Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts

by Hayes, Steve

  ‘She’s gone, old friend.’

  Watson blinked. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Since there was nothing else I could do in Paris, I came back to Amiens ahead of her and awaited her return in a coffee shop across the street from Gare du Nord. When she finally arrived she took a cab directly to her hotel. A little later she reappeared with her bags packed, and returned to the station. There she bought a passage to Lyon.’ Again he said: ‘She’s gone, old friend.’

  Watson’s brows pinched together. ‘Without a word…? But why?’

  ‘Perhaps her presence is no longer needed in this affair. Perhaps word of the second failed attempt upon Verne reached her superiors and she was dismissed.’

  Watson’s lips thinned. ‘I have been such a damned idiot.’

  ‘You are not the first man to allow his heart to rule his head.’

  ‘Not just about Lydie,’ Watson replied, lowering his voice. ‘About Verne, too … You know, I was so ready to condemn him, and I did condemn him. I still cannot condone his behaviour, of course. I never will. But given the difficult relationship he had with his son, I suppose I can at least … understand it, after a fashion. That was something else you were right about – that I would change my opinion of him.’

  ‘Then you are in credit,’ Holmes said gently, ‘for you have now learned two valuable lessons from this business, and they can only make you a stronger and wiser man.’

  Watson nodded morosely. Holmes may well have been right in what he said … but just then it was a very small consolation.

  That night, over dinner, they discussed Jules and Honorine’s forthcoming party at Versailles.

  Though Verne himself appeared to have no real enthusiasm for the affair, he was adamant that it should go ahead. Too many people had been invited, he said, and he would not disappoint them. Besides, Honorine had spent weeks planning it. ‘There is only one thing I will not do on the night,’ he finished, and gesturing to his wounded leg said: ‘I very much regret that I will not be able to dance with you, my dear.’

  ‘You may surprise us yet,’ Honorine said.

  The couple had certainly chosen a memorable location for their celebration. The Château de Versailles lay approximately twenty kilometres south-west of Paris. Built by Louis XIV in 1624, originally as a hunting lodge, it had become the home of the French royal family some forty years later and remained so until the Revolution in October 1789.

  In the century or so of its royal ownership, four major building campaigns had been undertaken to enlarge and expand the palace until it became one of the largest in the world, and with its 1800 acres of parkland, certainly the largest in Europe.

  As Holmes pored over maps of the palace after dinner, the true scale of Versailles became almost too much for even his keen intellect to grasp. The statistics alone were awe-inspiring. Versailles contained more than 700 rooms and very nearly seventy separate staircases. It occupied more than 19,000 acres in total, making it larger than Manhattan Island. Spacious enough to accommodate up to 5,000 people, and with stable-space for 2,000 horses, it also included a faithful replica of a farm, known as Le Hameau de la Reine, to which Marie Antoinette often fled in order to escape the demands of royal life.

  It was at Le Hameau that Verne’s party was to be held.

  ‘It is a virtual settlement in itself,’ he explained. ‘There are meadows and streams, a lake, and a number of buildings – a farmhouse, a dairy, barns, a mill, even a tower built to resemble a lighthouse. It is a most unusual location.’

  ‘And your guests will have complete run of this, uh, “settlement”?’ asked Watson.

  ‘Of course. The location is too unique to ignore. Weather permitting, I fully expect that most of the festivities will take place out of doors.’

  ‘Where you will be at most risk,’ said Holmes.

  ‘And where I will be surrounded by more than seventy family members and friends,’ Verne countered. ‘Witnesses all, should the Knaves make another attempt upon me.’

  ‘The area should be secure enough,’ said Honorine. ‘No one will be allowed in without an invitation. Anyone not on our guest list will simply be turned away.’

  ‘That may be true enough,’ said Holmes. ‘But there will also be caterers, serving staff, musicians – and these we cannot vouch for.’

  ‘Then we will just have to risk it,’ Verne said firmly. ‘There is no cancelling the event now.’

