Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts

by Hayes, Steve

  ‘And how did you know where to find me?’ Holmes asked, sitting on the edge of the single bed.

  ‘I always know where to find you, brother. Surely by now you must know that.’

  ‘And your purpose here now is … what, exactly?’

  ‘To warn you,’ Mycroft said, his affable manner suddenly vanishing. ‘You are involved in something much, much larger than you know.’

  ‘The Knaves, you mean?’

  Mycroft raised one eyebrow in admiration. ‘You have truly surpassed yourself, Sherlock. Few indeed even know of their existence. How did you come to that conclusion?’

  ‘I have spent a most profitable afternoon studying heraldry. It was a time-consuming business, but it has paid handsome dividends. I have identified the group behind the attempt to kill Jules Verne.’

  ‘There was more to it than that, surely?’

  ‘Last week a man came to visit Gaston Verne shortly before his alleged “escape” from the Sanatorium de Russy. He wore a black tie pin which depicted three separate clusters of grapes set out in triangular formation, over the letters X and I. I could not find any such symbol in the books I consulted, but I did find a remarkable resemblance within the family crest of Etienne de Vignolles.’ He eyed his brother askance. ‘You are familiar with the name, of course?’

  ‘Naturally. De Vignolles fought alongside Jean d’Arc in the Hundred Years’ War.’

  ‘Then you will also know that he is commemorated as the face of La Hire, in a deck of playing cards. La Hire – The Knave.’

  ‘That is all very interesting, but what of the letters X and I?’

  ‘Roman numerals, brother,’ said Holmes. ‘As if you didn’t know. They represent the number eleven – the jack, or knave’s, position within the deck, coming as it does just after the ten and just before the queen.’

  ‘You seem remarkably sure of your deduction.’

  ‘I am. I did not get much from questioning Gaston Verne, but I did get a set of initials, “V.D.C.”. They of course stand for valet de cœur – the knave of hearts.’

  ‘And who is this group?’

  ‘I fancy you know rather more about that than I. But I would imagine they have their collective fingers in France’s political pie, otherwise they would not have attracted your particular interest.’

  Mycroft slowly shifted his bulky body to a more comfortable position. ‘There is something remarkably curious about the otherwise unremarkable knave,’ he said. ‘In recent years he has grown from the lowest of all the court figures to oft-times the highest position in the rank of cards. What does that imply to you, brother?’

  ‘That he is the power behind the throne,’ Holmes said.

  ‘Exactly! In this instance, the Knaves associate most closely with the Independent Republicans, but they have their own agenda. Look closely and you will find that it is they who are orchestrating this campaign to oust Prime Minister de Freycinet. They want to put their own man in, and like the puppet masters they are, run everything from the shadows, invisibly.’

  Holmes frowned. ‘If you already know this, why not take your findings to the French government?’

  ‘Because we have no real way of knowing who can be trusted.’ Mycroft’s fleshy lips tightened sardonically. ‘Naturally, it is in our interest, and the interests of those in the rest of Europe, to have the right people running the country. Get the wrong man at the helm and it could affect politics, trade, whole economies.’

  ‘But what has this to do with Verne?’

  ‘My dear brother, I believe you well know the answer to that.’

  Holmes could not deny it. ‘You have not come to warn me off, then?’

  ‘On the contrary, Sherlock, if you can destroy or otherwise bring about the destruction of this unholy group, you will be doing the free world a great service. I should have liked to remove them myself when they first began to assemble, but even one in my position is sometimes limited in what he can and cannot do. However, it is important for the people to make up their own minds as to who rules them. We can try to sway them with argument and debate, but when murder is employed, well, it just isn’t the done thing.’

  ‘I will do everything I can.’

