They charged from Poré’s apartment but, four strides down the corridor, Isabella stopped and turned back to the door, locking it quickly.
“What are you doing?!” roared the Inquisitor, as she tested the handle and hurried back after him, disposing of the key in a helpfully positioned plant pot near the top of the stairs. “We don’t have time to waste!”
Tacit lunged for the stairs, but Isabella slipped a hand beneath his armpit and led him from them to a narrow landing, running alongside.
“You want to save time?” she retorted. “Then follow me.”
She swept into the corridor, Tacit on her heels, the thundering of their footsteps on the floorboards echoing around the enclosed wooden aisle. She had been told of a secret passageway at the end of the ornate wooden walkway by a Sister friend of hers who’d spent time at Notre Dame, linking the residence building to the Cathedral. “Perfect for Cardinals who sleep a little too late for Mass,” she called back, thundering around the bend in the passageway and sending a passing Priest skidding to the wall to avoid being crushed. “Being a Sister,” she gasped, her lungs burning with the race, “means you get to learn all the gossip.”
The corridor ended at an inauspicious wooden panelled dead end.
“Wrong turn?” asked Tacit urgently.
But Isabella ignored him, searching for the little sculpted nose protruding from the dark wood engraving. And who said the Catholics had no sense of humour? She spotted the merry looking Father, depicted sitting under a tree. His nose disappeared easily into the wood when Isabella pressed it and a door in the panelling swung gently open with a reassuring crack.
The dark tunnel beyond wound downwards, the walls carved smooth and white. Every twenty or thirty strides, a single dimly flickering lantern burnt, providing enough light to see one’s steps and ensure the way was clear of obstacles.
“You sure this is right, Sister?”
“For once, Tacit, have some faith. And call me Isabella!”
They could smell the air of the Paris morning and beyond could see the vague dull outline of a door set firm at the dead end of the sloping tunnel down which they tore. There was a pull handle on the vast stone door, connected to a chain and mechanism set somehow within it. The handle turned on a well-oiled apparatus and the door creaked open a few inches. Tacit inserted his fingers into the crack and heaved the door wide, just enough for Isabella and himself to be able to squeeze through.
Ahead lay the Rue de Cloître Notre Dame and Notre Dame itself, just across the road, the northern transept of the Cathedral almost opposite the secret tunnel down which they had run.
“We might already be too late,” said Isabella, pushing herself forward through the crack in the door. “Come on!” Her heart raged, her spirit charged. But Tacit took hold of her and pulled her back into the dark confines of the tunnel corridor.
“What are you doing?!” she asked. “There’s no time to waste.”
“You’re staying here,” said Tacit.
“No, I am not, Tacit!” she spat, whipping her arm free and turning to crawl back into the sunlight.
She felt Tacit’s firm hands on her and battled hopelessly against them, kicking and punching out with her limbs. “Don’t you try and leave me behind again, Inquisitor! You did that once before. Never again!” she cried and threw wild punches at him in a fruitless attempt to get him to loosen his grip on her.
Tacit pushed her hard into the wall, and set himself against her, closer to her than he had ever done before, even closer than in the hotel room that time. She could feel his hot breath on her face and neck.
“Let me go, Tacit!” she wailed, kicking out at him. “I can’t have you going in there alone.”
“I must!”
“And I must too!”
“No! Do you know what we’re about to do? We’re about to kill a senior Cardinal Bishop in front of a thousand high ranking country officials and politicians, Catholics and non-Catholics alike. Cold blooded murder in front of a thousand witnesses. If you’re caught with me then you’ll be guilty too. They’ll string you up. I cannot have that. I go alone! This is not your battle.”
He let go of her and set himself into the crack of the door, but Isabella caught hold of him.
“This is because of the assessment isn’t it, Tacit? You’re still trying to prove yourself! Still trying to prove, not just to the Church, but to yourself that you’ve not lost your way.”
“It’s got nothing to do with that!”
“Don’t lie to me Tacit! Why, Tacit? Why do you have to prove it to yourself?”
“It’s nothing to do with that!” he cried, and Isabella saw tenderness in the Inquisitor’s eyes for the first time. “It’s because …” he muttered, “it’s because I care, Isabella.” He raised a hand to her cheek and cradled it in his hands, holding her gaze with his. In that instant, that fraction of a moment, a thousand images swept within their minds, the teasing ripple of romance, the warm touch of human flesh, the burning passion of an embrace, the laughter of shared love. And Tacit felt Mila and his mother’s presence there with him, and was filled with a spirit of love almost overwhelming. And his eyes filled with tears and the weight of sorrow fell away from him, like plate armour unbuckled from his body.
Then, without a word, he slipped his hand to her neck and squeezed. His grip was like a tight iron collar. In seconds darkness swept in around her and Isabella was falling. Tacit caught her body and brushed the hair from her face. He looked into her features as he laid her down unconscious on the floor of the tunnel. Without another moment wasted, he then stood and faced the door, his teeth gritted in grim defiance and determination.
He tore the door open and ran, charging like a maddened bear across the street, past wandering groups of tourists and Parisians. He bolted into the closed door of the transept. It burst with a terrific crash, sending soldiers, Priests and gathered clergy behind it tumbling and flying into the congregation. At the pulpit in the middle of the nave where the north and south transepts met, Cardinal Bishop Monteria shuddered and looked over to the noise like the gates of hell had been broken open.
Tacit ran and as he ran his hand dropped to his holster, his fingers wrapping tight around the grip of the revolver. Uproar and chaos broke across the congregation, shouts and cries of shock and disdain rippling like a tidal wave of astonishment throughout the building. Tacit couldn’t see it, but hidden beneath the pulpit, the Cardinal Bishop was fingering the vile pelt he’d just removed from a box in his hands. It stank, stank like a thousand fox earths, a guttural clinging stench which ravaged the back of the throat. Monteria stuttered over his words, hurrying to the devastating climax of his speech, trying to make himself heard above the clamour of the crowd. He needed to be heard. He had to be heard, before he put on the pelt.
Tacit’s gun was now out and raised. He was aware of a mob of people charging towards him, like an enveloping crowd of hounds about to leap on a cornered fox. He could see something grey and black and matted appear from behind the pulpit and rise closer, closer to the Cardinal Bishop’s head. Tacit shut one eye and pulled the trigger.
He felt nothing and heard nothing, not even the recoil of his revolver, the explosion as the silver bullet flashed from the barrel of the gun, nor the impact as the bodies flew onto him, soldiers and brave or foolish men from the congregation grappling and forcing his vast bulk to the ground. But as he felt hands on his back, felt the sharp pain of his wrists being drawn tight behind him, he heard the horrified cries of the congregation and the staggered collapse and fall of the Cardinal from the pulpit. And then silence.
Silence.
Tacit closed his eyes, and smiled.