Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

Quaint's beleaguered eyes scanned around for something to use as a weapon. He suddenly spotted a mechanical command console, which he guessed would be used for maintenance work and sifting flotsam from the water. An embryonic plan formed in his mind, which was quite a triumph considering how much of a mess it was inside there.

'Cornelius…this is the end,' Renard said.

Quaint gripped the metal railings of the platform and rose unsteadily to his feet. His lip had been split by Renard's flailing elbows, and he touched the wound gently, noting the blood. Instead of many blurred images of the blood spot, he could now see just one-and he knew instantly what that meant.

The antidote was working.

'You don't have to do this just to get revenge upon me, you know,' he said, trying to steer Renard's attention in his direction.

Renard threw back his head and rocked with laughter. 'You? You egotistical old man! Do you honestly think this has something to do with you?'

'Think about what you're doing-it's madness,' said Quaint, edging forwards.

'I know, but it is inspired madness!' Renard said. 'You put in a valiant try for a dead man, Cornelius…but do not forget…I inherited some of my mother's gift for foresight. I predicted my victory!'

Antoine Renard stared deeply into Quaint's wide eyes, his nostrils flared with delight…and he tipped the vial into the churning waters below. The Frenchman held up his arms and punched the air, a look of pure wonder on his face. He had done it. He had poured the vial into the Thames…and Cornelius Quaint had been unable to do a damn thing to avert it.

Quaint looked at the distracted Renard. He took his chance, and dived for the maintenance console. Before his enemy had a chance to work out what was happening, he wrenched the machine's lever with all his might into operation, and instantly, the machine obeyed with a grinding of metal gears. A mechanical arm sprang to life at the side of the observation platform, and swung out furiously over the water, striking Renard full in the chest-the Frenchman toppled over the railings into the thrashing waters below.

Quaint pushed the well-greased lever into its nook, setting the brake. The grating screech of metal against metal could be heard slowing down around the Weir House, as one by one, the mechanical weirs slowly ground to a halt and the brown-grey water calmed. Quaint peered over the side of the railings of the observation platform. Renard was splashing about in the water, trying desperately to climb on top of the dome-like weirs.

'This is pointless, Cornelius…the poison's already in the river. There's nothing you can do to stop it,' Renard screamed through mouthfuls of frothy water. 'In a few short days; a third of the population of London will either be dead or dying.'

'Sadly for you, that's not true,' said Quaint, reaching into his overcoat's pocket.

He pulled out a glass vial between his thumb and index finger.

'What the hell is that?' Renard spluttered.

'This is the poison. The real poison, I mean. You said earlier that you'd never seen me perform any magic tricks,' said Quaint with a confident grin. 'Any decent illusionist will tell you that the real magic is never letting your audience know they've been tricked until the last minute.'

'I…I don't understand,' said Renard, clinging to the side of a weir. 'The poison!'

'Is safely in my possession,' said Quaint, trying his best not to look too smug-even though it felt wonderful to see the look on Renard's face. 'When you poisoned Destine, you left the empty vial behind. A scavenger like me never knows when something may come in handy, and so I took it…and filled it with rain water. All I had to do was wait for the opportune moment to switch it for the poisoned vial-and you kindly showed me earlier which pocket it was in.' Quaint dropped the glass vial onto the platform, and stamped his heel down hard, shattering the vessel. 'As a Frenchman, Renard-surely you must understand when you've had your Waterloo.'

Renard's face contorted in the tumult of the water. 'You…you're lying.'

'Do you really believe that? Think about it…if that really was the poison you just tipped into that water, shouldn't you be dying right about now?'

'I know you, Quaint, remember? I know you,' protested Renard, trying to clamber up on top of one of the weirs. 'You're not just going to stand there and watch me drown.'

'You're absolutely right,' said Quaint determinedly. 'I have to go and save your mother's life.'

As he walked towards the exit to the Weir House, Quaint released the brake on the console, and wrenched the long-armed lever attached the machine. Immediately, the weir mechanisms sprang into life. The huge cogs mounted at the rear of the Weir House connected with well-oiled chains and instantly the array of mechanical weirs started up again, all of them spinning wildly. The scream of the weirs as they churned the water was deafening.

In the small, enclosed area, Renard had nothing to hold onto, and the swirling maelstrom of the current was impossible to swim against. Amidst the thrashing, spiralling water, he tried desperately to grab onto one of the weirs. The spinning metal dome was as sharp as a blade, and it cleanly sliced off four fingers of Renard's right hand. The Frenchman screamed in frenzied pain as rich, red blood seeped into the rust-coloured water. With nowhere to go and no escape, his face knotted into a frantic mask of panic, Renard's body was dragged under the water time and time again. Just seconds later, shreds of clothing floated grimly to the surface.

Quaint was already out by the horse-drawn coach that Melchin had helpfully left tethered to a nearby lamppost. It was easily a far more superior horse than his last one. Quaint looked at his pocket-watch. It had a long hairline crack across its surface, and he held it to his ear. It had stopped ticking some time ago, and he had no idea how many minutes Destine had left. He prayed that fate was smiling on him. After all, had he not just unravelled and foiled a complicated plot to poison the River Thames, saving thousands of Londoners' lives, and dispatched the architect of that plot to his death? Surely he deserved a little bit of luck as a token of good will.

His fracas with Renard had taken too long, and Hyde Park was agonisingly far away. Even with Bishop Courtney's purloined horse, it was unlikely that he'd make it in time…but he had to try.

'DESTINE,' CORNELIUS Quaint yelled, leaping from his horse. He ran straight for the fortune-teller's tent, ripped open the door and stepped inside-the antidote clutched in his hand at the ready. He stood in the open doorway, staring in disbelief at the sight laid before him. He shook his head, clamping his eyes shut to deny the image.

Destine's bed and tent were both completely empty. Quaint fell to his knees, exhausted beyond anything he had ever felt before. He noticed Destine's shawl, discarded on the ground, and he reached out to it. He scooped it up into his hands, and smothered his face into it as if he were trying to claw back a memory. The poison inside of him had abated now, the antidote miraculously conquering the effects just in time…for him anyway. As he looked forlornly around the empty tent it seemed that, despite his best efforts, he was now too late to save Destine. He cupped the shawl to his face, and smelt the familiar lavender perfume. She was gone. She was lost to him for ever and a part of him wished that he had died too. What was the point of all his struggle, all his sacrifice, if Destine were dead?

Just then Ruby Marstrand darted into the tent. 'Oh! It's you, Mr Quaint. I…I didn't know you were back. I just came to collect a few things.'

'Where is she?' demanded Quaint, rising to his feet swiftly.