by Hayes, Steve
‘As it also developed with Gaston.’
‘Yes,’ said Verne, suddenly a much older man. ‘He and I … we were so much alike. It was not difficult for me to love him more than I should have.’
‘And when your brother sensed that you were becoming too close, and asked you to withdraw from your relationship with Gaston—’
‘It broke the poor boy’s heart and caused him to have a nervous breakdown.’
‘Did your wife know the truth of this … relationship?’
‘No. But she is an intelligent woman. I believe she had her suspicions.’
‘I believe you are right, sir. She does not appear to have much time for Gaston.’ Holmes fell silent momentarily, then said: ‘Somehow the Knaves deduced the truth of the matter, too, and decided that Gaston was the ideal candidate to murder you. These are heartless men, sir. They must be stopped.’
‘Even at the ruination of my good name?’
‘It may not come to that,’ said Holmes. ‘Indeed, I will do everything within my power to ensure that the truth of the matter never comes out.’
Tears sprang to Verne’s eyes. ‘Thank you for that. But you are wrong about Fournier. I am sure of it! He was always a man of honour, and he would never do anything to harm his beloved France.’
‘There is one way to find out.’
Verne frowned at him.
Holmes said: ‘Gare du Nord is littered with campaign posters publicizing a speech Fournier will be giving in Corbie tomorrow lunchtime. We shall go and see him, and find out just how honourable he really is.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Choice
As Verne’s coach took them back through the city towards her hotel, Lydie gave Watson a tremulous smile and said: ‘Your friend, M’sieur Holmes … I do not think he likes me very much.’
Watson put his hand over hers and squeezed fondly. ‘It is nothing personal, mademoiselle. I am sorry to say that Holmes has a poor opinion of women in general.’
‘Why should that be?’ she asked. ‘And please, Docteur … call me Lydie.’
Watson flushed with pleasure. ‘And you may call me John – Jean, if you will.’ He paused, trying to think of how to answer her question without demeaning his dearest friend, then said, ‘What you must understand about Holmes is this: he is a man wholly governed by logic. And as such, he finds it difficult to understand women, whom he feels are governed more by emotion. He is not a … the word in English is misogynist, but I don’t know how to translate that into French….’
‘It is almost the same,’ she said. ‘Misogyne.’
‘He is not a misogyne,’ he continued. ‘And yet he has an instinctive mistrust of the species. I have only ever seen him show feelings for one woman, an American opera singer … and even then those feelings were more akin to admiration than to love.’
‘How very sad.’
‘In some ways, perhaps. And yet I feel he is happier that way. Any emotional attachment, aside from simple, genuine friendship, would distract him from his work. And his work is everything to him.’
It was exactly the opening she had been waiting for. ‘Is that why he is here … Jean? Is he at work on some exciting case at this very moment?’
‘We are here for a holiday.’
She eyed him ruefully. ‘You do not trust women either, I see.’
‘On the contrary,’ Watson said with a chuckle. ‘But Holmes’s business is his own, and I fear I have already broken enough confidences for one day.’
‘Then you are not here to investigate the shooting of M’sieur Verne?’ she asked bluntly.
‘What? Is that what you suspect? Mademoi– Lydie, that was merely a coincidence. Holmes and Verne have been correspondents for some time now. We could hardly come to France and not pay him a visit.’
‘I thought perhaps….’
‘You will make an excellent journalist,’ he said approvingly. ‘You have an enquiring mind, and a nose for a story. But you will not find one here.’ An idea suddenly occurred to him. ‘Are you hungry? If you like we could stop off somewhere and have a meal.’
‘I should like that very much.’
Watson sat forward and poked his head out the window. ‘What is the finest restaurant in all of Amiens, Metier?’ he called to the coachman.
Metier considered the question before replying: ‘Probably La Mirabelle, Docteur.’
‘Then take us there at once, if you please.’
‘Oui, m’sieur.’
