Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts

by Hayes, Steve

  ‘Gaston?’ he said softly.

  No reaction.

  ‘Listen to me, Gaston.’ Holmes set his folio down and dropped to one knee before the young man. ‘You are in serious trouble. Very serious trouble. And I am here to help you.’

  Gaston didn’t answer; didn’t even seem aware of his presence.

  Slowly, deliberately, Holmes removed the rose from the buttonhole in his lapel. Gaston looked at the flower, watching it with the slightest frown.

  Holmes held the rose up in front of Gaston’s face. Then he placed the forefinger and thumb of his free hand around its neck. Carefully, he slid his fingers down the length of the stem, avoiding the thorns and squeezing gently as he went. The water the rose had previously absorbed in the vase at the flower stall now gathered at the end of the stalk, and under Holmes’s gentle pressure began to drip to the floor.

  The effect it had on Gaston was dramatic. His eyes grew large and fearful. He swallowed hard and shook his head several times. Then he backed up against the wall as if to get away from it, and tucked his legs up in front of him.

  ‘Non …’ he whispered. ‘Pas à nouveau!’

  Holmes held the blood-red rose closer to him. The movement dislodged another drop of water. Gaston’s eyes saucered and he flattened fearfully against the wall.

  As Gaston watched in undisguised horror, Holmes slowly crushed the flower in one hand and then threw it into the corner of the dismal cell.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘It’s gone.’

  But Gaston’s reaction had told him all he needed to know. It also confirmed his suspicion that there was more to all this than had first appeared.

  ‘I want you to think of me as your friend,’ Holmes said quietly. ‘I’m going to ask you some questions. Answer them truthfully and I will do everything in my power to help you.’ Holmes paused to let his words sink in, then said: ‘Why are you so frightened by dripping water?’

  Gaston opened his mouth, but seemed unable to form words. The best he could manage was a nervous shake of the head.

  ‘It’s all right, Gaston. I am here to help. I know you were coerced into shooting your uncle. What I need to know now is who coerced you? And why?’

  Gaston tucked his chin into his chest and looked up at Holmes from beneath incredibly sad brows. His lower lip trembled. He started to rock back and forth, clearly agitated.

  ‘Who hit you?’ Holmes asked, gesturing to the all-but-faded bruise on Gaston’s jaw.

  Gaston shook his head.

  ‘You will be punished for what you did,’ Holmes told him. ‘But unless you help me, whoever made you do it in the first place, they will walk free. That hardly seems fair.’

  Gaston turned away from him, huddled into a protective ball and continued rocking.

  ‘What did they do to you, Gaston? Whatever it was, I promise they shall never harm you again.’

  More rocking.

  ‘Who are they, Gaston?’

  Gaston turned to face him again. The sadness in his eyes was almost depthless. He leaned forward, again seemed about to speak, then shook his head and hugged himself tighter.

  Holmes considered briefly; then, on impulse, took out a scrap of paper and a pencil. He offered them to Gaston. ‘Give me their names, and I will see that they are brought to book for this.’

  Gaston stared at him for a long moment. In his expression was a mixture of confusion and helplessness. Then, as if reaching a decision, he reached out one trembling hand and took the scrap of paper and pencil. Holmes stood back, waiting. Verne’s nephew sat a little straighter and rested the paper on one knee. He started crying as he scrawled:

  V D C

  ‘What does this mean?’ asked Holmes, taking the paper when Gaston offered it back to him. ‘What do these letters stand for?’

  But Gaston’s only response now was to shake his head and start sobbing. Holmes reached for him, intending to place a comforting hand on his shoulder. But the younger man flinched away from him. Holmes withdrew his hand and nodded to show he understood. ‘It’s all right,’ he assured. ‘I know you’re afraid of me. But if I’m to help you, Gaston, you must trust me.’

  Gaston only curled back into a foetal ball.

