The Equivoque Principle (27 page)

Holding Destine by the throat, Renard uncorked the vial with his front teeth and waved it under her nose like smelling salts. Destine tried to twist her soaking wet face from his grip, but Renard easily overpowered her.

‘You…you are still just a killer at heart,’ Destine spat, ‘no matter how grand you make yourself out to be.’

‘With respect, I am a lot more than
just
a killer,’ said Renard. ‘Killing is easy. On the other hand;
murdering
is a much more skilful business.’ The Frenchman held a finger to his ear as a loud crash of thunder exploded around them. ‘Do you hear that? That is your death knell sounding, Mother.’

Destine tore her eyes away from him, staring through the drizzle into the distance. She was listening to an ominous rumbling
sound, not just crashing in the skies above like thunder, but travelling against the wind. It echoed all around her from all sides, a droning, booming noise that grew ever louder. Destine began to grin to herself, as raindrops pelted her face.

‘Accepting your fate at last,
non
?’ Renard said.

‘Non
, Antoine,’ said Destine. ‘I am accepting
yours.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That sound you hear is not thunder,’ Destine said.

Galloping towards her at a furious pace through the liquid walls of rain was a horse. Sitting astride the horse—the moon-bathed light giving him a shining, silver aura—was Cornelius Quaint. As the rain pelted against his hard face, his black eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed, and he fixed his sights upon his target. Quaint dug his heels hard into the horse’s flanks, feeling the creature lurch forwards, and he gripped the rope around its neck tighter. Renard, kneeling by his mother’s inert form, was only a matter of yards away from him, and the sight re-energised his rage. The Frenchman was tantalisingly just out of his reach.

‘C’est impossible!
Quaint? You witch!’ Renard snapped. He grabbed Destine by the scruff of the neck, and tipped the vial’s contents forcibly into her mouth. ‘But you shall die long before I do, Mother. I have the only antidote, and unless you consume a cure within one hour—you are dead!’ Renard gloated, discarding the empty vial onto the grass. ‘
Au revoir
, Madame Destine.’

The Frenchman turned and sprinted towards the exit from the park where the Bishop’s driver was sitting waiting for him—it was a sin to let that transportation go to waste, now that the Bishop could no longer make use of it.

Destine gagged, rolling over on the soaking wet grass, over and over again, fighting for breath. Her throat burned as the liquid made its way down. She tried to close it off, but it was useless. The poison would soon be in her system and there was not a damn
thing she could do about it. Her vision was already beginning to lose cohesion, and the curtains of rain didn’t help. She reached out her arm towards the shadow thundering towards her, screaming Quaint’s name into the rain-filled wind, before unconsciousness stole her words, and she slumped onto her back.

Within a fraction of a second, Cornelius Quaint arrived at Des-tine’s side, and pulled the huge shire-horse to a halt. He leapt from the creature’s back, skidding onto the grass next to Destine, and snatched up her wrist, wiping the soaking strands of hair from her face. He pressed his cheek to hers. She was so very cold.

‘Destine,’ he shouted above the din of the downpour. ‘Destine, speak to me!’

He fell to his knees, cupping the Frenchwoman’s head in his hands. Her breathing was shallow, and her eyes rolled. He looked around frantically for assistance. Lifting Destine up into his muscular arms, he cradled her close to his chest. Quaint’s mind was flowing like quicksilver as he tried to think clearly, but he had no choice but to watch helplessly as Antoine Renard climbed into the rear of the carriage, less than two hundred yards away. Quaint fought every urge in his body. He wanted to give chase, but Destine shifted and moaned within his arms, snatching him back to reality. For once in his life, Cornelius Quaint had no idea what to do for the best.

‘Help! Help me,’ Quaint yelled into the darkness. ‘Ruby! Jeremiah! Anyone, quick,’ his voice boomed once more. The rain fell relentlessly, and sparkles of liquid pelted Destine’s pale, cold face. ‘I’ve got to get you out of this rain,’ Quaint said, holding his coat over her, offering a modicum of protection as he took her into her tent, laying her onto her camp bed.

