Quaint knew that Renard had a loathing for his mother, something that Renard blamed the conjuror for entirely, and hearing of his words, ‘Oedipus had nothing on me’, Quaint was in full understanding of the reference. It meant dire consequences for Destine. Renard was twisted and depraved, but, more than that, the devil was perfectly capable of carrying out his threat, and it was that which chilled Quaint’s blood.
Quaint looked from side to side of the road as he pounded down the moonlit streets. He was barely at Vauxhall Bridge, and he’d been running for twenty minutes flat out. He needed to find a quicker way to get to the park, because the way he was heading, he would soon collapse from exhaustion—and not even his famed stubbornness would help him. His eyes scanned the streets and alleyways as he blazed through them, searching for a bicycle or anything remotely resembling a mode of transport, and then he saw a most refreshing sight: an old rag-and-bone shop, closed for the day many hours previously. Quaint hoped that the tall, wooden gates to the rear of the shop would hold salvation to him.
He wrenched back the slats of wood that served as a fence, and squeezed his not inconsiderable bulk through the gap. But as he reached a large pair of wooden doors, his progress was barred by an indomitable-looking padlock. Fumbling around inside his coat, Quaint removed his pocket-watch. He depressed a button on the top and, with a click, the face opened up like a locket. Curled within the watch was a long, hook-shaped piece of metal, the ideal hiding place for a tool that had come in handy during more than one stage act. Quaint removed the metal probe, and instantly began picking the lock. Fingers trained in the art of escapology deftly navigated the pins, shafts and cogs better than any locksmith ever could and, within thirty seconds, the heavy padlock fell freely onto the floor with a dull chink. Quaint pulled open the doors and stared into the darkness of a musty, straw-strewn warehouse.
He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and after what seemed an age; he finally heard a snort echo back at him. His luck was holding out—for the time being, at any rate. That’s the problem with luck, it usually has a habit of running out just when you least expect it to. Like any half-decent rag and bone shop, this particular store hopefully contained something that Quaint could make good use of.
‘Hello, you old nag,’ Quaint whispered into the darkness. ‘I do hope you’re up for some exercise…I’m in an awful hurry.’
As if in answer to his words, a huge shire horse sauntered out into the yard. Quaint tugged at the rope around his neck, and gently led it to the moonlight to get a better look. It was a magnificent, muscular beast, exhibiting its age with misted eyes and a beard of wayward white hairs protruding from its chin like an old man’s whiskers. The animal was in its latter years, and it was in no particular hurry to go anywhere other than its warm and cosy stable. It would need some coaxing to do Quaint’s bidding, and he spied the depressed look in the animal’s eyes.
‘You look just like I feel,’ Quaint muttered.
Meanwhile, at Quaint’s destination in Hyde Park, the elusive Antoine Renard had arrived. He stood and stared at the huge yellow-and-red-striped circus tent, blowing into his dirty hands for warmth. He reached into the pocket of his jacket and caressed the small, velvet pouch beneath his fingertips. He looked around at the deserted circus tents covered with flags, banners and posters decorating the plot. Renard strolled silently into the area, his eyes flicking left and right searching for his quarry. He knew she’d be here, but he didn’t know how prepared she would be for his arrival. As sensitive to feelings as his mother was, surely his hatred would announce his presence louder than a foghorn. After walking around the many tents, booths, stalls and cages he saw the tent that called to him: Madame Destine’s tent. It stood out to him like a sore thumb amongst the others, his mother’s scent all over it.
He was about three feet from the canvas door when it suddenly burst open, and standing there waiting for him was Destine—a grim, determined look upon her face. The rain clouds above suddenly broke, as a metaphor underlining the bitterness between these two people. Sheets of water fell straight down from the sky, pelting the grass and bouncing off the nearby canvas tents rat-a-tat-tat.
‘We should have picked nicer weather for our reunion, Mother. Typical England, ne convenez-vous pas?’ said Renard. A twisted grin seeped onto his face, drifting across its surface like oil upon water.
‘I see that you did not meet Cornelius on your way here,’ Destine said.
‘What makes you say that?’ her son asked.
‘Because you are still alive,’ Destine lifted her black lace veil, and stared at him with penetrating eyes. ‘What are you doing here, Antoine? Have you not done enough damage; you seek to cause yet more?’
‘Oh, you know me, Mother,’ Renard said, placing his hand upon his chest in a mock heartfelt gesture. ‘I just couldn’t leave without saying au revoir.’
‘Do not call me “Mother”…you are no son of mine. You are the spawn of a demon, Antoine; you have tainted my life with your poisonous mind. I told you once, all those years past, and I shall tell you now…you are rotten to the core…just like Phillipe.’
Renard took a sudden step forward, causing Destine to flinch, but she bravely held her ground. ‘You aren’t fit to even speak my father’s name,’ he spat, his scarred face contorting into a violent sneer. ‘His dying wish was only to see you…one last time, to make amends…and you couldn’t even do that for him, could you?’
‘Did he seriously expect me to drop everything to go running back to the monster that I was running from?’ Destine demanded.
‘So…not only did Cornelius Quaint take you from me, he took you from Father as well. Quaint has a lot to answer for. I have had such fun with him over the past week…it’s such a shame that it has to end.’