  Holmes studied the map for a moment longer before saying: ‘Your staff here can, of course, be trusted?’

  ‘Implicitly.’

  ‘Then we will enlist their help on the day, and place them at strategic points around Le Hameau, with orders to watch for anything suspicious.’

  ‘I too will play my part,’ Michel said earnestly.

  ‘We all will,’ added Watson, smiling at Verne. ‘Even, I suspect, Inspector Mathes.’

  Without warning, Verne turned away and hobbled to the fireplace.

  ‘Are you all right, Jules?’ asked his wife.

  He nodded without turning around. ‘Yes,’ he replied at last. ‘But I am humbled. The events of the past week … Gaston … the unwanted attention of these so-called Knaves … well, it has been a trial. And yet here, tonight, I stand among so many good friends, friends willing to lay down their own lives to protect mine.’ He turned back to face them, his eyes moist. ‘I am indeed blessed,’ he said softly.

  Later that evening Holmes collected his hat, coat and cane and allowed Watson to accompany him to the door. There, Watson said softly: ‘Regardless of what we’ve said to the contrary, this party of Verne’s is an open invitation to the Knaves, you know.’

  ‘Of course it is. But you heard the man. He will not cancel. All we can do is take every precaution as we can to protect him.’

  ‘Just you and I? Verne’s son, Inspector Mathes and a handful of domestic staff?’ Watson’s expression was doubtful. ‘Somehow I do not fancy our chances.’

  ‘What choice do we have?’ asked Holmes.

  Watson made no response. But as he closed the front door behind his friend he thought: What choice, indeed?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Loss of a Friend

  When Holmes returned to Verne’s house the following morning, he received a surprise. As Honorine showed him into the sitting room and then sat beside her husband and Michel on the sofa, she said: ‘Docteur Watson left early this morning, m’sieur. He said he would not be back until this evening.’

  Holmes stared at her. ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No, m’sieur.’

  ‘And you did not ask?’

  ‘Surely, the doctor’s business is his own.’

  ‘Did he take your carriage?’

  ‘No, m’sieur, he left on foot.’

  Verne said: ‘Is he not entitled to a little time to himself, m’sieur? After all, the past week has been a strain for all of us.’

  ‘Watson would not have left your side without good reason.’

  ‘And you are wondering what that reason is?’

  ‘I am indeed.’ Holmes knew that for Watson to desert his post at any time, much less now, was wholly out of character and did not bode well. ‘Did he receive any visitors either last night or this morning?’ he asked.

  ‘Non.’

  ‘A note, perhaps?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And his manner when he left this morning?’

  ‘He was his usual self,’ said Honorine. ‘Perhaps a little more serious than usual, but….’

  ‘He did not appear agitated, as if he were acting upon some sudden impulse?’

  ‘No, m’sieur.’

  ‘What can we do?’ Michel asked.

  Holmes looked at each of them in turn. His face was a mask that betrayed nothing of the very real concern he felt. ‘Nothing,’ he said calmly. ‘I shall attempt to locate him myself.’

  Excusing himself, he left the house.

  He started at the most obvious point, the Cheval Noir. Bu
t the desk clerk was adamant that no one fitting Watson’s description had enquired after Mademoiselle Denier either the previous evening or this morning. He asked among the cabbies outside Gare du Nord if they had picked up a passenger of Watson’s description that morning. Once again the answer was no. At Gare du Nord itself Holmes asked if a man answering Watson’s description had bought a ticket, and if so, where to. The railway clerk told him that he had only come on duty at ten o’clock and really couldn’t say.

  It was always possible, of course, that Watson hadn’t left the city at all. But his comment about returning by this evening implied that he was going further afield. Where? Lyon? It was doubtful. The round trip alone would take at least twelve hours; too far to allow him to return by evening.

  Had he remembered something significant that Lydie had told him at dinner the evening before last? Something he had decided to check out by himself? Holmes focused all his energy on solving the mystery, but when he returned to Verne’s house two hours later, it was in defeat.

