Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts

by Hayes, Steve

  And then, mercifully, the rushing in his ears began to recede, he felt the attack passing, passing … and shivered.

  Gradually he returned to his senses and forced himself to walk unsteadily to the far end of the alley. He knew the woman would be long gone by now, but hoped she had left something identifiable behind.

  The cold night air was permeated with her scent: orange blossom, lavender and honeysuckle.

  He had smelled those same fragrances before somewhere, and recently. But where?

  Who was she? he wondered. What had she been doing there in a darkened alleyway in the small hours of a chilly March morning? Was she another part of the puzzle he was attempting to solve?

  He had the strongest possible conviction that she was.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The Suicide Tree

  A little before ten o’clock the following morning Holmes, who habitually slept late, was woken rudely by an urgent tapping at his hotel room door. At once he threw on his red dressing gown and answered it.

  Facing him was an apologetic desk clerk holding out an envelope upon which was written his name. ‘I am sorry to disturb you, m’sieur, but this just came for you. The boy said it was urgent.’

  Holmes took the envelope with a perfunctory nod of thanks and closed the door. He opened the envelope and quickly scanned its contents. The note read simply:

  Monsieur Holmes,

  Please come at once. Bessette found dead in cell this morning.

  Mathes

  The tightening of his thin lips was his only reaction to the news.

  Stuffing the note into his pocket, he quickly saw to his ablutions, then scribbled a message for Watson and made arrangements at the desk for a boy to deliver it to Rue de Charles Dubois. He then left the hotel, hailed a cab and went directly to the police station.

  Mathes was waiting for him at the front desk when he arrived. The inspector’s tone was as grim as his manner. ‘Come this way, m’sieur.’ He quickly led Holmes to the cells below ground. ‘I have left everything just as we found it. Nothing has been touched or disturbed.’

  ‘Good man.’

  Mathes unlocked the cell and they went inside. The small room – an almost exact replica of the one in which Holmes had first interviewed Gaston – was airless and smelled sourly of vomit. Bessette lay crookedly across the cot, his eyes half-closed and very slightly crossed. His fists were clenched.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Holmes, bending to examine the dead man.

  ‘As you know, he wanted to see a lawyer, a man he named as Prideaux. The man was sent for. He arrived. They conversed briefly in this very cell. The guard who let Prideaux out at the end of the interview reports that Bessette was in good spirits. Then, about an hour later he started hammering on the cell door, saying he had stomach pains. The guard ignored him at first, thinking that Bessette was trying to fool him into unlocking the cell and letting him out. When the hammering abruptly stopped a few minutes later, he looked in through the eye-hole you see in the door here. Bessette had vomited, collapsed upon the cot and fallen into some kind of coma. Medical aid was summoned immediately, but by the time the doctor arrived Bessette was dead.’

  ‘He has been examined by your judicial surgeon?’

  ‘Oui. Cause of death appears to be a thrombosis.’

  ‘Did he have any history of heart disease?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, no. We can check with the man’s own physician.’

  ‘Do so,’ Holmes replied vaguely, glancing around the room. ‘Have you ever heard of this man Prideaux?’

  ‘No. But I sent a man to fetch him from the address Bessette gave us—’

  ‘—and when he got there, the bird had flown,’ guessed Holmes.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Then it seems we have a simple case of murder on our hands,’ said Holmes. ‘We may assume with some confidence that Prideaux was one of Bessette’s confederates in this enterprise. When he was caught trying to murder Gaston Verne, Bessette demanded to see his “lawyer”. In reality I suspect that Prideaux was also in the employ of Bessette’s masters. He called upon this man for help, most probably to orchestrate a means by which he could make good his escape.’

  ‘But instead this man killed him in cold blood?’ Mathes asked sceptically.

  ‘Certainly. As we already know, Inspector, these people do not draw the line at murder. Besides, this man Bessette had become another liability. He had to be removed before he could be tempted to turn state’s evidence.’

  ‘But … how did it happen? The surgeon says his heart gave out.’

