Chapter Twenty-Seven
Titus raised his hands. It was impossible not to: The maid sounded as though she meant it.
“Sit!” she barked at Baynes. “And you too, Monsieur Pilcrow. You, dog, turn, and keep your hands in the air.”
Laxton, face red under a splatter of cream, turned as ordered. The maid jammed her pistol aggressively into his back, pulled the other gun out of his waistband, then stepped back. “Now sit, dog, with your friend. Bon. Entrez!”
Two more men came in at her call. One of them was Nico.
He looked dishevelled, even battered, with a dirty face, and no coat or waistcoat over his linen. His hands were behind his back as if the wrists were tied. The other man gave him a hard push, and he stumbled, tripped, and fell to his knees.
“Nico!” Titus yelped. “What—?”
“Quiet, mon ami,” Nico said. He sounded tense and afraid. “Just obey, I beg you. They are mouchards. Agents of the Bourbons.”
“Oui. Silence,” the other man said, in a voice that was resonant, commanding, and almost excessively French-accented.
Titus stared at him, utterly bewildered. The maid walked over to the French agent, keeping one pistol levelled on Baynes and Laxton, and gave him the spare. He took it with some care. Nico, on his knees, was breathing in a shallow, panicked, noisy way.
“You are indiscreet, La Motte,” said the French agent. “But it hardly matters now. Ah, that is the painting, mais non? Hand it over. A moi.”
“What? No!” Baynes said, and grabbed it.
The maid took three steps and levelled the gun directly at his forehead. Baynes said again, “No! It’s mine!”
“Take it from him, Monsieur Pilcrow,” the French agent said. “Carefully.”
Titus crept over, avoiding the line of fire, and took the edge of the frame. Baynes wailed. There was a brief tug-of-war that ended when the maid suddenly moved as if to club Baynes around the head with the butt of her pistol. He recoiled, and Titus jerked the painting free.
“Now give it to her, tout suite,” the French agent ordered. Titus handed it over. The maid took it, examined it critically, and shoved it in the grate.
“No!” Baynes screamed, and leapt to his feet.
“Keep him down,” the French agent ordered Laxton and Titus. “If he makes trouble, I will shoot you all.”
Titus and Laxton both grabbed Baynes, pulling him down on the settle. He struggled wildly as the maid doused the painting in oil from a phial and struck a light. There was a soft whoof as the dry canvas and paint ignited.
“No, no, no!” There were tears running down Baynes’s face. “Stop them! My Queen!”
“Shut your mouth, espèce de putain,” the maid said with entire contempt. She waited until the Queen blistered and burned and the painting was beyond any salvage, then retreated to stand by her colleague.
“Bien,” the French agent said. “Now it remains only to tidy up the loose ends, and the affair La Motte is concluded. Have they all drunk the wine?”
“Rapidly, it seems,” the maid remarked, slanting her eyes at Laxton.
“Bien. La Motte, you will drink now.”
“No,” Nico said, voice rising in panic. “No, please, not that. No, I will not!”
“Pour him a glass, Monsieur Pilcrow.”
“No!” Nico shrieked. “It’s poison, Titus! Poison!”
Titus gaped at his stained napkin. Laxton said, “What?” and turned to stare at his own, twice-emptied glass.
“You will drink, La Motte, or you will meet your end another way,” the agent said implacably. “You cannot live. You know what you should not.” He glanced around the room. “None of you can live.”
Laxton was shouting. Baynes gaped and gabbled. Nico leapt to his feet, babbling, “No, I beg you, not the poison, please, please—”
“Ah, tais-toi, jean-foutre,” the maid said. “If he will not drink—”
The French agent handed his pistol to the maid, who looked quite comfortable with one in each hand, covering the room. He pulled a knife from his pocket, took two unhurried steps over, and stabbed Nico in the chest.
The noise in the room cut off on the instant. All Titus could hear was Nico’s shocked, hiccupy inhalation. All he could see was a red stain spreading on the white shirt as the agent withdrew the knife.
Nico jerked and spat red. He folded down to his knees and fell sideways.
“So end the La Mottes,” the French agent said dispassionately. “Cover him up, Marie.”
The maid, who still held both pistols, gave him a look.
The agent added, “I will do it,” with great aplomb, strode out, and returned a moment later with a long coat, which he threw over Nico’s prone body.
“So unsightly. Gentlemen, I have been obliged to ensure your silence in this affair. The drug will take effect in perhaps half an hour.”
