OBLIVIOUS TO BOTH Commissioner Dray's fate and what was currently occurring in the annexe of Westminster Abbey, Cornelius Quaint stood underneath the lamplight of Crawditch police station and stared upwards. His eyes were drawn to dark-red stains of blood daubed across the upper floor of the station. He looked around him, trying to guess what had happened, but the tumultuous atmosphere of shock and desperation painted on the faces of the townsfolk around him suddenly stole his attention.
Quaint stepped inside the police station and witnessed a scene not dissimilar to what was occurring outside. As if he were invisible, no one paid him the slightest bit of notice as he walked around the partition near the enquiries desk, and strolled towards Commissioner Dray's office. Without knocking, he walked briskly inside.
'Ollie, what the hell is going on? It's like a bloody circus in this place, and I should know. What are you doing-' Quaint suddenly froze mid-sentence as he saw Sergeant Horace Berry, sitting at Dray's desk, his head in his hands. 'Sergeant? What's going on? It's like a madhouse-out there and in here.'
Berry barely looked up, holding a glass of whisky to his lips. His face was pale, and he looked like he hadn't slept for a week. 'Oh it's you, Mr Quaint…what brings you here?'
Quaint pulled up a chair, spun it around, and squatted astride it, resting his arms on its back. 'Where's Oliver? I need to speak with him urgently about what's going on. I don't care how busy he is-I'm not taking no for an answer!'
'Well, you'll have to…because he's dead,' said Berry, wiping his nose on his sleeve, leaving a slug's trail of mucus behind.
Quaint pounded his fist on the table, shaking Berry's glass. 'I need to see him, Sergeant-it's important, and I don't have time for this nonsense, I know he's involved in whatever is going on in this district, and I will not be derailed!'
Berry held his hands out to Quaint, his palms coated bright red.
'You see this?' he asked shakily. 'It's blood, that's what it is…Oliver's blood…so I hope you can understand that I…really cannot deal with you right now. If you don't mind, I've got things to be getting on with.' He returned his vacant stare back to the tumbler of whisky.
'You're not serious,' said Quaint. 'Oliver's…dead?'
Berry glanced up, his eyes raw and bloodshot.
'It seems you are,' said Quaint numbly. 'My God, when was this?'
'Not long…perhaps an hour or so since we found the body…I'd only been speaking to him minutes beforehand. Someone…somehow got close enough to do it. Stabbed him in the back…then gutted him…his body hanging from the roof outside the station for the whole world to gawp at.'
'So that's what that was,' nodded Quaint. 'I noticed that on my way in. And what can you tell me about the circumstances?'
'Circumstances? Mr Quaint, I know nothing. No one saw anyone arrive or leave the yard. The way things have got in this town of late, it could have been anyone,' snapped Berry. 'Last I knew, Jennings and the Commissioner were out back, having a chat about I don't know what. I went out to tell Oliver that there was this bunch of residents, formed themselves into some kind of committee or something. They were angry about how little progress we were making, and were on their way here to the station to force Oliver into contacting Scotland Yard-something he was dead set against.'
'I'll bet,' said Quaint. He took off his long overcoat and hung it over the back of the chair. 'Horace, I need to tell you something. You seem like an honest and honourable fellow, and to last as long as you've done as a beat copper-then you're obviously trustworthy.'
'How'd you work that out?'
'Otherwise, you'd have done what Ollie did, and get your father to pull some strings in Parliament. If you had an exit, there's no way you'd stick around as a street bobby, is there? In this day and age?'
'Maybe I've got a liking for cold nights and street scuffles, eh? So, what have you got to tell me, Mr Quaint?' said Berry, picking up his glass. He downed the half-full tumbler in one gulp, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and pulled another glass from the desk drawer. 'Have one yourself, why don't you? It's Oliver's Scotch…but he's hardly likely to complain now, is he?'
