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other thing you wanted to know about—that circus magician? A strange looking fellow in a cloak and top-hat you said, right? Mop of curls on his head?’
    ‘Yes, yes! What of him, boy?’
    ‘Well, he’s been to the station, just like you figured he would. He left there with some weird little Eskimo geezer about ten minutes ago. Thought I’d come and tell you right away, sir.’
    ‘Did he indeed?’ said Reynolds, rubbing his finger over his top lip. ‘Thank you, Constable, thank you very much indeed. Now, I shan’t keep you any longer, I’m sure you’re busy. Good day to you,’ Reynolds said, closing the front door.
    Once he had seen the outline of Jennings step away from the front of his house, Reynolds rested himself against the thick, oak door and slumped down onto the floor. He slid his tongue across his teeth as a broad smile manifested itself on his face.
    ‘Well, well, well. So…Cornelius Quaint has arrived in Crawditch, and is getting his hands dirty already, eh? That certainly makes things a little more interesting.’ He tapped his front teeth with his fingernails. ‘It will be such a great pleasure watching him die.’

CHAPTER VII
The Gathering
    A S ITS NAME IMPLIED , Dr Marvello’s Travelling Circus would be nothing without the means to travel. The steam train that carried all the circus equipment and crew was stationed a few miles away from the borough of Crawditch, at Grosvenor Park train station—a modestly sized, smoke-filled structure with a slatted glass roof and an atmosphere of grime and dust hanging persistently in the air.
    The massive steam engine and its four carriages were gaudily painted bright green with red swirling trimmings, and a yellow lightning flash adorned its sides. Alongside all the rather more sombre engines and carriages housed at the station, it stood out like a jester at a wake. Quaint was a firm believer in tradition, and he was loathe to repaint the extravagantly decorated train. It wasn’t proper for a circus train to be drab; it was a part of the show’s character all to itself, there to offer the public a glimpse of the spectacle to come—and Dr Marvello’s Circus thrived on spectacle. In fact it was renowned for it across many parts of Europe. The perfect synergy of traditional circus acrobatics, magical displays, feats of endurance, and the strange and the fanciful. The circus had performed to the likes of sultans and tsars, kings and queens, and always thrilled an audience. Of course, there was nosuch person as Dr Marvello. It was merely a theatrical pseudonym created to add an air of mystery to the circus. Cornelius Quaint had inherited the name when he inherited the circus, and he was quite unwilling to change it.
    The man himself was sitting in his office in a loose white cotton shirt and black waistcoat. An array of twenty or so colourfully dressed folk sat around him in a semi-circle as he held audience. His office near the front of the train was usually a warm and inviting room—with theatrical posters on the walls, old magicians’ equipment and costumes, keepsakes and heirlooms from his career. On this day, however, its atmosphere was dominated by an abundance of tears, sniffles and subdued silence as Quaint relayed the information about the loss of Twinkle, and of Prometheus’s fate. As he had imagined, this double blow tore right at the heart of his family.
    ‘I wish I had more to tell you, folks, but that’s it,’ Quaint said, elbows on the table in front of him, bridging his fingers into a steeple.
    He took a long, slow look around the room at the faces of those he had come to admire and respect. Every one of them had a vital part to play in his circus; every one was an essential cog in the machine. But Quaint was entertaining a thought that would see many of their abilities tested.
    ‘However…I must tell you that tonight I intend to visit Crawditch myself and launch a search for the fiend who murdered Twinkle. This task will be fraught