The restaurant certainly deserved its reputation. The food was excellent, the service discreet, the surroundings quite charming and the company … well, Watson felt he could have asked for none better. Indeed, he felt a sharp twinge of regret when he finally thought to check his watch and realized that they had lingered far longer than they had planned in their opulent surroundings.
It was a little after seven o’clock when Metier reined up the horses and the coach halted before the grand edifice of the Hotel Cheval Noir. Watson climbed out, took Lydie’s hand and helped her down to the pavement. He escorted her into the hotel, Lydie receiving admiring looks from the gentlemen guests, and on through to the reception.
‘I hope we shall meet again very soon,’ he said.
‘It is a hope we share,’ she replied. Then impulsively, or so it seemed, she reached up and pecked him on the cheek.
He felt himself flushing. ‘Good night, Lydie,’ he managed.
‘Good night, Jean.’
Watson turned and walked towards the exit. But after only a few steps he looked back, ostensibly to offer one final wave. In fact, he watched carefully, and hated himself for it, in order to obtain her room number.
It was dark when the carriage turned into Rue Charles Dubois and Metier dropped him off at the front gate. Watson stood there, inhaling the cool night air and watching until the coach turned a corner in order to enter the stables by way of a rear entrance. At last he pushed through the gate and started across the courtyard to the house.
‘Watson.’
Startled, he turned quickly. For a moment he could not see anyone. Then he caught the familiar strong odour of shag tobacco and saw Holmes standing beneath one of the beech trees to his right, smoking a small-bowled clay pipe.
‘Holmes!’ he said, coming closer. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Waiting for you, old friend.’
‘Me? Why? What has happened?’
‘I have discovered – or more accurately confirmed – what is at the heart of this matter. But I am not sure how you will react to it.’
Watson frowned uneasily. ‘Then perhaps you had better tell me and we will discover the answer together.’
Still Holmes hesitated, until finally he could hesitate no longer.
When he had finished speaking, Watson stood there, as still and silent as a statue. Then the air left him in a rush and he hissed, so as not to be heard by anyone in the house: ‘Good grief! The man’s conduct has been both immoral and disgraceful!’
‘On the contrary,’ said Holmes quietly, ‘Verne’s only crime has been to submit, perhaps unwisely, to the affection he could not show his own son.’
‘His conduct has been abhorrent.’
‘The practise of cannibalism among the Melanesian tribes, the ritualized taking of heads by the peoples of China, India, Borneo and others, the custom of shrinking those same dismembered heads as performed by the Jivaro Indians of Ecuador … these things are also abhorrent to us. But those who do not seek to change the ways of others do the only thing they can – respect their right to practise them.’
‘Condone such a thing?’ Watson shook his head angrily at the very notion. ‘Never! And I warn you, I shall find it hard indeed to show Verne any respect after this.’
‘Then you are not the man I believed you to be,’ Holmes said flatly. ‘You, as a doctor, should know better than most all the weaknesses to which man is heir. Do you condemn a patient when he falls ill?’
‘Are you trying to tell me
that such non-conformism is an illness?’
‘I am not. But the medical fraternity considers “nonconformist” behaviour the result of mental disorder and moral deficiency, does it not?’
‘So what are you saying? That I should not feel outraged by Verne’s conduct?’
‘As a doctor, you take an oath to treat everyone with the same degree of care and respect, and pass judgement upon no one. Verne is not the first man in history to feel an attraction to both man and woman, and he will not be the last. One day, society may feel less inclined to judge and ostracize such people. But until that day comes, it is a heavy load to bear. The least you and I can do for Verne is make that load somewhat lighter. He is above all else a good man, Watson, a decent and kind man.’
‘He is a pillowman,’ said Watson.
Holmes grimaced at the insult. ‘You surprise me, Watson. What is the feeling of love for one man to another, when set against that of murder, attempted murder, corruption on a nationwide scale and ruthless, cold-blooded coercion? What is the greater crime here, Watson? That Verne showed love for another man, or that the Knaves took his nephew and drove him even further into insanity so that he would eventually murder his own uncle?’
