Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts

by Hayes, Steve

  Watson retired to the sitting room and, remembering the way Lydie Denier had looked at him, pulled down a book from Verne’s crammed shelves and set about reading the French text in order to improve his fluency of the language.

  But it was no good. He simply couldn’t concentrate. Even when he managed to forget about Lydie, which was not easy, there was too much else going on just now. Verne had made a good point earlier. How were they going to smuggle Gaston out of the city without anyone following them? Verne himself seemed to have set much store by the man Felix Nadar, but Watson preferred to reserve judgement.

  Then there was Holmes. He had no idea when his friend was coming back, but it certainly wouldn’t be before tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, he thought. With any luck Gaston will be out of the city by tomorrow, which will mean one less problem to worry about. And tomorrow afternoon, he and Verne would be entertaining Lydie.

  Lydie, he thought. What a romantic fool he was to be thinking so much about a woman he knew nothing about and had only just met.

  Sometime after four o’clock the doorbell rang. Watson jumped up and reached into his pocket for his service revolver. A few moments later the maid showed Verne’s doctor, Simonet, into the room.

  ‘I have made all the necessary arrangements,’ he reported. ‘They are expecting Gaston at the Valois Institute, near Le Combeau, where he will be admitted under the name Paul Leveque. It was the safest place I could think of, and le directeur is a personal friend of mine.’

  ‘Thank you, Doctor. One day you may understand just how vital your assistance has been.’

  Verne came down to supper at about six. Neither he nor Watson had much appetite. Watson passed along Dr Simonet’s message and Verne nodded in satisfaction.

  ‘Le Combeau … it is a good way from here, seven, eight hundred kilometres. Safe enough, I hope.’

  After the meal Verne disappeared to consult his maps of the area. Watson, feeling he should try to get some sleep in order to be as fresh as possible for the events of the coming night, went to his room. At first sleep eluded him. This business had wound him too tight. But somewhere along the way he must have dozed off, for when he woke again it was dark.

  He sat up and tilted his pocket watch to the meagre light filtering through the window. It was almost half past eight. He sighed. He still had the better part of three hours to kill.

  He went to the chamber-set on the lowboy and splashed his face with cold water. Immediately he felt somewhat revived. But as he finished drying himself off, he thought he heard a soft but distinctive scratch of sound through the partly open window. He froze.

  Someone had just opened the gate leading into the Verne courtyard.

  He quickly stepped to one side of the window and cautiously peered down through the breeze-blown lace. At first he saw no one. Then he stiffened. There! A figure was loitering in the shadows beside the gate, staring up at the house.

  Watson wondered what he should do. He did not think the newcomer could possibly be a visitor. No visitor would linger there in the darkness, just watching the house. Nor would he make his entrance in such a secretive manner.

  Then the figure broke away from the wall and crossed the courtyard smoothly and silently, following his moon-thrown shadow ever closer.

  Whoever he was, Watson decided that he was up to no good.

  He quickly slipped into his jacket. The weight of his revolver in the right-side pocket was a comfort. Leaving his room, he descended the stairs. Not wanting to alarm the Vernes unduly, he moved silently past the sitting room until he reached the deserted kitchen, where he carefully unbolted the back door.

  Outside the night was sharp and cold, the sky clear and glittering with stars. The steady breeze tightened his skin. He closed the door softly behind him and then, keeping his back to the wall, edged along the side of the house until he reached the corner turning into the courtyard.

  It took a moment before he spotted the intruder. He was standing in the middle of the courtyard, looking up at the house.

  Watson wondered who he was and what he was planning to do. Simultaneously it came to him that perhaps this man had already done what he’d come for. Someone wanted Verne dead. Was it possible that this man had set a bomb on the steps and was just taking one last look to make sure that everything was as it should be with his handiwork?

  The idea alarmed Watson. Throwing caution to the wind he broke cover and, as fast as his limp would allow, charged across the lawn. His target – a man in a long grey overcoat and tall hat – wheeled around to face him, eyes bulging with shock.