Quaint poured a small inch of whisky into the glass and swilled it around in his hands. 'Berry-listen to me. There is a most dangerous and deadly conspiracy at play here in this district, and my circus has been drawn into it. What the scheme's exact purpose is, I don't rightly know at this point; but I do know who the antagonists are.'
'The what?' asked Berry, struggling to replace the cap on the whisky bottle.
'Antagonists, Sergeant. Our adversaries, the main players in this game, our opponents…but not all of them are who I expected them to be.'
'Considering that one of your employees is the prime suspect, you mean?'
'No, Sergeant, because I thought I'd killed him,' said Quaint. 'You might remember the name Hawkspear that I mentioned earlier this week-the Irishman who drugged my strongman? Well, it seems he was recently in residence at Blackstaff prison, so I popped along to investigate how he managed to escape, and what forces may have brought him here to Crawditch. I came upon this.' Quaint unfolded a piece of paper and gently cast it onto the table in front of Berry. 'I'm sure you're familiar with a prison release form?'
Berry's eyes scanned the paper, his scowl increasing the more he read. 'I don't understand,' he said, looking up at Quaint. 'This says our Jennings authorised Hawkspear's release…and…who's this Bishop Courtney character?'
'Unknown at this time, but I believe him to be an essential element of the plot, perhaps the man pulling everyone's strings. Tell me, Sergeant, where is Constable Jennings at this very moment?'
'I…I don't know, Mr Quaint. Out on his beat looking for Oliver's killer, I think. Here, you don't think he's involved in this nasty business, do you? I mean, the lad's a bit daft, but he's not capable of murder!'
'We don't always know people as well as they would have us believe, do we Sergeant? Jennings countersigned Hawkspear's release papers with the authority of Commissioner Oliver Dray,' Quaint tapped the letter on the table in front of Berry, startling the policeman. 'There's more, and none of it is going to be easy to hear, I'm afraid. You see, many years ago, Oliver and his father were mixed up in some nasty business abroad.'
'Sir George? You not saying that he's involved in all of this mess too, are you? Murder and the like?' quizzed Berry. 'The man's on the board of every government business, has trading rights for God knows how many ports, practically owns the police, and has royal connections, to boot. He's a bloody knight of the realm, man. He's next to a bloody saint! I don't believe for one second that he'd be involved.'
Quaint's stony expression didn't falter. 'With all due respect, Sergeant, what you currently believe is irrelevant. I was there all those years ago, and I saw just what Sir George is capable of with my own eyes. During this nasty business, Drays junior and senior involved themselves with an old nemesis of mine, a French mercenary named Renard.' Quaint paused, as he allowed Berry's naturally inquisitive mind to soak up the details. 'Up until yesterday I was convinced that Renard was dead-by my own hand-but I have since discovered to my abhorrent surprise that he is very much alive, and it seems he has rekindled his past connections with Oliver. This has led me to conclude that this whole business with these murders has been the result of a triumvirate of evil -featuring the likes of Police Commissioner Oliver Dray. Antoine Renard and the man who is really responsible for those obscene murders, probably Oliver's included…Tom Hawkspear.'
Berry rose from his seat, and squinted at Quaint. 'You've been busy, Mr Quaint.'
'Call me Cornelius, Sergeant. We're way past polite manners now.'
'Right…you're saying Oliver is…was…in cahoots with a mercenary and a murderer? You know, I guessed there was bad blood between you two, but considering that he can't exactly stand up and defend himself, I find this in extremely bad taste, man!'
'Sergeant, know this: if Renard is in Crawditch, with a paid killer on his books, all hell could break loose to make Dante's Inferno look like a dinner party at Buckingham Palace,' said Quaint. He ran his hands through his thick grey-brown curls, and placed his elbows on the desk in front of him. 'I know Renard, Sergeant…I know exactly what he can do, and the havoc that can spiral out of his actions. You need to come on board with me quickly on this one, because doing nothing is not an option-you can believe me on that.'