YOU'RE TWISTED, RENARD,' said Cornelius Quaint ardently. 'I always knew you were a cad, but to gamble your own mother's life…that's low even for you.'
'I do like to surprise, now and again,' Renard curled his tongue around his thin lips. 'So…what do you say? Do we have a bargain?'
'You already know what I will choose.'
'Indeed, for you truly have no choice,' said Renard. He thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out the glass vial of the deadly liquid. 'Don't worry about me. I've got enough poison to go around. I only need one single vial to do my job, and by now, the rest are well on their way to their destination.'
'The rest?' asked Quaint. 'How many of those damned things are there?'
'Enough.'
'And where is their destination, Renard?'
'Cornelius, I'm surprised at you, I really am…and you call yourself a conjuror? Do you really expect me to give up all my secrets? Where is the drama? Where are the surprises? Where is the suspense of it all?'
Unmoved by Renard's sarcasm, Quaint pressed the Frenchman with the one thing that he had as ammunition. 'What does the Hades Consortium plan on doing with the rest of the poison, Renard?'
Renard's expression fell. 'What do you know of the Hades Consortium?' he snapped, resighting his target with the pistol.
'I thought you liked surprises,' said Quaint deftly.
'It doesn't matter what you know, or think you know, Quaint. The Hades Consortium's plan for Egypt will proceed without interruption whether you know of it or not, unless you have a way of communicating from beyond the grave. In less than a month, the River Nile will run red with blood, and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it.'
'The Nile? I thought you planned on poisoning the Thames?' asked Quaint, trying to tease as much out of Renard as possible in case he needed to make use of it later. If there was a later, of course-an optimistic mind is easily fooled.
'The Consortium has many irons in the fire, Cornelius, and in many locations. Egypt's fate is but one of these. But back to business…poor Madame Destine doesn't have all night, you know,' Renard said. 'I went easy on her…I only gave her a small dose, and the antidote is only effective within sixty minutes. This poison is very punctual.'
'What exactly does it do?' asked Quaint.
'It kills,' said Renard, holding the vial up to the moonlight. 'With a hundred per cent success rate-that's all you need to know. Once this stuff mixes with the river, the current will do the rest for me. You should have seen what it did earlier. I have to give the stuff its due, although it's positively ghastly-it really is quite spectacular. Were Bishop Courtney still alive, I'm sure he would concur.'
'Bishop Courtney? That name keeps cropping up all over the place. On Tom Hawkspear's release papers from Blackstaff prison, for example. By now that Irish fiend should be long dead.'
'Well, that's your fault,' said Renard. 'Poor old Hawkspear is only a pawn in my game because of you.'
'What are you talking about?' said Quaint.
'Bringing Hawkspear to Crawditch was all for your benefit, did you not know? This scheme has been well planned, Cornelius, that is the way the Consortium does things.'
'How do you mean for "my benefit"?' It was then Quaint's turn to falter. 'Was Sergeant Berry correct, then? You involved me in your scheme intentionally?'
Reynolds laughed under his breath, squinting into the night sky. 'Simple physics, Cornelius. Sometimes you need to apply force from obscure angles to cause the right amount of pressure elsewhere,' a thin, crooked smile crept onto his face. 'I have orchestrated everything, my dear Cornelius-what, who, when, where -even Hawkspear's release from Blackstaff prison was on my command.'
'Twinkle's death, Prometheus taking the blame…Hawkspear was the one that did the killing…but you were pulling his strings all the time?' asked Quaint. 'Why Hawkspear specifically?'
'That maniac's appearance on the scene was engineered for one reason and one reason only-to occupy you, the great Cornelius Quaint, to keep you out of my way. I needed someone with the right amount of passion to become our killer, and once I'd discovered that Hawkspear shared a history with your strongman, it was too deliciously perfect to believe. Your man was nothing more than a very visible target. With your mind focused upon him, I knew it would be off the Bishop's plan.'
'So you were working for this Bishop character all along?' Quaint asked.
'When it suited me.'
'And the rest of the time working for the Hades Consortium, eh? No wonder you dragged poor old Oliver into this scheme of yours. Tell me; is Sir George still in the inner circle of the Consortium?'
'My, it seems you are remarkably well informed after all, Cornelius. I almost wish I had time to find out exactly how much you do know…but I've got a schedule to keep. Hurry up and drink the poison will you, there's a good chap.'
Quaint gritted his teeth, and measured up his situation. To save Destine, he would have to forsake his own life-that much seemed clear now. Renard was right; there was no choice, and no way out. The Frenchman was watching him like a hawk, his pistol trained at Quaint's head. There was only one way this would end, and both men knew it.
As Quaint raised the deadly vial to his lips, the stench of the acidic poison staggered him, scorching at his nasal canal. With one last glance in Renard's direction, he tipped the contents of the vial into his mouth. He instantly tasted the harsh, metallic-tasting liquid flow upon his tongue, tingling against the roof of his mouth. With a sideways glance at Renard's smug face, Quaint threw the glass vial onto the ground.
'Satisfied?' he asked bitterly.
Renard nodded. 'Very much so! I applaud your bravery, Cornelius.'
'The antidote, Renard, give it to me,' demanded Quaint.
'Take it…for all the good it'll do you. If Mother doesn't get that soon, she's dead, and you'll be following her not much later, so either way…I win,' he said, tossing the glass vial high up into the air. 'Catch!'
Suspended for an eternity, spinning in circles in the air, the antidote finally began to descend and Quaint threw himself onto the cobbles, and snatched up the vial before it hit the ground. He slowly unfurled one finger at a time to make sure the vial was intact.
'One day, it'll be just you and me, Antoine,' he said, watching Renard walk casually away towards the waiting coach. 'No tricks.'
'Coming from a conjuror, that's quite rich,' said Renard, skipping into the horse-drawn coach. 'I'll await your resurrection with bated breath, monsieur. I think I shall almost miss sparring with you. Wherever will I find a nemesis as worthy as you? Melchin…let's get going.'
Quaint winced as he felt an electric twinge wash over him from the pit of his stomach. The poison was already taking effect, as it had done so quickly with Destine. She was a woman in her seventies, more frail than she let on. She was in no position to put up a battle that was more about stubbornness and will-power than anything else. Fortunately for Quaint, he had those qualities in droves.
He rose unsteadily to his feet and stood in the centre of the street like a lost child, looking towards the area of Hyde Park, and then back down the street, as Renard's carriage melted into the shadows and faded from sight. Quaint watched his foe depart, with full knowledge that he was about to kill hundreds of people. Scratching furiously at his mop of curls, feeling the poison crawl slowly around his veins, Quaint looked up at the sky, feeling scattered raindrops pelt his face. He begged the grey clouds for guidance.
Quaint checked the time on his pocket-watch. 'Oh, well-in for a penny, and all that.'