Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts

by Hayes, Steve

  Verne nodded. ‘Many years ago, Docteur, Felix had an enormous balloon built. For obvious reasons it was called Le Géant. Its cab was two storeys high and it could carry fourteen people. But the flight ended badly, and both Felix and his wife were injured. As you can see, he has since opted for something smaller than Le Géant.’

  ‘Yes. And he certainly knows how to—’ He broke off suddenly.

  ‘Yes, Docteur?’

  Watson grinned at him. ‘I believe I have just found the significance in your telegram, sir. “Six-Quatre.” You refer of course to the Book of Genesis, Chapter Six, Verse Four – “There were giants in the earth in those days”.’

  Verne nodded and clapped him on the arm. ‘Of course. Now, if you would be so kind as to help Gaston from the carriage?’

  The balloon continued to descend smoothly towards a spot in the centre of the field before them. As Watson gently coaxed Gaston out into the narrow lane he glanced over his shoulder and saw the pilot busily pulling cords to control his landing.

  In their traces the horses whinnied and stamped, unnerved by the appearance and proximity of the balloon. Metier, the driver, muttered soothing words to calm them. He broke off suddenly.

  “Yes, m’sieur.”

  As the balloon set down, crushing wheat beneath it, Verne said: ‘Venez.’

  With Michel helping him, he used his crutches to swing himself forward through the wheat rows. Watson followed with Gaston stumbling blankly along beside him.

  Having secured his balloon by means of an anchor, Felix Nadar scrambled out of the basket and hurried to meet them. To Watson’s surprise he was quite elderly – well into his sixties. Of average height and somewhat overweight, he had dark, lively eyes in a round face. His unruly hair was receding and hung down over his collar.

  He and Verne hugged and fondly clapped each other on the back. Then Verne introduced his companions. Nadar was warm and affable, a man who took great joy in every aspect of life, and whose joy was curiously contagious.

  ‘This is quite the adventure, eh?’ he enthused.

  ‘Something like that, sir,’ Watson replied, taking another look around to make sure they hadn’t been followed.

  ‘I have the co-ordinates here for your destination in Le Combeau,’ said Verne. ‘Once there, Michel will see that Gaston is safely installed at the hospital and will make his own way back to Amiens by train.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Nadar, looking at the scrap of paper Verne had handed him. ‘We will have the young man under medical care by dawn.’

  ‘Merçi, Felix. You are a good friend.’

  ‘Then I am to you what you are to me.’

  They shook hands, and then Verne turned to Gaston. Moonlight showed Watson the pain Verne felt at seeing his nephew’s true condition.

  ‘My poor dreamy mouse,’ Verne whispered. ‘I am so sorry it had to come to this.’

  He hugged Gaston, kissed him on both cheeks and allowed Michel and Nadar to lead him away. Verne then turned to Watson. ‘Please forgive a foolish old man his tears, Docteur.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive.’

  They stood side by side, watching as Gaston was lifted into the basket. Michel clambered in behind him. Nadar waved, then hauled in the anchor and busied himself at his propane valve. A jet of amber flame stabbed up into the balloon, blasting a harsh snarl out across the empty countryside. The balloon slowly began to rise. A moment later the basket left the ground, swaying sluggishly back and forth … and Gaston was on his way.

  Watson and Verne watched until the balloon was almost out of sight. Then Verne gave a satisfied nod and sighed as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. ‘Now,’ he said quietly, ‘let us return to Amiens – and whatever fate awaits us.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A Guiding Light

  Dr Edouard Orand gestured for Holmes to take a seat on the visitor’s side of his desk. As director of the Sanatorium de Russy, located just outside Blois, he was a meticulous, prissy disciplinarian who enjoyed his authority to the full. ‘You will forgive me if I cannot give you as much time as perhaps you would like,’ he said with as much criticism as he felt he could get away with. ‘But had you given me even the briefest notice of your visit—’

  Holmes cut him off. ‘I apologize for the oversight,’ he replied easily. ‘But the journey from Nantes took three hours, and my schedule is such that, by the time I arrived in Blois, the opportunity to wire ahead did not present itself.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Orand. He was an odd-looking little man. Though well into his forties, he was about the size of a fifteen-year-old boy. He had a thin, sallow face and cold, toffee-coloured eyes that were magnified to almost comical proportions by the thick lenses in his wire-framed spectacles. Beneath his long white coat he wore a creased grey suit, and gave by his every movement an impression of nervous energy. Every time he fidgeted, his dark, shield-shaped tie pin reflected the light of the new day.

