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

CHAPTER X
The Messenger

IT WAS CLOSE to midnight, and Westminster Abbey's annexe building was empty apart from a few priests and theology students scurrying about like minnows in a stream. Skirting from one place to the next, the students-known in the sanctum as 'alumno'-were electric with something akin to gossip. There was a murmur on the wind-Bishop Courtney was in residence. Staying within the lush, ornate apartment situated in the west wing of the church away from prying eyes and spying ears, the Bishop was virtually a celebrity, and every one of the students wished to meet the man, him being one of Her Majesty's most trusted advisors.

Behind the varnished oak doors on the top floor of the annexe building, Bishop Courtney scoured through the reams of paperwork upon his cluttered desk. He scooped up a golden goblet with chubby fingers, and poured the contents down his gullet. There was a gentle knock on the door and the golden knob turned slowly, as the door inched open. The Bishop checked the ornamental carriage clock on the vast fireplace and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. A young student priest was stood pensively in the doorway.

'Yes, what is it, alumno?' snapped Bishop Courtney, turning his portly mass around to face the door. 'I thought I ordered not to be disturbed!'

'Sorry, your Grace, but a Reverend Fox is in the reception hall requesting an audience with you. Shall I permit him entrance?' the young priest asked, cowering as if he were pleading for his life.

'Reverend Fox?' asked the Bishop. He scowled into his goblet of wine curiously, and then his eyes suddenly sparked wide open, as if he had just been startled by gunfire. 'Ah! Reverend Fox, you say? Well, by all means, show him in, boy.'

'Very good, my Lord,' said the alumno, bowing his head.

A few moments later, a tall, thin man dressed in black priestly robes and a white dog collar entered the residence, and closed the door firmly behind him.

'Evening, Bishop,' snapped a heavily disguised Mr Reynolds. As well as bogus priestly garb, the man also wore a wicked grin across his gaunt face. 'Burning the midnight oil, I see?'

Bishop Courtney didn't bat an eyelid. 'I thought I told you that you were only to use the Fox identity if there was an emergency, Mr Reynolds. So what news is about to ruin my night?' he asked, nervously twisting his large ruby ring around his finger.

'You're more right than you know, Bishop.' Mr Reynolds's face stiffened, as he approached the large fireplace. 'Not long ago I received a message from my eyes and ears in Crawditch. It seems that Arthur Peach, the landlord of The Black Sheep, has recently received a visit from Cornelius Quaint.'

The Bishop raised an eyebrow. 'Quaint? The conjuror you mentioned?' he said. 'And so what? I don't expect to be disturbed for trivialities, man. You came all the way to Westminster just to tell me that?'

'Not just that, Bishop.' He strode briskly over to the Bishop, his hands held loosely behind his back. 'It seems Quaint put the frighteners on Peach, and he spilled his guts. Now he knows about Hawkspear, and he knows about the whisky! He knows it was drugged. Plus, he's been hanging around the police station, trying to see his employee…the one incarcerated for the murders.'

'Once again, Mr Reynolds, I find myself asking how this affects me? Do you really think that I pay you to be involved in petty details? This man Quaint doesn't know of your involvement in this, does he? Or my own? Then I fail to see how this can be connected to my office and, as such-I don't care a whit about it. This is your plan, remember? Perhaps you should choose your men more carefully in future.'

Reynolds gripped the back of Courtney's chair, his face tense. 'Quaint is no fool. I told you, I have history with him. I know the way he thinks.'

'Unless I am missing something, this man is a mere circus magician, is he not? An old has-been entertainer who now runs a circus? He's hardly a threat, Reynolds. I mean, it's not like he can read minds, is it?'

'Actually, some folk say he can,' said Reynolds grimly. 'He's a terrier, Bishop-once he gets a whiff of something, he'll not rest until he digs out the answers-and with his circus strongman involved to boot, it's practically lit a fuse right under him! We need to be on our guard, my Lord.' The slender man paused, mulling over his next sentence carefully. 'I think we should call off Hawk-spear for a bit…let things simmer down.'

'Absolutely not!' The Bishop's temper rose swiftly. 'Mr Reynolds, may I remind you that Mr Hawkspear is on lease from Blackstaff prison to perform a service for me, and that service is to scare the wits out of everyone who lives in that flea-pit of a borough. You're just letting your nerves get the better of you, that's all. The plan will continue as we agreed-no deviation! So far we only have three corpses on the streets, not nearly enough to send a clear-cut message to those people, and certainly not enough to make them pack up and leave town. Do not forget, I need that district cleared of its inhabitants within the week, Mr Reynolds-or need I remind you of my schedule?'

'What? You think we should just carry on, and hope that Quaint doesn't get wind of our plan? You want me to be continually looking over my shoulder, do you, hoping Quaint's not stood there? That's taking a lot of unnecessary risks, Bishop.'

The Bishop buried his head in his hands. 'All right…let me think. This man you speak of…this Cornelius Quaint chap…if he really is as dangerous as you say, perhaps we can arrange for a little…accident to befall him.' The greasy skin of the Bishop's face caught a glint from the fireplace, as he leaned forward in his chair. 'Get some men together, some good, reliable men lacking in morals and with questionable consciences. Pay them whatever it takes, and see to it that Mr Quaint finds himself in their company.'