“Wait!” Laxton cried. “I don’t know anything about this! It’s nothing to do with me!”
“Then you have kept unfortunate company,” the French agent said without sympathy.
“If you sit quietly, without any movement at all, you will have longer before the pain starts. I regret your suffering, but it will be mercifully brief. I suggest you use the remaining time to make peace with your God. Your servants are unharmed, Mr. Pilcrow, merely restrained in the kitchen. Goodbye. Adieu.”
He turned on his heel and left. The maid followed, walking backwards to keep both guns levelled on the three men. She kicked the door shut behind her, and a moment later, Titus heard the front door open and close.
“What—?” Baynes said. “But what is happening?”
“We’ve been poisoned, you stupid old fool!” Laxton yelped. “Poisoned over some damned painting! Christ, my guts, I can feel it starting! What the devil?”
“Not the devil,” Titus said. He felt an odd sense of calm now, an unfamiliar certainty that he knew exactly what to say and do.
“The Bourbon secret police. The Comte de La Motte knew the truth about the Affair of the Diamond Necklace, and he was always afraid they would kill him for it. Did he not warn you of that, Mr. Baynes?”
“I would have kept it quiet!” Baynes almost screamed. “I would never have told!”
“And you won’t now. The Comte has been silenced for good, and so have you both.”
“And you!” Laxton said vindictively.
“No, I will be very well,” Titus said. “You see, I know the antidote.”
“What?”
The last time Titus had known this sense of wild power, he’d been between Nico’s thighs. “I know this poison. I know many poisons, as you have often observed, Mr. Laxton, and this is orpiment, a form of arsenic.” He indicated their stained napkins. “The colour is quite unmistakable.”
“Arsenic?” Laxton wailed.
“A very particular form of it, which has a little-known remedy. It is the matter of a moment to mix a draught that will counter the worst effects.”
“Yes! Yes!” Laxton shouted, starting to leap up and thinking better of it. “And you will give it to me. You will, won’t you?”
“Will I?” Titus said. “You drank three times as much of the poison as I did, so it will take you far faster than me. All I have to do is wait, and you will be out of my way for good.”
Laxton’s mouth opened, fishlike. Baynes, grasping the situation with surprising acuity, said, “Mr. Pilcrow, I beg your pardon. I never intended you harm. I only ever acted out of care for the Queen.”
“You had Evelyn Perreau beaten, and you tried to rob the Comte,” Titus said. “You came here with a gun.”
“For the Queen!”
“Be quiet, you miserable bedlamite.” Laxton was sweating badly. “For God’s sake, Pilcrow, I was desperate!”
“You killed Miss Whitecross. You came here to rob me. Why shouldn’t I just let you die?”
“I don’t want to die!” Laxton wailed. “Please!”
“Then give me my vowels,” Titus said, and held out a hand.
Laxton fished out the paper with the IOU. Titus tore it across twice, tossed the scraps on the smouldering remnants of the painting, and made sure they caught. “Very well: I will mix the draught. Stay extremely still.”
Laxton nodded submissively. Titus walked out with exaggerated care, ran up the stairs with his heart thundering, and returned a few minutes later holding a small phial. “You first, Mr. Baynes. Just a sip.”
He handed Baynes the phial. Baynes tipped it up to his mouth; Laxton lunged for him, and snatched the phial from his hand.
He swigged without care. Baynes let out a bellow and tackled him, and they struggled for a few seconds, until Titus gave in to temptation and stamped hard on the back of Laxton’s heel.
He shouted with pain. Baynes wrested the phial from him and shook the last drops into his mouth. “Not enough!”
“You’ve had as much as you need,” Titus assured him truthfully. “I daresay you will both feel very ill for a few days. You’ll want to be near a privy. In fact, you had better go and seek one now.”
“Eh?”
“Get out,” Titus clarified. “Get out of my house, the pair of you, and I hope you enjoy your gut-rot. And remember this: I know more poisons than the whole French secret police put together, and if either of you crosses my path again, you will never be able to trust another bite of food or drop of drink. Do you understand?” He sought for something that would express his feelings. “Jean-foutres! Espèces de, de swine!”
Baynes recoiled. Laxton seemed about to say something, but clutched his stomach with an alarmed look. Titus shouted, “Go!” and they went.
He stood in silence until he heard the hall door open and shut. He sat down hard, put his face in his hands, and breathed deeply.
Then he looked at Nico’s shrouded corpse and said, “You can get up now.”