  In the next moment Watson threw himself at the intruder and they went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Grappling on the ground, they rolled uncaring through the flowerbeds, crushing gerberas, lilies and daffodils as they went.

  Finally Watson managed to grab his opponent by the shoulders and, rising, hoisted him to his feet. Light from the street revealed a long face topped by a wild shock of brown hair. The intruder was in his twenties, his features – a sloping brow, a long, straight nose – typically Gallic.

  Watson drew back his fist, but the other man struck first. He hit Watson on the jaw. Watson staggered backwards, shaking his head as if, in the process, he might also shake loose the pain. Regaining his balance, he prepared to meet the charge he expected to follow. But the man was busily shaking his right hand, the expression of pain on his face the very match of Watson’s own.

  Stupidly, Watson felt a wholly irrational stab of pride; that even in the act of taking a punch he had been able to inflict pain upon his opponent.

  A moment later someone raised the gas in the conservatory hall and a shaft of smoky light spilled out across the courtyard. Verne’s manservant came outside, yelling: ‘You there! Who are you? What do you think you’re doing?’

  Watson and the other man both spun towards him as the manservant drew up short, his face wide with surprise. ‘Docteur Watson!’ he exclaimed. And then: ‘M’sieur Verne?’

  Watson frowned. Verne?

  The other man bent down and retrieved his fallen hat. ‘Oui,’ he said, glaring at Watson. ‘I wasn’t sure of the reception I would get when I finally came to visit my father, but I never expected this!’

  As the combatants turned again to face each other, Watson said sheepishly: ‘You are Michel Verne?’

  Michel nodded. His tired smile resembled a grimace. ‘And you, m’sieur…?’

  ‘My name is Watson. I have been staying here as your father’s—’

  ‘—bodyguard?’ the younger man said sourly.

  ‘—guest,’ finished Watson. ‘I saw you – someone – skulking around in the courtyard and, well, with everything that has happened over the last few days—’

  ‘It is all right, m’sieur,’ Michel said wearily. ‘I can see how it must have looked. To be candid with you, I have been debating whether or not to come ever since I heard the news that my father had been shot. Shot! And by his dreamy little mouse, at that. But as you may or may not know, my father and I have been … at odds … for some time now. He considers me a profligate and a wastrel, and in all honesty I cannot say he is entirely mistaken. But blood is blood, M’sieur Watson—’

  ‘It’s doctor, actually.’

  ‘Docteur,’ Michel continued with a nod of acknowledgement, ‘and for all his faults, he is the only father I have. I came hoping to make my peace with him, but even as my courage deserted me upon seeing the house again after so long, so did nostalgia replace it. I stood there, wondering why things could not have been different, and was about to leave when—’

  Watson studied the other. Inasmuch as he had expected anything at all, he had expected someone much different to this man. The son Jules Verne had told him about had sounded like a callous, selfish cad. This man seemed genuinely sorry for the behaviour of his earlier years.

  ‘I can only apologize,’ Watson murmured. ‘I had the welfare of your parents at heart.’

  ‘And for that I am grateful, Docteur. Tell
me – I have read of the incident in the papers. My God, they are full of it! But how has the incident really affected him?’

  Watson shrugged. ‘The physical injury itself will heal, though he will limp for the rest of his days. As for the emotional damage … it is hard to say. My understanding is that he and Gaston enjoyed a cordial relationship. The fact that it was Gaston who made the attempt upon his life … well, it has obviously affected him.’

  ‘Gaston …’ Michel said contemptuously.

  Watson studied him briefly, then said: ‘Are you ready to go inside?’

  Michel offered a rueful smile. ‘Oui, m’sieur. Let us get it over with.’

  Together they crossed the yard and entered the house. Verne and Honorine were waiting for them in the hallway. There was a moment of silence as father and son looked at each other. Watson, staying well in the background, could only guess at their thoughts – that each was perhaps shocked by just how much older the other looked, that neither had ever really expected this moment of reunion to come.

  Then Michel swallowed and said formally: ‘Mama … Papa.’

