"The equivoque principle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Craske Darren)

CHAPTER IX
The Black Sheep

LATER, ONCE THE shroud of night had draped its cold, dark hand across Crawditch's streets, Cornelius Quaint stood opposite The Black Sheep tavern, and eyed the place with keen interest. He had shrugged off Destine's warning and continued with his plan, just as the Frenchwoman had guessed he would. Not the type to run from danger, he was more likely to sneak up behind it, tap it on the shoulder and announce himself. He looked around the late night streets of Crawditch. All his people were in position. The black-clad duo of Yin and Yang leapt like cats from one rooftop to the next in a synchronous fluid motion in the pitch darkness as easily as if they were walking down a familiar street. Ruby was standing by Quaint's side wearing a long, flowing dark-green cloak that covered her body completely, and Jeremiah waited pensively across the street, bathed in waning light from the gas lamp above him.

'It's show time,' said Quaint.

The occupants of The Black Sheep stopped drinking in unison as soon as Ruby strode into the tavern. All eyes were upon her, their necks craning to follow her every move as she approached the bar. The landlord followed suit as Ruby flicked coiled spirals of copper-brunette hair away from her eyes.

'Evenin', ma'am,' he said with a nod of his head. 'It's a bit risky for a lady to be out alone at this time of night, innit? Y'know, what with all these murders afoot? Most ladies are rightfully worried.'

'My father was a merchant seaman, sir, I am not one easily worried,' Ruby said, her eyelids fluttering a gentle tempo with the beat of her voice. 'Might you be the proprietor of this establishment, sir?'

The barman nearly swallowed his own tongue. 'I…I'm Arthur Peach, yes, the…ah…proprietor. Listen, you're not one of Hilda's girls, are you? I mean, I know I said I'd pay for what I owe…but business has been slow. Surely she'll allow me a few more days?'

Ruby unclipped the brooch fastening her dark cloak together, and it fell open at the front. Like a pair of drab theatre curtains, parting to reveal a magnificently decorated stage, her ample cleavage blossomed forth into the man's view. Her curvaceous breasts descended into tantalising shadow beneath the bodice of an emerald-coloured, low-cut dress, fitted tightly around the waist by a broad red silk sash. Ruby smiled a toothsome smile at the landlord.

'Mr Peach, I am not one of Hilda's girls, so you may relax,' she said sweetly. 'My name is Ruby Marstrand. A mutual friend of ours has requested that I visit you to…repay his thanks for the little job with the whisky last night.'

'The Irishman?' asked the barman, scratching at his head. 'But, Mr Hawkspear already paid me more than enough. Listen, why don't you-?'

Ruby pressed her finger against his lips. 'Shhh. Is there somewhere a little more…private that we can go? Mr Hawkspear really is very grateful, you know…and he's asked me to prove it to you properly…if you get my meaning.'

'What, you…you mean you want to…with me? What, right now? Here?' stuttered Peach, his lust silencing the logical, questioning side of his brain.

'Mr Hawkspear believes in bad rewards for bad behaviour, Mr Peach,' teased Ruby with a wink. 'And you have been very, very naughty.'

'Christ, love, if you ain't one of Hilda's girls, then I must surely be the luckiest bleeder in the bar,' snorted Peach.

'Not yet, silly, but you soon will be,' whispered Ruby delicately into Peach's ear.

'Oh, right…well,' the landlord looked around him at the small group of customers down the far end of the tavern, and smeared his cuff across his nostrils. 'Well, I s'pose no one will miss me for a few minutes, eh?'

'A few minutes? My, you do know how to spoil a girl' giggled Ruby. 'How about over there in the booth?'

At the far end of the tavern, the door opened and Jeremiah entered, cutting a swathe through the fog of tobacco. He was dressed in full clown make-up and costume, and the alcohol-pickled occupants of the bar took second looks to make sure the rum and ale hadn't addled their senses. The clown demanded the attention in much the same way as Ruby had, but for entirely different reasons. Jeremiah approached a long table populated by some grisly-looking regulars and grinned broadly. Their eyes instantly caught sight of him, and a cacophony of laughter followed.

'Gawd!' one of the men laughed. 'What's Arthur put in 'is ale tonight?'

One of the men nearly spat his drink across the table. 'Crikey! Alf, look, it's your missus come to fetch you home.'

'Good evening to you, lads. The name's Jerry the clown,' Jeremiah beamed. The white greasepaint covered his entire face, except for bright red-painted lips and surprised eyebrows halfway up his forehead. He wore an orange wig, a jaunty bowler hat and a large, bulbous red nose perched on the end of Jeremiah's own large, bulbous nose. 'Dr Marvello's Circus is in town, and I'm just drumming up a bit of trade, know what I mean? I can see you lads are of a discerning nature when it comes to your entertainment. Well, how'd you fancy some free tickets to the show, eh?' he said, throwing a handful of bright yellow tickets onto the table. 'Hey, all of you lot over there, come on. Help yourself!'

