Ben was silent.
‘I only thought…for parents to name their two children Benedict and Ruth. A rather Biblically-orientated choice, wouldn’t you say? Ruth Hope…a sadly ironic name. Because there was no hope for her, was there, Benedict?’
‘How did you find out about my sister? It’s not part of my professional résumé.’
‘Oh, when you have money, you can find out anything, my dear young friend. I thought it was interesting that you chose the work you did, Benedict,’ Fairfax went on. ‘Not a detective, not a finder of information or stolen property–but a finder of lost people, especially lost children. It’s obvious that what you were truly seeking was to expiate your guilt over losing your sister. You’ve never got over the fact that your negligence caused her death…and perhaps suffering that was worse than death. Slave-traders aren’t known for their kind ways. Rape, torture, who knows what they may have done to her?’
‘You’ve been busy, haven’t you, Fairfax?’ Fairfax smiled. ‘I’m always busy. I realized you could never refuse a mission to save the poor, sick little child of the same name and same age as your lost sister. And I was right. It was the story of my granddaughter that persuaded you to help me.’
‘Interesting choice of words, Fairfax. Story?’ Fairfax chuckled. ‘However you prefer to put it. A fabrication. A deception, if you want me to be completely honest. There is no Ruth. No dying little girl. And, I’m afraid, no redemption for you, Benedict.’ Fairfax got to his feet and walked to a sideboard. He lifted the lid of a large casket and brought out a small gold chalice. ‘No, no dying girl,’ he repeated. ‘Only an old man who lusts after one thing above all else.’ He gazed in dreamy fascination at the chalice. ‘You’ve no idea what it feels like, Benedict, to approach the end of a life like mine. I’ve achieved so many great things and created such wealth and power. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my empire in the hands of lesser men–men who would squander and spoil it. I would have gone to my grave a most unhappy and frustrated man.’ He held up the chalice as though proposing a toast. ‘But now my worries are over, thanks to you. I will become the richest and most powerful man in history, with all the time in the world to fulfil my ambitions.’
The door opened and Alexander Villiers came into the room. Fairfax glanced knowingly at his assistant as he approached them. Villiers’ lips spread into a broad grin as he drew a snub-nosed Taurus .357 revolver from his pocket and aimed it at Ben.
Fairfax laughed. He raised the chalice to his lips. ‘I wish I could drink to your good health, Benedict. But I’m afraid it’s the end of the road for you. Villiers, shoot him.’
Villiers pointed the revolver at Ben’s head. Fairfax closed his eyes and drank greedily from the gold chalice.
‘Before you shoot me, there’s something you should know,’ Ben said. ‘What you’ve just drunk isn’t the elixir of life. It’s tapwater from your own bathroom.’
Fairfax lowered the chalice. A dribble of the water ran down his chin. The look of rapture on his face drained away. ‘What did you say?’ he said slowly.
‘You heard me,’ Ben said. ‘I must admit, you had me fooled. You were right about me–I was blind to your lies. It was brilliant, Fairfax. And it almost worked. If it hadn’t been for a punctured tyre and meeting your head of stables, you’d be standing there with the real elixir.’
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Fairfax in a strangled voice.
Villiers had lowered the gun. His face was twisted in thought.
‘Herbie Greenwood’s been working on your estate for thirty-five years,’ Ben went on. ‘But he’d never heard of any Ruth. You never even had children, Fairfax, let alone grandchildren. Your wife died childless. There was never any little girl here.’
‘What have you done with the real elixir?’ Fairfax shouted. He threw down the gold chalice. It clanged dully and rolled across the floor.
Ben reached into his pocket and took out the small glass bottle that Antonia Branzanti had given him. ‘Here it is,’ he said. And before they could stop him, he whipped back his hand and hurled the bottle into the fireplace. It smashed into a thousand tiny shards against the iron grate, and the flames flared high for an instant as the alcohol preservative in the mixture burned up.
‘How does that grab you, Fairfax?’ Ben asked, looking him in the eye.
Fairfax turned, white-faced, to Villiers. ‘Take him and lock him up,’ he ordered in an icy voice, barely containing his fury. ‘By God, Hope, you will talk.’
Villiers hesitated.
‘Villiers, did you hear me?’ Fairfax thundered, his face turning from white to red.
Then Villiers raised the revolver again. He turned towards his employer and trained the gun on him.
‘Villiers, what are you doing? Have you gone mad?’ Fairfax backed away, cowering.
‘He hasn’t gone mad, Fairfax,’ Ben said. ‘He’s a spy. He works for Gladius Domini. Don’t you, Villiers? You’re the mole. You’ve been reporting back every move I’ve made to your boss Usberti.’
Fairfax had backed away as far as the fireplace, the flames roaring and crackling behind him. His eyes were pleading, and his trousers were wet with urine. ‘I’ll pay you anything,’ he bleated. ‘Anything. Come on, Villiers–let’s work together. Don’t shoot.’
‘I don’t work for you any more, Fairfax,’ Villiers sneered. ‘I work for God.’ He pulled the trigger. The high bark of the .357 Magnum drowned out Fairfax’s scream. The old man tore at his clothes as a dark-crimson stain began to spread rapidly across his white shirt. He staggered, clutched at a curtain and brought it down.
Villiers shot him again. Fairfax’s head snapped back, a small round hole between his eyes. Blood spattered up the wall. His knees crumpled and he slid lifelessly down to the floor, still clutching the curtain. It fell with him, one end in the fire. The curling flames ate greedily along its length.
Before Ben could leap across the dining-table, Villiers had spun round and was aiming the gun at him from across the room. ‘Stop right there.’
Ben walked around the table and moved steadily towards Villiers, watching his reactions. He could see the man was nervous, sweating and breathing a little harder and faster than usual. He’d probably never shot anyone before, and he was all alone in a tough situation. He hadn’t reckoned on this turn of events, and his organization was in tatters with no back-up to offer him. But a nervous man could be as deadly as a confident one. Perhaps even deadlier.
He tensed the gun and aimed it at Ben’s face. ‘Stay back,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll shoot.’
‘Go ahead and kill me,’ Ben said calmly. He walked on. ‘But then you’d better start running. Because when your boss gets out of jail he’ll track you down and have you tortured in ways you can’t imagine for losing him his prize. Shoot me, you might as well shoot yourself.’
Flames had spread from the curtain across the rug. Fairfax’s trousers were on fire. A sickly smell of smoke and burned flesh filled the room. Fire trickled up the side of a sofa, quickly gaining a hold on the upholstery, licking and crackling.
Villiers had edged backwards close to the spreading flames. The hand clutching the gun was shaking.
‘There’s only one problem,’ Ben went on. He could feel his rage building up inside him like a cold, white light. He glared hard at Villiers as he advanced steadily towards him. ‘You can’t take me alive, not on your own. You’re going to have to pull that trigger, because if you don’t I’m going to kill you myself, right now.