  ‘No one can expect more,’ Mycroft said. ‘All I ask is that you take care in the doing of it. I should hate to lose you just yet, dear brother – especially to a French assassin.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  What is in a Man’s Heart

  Holmes caught the train back to Amiens the following afternoon. He would have returned earlier, but just before he left his hotel room for the last time he was once again racked by the symptoms of opiate withdrawal. This time the attack left him drained, and yet he sensed a curious finality to the experience that he had not felt on previous occasions. It also left him alternately shivering and sweating for a time, but he believed that he had finally seen the last of the after effects of his reckless cocaine binge.

  As Blois fell behind him and the train click-clacked rhythmically over the rails bound for Amiens, he thought again about his unexpected meeting with Mycroft. The Knaves were powerful indeed if they had become a source of concern to that particular worthy. Mycroft was not merely a representative of Her Majesty’s government; upon certain occasions he was the government. And Mycroft’s instructions had been clear. He was to destroy the group in any way possible, so long as he didn’t turn the matter into an embarrassing diplomatic incident.

  He reached Amiens four hours later, still wondering how this could be accomplished. Only one thing was certain at present; he would have to choose his allies with care.

  The façade of Gare du Nord had been plastered with yet more hastily pasted Independent Republican posters. Holmes paused momentarily to read some of them. It was Sunday afternoon, and the centre of Amiens was almost deserted.

  Ten minutes later he arrived at Rue Charles Dubois and pulled the bell. It was answered in short order by Watson, who was delighted to see him back. ‘Here, Holmes, let me take your bag.’

  ‘Thank you. You received my wire, of course. I deduce from your attitude that you successfully managed to smuggle Gaston out of the city?’

  ‘Holmes, you will never believe how we did it! We—’

  They had just entered the hallway when Holmes suddenly raised one hand for silence. ‘Where is Verne?’ he snapped.

  ‘In the sitting room.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘No, we have a visit–’

  He got no further. All at once Holmes was a blur of motion as he raced to the sitting-room door and to Watson’s complete surprise burst in unannounced.

  Verne was seated on the chaise in the bay window, his left leg resting on a stool. An attractive young woman with dark hair was seated beside Honorine on the sofa a few feet away. Between them was a low table upon which sat a tray and various tea-things.

  Both the Vernes and their visitor turned towards Holmes, startled by his unexpected entrance. ‘M’sieur Holmes!’ Verne himself exclaimed. ‘What is the meaning of this interruption?’

  ‘My apologies,’ said Holmes. ‘I did not mean to startle you.’

  ‘Well, I am afraid you did,’ murmured Honorine.

  Ignoring the criticism in her tone, Holmes fixed his attention on their visitor. ‘You must forgive me, mademoiselle, but I have a curious feeling we have met before.’

  ‘I do not believe so,’ she replied stiffly.

  ‘This is Miss Lydie Denier,’ said Verne, still clearly annoyed by Holmes’s lapse in manners. ‘She writes for L’Amoureaux des Livres and she is conducting an interview with me – or rather, trying to.’

  ‘L’Amoureaux des Livres?’ Holmes repeated, taking her hand by the fingertips and bowing his head. ‘That would be a literary magazine?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lydie replied. She looked immaculate in a well-tailored, emerald-green basque and a matching skirt worn over a bustle.

  ‘I believe I have heard of it,’ said Holmes. ‘The editor is Théophile Constantin, I be
lieve.’

  ‘Non, m’sieur. My editor’s name is Emmanuel Jarnett.’

  ‘Jarnett?’ said Holmes with sudden interest. ‘The poet?’

  ‘He has written some poetry in the past,’ Lydie said smoothly. ‘And I suspect he would be flattered that you have heard of him. But these days his editorial responsibilities keep him too busy to write much of anything.’

  ‘Such a shame. He has a most unusual approach to prosody, and rather refreshingly tries to avoid the iambic parameter at every opportunity.’

  Lydie hesitated briefly before saying: ‘I shall have to take your word for that, m’sieur. I have read his work, of course, but not made such a detailed study of it. I much prefer fiction.’

  ‘Yes,’ Holmes said. ‘I imagine you do.’

