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Blakeney was not a bad man, when life permitted otherwise. He could be kind to children and lunatics. He felt a pang of compassion.

‘Are you well, Prince?’

Talleyrand was going to say ‘never better’ but out of nowhere a genuine fruity cough appeared. Dealing with it took some time.

‘We can do this some other time…,’ offered Sir Percy.

Talleyrand took out a peach coloured silk handkerchief and dabbed his mouth.

‘Actually, we cannot. I have something to impart to you. But I forget my manners: you spoke first. What is your news?’

Sir Percy recalled issues more important that some frog traitor’s health.

‘We’ve found that chap who deserted from the Heathrow Hecatomb knowing too much. Frankenstein. The one who went on the rampage with the Lazaran Lovelace woman…’

Talleyrand could still cut it, should he care to. His face was a mask. One hand gestured underwhelment.

‘One vaguely recalls…’

‘Well,’ said Sir Percy, ‘her husband—a friend of mine you’ll recall—has been running me ragged about her. Our ambassador in Rome has now picked up the trail. Apparently, Frankenstein has turned papist—perhaps he always was. A lot of foreigners are, apparently.’

Talleyrand would have winced if only he had the energy.

‘Really? Gracious me.’

Sir Percy winced for him but pressed on.

‘And now he’s spilling his guts to priests. Telling all. We can’t have that. The Pope’s already making a fuss of them—and you know how het up the Church gets about raising stiffs. Not only that but it looks like this Frankenstein chappie and her Ladyship are now an item. Very embarrassing for the Lovelace family. They’ve even adopted a Lazaran baby between them!’

Talleyrand sat up straight and one by one tucked in the stray strands of hair—which he’d been fully aware of.

‘Gracious me!’

It wasn’t the normal way he said it. There was meaning. He might even have added more had not the coughing returned. There was a spell of hacking before the Prince forced words out.

‘What do you propose?’

‘Well,’ Sir Percy was mildly embarrassed, ‘that’s where you come in. It’s in the nature of a favour I’m looking for here. There’s the good name of the Lovelaces to consider: an ancient and honourable English family. Plus we don’t want His Holiness roused up about the Hecatomb all over again, just when things had died down—if you’ll excuse the phrase…’

‘I don’t excuse it,’ said Talleyrand. ‘Make amends by speaking plain.’

Which was a bit rich, coming from him of all people, but Sir Percy was on the cadge and couldn’t cavil for the moment.

‘As you wish, Prince. Well, we thought perhaps we could kill two birds with one stone—if you’ll excuse the phr…. What I mean is, you must still have contacts out there, you being an ex-bishop and so forth.’

Talleyrand urged him on with his eyes and Sir Percy decided to go for broke.

‘Assassins,’ he said. ‘That’s the proposal. Not really our thing. But very much yours, we reckoned. Contacts from the old days maybe. Do you have people in Rome who could…’

‘Kill two birds with one stone?’ said Talleyrand for him.

‘Yes, just the two. There’s a servant with them but he can’t know much. He can live…’

Talleyrand cut in.

‘I do have such people, alas. But I have something else. Better. For you.’

Sir Percy leant back. He’d anticipated some sordid bargaining but this morning was going all awry and down unexpected avenues. He wished he’d had more coffee before setting out.

‘Which is what?’ he ventured hesitantly. If one should be cautious of Greeks bearing gifts then how much more so of this arachnid in human form…

‘My job,’ said Talleyrand, succinctly. ‘It’s yours.’

How well things always seemed to fall out for him, Talleyrand reflected, just like he was not a sinner at all! He’d fully intended to offer his resignation free of charge at this, their final meeting. Now he could sell it.

Sir Percy frowned.

‘What would I want with that? I’m already your superior.’

Talleyrand arranged his face into a ‘be-serious-this-is-important’ look that was an expressive universe away from his usual blandness. The ground shifted alarmingly beneath Sir Percy’s riding boots.

‘My job,’ the Prince went on in all earnest, ‘could be yours. Fully. I’ll resign and meddle no more. You’ll be in sole charge.’

To give him credit, Sir Percy could be brutally honest with himself. He opened his mouth to protest—but then shut it, the words unsaid.

‘Along with my agent networks: the whole lot,’ said Talleyrand, spicing the deal. ‘People—resources, that is to say— you’ve never dreamt of! With letters of recommendation for you to each one.’

If even half of what Sir Percy had heard was true that would be like becoming the greatest peeping-Tom ever. It had appeal.

‘And all my files.’ Talleyrand piled on the temptation to intolerable levels. ‘Every scrap. War-winning information…’

Sir Percy knew of them: he had tried to subvert Loseley servants to steal samples but to no avail. If sincere, it was a mouth-watering prospect. But what a huge ‘if’’.

‘Including the file about you and the lady choristers in Sussex,’ added Talleyrand. ‘The hamlet of Folkington wasn’t it? A South Downs church. Such exquisitely curvaceous slopes and valleys—the Downs that is.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Blakeney, deadpan, ‘exquisite.’

‘Well, that’s on offer too. Plus my draft letters on the subject—or was it ‘outrage’—to the Times. Plus the illustrative woodcuts of events that I commissioned. You could have them framed for your walls—or perhaps burn them.’

That settled it. Lady Blakeney had said that the next time she’d take red-hot coal-tongs to his privates. Then she’d mimicked a vicious twisting movement…

‘Probably burn,’ said Sir Percy.

‘I’m sure you know best,’ said Talleyrand sympathetically.

‘And in return?’ asked Sir Percy. He was nervous, expecting a great deal to be asked for so much.

Talleyrand was as straightforward as anyone had seen him since the veil descended between he and humanity long ago. There was no nuance, no shadings, not even the slightest inflection of voice requiring interpretation.

‘Don’t kill them,’ he said: demanded. ‘Frankenstein or Lady Lovelace or the servant. Don’t harm or silence them. Let them speak. Bring them home. Strain every sinew. Send the fleet. Send Nelson.’

Sir Percy realised he was experiencing a once-in-a-very-blue-moon-indeed moment. Compared to this Halley’s Comet was a next-door neighbour you were sick of the sight of. He seized that moment.

‘Done,’ he said, and extended his hand.

For form’s sake Talleyrand shook it, though the ritual added no extra solemnity to him. Indeed, Sir Percy’s rough hand rather rasped…

It seemed a day for major sighs: or so Sir Percy misinterpreted it. In fact the sound was Talleyrand releasing the pent-up tension of a lifetime.

Nunc dimittis,’ said the Prince, with relief. ‘Now let thy servant depart in peace.’

As though in answer, he was racked with coughing again. When he took the kerchief from his mouth he saw there was blood upon it.

Talleyrand raised his eyes to the ceiling—and by implication further still.