Sherlock Holmes and the Knave of Hearts Read online

  He straightened up again, looked at the servant and said: ‘Watch him. I daresay the police will be here shortly.’

  ‘Oui, m’sieur.’

  He was just about to turn and leave when he realized that Gaston was still looking towards the window. Holmes followed his gaze, but saw only Verne’s landscaped gardens beyond the glass, bordered at their furthest edge by a row of gigantic beeches.

  Then he realized that Gaston was not looking out the window, but rather at the copper-lined sink immediately below it … and the tap that was slowly dripping water into it.

  He looked back at Gaston. Gaston was staring intently at the tap, his lips twitching as if in anticipation as every successive drip formed, grew heavy and finally splashed into the sink. With every drop he appeared to flinch infinitesimally.

  ‘I shall be back,’ Holmes told the servant.

  In the sitting room Verne was now resting comfortably in a big easy chair, a glass of brandy in one unsteady hand. He was a big, bluff-looking man with a high forehead and curly silver hair. ‘M’sieur Holmes,’ he said wearily, ‘I am so sorry that you had to witness this unfortunate episode.’

  ‘Do not concern yourself unduly,’ Holmes said, shaking hands with him. ‘I am only glad that we were on hand to make sure the business ended in no worse a manner.’ He indicated Watson. ‘You have already made the acquaintance of my friend, Dr John Watson, of course?’

  ‘He has been most kind,’ said Verne. ‘But what of Gaston?’

  ‘He appears to have retreated into a state of near-catatonia.’

  Watson rose. ‘Perhaps I should take a look at him.’

  ‘If you would.’

  After Watson had gone, Holmes asked Verne: ‘Do you know why your nephew would wish to shoot you, m’sieur?’

  Verne fought a battle with emotion that he did not entirely win. ‘Non.’

  Sensing the author wasn’t being entirely truthful, Holmes said: ‘I do not mean to contradict you, M’sieur Verne, but are you absolutely certain of that?’

  Again Verne battled his emotions before replying: ‘Oui, m’sieur. Quite.’ He paused, sighed heavily and then smiled as if his thoughts pleased him. ‘Gaston – my dreamy little mouse, as I always call him – is very dear to me. I love him as my own. Speaking candidly, M’sieur Holmes, his company was always preferable to me than that of my own son. We have travelled extensively together, to your own country, as well as Scotland, Holland, Denmark…. He is a serious boy, studious, but it was his very seriousness that I always admired.

  ‘However, some months ago Gaston suffered a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized at Blois. I did not even know he had been released.’

  ‘Perhaps he wasn’t,’ mused Holmes. ‘He may have escaped.’

  ‘Either way, it is of no consequence,’ Verne said firmly. ‘Aside from this injury, no harm has been done. I fear Gaston is suffering far more than I.’

  Holmes glanced around the room. It was neat and homely, its walls lined with framed maps that reflected its owner’s great passion for geography. ‘Still,’ he persisted, ‘there must have been some reason why he sought to harm you.’

  ‘Please, M’sieur Holmes,’ Verne said tiredly. ‘I beg you to let the matter go.’

  ‘I know of one,’ said Honorine, behind him.

  Holmes turned to her. ‘Which was…?’

  ‘Gaston wrote to Jules recently, asking for money,’ she explained. ‘He said he wanted to move to England. Of course, we knew that his father, Jules’s brother Paul, would never allow it. So Jules wrote back and refused the request.’

  ‘And that is all?’

  ‘M’sieur Holmes, we appreciate your concern,’ Verne said firmly. ‘And you have my deepest apologies for any distress this incident may have caused you. But I must ask you to accept this matter for what it is – nothing more than a silly family argument that has been blown out of all proportion.’

  Holmes inclined his spare shoulders. ‘As you wish, m’sieur.’

  At last three gendarmes arrived. They were accompanied by a short, slim, dark-eyed detective who introduced himself as Inspector Vincent Mathes. Mathes removed his flat-topped derby hat, finger-brushed his naturally curly black hair, tugged at the cuffs of his black frock coat and quickly checked the knot of his burgundy silk tie. Then he nodded gravely to Verne and his wife. He was perhaps thirty, with bushy brows, flared nostrils, thick lips.