  As Verne stared at his son, tears moistened his eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. After another moment he seemed to remember where he was, and offered his hand, saying: ‘Michel….’

  Michel took his father’s hand, the muscles of his face twitching with emotion. ‘Papa! It is good to see you again. When I heard you had been shot—’

  ‘What brings you here at this hour, Michel?’ Verne interrupted.

  Michel stepped back a little, shocked by the iciness in his father’s tone. ‘An epiphany, if you like,’ he replied mildly. ‘A moment of absolute clarity in which everything that was previously hidden became as clear as day to me. I came to apologize for my past behaviour, to apologize for bringing shame upon you and upon the family name. I came to make my peace … if you will accept it.’

  Verne shook his head, clearly bewildered. ‘I don’t know what to say …’ he managed, clearing his throat. ‘For so many years we have been at loggerheads, you and I. You have rejected everything I have ever done to help you—’

  ‘And for that you must blame the impetuosity of youth,’ Michel said with feeling. ‘I understand that this cannot be easy for you. I have thought only of myself for far too long, and in so doing hurt you both. But perhaps some good has come of Gaston’s madness. Had you died, I would forever have been denied the chance to tell you how sorry I am. If truth be told, I am not sure I could have lived much longer with that upon my conscience. And so I am here now, in hope of reconciliation. But I understand your scepticism. I have been every dark thing you have ever called me. But I am an older and wiser man now, with a child of my own – your grandchild, Papa, a fine boy. All I ask is the chance to prove myself.’

  It was more than Verne could take. Relenting, his face reflecting his joy, he drew Michel to him and buried his face in the young man’s shoulder. Watson watched Verne’s hands as he clung to his son, the way his long fingers tightened as if he couldn’t hold him close enough. Only once did he sob. Otherwise, he cried in silence.

  When father and son finally broke apart, Michel pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped his eyes and blew his nose. ‘From this moment, Papa, I am your servant. Ask of me what you will. I shall never let you down again.’

  Emotion had drained Verne, and his wife had to help him to a chair. ‘I never thought to see this day,’ he said thickly. ‘You have your chance, Michel. In fact, you may have your chance this very night.’

  Michel cocked his head questioningly. ‘Papa?’

  Before answering, Verne looked at Watson, who had himself been affected by the reunion between the two. Watson nodded for Verne to go ahead. Verne turned back to Michel, saying: ‘I am going to tell you as much as I know about this wretched business, my son, and rely upon you to let it go no further. And when I am finished, I am going to ask your help in a very delicate matter.’

  ‘To do what, Papa?’

  ‘Help us get Gaston out of Amiens,’ Verne said. ‘At midnight.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Giant

  As Verne’s carriage rattled through the dark, sleeping streets, Watson said: ‘Are you sure you’re up to this, sir? Michel and I are perfectly capable of handling the matter.’

  ‘He is right, Papa,’ Michel chimed in. ‘You have been through enough already. There is nothing to be gained by putting yourself through yet more.’

  ‘No,’ Verne said determinedly. ‘Though I am not entirely responsible for Gaston’s madness, I have played a generous part in it. I cannot shirk my duty now. Besides—’ He smiled briefly ‘—I have two stout fellows to help me.’

  In the darkness Watson saw Michel reach impulsively for his father’s hand and fondly squeeze it.

  At last they reached Rue de la Republique. Inspector Mathes was standing on the steps in front of the police station, smoking a cigarette. Watson climbed out into the quiet street and made a slow, careful examination of their surroundings.

  Mathes said quietly: ‘Rest easy, Docteur. I have been watching for the past twenty minutes. The shadows are empty.’

  ‘Is Gaston ready?’

  ‘I shall fetch him. Have your coach back up to the mouth of that alley.’

  As the inspector ground his cigarette underfoot and entered the building, Watson conveyed instructions to the driver. Michel had also alighted, and was keeping a watchful eye on street.