  With nothing more to be had from the man, Holmes once again allowed his shoulders to drop, hunched his back so that he appeared shorter, and knocked on the cell door. ‘You may let me out now,’ he called in Lucien Menard’s high voice. ‘I am finished here for the time being.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Waiting Game

  Later, back in his room at the Hotel Couronne, Holmes began removing his disguise. ‘I am more convinced than ever that this is no mere family squabble,’ he told Watson. ‘Indeed, I am afraid that Verne may be dealing with an enemy who has considerable resources and no small degree of sophistication.’

  Watson was watching him from a chair on the other side of the room. Not for the first time he was amazed by Holmes’s ability to alter his appearance. Clothes, hair, posture, speech … everything would change. He would not simply pretend to be someone else, he would become that person. And he would skilfully apply stage makeup from the small kit he rarely travelled without until the illusion was complete.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ he asked as Holmes now used a sponge to remove the sallow colour of ‘Lucien Menard’s’ skin.

  ‘You have met Gaston. Do you for one moment believe that he could escape from a lunatic asylum, much less obtain a gun, travel five hundred kilometres to Boulogne-sur-Mer, then vanish or avoid detection for one entire week before coming here with the specific purpose of killing his uncle? No, my friend, he had help every step of the way – and that takes considerable resources.’

  ‘And the sophistication?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of Hippolytus de Marsiliis?’

  ‘I cannot say that I have.’

  ‘He was a fifteenth-century lawyer who invented a method of torture by which drops of water are allowed to fall upon the victim’s forehead at irregular intervals and thus drive that person insane. After sufficient exposure to such treatment, the victim would be only too happy to reveal his secret, confess to a crime, or indeed agree to do anything his or her captors requested of him.’

  ‘I have certainly heard of water torture, but—’ Watson stopped. ‘Are you saying that Gaston has been subjected to such treatment? Holmes, this is monstrous! By whom?’

  ‘Let us first consider for what purpose.’

  ‘You mean it wasn’t just to drive the poor fellow mad?’

  ‘Watson, Gaston Verne is already hopelessly insane. But his fascination with dripping water, his very real fear of it, tells me that he has been subjected to the treatment for an altogether different purpose – to focus his otherwise disordered mind upon one single objective, to kill the man he has been convinced is responsible for all his woes.’

  ‘But why Jules Verne? The man is not only his uncle but a writer, beloved by millions!’

  ‘That is the very thing we have to find out.’

  ‘Again, I say – who did this dreadful thing?’

  ‘This is our only clue,’ said Holmes, offering up the scrap of paper.

  Watson looked at it. ‘“VDC”? What does that mean?’

  ‘I do not know, yet – and it was all Gaston could do to write it, much less explain it.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest we do?’

  ‘The only thing we can do at present, Watson. Wait for them to make their next move, whoever they are … and be ready for them when they do.’

  At lunchtime Sergeant Bessette left his post and hurried through the city until he reached Hautoie Park. Given the choice, he would sooner have made a detour to his favourite café first and fortified himself with a cognac. But that would have to wait.

  It was a pleasant day and the park was crowded. He strode purposefully through an avenue of plane trees, followed a gravel path past a line of poplars and at last reached a row of benches that overlooked the sizeable, wind-rippled lake tha
t was shaded from the sun by a row of spreading Cypresses. He paused briefly, then casually approached a bench upon which sat an attractive woman. About thirty, she was dressed in a distinctive purple walking skirt and matching jacket.

  ‘May I?’ he asked.

  She nodded, and he sat down.

  ‘Mademoiselle Denier?’ he said.

  ‘I am Lydie Denier, yes,’ she replied, continuing to watch the lake. ‘What is the problem, Sergeant?’

  ‘I’m not sure there is one, yet. But a man came to the station this morning, some crotchety old lawyer’s clerk engaged by Jules Verne to defend his nephew against all charges. He asked to speak with him.’

  ‘And you let him?’ Lydie asked, still gazing at the lake.

  ‘I could hardly refuse without blowing the matter out of all proportion.’