  ‘Now,’ he continued, ‘I know you are here to ask about the recent, unfortunate escape of Gaston Verne – the letter of introduction written by his father tells me as much – but how exactly can I help you, m’sieur?’

  ‘Firstly, may I enquire as to your diagnosis of Gaston Verne?’

  Without a word Orand rose and went to a wooden file cabinet. While he unlocked it and then riffled through its contents, Holmes turned to the window and surveyed the ominous oaks of the Forêt de Russy beyond the grounds. The fact that they formed a natural barrier to the outside world was not lost upon him. Not only did they keep out prying eyes, they also lent a grim remoteness to the sanatorium.

  Orand now brought a file back to his desk. He opened it, scanned it briefly and said: ‘The patient was admitted some months ago upon the advice of his own family doctor, who diagnosed mania, melancholia, extreme neurasthenia and hysteria, the latter condition being unusual in that it is more closely associated with the fairer sex. He had a dull aspect and a sulky nature, paid little attention to what was said to him, but was frequently prone to sleeplessness, unmanageable conduct, violent language and acts. He tore his clothing, bit himself, broke windows, showed immoderate laughter for no apparent cause and chattered to imaginary people and things.

  ‘Upon those occasions when he was questioned he answered in an abhorrently ill-tempered tone. There was no evidence of bodily disease and no evidence of injury to the head. For this and other reasons, it quickly became obvious to my colleagues and I that his condition was incurable, but quite possibly controllable. We were experimenting with various chemical and homeopathic methods to find the most beneficial one when he … escaped.’

  ‘What methods?’

  ‘In the initial stages of his stay he was considered as much a risk to himself as to those around him. Therefore we used opiates to make him more … compliant.’

  ‘And how did he escape?’

  ‘As near as we have been able to discover, he somehow secreted a dinner knife about his person and upon the night he vanished used it to force open the lock to his room.’

  Holmes’s eyebrows arched in a mixture of surprise.

  ‘Is there something wrong, m’sieur?’ asked Orand.

  ‘Only that I find that a remarkable achievement for one who was at the time undergoing a powerful drug treatment to control his actions.’

  Orand’s lips thinned. ‘You must forgive me, M’sieur Holmes, but I don’t quite know what you are implying.’

  ‘I’m not implying anything,’ Holmes said. ‘I’m merely making an observation.’ Then, firing the question like a bullet: ‘Where was Gaston’s room?’

  ‘On the first floor.’

  ‘So he escaped from his room, made his way along a corridor to the staircase, descended the stairs to…?’

  ‘The door leading from the kitchen to the back yard.’

  ‘And disappeared into the forest?’

  ‘That was the finding of our subsequent investigation.’

  ‘You have staff who patro
l your wards at night, do you not?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And yet Gaston managed to avoid them all.’

  Orand closed the file with a snap. ‘M’sieur, I do not appreciate your accusatory tone. But to answer your question: the night of March second was especially hectic for us. There was a full moon and for reasons we still do not fully comprehend, the full moon exerts a detrimental effect upon the majority of our patients. It makes them restive and troublesome. My staff were kept fully occupied in other parts of the building – a fortunate happenstance for Gaston.’

  ‘Fortunate indeed,’ said Holmes. ‘But I am afraid inaccurate, Doctor.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The last full moon occurred on February eighteenth. The next will occur on March twentieth. The night Gaston Verne escaped there was but a crescent moon, it being three days before the appearance of the new one.’