  Shortly Mathes appeared out of the shadows, leading Gaston by the arm. Gaston stumbled along meekly, a young man lost in his own world. Michel stared at him, barely able to believe the change in his cousin. Gaston had always been a loner, certainly, but he had always possessed vitality and a constant and seemingly unquenchable thirst for discovery. Now he hardly seemed aware of anything.

  Michel stepped forward and took him gently by the other arm. Then, while Watson shook hands with Mathes and thanked him for his assistance, Michel helped Gaston to climb into the carriage. Verne, hunched in the corner, caught a glimpse of his nephew in the streetlamps. Something tugged at his heart and he quickly rubbed his watery eyes on his sleeve.

  Michel followed Gaston into the carriage. It rocked gently as he helped Gaston get comfortable. Then Watson climbed in, closed the door and tapped on the roof with his cane. The driver snapped the reins and the carriage jolted back into motion.

  ‘Where are we going now?’ Watson asked Verne.

  ‘Somewhere far from prying eyes.’

  ‘And your friend, Nadar…?’

  ‘He will be there,’ said Verne.

  ‘Are you not familiar with Felix Nadar, Docteur?’ asked Michel.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Amazing,’ Michel said. ‘He is so well known in this country that you could write his name alone on an envelope and guarantee that the letter would reach him. He has worked as a drama critic, a shop clerk, a caricature artist, a pamphleteer – you name it, he has done it. You and he even co-founded The Society for the Encouragement of Aerial Locomotion by Means of Heavier than Air Machines, didn’t you, Papa?’

  Verne nodded. ‘Yes. He was president, I was secretary. A remarkable man, and one we may trust implicitly with the task ahead. This entire business has taken nerve, Docteur, more nerve than I thought I possessed. But Felix … ah, now there is a man who thrives upon this kind of danger. He has photographed the stinking Paris sewers and taken his camera into a hot-air balloon to photograph the Arc de Triomphe from above. He is our man, right enough, and one’s life is always the richer for having made his acquaintance.’

  A brisk twenty-minute drive took them into the heart of the surrounding countryside. Moonlight showed Watson endless, sloping fields of wheat and lavender. There was an onion field close by; he could smell it. At last the coach drew to a halt and Verne gestured that they had reached their destination.

  Watson climbed out. The night was still and colder than ever. Off to the west he saw a scattering of dwellings on the slop
e of a plateau and wondered aloud what the name of the place was.

  ‘Saveuse,’ Verne said, struggling to get comfortable on his crutches. ‘It is little more than a hamlet, and filled with country folk who retire early to their beds.’

  To the south and east Watson could just make out the undulating silhouette of a dense forest. ‘You have certainly chosen your spot well,’ he confessed. ‘But I see no sign of M’sieur Nadar.’

  ‘He will be here,’ Verne said confidently.

  He and his son shared a knowing smile.

  Watson glanced into the carriage. Gaston sat there listlessly, head tilted to one side. A sound in the nearby hedge startled Watson and he quickly turned around.

  ‘It is all right, my friend,’ Verne cautioned. ‘The countryside hereabout teems with life – everything from red deer and ibex to foxes and mountain hares.’

  They continued to wait. Bats fluttered overhead. Suddenly Michel stiffened and whispered: ‘I see him.’

  Watson peered in the direction Michel indicated. ‘Good grief!’ he gasped.

  A hot-air balloon was slowly drifting in from the south, a large woven wicker basket swaying gently beneath it. Every so often the pilot – presumably Felix Nadar – opened the propane valve above his head to send a great spear of flame up into the balloon. Even from this distance they could hear the brief accompanying roar.

  ‘Metier,’ said Verne.

  At his order the coach driver lit a crude torch and, standing up in the high seat, waved it slowly above his head.

  A few seconds later the balloon began to descend until its pilot found the right current of air to propel him in their direction.

  Watson took a long, fascinated look at the craft. The balloon itself was the shape of an upside-down onion, constructed of long, dark panels of fabric, below which was some kind of skirt. He smiled to himself. ‘I can see now,’ he said in admiration, ‘how we may transport Gaston away from here without fear of anyone following him.’