  She considered that for a few moments. Finally she said: ‘Do not worry. I doubt he would have learned anything of use from Gaston. The man is now little more than a shell.’

  There seemed to be a hint of regret in her tone. But Bessette, wrapped up in his own thoughts, missed it.

  ‘There’s more,’ he said.

  Turning from the lake, she looked at him. ‘Go on,’ she said tightly.

  ‘Another man arrived two hours later. He too claimed to have been engaged by Verne, to represent Gaston.’

  She frowned. ‘An imposter?’

  ‘Non,’ he replied. ‘I know this man. I’ve seen him at more court appearances than I can count. His name is Depaul. He’s genuine.’

  ‘Then who was the first man you allowed to see Gaston?’

  ‘He gave his name as Lucien Menard. I made some enquiries. No one has ever heard of him.’

  ‘Then who is he?’

  Bessette looked almost sick. ‘I think I know,’ he confessed uncomfortably. ‘You were there just after Verne was shot. Did you notice the two men who immediately came to his aid?’

  ‘Oui. I spoke to one of them at Gare du Nord, when we arrived yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘You have heard of Sherlock Holmes, of course?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘He was one of them. The other was a man called Watson. His companion, I believe.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I checked the witness statements.’ He paused, then said: ‘Do you think Verne has engaged this man Holmes to investigate the matter?’

  ‘I cannot think why. We have been careful to observe complete secrecy throughout. He would have had no call to engage a detective. As far as he is concerned, the matter is cut and dried. But I have to confess, I do not care for this man Holmes’s interference.’

  Suddenly she turned a little. She was now facing Bessette directly, the anger in her eyes making him flinch. ‘You fool!’ she hissed. ‘You have been uncommonly stupid.’

  ‘How was I to know –?’

  ‘Absalon expects us to know everything,’ she reminded him.

  It was true.

  ‘I can take care of it,’ he said timidly.

  ‘You will do nothing,’ she snapped. ‘Do you understand me? You will do nothing until I have referred the matter to a higher authority. Sherlock Holmes is known throughout Europe. To attack him will only draw attention to us – attention we can certainly do without.’

  ‘But what about Gaston? May I assume he has outlived his purpose?’

  ‘Assume nothing!’ she said, rising. ‘Just await my orders.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I will contact you by the usual means, and under the usual alias, when I know more – probably before the end of today.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting,’ he promised. He watched as she walked away. He now needed a drink more than ever.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Bodyguard for Verne

  When Honorine ushered Holmes and Watson into the sitting room that same afternoon, they found her husband resting on a chaise longue in the bay window with his bandaged left leg resting on a stool. ‘You will forgive me if I do not rise,’ he said, weakly extending his right hand.

  They shook hands with him and then, at Verne’s urging, took seats.

  ‘How are you feeling, sir?’ Watson asked.

  ‘I am alive. What more can I ask for?’

  ‘And Gaston? Have you heard how he is?’

  ‘We have sent Jules’s lawyer to represent him,’ put in Honorine. ‘Our hope is that he can convince Inspector Mathes that what happened was merely a silly misunderstanding, and allow him to be returned to the Sanatorium de Russy.’

  Holmes narrowed his eyes. ‘When did you dispatch your lawyer?’

  ‘I believe he went down to the police station shortly before lunch.’

  Holmes and Watson exchanged a look.

  ‘Forgive me, gentlemen, but is something wrong?’

  ‘M’sieur Verne,’ said Holmes. ‘For reasons I do not yet understand, I believe your life to be in danger.’

  ‘Mine?’ Verne gave a short, mirthless laugh. ‘I have the greatest respect for your talents, as you know, but I cannot see why that would possibly be.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I should be grateful if you would exercise the greatest caution until the matter is resolved.’

  ‘What matter?’

  ‘That, I cannot say. But I have strong reason to believe that Gaston was acting under duress when he made his attempt upon you yesterday.’ He paused, allowing his words to sink in, then stared questioningly at Verne. ‘Can you think why that should be?’