  ‘M’sieur Verne,’ he said with a click of his heels. ‘May I ask what happened here?’

  ‘It was nothing,’ the author said uncomfortably. ‘Merely a small and insignificant personal matter. I do not intend to press charges.’

  ‘Perhaps not, m’sieur. But a gun was discharged on the streets of Amiens. Whether you wish to press charges or not, that is a serious crime. You have the man in custody, I believe?’

  ‘He is being kept under watch,’ Holmes said.

  Mathes turned to him. ‘And you, sir, are…?’

  ‘My name is Sherlock Holmes.’

  Mathes stiffened as if he’d been slapped. ‘Are you making light of this matter, m’sieur?’

  ‘This man is Sherlock Holmes, Inspector,’ Honorine confirmed hurriedly. ‘He and his colleague, Dr Watson, had just come to pay my husband a visit when the shooting occurred.’

  Mathes studied Holmes with new interest. ‘You witnessed the shooting, m’sieur?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Then I am indeed fortunate,’ said Mathes, offering his hand. ‘Your reputation precedes you, sir. I am a great admirer of your methods. Truly, I could wish for no better witness.’ He gestured for Holmes to be seated. ‘Please, let us hear the matter as you saw it. Then I will arrest the guilty party.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ asked Verne, his expression wretched.

  ‘I’m afraid it is, yes.’

  ‘Then I beg you, treat him charitably. He recently suffered a breakdown, and is not himself.’

  Mathes studied the writer for a long moment before nodding brusquely. ‘For you, m’sieur.’

  ‘Merçi.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A Change of Plan

  Alight wagonette ambulance arrived shortly afterwards and Verne was taken to hospital. As Holmes and Watson took their own leave with a promise to return the following day, Watson shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘What a day!’ he declared. ‘We witnessed the murder of one man and the near-murder of a second! I don’t mean to sound callous, Holmes, but I shall be very glad to return to our hotel and the promise of a little peace.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Holmes replied distantly. ‘But first we have one last errand to perform – we must reclaim our luggage before it is sent on to Henri.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I believe we shall be staying here rather longer than first thought,’ explained Holmes. ‘There is far more to this business than meets the eye.’

  ‘Oh, come now—’

  ‘Verne is not telling us the entire truth.’

  ‘That is his prerogative.’

  ‘According to his wife,’ Holmes continued, speaking almost to himself, ‘Gaston asked Verne for money and Verne refused. Is that a strong enough motive to then try to murder a beloved uncle?’

  Watson sighed. Around them the day was drawing to a close and the streets of Amiens were gradually becoming less busy. The sky had turned a deep Prussian blue and as Holmes had predicted, it had started raining again, though just a light drizzle.

  ‘Gaston is clearly not of sound mind,’ Watson replied at last. ‘Who can tell how such a man’s thoughts work?’

  ‘Nevertheless, he came here with a clear purpose, Watson. And where did he get that rather distinctive gun he used? It was, I believe, a Perrin and Delmas pistol of 1859.’

  Watson shook his head in admiration. ‘You certainly know your weapons, I’ll grant you that.’

  ‘I know that particular weapon. It was the first successful double-action, centre-fire pistol ever manufactured in Europe. Furtherm
ore, Verne told me that his nephew was confined to a sanatorium in Blois, following a nervous breakdown. So why did we first encounter him on the station at Boulogne-sur-Mer?’

  ‘Perhaps Boulogne-sur-Mer is near Blois.’

  ‘It isn’t, you know. It is some five hundred kilometres in the opposite direction.’

  ‘I had no idea your knowledge of France was quite so encyclopaedic.’

  ‘It’s not,’ Holmes said. ‘But Verne is a keen geographer, and as you may have observed, the sitting room into which you took him was replete with maps. I merely consulted one of France during our conversation.’

  Watson considered the matter briefly before asking: ‘Is it not possible that Gaston was released from the sanatorium?’