  ‘I trust you are not calling me a liar, sir?’ Orand said, flustered.

  ‘I am merely stating a fact, Docteur Orand.’

  ‘Well, be that as it may, the fact remains that it was a particularly troublesome night, and my staff could not be everywhere at once.’

  ‘May I see Gaston’s room?’

  ‘Do you think it will help?’

  ‘It can do no harm, surely?’

  ‘No, but you will appreciate that I am anxious to avoid anything that could possibly embarrass the sanatorium.’

  ‘I have no interest in making things difficult for you, Docteur.’

  ‘Very well. I will have one of the warders accompany you to the first floor.’

  A few minutes later a tall, thick-set warder led Holmes along the first-floor corridor, his pace brisk and businesslike, his steps and those of Holmes clattering back at them from off the black and white tiled floor. Eventually the warder came to a halt before the room Gaston had occupied during his stay. The warder, who had introduced himself as Widmeyer, unlocked the door, pushed it open and told Holmes that he was free to go inside and look around.

  Holmes did so. The room was small and sparsely furnished. He checked the lowboy. The drawers were empty. He went back to the door, knelt and inspected the areas between the door frame and the lock for any suspicious scrapes or marks. As he had suspected, there were none. A knife could indeed be used to open a door by the simple means of pushing the lock back from its seat, but it was useless on a locked door.

  As Widmeyer watched, Holmes took a small tool case from his pocket, unclipped it and rolled it out on the floor. He selected a screwdriver and went to work, unscrewing the plate over the lock. When he had removed it he carefully blew away any dust and with a magnifying glass inspected the pins for dents and scratches. Again, there was no evidence that the lock had been tampered with.

  ‘Strange, isn’t it, m’sieur,’ Widmeyer said.

  Holmes looked up at him. ‘What is?’

  ‘Strange that M’sieur Gaston should take it into his head to escape on one of the coldest nights of the year and leave his every stitch of clothing behind.’

  Frowning, Holmes straightened up again. ‘You know this for a fact?’

  Widmeyer nodded gravely. He was a brawny, uncouth-looking man with surprisingly compassionate green eyes. ‘I was one of the men who cleaned the room out after he vanished, sir,’ he said quietly.

  Glancing around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard, he entered the room and closed the door behind him. ‘I liked M’sieur Gaston,’ he said. ‘He was a handful when he first came here, but after a while the medication seemed to calm him down, and when he was calm he was no trouble to anyone. I feel I can tell you this because Docteur Orand said you were here at the request of M’sieur Gaston’s father.’

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘That there is something amiss here, sir.’

  Holmes put the magnifying glass back into his pocket. ‘You are quite sure about his clothing?’

  ‘As sure as I can be, sir. He did not have many things here. Very few of the patients do. There is no need. I am almost prepared to swear that he took nothing with him but the nightshirt he was wearing at the time, sir. Besides….’

  ‘Go on,’ Holmes said. ‘You may speak freely, Widmeyer. I shall not break your confidence.’

  The warder looked uncomfortable, then took a deep breath before saying: ‘There is a man here by the name of Bertrand Joncas. Kitchen staff, sir – and yet he was on duty the night M’sieur Gaston escaped. Killing cockroaches, they say. You know, they come out after dark, sir, and it’s the best time to catch them.’

  ‘And…?’

  ‘Although he claimed to have seen nothing during the time M’sieur Gaston is said to have escaped, I noticed – I don’t know, perhaps it was just me – but he seemed nervous, somehow. Edgy. At first I thought he might be worried for his job. You know, that Docteur Orand would use him as a scapegrace, make an example of him and dismiss him. But it did not come to that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because Bertrand Joncas was killed less than thirty-six hours later, sir, stabbed in a back alley, the victim of a botched robbery, they said.’

  ‘The police, you mean?’

  ‘Oui, m’sieur.’

  ‘But you don’t believe them?’

  ‘Kitchen staff is paid even less than warders, m’sieur. Bertrand Joncas was a poor man, always poor. And a poor choice to be robbed.’

