 'Keep an eye on the Madame, will you? Until I return, be on your guard. We could get a visit from the law at any time, so Prometheus-keep out of plain sight if you can.'

With that, Quaint turned on his heels, walked across the park towards Cromwell Road, and the exit from Hyde Park that would lead him to the nearside of the Thames. From there he could charter a tug to Blackstaff prison. Discovery of his foe-or foes-was starting to feel as if it were nearly in his grasp, but Quaint did not know whether that made him feel better, or worse.

Laid upon a temporary bed at the rear of her tent, the uncomfortable mattress was the least concerning thought upon Madame Destine's mind. She had just deliberately misled Cornelius, and dissuaded him from a course of action that would have supplied a great many answers. That betrayal was hanging heavily upon her thoughts. But what could she do? Her voices had spoken, and she had no choice but to listen to them. What use was the gift to perceive the future if you couldn't avert the tragedies that you foresaw? Destine knew for certain that if Quaint were to proceed to Crawditch as he intended, it would set him upon a road that led in only one direction-his death.

But she also knew that secrets never stay buried for ever. As the fog cleared from this mystery, the truth would certainly soon be revealed, and Destine knew that she could not hide her greatest lie for ever. As she had once told Cornelius, nightmares have a nasty habit of recurring, and usually when you least expect them.

BLACKSTAFF PRISON WAS inescapable. Many had tried and all had failed. Constructed in 1841, it was England's first barge prison, unique in the respect that it was able to relocate to positions along the Thames, or out into the English Channel or the North Sea. Containing just over a hundred and fifty prisoners, the structure was akin to a lighthouse, a tall, circular iron and wood tower affixed to a huge, specially designed barge platform. Very few cells had adequate toilet facilities and none had windows. The fear of incarceration in Blackstaff was the thought that had kept many a wrongdoer on the straight and narrow, and those who were lucky enough to be released from the prison rarely committed a further offence. Its reputation alone was enough of a deterrent.

Cornelius Quaint had called in a few favours to organise this unscheduled visit to Blackstaff. Luckily, Warden Melbury had once seen Quaint perform his act and was a big fan of sleight of hand magic. Quaint was treated like visiting royalty.

The prison was currently moored near Colchester, and the North Sea winds were scratching against the iron-wood hide of the tower. Quaint sat opposite the tobacco-stained, bearded Warden in his dank, grey-painted office, sharing a tin cup of some foul-smelling liquid that the Warden had sworn blind was Jamaican rum. It was certainly unlike any rum that Quaint had tasted before, but he needed the Warden's help, and he politely forced down each sip through clenched teeth.

'Christ, you should 'ave seen it,' said the Warden, rocking back in his chair. 'We pulled in, right into the Thames, trying to find shelter, but when you're as exposed as we are, there ain't nowhere safe. This place is great as a prison, but in a fierce storm like that, it's a death-trap!'

'And how long were you marooned for?' asked Quaint, appeasing the gruff Warden's zest for conversation.

'Four days,' Warden Melbury barked. 'My men were pullin' their bleedin' hair out.'

Quaint looked around the cramped quarters. 'I'll bet. So tell me, Warden, how many men have you got here on your staff?' he asked, gingerly sipping the rum.

'Twenty including me, and another twelve more can be called at the east end of the Thames if we need them, but we rarely do. Now and again we might 'ave an emergency…maybe one of the idiots somehow sets their bed sheets alight, or summat like that. Aside from bein' at the mercy o' bad weather, Mr Quaint, we don't really get a lot of entertainment round 'ere.'

'And Blackstaff's escape record? What's that up to nowadays?' asked Quaint.

'Same as always, mate-spotless! And if we catch anyone trying to escape-we kill the bastard,' guffawed the heavy-set Warden, his rosy cheeks glowing with delight at being able to discuss his work with a civilised stranger. Working in the prison was such a monotonous job, with the same old faces day in and day out; the warden welcomed the interruption to his daily repetition. 'We run a tight ship 'ere, let me tell you! Prisoners are kept in line…they 'ave to be. We've got some of the most vile, depraved monsters alive imprisoned here, so it doesn't bother me none if the lads need to get a bit…physical now and again, know what I mean?'

Quaint grinned. 'Actually, it's one of your most vile, depraved monsters that brings me here, Warden. I'm hoping you can shed a little light on something for me. An Irishman by the name of Hawkspear, I understand that he recently escaped, and I am very interested in how he managed it.'