‘Cornelius knew nothing of Phillipe’s death…I did not tell him,’ Destine said. ‘But why should I have? Phillipe was dead to me years ago.’
‘You lie! It was Quaint twisting your mind. Why do you always protect him?’ Renard’s eyes flared at the thought of Quaint. ‘You see him as a replacement for your abysmal failure of a son, non? A chance to rectify your past mistakes?’
‘No, Antoine—it was not I who made the mistakes. You are so infected with hate that it taints every word that spills from your mouth—just like your damn father,’ Destine shouted through the curtains of pouring rain. ‘He was nothing but a coward and a monster, Antoine, who subjugated the fears of others for his own desires.’
The tears flowed from her eyes, distorting her voice as she spoke, in fluent French now, in disjointed bursts—trying to ensure each word counted, for it might be her last. Even if she were to scream at the top of her voice no one else would hear her—for the rain spattered like rapid gunfire around them. She was praying silently in her head that Cornelius would turn up like a white knight and rescue her, but she knew he was miles away in Crawditch, far across the river—and heroes were few and far between in the real world. She was on her own, with her son walking a knife’s edge between sanity and insanity, and her life hanging in the balance.
Renard’s lips quivered in the rain as he tried to master his rage. He was like a steaming pot, boiling to the point where it reached critical overload. ‘No wonder Father hated you…why he was glad to see you go. He saw through you, you know…saw through you for what you truly are.’
‘Antoine…if you think your father was anything other than a lying, cheating bastard who put me—and you—through hell, then you are severely mistaken. Or do you not remember the nights you used to cry yourself to sleep after he beat you? Or when you walked in on him beating me? Do you know how many times I tried to get away, to get you away?’ Each word was spoken through gritted teeth, the emotion barely held in check, but tangible in every syllable. ‘I used to just hold you and weep—hating myself for bringing you into a world of such despicable cruelty. If only my premonitions could have given me warning of what was to become your fate…of the pain that you would eventually
cause others.’
Renard glanced up from the ground with seething, vehement eyes. A grumble of distant thunder broke many miles away, symbolising the tumultuous emotions of hate bubbling over inside of his cold, dark heart. ‘Your gifts are dulled on your own flesh and blood, Mother, I know that. For you see, I am something of a seer myself, although not yet in your league, I admit. You have been blinded by your own hatred.’
‘Hate may be a powerful emotion, Antoine…more powerful even than love. They both have the power to blind a sensitive. But you are wrong, it is not hatred that I feel for you, it is sorrow. I was not as blind to you as you think.’
‘If you knew that I would come, then why are you alone?’ Renard tested.
‘For all your crimes…as much as I may deny it, you are still born of my flesh. You have to let me help you, Antoine,’ Destine pleaded. ‘You have to let me cleanse your father’s anger from your heart once and for all.’
‘Cleanse me? Have you any idea how pathetic you sound? Cleanse me, like I am some filthy wound that cuts the surface of the skin? By now you must realise that I am who I am, what I am, through and through. Each sinew of every muscle and fibre of my being loathes you, Mother, I need no cleansing,’ mocked Renard. ‘I didn’t come here to make happy families…I came here to watch you die.’ His hand came from nowhere, striking Destine across the cheekbone, and she fell to the ground.
‘You even hit like your father,’ said Destine, as she wiped a thin crease of blood from the corner of her mouth ‘You may speak these words to me…but it is with your father’s voice. He has poisoned you.’
‘Poison?’ yelled Renard, striding around the fallen Destine like a lion reviewing its prey for the best angle of attack. ‘What a simply wonderful idea, Mother.’ Renard reached into his jacket pocket, squatting down at Destine’s side. She slowly rolled onto her back, her long wet dress clinging to her as if it were made of tar. ‘Unlike my father, I shall have the luxury of watching you die,’ Renard said, baring his teeth. He brandished a small glass vial in his wet hand.
Shards of rain-filtered moonlight bounced off its glass surface, and Destine squinted through the rain. ‘What…is that?’ she whispered.
Renard glared proudly at the half-full vial of clear liquid. ‘Although a fool of a priest believed this to be an elixir of immortality, it is not any longer. Now it is the most potent poison ever concocted by man or nature, and it is the means of your death. I only wish I could spare more, but this stuff is in short supply. You’re only getting dear old Bishop Courtney’s leftovers, but it’s enough to do you harm.’
‘You…you came all this way to poison me? Tell me, Antoine, do you loathe me that much?’ wept Destine. Her son was now truly lost to her, lost to rationality, lost to reason.
‘Don’t flatter yourself, Mother. My business in England brings me just a few short miles from here in Whitehall…you are merely a bonus.’
‘Your business? What business do you speak of?’
‘Do you really expect me to sit here and run off at the mouth until your prodigal son turns up? I’m afraid not, Mother…but I will let you in on a little secret…soon the River Thames will run with this poison, killing anything it comes into contact with. Mixing the stuff with salt water will augment its potency a hundredfold, and it will spread like wildfire, tainting not just the dockland districts, but it’ll seep everywhere, right into London’s heart. Not even the great Cornelius Quaint can stop what is in motion this time.’
Destine shivered as the icy hand of dread stroked against her spine. If this poison Antoine gloated about could cause so much damage in a body of water the size of the Thames…what horrors would it inflict upon her?
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 d
istance, 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?’
The Equivoque Principle Page 25