by Hayes, Steve
Watson frowned. ‘Verne?’
‘Nadar! Do you know, he has just likened my “fine brow” to that of Australopithecus afarensis!’
‘I’m sure he meant it as a compliment,’ said Watson, unable to hide his smile.
‘My dear fellow,’ Holmes replied, ‘it is in no way complimentary to be compared to a now-extinct hominid who lived four million years ago! Bah!’ He dismissed the very idea with an irritable gesture, adding: ‘Well … at least everything here is quiet so far.’
Just then a voice rang out. ‘Come on, everyone! Let’s go and watch the fireworks!’
They turned in the direction of the voice and saw the party guests begin to leave the hamlet and drift excitedly towards the field in front of the lake.
Holmes scowled. ‘I’d feel easier if Verne were not so exposed.’
‘At least Michel and Inspector Mathes are keeping an eye on him,’ Watson said.
But that was scant comfort to Holmes. ‘Come on,’ he said purposefully, ‘Let’s see if we can’t between us form some sort of protective shield around him.’
Before they could set off, however, a voice behind them said: ‘Champagne, messieurs?’
The servant had come upon them almost noiselessly, and as they turned to face him Watson immediately recognized him – his dark, pocked skin and hollow cheeks, his small, heavy-lidded hazel eyes and short, raven-black hair. This was no servant – this was the man called Valentin, who had tried to murder Verne by infecting his leg wound four days earlier.
He was pointing a peculiarly shaped handgun in their direction.
Holmes recognized the weapon immediately – it was a so-called ‘apache pistol’; essentially a small 7mm revolver with a knuckle-duster for a handle and a thin knife-blade projecting from just beneath the almost non-existent barrel.
‘Don’t move,’ Valentin hissed. His face still bore the marks of his earlier fight with Watson, and he still held his injured left arm close to his body. ‘Do as I tell you and you’ll get to live a little while longer.’
‘There’s nothing you can do to harm Verne here,’ Watson told him. ‘There are too many witnesses for another one of your “accidents”.’
To Watson’s surprise, Valentin said: ‘It’s not Verne we’re interested in. Now – turn around, the pair of you, and head for those trees.’
A flick of the revolver’s barrel indicated a line of oaks about forty yards east.
Watson tensed. Valentin was no more than a few feet from him. If he could reach him before he could use his gun—
But Valentin somehow divined his intention. For even as Watson prepared to spring, Valentin moved faster. He swung his gun and Watson felt pain explode in his forehead. He staggered back and would have fallen had Holmes not been there to catch him.
‘That’s for what you did to me last Tuesday,’ snarled Valentin.
Watson gingerly felt his forehead. The tips of his fingers came away bloody. ‘You swine,’ he muttered.
Valentin smiled mockingly. ‘Sticks and stones, Docteur.’ Then, keeping them covered with his gun, he added: ‘Move!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
We’re the Targets Now
In a tone that was designed to placate their captor, Holmes said grimly: ‘All right. We shan’t give you any trouble.’ Taking Watson’s arm, he helped him towards the woods.
Valentin fell into step behind them.
‘Forgive me if I am wrong,’ Holmes said over his shoulder, ‘but I was under the impression that Verne was your target.’
‘Things change, m’sieur.’
‘What things?’
‘You’ll find out.’
Beyond the flickering torches, the March night was dark. Behind them fireworks began to whiz, whistle and pop hollowly in the sky. The trees drew closer. Trying not to make it too obvious, Holmes slowed his pace in the hope that Valentin would unwittingly close the distance between them. Then he might be able to use his knowledge of baritsu to turn the tables on their captor.
But Valentin was an old hand at this game and refused to fall for it. He kept just enough distance between them to make any move Holmes might try suicidal at best.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Holmes asked.
Valentin’s reply was a curious gurgling sound. Before it could properly register with his prisoners, he coughed up blood and fell to his knees. As Holmes and Watson whirled around in surprise, the assassin collapsed on his face at their feet.