‘I cannot help the fact that I do not share your enlightened attitude,’ Watson said stiffly.
‘Then you have to make a choice, old friend. You are with me – with Verne – in this business for no other reason than that it is the right course to take, or you may go on to Henri Gillet and play out the rest of this holiday alone.’
‘You know I would not do that. I would walk through hell itself if you asked me to.’
‘All I am asking is that you see Verne not as some vile and unclean monster, but as a man. A good man. A man who deserves our help.’
‘All I can promise,’ Watson said wretchedly, ‘is that I will try. But after this, it will not be easy.’
‘You may change your mind before this is over,’ Holmes predicted. ‘Now – where is the Denier woman staying?’
‘You’re wrong about her, you know.’
‘I am seldom wrong, especially when the facts speak for themselves. Again I ask – where is she staying?’
‘The Cheval Noir.’
‘And her room number?’
‘Why do you want that?’
Holmes made no reply, just stared at him through a rising haze of tobacco smoke.
At last Watson sighed and said: ‘Three-two-four.’
‘Thank you. Now come inside. I can see you have already eaten; the moustache is not referred to as a soup-strainer without good cause. But Madame Verne’s cook has prepared what promises to be a truly excellent Aile de raie aux câpres, and you may need all your strength for the morrow.’
‘Why? What’s happening then?’
‘We are going to Corbie,’ said Holmes, starting back towards the house. ‘And a meeting with François Fournier.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Man of Honour
A picnic atmosphere had already claimed Corbie by the time they arrived late the following morning. So many people had turned out to see and listen to Fournier that many of the streets leading to the centre of the small town had been cordoned off to vehicles.
When Metier could drive the carriage no further, Holmes, Watson and Verne had to alight and make their way towards the town square on foot – no mean accomplishment for Verne, who was still using crutches beyond the confines of his own home.
Corbie lay in the valley of the Somme, and was bisected by the canal of the same name. It had grown up around the Benedictine monastery of Corbie Abbey beginning in the late seventh century, and there was ample evidence of its long history to be seen everywhere.
Men, women and children had all turned out in their Sunday best for the forthcoming speech, many of them having made the journey from neighbouring Villers-Bretonneux. Wary gendarmes prowled among them, looking for troublemakers and anarchists, while reporters busily scribbled word-pictures of the scene in their notebooks.
Over everything a carnival spirit seemed to prevail that reminded Watson of their first few hours in Amiens. Many of the locals had decided to hold impromptu street parties, and had set up trestle tables that were weighed down with food. Bunting strung across the streets flapped and waved gaily in the stiff breeze. Someone was even running a tombola. The air smelled of cheese and fruits, of homemade chocolate truffles, croissants, doughnuts, muffins and those succulent coconut biscuits known as congolais.
In the town square the local brass band struck up a spirited rendition of Le Marseillaise. Holmes and his companions followed the music until they came to a temporary stage draped in the amethyst and amber party colours of the Independent Republicans, behind which two medium-sized marquees had been erected. People were already drifting in from the surrounding sights and amusements in readiness for the moment when François Fournier finally took the stage and made one of the impassioned speeches for which – according to Verne – he was famous.
‘I still think we’re taking a damnable chance,’ muttered Watson, trying to keep a watch on everyone around them. ‘I feel like Daniel in the lion’s den.’
‘And yet I believe we are safer here than we have been throughout this entire affair,’ Holmes replied. ‘The Knaves will not try anything at the moment. There are too many witnesses. And as powerful as they are, even they cannot browbeat or bribe an entire town.’
‘I wish I could be sure of that.’
