BY A QUARTER to ten the next morning it had become a bright, if slightly chilly day, and as Cornelius Quaint threw open the doors of Crawditch police station, the idle sunlight illuminated him with an aura of misplaced serenity. The man was anything but serene. Accompanied by Madame Destine, he was of a mind to see the captive Prometheus again-and he would not take no for an answer. Quaint walked determinedly towards the enquiries desk, and his hardened expression softened slightly as he recognised the familiar face of Constable Tucker at the podium.
'Constable!' he said cheerily. 'Don't you ever go home, man?' Tucker cracked a brief smile. 'You've been speaking to my wife. Well, I can't fault your timekeeping, sir, the Commissioner is already here. He's in his office right now with Sergeant Berry, and he's been told to expect you.' Tucker pointed to a large set of mahogany doors behind him. 'Straight ahead, through them there doors. The Commissioner's office will be right in front of you.'
Quaint and Destine nodded politely, and bustled through a small, knee-high wooden gate into the police station, past a variety of uniformed men busily writing reports and filing paperwork, flitting around like bees during springtime. Quaint raised his knuckles to knock on the Commissioner's door, when suddenly Destine's hand darted from nowhere and gripped his wrist.
'Wait, Cornelius,' she said softly. 'This friend of yours…can we trust him?'
'Need I remind you this was your idea? It's a little late for cold feet,' Quaint said. 'Stop worrying and come on. He's a police commissioner, for goodness sake. If anyone can ensure Prometheus gets a fair hearing-it's him.'
'It's just that…' Destine paused, 'after my vision yesterday, I am feeling a trifle nervous all of a sudden. It is probably nothing.'
'Nervous? The vision from my past, you mean? Surely, you can't mean Oliver. A police commissioner? Come on, Madame, if we can't trust a policeman-whom can we trust? Oliver and I were friends a long time ago. Admittedly, we haven't set eyes on each other since, but he's certainly got no quarrel with me.'
'Oh really?' questioned Destine. 'What about that business you mentioned with his father? Did he not once threaten to kill you?'
'Ah…well, yes, but that was over twenty years ago. I'm sure that's all water under the bridge by now.' Quaint said, knocking twice on the Commissioner's door. Not waiting for an answer from inside the room, he turned the knob, and strode inside.
As he entered the Commissioner's office, Quaint scanned the two men's faces in the room. One was unknown to him, and one looked familiar, but decidedly older than the one he recalled from his memory.
'Oliver!' Quaint said, grasping the somewhat bemused Commissioner's hand firmly. 'How marvellous it is to see you again, old chap.'
'And who the bloody hell might you be?' barked Dray. 'Who let you in here? Hang on a mo…wait…is that…Quaint? Cornelius Quaint, is that you? What on earth are you doing here?'
'Just a bit of business, Oliver. What's it been? Eighteen? Nineteen years? I swear you haven't aged a single day, you old Scottish dog.'
'I wish I could say the same for you, Cornelius! What a bedraggled mess you are,' Dray said, flicking at Quaint's greying curls. 'Look at that mop of hair!'
'And what of your own hair, hmm?' replied Quaint. 'I trust you have your best men out searching for what's left of it?'
'Aye, and if they come across your fashion sense, I'll let you know. Look at yourself. Never have such fine clothes been so sorely wasted on a body,' Dray said, looking Quaint up and down. 'A cloak and velvet smoking jacket at this time of day? You look like you're off to the bloody opera!'
'A gentleman can never take too much pride in his appearance, Oliver, no matter what the time of day,' Quaint parried. 'But then, I suppose you wouldn't know anything about that.'
'Cornelius, if I may?' interrupted Madame Destine. 'Perhaps you two could postpone your verbal swordplay for another time, or do I need to remind you that we are here on most urgent business?'
'Ah!' Quaint chewed at his lip and nodded. 'Quite right as ever, Madame. My apologies to you. I forget myself…and my manners.'
'I suppose introductions are in order, eh?' Dray said, nudging Berry's shoulder. 'This fellow here, Horace, is none other than Cornelius Quaint, an old…friend of mine from a misspent youth. Cornelius, this is Sergeant Horace Berry, the best beat copper on the force, bar none.'
'Sergeant Berry, I'm pleased to make your acquaintance,' Quaint turned on his heel and glanced at Destine, 'And this is Madame Destine, my personal advisor. Madame, this fellow is Oliver Dray, commissioner of police, no less.' Quaint cleared his face of all expression and focused his eyes upon Commissioner Dray. 'And now that's out of the way, gentlemen, if you don't mind, I would like a word. Oliver, you currently have one of my employees locked up in your cells, charged with murder. It is imperative that I speak with him urgently.'
'Your employee? You're the giant's boss? The one we found with that dead girl?' scoffed Commissioner Dray, slapping his forehead with his palms as if it were the most amusing thing he had ever heard. 'Oh, this is ripe! Cornelius Quaint? Owning a circus, of all things? Ha! Bloody typical, that is-I knew you could never go respectable, it's not in your nature.'
'Yes, well, it's obviously in yours,' Quaint said, poking at Dray's crooked tie. 'I won the circus in a game of chance with two Prussian fellows. Fair and square, I might add, and it's a marvellous experience, trekking from one place to the next entertaining folk. You really get to see the spark of the human spirit in full illumination. There is nothing like it on earth.' Quaint's expression suddenly darkened, and the light faded from his eyes. 'Of course…when something like this nasty business transpires…well, it does tend to stick in my craw somewhat. I do not like my circus getting involved in local matters, Oliver.'
Dray snorted indignantly. 'Local matters? You make it sound so clear cut,' he said. 'Murder is never clear cut, and thanks to your bloody circus lot, this one appears muddier than most. Actually, Horace and I were just discussing it. We've got three murders on our hands here in Crawditch, and murders that began just as your circus crew arrived. So what are you going to do about it, Cornelius?' asked Dray.
'Shouldn't I be asking you that question, Oliver?' enquired Quaint. 'You do have a vicious murderer at large in this district; after all…I am not at all sure I wish to risk any more of my people. Perhaps we should postpone our show in Hyde Park.'
'That would certainly deflect the blame from your circus, eh?'
'It sounds to me, Oliver, as if you have already closed this investigation, when in my eyes it is still very much open. My people aren't in the habit of going around slaughtering innocent people, and might I remind you that one of our own has also been killed. With my strongman wrongly incarcerated at the moment, my circus is feeling double the pain right now.'
'Only you-a man who deals with the strange and fanciful on a daily basis-could be tied up in all this nonsense,' Dray rubbed fiercely at his thinning scalp. 'A great ox of a mute, a slain dwarf with a bizarre cross carved into her chest, and now a note from someone who says he's going to exact his revenge upon the giant!'
'Did you say a note?' Quaint's black eyes widened. 'What note?'