Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts Page 2

  ‘It’s all arranged,’ he continued, hoping his enthusiasm would be contagious. ‘We will be staying at Gillet’s country villa, just outside Amiens.’

  ‘Where I shall be forced to listen to all manner of boring political chit-chat,’ complained Holmes.

  Ignoring his friend’s pessimism, Watson said: ‘I’ve heard that Gillet keeps an excellent cellar, and I’m sure Madame Gillet employs an equally excellent cook. We shall dine well there, I think.’

  ‘I have no appetite at present.’

  ‘The clean country air will soon remedy that. And then, of course, there are the children – Arnaud, Victor and Sophie, I believe. There is nothing quite like a child for helping one put things into their true perspective.’

  ‘I detest children.’

  ‘Then you have my sympathy, Holmes, because it is a done deal,’ said Watson soberly. ‘The answer to the solution, if you will.’ A smile stirred his sandy moustache, for he was pleased with the pun. ‘And no amount of argument will change it. Now, clean yourself up, man, or shall I ask Mrs Hudson to give you a sponge bath while I’m at it?’

  He started to leave.

  ‘Watson.’

  Watson paused and looked back at him. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Surely, as a condemned man, I should be allowed one last request.’

  ‘I would hardly consider you a condemned man, Holmes, but … very well, make your request.’

  ‘It is a simple one,’ Holmes said weakly. ‘There is a man who lives in Amiens, a friend I have long admired. He is one after my own heart, a man of science, intellect, instinct and foresight. I cannot pass through Amiens without introducing myself to him. What’s more, I believe he will be altogether more stimulating company than poor Henri Gillet!’

  Watson frowned. ‘I don’t understand. In one breath you call this man a friend, and in the next you imply that you have never even met him.’

  ‘I haven’t. And that is why I cannot miss the opportunity now. We have corresponded for years, he and I, albeit irregularly. I am a great admirer of his work, and it pleases me to say that the admiration is mutual. Indeed, I venture to say that you will find him equally fascinating, Watson.’

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Because he, like you, is a writer,’ said Holmes. ‘His name is Jules Verne.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Man Who Watched Raindrops

  ‘Jules Verne?’ Watson exclaimed. ‘The Jules Verne?’

  ‘I know of no other.’

  ‘By God, Holmes, you never fail to surprise me. I had no idea you knew Jules Verne!’

  ‘We are correspondents,’ Holmes repeated. He rose up on one elbow and – to Watson’s delight – appeared to warm to the subject. ‘As you know, my taste in fiction is usually deplorable. And yet in Verne I have always found the most interesting, challenging and forward-thinking mind at work. His book Journey to the Centre of the Earth, for example – and here I refer to the original French text and not the abridged English translation – is an exceptional study. After Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea – again, the original version, and not Reverend Mercier’s bowdlerized and wholly inaccurate conversion – I resolved to write and tell him so. He favoured me with a reply and we have been swapping news occasionally ever since.’

  ‘Well, clearly I should value the chance to meet such a great man,’ said Watson. He had just returned from booking their holiday at Cook’s in Ludgate Circus, so their itinerary was all set, but he could see no reason why they shouldn’t break their journey at Amiens for a day or so in order to meet Verne. ‘Obviously I am delighted to grant your request.’

  ‘Then you had better telegraph ahead and forewarn him,’ Holmes advised. ‘And also tell Henri we shall be delayed for a time.’

  ‘I shall do so this very minute. Now, stir yourself, Holmes. We leave first thing tomorrow morning.’

  His hand was on the doorknob when Holmes again called his name.

  ‘Yes, Holmes?’

  A rare smile narrowed Holmes’s tight white lips. ‘It is as well that someone in this world has my best interests at heart,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you, old friend.’

  After registering their luggage so as to avoid delays in Calais, they caught the boat train from Charing Cross Station early the following day; and as the morning wore on, so London, Lambeth, Lewisham and Bromley gradually yielded to the orchards and woodlands of picturesque Kent.

