Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts Read online

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Confirmation

  As soon as the carriage pulled away from the Cheval Noir, a man stepped out of the shadows of a shop doorway on the other side of the road. He quickly crossed over to the hotel and vanished into a darkened alley next to the building.

  The alley led to the back of the premises, where a loading bay – empty at this time of night – stood beside a yard cluttered with broken furniture and dustbins. Bars of light slanted through a row of small sash windows to puddle on the flagstones, and because the windows were all open there also came the clanking and clinking of pots and pans, waiters calling orders, the occasional hiss of some delicacy being thrown into a hot poyle.

  The man waited a moment, then leapt lightly onto the loading bay. His shadow grew large as he approached the double doors at its far end. Then he turned slightly towards what little light there was and produced a small toolkit from the pocket of his black double-breasted frock coat. From this he selected what looked like a scalpel blade, to the end of which was attached a long, thin metal pin, and a thin tension wrench of similar dimensions.

  For twenty seconds the man worked the tension wrench to left and right, testing the firmness of the stop in the lock. He worked gently and with great sensitivity until he was fairly certain which direction he had to work towards. Finally he traded the tension wrench for the pick, and went to work locating and then pushing each individual pin up until, with a soft click, it set.

  In less than a minute he had opened the door and let himself inside.

  The storeroom beyond was piled high with boxes, old Christmas decorations and items of furniture that were still in good condition but surplus to requirements. He made no more noise than a thought as he crossed the room to the door in the facing wall.

  He opened the door a crack.

  Light from a nearby gas mantle illuminated his thin face. The face of Sherlock Holmes.

  He left the storeroom and made directly for a darkened, dingy back staircase at the end of the corridor. Taking the steps two at a time, he climbed silently to the third floor, then let himself through a door into which was set a small window. Now he was in a carpeted hallway with a series of numbered doors set opposite each other in the facing walls. He stopped at a door numbered 324 and once again used his pick to force the lock.

  Once in the darkened room beyond, he began a systematic and thorough search of Lydie’s belongings, but found nothing to link her to the Knaves. A soft sound of frustration escaped him. Then, doggedly, he resumed his search.

  There was a slim evening purse tucked into the elasticised pocket of her tan leather suitcase. Inside were a few personal items and a scrap of paper. He took the scrap of paper across to the window and tilted it towards the gas streetlights below so that he could read it. It said:

  16/3/86 09:30

  Valentin

  He replaced the scrap of paper in the purse and put the purse back exactly as he had found it. He reached up and felt across the top of the wardrobe for anything she might have tried to put out of reach. There was nothing. He dropped to his knees, checked under the bed and again found nothing. There was a pine armoire on the other side of the room. He checked every shelf, with similar lack of success.

  It was only as he closed the doors on the armoire that he realized it stood upon a shaped apron of wood with splayed feet. Again he dropped to his knees and felt around beneath the wardrobe.

  This time the tips of his fingers came into contact with something tucked right at the very back, close to the wainscoting.

  He managed to grasp it and slid it out for a closer examination. It was a box about three inches thick, measuring some fourteen inches by nine. It had brass hinges and a small brass lock.

  Holmes worked quickly to open it, taking care to leave no tell-tale marks upon the metal. Within moments he was able to lift the lid to reveal two shaped compartments covered in blue velvet.

  It was a gun case, constructed to hold two pistols, one of which was now missing.

  Holmes recognized the remaining pistol immediately. It was a Perrin and Delmas pistol of 1859 – partner to the one with which Gaston Verne had tried to murder his uncle on 9 March.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  She’s Not What You Think She Is

  ‘I tell you, Holmes, you could not have been more wrong about that woman,’ Watson said with no small satisfaction. ‘She showed exactly the level of interest I would have expected from someone of her intelligence and enquiring mind, but no more – and believe me, Holmes, I watched her like a hawk!’

  It was shortly after midnight and Watson had let himself into Verne’s house to find Holmes waiting for him in the sitting room, sprawled in a chair with his long legs crossed at the ankles, his fingers steepled across his chest.

  Watson was in good humour, for not only had he just spent a very agreeable evening in the company of a most attractive woman, he had also proven Holmes wrong into the bargain. It didn’t happen often, and he was determined to enjoy every moment of his triumph.

  Furthermore, he felt that he had made a real connection with Lydie, whose interest in him seemed entirely genuine. With the distasteful business of ‘testing’ her out of the way, he had been free to enjoy the rest of the evening; and enjoy it he had, except for one unexpected moment towards the end. He had glanced across the table at her and just before she turned away from him he could have sworn he saw a tear in her eye.

  ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ he asked, immediately concerned.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine.’

  ‘You’re crying.’

  ‘Non,’ she said. ‘It is just an allergy.’

  ‘Come now,’ he said, and reached across the table to cover one of her hands with one of his. ‘I am a doctor, remember. You cannot fool me. Have I said something to offend you?’

  ‘Of course not. You have been the perfect companion. Truly. And that is the problem.’

  ‘I’m sorry. You have lost me.’