In the distance, Quaint saw the faint glow of a lantern, and he yelled again for help, announcing himself. A few seconds later, a group of Quaint’s workers joined him inside the tent.

‘Harry! Bert!’ Quaint snapped, not even looking the men in the eyes. ‘Get the tinder-burner in here, pronto. And we need some hot soup…and water,’ he said, noticing the specks of perspiration appearing on the surface of Destine’s skin as a shiver ran through her body. ‘Christ, she’s got a bastard of a fever…run and get Nurse Madoc, we need her skills here, right away! And can someone
please
go outside and check on my horse.’

The group of men exchanged confused glances.

‘What’s up with her, boss?’ asked one of them.

‘God knows, Harry, I can’t see any sign of a wound…so I’m thinking maybe it’s her heart…but that fever…she’s burning up good and proper,’ Quaint said, scratching at his sodden locks. ‘Plus, I know who was just here…I saw the bastard run off into the night. His appearance was probably enough to put her into shock.’

Destine suddenly awoke and clutched at the air frantically, her arms and fingers outstretched as if electricity were animating her entire body. She screamed from the pit of her stomach, and arched her back. Her pale blue eyes rolled into the top of her head until only the whites remained, and her mouth trembled. Quaint shuffled himself forwards, taking her hands in his. Tenderly mopping at her brow with his handkerchief, he leaned closer.

‘Destine…it’s me. It’s Cornelius,’ he said, the emotion stealing the usual confident edge to his voice. ‘Can you hear me, Madame?’

‘Knew…you’d come,’ Destine said weakly, her eyelids fluttering erratically.

‘Madame, where does it hurt? What did Renard
do
to you?’

Destine craned her neck to look at him. She slowly lifted her hand, and dropped the empty vial that Renard had discarded into his palm. ‘Forced me…to drink…some kind of poison,’ she said. ‘Too late for me…my love.’

A middle-aged woman dressed in a thick dressing gown shuffled uncomfortably into the tent past the accumulated gathering, carrying a large medical bag.

‘Mr Q? Where’s the patient?’ the sweet-voiced woman asked.

‘Nurse, she’s here. It’s Madame—she’s been poisoned,’ said Quaint. He snatched up the vial, and took a brief sniff. ‘This doesn’t smell like any poison I’ve ever come across. It could be some kind of venom…perhaps snake? I don’t know. I arrived a few moments ago, and found her collapsed on the ground. Is there anything you can do?’

The plump nurse squinted at the vial in Quaint’s hand. ‘Poisoned?’

‘Someone
did
this to her. Now there must be something you can do!’ snapped Quaint.

‘Gosh, Mr Q, I don’t know…I’m not used t’stuff like poison, an’ suchlike! Let me ’ave a good look at ’er,’ the nurse said in a thick West Country accent, ‘It all depends on what type o’ poison it were, now don’t it? And ’ow she took it, whether it be a bite, skin contact or orally.’

Quaint was floored. ‘Orally, I think. She said he made her drink it.’

‘Right then,’ Nurse Madoc said, scouring Destine’s face for clues, ‘we need to try our best t’flush it from her system quick-smart. I’ve got a nasty wee ointment ’ere that’ll make ’er vomit like a first-time sailor. We need t’give ’er as much fluid as we can. If we’re lucky, we’ll dilute the poison’s effects before it reaches the bloodstream, or it’ll be all over ’er body in seconds. Now stand back, man.’

The occupants of the tent froze as Destine suddenly screamed, and gripped onto the side of the camp bed until her knuckles turned bone-white. She lifted her arm, and motioned to Quaint. He stumbled onto his knees and pressed his cheek against hers.

‘I’m here, Destine,’ he said.

‘Renard plans…to poison the river,’ she gasped, her dry lips cracked like sun-hardened mud. ‘Stop…him.’

‘Madame, what are you saying? The river? Which river?’

‘Thames. Oh, Cornelius, please…you must hurry.’