  In the uncomfortable silence that followed, she set her cup down and turned her attention back to Verne. ‘Well, I believe I have taken up far more of your time than I should have, m’sieur.’ Rising, she gathered her things together. ‘You have been most accommodating, and I am grateful.’

  Verne used his cane to help himself up. ‘Must you go so soon, mademoiselle? I feel we have only just scratched the surface of our interview.’

  ‘Perhaps I could return in a few days,’ she suggested.

  ‘Yes,’ said Honorine. ‘And if you are still here on the twentieth, why don’t you come to the ball we’re having at Versailles?’

  ‘A ball at Versailles?’ Lydie said, surprised. ‘May I ask what the occasion is, madame?’

  Honorine had been so distressed by all the turmoil surrounding her husband since he had been shot that she immediately warmed to this much happier subject. ‘Well, we usually throw parties here at the house every time Jules has a new book published. But this year we celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of our very first meeting. The thing has been in the planning forever, or so it seems. I would willingly cancel until Jules is fully recovered, but he won’t hear of it.’

  ‘Jules,’ Verne reminded her with mock severity, ‘is still in the room with you, so please stop talking about him as if he’s not here!’

  Honorine reached out and rubbed his hand affectionately. ‘Forgive me, dearest.’ She smiled at Watson, who had just discreetly entered the room. ‘Believe me, Dr Watson and I are very much aware of your presence.’

  Watson chuckled at her little joke and moved over behind Holmes.

  ‘Seriously, mademoiselle,’ Honorine continued to Lydie, ‘we should be delighted if you will accept.’

  ‘And I should be delighted if you will allow me to escort you,’ Watson said impulsively.

  Lydie smiled up at him. ‘Then I simply cannot refuse. Thank you, m’sieur, madame.’

  ‘Come,’ said Honorine. ‘We will collect your coat and I will arrange for our coachman to take you back to your hotel.’

  As soon as Lydie had left the room, Verne’s affable manner turned frosty. ‘I trust you have a very good reason for bursting in the way you did, M’sieur Holmes?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ Holmes replied. ‘Watson, why don’t you “escort” Mademoiselle Denier back to her hotel? And have a care, old friend. She is not all she pretends to be.’

  Watson blanched. ‘What? How can you say that? She is a journalist here from Paris—’

  ‘—who works for a magazine that does not exist, and discusses the poetry of a writer who does not exist, and wears a most distinctive perfume.’

  ‘What the devil does that mean?’

  ‘It means that I first smelled it when you were attending to M’sieur Verne, directly after he was shot. That woman was in the crowd.’

  ‘Of course she was. She has made no secret of the fact. She was on her way here to request an interview with M’sieur Verne when Gaston shot him. The thing practically happened right under her nose.’

  ‘I smelled the same perfume the night Gabriel Bessette tried to murder Gaston,’ Holmes said. ‘She was hiding in the shadows across the street from the police station, waiting to see whether or not Bessette’s mission was successful.’

  ‘Did you see her there?’

  ‘I saw a woman, and I smelled that perfume.’

  ‘Then I suggest you have been duped by an innocent coincidence and, as a result, have leapt to an erroneous conclusion.’

  ‘On the contrary. It was you who first brought up the subject of Occam’s Razor, Watson. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.’

  ‘Regardless, you are completely wrong about this woman.’

  ‘Why? Because you have an eye for the fairer sex, and she is the fairest of them all?’

  Watson reddened and spoke through gritted teeth. ‘I think I deserve better than that from you.’

  Holmes relented. ‘You do indeed, and I apologize. But still, I need to know where I may find her again. The name of her hotel, and her room number.’

  ‘Holmes, really—’

  The door opened again and Lydie came in, wrapped in a double-breasted grey woollen coat, to say her goodbyes. Forcing himself to calm down, Watson said pleasantly: ‘Come along, mademoiselle. If you have no objections, I shall see you safely back to your hotel.’

  ‘I should appreciate the company,’ she replied.

  When they were gone, Holmes turned to Honorine and said: ‘If I may, madame, I would like a few words with your husband alone.’