  Lydie hesitated, not sure how to describe her feelings. ‘It’s just that … you know something about me now, Jean, how I lost my parents when I was still young, and how I have had to struggle ever since in what is a man’s world. I know I am not the only one who faced hardship growing up, so do not think that I feel sorry for myself. But I suppose my world has always been one where men use women and women use men. Everyone finds a use for everyone else. But in you, I sense … something unique. You have no other desire in life than to be … kind … decent.’

  ‘Oh, there are plenty of things I desire,’ Watson said, trying to make light of it. ‘But that should never stand in the way of good manners and regard for others.’

  ‘There, you see!’ she said, and gave a teary kind of chuckle. ‘A good man. A decent man. A man of modesty who seeks always to do what is right for no other reason than that it is the right thing to do.’

  ‘I think you make too much of it,’ he protested.

  ‘No, Jean. You are unique in my experience. And for that I weep – because had I found a man like you years ago, I think things might have turned out very differently for me.’

  He could think of nothing to say to that, so he said the only thing that came to him: ‘Better late than never.’

  She nodded morosely. ‘But what happens when you return to England and I return to Paris?’

  ‘Why should that signal the end of our relationship? We can correspond. It is a relatively short journey from England to here. I can come over at almost any time. And you can also come to visit me.’

  ‘The way you talk,’ she said, and there was a curious tone of wonder in her. ‘You actually include me in your future.’

  ‘Why should I do otherwise?’

  ‘No reason, I suppose. But enough of such silliness.’ With effort she fought off her brown study. ‘Tell me some more about your experiences in Afghanistan….’

  ‘Watson,’ said Holmes, interrupting his friend’s reverie. ‘Sit down.’

  Watson
frowned at him, not liking his companion’s tone. He sank slowly onto the sofa and said: ‘What is it?’

  ‘While you were dining with Mademoiselle Denier, I searched her room.’

  ‘Holmes! That is a damnable thing to have done.’

  ‘Perhaps. But what I found there confirms beyond all doubt that she is indeed in the employ of the Knaves.’

  Watson said nothing for a long, heavy moment. The only sound was the crackle and spit of the dying fire. At last he asked unsteadily: ‘And what was that?’

  ‘A pistol – the mate of the one Gaston used in his attempt to kill Verne. And a scrap of paper containing a message from a man named Valentin, which may or may not be of relevance, concerning something that is scheduled for half-past nine tomorrow morning.’

  ‘And that is your proof?’

  ‘Is it not enough?’

  ‘Not for me, no. The note … it could mean anything. A hair appointment, for example.’

  ‘And the gun?’

  ‘Perhaps it was planted there. To throw you off the scent.’

  ‘You don’t believe that any more than I do,’ said Holmes, rising.

  ‘Damn it, man, Lydie is not what you think she is!’

  Holmes looked down at him. ‘I wish that were true. But you must watch yourself around that woman. She is part of a ruthless group, and in all likelihood as ruthless as the worst of them.’

  Watson sat glumly staring into the embers.

  Holmes went to the door, looked back and said firmly: ‘Have a care tomorrow, Watson.’

  ‘Eh? Why? Where will you be?’

  ‘I have to leave town for the day. But I am sure I shall return before tomorrow evening.’

  He left before Watson could question him further.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Valentin’s Day

  Watson spent a restless night and woke early the following morning with a head that felt as heavy as his heart. He washed and shaved, then dressed and went downstairs. He had no appetite to speak of, and decided that a brisk walk might blow away some of his cobwebs. Since Michel had agreed to stay over, he felt that Verne was in safe hands.

  The new day was chilly and overcast. The park where the carnival had been held a week earlier was now all but deserted. City cleaners were gathering up litter. Watson thought about everything that had happened since they arrived and could hardly credit the way his plans for Holmes’s relaxing, recuperative holiday had turned out. Then he thought about Verne and the way he, Watson, had changed towards the man when he had learned the truth about the writer’s sexuality. He found it so vile that instinctively he tried not to think about it.

  And yet he could not deny that he liked Verne. He was, as Holmes had reminded him, decent and honourable, and as a doctor he should no more have blamed him for his condition than he would blame a patient for contracting cholera, consumption, or typhus.

  For much of the century, such behaviour as Verne had confessed to had been punishable by death, though it had been a good fifty years or so since the last execution had been carried out.

  Indeed, now that he thought about it, it seemed a harsh punishment indeed for a crime that was, essentially, the love of one man for another. He had never really considered the unfairness of it until this moment. His upbringing told him that he should consider such men as degenerates. But could he honestly say that Verne was a degenerate? Of course not.

  He realized then that he was not as tolerant a man as he had always supposed and resolved to change his ways. He was clearly not the ‘decent’ man Lydie considered him to be.

  Lydie….

  With her name came even more troubling thoughts.

  Much as he wanted to believe that Holmes was mistaken about her, he knew that he could not deny the evidence. To begin with, she had arrived on the same train as Gaston. Did that mean the Knaves had sent her to watch him and make sure he carried out his mission to kill? He found it painful to even consider such an idea. But she had been in the crowd when he had first tended to Verne. And when Verne had survived the shooting, she had approached them on the pretext of being a journalist, perhaps as a way to get close enough to Verne to finish the job Gaston had started.