‘What? No, I can’t go anywhere, Destine. I’m needed here…with you.’

Destine gripped at his clothes, as if the effort took all of her strength. ‘No, Cornelius…no.’

‘But…the poison,’ he said, his hands shaking as he watched Destine’s strength ebbing away before his eyes.

‘Antoine…has cure,’ Destine said.

‘I…I don’t know about this, Destine. Where do I begin?’

Destine licked at her barren lips, trying to force the words to form themselves upon them. Her wild, tortured eyes implored Quaint’s very soul. ‘Whitehall,’ she said exhaustedly, before crashing back down onto the bed. ‘Renard’s gone…to Whitehall.’

W
ITHIN SECONDS
, Q
UAINT
had re-mounted his purloined horse and set off towards St James’s Palace. From there the fastest route was heading down Pall Mall a little way before streaking right across St James’s Park to his destination. Whitehall was a big place, nestled on the north-west side of the Thames in between the Westminster and Waterloo Bridges, and finding Renard would need some logical thinking and a fair amount of luck.

It was now just past a quarter-to-two in the morning, and the roads were silent and empty, thankfully bereft of horses and carriages. Quaint’s cumbersome, though strong and muscular shire-horse was maintaining a steady speed—if not as swift as Quaint would have liked. His journey so far had been an arduous one, both physically and mentally. Never had he given chase at such a slow pace before, and he almost felt it’d be quicker to get off and walk, until something from his memory came from nowhere. A phrase that he had picked up from some cattle merchants in Morocco years before announced itself upon his mind. As the horse cantered amiably along the cobbles, its heavy footsteps echoing off the enclosed streets, Quaint held on tight to the rope around the beast’s neck and leant towards its ear.

‘
Az-Toray
!’ he yelled.

The horse whinnied with a combination of shock and alarm as if woken from some deep slumber, and it instantly sprang to life, galloping forwards at double speed. Whatever that particular word meant to the animal, Quaint couldn’t care less, and as he gripped the rope for dear life he patted himself on the back, mentally noting that gem for future use.

He was still none the wiser about what plot he was involved in, but Renard and the Hades Consortium’s implication blinded him to the details. Right now, obtaining some kind of cure for Destine’s condition was the driving force—of course, considering that he had already spent the best part of twenty minutes getting barely a few miles from Hyde Park, time was definitely going to be a factor.

Quaint was nearing St James’s Park when he yanked hard on the rope to slow his horse down. A carriage was parked in the centre of the dark, deserted street, and a man lay on the ground beside it, writhing in pain. Renard was leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Quaint was almost relieved. If the Frenchman kept
that
up, it’d be easier to follow than a trail of breadcrumbs.

In a flash, Quaint was off his horse and kneeling at the man’s side.

‘He…came from nowhere,’ wheezed the man, his face contorted in pain.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ Quaint said, reaching for the man’s hand. ‘Did you see which way the felon went?’

The felled man slowly turned to look at him. ‘Yeah…he’s right behind you mate,’ chirped Melchin—the Bishop’s coach driver.

The sound of clapping filled the air, echoing off the confinement of the terraced buildings in the enclosed street. Quaint gradually rose to his feet, accepting the inevitable fact that he had just been taken for a fool.

‘Renard,’
he said.

‘Bravo, Mr Melchin,’ said Antoine Renard, as he stepped from the shadows of a nearby doorway into the streams of moonlight, continuing to clap his hands. ‘A cracking performance!’ Renard walked up behind Quaint, and aimed a pistol at a distance of no more than eight feet. ‘You can relax, Cornelius. I am not about to shoot you in the back.’

Quaint turned around slowly and his eyes met the physical embodiment of all his pain. It was almost a relief to look at him again, to prove to himself that the Devil did indeed walk the earth amongst men. Fifteen years of thinking that they would never meet again, fifteen years of a bubbling broth simmering on a stove, and fifteen years of searching for something that had no wish to be found.