  She looked at Verne, who appeared equally puzzled. Still, he nodded and Honorine withdrew. The door closed behind her and Verne studied Holmes for several long moments before saying: ‘What have you discovered, m’sieur? You have discovered something. That much is obvious.’

  Holmes said: ‘Are you by any chance acquainted with François Fournier?’

  ‘Fournier? Of course. He is the man the Independent Republicans are trying to make our next prime minister.’

  ‘But do you know him … personally.’

  ‘I used to know him,’ Verne admitted, almost reluctantly. ‘He is a contemporary of my son’s. They met at school, and it was through Michel that I was first introduced to him.’

  ‘And from that introduction a friendship developed.’

  ‘You could say that. Fournier was audacious, quick-witted, a good fellow. He was interested in politics even then, and had interesting ideas about how political life should be conducted. He always said he would choose diplomacy over force every time, that he was glad he possessed what he called the common touch, because that would encourage voters to trust him. Of course, he was always something of a mess; highly intelligent, but so reluctant to waste good time studying that he always found himself in the last quarter of his form. And yet he was also possessed of a remarkable memory, quick understanding and an enviable ability to apply himself when he had to. When he put his mind to it, he could outstrip the rest of his schoolmates with the least apparent effort.’

  ‘And you found that an attractive attribute?’

  ‘It is no secret that I was at that time somewhat … disillusioned … with my own son. During your absence, I am pleased to say that that situation has been resolved most satisfactorily. But at the time, Michel was as a stranger to me. In my desire to enjoy a father-son relationship … yes, I did develop a certain affection for Fournier.’

  ‘Did it ever become something more than that?’

  Verne paled. ‘I do not care for your insinuation, M’sieur Holmes. Indeed, I find it most repellent.’

  ‘For that I apologize, M’sieur Verne. But I must press you for an honest answer.’

  ‘You are asking if my relationship with Fournier was in any way … unnatural?’

  ‘That word, sir, is yours. Many would argue that love is a wholly natural emotion.’

  ‘Even when it flourishes between a man and a boy?’

  Silence filled the room.

  ‘Were you lovers, sir?’ asked Holmes.

  Verne sat forward, inhaled noisily through his nose and angrily shook his head. ‘You British,’ he said scathingly. ‘You have convinced yourselves that illness stems from the corru
ption of the spirit, and so you have adopted a sense of morality that is unworkable to keep that spirit as clean as it can be.’

  ‘This is not about morality, sir,’ said Holmes. ‘I do not presume to judge you or anyone. But if I am to deal successfully with the problem facing us, I need honesty.’ He came closer. ‘Now, sir, since you are so reluctant to tell me the truth, I will tell you the facts of the business as I see them.

  ‘There exists within this country a highly sophisticated network of businessmen who have formed and financed the Independent Republicans for one purpose only – to take control of this country. By your own admission, in François Fournier they have chosen a highly charismatic candidate for prime minister. But these are cautious men, M’sieur Verne. They have to be cautious, for there is much at stake, and everything to play for. They cannot afford to promote a candidate whose character is anything less than flawless.

  ‘I believe that when they first approached Fournier they questioned him about his past … indiscretions … and your name was mentioned. This organization – they call themselves the Knaves, incidentally – immediately took steps to forestall any potential embarrassment you may through accident or design cause Fournier when he comes to power. They stole Gaston away from the sanatorium with but one purpose – to use him to kill you. So I ask you again, sir – was your relationship with Fournier … questionable?’

  Verne stared down at the carpet. He said something that Holmes was unable to hear.

  ‘What was that, sir?’

  Verne looked up. ‘I said a man cannot help what is in his heart,’ he repeated in a voice thick with shame. ‘My relationship with Fournier did not start that way. I am not some sick-minded individual who set out to seduce a minor. I believed … I still believe … that my … attraction, admiration, call it what you will … for young men stems from my desire to be a father the way I wish I could have been a father to Michel. Inevitably a certain … fondness … develops between like-minded souls, regardless of their sex.’