The flash of another firework showed them the hilt of a knife projecting from Valentin’s blood-stained back. A second brilliant firework burst above them. By its light they saw the man’s killer.
It was Lydie.
Watson felt the blood drain from his face. ‘What the deuce—?’
‘Shhh,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t think Valentin was alone.’
Kneeling beside the body, she gingerly took the gun from Valentin’s nerveless fingers. When she looked up at the men she’d just rescued, she looked pale and shaky. Clearly the act of killing, as opposed to ordering it done, was a new experience for her and one she found repellent.
‘Forget about Verne,’ she warned them. ‘We’re their targets now.’
‘I don’t understand …’ began Watson.
‘I think I do,’ said Holmes. ‘You have changed sides, mademoiselle.’
She grimaced. ‘I am not that noble, M’sieur Holmes. I was dismissed from my duties. And despite instructions that I return to Lyon and await further orders, I knew that Alexandre Absalon had an altogether different fate in store for me.’
‘Absalon!’ hissed Watson, remembering the white-haired man they had seen during their audience with François Fournier. ‘Then he is in league with the Knaves!’
‘Did you ever doubt it?’ said Holmes. And then, to Lydie: ‘You feared for your life.’
‘That is the way the Knaves work,’ she said simply. ‘For as long as you are useful to them, you are safe. But if you fail them, you become a liability. And the one thing Alexandre Absalon hates above all others is a liability.’
‘So you fled from Lyon?’
‘Oui. Absalon had a man following me, a man named Sébastien Thayer. He told me as much at our last meeting. I spotted him when I left Amiens and managed to lose him before we reached Lyon. Then I went to work.’
‘Work?’
‘I was originally employed for my ability to watch and listen and pick up information,’ she said. ‘I have built up a vast network of sources, messieurs, far more than even Alexandre Absalon suspects. I can help you to bring about the destruction of this group … if you will trust me.’
Holmes glanced at the dead man. ‘One can hardly deny your sincerity,’ he said drily.
‘So you’re only switching sides to save your own skin?’ said Watson.
‘No, that isn’t the only reason.’
‘What else then?’
‘Before I answer that,’ Lydie said softly, ‘tell me something, Jean … was Absalon right when he told me that you were just using me? Feeding me information so that I would lead you to him?’
‘Whatever Watson did was at my request,’ Holmes interrupted. ‘And I can assure you that he found the act abhorrent.’
‘I did indeed,’ Watson said. ‘I trusted you and defended you against Holmes’s suspicions until I could ignore the evidence no longer.’
Lydie smiled, pleased. ‘I am glad to hear it,’ she said sincerely. ‘I am far from perfect, but I am what my circumstances and my experience of others have made me. But in you I found someone so different, so reluctant to use or manipulate others for your own ends. It showed me a different and better way to be.’
Holmes said: ‘What have you learned, mademoiselle? And how may we use it to our advantage?’
‘You have heard the news, of course?’ she said.
‘What news?’
She opened her mouth to speak, but at that same moment the snap of a nearby branch made them turn towards the sound. Lydie instinctively
brought up the gun she had just taken from Valentin.
Another firework exploded high above them. The darkness lit up with a shower of falling pink and lavender stars. They caught a glimpse of a figure emerging from the shadows a short distance away – a tall, cadaverous man wearing a black suit that seemed too small for his overlarge body. Instantly, Lydie raised her gun and fired at him.
In her haste she missed.
The man, Sébastien Thayer, did not.
Lydie gasped as the bullet struck her in the chest. She staggered back, dropping her gun, and collapsed.
Overhead a third firework exploded, lighting up the night.
‘Don’t move!’ Thayer told Holmes and Watson.
Stunned by the knowledge that Lydie had been wounded, perhaps fatally, Watson ignored him. Quickly kneeling beside her, he gently cradled her in his arms.
‘Lydie …’ he begged. ‘Lydie, talk to me….’
‘J … Jean,’ she managed.
The light from the firework had faded. But even in the darkness Watson could see that her face was as pale as paper, her only colour coming from the blood flecking her lips.