  The day was cool and cheerless. A heavy drizzle fell steadily from the leaden sky. But nothing could dampen Watson’s spirits. Holmes’s friendship with Jules Verne had come as a very pleasant revelation to him.

  Though the prolific author had yet to find true recognition in Britain, he was held in high regard in his native France, where his many exotic fantasies – including From the Earth to the Moon, The Floating City, Eight Hundred Leagues on the Amazon and others – had made him a wealthy man. It was going to be a true privilege to meet him.

  Holmes, by contrast, was now quiet and withdrawn. Watching him covertly, Watson suspected that his friend was undergoing the effects of opiate withdrawal.

  Although his use of cocaine was infrequent, Holmes had taken far more than was wise over the past several weeks. Now, as he stared out of the window at the passing smudge of Kentish countryside, he alternated between restlessness and fatigue, agitation and a generalized malaise.

  Suddenly Watson had mixed emotions. He wondered if this holiday had been such a good idea after all. Holmes was clearly not up to it, and as a doctor he should have realized as much. Then again, Holmes needed distraction at the moment, and that was certainly what this break promised to provide. Watson decided to make no comment and merely monitor Holmes’s condition as the days progressed.

  The train finally steamed into Dover and they hurried through the rain towards the eastern docks. Here, following a brief wait, they caught the ferry to Calais. Shortly thereafter England’s famous white cliffs fell behind them and Holmes shrugged out of his damp double-breasted frock coat and finally began to doze.

  The choppy Channel crossing took just under two hours. By the time they set foot on French soil the sea air had sharpened Watson’s appetite. Even Holmes seemed somewhat invigorated. They ate a light meal at the Grande Café on the corner of Boulevard Jacquard and Rue Lafayette, then caught the train to Boulogne-sur-Mer, where they would have to change for Paris.

  Forty minutes later it was raining even harder as they and their fellow passengers took shelter beneath the platform awning at La Gare de Boulogne-Ville and waited to make their connection. Watson shifted his weight from one foot to the other and cursed the old leg wound that still plagued him in damp weather.

  Beside him, Holmes’s attention was focused on a young man who stood apart from everyone else. Protected from the downpour by the edge of the awning, he seemed to be staring up into the grey sky with unusual intensity. Holmes watched him for several moments before realizing that the young man was actually watching the rain dripping steadily from the awning’s serrated eaves.

  ‘What do you make of that fellow, Watson?’ he asked with a subtle wave of his cane.

  Watson looked and saw a man in his mid-twenties with a high forehead above dark, brooding eyes and a sober, thin-lipped mouth.

  ‘A school teacher, perhaps?’

  Holmes sighed. ‘Look again.’

  Watson studied the young man more closely. ‘Ah-hah,’ he said shortly. ‘Now I have it, Holmes. He’s an amateur meteorologist. See, he has a distinct interest in this dismal weather.’

  ‘I suspect that it is rather more serious than that. In fact, I believe him to be in no small emotional distress.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘There is something about his expression, a look of fear that is, perhaps, aggravated by no small degree of paranoia.’

  Watson’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘And I fear that you, Holmes, have been reading too many of Emil Kraepelin’s papers. Kraepelin may be the founder of modern scientific psychiatry, but I must r
emind you that he is also roundly criticized for his wild claims that schizophrenia is a biological illness—’

  ‘—in the absence of any detectable histological or anatomical abnormalities,’ concluded Holmes irritably. ‘Yes, yes, I am well aware of that. Nevertheless, this young man is distressed. You will note that he has set himself apart from the rest of the passengers. Clearly he wishes to be alone. Furthermore, he holds himself with considerable rigidity, which is suggestive of muscle tension. He displays an unhealthy pallor and his eyes are both bloodshot and ringed with dark shadows. The fact that he is swaying slightly suggests a degree of light-headedness. He is constantly wetting his dry lips, and flexing his fingers nervously. And observe, if you will, the sorry state of his coat and trousers. The poor fellow has neglected his appearance for some time now.’

  ‘So he is not especially interested in the weather?’ Watson said, crestfallen.