  No – he couldn’t, wouldn’t see her as a killer. She might work for the Knaves, but not as an assassin. Of that he was sure.

  But what of the weapon Holmes had found in her hotel room – a weapon that was the very match of the one Gaston had used in his attempt to murder Verne?

  He didn’t know what to think. Ever the man of action, he considered going directly to her hotel and demanding to know the truth. Was Holmes right? And those things she had said about him, about how decent he was. Had they been mere words, another attempt to get close to her intended target?

  But he knew better than to put Holmes’s investigation at risk. All he could do was wait to see how things developed.

  He paid for his coffee and untouched croissant and limped forlornly back towards Rue Charles Dubois. He felt that he was behaving like a lovesick schoolboy and hated himself for it.

  His mood was little better by the time he reached Verne’s house and rang the bell. Michel answered the door for him. ‘You were the early bird today, oui?’ the younger man said by way of greeting.

  ‘I had a headache,’ Watson replied vaguely. ‘I thought a walk might clear it.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘Not so’s you’d notice. Is everything all right here?’

  ‘Oui,’ said Michel, following him into the hallway. ‘An attendant arrived from the hospital a short time ago to change the dressing on Father’s leg, but that is all.’

  Watson nodded, his thoughts still elsewhere. It was only by chance that he happened to glance at the grandfather clock in the corner and note the time.

  It was twenty-five minutes to ten.

  He was suddenly struck by an uncanny sense of foreboding.

  Holmes had said something about a note in Lydie’s room, a note carrying today’s date and the time 9.30.

  ‘Where are they?’ he demanded suddenly.

  Michel gave him a curious look. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Where are your father and this hospital attendant?’

  ‘Upstairs. Father was working when the attendant arrived and I showed him up there—’

  But Watson was no longer listening. He flung open the door to the spiral staircase and took the stairs as fast as his game leg would allow. He burst into Verne’s small workroom, found it empty and careened on, almost tearing the library door off its hinges in his haste to reach the man whose life he had undertaken to protect.

  Verne was sitting on the leather couch below the sash window. A man of about thirty was hunched over his wounded leg. Verne’s left trouser-leg had been pulled up and the bandage removed to reveal an angry-looking wound that had been stitched shut but had yet to close completely. The younger man, presumably the hospital attendant, was just about to inject something into the area.

  He straightened up quickly, startled as the door slammed back against the wall. He had dark, pocked skin and hollow cheeks, small, heavy-lidded hazel eyes and short, raven-black hair. He was dressed in a cheap grey suit and there was a small medical bag on the carpet at his side.

  Watson snapped: ‘Just a moment!’

  Verne frowned. ‘Docteur? What is the –?’

  Watson approached the attendant, demanding: ‘What are you doing?’

  The attendant got to his feet, thoroughly cowed by Watson’s stern manner. ‘I am cleaning M’sieur Verne’s wound, sir, as I have been told to.’

  ‘You have examined it?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Have you found any evidence of infection?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Swelling?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘The stitches are all intact?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What are you using to cleanse the wound?’

  The attendant blinked at him. ‘I don’t—’

&nb
sp; ‘What is in the syringe?’ Watson demanded.

  ‘Permanganate of Potash, sir.’

  Watson fixed him with a hard glare. ‘You’re lying!’

  The attendant recoiled as if slapped.

  ‘You’re lying,’ Watson repeated, adding: ‘Valentin.’

  At the sound of his name – the name used to sign the note Holmes had found in Lydie’s hotel room – the ‘attendant’ realized the game was up. Watson saw a nerve twitch in the man’s left cheek, and then Valentin threw the syringe at him as if it were a dagger.

  Watson lurched to one side and the syringe flew through the open doorway and on into Verne’s office, shattering against the wall. With Watson off-balance, Valentin darted for the door. Watson leapt at him and they fell against a wall filled with shelves. Valentin grabbed him by the shoulders and for frantic seconds they grappled with each other, dislodged books tumbling about them. Then Valentin wrenched Watson around and slammed him against the table in the centre of the room.

  Watson grunted with pain and staggered backwards. By the time he had recovered, Valentin was running out the door. Watson charged after him. He caught up with him on the landing, just as he reached the head of the stairs, and spun him around. Valentin tried to butt him but Watson jumped back, avoiding him, and swung a roundhouse punch.

  Valentin blocked it, grasped Watson by the lapels and pushed him backwards.

  Watson stumbled, steadied himself with the banister and was able to grab hold of Valentin’s sleeve as he started down the spiral staircase. He jerked Valentin back. The assassin’s sleepy eyes were large now, filled with fury.

  He lashed out and Watson’s right eye and cheek immediately went numb. He fell back, his eye stinging and watering, lunged forward, again grabbed at Valentin’s lapel.

  They tussled some more, their feet drumming a frantic tattoo against the floorboards. Then Watson broke the other man’s grip and caught him with a hard right jab. Valentin made a sound of pain and stumbled back towards the head of the stairs.