  ‘It is possible, but unlikely. You saw him earlier. Did he appear in any way cured to you?’

  ‘Well … no.’

  ‘In any case, the matter is easily answered. We shall send a wire to the sanatorium first thing tomorrow morning, asking after the facts surrounding the young man’s release.’

  Watson halted abruptly. ‘Holmes,’ he said, ‘need I remind you that one: this is no concern of yours, and two: you are supposed to be here on holiday?’

  ‘Call it natural curiosity if you like,’ said Holmes. ‘Ascribe it to our sixth sense. But I can feel in my very core that there is more to this matter than meets the eye. And talking of eyes, were I to turn a blind one to this matter then, as you so rightly pointed out yesterday morning, I would be negligent not only to my profession but also to a friend.’

  ‘Holmes—’ Watson began, then stopped. He saw something in Holmes’s expression that had been missing for far too long – purpose. Although he personally felt that the matter was, as Verne had said, little more than a family squabble that had gotten out of hand, he was willing to indulge Holmes if the investigation of the matter hastened his recovery. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Where do we start?’

  ‘First we shall reclaim our luggage, and then we shall return to the Hotel Couronne for a good night’s sleep.’ Holmes paused and wearily squeezed his brow. ‘You are right, old friend. Travel does tire a man out. And I have a feeling that we shall need all our wits to deal with this case. This thing, I believe, is going to get worse before it gets better. Possibly much worse.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  V.D.C.

  Early the following morning they paid their promised visit to Verne, only to be told by Honorine that, while the writer had passed a comfortable night and was expected to be discharged from hospital later in the day, the operation to remove the bullet from his shin had not gone according to plan.

  Fighting back tears, she continued: ‘I do not profess to understand exactly what went wrong, but it appears that the surgery caused more damage than the bullet itself, which is still embedded in his shin and will now probably remain there for the rest of his life.’ She wrung her hands, her voice choked with emotion. ‘He will be crippled for the rest of his days. It will be the ruin of him.’

  ‘I think not, madame,’ said Watson, kindly. ‘He is resilient, and by nature looks to the future. I speak from experience when I say that a limp is nothing. It will soon become as natural to him as blinking or breathing. Besides, from what I saw of your husband last night, I believe it will take considerably more than that to slow him down. He is the very personification of durability.’

  ‘It is kind of you to say so,’ she said graciously. ‘And I appreciate it.’

  ‘Has there been any word of Gaston?’ asked Holmes.

  Her face clouded. ‘I sent a wire to his father, Paul, late last evening, and received a reply within the hour. He said that Gaston had somehow managed to escape from the sanatorium where he was being treated a little less than a week ago.’

  ‘And his father did not see fit to inform you of this at the time?’

  ‘He did not wish to worry us. Besides, he fully expected Gaston to be recaptured within a matter of hours.’

  ‘And yet he was not,’ muttered Holmes. ‘Forgive me if I appear to speak out of turn, madame, but I sensed from your reaction upon seeing him yesterday that you have little love for Gaston.’

  She gave a shrug that was typically French. ‘He had just shot my husband, m’sieur.’

  ‘You were certainly not pleased to see him before you knew that for a fact.’

  ‘Let us just say that he is not an easy person to like. Too serious. Too … intense.’

  Holmes nodded his understanding, but a glint in his grey eyes suggested that he believed there was more to it than that. ‘Thank you, madame. Perhaps we could call again later today?’

  ‘Please do,’ Honorine said. ‘It will do Jules good to have visitors. This matter has quite understandably left him shaken.’

  ‘I have just one favour to ask before we leave,’ Holmes added as Watson picked up his hat and cane. ‘Would you be so kind as to provide me with a letter of authority so that I may speak with Gaston?’

  Her face darkened again. ‘Why must you do that, m’sieur?’

  ‘As you know, crime and its motives are my stock-in-trade, if you will. I hope that I might be able to learn something of both from Gaston.’

