Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'Then Butter and myself shall go and investigate this cemetery,' nodded Quaint. 'Prometheus, be a good chap and stay here, will you? Keep an eye on Hawkspear. See what else you can get out of him. We're a long way to discovering the entirety of what exactly is going on here, and I'm sick of being kept in the dark.'

'Will do, Cornelius, don't ye worry,' Prometheus agreed. 'I'll do me best to keep him alive-so he can get what's comin' to him. But listen, there's something Butter and I overheard that you might make some sense of. The Frenchman seems to be working for someone else…someone called Hades something.'

Quaint was striding towards the door, and froze mid-step. 'What did you just say?'

'Hades. We overheard it…when Renard was talking to the Commissioner earlier tonight…it sounded like Dray knew who this bloke was too. He was petrified at the mention of his name.'

'Mmmm,' grumbled Quaint, 'He should be.'

'Cornelius, begging your pardon, but do you know who this Hades person is?' asked Sergeant Berry. 'Do we need to focus on him as well as Renard?'

'It's not a person, Sergeant…it is persons. Plural. The Hades Consortium is a group,' answered Quaint. 'They are rumoured to have been in existence in one form or another for hundreds of years, perhaps as long as recorded history itself. Scattered across the world in positions of power, they slumber until their lords and masters require them…and then they arise…leaving devastation in their wake like a hurricane.'

'What are you on about, man?' asked Berry. 'I can't keep up with you.'

'Sergeant, the Consortium is a secret organisation whose primary goal is to cause, and then profit from, the propagation of havoc and unrest across the globe. Politicians, businessmen, entertainers, royalty-the lot, nobody knows for sure who's in and who's not, not even their own members. They make the Freemasons look like a Sunday school group,' said Quaint, pacing around the room. 'The Hades Consortium thrives upon toppling governments, infiltrating vast conglomerates, influencing trading and generally causing massive unrest wherever they cast their shadow. Imagine all the massive crises that have occurred in the past few hundred years, and it's a safe bet that the Consortium has had a hand in it somewhere along the line.'

'Sounds preposterous!' Berry said. 'I've never bloody heard of them!'

'That's why they're a "secret" organisation, Sergeant,' said Quaint.

'What? One single group, controlling all the world's wars and the like? It's all a million miles away from what's going on here in London, surely. If this group is as big as you say it is, Cornelius, they're hardly likely to be bothered with a place like Crawditch, are they?'

'Perhaps…perhaps not,' said Quaint. 'That all depends on whether there is anything they can take advantage of in this borough. In the sort of circles that I used to mix in, it has long been whispered in hushed tones that Sir George Dray himself maintains a prominent position within the Consortium's inner circle. No doubt he greased the wheels to appoint his son as Commissioner here, and the Consortium has been pulling Oliver's strings ever since, gaining a foothold in Crawditch.'

Berry sucked air into his mouth through clenched teeth. 'Then tell me this; if Oliver was working for this Consortium, then how come he's dead?'

'Something must have gone wrong. Either that or the Consortium has already concluded their business here. Perhaps Oliver outlived his usefulness.'

Berry scratched at his head. 'But-if they're involved in all that you say, surely someone would know something about them? Can't be a real secret if you know of them, can they?'

'Sergeant, you'd be surprised what I have learned over the years. No law enforcement agency in the world knows for sure who they are, or where they are. They're like whispers! Phantoms that no one can ever find,' Quaint slammed his fist against the door frame. 'Let me just say this; if the Consortium has plans in Crawditch, then all of us are way out of our depths here. Renard is small fry compared to them.'

Butter stepped forwards, and tugged on Quaint's arm. 'Boss -there is another thing the Frenchman said,' he offered. 'It was another name. Perhaps this man also member of this Hades? He says someone named "Oedipus" had "nothing on him".'

The colour drained from Quaint's face. 'Oedipus? Butter, are you absolutely certain he used those words?'

'Yes, boss, definitely. My English is poor, but my memory faultless.'

'In that case; Butter, get up to that cemetery right now, and see what you can find. Prometheus, help the Sergeant restrain these men, and Horace-circulate Renard's description to all of your men-tell them to head to Hyde Park quick smart to the circus site. Time is most definitely of the essence here, gentlemen!' Quaint snapped, virtually running across the office.

'Wait, Cornelius,' called Prometheus, 'Where're ye off to in such a hurry?'

'If I understand Renard's meaning correctly, my friend,' said a grim-masked Quaint, 'I need to get to Destine before it's too late!'

CORNELIUS QUAINT WAS a man with a mission, and that mission was to find the fastest route back to Hyde Park. He sprinted down the road-his heavy-set frame pounding against the cobbles and sweat falling like salt rain from his hair -and he made a mental note to make sure the circus was somewhere more central next year. Next year? Ha! The thought of it made him smile. The way things were going, he'd be hard pushed to make it to the next sunrise, let alone next year.

Finding Antoine Renard was the task fuelling him now. His hatred went beyond anger, beyond rage. It was something long buried, but now fully exposed. Certain species of wild animals fear man even though they have never met one in the flesh, a genetic mistrust passed on from their predecessors. For Cornelius Quaint, hating Renard was as natural as breathing. Unlike most conflicts, where the origins may have faded over time, the murder of Quaint's wife was as raw to him that night as it was at the time; he just never allowed his memory the chance to access those thoughts. Now it was so many long years later, and Quaint could taste the same metallic burst of acid at the back of his throat as he pushed his body to the limit in pursuit of Renard.

Quaint knew that Renard had a loathing for his mother, something that Renard blamed the conjuror for entirely, and hearing of his words, 'Oedipus had nothing on me', Quaint was in full understanding of the reference. It meant dire consequences for Destine. Renard was twisted and depraved, but, more than that, the devil was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat, and it was that which chilled Quaint's blood.

Quaint looked from side to side of the road as he pounded down the moonlit streets. He was barely at Vauxhall Bridge, and he'd been running for twenty minutes flat out. He needed to find a quicker way to get to the park, because the way he was heading, he would soon collapse from exhaustion-and not even his famed stubbornness would help him. His eyes scanned the streets and alleyways as he blazed through them, searching for a bicycle or anything remotely resembling a mode of transport, and then he saw a most refreshing sight: an old rag-and-bone shop, closed for the day many hours previously. Quaint hoped that the tall, wooden gates to the rear of the shop would hold salvation to him.

He wrenched back the slats of wood that served as a fence, and squeezed his not inconsiderable bulk through the gap. But as he reached a large pair of wooden doors, his progress was barred by an indomitable-looking padlock. Fumbling around inside his coat, Quaint removed his pocket-watch. He depressed a button on the top and, with a click, the face opened up like a locket. Curled within the watch was a long, hook-shaped piece of metal, the ideal hiding place for a tool that had come in handy during more than one stage act. Quaint removed the metal probe, and instantly began picking the lock. Fingers trained in the art of escapology deftly navigated the pins, shafts and cogs better than any locksmith ever could and, within thirty seconds, the heavy padlock fell freely onto the floor with a dull chink. Quaint pulled open the doors and stared into the darkness of a musty, straw-strewn warehouse.