‘You’ve got to admire the irony,’ Renard said, ‘for was it not this same predicament that signalled our last meeting?’

‘Except last time
I
was the one holding the pistol,’ said Quaint. ‘I should have dredged the Seine myself and thrust a wooden stake through your damned heart, like the Devil you are.’

‘If only your intelligence was as smart as your wit, Cornelius,’ said Renard, stepping closer, the gun steady in his hand.

‘Enough game-play, Renard, you know what I want.’

‘And what
do
you want, Cornelius? My head on a platter?’

‘All I want is the antidote to the poison.’

‘The antidote, he says?’ squawked Renard with a gesture of mock surprise. ‘So, you’ve seen Mother, then? Pitiful old wretch, isn’t she? And that is all you want? You don’t want
me?
You don’t want
revenge?
’ he taunted, intentionally stoking the embers of Quaint’s hatred. ‘Not even after all these years? Cornelius, you really know how to wound me.’

Quaint ground his teeth. ‘I wish that were so.’

The two men patrolled around the street, circling each other
slowly, neither one removing their eyes from the other. Both were now so focused upon the other that the world could have erupted into flames around them and it would have gone unnoticed. The street’s merchant stores and guest houses were derelict and beyond repair. A ghost town, it provided the perfect setting for these two foes. The thunder echoed about them, the lightning throwing white cracks of radiance around the sky.

Renard waved his pistol through the air like a bandleader conducting an orchestra. ‘Let me hear you ask for it, Cornelius…let me hear you
beg
for it.’

‘The antidote, Renard,’ said Quaint.

‘And the rest…’

‘The antidote, Renard…
please.’

Renard clapped his hands with glee. ‘I propose a trade: if you give me what
I
want—I will give you what
you
want.’

‘What could
I
possibly have that you’d want, Renard?’ asked Quaint, his calm exterior belying the maelstrom of emotions churning in his insides. He was watching his foe vividly, trying to guess what he would do next, but trying to outfox Renard was like trying to pinch quicksilver. Whereas Quaint’s demeanour was reactive and defensive, Renard’s was self-assuredly confident. He was effortlessly in control, and the Frenchman knew it. A crooked lightning vein sparked silver-white overhead, scarring the sky, and Renard was enjoying every second of his triumph.

‘What do I want,
monsieur?
Hmm, well that’s the fun part. All I want is to test your loyalty to my mother. You are more a son to her than I, and I am interested to see whether you could make the right choice if given a difficult dilemma,’ said Renard, the sudden flash of light accentuating the crooked scar down the left side of his face. ‘You can have the antidote for free; the only price I ask is this: I want to watch as
you
drink the poison too.’

Quaint scowled at him intently. ‘You wish to
poison
me? Come
on, Renard, where’s the sport in that? Would it not be simpler to just put a bullet in my brain?’ he asked, pointing to the gun in Renard’s hand.

‘Simpler, perhaps—but nowhere near as satisfying for me. You see, the problem is…there’s only one vial of antidote…just enough for one dose. I thought I’d make this task a bit more of a challenge for you—I know how you have a flair for the dramatic. Such a choice…’ gloated Renard, standing with his arms outstretched like a crucifix. ‘Your life on one side…Madame Des-tine’s on the other. Who lives—it’s up to you!’

‘You’re insane! How can you have so little regard for life?’

‘I am a killer for hire, Cornelius…having a cold heart comes with the job.’ Renard flashed his eyes wider at Quaint, as if showing him the darkness inside his soul. ‘But this is your decision; I do not wish to sway your judgement.’

‘This is
your
decision, Renard, not mine! And it is you alone whom I will hold responsible should Destine die.’

‘Sounds fair to me,’ grinned Renard. ‘Of course…you need to live if you wish to make good on your threat…and that is highly unlikely,
monsieur.
If you choose to drink the antidote yourself in some vain attempt to try and stop me—my mother’s death will be on
your
conscience. Her blood will be on your hands, and you must hold yourself responsible. Tell me, Cornelius; are you ready to make the ultimate sacrifice?’