  ‘Non.’

  ‘Is there anyone, man or woman, you know who might be driven to such lengths?’

  ‘Non. I have always tried to keep my business affairs as cordial as possible. You may ask anyone.’

  ‘Do the initials “V.D.C.” mean anything to you?’

  Verne ran them through his mind briefly and then shook his head.

  ‘Then all I can ask is that you indulge me, and take extra care,’ said Holmes. ‘You do have enemies, M’sieur Verne, and I am convinced that they will make another attempt upon your life. You must be on your guard.’

  ‘And you, my dear friend,’ countered Verne, ‘must understand that, without a scrap of evidence to support your claim, I cannot take such a threat seriously.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear that. But it is in pursuit of evidence that I must shortly take my leave. In the meantime, I should be grateful if you would allow Dr Watson here to stay on as your guest.’

  Verne and his wife exchanged a puzzled glance.

  ‘I do not wish to overestimate the threat, M’sieur Verne,’ Holmes continued, ‘but you will be considerably safer with Watson by your side. He is as fearless as any man I have ever known, and by far the most reliable.’

  ‘Then if it sets your mind at rest,’ Verne said graciously, ‘I should be very glad of his company.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Absalon

  Apolished black coach was waiting for Lydie Denier when her train steamed into Paris. The driver opened the door for her and she climbed inside with neither a word nor a glance in his direction. She sat back in the upholstered seat and again found herself wondering what Absalon was going to say when he heard the news. He was not a man to lose his temper. He was too well bred for that. But he was a man who despised failure and complication, and here she was, coming to report both.

  As Paris fell behind them and she watched the emerald countryside rush past in a blur, she wondered how many times she had been to the magnificent but isolated chateau fifty kilometres to the east. Since Absalon had recruited her twelve months earlier, perhaps eight in all. And yet the prospect of having to come back again, for any reason, never failed to make her uneasy. And more than once during the two-hour train ride from Amiens she had found herself questioning the wisdom of accepting Absalon’s invitation to join the organization in the first place.

  Not that she had been given any real choice in the matter. She had no idea that he – they – had been watching her for as long as they had. She still had no idea how she had first
come to their attention. She had always been careful, or so she thought. And yet they had eventually made their move.

  She had been renting a comfortable appartement in Lyon at the time, and life had been good – though never quite good enough for Lydie, of course. One afternoon there was a discreet rapping at her door, and when she answered it, the man who called himself Alexandre Absalon had entered her life.

  He was a tall, spare man of about fifty. His prematurely snow-white hair swept back from a high forehead in a sharp widow’s peak. His eyebrows were thin, grey, his penetrating hazel eyes set deep in their sockets. His nose was long and straight, his mouth wide, almost lipless. His neatly trimmed fork beard gave him an unsettling Mephistophelian aspect.

  ‘Mademoiselle Denier?’ he had asked.

  ‘Oui. And you are…?’

  ‘Alexandre Absalon.’

  The name, then, had meant nothing to her.

  Without waiting to be asked, he had brushed past her and into her appartement.

  She should have tried to bar his way, or demand that he turn round and wait until he was invited inside, but instead she did nothing. His bearing and appearance spoke of wealth, and if there was one thing Lydie prized above all else, it was money. So all she did was close the door behind him and wait expectantly for him to explain his presence.

  He took his time about it. He chose the most comfortable chair in the room and sank gracefully into it, then very deliberately removed his exquisite hand-cut and -sewn leather gloves finger by finger. Once he had laid them on the arm of the chair, he tugged fastidiously at the crease in his brown-striped cotton twill trousers.

  ‘I represent an organization that can promise you money and power, in almost unlimited quantities,’ he said. ‘And we know from our enquiries that you possess a nearly insatiable appetite for both.’

  She had made a token protest of innocence, of course. ‘I’m sorry, m’sieur, but I don’t know what you are talking about.’