‘S-safe …’ she whispered, then winced.
Watson frowned, not understanding.
‘Th-the safe,’ she repeated thickly. ‘It’s….’
She died then, with a suddenness that Watson, even with his military experience, had never seen before. No sooner had the last word left her lips than she became absolutely still and her eyes lost all focus and went blank.
For a moment he was absolutely bewildered. ‘Lydie …?’ he said urgently, his voice that of a lost child.
Lydie stared emptily into eternity.
Holmes gripped his friend’s shoulder. ‘She’s gone, Watson,’ he said. ‘And we have no time to mourn her just now.’
‘I’m not leaving her,’ Watson said.
‘Then you can join her,’ said Thayer, extending his gun-arm so that the barrel of his 0.442-calibre Webley Bulldog was trained squarely on the top of Watson’s bowed head. ‘Absalon told me to fetch both of you, but he’ll be just as happy with one.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Final Act
Holmes quickly stepped between them, saying: ‘There’s no need for that. Enough people have died already.’ Gripping Watson by both arms, he helped him to stand up.
Watson said: ‘But we just can’t leave her here like this….’
‘We won’t,’ Thayer said. He was an ugly, ungainly-looking man, with a sloping brow above dark, curiously emotionless eyes, a long hooked nose, thick lips and a bloodless, waxy skin. He stepped closer, quickly searched both men and put Watson’s service revolver into his own jacket pocket. ‘Now start walking.’
They headed deeper into the dark woods, the sound of fireworks and cheering fading with distance. The night was cooling rapidly. At length the trees thinned and a narrow, wheel-rutted path came into sight. The polished black coach with red wheel-spokes stood in the moonlight. A driver sat impassively on the high seat, his two-horse team standing patiently in the traces, steam billowing from their distended nostrils.
‘Get inside,’ Thayer told Holmes and Watson. As they obeyed, he turned to the driver. ‘The girl killed Valentin and I killed the girl. I doubt if anyone will find the bodies right away, but you’ll have to come back for them later.’
‘D’accord,’ said the driver.
Thayer climbed into the coach, his bulk weighing heavily on the thoroughbraces. Never taking his eyes off his prisoners, he sat across from them and then rapped on the carriage roof. ‘Go!’
The driver cracked his whip and the coach raced off.
‘Where are you taking us?’ Watson asked Thayer.
‘You’ll find out when you get there.’
‘I fancy our destination is somewhere in the Forêt Domaniale de Malvoisine,’ Holmes remarked.
‘You may “fancy” whatever you like,’ Thayer said mockingly. ‘It will not alter the final outcome.’
Watson glared at him. ‘Whatever you have in mind, you won’t get away with it,’ he said. ‘That I promise you.’
There was something so confident in his quiet threat that Thayer scowled and shifted uncomfortably. ‘Shut your mouth!’ he growled. ‘Both of you.’
The drive took no more than an hour. At times the route meandered, but always they headed east through the darkness. At last Holmes spotted landmarks he had noted when he had followed Lydie from Paris and knew he had been right about their destination. The forest closed around them and the interior of the coach grew almost pitch-dark.
If they were going to make a move, it had to be now. And yet what chance did they stand in the confines of the carriage, with a man whose gun was aimed their way and ready to fire at the slightest squeeze of a finger? One of them might over-power him, but if it were at the expense of the other, the risk simply wasn’t worth taking.
The trees thinned again. Holmes leaned forward and peered out of the window. A chateau lay beneath the moonlight, yellow light showing at some of its tall windows.
‘And so we come to the final act in our drama,’ he murmured.
‘Final,’ growled Thayer, ‘for you.’
The carriage came to a halt before the stone steps and Thayer ordered them to get out. Another man was waiting on the steps. He also carried a gun. He was short and portly, with a jowly face and shaggy iron-grey hair that needed trimming – Absalon’s right-hand man, Lacombe.
‘Inside,’ he told Holmes and Watson.