  There had been no word from Watson, not that he had really expected any. All they could do was await his return … and hope that indeed he would return.

  Watson rang the doorbell a little after seven o’clock that evening. Holmes sprang from his sitting-room chair to answer it. Watson came inside without a word of explanation and took off his overcoat.

  ‘We have been concerned for you,’ Holmes said, when it became clear that Watson wasn’t about to volunteer any information as to how he had spent his day.

  ‘There was no need. I left word that I would be back this evening.’

  ‘Still, it is out of character for you to simply disappear.’

  ‘I should hardly call it “disappearing”,’ said Watson. ‘It has been a difficult time for everyone. I felt that I needed some time alone, that’s all.’

  Holmes didn’t believe him. There was more to it than that, he felt certain. But he knew better than to pursue the subject. He knew from experience that Watson would under no circumstances appreciate that.

  There was to be one more major upset for Verne that week.

  The following evening, a Thursday, dinner was interrupted by the sudden appearance of one of Verne’s servants. He handed Verne an envelope which he said had just been delivered. Conversation around the table faded as Verne opened the envelope and read its contents. A moment later his shoulders slumped and a curious moan escaped him.

  Honorine quickly moved beside him. ‘What is it, Jules?’

  ‘It is Hetzel,’ he managed at last. ‘He is dead.’ He bowed his head and murmured: ‘Good Lord, will the bad news never stop?’

  Later, in the smoking room, the author recovered enough to explain that Pierre-Jules Hetzel had been his publisher for almost a quarter of a century. ‘But he was much more than that,’ he went on. ‘He was a wonderful friend, an astute businessman and the best possible editor any man could wish for. He took a dismal writer and showed him how to really construct his work. He told me to add humour, and I did. He told me to excise great, selfish passages in which I had extolled my own political beliefs, and I did. He dismissed my sad endings and told me to write happy ones, and I did. And through his guidance I became the writer you see before you today.’ He swallowed a lump. ‘I shall miss him.’

  ‘His death was in no way suspicious?’ asked Holmes.

  Verne shook his head. ‘The man was seventy-two, M’sieur Holmes. He had been in poor health, and the news was not entirely unexpected. But even so, it is hard when a man loses such a friend.’

  ‘We shall cancel the party,’ Honorine decided, ‘as a mark of respect.’

  ‘No,’ said Verne. ‘Pierre would never have stood for that. No – the party will go ahead, but in addition to celebrating the thirtieth anniversary of our first meeting, we shall use the occasion to celebrate his memory.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Queen’s Hamlet

  It was one thing to study a plan of Le Hameau, but another thing entirely to see the so-called ‘Queen’s Hamlet’ in person.

  Tucked away in a remote corner of the palace grounds and further hidden from view by screening belts of trees, it truly was, as Verne had said, a settlement unto itself. As their carriage began its final approach to the location two days later, Holmes and Watson leaned forward in their seats to get a closer look at it.

  The terrain had been deliberately landscaped to resemble an idyllic country scene. There was lush meadowland, an orchard and vegetable gardens, rippling streams – even a lake at the centre of which stood a classical Temple of Love.

  An octagonal belvedere tower cast its shadow over the rustic scene, and though now in some state of disrepair, the influence of the Norman and Flemish vernacular style of architecture was still plain to see in the buildings situated around the picturesque village pond.

  ‘Good grief,’ muttered Watson. ‘This is incredible.’

  Indeed it was. Here stood a stone farmhouse with a steeply pitched roof, there a dairy. There was a cleared area where a barn had once stood, a dovecote, even a mill that turned lazily within a tower that had been built to resemble a lighthouse.

  The late Saturday afternoon was sweet with the scents of shrubs, flowers and lavender, for each of the twelve cottages situated around the pond came complete with either a garden or an orchard. The farm itself had been situated some distance from the hamlet, so that it could be worked as a going concern.