  ‘On the contrary, he is fixated upon it.’

  ‘And that implies some sort of emotional distress to you?’

  ‘My dear fellow, it is beyond dispute.’

  Watson pondered this briefly before saying: ‘You are familiar with the concept of Occam’s Razor, of course?’

  ‘That one should not increase, beyond what is necessary, the number of entities required to explain anything? Of course.’

  ‘Then may I suggest that the simplest explanation is also probably the most likely? I put it to you that he has set himself apart from the crowd because he is by nature a loner. The flexing fingers could be a subconscious habit of long-standing, or signify anxiety about a forthcoming appointment – which would also explain the constant wetting of his lips. As for the muscle tension, that is most likely because his line of work requires him to sit or adopt an unusual posture for considerable lengths of time.’ He chuckled. ‘That is the problem with the layman, Holmes, and as a locum I see it on a daily basis. Based upon your observations, you could as easily diagnose that poor fellow with shingles as with a herniated disc.’

  ‘Nevertheless, he is a man with problems,’ Holmes muttered darkly.

  Watson replied profoundly: ‘Show me one who isn’t.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  To Absent Friends

  Amiens is a picturesque city that lies north of Paris and south-west of Lille. The capital of the Somme departement of Picardy, the metropolis is filled with wide, tree-lined boulevards and narrow canals, impressive Gothic cathedrals and street after street of quaint little shops, each of which appears to lean crookedly against the next. With a population of some 90,000 inhabitants, it was built largely upon the manufacture of textiles – predominantly linen, wool, silk, cashmere and velvet.

  The rain had finally stopped by the time their train pulled into Gare du Nord amidst much belching of smoke and blowing of whistles. As they made their way out of the terminus, with its grand brick and glass edifice, Holmes and Watson were just in time to see the clouds to the west break apart and reveal a long-awaited glimpse of blue sky.

  But Holmes could only grimace. The station’s impressive façade was plastered with posters calling for the resignation of Charles de Freycinet, the country’s Opportunist Republican prime minister. ‘Now we are guaranteed a surfeit of political chit-chat when we see Henri,’ he lamented. ‘I am afraid I have been so … distracted … of late that it quite escaped my notice that France was in the throes of election fever.’

  ‘It isn’t,’ Watson replied. ‘At least not officially. As you know, de Freycinet has only been in power for two months, but apparently there is a feeling here that he has somehow betrayed the people.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘He was elected upon a whole raft of election pledges, but so far has focused upon only one – the expansion of France’s colonies, which, as you know, means little to the man in the street. Even his own party has expressed its disappointment in him.’

  ‘And so the people are calling for him to go.’

  ‘According to The Times, he will not last out the year.’

  Holmes offered a humourless smile. ‘If there is one thing history has taught us, it is that prime ministers do not last long in the Third Republic.’

  Watson stopped and listened. ‘Is that fireworks I can hear?’

  Holmes thought a moment before saying: ‘Of course! Lent is almost upon us, Watson. The locals must be celebrating it with a carnival.’

  ‘Then it is not all doom and gloom,’ said Watson, guiding his friend to one side of the entrance. ‘Wait here, while I go back inside and make arrangements for our luggage to be taken on to Henri’s.’

  But Holmes wasn’t listening. Again his attention had been taken by the young man who had earlier been so fascinated by the weather. Now the fellow strode past them, breaking step abruptly when he noticed the last of the rain dripping from the entrance overhang. Pausing, he stared up at it for a moment, his mouth slackly agape. Then he pushed aside a political canvasser who tried to hand him a leaflet calling for de Freycinet’s removal and marched determinedly along the centre of the facing street, splashing through puddles and shouldering a path between the crowds as if he had no idea they were there.

  ‘Charming fellow,’ Watson muttered.

  Shaking his head, he limped back into the station to make the necessary arrangements for their luggage. When he saw an attractive woman in a deep purple walking skirt and matching jacket coming towards him from the opposite direction, he moved quickly to open one of the heavy station doors for her.