  Holmes considered for a moment before saying: ‘Are you suggesting there was another motive for his murder?’

  ‘I’m suggesting there could well be. If he was paid to turn a blind eye while M’sieur Gaston “escaped”, perhaps he was silenced to make sure he didn’t break and give anything away afterwards. In any case, there is something else.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I was on duty the day M’sieur Gaston received a visitor. Docteur Orand had me show him up here just as he had me show you up here today.’

  ‘Did he say who this man was?’

  ‘Non, m’sieur. I had the impression he was a doctor who had come to assess M’sieur Gaston’s condition for himself.’

  ‘Did he stay long?’

  ‘Non, m’sieur.’

  ‘Did you hear anything of his conversation with Gaston?’

  ‘Non, m’sieur.’

  ‘You did not know this man?’

  ‘I’d never seen him before.’

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘Tall, thin, perhaps fifty.’

  ‘Colouring?’

  ‘His hair was silver and he wore a chin-beard. I didn’t really think too much about him at the time. It was only after M’sieur Gaston vanished that I wondered if he had said something that put the idea of escape into Gaston’s mind, or that he himself had in some way arranged the entire business.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  Widmeyer shrugged. ‘Je ne sais quoi. Perhaps I am just seeing things that aren’t really there. Perhaps I should be one of the patients instead of one of the warders, eh? But this man, he wore a very distinctive tie pin. I remembered it because the superintendent often wears one just like it.’

  Holmes frowned. ‘Is he wearing it today?’

  ‘Oui, m’sieur. A small black shield bearing three small clusters of grapes, and the letters X and I.’

  ‘I noticed it, also,’ Holmes said thoughtfully.

  Widmeyer shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘Begging your pardon, m’sieur, but do you think I have too much imagination?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ said Holmes. ‘I believe you have been a great help in my investigation. A true guiding light, in fact.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Family Reunion

  By the time Holmes returned to the room he had rented at a local hotel in Blois, night was already blackening the sky. Upon his return from the sanatorium he had visited the local library and spent the remainder of the afternoon poring over books with almost obsessive zeal. Indeed, he would have continued his research well into the
night had the library not closed at six o’clock. But, forced to leave, he stopped at a café and ordered a lemon pressé and a bowl of soup.

  Later, deep in thought, he wandered the steep, winding streets of Blois for a time, mulling over what he had learned and trying to make sense of it all. He walked until he was weary and then headed back to his hotel. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would return to Amiens and make another attempt to convince Verne to confess what he knew.

  As soon as let himself into his darkened room, he knew he was not alone. But he felt no fear. Indeed, he allowed himself a rare smile.

  ‘Mycroft,’ he said. ‘How good of you to make yourself at home.’

  A deep, curmudgeonly voice from the darkness on the other side of the room said: ‘I should have known. It was the polish, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Holmes struck a match, raised the gas and turned to the corpulent figure of his brother, who was sprawled in a corner armchair. ‘The Diogenes Club, that fusty residence wherein members treasure their solitude and may not under any circumstances address or even acknowledge the presence of their fellow misanthropes upon penalty of expulsion, has a distinct aroma of Brazil wax and beeswax. If one spends precisely two hours and fifty-five minutes there every day, as you do, dear brother, it is inevitable that your clothes will eventually absorb so much of the odour that even the best dry cleaners in London cannot entirely erase it.’

  Mycroft Holmes gave a hearty laugh. They were as chalk is to cheese, these two. Though they shared the same distinctive, deep-set grey eyes, Mycroft was massive in build and irredeemably lazy. His mind, however, was razor-sharp; sharper even than that of his more famous younger brother. He was, in Holmes’s own words, a human fount of knowledge. He worked for the British government in some powerful but never clearly defined position. His job, as near as Holmes had ever been able to understand, was simply to process the conclusions of every department in Whitehall and see patterns therein that eluded all others. Mycroft’s stock-in-trade was omniscience.