  ‘Clearly he was poisoned. Prideaux offered him a flask of brandy, perhaps to celebrate his own empty promise of arranging Bessette’s escape. You can smell the spirit upon the dead man’s lips. Bessette was only too happy to accept. The man was a drinker, as you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, m’sieur, but I knew no such thing.’

  ‘Then I suggest you examine the man more closely. The diagnosis of medical conditions is more the speciality of my colleague, Dr Watson, but I know a drinker when I see one. The man’s yellowish pallor, the spider-like veins on his nose and cheeks, the redness of his palms, the premature loss of hair colour, which is suggestive of an imbalance of copper and zinc.’

  ‘Very well. I accept that he might have been a drinker. But what about Prideaux’s use of a hip flask?’

  ‘They sat at this table when they spoke,’ said Holmes with a gesture. ‘See here in the fine film of dust, there is the faintest outline of a gently curved shape approximately five inches long and perhaps three-quarters of an inch wide. This is where Prideaux set the hip-flask down.’

  ‘Then we truly are dealing with ruthless men.’

  ‘And clever ones,’ Holmes said admiringly. ‘My feeling is that a further examination of the body in order to identify the poison used will be of no use. Not for these people the commonplace arsenic or potassium chloride.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Prideaux did not want his man to become ill or die until he was well on his way out of Amiens. As you have already noted, Bessette did not become ill until an hour after Prideaux had left. Now, arsenic can be used to kill slowly, but only in small doses administered over a long period of time. As for potassium chloride, I believe an impractical amount, perhaps eight or ten ounces – forgive me, Inspector; let us say a little over two hundred grams – would be required to kill a man of Bessette’s size.

  ‘Based upon the facts as you have recounted them, however, I lean toward an altogether more ingenious method, namely the fruit of Cerbera odollam – the so-called suicide tree.’

  Mathes’s frown deepened. ‘I am sorry, m’sieur, but again you have lost me.’

  ‘Cerbera odollam, also known as the Pong-pong or Othalanga, is a tree that flourishes throughout south-east Asia and India. Its fruit yields a potent poison that disrupts the heartbeat and mimics the symptoms of a thrombosis. It is not especially difficult to extract; the fruit is simply chopped into small pieces and its poison extracted in a solution of methanol by a method known as cold soaking. Bessette presented all the symptoms of this particular poison. It took about an hour to work on him. He suffered abdominal pain, he vomited, his heartbeat slowed and finally he lapsed into a coma.’

  ‘And he never suspected a thing?’

  ‘Obviously not. It is true that the poison has a somewhat bitter taste, but the strong brandy would have disguised that. Bessette was finished the minute he took that celebratory drink.’

  Mathes ran his fingers through his curly black hair. ‘These people must be stopped at all costs.’

  ‘Of course. But until we know their true motive, where do we begin?’

  ‘Prideaux is the obvious answer.’

  ‘Prideaux will be long gone by now, Inspector. And my feeling is that wherever he goes, he will lie low until this entire business dies down. However, it can do no harm to circulate the man’s description to the surrounding départements.’

 
‘And in the meantime?’

  ‘In the meantime, Inspector,’ Holmes said forcefully, ‘I should be most grateful if you would guard Gaston Verne with your very life.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Something to Hide

  Holmes left the police station and took a cab directly to Verne’s house. Watson answered the bell with the spaniel, Follet, growling warily by his side. Relaxing visibly when he saw Holmes through one of the conservatory hall windows, Watson dropped his old service revolver back into his jacket pocket and quickly opened the door.

  ‘What has happened, Holmes? Your note told me to be on my guard.’

  ‘In a moment, Watson. All is well here, I trust?’

  ‘As quiet as a—’

  ‘—graveyard?’ finished Holmes. ‘Where is Verne?’

  ‘Upstairs, writing.’

  ‘I must see him at once.’

  Honorine was waiting in the hallway, an anxious look on her face. ‘Has something happened, m’sieur?’ she asked as Holmes approached. ‘When the boy came with your note—’

  ‘There has been a development,’ he said.

