Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'I wish Madame Destine were here right now,' said Butter.

Prometheus looked down at his friend. 'Oh, yeah? Why's that, then?'

'She would tell us to stay here,' mumbled Butter. 'I much better prefer that plan.'

KEEP DIGGING, MEN, I want as many of these graves dug up as you can manage, let's make use of the darkness. Double pay to the man that finds what I need,' said the now exposed Frenchman Antoine Renard.

He could not care less whether Quaint knew of his existence now or not, for his plan was nearly completed, but he needed to continue the charade for Bishop Courtney's sake, and so he had resumed his 'Mr Reynolds' persona once more, and was striding across Crawditch cemetery towards the Bishop's waiting carriage. As usual, Melchin was perched like a pensive vulture waiting for meat at the front of the vehicle. Like slipping into a comfortable pair of slippers, Renard effortlessly shifted from his native French accent, and was now every inch the Cockney scoundrel that he had painted himself to be in front of the Bishop.

'All is set, Bishop. These blokes are hungry enough to dig until they drop for a pocket full of coins, and a hot meal,' Renard said with a sniff, wiping the back of his hand across his nose. His transformation was nothing short of spectacular, and any detached observer would seek to question both their sanity and their eyesight upon witnessing the display. The Frenchman shared many characteristics with the snake, the least of which being the ability to shed one's skin.

Courtney darted his head out of the coach. 'Jolly good, and should they fall, there are many men waiting to fill their positions.' The Bishop gave Renard an unexpected pat on the shoulder. 'You have done very well, Mr Reynolds. Very well, indeed. I shall have to retain you on my staff permanently.'

Renard grinned. 'Doubt that, Bishop-you couldn't afford me.'

'Indeed! But if you manage to find the casket containing that elixir tonight, I shall ensure you are well rewarded. Perhaps even a share of the elixir yourself, eh?'

'Don't think so, Bishop. I would prefer to see an end to this husk of a life,' Renard said with a cackle. 'Death is the only thing I have left to look forward to.'

The Bishop joined him in a throaty chuckle. 'Yes, well…I shall take my leave for Westminster. Be sure to inform me immediately should you find the casket, no matter what the time.'

'Yeah, will do,' said Renard, motioning behind him. 'They should be all right, this lot, but are you sure this place is safe? I thought the whole point was that you wanted to wait until Crawditch was cleared…last I saw, there were still folk about.'

'Yes, well, the time for restraint has passed now that Hawks-pear has worked his magic, my friend. By now Crawditch will be twinned with hell, and no one will want to stick around long,' said Courtney, gleefully rubbing his hands together. 'Don't worry-all eyes will be on events unfolding down there in that borough, not up here in this graveyard. I will look forward to seeing you soon, Mr Reynolds!' said the Bishop, and he thumped on the side of the carriage door. 'On, Melchin.'

Renard watched silently as the Bishop's horse and carriage trundled off into the distance. 'The time to dissolve our business partnership is almost upon us, Bishop Courtney,' he said to himself. He knew that the next time he saw the man it would be their last meeting.

Renard approached a group of dark-clothed men huddled together, hastily digging at various gravesites. Even with the gang hard at work, the job would take the whole of the night-perhaps longer-and there was now no guarantee how much privacy they would have. Many of the graves had a nondescript, moss-covered headstone, with a name either defaced, or worn over time. It could even take weeks to find the right one containing the elixir-unless, of course, Antoine Renard was very, very lucky. With a sickening grin of pleasure, and his scar twisted into a malevolent sneer, Renard looked around himself. His piercing eyes scanned the graveyard in a sweep. Past the men, past the many stumps of moss-covered granite-something suddenly caught his attention at the far end of the cemetery, near the boundary wall, and he strode over to it. There it was-an unmarked grave; a beaten granite headstone. The years had eroded away all semblance of a monument to a loved one, and now the headstone was merely an emotionless lump of weather-worn rock. As nameless and lacking in identity as the person it represented.

Renard beamed proudly, as if he'd just found something he had cherished, but lost a long time ago. 'Now…how to make this look convincing,' he said under his breath. 'Oi, you lot!' he called to the wraith-like men shovelling dirt from graves nearby. They froze at the sound of his voice, and rushed to his side. Renard squatted onto his haunches, and ran his hand gingerly through the layer of fine grass upon the top of the grave, as if it were capable of generating warmth. 'I want you blokes to dig here,' he said, pulling a stub of a cigar from his breast pocket. 'Forget everywhere else, just here!'

He removed himself from the gravesite over to a stout stone wall, and puffed happily on the cigar, his eyes sparkling as he watched the men attack the earth with their shovels and forks.

Within five minutes of digging, one of the men shouted in alarm. He lifted a dirty, grime-covered sack into the air. Renard rushed over, and snatched the sack roughly from the man's hands. He laid it onto the dirt, and unfurled the top. Inside was a small, dark-green wooden box with a strange, filigree figure-of-eight design on the top, etched in gold leaf. Renard's eyes blazed with interest. The man nearest to him leaned on his spade, and stared down at the nondescript box.

'Is that it, boss? Is that what you're after?' asked the dishevelled man. 'That box?'

Renard spat the cigar onto the ground and smiled. 'Avec precision, monsieur… this is what I'm after, all right,' he said gleefully.

'But, hang on,' said the curious man, 'you said this job would take us all night, and yet you just plucked a grave right out've thin air…you must be the luckiest bleeder around!'

'Ah, mais oui, monsieur, I am very good at predicting the future, voyez-vous? You could say it runs in the family,' said Renard with a grin, transfixed by the box. 'Don't worry, men, I shall make sure you all receive a full night's pay…it's not like the Bishop will live long enough to spend his money.'

IN HIS WESTMINSTER Abbey annexe, the Bishop had just eaten a large supper, and the carcass of a chicken lay ripped and shredded next to an array of metal goblets, empty wine bottles and fresh fruit across the table, looking like the aftermath of a culinary battlefield. He was picking food from between his teeth when he heard a gentle knock upon his residence door.

'Enter,' he boomed, dabbing at the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief.

A pensive-looking alumno with a floppy fringe and pinched features poked his head around the door. 'Hello, Bishop Courtney, ah…Reverend Fox is here again to see you again.'

The Bishop rose immediately from his chair, and shot a look to the clock on his mantel. 'Fox? Well, show him in then, boy, and hurry up,' Courtney snapped.

The alumno rushed to the door, and scuttled outside like a fleeing rat. Seconds later, dressed in his priestly disguise, the enigma that was Antoine Renard slid his wiry frame into the room.

'Mr Reynolds, you take me aback! I…had not expected to see you so soon,' said the Bishop, approaching Renard, hurriedly closing the residence door behind him. 'Surely you haven't found it already? It's been all of two hours. There aren't any…complications, are there? Some further delay?' he said breathlessly.