CARO AND AGNETTI stared at one another. Cassandra Willoughby gazed up at him silently. It was the same with Theresa, Caro thought, recalling her odd and awkward flirtations. What did Agnetti do to his women that they submitted to his will like this?
‘You killed Lucy,’ she said to him, not quite understanding, but certain of it. ‘You killed Hector. You tried to kill me.’
How confident he must have been. How brazen to invite her here. Forcing Miss Willoughby to seduce her footman, to serve his wicked compulsion. A celebration of his cunning in getting away with murder.
Then there was Cassandra herself. Her namesake in antiquity had told the truth and had not been believed, whereas the woman in front of her had lied and lied again, in thrall to the man she loved. ‘You painted the puzzle purses,’ Caro said to her. ‘And you took my son from the park.’
Agnetti turned. ‘You sent her paintings? Why the devil would you do that?’
Miss Willoughby stammered: ‘I wanted to scare her. I was worried for you, Jacobus.’
For a moment, as he glowered at the girl, Caro glimpsed the beating heart of his rage, before he seemed to recall the problem at hand.
‘Fetch one of my canvas knives,’ he said.
Miss Willoughby departed obediently. Caro’s heart was thumping, her mouth filling with acid.
‘You would kill me with my carriage outside, and your servants asleep upstairs? The world saw me walk out of Vauxhall on your arm. How will you explain my disappearance?’
Miss Willoughby returned. Wordlessly, she handed Agnetti the knife, the handle tied with red string, like the one that had killed Lucy. Agnetti ran his thumb along the edge.
‘There will be no murder,’ he said. ‘Only a tragic act of suicide. All London knows of your shame. The fate that awaits you when your husband returns. You are simply sparing your husband and son the shame of divorce. We will say that I was painting you upstairs, and went to fetch some wine. When I returned, you were not there, and I presumed you’d gone home. By the time Miss Willoughby discovered you lying here in the dining room, your wrists slashed, it was too late.’
Caro screamed, hoping that the servants at the top of the house might hear her, or it would bring Miles running in from the carriage outside. A few seconds was all she managed before Agnetti’s hand closed around her throat, forcing her backwards, up against the wall. He squeezed, smiling, enjoying her distress. Blackness began to creep over her vision, when he released her suddenly, dropping her to the floor.
‘I am with child,’ Caro said weakly. ‘You would murder a baby too?’
‘A child conceived in sin,’ he said. ‘Your whoring will not save you now.’
He crouched down beside her, knife in hand, and she kicked him in the chest. He fell sideways, and she tried to get up, but Miss Willoughby pushed her down. Agnetti grabbed her with his free hand, and she struggled, clawing and scratching. If I am to die, she thought, let there be evidence of a struggle, evidence of murder.
Agnetti grunted, and passed the knife to Miss Willoughby. ‘I cannot hold her with one hand. You’ll have to do the cutting.’
‘The way he treats you,’ Caro said, as Agnetti pinned her down, kneeling on one of her arms so she gasped in pain. ‘Those things he makes you do. That isn’t love. It is cruelty. It is inhuman. It is wrong.’
Agnetti seized her other hand, wrenching it round. Miss Willoughby frowned at the knife.
‘Why did you really send those puzzle purses?’ Caro said desperately. ‘They were evidence that an artist was involved in these crimes, evidence that might have led us to this house. I think some part of you wanted all this to stop.’
But Miss Willoughby knelt, readying the knife. Caro struggled, but Agnetti was too strong.
‘He used to do these things to his wife too,’ she said. ‘That’s why Theresa left him. Did he tell you he is still looking for her? He has agents hunting for her, he’s writing letters. Either he wants her back, or he wants her dead. Is that truly a man worthy of your love?’
Miss Willoughby rocked back on her heels. ‘Jacobus?’
‘She is lying,’ he said shortly. ‘There is only you. Now cut her wrist.’
‘If you do this,’ Caro said to Agnetti, ‘you’ll never find Theresa. Only I know where she is. The truth will die with me.’
He studied her face. ‘You are lying.’
‘Can you be certain?’
The knife cut into her, and she cried out. But Agnetti pushed Miss Willoughby roughly away.
Blood rolled down her arm. Agnetti put his face up to hers. ‘How do you know?’
She smiled through the pain. ‘Kitty told me.’
‘Kitty said she didn’t know.’
‘She was lying.’
He placed his hand on her throat again. ‘Tell me where she is.’
She laughed. ‘No. Never.’
He hit her in the face and the explosion of pain silenced her. He drew his arm back and hit her again.
Miss Willoughby tugged at his arm. ‘Jacobus, no. There will be bruises.’
He turned on her. ‘You will speak when you’re spoken to.’ His grip on Caro’s throat tightened. ‘Where is she? Tell me and this will stop. Otherwise we will keep going until you do.’
Again he hit her. Blood filled her mouth. He lifted her hand. ‘Tell me where she is, or I’ll break your fingers.’
Except the sentence did not end like it should, but in a strangled gasp. Agnetti dropped Caro’s hand. A trickle of blood ran down his chin. Miss Willoughby pulled the knife from his back and stared at it a moment. Then she plunged it into him again.
Agnetti slumped to the side, and Miss Willoughby withdrew the knife as he fell. She knelt beside him and plunged the blade into him again and again and again, until Caro managed to crawl to her side, and gently prised the knife from her hands. Then she took the girl in her arms and held her while she wept.