  ‘Something to do with Gaston?’ she asked, almost fearfully.

  ‘Indirectly, madame. Now, if you will be so kind as to join your husband, I need only explain everything the once.’

  She nodded and turned to a door on her left. Watson hurried to open it for them, and revealed a circular staircase beyond. He and Holmes followed Honorine up to a small but well-appointed set of rooms, outside the smallest of which Verne stood leaning on his crutches.

  ‘M’sieur Holmes,’ he cried. ‘What news is there? Is Gaston—?’

  ‘He is safe and well,’ Holmes assured him.

  ‘Thank God!’ breathed Verne.

  He ushered them all into the small room behind him, which was clearly his workroom. Two cluttered wooden desks sat beneath a window that offered a spectacular view of the slender spire of Amiens Cathedral. Behind it Holmes noticed a small camp-bed and frowned. Catching his expression, Verne explained self-consciously: ‘I begin work every morning at five. By eleven I have to rest.’

  The room was bare of all ornamentation save for two busts, one of Molière, the other of Shakespeare, and a watercolour of a yacht known as the St Michel III.

  Verne gestured to another door. ‘Please, come through to the library.’

  The library was a much bigger room, in the centre of which sat a large table stacked high with newspapers and periodicals. Nearby, a set of little cardboard pigeonholes was jammed tight with the notes Verne habitually kept on almost every subject.

  ‘Now, sir,’ Verne said grimly as Honorine slipped her arm fondly under his. ‘What has happened?’

  ‘I believe there can no longer be any doubt that your life is at risk,’ Holmes said gravely. ‘Someone, somewhere means you harm, M’sieur Verne. They broke your nephew out of the sanatorium where he had been placed and by the most sadistic of means convinced him to kill you upon their behalf. When that failed, an attempt was made to eliminate Gaston – an attempt Inspector Mathes and I were able to foil last night. But the man who tried to kill Gaston was himself murdered this very morning.’

  Honorine paled at the revelation. Verne and Watson exchanged a glance. Clearly this affair could no longer be dismissed as a product of Holmes’s imagination.

  ‘Someone wants you dead, M’sieur Verne,’ Holmes continued, ‘and they are determined and ruthless enough to cover their tracks by any means possible. Are you sure you cannot think of anyone who might want to hurt you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No one with the initials “V.D.C,”?’

  ‘No, m’sieur.’

  ‘Need I assure you that anything you choose to tell us will be held in the strictest confidence?’

  ‘I appreciate that, but … I cannot think of any reason why anyone should want to kill me.’

  ‘However … sensitive … that reason might be?’

  A nerve in Verne’s face twitched at Holmes’s use of the word. ‘I am not sure what you are implying, m’sieur,’ he said stiffly.

  ‘I believe you are, sir. I believe you know exactly what I am implying. What’s more, it will make this investigation go easier if you confide in us.’

  Verne reddened. Then, pulling away from his wife, he leaned on his crutches and crossed the room to a window. ‘There are some things a man must keep to himself, M’sieur Holmes.’

  ‘Even if by doing so he condemns himself to death? Condemns his nephew to death? Allows the perpetrators of the crime to go unpunished?’

  ‘Oui. Even then,’ Verne said stubbornly.

  Holmes squared his shoulders. ‘Nevertheless, sir, we must take every step to guard you until the enemy is brought to book – at which time whatever you choose to withhold from us now may well become public knowledge whether you wish it or not.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’ asked Honorine. ‘We will cooperate as much as we can. All I ask – all we ask – is that you do everything in your power to protect Jules’s good name.’

  ‘Then I strongly advise that we begin by moving Gaston to a nursing home, the location of which will be known only to us and your most trusted friends,’ said Holmes. ‘Until this is over, he is a target, too, and we must afford him every protection.’

  ‘Of course,’ Verne agreed. ‘But that is a decision only his father, my brother Paul, can make.’

  ‘Where does he live, M’sieur Verne?’

  ‘Nantes. I will send a telegram at once—’

  ‘We dare not risk that, I am afraid. A telegram could easily be intercepted.’