Since the previous evening his attitude towards Verne had grown noticeably cooler. He was civil to the author and spoke when spoken to, but offered no more than that. Verne, sensing that Holmes had told him everything, had tried to accept Watson’s lack of warmth philosophically. But it was obvious that he was deeply hurt by the breakdown of their growing friendship, though he made no comment about it.
Gradually they worked their way to the front of the crowd, then at Holmes’s urging they edged to one side of the stage, where the crowd wasn’t quite so compressed. Their view here was good. A lectern had been set up in the centre of the stage, this also draped with the colours of Fournier’s party.
Suddenly the band fell quiet. All that could be heard now was the muttering of the crowd. A few of them were waving pro-Fournier banners above their heads. More gendarmes were working through the assembly, still on the lookout for any de Freycinet supporters who might try to disrupt the proceedings.
Off to their right a curtain twitched and a moment later a tall, elegant-looking man with white hair and a forked beard strode to the lectern. He wore a well-cut pale grey suit, white shirt and a blue cravat. Holmes was immediately attentive, for this man matched the description of the man who had visited Gaston Verne the week before his supposed ‘escape’ from the sanatorium. The crowd grew quiet save for the odd wail of a baby, or the expectant clearing of a throat.
‘My friends!’ began the man, and then paused to make sure everyone was attentive.
Holmes studied him, looking for the Knaves’ distinctive tie pin but failed to see it. ‘I am so pleased to see you all here today, and I rejoice in the good common sense you have shown in coming to hear what M’sieur Fournier has to say about the state of our country and what needs to be done – what François Fournier himself will do – to put things back to rights! And so, may I present the man I believe will be the next prime minister of France – François Fournier!’
The band immediately struck up a rousing military march. Caught up in the excitement, the crowd burst into applause, drowning the few cat-calls from Fournier’s opposition. There was a moment when nothing happened; Fournier was clearly delaying his entrance for dramatic effect. Then the curtain stirred again and a young man in his mid-twenties came out and started waving at the crowd. He was tall and spare, with a long face, a well-defined jaw and a beaming politician’s smile. His skin was tanned, his eyes the palest blue, his nose straight, his lips full. He wore his thick, blue-black hair with a left-side part.
He went to the lecte
rn and shook hands with the white-haired man, then faced his audience. Once again the band stopped playing and slowly the cheering and applause died down.
‘My friends,’ he said, voice deep, clear and powerful, ‘it is no secret that I feel passionately about this great country of ours. That is why it grieves me to see the sorry state into which we are slowly but surely descending. Of course, you are all familiar with M’sieur de Freycinet. In his first term as premier ministre français he lasted for nine months before his profligate ways and reckless expenditure forced him to resign. Upon his second term, his disastrous handling of foreign affairs effectively ended our influence as a worldwide power. And yet the typically generous spirit of the French people has allowed him back for a third time, and in as many months he has broken promise after promise, pledge after pledge, and is now struggling to hold his own party together! I ask you, if a man cannot even do that, how can he hope to hold his country together?’
He fell silent until the surge of cheering, whistles and applause died down again.
‘We have to change, my friends. And we cannot delay. We have to call a vote of no confidence in Charles de Freycinet and elect a new party to power, one that will put the country before itself. But I understand your scepticism where politics is concerned. Do you know something? I share that scepticism, and I am a politician!
‘So what do I stand for? What will the Independent Republicans do for you, if we are privileged enough to receive your vote?
‘I’ll tell you.
‘Firstly, we will establish a system of law and government that treats every man, woman and child as an equal. We will curb government interference and allow the businessmen of the country to expand and in so doing create jobs and wealth.
‘Do we need an army? Can we afford an army? Yes! But it will be a smaller one, and more wisely deployed, for we shall seek always to use diplomacy over force. We want to see a five-day working week, a working day of no more than eight hours, the complete abolition of child labour. We need to educate our young people in all the traditional subjects, but more than that we need to teach them a responsibility to society. We need to take our banks, our railways, our mines back into state ownership, make our tax system fairer.