Swarming from various parts of the bar, the other patrons ushered themselves over at the mention of the word 'free'. Crawditch's residents were not the sort to pass up anything that wouldn't cost them a penny, and the men huddled together, snatching at the tickets laid on the table. One of them cracked a joke about Jeremiah's baggy trousers, held up by braces over a yellow and red spotted shirt. Jeremiah flicked at his oversized bow tie, and stamped his feet onto the sawdust-littered floor.

'Oh, so you're after a free show right now, are you? Right then,' he slapped his hands together, and grinned. 'Did you hear the one about the whore with a wooden eye?'

At the opposite end of The Black Sheep, landlord Arthur Peach couldn't believe his luck. Ruby led him by his shirt collar to the secluded booths, and he practically stumbled the whole way there, where he suddenly came face to face with a grim-faced Cornelius Quaint. He had slipped in through the tavern's rear entrance unobserved when all eyes were transfixed by the wondrous image of Ruby. Quaint was reclining in a wooden chair with his dark-grey cloak cast behind him, and his arm rested casually on his knee as if he were expecting this visitor.

'Here, what's all this then?' Peach said nervously to Ruby as he spied Quaint's bleak face. 'I wasn't expectin' an audience, love.'

Quaint motioned to the bench to his right. 'Be a good dog and sit.'

The man was a bag of nerves at the sight of Quaint's ice-cold features, but he did as he was instructed. His forehead was speckled with droplets of anxious sweat, and his tongue darted about his dry lips like a serpent tasting the air.

'My name is Cornelius Quaint,' said Quaint. 'And you are?'

'Arthur Peach…the landlord of this place,' the nervous landlord said, his parched lips making a clicking noise every time he spoke.

'Charmed, I'm sure,' lied Quaint.

Peach shifted in his seat uncomfortably, his eyes darting left to right. 'Look, what's this all about? I've got a bar to run 'ere, see, and I ain't in the mood for no fun and games.'

'Well that is such a shame, Mr Peach, because I am. You and I are going to play a little game of life or death-your life, to be exact,' Quaint stood up quickly, and slammed the heavy oak table into Peach's gut, its pointed corner gouging into the man's groin hard, pinning him against the wall. He gasped for air, his eyes watering and his forehead glistening like a star-filled night sky.

'Last night a young woman was murdered not far from here,' shrilled Quaint. 'What do you know of it?'

Peach scowled. 'Nothing! I…I don't know nothing,' he gasped, clawing at the table digging into his gut, trying to take in a lungful of air.

'That's a double negative, Mr Peach. But if there's one thing I hate more than bad grammar-it's a liar,' Quaint shoved the table harder into the man's groin with all his strength, which was not inconsiderable. 'The victim was a dwarf. She and a gentleman of great size were drinking in this tavern last night.'

'So were a lot of people. What makes you think I had something to do with it?'

Quaint smiled ingenuously. 'Because the giant happens to be a very good friend of mine, and due to your actions he happens to be in a lot of trouble. I don't like seeing my friends toyed with, Mr Peach, do you understand me? It…aggravates me, and I do so hate being aggravated. It plays havoc with the digestion.' Quaint's dark eyes narrowed in on Peach, and fixed the man a penetrating stare. 'My friend was drugged…and drugged by whisky that you gave to him. What have you got to say for yourself?'

Ruby leaned towards Quaint and whispered in his ear. 'He just told me that some Irishman named "Hawkspear" paid him to give Prometheus the whisky.'

'Hawkspear, eh?' said Quaint. He brought his weight down hard on the table, and an electric stab of pain resonated once again between Peach's legs. The landlord yelped like a dog whose tail had been stepped on. 'My time is precious to me, Mr Peach, and if your scrotum is precious to you, then I suggest you hurry up and tell me what I want to know!'

Peach stared blankly at Quaint. 'Why don't you go an' get buggered!' he spat, his lips quivering as he fought against the pain. 'You'll get nothing from me.'

With a flash, Quaint's fist darted from within the folds of his dark cloak and punched the landlord square in the face. Tears formed in the landlord's eyes instantly, and a dab of dark blood trickled from his nose. 'Mind your language, Mr Peach, there's a lady present,' he scolded.

'You're dead meat,' Peach wheezed, trying to catch his breath. 'Any second now, one of my lads down there is going to see what you're up to. They won't stand for it. They'll be on you like a shot. You'll be picking up your teeth, and she'll wish she'd never been born, know what I mean?'