  Verne’s eyes widened. ‘Do you really believe that these people, whoever they are, would attempt such a thing?’

  ‘They are powerful, and they are everywhere,’ Holmes replied simply, ‘and because of that we cannot take the risk that they will not intercept it. No – it will be better if I visit your brother in person, and explain everything to him face to face.’

  ‘You will not possibly be able to make the return trip in one day,’ said Honorine.

  ‘I will stay over and return either tomorrow or the day after, depending upon where my subsequent inquiries take me. Now, if you will excuse me, I will return to my hotel, collect some things and then make my way to Nantes. If you will supply me with a letter of introduction, m’sieur…?’

  ‘At once.’

  ‘Merçi. As soon as I have an answer from your brother, I will wire you with a simple yes or no.’

  Watson said: ‘Come, Holmes. I’ll walk you downstairs while M’sieur Verne prepares his letter.’

  When they were back in the conservatory hall he added quietly: ‘Have a care, old chap. You are here to convalesce, remember.’

  ‘I am fine, Watson. Never better.’

  ‘Still … how have you been, in yourself? You look somewhat pale.’

  ‘It is nothing. I feel energized, old friend. Truly, I could ask for nothing more.’

  ‘Well, as I say, have a care, Holmes. You have been quite desperately ill, whether you choose to believe it or not. Don’t try to run before you can walk.’

  Shortly, Honorine came downstairs and handed Holmes an envelope, upon which Verne himself had scribbled his brother’s name and address. ‘God speed, M’sieur Holmes,’ she said.

  Watson extended his hand. ‘And remember what I said, Holmes.’

  ‘I will, old friend.’ They shook hands. ‘But have a care for yourself, too, Watson. I still believe you will find more danger here than I will in Nantes.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Paul Verne

  A five-hour train journey brought Holmes south and west to Nantes just before dusk. He stood on the platform for a moment, checking the faces of the debarking passengers. He recognized no one. Satisfied that he hadn’t been followed, he headed for the exit.

  As he stepped out of the Grand Gare, the setting sun threw a garland of orange and gold, pale pink and powder blue across the darkening sky. He hailed a cab and asked
to be taken to the address Jules Verne had supplied.

  The journey proved to be illuminating. Nantes was a vibrant, progressive city settled on the banks of the River Loire, where the Rivers Sèvre Nantaise and Erdre met to form the Loire’s left and right tributaries. Though it was no longer the major commercial port it had once been, ocean-going ships could still be seen navigating their way inland from the Atlantic, which lay no more than fifty kilometres south.

  At length Holmes reached his destination: a double row of connected, three-storey, grey-stone houses with wrought-iron balconies on a narrow, cobbled street that wound its way up a gentle incline. Holmes double-checked the address Honorine had given him, paused before a tall red-painted front door and knocked.

  Paul Verne answered after a brief wait. Holmes introduced himself and explained briefly why he was there. Though surprised to find himself talking to a detective of Holmes’s repute, Paul invited him in and led him into a dimly lit, modestly furnished sitting room. There, he offered Holmes a glass of port, which Holmes graciously refused, and then excused himself to notify his wife that they had a guest.

  He returned shortly, sat on a sofa facing Holmes and the two men began to talk. Studying him, Holmes estimated that Paul was a year or so younger than his brother and only vaguely resembled Jules. His hair was thick and dark, worn with a left-side part. He had direct eyes, a slightly hooked nose, full sideburns, a thick moustache and a chin-beard.

  Though he was a stockbroker by trade, Holmes knew that he shared something of his brother’s creative streak. He dabbled in writing and composing, but his real love had always been the sea. Unfortunately, fragile health had denied him the mariner’s life he had so desired.

  Not that he showed any bitterness about it. In temperament he was far more cheerful than his somewhat dour, pessimistic brother, and though he and his wife, Berthe – a rather cheerless younger woman who now entered – treated Holmes warily at first, Paul’s attitude thawed rapidly once he read Jules’s letter of introduction.