Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

AT CRAWDITCH POLICE station, circus proprietor Cornelius Quaint pushed hard on the double doors with intended force and they parted easily, crashing against the stout wooden frame. The man's flowing black cloak was cast behind him like a shadow, billowing open to reveal a dark, velvet three-quarter length jacket over a white ruffled shirt. Well into his sixth decade, Quaint's face was hardened and well-lined, proudly displaying every year of his adventurous life, as well as a few more besides. Beneath the brim of an indigo felt top-hat, Quaint's obsidian-black eyes drove into focus under the woollen mass of grey-brown curly hair that surrounded them.

Following in the man's wake was a diminutive Inuit dressed in a long, oilskin anorak. His dark-skinned face peered cautiously from beneath a fur-lined hood, swathes of rich black hair poked out in tufts onto his forehead, and he walked cautiously a few paces behind Quaint, more because his tiny legs could not keep pace with the locomotive of the man than as a sign of servitude. The men's arrival demanded instant attention, and the policeman who manned the enquiries podium just inside the station had little choice but to stop what he was doing and simply gawp open-mouthed as they approached him.

'Good day, Constable…Tucker,' Quaint proclaimed loudly, spying the small name plaque on the policeman's desk. 'I am Cornelius Quaint, conjuror and proprietor of Dr Marvello's Travelling Circus, currently situated over the river in Hyde Park. My companion here is my deputy manager and squire, Butter.'

The Inuit peered from behind Quaint's cloak and doffed an imaginary cap.

'Um…hullo to you,' said the policeman, as he looked with interest at the two unorthodox men standing in front of him. One was a barrel-chested mule of a man, with broad shoulders and a steely temperament, and the other was an unobtrusive fellow who looked like he had just stepped off a ship from the Arctic Regions. A strange couple, to be sure, and Constable Tucker found himself wondering what on earth these two could be doing mixing in the same circles. 'That's an odd name, isn't it? Butter? What is he…some sort of farmer or something?'

'Hardly, Constable-the fellow comes from Greenland. He's an Eskimo. His body is gifted with a remarkable immunity to the cold, and he's a marvellous secretary. No one can juggle the books like Butter here. His real name is virtually unpronounceable, so I won't embarrass him by trying to say it. Folk just call him "Butter"…as in, "Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth."' Quaint grinned. 'Which, of course…it wouldn't.'

Constable Tucker was still agog, the explanation not serving to elucidate him. 'Right, well, there you go then. So, what can the Metropolitan Police do for you two gents this morning?'

'I am searching for a couple of my employees, Constable; a mute, bearded, seven-foot-tall giant of a man and a dwarf female with a shock of blonde hair. This borough was their last known location. Neither arrived for work this morning, and…if I know Prometheus, in these circumstances he is nearly always incarcerated by the local constabulary-quite mistakenly, of course,' Quaint sang, his voice shifting melodic gears from soft and caressing words, to severe commanding tones. 'Are you aware of such a man currently under your charge?'

'We don't tend to get many mute, bearded, seven-foot-tall giants nor dwarf females in Crawditch, sir, so they do stick out in the memory,' said Tucker. 'I'm not sure of the female's whereabouts, but I'm afraid that your gargantuan friend is currently in our custody. Our men brought him in early this morning.'

'Excellent! Then please contact your superior, if you would be so kind. I am here to secure his release,' said Quaint with a disarming smile.

'Um, I don't think that's going to be possible, sir…you see, your mate's being held for murder, so he won't be going anywhere for a while. Nobody's to see him until the Commissioner gets here, and that's that.'

'He's being held for-what did you say? Murder?' Quaint vented, stepping closer to Tucker's podium. 'What utter nonsense, Prometheus is no killer!'

'Well, with all due respect, sir, you would say that, wouldn't you? You may not have heard, but we've had a few of these murders recently. One a night, as it goes, over the past three nights -last night being the third. There's a lot of concern amongst the locals, and obviously the Commissioner is keen to question your friend, what with him being found unconscious at the scene of the crime, and all that. So, sorry to tell you, until I get the say-so from my superior-you're out of luck.'

Quaint shot a look to Butter, who merely shrugged, and so the tall, elegantly dressed man returned his cold stare to the policeman. 'I can see that you're unlikely to budge, Constable, but I should categorically state that my man had nothing to do with any slayings. My circus and I only arrived two days past. We're entertainers, and it's hardly sensible to go around murdering the paying audience, is it? We shall take our leave for the time being, but return soon. What is your Commissioner's name, may I ask?'

'Mr Dray,' the policeman answered obediently.

'Dray? Not…Sir George Dray by any chance?' asked Quaint.

'No, sir. His son. Oliver Dray.'

Quaint threw back his head and rocked with laughter. 'Oliver? Can it be true, after all these years? Don't tell me they made daffy old Ollie a commissioner? Now, this I just have to see. I've not set eyes upon the chap since our travels in Peru back in the thirties. It will be great to see the old Scottish terrier again, Constable. Tell me, when does the Commissioner arrive?'

'He's due in at ten o'clock,' the policeman answered.

Quaint checked his pocket-watch. 'Splendid!' It was nine forty-five.

'Tomorrow,' said Tucker. 'Ten o'clock tomorrow. If you want to see the Commissioner, or your friend, you'll have to come back then, I'm afraid.'

Quaint exhaled slowly and purposely noisily in Tucker's direction. 'But my man is being held for murder, Constable! You mean to tell me that he's to be locked up for a whole day without anyone being able to see him? Aren't you even slightly interested in his side of the story?'

'Listen, I'm just following the Commissioner's orders, right?' said Tucker. 'Two days ago the mutilated body of a woman named Lily Clapcott was found off of Montague Street, near the disused bakery. A day later, a rose seller called May Deeley was found dead, also horrifically mutilated. Last night…it's another one. Now, we ain't got no other witnesses apart from your Prometheus fellow, so he stays put until Mr Dray gets here to find out what he knows about it all. So far, he has clammed up tighter than my wife's legs on a Friday night, so he ain't exactly doing himself any favours. If you've got a quarrel with that, Mr Quaint, then I suggest you take it up with the Commissioner himself.'

'Constable, I am taking it up with you! Try and inject this with a modicum of common sense,' said Quaint curtly. 'Prometheus is a mute, for God's sake! He couldn't utter a single bloody word if he tried; did that ever occur to you? He's not being evasive purposefully.' Quaint shook his head, grinding his teeth to quell his anger. 'Tell me, how is he to vouch for himself? Smoke signals and blinking?'

'There's no need to be rude, sir. I'm just doing my job. I can't give you special privileges just because you're old mates with the boss, can I?' said Tucker, holding up his hands. 'That's for the Commissioner to decide.'

'Now see here, Constable Tucker, I am not a famous man, by any means, but I am well travelled, and command a fair degree of familiarity in many countries and provinces across the world. If you were to visit Peru, the Indigo Coast, Africa or even the Orient, you would meet folk who know and respect the name Cornelius Quaint.'