From the far end of The Black Sheep, whoops and cheers echoed around the tavern, followed by a wave of gut-wrenching laughter, as Jeremiah entertained the locals.

'By "your lads", I assume that you're referring to the patrons at the far end of the tavern?' said Quaint, cupping a hand to his ear. 'It sounds like your friends are otherwise engaged. I'm afraid that you, Mr Peach, are very much on your own.'

'I ain't scared of an old man like you,' Peach said defiantly, despite the quivering wreck of the rest of his body.

'My dear man, it is not I of whom you should be frightened,' said Quaint with a smile, relaxing his weight from the table. 'But my female companion here is another matter entirely.'

Peach slumped into his chair, clutching at his groin.

'Ruby, my dear, I wonder if you would mind showing Mr Peach what I mean?' Quaint grabbed Peach's right hand and thrust it down hard onto the table, splaying his fingers. Peach winced, but his attention was wisely on Ruby, not Quaint.

'Love to, Mr Q,' Ruby said, unbuttoning the fastenings on the front of her dress. Not removing her gaze from the landlord, she slid her nimble fingers down into the shadows, and produced a slender silver dagger from a hidden scabbard in her cleavage. Holding it between her thumb and forefinger, Ruby flipped the knife up into the air, catching it perfectly by its point on her fingertip. Then, holding her palm flat with the knife upon it, she gently flexed her fingers, and the knife rocked in a see-saw motion before rotating in a complete circle. Peach's eyes were mesmerised by the display, as the knife almost took on a life of its own. With a deft flick upwards, Ruby tossed the knife high into the air once again. It fell in slow motion; landing with a dull thud in between Peach's outstretched fingers, a fraction of an inch from his skin. That was the second time that night that Ruby had nearly caused Peach to swallow his tongue. The landlord watched the knife like a man entranced as it swayed like a metronome half an inch into the wooden table.

Quaint's booming voice snapped him back into the room. 'Miss Marstrand here was trained by a remarkably gifted German fellow named Viktor Dzierzanowski, arguably the best knife-smith in the modern world, and a favourite of Prince Albert himself, I understand,' Quaint said, absentmindedly picking at his fingernails. 'Ruby was Viktor's prize pupil, and she can skewer a bluebottle at twenty paces.'

Ruby shrugged, coyly pretending to hide her embarrassment. 'Well, that's awfully sweet of you to say, Mr Q, but I have to admit, I am a bit rusty. Perhaps Mr Peach would appreciate a more…practical demonstration. Tell me, what shall I aim for -his ears or his balls?' she asked innocently.

The nervous barman nearly fainted on the spot. His forehead was swamped with a sudden flurry of fresh, speckled perspiration and his lower lip quivered like a fish on an angler's line.

'W-W-What did she j-j-just say?' he stammered.

'Ears or balls, Mr Peach, ears or balls!' Quaint thundered. He pretended to mull over the question, closely inspecting the man's ears, before glancing briefly down at his already tenderised groin. 'Well, he's got two of each, so from where I'm sitting they're much of a much-ness, my dear. Perhaps Mr Peach has a preference.'

'Hmm,' Ruby said, as she plucked her knife from the table. She held it up and squinted, aiming at Peach's head. 'The earlobes look a bit more of a challenge, don't you think, Mr Q? Look at them tiny little things. Like little rat ears, aren't they? But I might miss them altogether and catch him straight in the eye, and you know how much mess that makes.'

Quaint enjoyed watching the colour drain from the landlord's face. 'Don't remind me! You remember that poor fellow who accosted you backstage in Belgium?'

'Gosh, yes,' giggled Ruby. 'I threw the knife so hard it embedded itself in the poor man's skull and no one could pull it out! The funeral was a nightmare. They had a devil of a time finding a coffin to fit him.'

'What?' squawked Peach, more of a bystander in this conversation.

'Perhaps the testicles would be a much safer bet then, my dear,' said Quaint. 'There'll be a lot less blood, and at least there's a one in three chance of hitting something painful.' Quaint tapped the landlord on his shoulder, and the man leapt in fear. 'I notice you aren't a married man, Mr Peach. Not planning on having children then? That's probably for the best.'

Peach's skin was now so pale that it was practically transparent.

'All right, all right, man!' he said, slamming his hands on the table, petrified to the point of collapse. 'I don't owe Hawkspear nothing. Just call her off, and I'll tell you anything you want to know, I swear!'

'Splendid,' smiled Quaint. 'You see how reasonable you can be with the correct level of motivation, Mr Peach?' He rocked back in his chair and linked his fingers together, delighted with his powers of persuasion. 'Do tell me all-and leave out not one scrap of detail.'