  Even now the place was a hive of activity, as workmen clustered in the field before the lake, preparing a firework display that would commence just after sunset. Closer to hand, yet more hired men were planting tall poles at strategic intervals around the hamlet itself, from which lighted torches would supply illumination after dark.

  ‘This,’ Verne said, as the carriage came to a halt before the largest house, ‘was Marie Antoinette’s personal quarters.’

  They climbed out and stretched their legs following the long journey from Amiens. Before them stood a two-storey house, into which Verne, now walking reasonably well and using only a cane, led them.

  They entered a large room whose panelled walls were hung with fine tapestries. Mahogany furniture from a bygone age was scattered everywhere. A tour of the premises also revealed a backgammon room, a billiard room and a dining room.

  Caterers had already started setting up and decorating long, linen-covered trestle tables. Watson ran his eyes appreciatively across the food on offer – everything from plates of Parma ham and Roquefort cheese to roast figs, focaccia buns, smoked salmon, quail’s eggs and asparagus salad. In the billiard room a string quartet were tuning instruments and organizing their sheet music.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Michel.

  Inspector Mathes, who had travelled with them, shook his head. ‘There are too many people around here for my liking,’ he grumbled. ‘We have to assume they are what they appear to be … but what if they are not?’

  Shortly after six o’clock the first of Verne’s guests began arriving in their own carriages. The Vernes greeted everyone warmly and showed no trace of the tension they were feeling. Gradually the house began to fill with mingling guests, and the quartet started playing chamber music by Sammartini.

  But not every guest arrived by conventional means. As the sky began to darken and the torches were lit, there came a sudden, brief roar of sound to the south and Holmes spun around, startled.

  A hot-air balloon was slowly descending from the heavens. Standing not far from Holmes, Watson chuckled as he watched the balloon prepare to land in a field by the lake. ‘Unless I am very much mistaken, that will be—’

  ‘Felix Nadar,’ said Verne. He shook his head in admiration. ‘That man has never obeyed convention in his life.’

  Drawn by a subsequent series of similar roars, the other guests wandered outside to watch the balloon drift gently to earth. A few of the men hurried to help Nadar with his anchor and admire the craft at closer quarters. At last the jolly little photographer joined his h
osts, kissing Honorine gently on both cheeks and shaking hands firmly with Verne.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about Pierre,’ Nadar said sincerely.

  ‘Yes, he was a good man. Already I miss him dreadfully.’

  Almost immediately Nadar brightened. ‘And you, m’sieur, must be Sherlock Holmes!’ he exclaimed. Before Holmes could reply, Nadar grasped his jaw and turned his head sideways. ‘I recognized you immediately from Paget’s fine drawings! You have a wonderful profile, sir, intelligence of the highest order in every line!’

  He turned Holmes’s head back so that he could study him face to face, seemingly unaware of the effect his behaviour had upon his subject.

  ‘Please, Felix,’ said Honorine, her tone one of long suffering. ‘Show some decorum.’

  But he only waved her away. ‘M’sieur Holmes doesn’t mind, do you, m’sieur? Look, Jules – have you ever seen a more perfect example of scaphocephaly in a human being?’

  Realizing that Nadar was essentially drawing attention to the fact that Holmes’s head was longer than its width would suggest, Watson could only clear his throat noisily, mutter an excuse about checking the perimeter and turn away before his amusement got the better of him.

  He limped along the line of cottages that had been reserved for guests of the queen in days gone by until he reached the last one. Since the Revolution everything had been allowed to fall into ruin, but the place still held a unique atmosphere. He found himself wishing Lydie could have been here to share the experience, and again cursed himself for being a romantic fool.

  He remembered Honorine saying to Lydie: ‘If you are still here on the twentieth, why don’t you come to the ball we’re having at Versailles?’

  And his own impulsive: ‘And I should be delighted if you will allow me to escort you.’

  Yes, a romantic fool indeed.

  He heard a soft sound behind him and turned just as Holmes strode up, shaking his head and muttering: ‘The man is insufferable.’