Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'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.'

WITHIN SECONDS, QUAINT 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.'