They entered the chateau, their footsteps echoing coldly across the flagstone floor. The lobby was brightly lit. After being so long in darkness the lamplight hurt their eyes. Men in dark suits either stood guard or hurried up or down the central cantilever staircase on some errand or other.
Alexandre Absalon was standing in the open double doorway of the study opposite the grand staircase. He looked as urbane as ever in a fashionable, tailored silver-grey suit. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said with a cruel smile. ‘Please come inside.’
He sounded smugly pleased with himself.
Holmes and Watson followed him into the study, covered all the while by Thayer and Lacombe. Lacombe closed the doors behind them.
Absalon, now seated behind his desk, smiled mockingly at his visitors. ‘Well, if it isn’t the great Sherlock Holmes and his faithful companion, Docteur Watson,’ he said. ‘I hope you know that between you, you have caused the people I represent considerable inconvenience – and all, as it turns out, for naught.’
‘François Fournier has withdrawn from your campaign,’ Holmes said. ‘I would not call that failure.’
Beside him, Watson started. So that’s what Lydie had meant when she’d asked them if they’d heard the news.
‘You have seen the late papers,’ guessed Absalon.
‘On the contrary,’ Holmes said. ‘We have been fully engaged at Versailles ever since this afternoon. However, it is the only logical conclusion I can draw. Before he died, your man Valentin told us you have no further interest in Verne.’
‘We haven’t. He is free to pick up the pieces of his life and go on his way … provided he knows nothing that could possibly incriminate us. And that is why you are here, gentlemen. Before we dispose of you, you will tell us everything you know, or think you know, about our organization. You will also give us the names of everyone else who, thanks to you, even suspect that we exist.’
‘At which time you will set about systematically murdering them all to protect your anonymity,’ said Watson, his head-wound throbbing fiercely, ‘beginning with Fournier, no doubt.’
‘Fournier is safe enough,’ Absalon said. ‘He knows that should he ever speak out against us, we will make public his bisexuality.’ Smiling, he added: ‘He cannot ruin us without ruining himself.’
‘Well, if you expect us to tell you anything other than that you and your organization are finished,’ Watson said, ‘you are in for a considerable disappointment.’
Absalon’s smile br
oadened. His teeth were small and perfect. ‘I admire your optimism, Docteur. But look how easily we broke Gaston Verne, with nothing more terrifying than the simple dripping of water. I fancy even you, M’sieur Holmes, will be willing to talk after we’re through with you. But first we shall begin with you, Docteur. I do not believe that you share the same degree of courage as your companion. Nor do I think that he will stand by and watch you suffer for any length of time.’
Absalon suddenly lost his smile and his eyes turned deadly. ‘Prepare the apparatus,’ he told Lacombe.
Lacombe nodded and left the room. Absalon turned back to Holmes and Watson. ‘It really is an ingenious contraption, gentlemen. One is strapped down in such a way that he can only watch as each single drop of ice-cold water is dripped slowly onto the centre of his forehead. Because the drops are administered at irregular intervals, the anticipation of each one builds until it becomes something … exquisitely agonizing. Over time – less time than you may suppose – the victim realizes that, just as water can eventually wear a hole in even the hardest and most seemingly resilient slab of stone, so too can it work this same effect upon human flesh and bone. With each single drop he begins to picture the irreversible damage being done to his skull, the pressure of the bone pressing down upon his brain, the destruction of cell and nerve and tissue. It really is an inspired form of torture. So simple, yet so effective—’
Before he could say more, there came a sudden, harsh jangling from the front of the house that sounded unsettlingly like an alarm bell, followed rapidly by a series of indistinct but undeniably urgent yells. For the briefest moment Absalon looked alarmed.
An instant later the double doors burst open and Lacombe lumbered back in, his expression one of panic.
‘What is it?’ snapped Absalon.
‘They’re coming, sir! Godenot was just turning the carriage around when he saw them marching up the lane!’
‘Saw whom?’
‘The army, sir.’
‘Army?’
‘Oui, m’sieur.’