  ‘And I beg you to leave the matter be, m’sieur, if only as a favour to Jules. There has, I fear, been an unhappy history between them. Best to let it lie.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Holmes replied. ‘Please forgive me for asking.’

  Outside, Watson said: ‘Well, that rather scuppers your investigation, doesn’t it? The police won’t allow you to see Gaston without the necessary permission.’

  Holmes shrugged vaguely, his mind elsewhere. ‘No matter,’ he replied after a moment. ‘There are more ways than one to skin a rabbit, old friend.’

  The stooped, bookish old man with the cracked leather writing-case folio tucked under one arm turned onto the Rue de la Republique and stopped briefly at a corner flower stall. After some deliberation he plucked a single blood-red rose from a vase of water and deftly slid the stem into his buttonhole. He then paid for his purchase, nodded his thanks to the vendor and hurried on his way.

  He was a fussy-looking man in his sixties, with dusty grey hair, a heavy moustache and a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez hanging from a ribbon around his neck. He wore a double-breasted frock coat, a grey shawl waistcoat, black trousers that were baggy and stretched at the knees and two-colour, button-up ankle boots.

  When he arrived at the central police station all was quiet and Sergeant Gabriel Bessette, who was manning the reception desk at the time, was trying to catch up on some long-overdue paperwork. The bookish, hunched-over man went directly to the desk and rapped his knuckles sharply against the scratched counter to get Bessette’s attention.

  Bessette looked up, irritated at being disturbed. He was a brawny forty-year-old with a hard, humourless face and thinning brown hair that was already losing its colour. There was nothing of welcome in his manner when he snapped: ‘Oui?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the newcomer, his voice a high-pitched crackle. ‘I am here to see Gaston Verne.’

  Bessette scowled. ‘And who are you?’

  ‘I am Lucien Menard, of Desmarais, Brun et Chevalier. We have been appointed legal representatives to M’sieur Verne.’

  ‘Upon whose authority?’

  ‘Upon the authority of the accused’s uncle, M’sieur Jules Verne.’

  ‘You have papers to this effect?’

  ‘We have only just received his instructions, Sergent. The necessary papers are presently being drawn up. I have been sent to take preliminary details of the case.’

  Bessette studied the lawyer’s clerk a moment, then growled: ‘Come back later, when you have the necessary authorization.’

  Menard’s rheumy eyes widened. ‘Do you know what you are asking of me?’ he demanded, indignantly fixing the pince-nez to the bridge of his nose. ‘Do you know how long it has taken me to walk all the way here from Rue de Mercey? And me with my rheumatism?’

  Bessette raised h
is hands, showing Menard palms that were curiously red. ‘All right, all right, keep the noise down.’

  ‘Non,’ said Menard with a fervent shake of the head. ‘Do you know who Jules Verne is? He will not take kindly to your obstructive attitude, Sergent. Let me see the officer in charge of the case! Perhaps he will take a different view!’

  ‘No need for that,’ Bessette said. He considered for another moment, then looked over his shoulder and called: ‘Trudel! Take this man down to see Verne – not that he’ll get much out of him.’

  The gendarme nodded and led the lawyer’s clerk down a short flight of cold stone steps to a basement area. From there they hurried along a narrow, ill-lit corridor between two rows of sturdy strap-iron doors, into each of which was set a small, covered eye-hole. They stopped before one particular door and the gendarme gestured that Menard should submit to a search. The clerk cooperated fully.

  When the constable was finished, he unlocked the door, opened it and said: ‘Visitor for you, Verne.’

  As the door closed behind him, Menard looked around the small cell. The only light came through a narrow barred window at the very top of the wall, which was at pavement level when seen from outside. Gaston sat on the edge of his small mattress, hands clasped loosely in his lap. He looked thoroughly preoccupied with other matters, and unmistakably fearful.

  The lawyer studied him for a few moments. Then, after glancing once over his shoulder to make sure they were not being watched through the eye-hole, he underwent a curious transformation. He straightened from his bookish hunch until he stood much taller than he had outside. And when he spoke now, his voice was stronger, more authoritative – the voice of Sherlock Holmes.