  ‘Merci, m’sieur,’ she said, smiling up at him.

  Beneath the feathered jockey hat and velvet train that completed her attire, her glistening blue-black hair was brushed to the back of her head, where it was caught up in a cascade of short curls and bound in with a heavy plait. Her face, he thought, was as close to flawless as it was possible to get. She had wide, intelligent green eyes, a short, straight nose, delicate pouty lips and a strong, pointed jaw. She was, he guessed, about thirty.

  Touching the tips of his fingers to the brim of his camel-coloured derby, he replied gallantly: ‘The pleasure is all mine.’

  Her smile broadened, revealing excellent, bone-white teeth. ‘English, m’sieur?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Your French is very good,’ she said in careful English.

  He beamed at her. ‘Why, thank you, ma’amselle.’

  As he continued on his way, there was a new spring in his step.

  By the time he got back to Holmes, the sun was shining but a brisk wind continued to peg the temperature back. Reporting that their luggage would be forwarded to the Gillet residence by the next available train, he added proudly: ‘I obtained directions to Verne’s house while I was about it. You know, Holmes, my French must be better than I thought. There were no communication problems at all.’

  ‘You always were a man of many talents, old friend,’ muttered Holmes.

  ‘Well, according to the baggage clerk, Rue Charles Dubois is only a short walk from here. Are you up to it?’

  ‘I am not an invalid, Watson.’

  ‘My dear friend, that is precisely what you are at present.’

  They set off through crowded streets filled with a carnival atmosphere, and a leisurely ten-minute walk eventually brought them to their destination.

  Verne’s house sat at the corner of a countrified, tree-lined street that was reached by way of the broad, busy Boulevard Longueville. A narrow, wrought-iron gate was set into a lichen-covered red-brick wall. It opened onto a paved courtyard bounded on two sides by a charming but somewhat irregular two-storey building flanked by the type of short, round tower so beloved of French architects. Neatly tended flowerbeds added colour to the scrupulously clipped lawns.

  As they made their way towards a half-glass conservatory hall that was filled with yet more plants and flowers, so as to form a sort of ‘winter garden’ that reflected its owner’s taste for the exotic, Watson glanced around and noted that the left wing of the house was occupied by various out-buildings an
d stables. It was such an unusual property that it would not have looked out of place in one of Verne’s own fantastical stories.

  A procession of light stone steps led up to the front doorway, where Watson tugged on the bell. Somewhere inside the great house a dog began to bark. A few moments later a small woman in a high-necked black dress answered the summons, accompanied by a jet-black spaniel that gambolled around her feet with great enthusiasm.

  The woman’s grey hair was pulled back from her thin, severe, olive-skinned face and tied in a knot at the back of her head. ‘Oui, messieurs?’ she asked, looking from one to the other.

  Watson cleared his throat, determined to again show off his masterful command of the language. But Holmes beat him to it, speaking with an ease and fluency that quickly deflated Watson. Not that he should have been surprised – Holmes’s grandmother was of French extraction, after all.

  ‘I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my companion, Dr John Watson. We have come to see M’sieur Verne, if he is home. We did telegraph ahead.’

  The woman smiled and nodded. ‘Of course. M’sieur Holmes and Docteur Watson. M’sieur Verne told me to expect you. But I am afraid he is not here at present. He had a prior engagement at the Union Club that he could not postpone at such short notice. He will not be back until five o’clock.’ She took a step backwards, adding: ‘You will come in and wait?’

  ‘Thank you, madame, but we have no wish to impose upon you. We shall come back later.’

  ‘As you wish, m’sieur.’

  As they retraced their steps to the street, Watson checked his pocket watch. ‘Splendid! That gives just enough time to find ourselves a billet for the night and then do a spot of sightseeing.’

  ‘Right now I would prefer a cup of coffee,’ said Holmes … and for the first time Watson realized that the symptoms of opiate withdrawal were manifesting themselves again. Holmes’s thin face was covered in a fine sheen of perspiration and he was shivering noticeably.